'60s Rock Songs That Are Overrated

Please, withdraw your torches and pitchforks and hear us out. We all know that the 1960s — especially the late '60s — produced superb music from the likes of legendary bands like the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Doors, etc. It also paved the way for the '70s classic rock heyday and songs that we'll be blasting on repeat 'til the end of time. But was all '60s rock fantastic, even if it came from legendary bands? It'd be dishonest to say "yes," because no one can bat a thousand song after song, album after album. Along with its magnificent masterworks, the '60s also produced some painfully overrated songs.

Firstly, we know it's hard to divorce sentiment for the past from more objective evaluations of musical quality. But the latter is our goal here. We don't want to assault sacred cows for no reason, but learn how to listen better. Most highly rated '60s rock songs have rightfully stood the test of time. We're not going to go after a track like the Beatles' "Come Together," no matter how fashionable a choice, nor an oddball, novelty song like "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" simply because it's an easy target. But in order for a song to be "overrated," it's got to be generally well-regarded. On that note, we don't consider our picks to be bad songs, just considered better than they are. On a whole, they generally have some inherently underdeveloped or irritating quality, compositionally, lyrically, or production-wise.

On that note, we're choosing one of the Velvet Underground's most listened-to songs, "Sunday Morning," "Sweet Thing" from Van Morrison's 1968 sophomore album, and yes, selections from the Doors, the Beatles, and the Moody Blues.

We're going to start at the beginning with this one, i.e., the first song off the Velvet Underground's first record label-produced studio album: "Sunday Morning" from their 1967 self-titled debut, better known as "the banana album." The banana on the album's cover comes via artist Andy Warhol, whose name also comprises the biggest set of words on the cover. Yes, that's Andy Warhol, the Campbell's Soup can guy. Warhol also supplied German singer Nico for the album, which is why the album is technically credited to "The Velvet Underground & Nico. In fact, the whole album was more of a Warhol-guided art project than anything else. What does this all mean? It means that if you chuck your rose-tinted glasses aside, you'll hear that "Sunday Morning" sounds self-absorbed, self-important, and cynically architected.

"Sunday Morning" isn't dreamy in the way that the Beatles' "Something" from 1969's "Abbey Road" is dreamy. It's hamfistedly, fakely dreamy. It's got a thin, irritating lead vocal line that wavers on flat, some chimey notes that belong to a celesta (a novel, but unnecessary compositional choice), and just repeats its verse-chorus structure twice before a tiny instrumental break, another chorus, and a brief outro that repeats the words "Sunday Morning." Its melodic phrases aren't long or complex enough to not sound repetitious, especially played back to back and given the samey tone and minimal dynamics of the whole piece. 

So does "Sunday Morning" sound musically shallow and emotionally bereft because it came from the ego of Andy Warhol? We can't say for sure, but it does make sense. No matter what, it's overrated.

The biography on the official Van Morrison website says that the Irish musician's 1968 album "Astral Weeks" was, "Recorded over 3 days with legendary jazz musicians ... combining street poetry, jazz improvisation, Celtic invocation and Afro Celtic Blues wailing." That sounds pretty cool, right? Bearing this description in mind, go ahead and listen to the album's third track, "Sweet Thing." Sadly, you'll hear none of that coolness. Or as Van Morrison might have phrased it in "Sweet Thing," "And I shall none of that coolness there with my ears hear."

In a nutshell, "Sweet Thing" features shucky, super-repetitive, acoustic strumming, bass that sounds like the bassist is trying to figure out his part mid-song, vocals that sound reminiscent of Cartman from "South Park," and eventual, limited-use string and flute parts that don't add anything to the track. The lyrics also drip with try-hard profundity and sophomoric schmaltz, like: "And I will drink the clear clean water for to quench my thirst," "And I shall drive my chariot down your streets and cry," and, "And I will walk and talk in gardens all wet with rain." This sounds like a Renaissance Fair cosplayer serving "thy mead, my lord" at a poor imitation of a medieval tavern.

This is all a shame, too, because with a more grounded lyrical approach and tighter musical arrangement, "Sweet Thing" could be far less stochastic, far less cluttered in the mix, and far more intentional in its writing. But remember that "recorded over 3 days" was supposed to be complimentary of the album's spontaneous genius or something? We don't think so.

