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Welcome to Hit Parade, a podcast of pop chart history from Slate and Panoply, about the hits from coast to coast.

I'm Chris Malanfi, chart analyst, pop critic, and writer of Slate's Why Is This Song Number One series?

The holidays are upon us, and here at Hit Parade HQ, we're gearing up for our first

ever live show coming up in January at the Bell House in Brooklyn, New York. Tickets are still

available if you'd like to join us on Thursday, January 18th. For a link, check our show

page, or slate.com slash live. In the meantime, in the spirit of the season,

think of this month's episode as a holiday potpourri. If our previous episodes were

novellas, today's is an anthology of short stories. We hope you enjoy our humble fruitcake.

On today's show, the three most heartbreaking positions on

Billboard's iconic Hot 100 chart are number 41, number 11, and number two. Coming one

spot shy of the top 40, which back in the day meant missing the chance to be counted down on the radio by Casey Kasem, is hugely frustrating.

Singles that met this sad fate by peaking at 41 include Elton John's tiny dancer, David Bowie's Changes, and the psychedelic furs pretty and pink.

Or how about number 11?

The phrase scored a top 10 hit is the kind of honorific that will make a musician's obituary someday.

But hitting number 11 is like being told you deserved an Oscar but not even getting nominated. Steely Dan's reeling in the years, 10,000 maniacs because of the night, and Stevie

Nick's edge of 17, all ran out of gas one spot shy of the winner's circle.

Just like the one winged up sings the song sounds like she's circle.

But let's consider the fate of the number two hit.

As Jerry Seinfeld has long joked, the worst medal in the Olympics is the silver.

The bronze indicates successful participation. but as Seinfeld notes,

the silver means you almost won. Pop charts in particular are all about the gold.

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