The year 1965 in British music was defined by the clatter and roar of the NME poll winners, a landscape carved by the sharp, electric edges of the Stones and The Who. Yet, in the gilded corner of the singles charts, an American interloper was building a parallel kingdom of towering melodrama and operatic swagger: P.J. Proby. His 1965 single, “I Believe,” is less a pop song and more a public declamation—a grand, histrionic announcement of faith in the face of mounting, almost farcical, personal chaos.
This particular piece of music arrived at the height of Proby’s infamy, a bizarre pivot point in his career arc. An American singer brought to Britain by impresario Jack Good, Proby had already scored major hits with the rock and roll ferocity of “Hold Me” and the dramatic sweep of his West Side Story covers, “Somewhere” and “Maria.” But early 1965 saw the notorious “split trousers” incident—a wardrobe malfunction (or intentional provocation, depending on who you asked) that led to him being banned from many major British venues and television screens.
The immediate reaction from his label, reportedly EMI/Liberty, was not to retreat, but to release “I Believe.” The move was audacious: take a venerable, nearly sacred ballad—already a hit for the likes of Frankie Laine—and have the newly-exiled “bad boy” of pop belt it out with maximum emotional overkill. It was a perfect storm of vocal talent and controversy, a record that demanded you take his side, or at least, marvel at the spectacle.
The Sound of the Floodgates Opening
Proby’s style was, and remains, utterly distinct. He possessed a voice that could, in a single phrase, shift from a crooning, husky whisper to a full-throated, almost violent roar. His delivery on “I Believe” is a masterclass in controlled excess. He does not just sing the lyric; he inhabits the emotional architecture of the song, stretching vowels, punctuating phrases with breathless conviction, and using a massive, wide vibrato that pushes the boundaries of pop restraint.
The recording is a monument to the mid-sixties orchestral pop sound. It’s important to note this track was a standalone single, a high-stakes play in an era where the 7-inch ruled. It required an arrangement of equivalent scale to Proby’s personality. The producer/arranger, though specifics are often obscured in the session details of the time, clearly understood the assignment was not subtlety, but sheer, unadulterated spectacle.
The piano opens the track with solemn, rolling chords, quickly joined by a soaring, complex string arrangement. These are not simple string pads; they are active, dynamic lines that coil around Proby’s vocal, driving the narrative forward. The brass section enters sparingly, providing punchy counter-melodies in the chorus, delivering a sound that would not be out of place in a Hollywood musical.
The Role of The Unseen Band
Underneath the symphonic glamour is a tight, powerful rhythm section that prevents the piece of music from floating away into pure schmaltz. The drums play with a forceful, almost military dignity, emphasizing the slow-burn catharsis. There is a perceptible acoustic guitar strumming gently in the background, a heartbeat of rhythm that provides a humanistic counterpoint to the wall of orchestral sound.
The production is dense, full of natural room reverb that gives the vocal an enormous presence, suggesting Proby is singing from a vast, empty stage directly to a distant balcony. The sheer dynamic swell is astounding; to hear this record properly, listening on studio headphones reveals the intricate interplay between the swelling French horns and the sustained, trembling strings. The mix is an exercise in pushing the analog tape saturation limits, creating a sound that is both lush and slightly raw.
This maximalist approach was a defining characteristic of Proby’s best work in this period. While many artists of the British Invasion were stripping down to two guitars, bass, and drums, Proby was embracing the full theatrical power of the studio, a direction that would soon be explored by others, but which he mastered early on. It is a work that proves an album isn’t necessary to convey artistic vision; sometimes, three minutes of perfectly engineered high drama is enough.
A Man Out of Time, Perfectly Timed
Proby, an American who brought a raw, Elvis-meets-opera vocal style to Britain, was always an outsider. His theatrical stage presence and velvet-clad fashion were a jarring contrast to the cheeky, self-effacing style of British groups. His choice of repertoire—revitalizing standards like “I Believe” and show tunes—further positioned him outside the contemporaneous rock narrative.
But this is precisely what made the song so compelling in 1965. It offered catharsis at a moment of cultural change. The singer who was deemed too much for television was channeling all that pent-up energy, all that scandalous notoriety, into a vocal performance of unwavering conviction. He was essentially telling his detractors: I believe in myself, I believe in this spectacle. The song peaked strongly in the UK charts, showing that the public was often more forgiving, or at least more entertained, than the self-appointed moral guardians of the press and the BBC.
“P.J. Proby didn’t just sing ‘I Believe’; he weaponized it, turning a spiritual affirmation into a defiant manifesto set to a thunderous, silver-screen orchestra.”
The narrative tension between the song’s uplifting, spiritual lyric and Proby’s reputation for hedonism and recklessness creates a fascinating psychological portrait. We are left to wonder if the conviction in his voice is sincere, a momentary plea for redemption, or merely the ultimate performance from a man who lived to blur the line between stage and reality.
Today, when we stream this piece of music through a music streaming subscription, it remains a startling experience. It defies the cool, detached irony often preferred in modern music, opting instead for a full-blooded sincerity that feels almost revolutionary. It’s a vivid snapshot of a performer who was too big, too loud, and too much for his time, yet whose talent ensured his voice, at least, could never truly be banned.
Listening Recommendations: Songs of Power, Emotion, and Orchestral Pop
- Scott Walker – “Joanna” (1968): Shares the same dramatic, crooning vocal style and lush, cinematic string arrangements with a mid-tempo sway.
- Tom Jones – “It’s Not Unusual” (1965): Another powerhouse vocalist of the era who fused R&B grit with grand orchestral pop arrangements.
- Gene Pitney – “Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart” (1967): Features a similarly soaring, highly emotive male vocal over a dramatic, ascending melody and layered arrangement.
- Righteous Brothers – “Unchained Melody” (1965): A quintessential “Wall of Sound” production, embodying the same sense of high romantic drama and vocal power.
- Elvis Presley – “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” (1964): Exhibits the deep R&B influence and emotional intensity that Proby often channeled, though with a different texture.
- Dusty Springfield – “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me” (1966): Another great mid-sixties pop ballad showcasing an immense vocal talent paired with operatic orchestration.