The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

The Oogum Boogum Song – Brenton Wood

Brenton Wood | Spotify

About the Song

Brenton Wood’s 1965 hit, “The Oogum Boogum Song,” is a delightful anomaly in the world of pop music. It lacks the profound lyrics or complex melodies often associated with classic songs, yet it has captured the hearts and memories of listeners for over five decades. Here’s a closer look at what makes this seemingly simple song so enduring.

Catchy Melody and Infectious Hook: The song’s strength lies in its undeniable groove. The repetitive piano riff and steady beat create an irresistible invitation to move. The nonsensical titular hook, “Oogum Boogum,” becomes a playful and instantly memorable refrain. It’s a prime example of “bubblegum pop,” a genre known for its catchy melodies and lighthearted themes, perfect for carefree dancing and summertime fun.

Fashionable References: The lyrics offer a playful glimpse into mid-1960s fashion. Lines like “And you wear that cute mini skirt / With your brother’s sloppy shirt” paint a picture of a specific time period, making the song a nostalgic trip for those who lived through that era. Younger listeners, however, can still appreciate the humor and carefree spirit of the song’s references.

Nonsense Lyrics with Hidden Meaning: While the lyrics on the surface seem nonsensical, Brenton Wood himself has revealed a deeper meaning. He disliked the song his record company initially presented and rewrote it, replacing the original title, “Casting My Spell on You,” with the nonsensical “Oogum Boogum” as his version of “abracadabra.” This playful rebellion adds a layer of wit to the song, making it even more endearing.

Enduring Legacy: Despite its simplicity, “The Oogum Boogum Song” has transcended its time. It has been covered by numerous artists, sampled in hip-hop tracks, and featured in various films and television shows. The song’s infectious energy and playful spirit continue to resonate with audiences across generations.

“The Oogum Boogum Song” serves as a reminder that music doesn’t always need profound lyrics or complex arrangements to be enjoyable. Sometimes, a catchy melody, a playful hook, and a touch of rebellion are all it takes to create a song that stays with us for years to come.Brenton Wood music, videos, stats, and photos | Last.fm

Video 

Lyrics: The Oogum Boogum Song

Oogum oogum boogum boogum
boogum now baby you’re castin’ your spell on me
A-I say, “Oogum oogum boogum boogum
boogum now baby you’re castin’ you’re spell on me”You got me doin’ funny things like a clown
A-just look at meWhen you wear your high heeled boots with your hip hugger suit, huh
its all right, you’re outta sight
and you wear that cute mini skirt with your brother’s sloppy shirt, huh
A-I admit it, girl that I can dig itWell then I say
Oogum oogum boogum boogum
boogum now baby you’re castin’ your spell on me
A-I say, “Oogum oogum boogum boogum
boogum now baby you’re castin’ your spell on me”

You got me doin’ funny things like a clown
A-just look at me

When you wear your bell bottom pants
I just stand there in a trance, huh
I can’t move, you’re in the groove
would you believe little girl that I am crazy ’bout you, huh
now go on with your bad self

(Ooh)

Ooh, ooh, my my my baby’s got these spells on me
Ooh, ooh, ooh now mercy, mercy on me
Huh, all right

When you wear those big earrings, long hair, and things
you got style, girl, that sure is wild
and you wear that cute trench coat and you’re standin’ and posin’
you got soul, you got too much soul

I just say who got the blues say who got the blues
say who got the blues now castin’ your spell on me
Well I say, “Who got the blues say who got the blues…”

Related Post

STONEWALL JACKSON ASKED TOM T. HALL TO WRITE A PRISON SONG, BUT HALL COULD NOT DO IT BECAUSE HE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO PRISON. Tom T. Hall spent his early career turning out the kind of polished, commercial hits that Nashville publishers lived for. He could write what people expected, but he always felt like a fraud. When Stonewall Jackson approached him requesting a prison song—hoping to capture that rugged, authentic aura Johnny Cash was building—Hall hit a wall. He stared at his notepad, realized he had no genuine experience with a cell, and flatly refused to fake it. He was a songwriter, not an actor, and his pride kept him from writing about a world he didn’t know. His wife, Dixie, cut through the tension with a simple reminder: he had indeed spent a week in a county jail in Kentucky after a traffic violation. That memory was not cinematic or heroic. It was just mundane, quiet, and uncomfortable. It involved bad food, the sound of iron bars, and the slow, agonizing crawl of days where the jailer’s wife suddenly started looking like the most beautiful woman on earth. He stopped writing songs that invented generic situations and started reporting the people and places he actually encountered. The result was his first number one hit, written like a man telling a story across a kitchen table. Stonewall Jackson never got his song, but Hall finally found his own voice in the silence of that jail cell.

Elvis Presley did not go to Hollywood simply because he wanted to be a movie star. He wanted to act. He admired performers such as James Dean and Marlon Brando and hoped that, given the right material, audiences might eventually see him as more than the singer whose voice and movements had turned popular culture upside down.

Long before the private planes, expensive cars and Graceland, Elvis Presley knew what it meant to live with very little. His childhood in Tupelo stayed with him even after fame transformed his life. Money changed what Elvis could afford, but it never completely erased the memory of struggling.

