I have to admit – it hardly qualifies as esoterica, relative to anything. I'm talking about the first hit record of the The Zombies: the darkly atmospheric and utterly sublime "She's Not There."
Well, to explain: Though for the past twenty-some years I've been listening almost exclusively to representations of what may be called, if we must apply labels, jazz and swing, I retain an affection of long-standing (I gave an account of my early listening background here) for the music – itself jazz-tinged, I now recognize – of The Zombies, the English quintet hailing from St. Albans, who participated in the much-celebrated British Invasion of the mid '60's. Recently, deciding that I couldn't go much longer without hearing a couple of Zombies sides I've forever loved ("I Could Spend the Day"; "I'll Keep Trying"), unlocatable-on-the-web-for-listening, and knowing that I'd never be able to unearth my "Greatest Hits" LP or cassette on which these sides appeared, I broke down and ordered the insistently tempting 4-CD "Zombie Heaven," touted (accurately, it turns out) as an impressively annotated and packaged set, containing the original group's recorded output in its entirety plus a fascinating and rewarding collection of unissued and live extras. Track one of disc one, I discovered when my copy arrived, is "She's Not There," my favorite – possibly your favorite – Zombies record. Hearing the platter, remastered, as I never had before, I realized, as I was pulled deeper than I ever had been into the music and lyrics, that I was listening to pure sonic noir: a mini (in terms only of duration) black drama, complete with femme fatale, as insidious as any ever to slink across the silver screen, and anti-hero, requisitely scarred and disillusioned.
She's Not There
Music and Words by Rod Argent
Well, no one told me about her –
The way she lied.
Well, no one told me about her –
How many people cried.
But it's to late to say you're sorry.
How would I know; why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her –
She's not there.
Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked;
The way she acted and the colour of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright –
But she's not there.
Well, no one told me about her.
What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her –
Though they all knew.
But it's to late to say you're sorry.
How would I know; why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her –
She's not there.
Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked;
The way she acted and the colour of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright –
But she's not there.
Well, no one told me about her –
The way she lied.
Well, no one told me about her –
How many people cried.
But it's to late to say you're sorry.
How would I know; why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her –
She's not there.
Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked;
The way she acted and the colour of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright –
But she's not there.
Well, no one told me about her.
What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her –
Though they all knew.
But it's to late to say you're sorry.
How would I know; why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her –
She's not there.
Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked;
The way she acted and the colour of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright –
But she's not there.
Whew! ... But what do we actually know about this girl – this spider woman – after the final cymbal splash? That her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright ... and she's not there. ... Oh, and she's a big liar, too. This is what is told. What is suggested is still more threatening; all those people weren't crying for nothing. It's obvious that she's beautiful – exuding a kind of exotic charm – and with an intriguing remoteness. She entranced him, we deduce, with this exciting, unfamiliar manner and became the dominating presence in his present ... but, clearly, she, like all femmes fatales, had a past – full of misdeeds so heinous and ugly that no one dared speak of them and wise up this poor chump in time – before it was "too late." Maybe she, through her deceit and manipulation, pushed a guy to bump himself off. Maybe she bumped him off. Maybe she was a heartless opportunist, flitting from prospect to more promising prospect. Maybe she was a colossal tramp (how provincial of me to pose this transgression). We just don't know. And, as is often the case with femmes fatales appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, in both film noir and roman noir, it's not necessary that we know. "She's Not There" is, simply, one beautifully put together number. Its brilliance lies in its mystery; its mystery lies in its economy and restraint.
For the "Zombie Heaven" notes, Rod Argent, Zombies' keyboardist, discussed the influences behind the song as well as the care he took in matching words and music:
I know I was very concerned with the lyrics on "She's Not There" but in the sense that they had to really complement the melody. They had to stand on their own, and had to have their own rhythm and, in that last section I was using the words with different stresses at different times to propel it along towards the final chord.
