Music is Life: The Time I Got Mugged at a Grateful Dead Show

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This blog is the first in a series of personal musical memories that I will be running under the “Music is Life” banner.

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Saturday September 2, 1978 was my third Grateful Dead concert, at Giants Stadium (aka the Meadowlands) in industrial East Rutherford, New Jersey. Willie Nelson and the New Riders of the Purple Sage opened (despite being on the ticket, Waylon Jennings did not appear). My first Dead show had been the prior September at Englishtown, New Jersey; I was only slightly familiar with their music at that point. My second Dead show was in May 1978 at The Spectrum in Philadelphia, my hometown. The nine months between the two concerts were my senior year of high school, during which I dove deep into the Grateful Dead’s canon in no small part thanks to live tape trading with my friend Dave, who had two tape decks and thus the ability to make copies (at which he was highly skilled; he later became a film editor). Dave and I were both travelling down the Grateful Dead rabbit hole in search of Jerry Garcia-related sounds.

I went to the Meadowlands with my friend Dan and his friends Steve and Julie. I would never see Steve and Julie again. The following morning I was leaving to move to Boulder for my freshman year at CU. Dan and I were introduced by our parents that summer who mistakenly thought we were about to attend the same college (he was actually starting at DU in the fall). Even though it was a Saturday afternoon show, the four of us opted to take the train north from Philly on Friday night with only the vaguest notion of how to actually get to the stadium. We had reserved seats in the stands, bought from the drug store a block from my house that had a Ticketmaster machine and an overstuffed binder filled with codes for every show on the East Coast (that’s how you bought out-of-town concert tickets in those days). I forget who bailed but I had an extra I was planning to sell when we got there. We met at 30th Street Station in Center City Philadelphia, dropped acid, and got on the next Amtrak for Newark.

By the time we got off the train at the downtown Newark station it was after midnight. We were all very high and very clearly out of our comfort zone. My eyes were dilating furiously; every time I saw someone who looked like they might be able to help with directions, they would morph into a dangerous and/or publicly intoxicated individual by the time they came into sharper focus. We stumbled out of the station–I can only imagine how green we looked–and scratched our heads wondering how to get to the venue from downtown Newark. Within a few minutes someone who looked like he might be friendly (he was clean shaven and wearing a suit and tie) approached us. When we asked him where the Meadowlands were, he said “Just go down that main street there about eight miles and you’ll run into it.” “Great,” we responded, but before we had moved he added “Oh, you don’t walk down that street at this time of night,” like we’d be risking our lives if we did. Then a second later he said “And you don’t stand here either.” At that point we all looked at each other, thinking “Is this guy threatening us?” and quickly walked away.

We spotted a taxi and piled in. “Take us to the Meadowlands!” we shouted. The driver turned to us, sounding like he’d never heard of the place before, and said “OK, but that will be $20 in cash up front” ($20 in 1978 was around $100 in 2026 dollars). My friends, scared from our encounter with Mr. “It’s not safe for you here,” responded by freaking out. “No!” they argued. “If we give him our money he can do anything with us,” suggesting that maybe our driver might moonlight as a serial killer? There was a lot of anxious energy in that cab. “Look,” I said, trying to be the voice of reason, “he’s a cab driver. What do you think he’s going to do? Besides, we need to get out of here ASAP.” Placated, they handed over the $20 and the cabbie pulled away from the taxi stand.

A short time later we were driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike and the stadium appeared like Oz in the distance. “Take us there! That’s where we need to go,” we practically screamed. “I don’t know how to get you over there,” he responded. “Then pull over!” we said. Now as anyone from Northern New Jersey knows, Giants Stadium was surrounded by the finest New Jersey swampland, home to countless buried bodies and very little in the way of what you might call a garden, even though New Jersey dared to put the words “Garden State” on its license plates. But across the swamp we ran in the middle of the night toward the stadium lights, careful not to get stuck in the muck.

We soon arrived and started aimlessly wandering around the lot the way tripping teenagers do. I had my extra ticket to sell and at some point I took it out and said “Who wants to buy one?” I was quickly surrounded by a crowd since the concert was sold out. There I was, ticket in hand, when a rather rough-looking guy (more Deadhead homeless-rough than the mobster-rough guy back at the Newark train station) went into a crouch and punched me in the jaw, grabbing my extra ticket! I was so high that the entire event seemed to unfurl in slow motion. I can still see him extending his right arm until it hit my face. The punch wasn’t strong enough to do any damage or cause any pain, but I was still shocked. He disappeared in a flash. It was truly a “WTF just happened?” moment and an important life lesson: about how to effectively and discretely sell an extra ticket, how to act when you’re tripping balls, and about adopting street smarts while in East Rutherford. I ultimately saw the Grateful Dead 271 times and have been to over a thousand shows in the ensuing years, and that is still the only time in my life I’ve been mugged.

