You know the sound. It’s deafening. Thousands of people in a stadium, fueled by adrenaline and maybe a little too much light beer, screaming "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" at a losing team. It is the ultimate musical middle finger. But here is the thing: the song was never supposed to be a sports anthem. In fact, it wasn't even supposed to be a "real" song.
It was a throwaway. A "B-side" filler track recorded in 1969 by a group that didn't technically exist yet.
The story of "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" is a chaotic mix of studio desperation, accidental genius, and a weirdly persistent urban legend involving the band Sha Na Na. People often get the two confused because of the lyrics, but Sha Na Na didn't write it. They just happen to have a name that sounds like the chorus. The real architects were a trio of guys from Bridgeport, Connecticut, who were just trying to get a paycheck and clear some old demos off their desks.
The Night a "B-Side" Changed Everything
Back in '69, Paul Leka, Gary DeCarlo, and Dale Frashuer were working at Mercury Records. DeCarlo was the "talent"—the guy they were trying to push as a solo artist. He had recorded a couple of singles that the label actually liked, "Sweet Marjorene" and "Workin' On A Groovy Thing." But every single needs a B-side. In the vinyl era, you couldn't just put out one song; you needed a "filler" track for the back of the record so DJs wouldn't accidentally play something they weren't supposed to.
Leka and his crew didn't want to waste their good material on a B-side. They decided to dig up an old bluesy track they’d written years earlier called "Kiss Him Goodbye."
They started recording it at Mercury Studios in New York City. The problem? The song was too short. It was barely two minutes long. To stretch the time, Leka told DeCarlo to just start ad-libbing. He sat at the piano and started banging out that famous, heavy rhythm. DeCarlo shouted "Na na na na," and then "Hey hey hey," followed by the "Goodbye."
They thought it was garbage. Honestly.
They purposely made the chorus repetitive and "dumb" because they didn't want it to be better than the A-side. They even added a drum track that sounded like a literal garbage can being hit to make it feel less polished. When the executives at Mercury heard it, they realized the "filler" was a massive hit. But there was a catch. DeCarlo didn't want his name on it. He thought it was embarrassing. So, they invented a fake band called Steam.
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Why Everyone Thinks it’s Sha Na Na
If you ask a casual fan who sang the "Na Na" song, they’ll almost always say Sha Na Na. It makes sense, right? The band’s name is literally the lyric. Plus, Sha Na Na was huge in the 70s—they had a TV show, they played Woodstock, and they specialized in 50s-style doo-wop revival.
But Steam and Sha Na Na are completely different entities.
The confusion grew because Sha Na Na began performing the song in their live sets. It fit their brand perfectly. However, the original recording—the one that hit Number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in December 1969—was purely Leka, DeCarlo, and Frashuer. There was no actual band called Steam to go on tour when the song blew up. They had to scramble to put a group together just to do television appearances.
It’s one of those rare moments in music history where the song is far more famous than the people who created it. DeCarlo, sadly, spent much of his life frustrated that his solo career under his own name never took off, while his "throwaway" vocal became one of the most recognizable recordings in human history.
How the Song Migrated to the Stadium
How does a pop song about a guy telling a girl to leave her boyfriend become a weapon of psychological warfare in sports? You can thank the Chicago White Sox for that. Specifically, a guy named Nancy Faust.
In the late 1970s, Faust was the organist at Comiskey Park. She was a legend for her ability to play snippets of songs that snarkily commented on the game. In 1977, she started playing the "Na Na" chorus whenever an opposing pitcher was pulled from the mound.
It was an instant hit.
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The fans caught on immediately. It wasn't just a song anymore; it was a taunt. It was a way to tell the visiting team that their time was up. From the White Sox, it spread like a virus. It moved to basketball, then hockey, then soccer. Now, it’s played in stadiums from Manchester to Tokyo.
There is a specific psychological power in those syllables. "Na na na na." It’s playground-simple. It’s what a child says when they’re winning. It is inherently dismissive. When you combine that with the driving, repetitive beat, you get a chant that is impossible to ignore and incredibly annoying if you’re on the receiving end.
The Ghostly Production of 1969
If you listen to the original 1969 recording today, it sounds surprisingly modern. It’s got this weird, bottom-heavy percussion that feels more like a 70s glam rock beat or even early hip-hop than a 60s pop tune.
Paul Leka used a lot of studio trickery. Since there wasn't a real band, he overdubbed the vocals dozens of times to make it sound like a crowd was singing. That’s why it works so well in stadiums—the record itself sounds like a mob.
- The Drum Loop: They used a repetitive, almost mechanical drum track that was rare for the time.
- The Piano: It’s a rhythmic, percussive piano style that anchors the whole song.
- The Fade Out: The song is famous for its long, lingering fade-out, which gave DJs plenty of time to talk or for fans to keep the chant going.
The irony is that Gary DeCarlo’s "serious" songs, the ones he actually cared about, were beautifully produced orchestral pop. But the world didn't want beautiful. The world wanted "Na Na."
Why the Song Never Dies
Music critics usually hate this song. Rolling Stone isn't exactly putting it on "Greatest Songs of All Time" lists. It’s repetitive. The lyrics are thin. The production was rushed.
But "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye" survives because it serves a functional purpose. It is a tool.
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Most pop songs are about an emotion—love, heartbreak, anger. This song is about a transition. It’s about the moment one thing ends and another begins. In a stadium, that transition is the "out" or the "exit." In politics, it’s used when a candidate loses an election. It has been used in movies like Remember the Titans to signal a turning point in a story.
It’s also incredibly lucrative. Because the song is played at thousands of sporting events every year, the publishing royalties are a gold mine. Even if nobody knows who Gary DeCarlo is, his voice is earning money every time a pitcher walks back to the dugout in shame.
What Really Happened to Steam?
The "band" Steam effectively dissolved before they even started. Once the song hit #1, Mercury Records wanted an album. Leka and Frashuer produced a self-titled Steam album, but it was mostly just a collection of various tracks they had laying around.
DeCarlo eventually moved on, but he struggled with the "Steam" legacy. In interviews later in his life, he was open about the bitterness of seeing "his" song become a global phenomenon while he remained relatively anonymous. He passed away in 2017, but not before seeing the song inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.
It’s a strange legacy. Usually, artists want to be remembered for their most complex, heartfelt work. DeCarlo is remembered for a series of nonsense syllables he sang while trying to make a record sound "bad."
Actionable Takeaways for Music Fans and Creators
The story of this track actually offers some pretty solid lessons for anyone in a creative field or just interested in pop culture history.
- Don't Overthink the "Filler": Sometimes your "throwaway" ideas are the ones that resonate because they aren't bogged down by ego or over-polishing. The lack of pretension in the "Na Na" chorus is exactly why it stuck.
- Context is Everything: The song was a hit in 1969, but it became an immortal anthem in 1977 because of a stadium organist. A piece of art can find a second, much larger life if it finds the right environment.
- Branding Matters: The confusion between Steam and Sha Na Na proves that if you don't claim your identity, the public will invent one for you. If you're a creator, make sure your name is attached to your "hits," even the ones you're embarrassed by.
- Simplicity Scales: Complex melodies are hard for 50,000 people to sing in unison. Nonsense syllables are universal. If you want to reach everyone, sometimes you have to speak in a language that doesn't actually use words.
Next time you’re watching a game and that chant starts up, remember that it wasn't born in a stadium. It was born in a small, sweaty New York studio out of a desire to make a song so "bad" that no one would play it. Life has a funny way of doing the exact opposite of what you plan.