A Tune That Weaves the World’s Oddities into a Joyful Tapestry
When Ambrosia dropped “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” in February 1975 as part of their self-titled debut album Ambrosia, it didn’t storm the charts like its sibling single “Holdin’ on to Yesterday”, which hit number 17 on the Billboard Hot 100. Instead, this track settled into a quieter legacy, a minor hit that peaked outside the Top 40 but left an indelible mark on those who caught its wavelength. Released on 20th Century Fox Records, it was a piece of the band’s progressive pop puzzle, a song that felt like a secret shared among friends who’d lingered over late-night talks about life’s quirks. For those of us who remember 1975—when FM radio was king and vinyl spun stories in living rooms—this tune carries the scent of patchouli and the glow of a lava lamp, pulling us back to a time when music dared to dream big.
The story behind “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” is a delightful collision of literature and sound. The lyrics spring from Kurt Vonnegut’s 1963 novel Cat’s Cradle, where they appear as the “Fifty-third Calypso” in the fictional scriptures of Bokononism—a made-up religion that shrugs at life’s absurdities with a knowing grin. Ambrosia’s bassist Joe Puerta, alongside David Pack, Christopher North, and Burleigh Drummond, took Vonnegut’s words and dressed them in a melody that sways between playful and profound. Picture it: a sleeping drunkard in Central Park, a lion hunter in the jungle dark, a Chinese dentist, and the British Queen—all tossed together in the “same machine.” Vonnegut himself was tickled pink, writing to the band in 1976 about hearing “our song” on his daughter’s radio, marveling at its climb to number 10 in New York. That letter, later tucked into Ambrosia Anthology in 1997, feels like a nod from one dreamer to another, a bridge between pages and grooves.
The meaning here is a gentle riddle—it’s about the cosmic dance of humanity, the way we’re all linked in some grand, goofy contraption. “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” doesn’t preach or ponder too heavily; it just hums along, suggesting that life’s chaos—its drunks and queens, its hunters and dreamers—fits together somehow. For those of us who grew up with it, it’s a song that feels like flipping through an old photo album, each verse a snapshot of a world we once knew. The Bokononist idea of a karass—a group bound by fate—shimmers through, whispering that maybe we’re not as alone as we think. It’s less about answers and more about the comfort of the question, a musical shrug that says, “Well, isn’t this something?”
Back in ’75, Ambrosia was a quartet of Southern California kids—Pack, Puerta, North, and Drummond—steeped in Beach Boys harmonies and King Crimson flourishes, crafting what we’d later call “yacht rock” with a prog twist. Engineered by Alan Parsons (who’d soon helm their follow-up Somewhere I’ve Never Travelled), the album earned a Grammy nod for Best Engineered Recording, a testament to its polished magic. “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” wasn’t their biggest hit—later smashes like “How Much I Feel” and “Biggest Part of Me” would steal that spotlight—but it’s a cornerstone of their early soul, a track that still spins at reunion gigs and lingers on playlists. Vonnegut’s blessing only adds to its charm; imagine him, chuckling over his typewriter, thrilled that his words found a new life in stereo.
For older ears, this song is a time machine. It’s the crackle of a car radio on a summer night, the chatter of friends debating Vonnegut over cheap beer, the way we’d let a record play out while the world spun on. Ambrosia gave us a gift with this one—a melody that’s half-smile, half-wonder, inviting us to see the beauty in life’s oddball parade. Even now, as the years pile up like old 45s, it’s a reminder that we’re all part of the same device, twirling through the dark, nice, nice, very nice indeed.