So there I was, intoxicated with one less ticket and a slightly sore jaw in the Meadowlands parking lot at three a.m. The doors didn’t open for seven hours so we had nothing but time on our hands. For no apparent reason we opted to get in the line for general admission field seating despite having tickets for reserved seats in the stands; why I can’t remember, but obviously we weren’t in peak mental condition. After waiting many hours, the gate finally opened and the line progressed in an unformed mass toward the entry point. As we moved through a large, burly guard saw my ticket and reached through the crowd, grabbed me and said “You don’t have a GA field ticket.” Of course my friends made it through the scrum untouched. The last time I saw them they were moving onto the floor, leaving me friendless and with nothing to do but go to the entrance gate for the reserved stands. I proceeded to my seat after they opened up. 

I was still alone in my seat when the New Riders came on a few hours later (the guy who’d mugged me was shockingly a no show). My only memory of their set is that they played “New New Minglewood Blues,” which I thought was curious since the Dead covered the song as well–and indeed, the Dead played it during their opening set a few hours later that afternoon. When Willie Nelson came on I was still solo. Growing up in Philadelphia I had very little exposure to Nelson’s music (or to any country or bluegrass for that matter), so the only song he played that day that I recognized was “Crazy,” which I only knew because Linda Ronstadt had recently covered it. Mickey Raphael, Nelson’s harmonica player, had a memorable presence and added much to the sound. I also remember hearing “Whiskey River” and “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys” for the first time, but that’s pretty much it.

A little while later the Grateful Dead came out. This was the first Dead set I saw where I was more familiar with their repertoire. I had been largely clueless about anything other than “Truckin'” and “Sugar Magnolia” at Englishtown (they only played the former that day), and I missed the entire first set at The Spectrum due to a prior obligation acting in the first half of my high school play. The opening set was heavy on Shakedown Street material–that album would come out a few months later–and the high point was an excellent “Lazy Lightning” into “Supplication” closer. I was a big fan of the Bob Weir-fronted 1976 Kingfish album that opened with that pair of songs, and they sounded even better live.

At some point between the first and second sets my friend Dan finally showed up, more than six hours after we’d been separated trying to get on the floor; I’m not sure if he got bored or if his guilt over abandoning me had finally gotten the better of him. Whatever the reason, I was grateful to finally have company. The Dead opened the second set with “Good Lovin’,” the only time I ever saw them open a set with it (it was the first track on Shakedown Street), although it was a fairly tepid rendition. Then they launched into an epic, hourlong “Scarlet Begonias” into “Fire on the Mountain” into “Estimated Prophet” into “Eyes of the World” sequence that was easily the highlight of the day. They had started segueing from “Scarlet Begonias” into “Fire on the Mountain” the prior year (I had read about it in Relix magazine) and the latter song was still unreleased at that point. I told Dan during the “Scarlet Begonias” jam that they were probably going to play “Fire on the Mountain” next. When they did he looked at me like I was a Deadhead savant. Even then I drew immense pleasure from guessing what their next song would be.

“Eyes of the World” dissolved into a drum solo, which they’d started to incorporate nightly earlier in 1978; this “Rhythm Devils” segment would become a mid-second set staple for the rest of their career. Unfortunately, there was a seven p.m. curfew that the Dead had completely forgotten about. Shortly after the drum solo began the band realized they only had ten minutes left to play, rushed back onstage and did a perfunctory “Sugar Magnolia” followed by an even shorter “One More Saturday Night” encore. It was a big buzzkill and highly disappointing to all in attendance. It felt like we’d been robbed of a complete show.

Thankfully, this story does come with a happy ending. Dan and I wandered out to the parking lot aimlessly, planning to try to relocate Steve and Julie for the trip home. I remember wondering how to get back to the Newark train station and even where the Newark train station was. To my surprise, a car pulled alongside and I heard the familiar voice of Dave, my taping buddy and surely the only other person I knew among the 50,000+ people there that day. “Hey Randy,” he said, “Need a ride?” I can only imagine the look of relief on my face. I looked at Dan, who’d abandoned me to hang out on the field, said “Have fun getting home,” and climbed into the nearly-full back seat of Dave’s car. I remember he had a tape playing of the Dead from Red Rocks two months prior, and Jerry sang “Bertha” as we drove off toward the New Jersey Turnpike and home. Dave was a good friend–he also introduced me to my first girlfriend–but he never helped me more than on that day. I’m pretty sure I’d still be wandering around the Meadowlands parking lot if it wasn’t for him!

