It is the loudest, most recognizable taunt in the history of professional sports. You’ve heard it. You’ve probably screamed it until your throat was raw. When a pitcher gets pulled from the mound or a visiting team watches the clock bleed out, the stadium speakers inevitably erupt with that driving drum beat and the chant: Na Na Na Na, Na Na Na Na, Hey Hey, Goodbye. It’s visceral. It’s mean-spirited in the best way possible. It is a song that everyone knows but almost nobody actually knows. Honestly, if you asked a thousand people at a baseball game who originally sang it, nine hundred would probably guess it was a stadium organist or some anonymous 70s glam rock band. They’d be wrong.
The truth is way weirder. It involves a fake band, a frantic 1969 recording session, and a B-side that was literally designed to be unlistenable so that DJs wouldn't play it.
How a "Throwaway" Track Changed Everything
In 1969, Paul Leka, Gary DeCarlo, and Dale Frashuer were working together in Bridgeport, Connecticut. They had been in a band called The Chateaus years earlier, but by the late 60s, they were just trying to write hits. DeCarlo had recorded a few singles under the name Garrett Scott that actually looked like they might go somewhere. The problem? The record label, Mercury, needed a B-side for his single "Sweet Laura Lee." In the music industry of that era, the B-side was where you buried the garbage. You didn't want the B-side to be good because you didn't want to split the royalties or confuse the radio programmers.
Basically, they needed something long and boring.
They decided to dust off a song they’d written back in 1961 called "Kiss Him Goodbye." It was a simple, bluesy shuffle back then. During the recording session, Paul Leka decided they needed to stretch it out. They didn't have enough lyrics. So, Leka sat at the piano and just started shouting "Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye." It was a placeholder. It was literal filler. They even added a drum track that was slightly out of sync to make the song feel less polished.
Gary DeCarlo sang the lead vocals in a way that felt raw, almost dismissive. They thought they had successfully created a piece of musical fluff that would never see the light of day. Then, Bob Babbitt and the rest of the Mercury execs heard it. They didn't just like it; they thought it was a monster hit. But there was a catch. They didn't want to use it as a B-side for Gary DeCarlo's "serious" career. They wanted to release it as a standalone single under a fake group name.
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The Birth of Steam
They called the "band" Steam. There was no Steam. There were no touring members, no photo shoots, and no intention of ever playing a live show. When Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye started climbing the charts, the label had to scramble. They literally hired a group of session musicians who had nothing to do with the recording to go out on the road and pretend to be the band. They even put a photo of these random guys on the album cover.
DeCarlo was understandably devastated. He had a number one hit on his hands, but his face wasn't on the sleeve, and he wasn't getting the credit. By December 1969, the song hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100. It stayed there for two weeks, knocking The Beatles and The Rolling Stones off their pedestals.
It’s a bizarre irony of the music industry. The song that was meant to be a disposable B-side became a cultural juggernaut, while the "A-side" that everyone worked so hard on, "Sweet Laura Lee," vanished into total obscurity. If you listen to the original recording now, you can hear the chaotic energy. That heavy, thumping drum line—which sounds like it was built for a stadium—was actually just a drum loop they kept repeating because they were in a rush to finish the session and go home.
From the Radio to the Bleachers
So, how does a 1969 pop hit become the universal anthem for kicking someone out of a stadium? For about seven years, the song just existed as an oldie on the radio. It wasn't "sports music" yet. That changed in 1977.
Nancy Faust is a name you should know. She was the organist for the Chicago White Sox for decades. She is essentially the godmother of the modern stadium atmosphere. During a game in 1977, a Kansas City Royals pitcher was being removed from the mound. Faust started playing the chorus of Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye on her organ. The crowd picked up on it immediately. It wasn't just singing; it was a rhythmic, collective dismissal of the opponent.
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White Sox owner Bill Veeck, a man who loved a good spectacle, saw the reaction and encouraged it. It became a staple at Comiskey Park. From there, it spread like a virus. It moved to basketball, then hockey, then eventually to European soccer stadiums. Today, it’s translated into dozens of languages.
Why the Song "Sticks" So Well
Psychologically, the song is a masterpiece of simplicity. It uses a very specific melodic structure:
- The "Na Na" hook is repetitive and uses a descending scale that feels natural to sing even if you have no musical talent.
- The tempo—roughly 115 beats per minute—is almost perfectly synced to a human walking pace. It feels like a march.
- The "Hey Hey" provides a sharp, percussive punch that allows a crowd to vent aggression.
Musicologists often point to the "earworm" factor of the "Na Na" syllables. Because they aren't real words, they don't require the brain to process meaning. They are purely phonetic. It’s the same reason why "Hey Jude" or "Land of a Thousand Dances" work so well in large groups. You don't have to think. You just feel the vibration in your chest and shout.
The Legacy of a Fake Band
Paul Leka went on to have a massive career as a producer, working with everyone from Harry Chapin to REO Speedwagon. But Gary DeCarlo's story is a bit more bittersweet. For years, he struggled with the fact that his voice was one of the most famous in the world, yet he could walk down any street in America unrecognized. He eventually embraced it later in life, performing the song at oldies circuits and finally getting his due as the man behind the microphone. He passed away in 2017, but his voice is still heard every single night in some arena somewhere on the planet.
There is something strangely beautiful about the fact that a song born out of a desire to create "filler" ended up being the most durable track of its era. It survived the disco era, the synth-pop 80s, the grunge 90s, and the digital revolution. It didn't survive because it was a "good" song in the traditional sense; it survived because it served a specific human purpose. We need a way to tell the other guy it’s over.
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Actionable Takeaways for the Curious
If you're a fan of music history or just someone who wants to win the next trivia night at the bar, here is what you actually need to know about the legacy of this track.
Listen to the full version.
Most people only know the 30-second chorus. The actual song is over four minutes long and has a surprisingly soulful, almost psychedelic bridge that sounds nothing like the "stadium" version. It’s worth a listen just to hear how the producers were trying to waste time.
Understand the "B-Side" strategy.
In the modern streaming era, the B-side is dead. But in 1969, it was a tactical tool. If you're a creator, remember that sometimes your "throwaway" ideas—the things you do when the pressure is off—are actually your most authentic and successful works.
Recognize Nancy Faust's influence.
If you work in marketing, branding, or event planning, look at what Faust did. She didn't invent the song; she gave it a new context. She saw a moment (a pitcher leaving) and paired it with a sound (the chant). That’s the definition of "viral" before the internet existed.
Verify the credits.
If you ever buy a "Steam" record, look for the names Leka, DeCarlo, and Frashuer. Don't be fooled by the guys on the cover. They were just models and touring musicians. The soul of the song is in that Bridgeport, Connecticut recording studio.
The next time your team hits a walk-off home run or the opposing point guard fouls out, go ahead and sing it. Just know that you're participating in a 50-year-old musical prank that accidentally became a global anthem. It wasn't supposed to happen. But honestly, the best things in pop culture rarely are.