The late-night air hung thick and blue in the studio, a fog of ambition and exhaustion. It was 1969. Outside, the manhole covers of New York City hissed like dragons breathing smoke into the cold November wind. Inside, three musicians—producer Paul Leka, singer Gary DeCarlo, and writer Dale Frashuer—were scrambling. They had a quartet of new tracks ready for Mercury Records, material they believed in, but the label insisted on a B-side for one of the songs, and it had to be finished now.
This is the creation myth of one of the most recognizable and enduring pop songs ever recorded, a piece of music so ubiquitous its authors struggled to escape its simple, undeniable gravity. “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye,” credited to the short-lived, studio-only project Steam, was never meant to be a masterpiece. It was meant to be filler—a cynical, last-minute track designed to be ignored, protecting the A-side’s commercial prospects. Fate, however, is a chaotic disc jockey.
The Alchemy of the Quick Fix
The core material was an old, unfinished blues-shuffle from their days in a Connecticut doo-wop group called The Chateaus. It was a fragment called “Kiss Him Goodbye.” The studio version, however, had to be stretched, beefed up, and hastily assembled. Paul Leka, the nominal producer and co-writer, became the architect of this pop contraption. The instrumental arrangement, far from a live-band performance, was a mosaic of studio ingenuity. There was no dedicated drummer on the final recording; Leka and engineer Warren Dewey famously spliced together a drum track from another session, adding a distinctive conga drum solo that feels lifted from an entirely different tropical universe.
The groove it creates is a deceptively simple chug, riding a relaxed, insistent tempo. This foundational rhythm section—a composite of tape splices and a casual backbeat—is the unsung hero, providing the head-nodding pulse for all the melodic action. It is this foundational grit that makes the track feel less like a pristine bubblegum offering and more like a garage-band improvisation accidentally caught on tape.
The Sound of DeCarlo’s Dismissal
Gary DeCarlo’s vocal performance, delivered under the alias ‘Garrett Scott’ on the initially intended A-sides, is the song’s emotional center. His voice has a distinctive blend of pleading vulnerability and defiant swagger. The lyrics, sparse and straightforward, frame a classic pop scenario: the narrator consoling a girl whose new man has betrayed her trust. “He’ll never love you the way that I love you / ‘Cause if he did, no no, he wouldn’t make you cry.” This core message of spurned-lover solace is classic pop narrative.
The song’s melodic texture is built on keyboards, with Leka himself handling the duties. The sound is bright, almost tinny, driven by a simple, memorable chord progression. Leka’s piano part is understated but crucial, filling the midrange with a bouncy, supportive texture that keeps the harmonic movement simple and direct. The occasional guitar lick surfaces, typically a short, blues-inflected phrase that adds a layer of rock edge to the smooth pop confection. It’s a track that thrives on contrast: a heartfelt vocal atop a purely synthetic, jerry-rigged arrangement.
The ‘Na Na Hey Hey’ Phenomenon
The legendary chorus—the part that secures this song’s place in history—was born of sheer necessity. Leka needed to extend the song to a commercially viable length. He settled at the piano, started vocalizing placeholders, and out tumbled the eight-bar, repetitive, yet profoundly catchy phrase. “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey, goodbye.” DeCarlo instantly joined in with the “hey heys,” and just like that, the “dummy” lyrics became the entire point.
Mercury Records, to the utter astonishment of the writers, immediately recognized the hook’s potency. They flipped the single, placing the “disposable” track on the A-side, and gave the group the name ‘Steam,’ inspired by those vapors rising from the street near the studio. The single exploded. It climbed the charts, displacing The Beatles’ “Come Together” at the top of the Billboard Hot 100 in late 1969, and went on to hold the number one position for two weeks.
The original album, also simply titled Steam, followed soon after on Fontana Records, a subsidiary of Mercury, but the lightning was never recaptured. Steam became a classic example of the ‘one-hit-wonder,’ a phantom band built around a single, undeniable studio creation. The touring version of the band had nothing to do with the record’s genesis. The irony is cinematic: three professional musicians tried to bury a song, and instead, it gave them their immortality.
“It is a piece of music whose sheer, unadulterated simplicity is its own powerful form of genius.”
The track’s longevity is not just a chart story; it’s a social one. Its true second life came years later, starting reportedly when a Chicago White Sox organist, Nancy Faust, began playing the chorus as an anthem of dismissal for defeated teams. The crowd caught on, and the simple melody became a chant. This translation from pop-rock single to stadium chant is the ultimate testament to the chorus’s primal, communal appeal. It’s a moment of shared, non-verbal catharsis—a final, cheeky wave to a departing opponent.
For listeners seeking a richer appreciation of this track’s production details, investing in quality premium audio equipment can reveal the subtle layers—the echo on DeCarlo’s vocal, the almost-breakdown of the spliced drum track, and the thin but persistent organ swell. Hearing the song through that lens transforms it from a radio staple into a meticulously, if quickly, constructed pop oddity.
Today, when we listen, we hear not just a tune but a cultural echo. We hear the ghost of a late-night studio session, the sound of a cynical move backfiring beautifully, and the sheer, raw power of a chorus so simple, it can only be called universal. Its enduring presence means that while music critics may debate its depth, millions of people worldwide know exactly what to shout when it’s time to say goodbye.
Listening Recommendations
- “Green Tambourine” – The Lemon Pipers (1967): Shares the same producer (Paul Leka) and captures the same bubblegum-psych spirit of accidental studio-band brilliance.
- “Spirit in the Sky” – Norman Greenbaum (1969): Another massive late-60s hit driven by an instantly recognizable, simple guitar riff and a distinctively gritty, reverb-laden vocal tone.
- “Sugar, Sugar” – The Archies (1969): The definitive bubblegum pop track, demonstrating how simple melody and studio polish could rule the charts in the late 60s, regardless of the ‘artist’ being fictional.
- “In the Summertime” – Mungo Jerry (1970): Features a similar loose, slightly retro feel and a memorable, sing-along chorus that seems perfectly designed for crowd participation.
- “My Baby Loves Lovin'” – White Plains (1970): A quintessential early 70s British pop-rock track with a similar upbeat, enthusiastic vocal delivery and bright, commercial arrangement.