I can’t say I had much of a positive experience at my third Dead show, although the second set pre-drums segment made it worthwhile. My next Grateful Dead show would be their first show of 1979 at The Spectrum in early January, but that’s another story.

Insider’s Guide to Vinyl Shopping–Japanese Pressings

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Welcome to the latest edition of the Paradise Found Records blog. A couple of years back I shared some of my tips for successful vinyl shopping. This month I’m writing about my passion for Japanese pressings.

We don’t get a lot of used Japanese vinyl at our stores and are always happy to see it on those rare occasions when it comes in with collections we’re buying.  As recently as last year we had enough in stock in Boulder to merit its own section, next to the “Used New Arrivals” bins by the bulletin board, but currently the few Japanese pressings we have are mixed in by artist/musical category. They are well worth seeking out. As my vinyl library has grown over the years I’ve increasingly shopped for more collectible albums, and it’s been fun to go down the rabbit hole of Japanese pressings, which are unique and offer much to cherish.

 

Several things set Japanese pressings apart from records manufactured in other countries. Perhaps the most important is audio quality, which may be subjective but is still widely acknowledged. I have multiple records from the Original Master Recordings series by Mobile Fidelity Sound Labs produced by Analogue Productions. As much as I love how many MoFi’s sound, Japanese presses often sound better. I am mostly referring to Japanese albums made before 1990; since then there are fewer differences between records manufactured in the USA and Japan.

Older Japanese pressings offer superior audio for two reasons. First, the vinyl itself is higher quality; Japanese plants used higher quality material in the sixties, seventies and eighties. Before 1990, Japanese manufacturers used new, pure “virgin” vinyl, whereas domestic factories often used recycled plastic that introduced impurities, crackling and surface noise. During the energy crisis in the seventies, American manufacturers used thinner, lower-grade filler material to reduce costs, while Japanese producers maintained higher-quality standards. The Japanese production process was recognized for higher quality control that led to fewer warps and clicks.

Because of this difference in production quality, the albums in the pricey MoFi Original Master Recordings series, which started with classical titles before adding rock in 1978 (Supertramp’s Crime of the Century was the first), were manufactured in Japan up until the late eighties. Advertising for MoFi’s referenced Japanese vinyl as superior, justifying the higher price tag. The first Japanese pressings of Dark Side of the Moon and Meddle, two Pink Floyd classics, are widely considered to be the best-sounding editions of those LPs. Japanese records are much quieter and less noisy than their American counterparts.

A second reason Japanese vinyl sounds better is because the music is mixed differently. Because such a high percentage of Japanese record buyers live in apartments, audio engineers make the records brighter, reducing some of the bass/low end and boosting the mid- and high-ranges (you can always raise the bass level to compensate). Of course your results and ears may vary, but I find it easy to tell the difference when comparing Japanese to non-Japanese editions. In a handful of instances, including Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and Tusk and Some Girls by the Rolling Stones, the US stampers were used at the Japanese pressing plant with the higher quality vinyl, and the sound is noticeably better. The lack of background hiss and surface imperfections makes for an ideal listening experience.

Another thing to love about OG Japanese pressings are the obi’s. An obi is a paper strip wrapped around the spine of the album, usually on the left side although some run along the top or to the right. Obi’s generally list the price in yen along with song titles and other relevant selling points in Japanese, often in bright and striking fashion with pictures. Many obi’s are graphically stunning, and are sought-after to the point where a record with an intact obi often sells for far more than one without. For example, the aforementioned Dark Side of the Moon and Meddle each run between $100 and $300 and up if they have the obi attached in excellent shape to go with the record. Without the obi both can be had for significantly less without sacrificing anything in audio quality.

Obi’s are also desirable because of the implied condition of the vinyl. It’s safe to say that anyone who took special care to keep an obi in pristine shape did the same thing with the record itself, since it’s very easy for an obi to get torn or abused with repeated use. Foxing, rust-colored spots on printed materials that can develop over time as a result of oxidation and humidity, is inevitable unless a record is stored the best way: in plastic liners, shelved (not stacked) in a location without high humidity or extreme temps. A well-treated obi is a well-treated record, as close to new as you can get once the seal has been broken.

