Hollywood Spinners

The fastest-spinning property in pop records this week is not a sideburned bad boy from Tennessee, but a scrubbed-faced, clean-cut campus type from Hollywood. Beefed up in an echo chamber-homogenized and pasteurized in a release called Young Love (Dot Records), the baby baritone of Cinemactor Tab (The Girl He Left Behind) Hunter has teenagers wrapped in a burlap fog.

Hunter's message of hope and heart-balm ("Young love, our love, we share with deep emotion") was not lost on his fellow filmsters, nor was its bestseller ranking: first on almost all popularity charts, including first in store sales and on jukeboxes, most often played by disk jockeys. Among Hollywood-be singers who were nibbling at Hunter's slice of the pie last week:

ROBERT MITCHUM, who croaks a hoked-up calypso for Capitol (Mama Look-a Booboo) and manages to sound as if he had half-swallowed a maraca.

JERRY LEWIS, who tries not to be funny, and fails--chiefly because his squeaky voice is a weird amalgam of Al Jolson and Baby Snooks--in Rock-a-Bye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody (Decca). But his album, Jerry Lewis Just Sings, is a bestseller.

ANTHONY (Fear Strikes Out) PERKINS, who quavers and cracks through A Little Love Can Go a Long, Long Way (Epic) as if he were afraid of being overheard.

GRACE GRIMALDI (nee Kelly), who stays in tune but needs a bit more lung to outgroan Old Pro Bing Crosby in the last chorus of True Love (Capitol), from the sound track of High Society.

Best of the off-lot singers, but still sounding as if he'd rather grip a bar of soap than a microphone: FESS (Davy Crockett) PARKER, who drawls some uncowmanlike mush ("Ah got me a purty woman's love") in Wringle Wrangle (Disneyland), manages to keep face with the kiddies by cracking a whip and hollering every few bars.

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