It is an inescapable truth of music history that the most authentic paths often run uphill, while the winding road to the top of the charts frequently requires a detour through the heart of the saccharine. The year is 1967. The air is thick with the kaleidoscopic promise of Sgt. Pepper, but on the UK’s airwaves, a different kind of drama is unfolding: the sound of a blues veteran, a man who had mentored Rod Stewart and Elton John, trading his weathered R&B suit for a tuxedo of orchestral pop.
The man was Long John Baldry, a towering figure both literally and figuratively in the British blues scene. For years, he was a foundational pillar, his voice a primal growl that gave shape to early bands like Blues Incorporated. Yet, for all the gritty authenticity, chart success remained elusive. By the mid-1960s, a sense of commercial restlessness was palpable, leading to a crucial, career-defining shift.
“Let The Heartaches Begin” was not a track pulled from an existing Long John Baldry album of blues shouters; it was a carefully constructed single designed to break the man into the mainstream. Released on Pye Records, the song was penned by the incredibly successful songwriting duo of Tony Macaulay and John Macleod. Macleod, a man with a keen ear for commercial sweep, also reportedly took on the role of producer and orchestral arranger, guiding this piece of music into its definitive shape. This pivot—from the raw, electric authenticity of the club circuit to the polished, symphonic grandeur of a hit single—is the central, fascinating conflict within the track. It was, famously, a song Baldry’s former blues backing band, Bluesology, refused to play, leaving the singer to perform it to a backing tape—a stark visual metaphor for the chasm he was now crossing.
The song opens not with the expected crash of a drum kit or the wail of a blues harp, but with a delicate, almost hesitant, figure played on the piano. It’s a clean, slightly muted timbre that immediately signals a change of pace, a move into the ballad territory of the era’s finest crooners. This is rapidly joined by a lush, shimmering wash of strings—violins soaring into a high register, a velvet curtain rising on a melancholy scene. The initial dynamic is surprisingly reserved, allowing Baldry’s vocal entrance to carry the full weight of the emotional landscape.
His voice, however, is the one element that anchors the song to his powerful past. That baritone, deep and resonant, carries the trace of a life lived through late-night, smoky clubs. Yet here, it’s deployed with a newfound restraint, a purposeful smoothness. He doesn’t growl or shout until the emotional dam finally breaks in the chorus. The opening verses are delivered with a mournful vulnerability, the timbre capturing the weary resignation of a man watching his life unravel in a dimly lit bar.
Listen closely to the arrangement. The strings are not just ornamentation; they are the narrative engine. They sweep and swell, executed with a precision that speaks directly to Macleod’s skilled arrangement. They fill the space that would, in Baldry’s previous work, have been occupied by a scorching guitar solo or a pounding rhythm section. The drum work is subtle, primarily focused on underpinning the steady, heartbeat rhythm with a gentle brush on the snare and controlled cymbal taps.
The first chorus is where the track truly locks into its dramatic potential. When Baldry declares, “So let the heartaches begin, I can’t help it, I can’t win,” the orchestra bursts forth. The brass section—low, somber trombones and trumpets—punches through the high sheen of the violins, adding a layer of tragic gravitas. It’s here that the track achieves its cinematic quality, evoking a close-up on a tear-stained face in a black-and-white film. The shift is not simply one of volume, but of texture—the sound becomes dense, widescreen.
The production, clean and reverb-laden, perfectly captures the sound of late 60s British pop. There’s a subtle air of sophisticated melancholy that would sound fantastic playing through a set of high-end premium audio speakers today, bringing out the nuances in the overlapping string voicings. It is the sound of professional gloss applied to raw, blue emotion. This wasn’t a live-in-the-room recording; it was a meticulous assembly of sound, a calculated gamble on commercial appeal.
The move paid off. “Let The Heartaches Begin” soared, becoming Long John Baldry’s first and only UK number one hit in late 1967. This commercial validation, however, came at a personal cost—Baldry would reportedly distance himself from the song later, a testament to the internal conflict of an artist navigating the treacherous waters between creative integrity and mass-market success. It’s the sound of a soul making a deal with the charts, and the result is magnificent, if complicated.
“It is the sound of a soul making a deal with the charts, and the result is magnificent, if complicated.”
The song’s core theme—the resignation to inevitable heartbreak after realizing a mistake—is timeless. It’s the moment of surrender in a lonely, late-night cafe. You can easily imagine someone walking into a quiet bar now, long after closing, the weight of a recent goodbye pressing down. They sit down and watch the ghost of the band pack up their instruments—a lone guitar case on the stage, the damp cloth wiping down the piano keys—and the refrain of “Let the heartaches begin” rings out, a grim acceptance of their new reality. This resonance is why the track retains its power, even stripped of its 1967 context. It is a masterclass in controlled despair, a sophisticated pop song that never fully loses the bluesy grit of the man singing it. The emotional depth is the payoff of Baldry’s long apprenticeship.
It’s a curious chapter in a vital career, a moment where the blues giant took a deliberate step toward the light of mainstream recognition, forever changing the trajectory of his fame, even if he ultimately returned to the familiar comfort of the blues. It remains a fascinating listen, a beautiful, sprawling testament to the power of a perfect arrangement and the sheer, undeniable force of Long John Baldry’s voice.
Listening Recommendations
- The Foundations – Baby Now That I’ve Found You (1967): Shares the same Macaulay/Macleod songwriting and production team, featuring a similarly soaring, mid-tempo orchestral-pop feel.
- Scott Walker – Joanna (1968): Adjacent in mood and era, utilizing a deep baritone vocal and rich, dramatic orchestral arrangements to convey heartache.
- Gene Pitney – Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart (1967): A powerful, operatic pop ballad with an all-in vocal performance and massive production sweep.
- Engelbert Humperdinck – Release Me (1967): A classic of the era’s dramatic ballad style, showcasing a smooth voice backed by lush strings and a slow, aching tempo.
- Tom Jones – Green, Green Grass of Home (1966): Features a massive voice handling a country-pop ballad, using large-scale orchestration to create a profound sense of melancholy and drama.