Japanese pressings also often include unique lyric inserts with sometimes wildly incorrect transcriptions. Most song lyrics are available online these days, but pre-Internet they could be hard to deduce unless they came with the LP; no two people thought the lyrics on Exile on Main Street were the same. Once upon a time the only reliable way to learn or confirm many lyrics was through songbooks that included both the words and the chords for musicians. Here are a handful of lyrics mistranslated for the Japanese consumer:

On the Grateful Dead’s “Estimated Prophet,” “Standin’ on the beach, the sea will part before me” becomes “Standing on the beach to see what might befall me.” On Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song,” “The hammer of the Gods will drive our ships to new lands, to fight the horde and sing and cry, Valhalla I am coming” becomes  “Comin’ of the cold, drive our ships to new lands, fightin’ the haul, singin’ and cryin’, I am coming.” On Bob Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay,” “Why wait any longer for the world to begin, you can have your cake and eat it too” becomes “Why wait any longer I don’t mean to complain, you can have love but you might lose it.” On Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives,” “Red dogs under illegal legs” becomes “Red dogs and narrow eagle legs.” On Costello’s “King Horse,” “Cheap cut satin and bad perfume, showtime is almost here” becomes “Jean got saddened and had to fume she’ll die of dishonesty.” On Costello’s “This Year’s Girl,” “She’s not happy with the cost” becomes “She’s got havoc with the cost.” On Glen Campbell’s “By The Time I Get to Phoenix,” the New Mexico city is spelled “Albakerky.” And on Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff,” the first line morphs from “I shot the sheriff but I did not shoot the deputy” into “I shot sheriff but I did no shot to death” and “they say they want to bring me in guilty for the life of the deputy” becomes “they say they want to bring me in guilty for the killing of a Dirty G.” Not side-splitting but still amusing; on Costello’s Get Happy, the transcriptions are credited to one “Stanley,” who presumably was too embarrassed to provide his entire name.

In Celebration of Neil’s 80th Birthday: His Ten Best Records

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No other rock musician has been more prolific over the past sixty years than Neil Young, who turns eighty in November. Young has put out forty-three studio albums since 1968 in addition to being a part of Buffalo Springfield, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and the Stills-Young Band. He’s also released eleven live albums and offered deep dives into his vault via three 10+ CD Archives boxes that only go through 1987. Famous for a “first take is the best take” approach and a dedication to following his muse regardless of the damage left in its wake, Young has used numerous backing bands. Crazy Horse is the best-known, but Young has also recorded with Booker T and the MGs, Pearl Jam, the Trans Band, Promise of the Real, and most recently the Chrome Hearts.

To describe Young’s output as intimidating is an understatement. I’ve devoted two blogs in the past to his buried treasures. To honor a musician who’s surely earned a spot on the Mount Rushmore of classic rock, here are his ten best studio releases in reverse order.

10) Harvest Moon (1992)

Love him or hate him, Neil Young’s aversion to standing still can be frustrating for fans and fellow musicians; in 1975 he abandoned the only Stills-Young Band tour halfway through because he wasn’t feeling it. In the early nineties he pivoted away from the grunge movement he helped spawn to return to his folk roots with this collection of softer numbers. Bringing back Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor and Nicolette Larson for vocal support for the first time in over a decade, Harvest Moon helped him reconnect with fans scared off by years of extended, often distortion-drenched material. The album welcomes like a warm embrace born from hard-won experience: opener “Unknown Legend” paints lost youth in mythical terms, “From Hank to Hendrix” grasps at the embers in the last days of a long-term companionship, and the title track might just be the most inviting song he’s penned, an elegant waltz celebrating deep love and romance.

9) American Stars N’ Bars (1977)

Young’s penchant for changing his mind mid-production has resulted in many LPs cobbled together from disparate sessions and parts, and he has abandoned countless albums. His decision to not put out Homegrown was so last-minute that it famously required buying back copies that were ready to be shipped to stores (he ultimately released the album in 2020). American Stars n’ Bars, whose cover was designed by actor Dean Stockwell, is the best example of this approach to making records. Side one contains deliberately sloppy but infectious tracks like “Hold Back The Tears” and “Bite the Bullet” with backing vocals by Linda Ronstadt and Nicolette Larson, and “Saddle Up The Palomino” starts with Ronstadt’s laughter. Side two features “Like a Hurricane,” one of his most beloved songs, alongside the beautiful if brief “Star of Bethlehem” with harmony by Emmylou Harris. It also includes “Will to Love,”  perhaps the weirdest thing he’s ever recorded, which equates the search for love and meaning with a fish struggling upstream sung to a crackling fireplace. Whether the track succeeds or not is debatable, but it’s certainly unforgettable.

8) Ragged Glory (1990)

Young embraced a grunge ethos early on in his career; “Cinnamon Girl” might be the first grunge song, and a garage-focused spirit has always been intrinsic to his harder rock. His well-deserved rep as the Godfather of Grunge dates largely to Ragged Glory and Freedom, the 1989 album that preceded it, both featuring Crazy Horse. Nirvana and likeminded Seattle artists exploded in the years immediately after the two LPs, and Kurt Cobain, Eddie Vedder and others credited Young with inspiration. After wandering through a musical desert in the eighties with a number of failed genre exercises, he rediscovered his original drive here. “F*!#in’ Up,” “Love to Burn” and “Love and Only Love” feature shredding, barbed guitar solos, while “Mansion on the Hill” marries psychedelic optimism to grunge’s metal urgency.

