5 Nearly Perfect '60s Songs That Almost Everyone Agrees On

With rock 'n' roll maturing and branching out into its various daughter genres, and with the women's and civil rights movements roiling society, the 1960s were an incredible time to be near a radio. The world was changing, music was changing with it, and the listening public had their pick of songs with a message — even if that message was about the importance of having fun.

In keeping with the spirit of the decade, three of the songs here are female-empowerment bangers — that wasn't initially intentional, but such was the vibe of the era that many of the best songs it produced were about women unwilling to deal with nonsense. Wistfulness and optimism fill out the emotional landscape of our other selections. The '60s, like every decade before or since, were kind of a weird time to be alive, and no one captured people's attempts to make sense of their time period and their relationship better than musicians.

Most of Lesley Gore's best-remembered output is exactly the bubblegummy, teenage-drama pop you'd expect from her early-'60s heyday and girl group-adjacent vibe — not that that's a knock on "It's My Party," "Judy's Turn to Cry," or the giddy "Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows," — but Gore's greatest triumph was a slower, more mature, proto-feminist anthem, less diss track than statement of intent. "You Don't Own Me," with the rebel cred of a protest but the intimacy of a love song, still stands as one of the greatest articulations of "actually, no" to hit the U.S. charts.

The male songwriters of "You Don't Own Me," David White and John Madara, wanted to write a song for a female singer that wasn't about a boy — or at least not about puppylike devotion. Gore picked it up and sent it out of the park with the best vocals of her career, and the song started its journey toward becoming a much-covered, much-celebrated anthem. Gore would re-record it in 2005 for her final album; the more mournful, slower version feels like a coolly defiant farewell.

The genius of "California Dreamin'," particularly the most famous version by the Mamas & the Papas, is its perfect capture of a mood that's hard to articulate in words. The music is eerie, almost gloomy, an effect heightened by the call-and-response harmonies between the male and female singers. The song isn't about ghosts, though it feels like it could be. Instead, it's about geographical longing, not quite homesickness but a reaching towards a place where you think you'll be happier (and warmer). And for a lot of Americans before, during, and after the '60s, that was California, the alleged Promised Land waiting at the end of Manifest Destiny.

The Mamas & the Papas' best-loved hit almost didn't happen, at least not in this form. They originally recorded the song only as backup singers for their friend Barry McGuire, but the producer didn't like McGuire's vocals (or harmonica solo). He handed the reins to the backing band, swapped out the harmonica for a flute, and a classic was born.

There are perfectly good critiques to be made of nepo babies, but there's also an excellent way to shut down the conversation next time you're tired of someone virtue-signaling about someone's kid getting a boost in whatever industry. Just slap your hand down on the table and bellow, "And would you have us live in a world without "These Boots Are Made for Walkin", the 1965 hit by Frank Sinatra's daughter Nancy?"

Lesley Gore walked so that Nancy Sinatra could stomp out the door. The younger Sinatra was never quite the vocalist her father was (few people were), but she was no slouch. She buttressed her gifts with showmanship; song choices that played to her strengths; and the short, short skirts of the '60s. Altogether, those factors added up to star quality, and the instantly memorable "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" proved it. Everyone recognizes that intro, and by the time Sinatra comes in with the vocals, we're right there with her. A highlight of any breakup playlist and a karaoke mainstay, these boots are classic for good reason.

It feels weird to call "What a Wonderful World" a '60s song because it seems so timeless. You could almost imagine God handing the 10 Commandments to Moses and throwing in the single as a freebie, something to get His people through the next 40 years of desert wanderings. But no, "What a Wonderful World" was recorded by Louis Armstrong in 1967. Even most hardened cynics, people left cold by "Imagine." who stand dry-eyed through "The Lost Canadian," and who yawn during "Amazing Grace," must acknowledge the heartstring-yanking power of Armstrong's recording.

The track is an unusual departure for Armstrong, with none of his famous trumpet and no scatting in the vocals: just that strange and wonderful and unique voice cataloguing some of the gifts the world gives. Armstrong reportedly decided to record the song because it reminded him of his neighborhood in Queens, where he was surrounded by family and friends. The song initially flopped in the States despite successes overseas, but nothing could keep Satchmo's magnum opus down. "What a Wonderful World" is now the great Armstrong's most popular recording.

France Gall is not necessarily a household name in the United States, but during the 1960s, she was one of the biggest stars in France. (She also won the 1965 Eurovision Song Contest as a ringer for Luxembourg, despite being French and ... named France.) Her Eurovision winner, "Poupée de cire, poupée du son" is a classic '60s doormat song without much agency in the lyrics; the introductory lyrics literally translate to "I'm a wax doll." But her most timeless hit drew on much sassier emotions: "Laisse Tomber les Filles," (covered by various artists in English as "Chick Habit") is a pointed warning to a playboy to ship up or ship out. 

"Laisse Tomber les Filles" is one of the standout examples of yé-yé, a particular iteration of bouncy French pop largely driven by female performers. While it never quite crossed over to enjoy mainstream American success, yé-yé tracks regularly show up in movie soundtracks and among the influences of modern pop artists. Once you listen to France Gall, you'll understand why.