The year is 1968, though the song itself was a late 1967 phenomenon. The radio dial hums with a sonic chaos that perfectly captures the cultural moment: Hendrix is burning brighter than any star, The Beatles have dissolved reality, and the foundations of British Blues are shaking the walls of every club. Amidst this glorious din, a three-minute, fully-realized melodrama slices through the airwaves with the sharp glint of a thousand strings: “Let The Heartaches Begin.” It was the ultimate, unexpected pivot.
I remember hearing it for the first time not on an old valve radio, but years later, late on a Friday night, played in a dim, wood-paneled pub. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and quiet regret. It felt like walking into a black-and-white movie in full swing. This wasn’t the raucous blues-shouter I knew from his earlier days, the giant figure who had mentored Rod Stewart and Elton John. This was a man utterly broken, surrendering to the tide of regret, wrapped in an arrangement so opulent it bordered on the cinematic.
The Contextual Whirlwind: From Blues Grit to Pop Glamour
John Baldry, affectionately known as ‘Long John’ for his towering height and even more colossal voice, had spent the better part of a decade laying the groundwork for the British blues explosion. He was a cornerstone—a veteran of the Ealing Club scene, a founding member of seminal blues outfits, and a crucial figure in the apprenticeship of future rock royalty. His career arc to this point was one of deep-seated artistic authenticity, a devotion to the 12-bar truth of the Chicago masters. He was, to put it plainly, a musician’s musician.
But authenticity rarely paid the rent in the mid-sixties UK. By 1967, Baldry had shifted from United Artists to Pye Records, a move that signaled a decisive turn toward commercial pop. “Let The Heartaches Begin” was the startling culmination of this strategic redirection. It was released as a stand-alone single, a self-contained tragedy that did not belong to a contemporary studio album of his, although it appears on countless compilations today, most notably the aptly titled 2006 collection, Let the Heartaches Begin: The Pye Anthology.
The track was penned by the prolific songwriting team of Tony Macaulay and John Macleod. Macleod also took on the role of producer and, crucially, arranger. The collaboration was specifically engineered by Pye management to give Baldry the mainstream success he desperately needed. The song, reportedly fueled by “three-quarters of a bottle of Courvoisier” during the recording session, according to Macaulay, was an immediate, staggering success. It soared to the coveted number one spot on the UK Singles Chart in late 1967, replacing “Baby Now That I’ve Found You,” a song also co-written by Macaulay and Macleod for The Foundations. This single, recorded at Pye Studios in London, remains his sole UK chart-topper. It made a minor showing in the US, charting on the lower rungs of the Billboard Hot 100 in early 1968.
The Anatomy of Surrender: Sound and Instrumentation
The moment the needle drops, the listener is enveloped not by a crunching backbeat or a raucous harmonica, but by an expansive orchestral swell. This is the sound of premium audio engineering of the era, a meticulously layered soundscape designed to maximize drama. The arrangement is pure, glorious Wall of Sound pastiche, but filtered through a distinctly British melancholy.
The introduction features a distinctive, melancholic figure played on an acoustic guitar, a clean, almost classical line that quickly gives way to the monumental sound of Macleod’s string section. The strings are the true protagonist here. They don’t just provide backing; they provide commentary, surging and sighing with a heartbreaking dramatic tension. Listen closely to the bowing technique—the aggressive, almost frantic attacks during the chorus sections give way to long, sustained vibrato notes that trail off like spent tears. The dynamic range is surprisingly wide, built to be heard clearly even on a cheap transistor radio.
Beneath the soaring strings, the rhythm section maintains a restrained, almost funereal pace. The drums are subtle, mostly providing a steady pulse without unnecessary fills. A simple, melodic figure on the piano occasionally surfaces, providing harmonic color and grounding the otherwise stratospheric arrangement. It’s a masterful demonstration of how instrumentation can embody emotional conflict.
The whole piece of music hinges on Baldry’s performance. His voice—a monumental, gravel-laced baritone that could fill the largest blues hall—is deployed with a startling, almost desperate vulnerability. He pushes his instrument to its edge, the raw blues timbre momentarily contained but constantly threatening to burst the seams of the polished pop setting. When he sings the central line, “I can’t help it, I can’t win / I’ve lost that girl for sure / And tears won’t help anymore,” the pain is palpable. The grit in his voice provides a necessary contrast to the glamour of the orchestra. It’s the sound of a real, scarred man drowning in a sea of sonic satin.
“This is the sound of a man resigning himself to inevitable heartbreak, yet finding a strange, almost beautiful catharsis in that surrender.”
This track is an object lesson in commercial savvy meeting genuine talent. Baldry, a blues purist, leaned into the role of the desolate pop crooner, allowing the sophisticated orchestral textures to amplify his immense, unique vocal gift. He sold the performance completely. It is a moment of pure, unapologetic schmaltz elevated to high art by the sheer force of his tragic sincerity. For many contemporary listeners attempting to learn guitar lessons in the era, this song was a confusing yet fascinating detour from the expected rock and roll curriculum. It demonstrated that a powerful voice could conquer any genre, any arrangement. It’s a testament to the power of a single, perfectly timed song to redefine a career, however briefly. Long John Baldry never fully abandoned his blues roots, but for this brief, shining moment, he proved he could wear the crown of the sophisticated pop balladeer better than almost anyone. The heartaches, once begun, became history.
Listening Recommendations
- Scott Walker – “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” (1966): Shares the same commitment to dramatic orchestral sweep and deep vocal melancholy.
- Gene Pitney – “Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart” (1967): Another transatlantic hit where a powerful male voice battles a huge, surging string arrangement.
- The Foundations – “Baby Now That I’ve Found You” (1967): Written by the same Macaulay/Macleod team, showcasing their knack for soaring, brassy arrangements.
- David Essex – “Gonna Make You A Star” (1974): Captures a similar vocal power delivered over an elaborate, pop-rock orchestral backdrop.
- Tom Jones – “Delilah” (1968): A contemporary single that equally employs a highly dramatic, almost theatrical, and fully orchestrated soundscape.
- Johnny Mathis – “Misty” (1959): For its demonstration of a large, beautiful voice expertly navigating a lush, romantic pop arrangement.