7) Comes a Time (1978)

Neil’s music is easily categorized as hard or soft. In the case of Rust Never Sleeps, he literally divides the album in half with acoustic songs on one side and rocking numbers on the other. Like Harvest Moon, Comes a Time stands apart from most of his discography in its presentation of nothing but the folk side (with one exception, “Motorcycle Mama”). It works because it includes some of his best material and the harmonies of frequent late seventies contributor Nicolette Larson, who had her biggest hit with a cover of its “Lotta Love.” From wistful opener “Goin’ Back” through the evocative longing of “Peace of Mind” to the singalong title track and the nostalgic departing sentiment of closer “Four Strong Winds,” this album is a home run if you prefer Neil’s gentler sound.

6) Zuma (1975)

Young’s first post-Ditch-Trilogy release reunites him with Crazy Horse and finds him slightly more accessible, although the darkness is always just a shot away. His more tender side is reflected in “Pardon My Heart” and “Through My Sails,” the latter with harmonies by Crosby, Stills and Nash, although “Drive Back” hints at the punk fury to come in Rust Never Sleeps. The album’s highlights are the long, slow jams of “Danger Bird” and “Cortez the Killer.” The latter quickly became a crowd favorite as it recalled the extended improvisational spirit of “Down By The River” alongside iconic lyrics that romanticize the Aztec civilization as it thrived before the Cortes armada wreaked death and destruction in the sixteenth century.

5) Rust Never Sleeps (1979) 

By the late seventies punk and new wave ruled the airwaves. Young’s timely response was this half-acoustic, half-electric record that tapped into punk’s popularity while still containing some of his prettiest folk compositions. “Thrasher” is one of Neil’s most personal songs with its confession of his motivation for leaving others in the lurch in pursuit of his muse. “Pocahontas” describes man’s departure from nature and the resulting loss, while “Sail Away” is a touching love song. The electric side kicks off with arguably Neil’s finest hour, “Powderfinger,” a tale of a young man painfully discovering the horrors of war that includes the classic phrase “Numbers add up to nothing.” Elsewhere he sews the seeds of his Godfather of Grunge status with the loud, angry “Sedan Delivery” and “Welfare Mothers” before concluding with the epic “My My, Hey Hey (Into the Black)” featuring one of his best-known lyrics, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” 

4) On The Beach (1974)

Neil Young’s response to the stardom that resulted from Harvest was his “Ditch Trilogy” of Time Fades Away, Tonight’s The Night and On The Beach, so-called because he claimed to be deliberately driving his notoriety into the ditch. The third album is the best and most inviting of the three. Kicking off with the minor hit “Walk On,” the first half features the keyboard- and pedal-steel-centered “See The Sky About to Rain,” the stripped-down banjo of “For The Turnstiles” and the driving “Revolution Blues.” The second half takes a more meditative turn with the deep blues of the title track followed by “Motion Pictures,” an elegy to then-wife actress Carrie Snodgrass, and the nine-minute-long, mostly solo “Ambulance Blues.” The title track contains one of my favorite Neil lines: “Though my problems are meaningless, that don’t make them go away.”

3) After the Gold Rush (1970)

Young’s third album eschewed the longer jams of Everybody Knows This is Nowhere; its longest and best-known track, “Southern Man,” clocks in at only six minutes. Instead it focuses more on the lush harmonies Young was exploring with Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, even if only Stills from that group contributes here. “Tell Me Why,” “Birds” and “I Believe in You” all would’ve fit comfortably on any CSNY release. The record also include three meta Young tracks that marry his sadder instincts to that high, mournful tenor: “Only Love Can Break Your Heart,” “Don’t Let it Bring You Down” and a cover of Don Gibson’s country hit “Oh Lonesome Me.” By turns angry, sad and hopeful, After the Gold Rush helped Young find a wider audience even as it leaned into elements that led detractors to describe him as relentlessly depressing.

2) Everybody Knows This is Nowhere (1969)

By the time Young’s sophomore album came out, he had already achieved stardom through Buffalo Springfield. His eponymous debut is a logical extension of his Springfield work, but it is Everybody Knows This is Nowhere where he demonstrates surprising new range and the more improvisational aesthetic that would fuel his best work. “Down By The River” and “Cowgirl in the Sand”–two nine-plus minute tracks with extended, spirited guitar shredding–were both composed the same day as opener “Cinnamon Girl,” when he was tapping into a creative streak spurred by a 103 degree fever. The album also has its mellower side in the heartbreak of “The Losing End (When You’re On)” and the haunting “Round and Round (It Won’t Be Long).” 