And:
If you play that John Lee Hooker song ["No One Told Me"] you'll hear "no one told me, it was just a feeling I had inside" but there's nothing in the melody or the chords that's the same. It was just the way that little phrase just tripped off the tongue. I'd always thought of the verse of "She's Not There" to be mainly Am to D. But what I'd done, quite unconsciously, was write this little modal sequence incorporating those chord changes. There was an additional harmonic influence in that song. In the second section it goes from D to D minor and the bass is on the thirds, F# and F, a little device I'd first heard in "Sealed With A Kiss" and it really attracted me, that chord change with bass notes not on the roots. And I'm sure I was showing off in the solo as much as I could!
The original impetus for the song, the original shape I had in my head, was those three sections and the last section of the three, "let me tell you about the way she looked" is all on one note really, with just the harmonies changing behind it. And I deliberately made the scansion overlap, in order to try and build rhythm and impetus towards the climax of "but she's not there." The whole idea was to make it as exciting as possible. The way it was recorded initially, I was a bit disappointed, I thought it could have been a lot ballsier, but in fact I think the way [producer] Ken Jones recorded it in the end made it more of an event than if it had gone a slightly cruder way, if you like. It's more mysterious, which was a great advantage and I think we owe a lot to Ken for that.
We know more of the protagonist, the narrator, in this sonic noir (or shall I say, "sonique noir?"). We know that, despite the fact that he realizes she's no good ... and that she's gone for good, he's still nuts about her. "What could I do?" he asks. He was putty in her hands. "Well, let me tell you 'bout ...": He's already told us she has a predilection for prevarication but, besotted regardless, he still wants to go on about her captivating features. Zombies' lead singer Colin Blunstone might not have the vocal timbre that seasoned film noir aficionados would expect from a Bogart or a Mitchum, but he has the emotional tone of noir; he conveys all the anguish, bewilderment and weary cynicism that is the standard baggage of the noir anti-hero. "Why should I care?"
Also in the "Zombie Heaven" notes are Colin Blunstone's thoughts on the song, as initially waxed:
"She's Not There really stuck out. I thought very early on that that stood a good chance of being a hit, in fact I thought all three of those tracks [produced at the band's first recording session], "She's Not There," "You Make Me Feel Good" and "Summertime," were really good, and there was a time when all three of them were being talked about as an A-side. I liked them all. "She's Not There" has got an edge. Moody, maybe a bit sinister. I think that was something we could have built on, but people didn't really worry so much about image and mood in those days.
As recorded June 12, 1964, "She's Not There," from the first A note from bassist Chris White to the last A chord from the ensemble, is a journey through the noir environs. It seems to begin in a dimly lit Bogartian apartment or flat, whose sparse furnishings allow for the lonely, hollow echo that is Colin Blunstone's voice. Beyond this non-descript, shabby room is the urban jungle into which "She" vanished. Hugh Grundy's snare and high-hat tattoo is the sound of the busy city; the bass is the winking of the neon lights; Paul Atkinson's guitar, heard almost subconsciously, is the band in every bar, on every corner; Rod Argent's electric piano, the instrumental star of this sonic noir, is the rain falling in the dark streets, obliterating every trace of her perfume; the vocal harmonies are the reflected lights from the street lamps, in the sheen of the wet pavement; the recurring minor-to-major shifts are the ambiguous, tension-filled noir universe.
Number 291 on Rolling Stone's "500 Greatest Songs of All Time" list (uh ... I think it's performances of songs rather than the songs themselves that they mean to designate – but we won't quibble), "She's Not There" is much more than a mere Billboard second slot hit. It's as timeless as the emotional response it depicts so vividly, if in noir's trademark monochrome.
"'Well, no-one told me about her,'" comments Alec Paleo, author of the "Zombie Heaven" sleeve notes, "is still one of the most recognised opening lines in pop music." Indeed, this classic beginning could have been penned by Cornell Woolrich or spoken by Bob Mitchum. "She's Not There" is petit noir in size, but not in substance.
