The air in 1960 was thick with promise and tension. The raw, seismic shock of Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis had been tamed, polished, and repackaged for a younger, more parent-friendly audience. This was the brief, brilliant reign of the teen idol—the era of Fabian, Frankie Avalon, and a charismatic young man from South Philadelphia named Robert Louis Ridarelli, known to the world as Bobby Rydell. In this fleeting moment before the British Invasion would rewrite the rules entirely, producers and arrangers were kings, and the 45 RPM single was their canvas.
Into this world of Brylcreem, sock hops, and booming AM radio, a most peculiar song arrived. “Nel blu, dipinto di blu,” a whimsical, almost surrealist Italian dream of a song by Domenico Modugno, had already conquered the globe in 1958. Its spirit was light, floating, a European confection of surreal poetry. But in the hands of Philadelphia’s Cameo Records, that dream was about to be jolted awake, given a shot of American adrenaline, and rebuilt into a monument of sound.
Bobby Rydell’s “Volare” is not a cover; it is a conquest. It takes the melodic DNA of the original and dresses it for a night on the town in a sharkskin suit. Where Modugno floated, Rydell soars, propelled by the full might of the burgeoning “Sound of Philadelphia.” The result was a massive hit single, later compiled onto the essential Rydell album, Bobby’s Biggest Hits, and a defining statement of an era. It was the work of a label at the peak of its powers, with producer-arranger Dave Appell crafting a sound that was anything but subtle.
The needle drops, and there is no gentle introduction. The song explodes from the speaker with a percussive, full-throated brass fanfare. It isn’t just an announcement; it’s a declaration. Trombones and trumpets, stacked in tight formation, punch through the air with a physical force. This isn’t the sound of a small combo. This is the sound of a studio packed with session pros, a small army dedicated to creating a sound as big as a teenager’s emotions.
Beneath the brass, the rhythm section swings with an infectious, almost frantic energy. The drumming is propulsive, heavy on the snare and splashing cymbals, driving the song forward with a relentless pulse that owes more to big band jazz and early rock and roll than it does to any Italian folk tradition. The upright bass provides a nimble, bouncing foundation, a constant thrum of energy that keeps the entire orchestral behemoth from feeling weighed down.
Then, the strings sweep in. They don’t carry the primary melody but rather provide a lustrous, cinematic backdrop. They are the sky to the brass section’s fireworks, filling the space with a rich, velvety texture that adds a touch of Hollywood glamour to the South Philly grit. This was the magic of the Cameo-Parkway studio machine: the ability to blend the raw excitement of youth with the sophisticated gloss of a full orchestra. Listening today on a quality set of studio headphones reveals the intricate layering, the careful separation of the booming horns from the silken string pads, a testament to the engineers of the day.
And then there is the voice. At just 18 years old, Bobby Rydell sings with a confidence that borders on swagger. He isn’t crooning softly. He attacks the lyrics with gusto, his phrasing crisp and his pitch rock-solid even as he pushes his voice to its limits. There’s a muscularity to his performance that many of his teen idol contemporaries lacked. You can hear the power in his chest as he belts out the chorus, a sound filled with unbridled, uncomplicated joy.
“It is the sound of pure, unadulterated optimism, bottled in a three-minute spectacle of orchestral pop.”
This entire arrangement is a masterclass in controlled chaos. The track is dense, packed with information, yet it never feels cluttered. Every element has its place. The piano, for instance, is not a lead instrument; you feel it more than you hear it, providing harmonic support and rhythmic accents that glue the horns to the bassline. Similarly, there is no prominent lead guitar. An electric guitar is likely buried deep in the rhythm section, its clean, chunky chords contributing to the forward momentum without ever calling attention to itself. This piece of music was built around two things: the power of the orchestra and the charisma of its singer.
Imagine a teenager in 1960, tuning their transistor radio. Through the static, this sonic boom of a song erupts. It’s a world away from a simple ballad. It has the scale of a film score, the swing of a jazz band, and the heart of a rock and roll star. It’s a song made for dancing, for driving too fast with the windows down, for feeling like the hero of your own movie. The sheer volume and complexity of the production must have sounded like the future.
Decades later, the song’s power has not diminished. It has become a staple, a shorthand for a certain brand of mid-century American optimism. Playing it on a modern home audio system, the depth and ambition of Appell’s arrangement are even more apparent. You can appreciate the careful balance, the dynamic shifts from the full-band explosions to the slightly more subdued verses where Rydell’s voice takes center stage. It is a recording that was built to impress, designed to overwhelm, and engineered to last.
“Volare” cemented Bobby Rydell’s place in the pop pantheon. It proved he was more than just another handsome face; he was a vocalist of remarkable power and precision, capable of fronting a massive ensemble and making it his own. The song is a testament to an era when producers weren’t afraid to dream big, to throw every instrument they had at a track to see what would stick.
To listen to it now is to be transported. It is not just an act of nostalgia but an appreciation of craftsmanship. It’s a reminder that before pop music became dominated by electronics and irony, there was a time when its greatest expression was the simple, overwhelming joy of a human voice, a great melody, and a very, very big band.
LISTENING RECOMMENDATIONS
- Frankie Valli – “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” (1967): For its similarly explosive brass intro and a towering vocal performance that builds from intimacy to a full-blown orchestral climax.
- Paul Anka – “My Way” (1969): A masterful example of a pop vocalist taking on a European melody with a grand, crescendo-heavy arrangement.
- Dean Martin – “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” (1960): Shares that same swaggering, big-band energy and Nelson Riddle’s brilliant, punchy orchestration from the exact same year.
- Connie Francis – “Stupid Cupid” (1958): Captures the same era of pristine, high-energy pop production, blending youthful exuberance with a tight, professional studio sound.
- Jack Jones – “Wives and Lovers” (1963): For its sophisticated, swinging arrangement and a confident, powerful male vocal that rides effortlessly atop a complex musical backing.
- The Walker Brothers – “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” (1966): If you appreciate the sheer wall of sound, this track takes orchestral pop to its dramatic, Spector-esque zenith.