1) Harvest (1972)

Picking a single Young record to start with implicitly means missing much of his style. But if you must, Harvest, his bestselling effort, is the place to start. It features two of his biggest hits, “Heart of Gold” and “Old Man,” and a lot more: the freeform jamming of “Words (Between the Lines of Age),” Ben Keith’s evocative pedal-steel guitar on opener “Out on the Weekend,” and the interesting if not entirely successful orchestral productions “A Man Needs a Maid” and “There’s a World.” Add the country stomp of “Are You Ready for the Country,” the angry, rocking indictment of “Alabama” and the junkie lament “The Needle (and the Damage Done),” and you have the single greatest collection of Young songs. James Taylor adds banjo and stellar backing vocals with Linda Ronstadt to “Old Man,” a surprisingly mature sentiment from the then-twenty-four-year-old Young.

The Next 5:

11) Tonight’s the Night (1975)

12) Greendale (2003)

13) Sleeps with Angels (1994)

14) Mirror Ball (1995)

15) Silver & Gold (2000)

Top Eleven Fictional Music Acts

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Spinal Tap II: The End Continues, the sequel to one of the funniest and most influential films of all-time, hits theaters on September 12, with all of the original actors plus cameos by luminaries including Paul McCartney and Elton John. This is Spinal Tap, released in 1983, spurred an entire genre of mockumentaries and has played on more rock tour buses than anything before or after. A largely improvised profile of a fake, struggling metal band shot by fake fan/TV commercial producer Marty DiBergi (Rob Reiner, the actual director), the film includes numerous bits that have since entered the comedy and rock lexicons: amps that go to 11, bands getting lost backstage on their way to perform, drummers dying by spontaneous combustion, props that alternately swallow bandmembers or inadvertently wind up ten percent of the intended size, and on and on. No surprise it took forty years to attempt a follow-up; the original is perfect and will be impossible to top. Filming for the sequel began in early 2024 (the picture at left came in a text from a friend of a friend that worked on the project). It may be a fine line between stupid and clever, as guitarist Nigel Tufnel philosophizes, but the sequel will be lapped up by music lovers and comedy fans alike knowing it will probably land on both sides of that line.

The principals in Spinal Tap are Tufnel (Christopher Guest), David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) and Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer). Guest went on to become the leading auteur of mockumentaries; his Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, For Your Consideration and Waiting for Guffman are master classes in the art form. The fictional Spinal Tap’s genesis may have been as The Originals–forced to change their name to The New Originals by another outfit with the same moniker–but in real life Guest’s and McKean’s first recorded output as a duo is on the collectible Lenny and the Squigtones LP. That album is by Lenny (David Lander) and Squiggy (McKean), the pair that provided comic relief on Laverne and Shirley, the Happy Days spinoff.

To commemorate the return of my all-time favorite fictional band, here are my next ten favorite fictional artists in alpha order (because my list has to go to eleven), followed by another ten deserving of mention. (Warning: spoiler alerts ahead.)

“Bad” Blake (Crazy Heart, 2009)

Jeff Bridges won a Best Actor Oscar for his sterling work as grizzled, alcoholic country music artist Otis “Bad” Blake. Blake struggles through midlife in a series of dingy hotels replaying his handful of hits for small bar crowds and living off his legend before connecting with Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a beginning journalist looking for a profile. T-Bone Burnett breathes life into the classic country sound with the help of songwriter Stephen Bruton, who tragically died of cancer shortly before the movie’s release. Bridges, a lifelong musician, has a gravel-soaked timbre that made the soundtrack one of the better records of the year. “The Weary Kind,” the Burnett-Ryan Bingham composition sung by Bingham, won an Oscar for Best Song. (At left is a pic of Jeff Bridges from an August 2011 show at the Fox in support of his eponymous second album.)

 

 

The Commitments (The Commitments, 1991)

Alan Parker’s excellent film, from a book by Roddy Doyle, examines the brief but entertaining life of a Dublin R&B band. The Commitments only play four gigs before fracturing after a spotlight for critics and Wilson Pickett of “In The Midnight Hour” fame ends with the drummer beating up the lead singer and Pickett showing up late. In their brief time together lead singer Deco Cuffe’s (Andrew Strong) overbearing personality alienates every other band member while trumpeter Joey “The Lips” Fagan (Johnny Murphy) beds each of the three female background singers. Manager Jimmy Rabbitte (Robert Arkins), a soul enthusiast who pulls the group together only to watch the disparate personalities combust, finds running things to be akin to herding cats. But it all comes together for three breathtaking minutes during a performance of the Dan Penn-Chips Moman classic “The Dark End of The Street,” a soul ballad first made famous by James Carr and later covered by Aretha Franklin, Linda Ronstadt, Ry Cooder and The Flying Burrito Brothers. That brief shining moment for The Commitments in front of a mesmerized crowd captures the ephemeral quality of the best live music, even if it is an overly brief reward for the hard work required to make it happen.