You Missed

Country

A BROKEN CONSOLE GAVE MARTY ROBBINS’ “DON’T WORRY” A SOUND NOBODY COULD RECREATE. SO AN ENGINEER BUILT A DEVICE TO COPY THE MISTAKE — AND FUZZ GUITAR WAS BORN. Grady Martin sat in a Nashville studio with a six-string Danelectro bass, expecting to lay down a standard session. Instead, a transformer inside the recording console gave up the ghost. It sputtered and spat, shredding the signal into a jagged, compressed roar that defied the clean, polished aesthetic of the era. Rather than pulling the plug, Robbins and engineer Glenn Snoddy kept the take. They knew the electricity felt raw, dangerous, and entirely alive. When the record hit the airwaves in 1961, musicians swarmed the booth asking how they had coaxed such a sound from the iron. The truth was far more mundane: it was a mechanical failure that vanished as soon as the broken desk was repaired. Snoddy spent months chasing that phantom resonance, tearing apart circuits and twisting wires in a desperate attempt to capture the lightning he had accidentally bottled during those few minutes of tracking. Eventually, he teamed with Revis Hobbs to manufacture the defect. They built a transistor circuit to replicate the clipping signal, birthing the Maestro FZ-1 Fuzz-Tone. What started as a piece of dying equipment in a country studio became the sonic signature of rock and roll. The distortion lived on, divorced from the original machine, lingering in the static of every feedback-heavy solo that followed long after the console was discarded.

Country

BUCK OWENS WAS SO TERRIFIED OF MANHATTAN THAT HE ALMOST TURNED DOWN THE CHANCE TO PLAY THE MOST FAMOUS STAGE IN THE WORLD. By the spring of 1966, Buck Owens was the undisputed king of the airwaves. His records didn’t just top the charts; they defined a new, muscular strain of country music born in the dance halls of Bakersfield. While Nashville was busy adding strings and polishing edges to court pop audiences, Buck stayed true to the biting twang of his Telecaster and the relentless drive of his band, the Buckaroos. He was a force of nature in California, but the thought of carrying that raw sound into the hallowed halls of New York City rattled him to his core. He actually instructed his manager to decline the invitation to Carnegie Hall. He didn’t believe the Manhattan crowd would understand the Bakersfield sound, fearing his music would die in that cavernous, high-brow room. When he finally walked onto that stage on March 25, he didn’t bring a watered-down version of his act. He brought Don Rich on fiddle, Tom Brumley on steel, and a rhythmic precision that had been tempered by thousands of hours of playing roadhouses. They tore through the set with a jagged, high-octane intensity that didn’t require a single edit for the live album. There was no pretense, no apology, and no Nashville smoothing. By the time they finished, the urban elite were left with nothing to do but listen to the honest, unvarnished truth of a working man’s music vibrating off the walls.

Oldies Musics

STONEWALL JACKSON ASKED TOM T. HALL TO WRITE A PRISON SONG, BUT HALL COULD NOT DO IT BECAUSE HE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO PRISON. Tom T. Hall spent his early career turning out the kind of polished, commercial hits that Nashville publishers lived for. He could write what people expected, but he always felt like a fraud. When Stonewall Jackson approached him requesting a prison song—hoping to capture that rugged, authentic aura Johnny Cash was building—Hall hit a wall. He stared at his notepad, realized he had no genuine experience with a cell, and flatly refused to fake it. He was a songwriter, not an actor, and his pride kept him from writing about a world he didn’t know. His wife, Dixie, cut through the tension with a simple reminder: he had indeed spent a week in a county jail in Kentucky after a traffic violation. That memory was not cinematic or heroic. It was just mundane, quiet, and uncomfortable. It involved bad food, the sound of iron bars, and the slow, agonizing crawl of days where the jailer’s wife suddenly started looking like the most beautiful woman on earth. He stopped writing songs that invented generic situations and started reporting the people and places he actually encountered. The result was his first number one hit, written like a man telling a story across a kitchen table. Stonewall Jackson never got his song, but Hall finally found his own voice in the silence of that jail cell.

Country

A KENTUCKY BASEMENT DEMO RECORDED ON A HANDHELD DEVICE BROKE NASHVILLE’S POLISHED MACHINE AND CHANGED COUNTRY RADIO FOREVER. In 1999, the Nashville establishment was drowning in pop-leaning, heavily produced crossover records that kept their distance from the rural grit of Kentucky. When label executives finally arrived at Troy Gentry’s mother’s house, they weren’t looking for a revolution; they were just checking the inventory. Sitting on folding chairs, they held a cheap handheld recorder, capturing the raw, bluegrass-leaning bones of “Hillbilly Shoes.” It was supposed to be a polite audition, but Eddie Montgomery and Troy Gentry were playing with an intensity that didn’t know how to keep quiet. They didn’t want the polish. They wanted the friction of George Jones rubbed against the serrated edge of Lynyrd Skynyrd. When they hit the studio, they injected electric teeth into those bluegrass skeletons, layering thick rock riffs and sawing fiddles over a rhythm section that hit like a physical force. The song hit Billboard charts two weeks before it was even scheduled for release, effectively forcing the label’s hand and moving the entire release date of their debut album forward. By the time the 2000 CMA Awards rolled around, the industry had no choice but to recognize the shift. The duo snatched the Vocal Duo of the Year title, ending an eight-year dynasty. That trophy was a heavy, cold reminder that authentic, boot-mudded country had finally reclaimed its rightful territory.