Now we come to a strange song from a band not exactly known for not making strange songs: "Touch Me" by the Doors off 1969's "The Soft Parade." "Touch Me" is a prime example of talented musicians making interesting, creative choices that don't always come together in the end, especially when viewed without the coloration of hindsight and the Doors' late-60s fame.

Basically, it's like this: Each individual part in "Touch Me" sounds fantastic (except for Jim Morrison's vocals, which we'll get to — pitchforks away, please). The horns and their harmonies during the verse, the organ runs, the sax solo, the drum change-ups: All of these are great — individually. But when combined, "Touch Me" doesn't really cohere, especially the jump to the E-flat during the verse. The song sounds like a jumbled carnival tune with Vegas vocals, full of choices that are inventive, sure, but which come across as jarring and baseless. Also, no matter that Morrison was a one-of-a-kind singer that rightfully holds his place in rock's vocal pantheon, his vocal rhythm and tone throughout "Touch Me" is grating.

Interestingly, the final version of "Touch Me" came together because Morrison disliked the original "Hit Me" lyrics, written by Robby Krieger (who moved on to painting and other music projects following Morrison's 1971 death). Morrison didn't want to encourage people to actually hit him, so he suggested changing the "hit" to "touch." The other above-mentioned, orchestral musical choices came from collaborations between Krieger, Doors' producer Paul A. Rothchild, and music arranger Paul Harris, though it was Rothchild who wanted the orchestral parts to begin with. All this work made a song that's considered a classic, but one that's also overrated.

Beatles bros: Admit it, "With a Little Help From My Friends" isn't the Fab Four's best work. Yes, Joe Cocker improved on it, gospel-like background singers and all, for his 1969 debut. The Beatles' original 1967 version from "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," however, is dinky, way too simple, repetitive, tiring to hear, and completely predictable even only on the first listen. It's truly odd to think that this song came from the pens of Sir Paul McCartney and John Lennon.

Musically, "With a Little Help From My Friends" is more of a demo track than anything. Yes, the song's got some on-and-off vocal harmonies, scattered guitar licks, and bass flourishes, but its 2-4 rhythm doesn't deviate once over the course of the song. Its chorus also repeats four times over less than three minutes. There's no bridge, no path away from the main melodic loop and chord progression, and nothing to mix it up whatsoever besides a slightly different outro. It's also completely enervated, as though Ringo Starr (the singer in this case) and the gang were half asleep when recording it. On the lyrical side, lines like, "Do you need anybody? / I need somebody to love / Could it be anybody? / I want somebody to love" are laughably no-effort.

Maybe the Beatles should have spent less time window dressing "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," album cover costumes included, and more time refining its music. And yes, maybe the Beatles should have also spent a little less time getting high with the help of their friends.

Maybe it was intentional that the Moody Blues' "Ride My See-Saw" sounds as continuously unimaginative and musically looped as its cyclic lyrics say: "I worked like a slave for years / Sweat so hard just to end my fears," ... "My world is spinning around / Everything is lost that I found." But, the second song from their 1968 album, "In Search of the Lost Chord," still represents a strange and dull deviation for a band that just the previous year in 1967 released an extremely ambitious, if overwrought, concept album, "Days of Future Passed." 

Right off the bat, the lyrical rhythm of "Ride My See-Saw's" central chorus lines — "Ride, ride my see-saw," "Ride, take a free ride," "Run, run my last race," etc. — sounds silly and dumb. Meanwhile, the song's lush vocal harmonies sound oddly recessed into the background and emotionally detached. On top of this, the song bangs on two chords, back and forth, for most of its length, and winds up feeling musically unresolved. If you're not paying attention, you won't even realize that the song ended, because it went nowhere along the way. Maybe this is a clever take on "Ride My See-Saw's" subject matter, but that doesn't mean it's enjoyable to listen to. Plus, the song's dramatic, spoken intro is way too try-hard for the song's lack of musical depth.

Sadly, we can't ask songwriter and Moody Blues bassist John Lodge's thoughts on "Ride My See-Saw." He died in October 2025 at the age of 82.