 

Dewey Cox (Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, 2007)

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, written by Judd Apatow and Jake Kasdan, effectively blows up the music biopic genre. Using the Johnny Cash bio Walk the Line as a starting point, the movie makes fun of voluminous storytelling cliches. In fact, Walk Hard impacts the ability to enjoy the genre altogether; after watching one can’t view serious-minded dramatic renderings (e.g. Elton John, Queen) or documentaries (e.g. Billy Joel, The Eagles) without wincing at the deployment of the predictable elements. The traumatic childhood, the unsupportive parents/spouses, the discovery by a seasoned record producer, characters who always mention their name and the year to help viewers, the division of a career into specific periods, the inevitable fall and ultimate redemption of the artist–they’re all here. In addition to Johnny Cash, Walk Hard includes hilarious references to Sam Phillips, The Beatles, Brian Wilson and The Partridge Family. Real-life mirrors the movie: when Ozzy Osbourne died seventeen days after his final show in July, it was hard not to think of Dewey Cox, who famously dies twenty minutes after his comeback concert. Must viewing for music and parody lovers. 

 

Tucker Crowe (Juliet, Naked, 2018)

Perhaps no twentieth century writer captures the intensity of music appreciation better than British author Nick Hornby, most famously known for High Fidelity. Juliet, Naked is a humorous, insightful look at the foibles of obsessive fandom. Duncan Thomson (Chris O’Dowd) runs a web site dedicated to Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), a rootsy singer-songwriter who’s retreated into obscurity and stopped performing. When Crowe sends Thomson his long sought-after demos, Thomson’s frustrated wife Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) posts a negative review and winds up in an online dialogue with Crowe, with things developing to the point where the musician visits their southeast England town. The movie is mainly about the decline of Thomson’s and Platt’s relationship and uses the obsessed fan elements mostly for laughs even as they ring true. Hawke expertly portrays a broke, adrift musician hiding from the last embers of his notoriety (and multiple children by multiple partners) with pathos and humor, and the film ends on a hopeful note.

Llewyn Davis (Inside Llewyn Davis, 2013)

Sometimes the less you know about your musical heroes, the better. Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) is a perfect example: a singer (loosely based on Dave Van Ronk) from the dawn of folk in Greenwich Village with talent that’s belied by an annoying, universally off-putting personality. Davis is there as the genre explodes but is unable to capitalize, much to his chagrin, which he makes sure every single person he comes into contact with knows. Inside Llewyn Davis is another in a long line of idiosyncratic Coen Brothers films with little in the way of resolution and an unlikable lead. But the music in the film, from Isaac, Carrie Mulligan, Justin Timberlake and Marcus Mumford, is consistently superb even as it’s undercut by the unpleasantness of spending time with the title character.

 

Soggy Bottom Boys (O Brother, Where Art Thou?, 2000)

Everyone has their favorite Coen Brothers movie–Fargo and The Big Lebowski have the most fans–but for me the duo’s pinnacle is 2000’s O Brother, Where Art Thou, whose soundtrack launched a folk and bluegrass revival and greatly expanded the fanbases of Alison Krauss, Gillian Welch and Chris Thomas King. Loosely based on Homer’s The Odyssey and full of memorable characters and lines, the story follows three Depression-era chain-gang-escapees who stumble into a recording studio and sing a few songs for blind DJ/record producer “Radio Station Man” (Stephen Root). The trio’s take on “Man of Constant Sorrow,” the folk classic first recorded in 1913, becomes a huge hit as the escapees journey to reclaim a lost treasure while evading a posse. The film culminates in a performance of the song for an enthused crowd stunned to see the trio in the flesh, following which incumbent, mid-campaign governor Homer Stokes (Charles Durning) pardons the group to curry favor with voters. The soundtrack to the film, produced by T-Bone Burnett,  is one of the biggest selling soundtracks of all-time and won three Grammys.

