Wherein the Poppy Family prove that sometimes nothing’s darker than a light touch, nothing’s heavier than a deft piece of fluff. Where Evil Grows being much heard in the pop radio mix of 1971-72, a time when the afterglow of the 1960s was still very much in shiny, happy evidence. But you know what they say about stuff that glows — it also casts a shadow.
Yes, that Terry Jacks, and from the same album as that song. Because there was a time, call it 1972, when the most divisively sentimental artifact of pop poison the world knew could cohabit with an oddly heartfelt little ditty about urban alienation, the mindless paving over of paradise, the sheer sadness inherent in being alive and alone in a world that was clearly going to hell, sentimental or otherwise.