 

McGwyer Mortimer (The Ballad of Wallis Island, 2025)

Here’s a more recent example: 2025’s The Ballad of Wallis Island tells the tale of lottery winner Charles Heath (Tim Key, who starred in the wry, excellent British series The Detectorists) on a remote Welsh isle. Heath uses his windfall to reunite the folk duo McGwyer Mortimer, who’s brief turn in the spotlight was a shared love for him and his late wife. The duo show up separately only to find out that the magic, while still capable of briefly flickering, is in the past. McGwyer (Tom Basden) has never been able to replicate his success as a solo act, while Mortimer (Carrie Mulligan, in a throwback to her Inside Llewyn Davis role) has married, moved to Portland and abandoned the music business altogether. The attempted reunion doesn’t go as planned, and the film ultimately focuses on the two men trying to come to terms with the past. In the case of McGwyer, that means reconnecting with why he loves music, while with Heath it means accepting the loss of his spouse and moving on.

 

Mitch and Mickey (A Mighty Wind, 2003)

Christopher Guest took the improvisational, mockumentary spirit of This is Spinal Tap and mined it repeatedly. 2003’s A Mighty Wind, arguably his peak, spoofs the folk movement of the early sixties. Although a number of fictional acts are included–including The Folksmen, the same trio of actors in Spinal Tap–the centerpiece is Mitch and Mickey, played by, respectively, Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara. The long-dreamed-of reunion of the pair serves as the headliner of the PBS concert created to commemorate the passing of folk impresario Irving Steinbloom. In the decades since their split, Mitch has lapsed into a semi-catatonic state (pictured at right is one of his solo efforts) while Mickey plays catheter-themed songs to support her husband’s urology-focused business. Like the best fictional acts, the songs are just as good as what they aim to parody; in this instance, the tribute concert (and the film) culminates in a tender reading of “A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow,”  the love ballad that made stars of the pair. 

 

The Rutles (All You Need is Cash, 1978)

This is Spinal Tap was greatly influenced by All You Need is Cash, the 1978 profile of The Rutles, the “pre-fab four” that is a Beatles parody and homage. Written by Monty Python’s Eric Idle, the film features Mick Jagger and others speaking reverently about the group’s influence. But where Spinal Tap’s humor comes from poking fun at the imperfections of musicians and the tropes of music biopics, All You Need is Cash is more focused on replicating and spoofing The Beatles’ rise and fall. Segments specifically parody the “Paul is dead” craze, the “we’re bigger than Jesus” uproar, the visit to India, the rooftop concert, and so on. While it often underwhelms due to its overreliance on the Beatles chronology, the songs–created by Neil Innes of Bonzo Dog Band fame–hit it out of the park, mimicking the sound so well they could easily be confused for Lennon/McCartney originals. “Number One,” “Hold My Hand” and “Get Up and Go” are so infectious they could readily be added to the Beatles canon, and are so close to the source material that the music publisher forced Lennon’s name to be added to the composer credits after The Beatles had blessed the project. It may not stand up to repeat viewing, but the soundtrack is still likely to appeal to Beatles fans. 

 

Stillwater (Almost Famous, 2000)

My favorite rock movie of all-time is Almost Famous, the 2000 autobiographical effort from writer/director Cameron Crowe that chronicles his time as a teenage journalist for Rolling Stone in the seventies. Crowe created Stillwater for the film, a composite group that combines elements of The Eagles, Led Zeppelin and The Allman Brothers Band. In the film Stillwater is, to quote Lester Bangs (Philip Seymour Hoffman) “a mid-level band struggling with their own limitations in the harsh face of stardom.” The group’s music, created by Peter Frampton and Crowe’s then-wife Nancy Wilson of Heart, is tasty seventies stadium rock. In a movie filled with great lines, this one from lead singer Jeff Beebe (Jason Lee) perfectly encapsulates the motivation of many classic rockers: “Some people have a hard time explaining rock’n’roll. I don’t think anyone can really explain rock’n’roll. Maybe Pete Townsend, but that’s okay. Rock’n’roll is a lifestyle and a way of thinking and it’s not about money and popularity. Although some money would be nice. But it’s a voice that says, ‘Here I am–and fuck you if you can’t understand me.’ And one of these people is gonna save the world. And the chicks are great.”  

Honorable Mentions:

Citizen Dick (Singles, 1992)

Daisy Jones & The Six (Daisy Jones & The Six, 2023)

Marie DeSalle (High Fidelity, 2000)

Drive Shaft (Lost, 2004-2010)

Troy Dyer (Reality Bites, 1994)

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (Hedwig and the Angry Inch, 2001)

Mouse Rat (Parks & Recreation, 2009-2015)

The Oneders (That Thing You Do!, 1996)

Sex Bob-Omb (Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, 2010)

Style Boyz (Pop Star: Never Stop Never Stopping, 2016)

 

 

Music Memoir Roundup

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I am an absolute sucker for music-related memoirs. If you’re an artist I love and take the time to write a book, I can practically guarantee you I will read it. I don’t even have to like your music; if I think you have a compelling story to tell or someone I respect recommends your book, I’m all in. The book section at Paradise Found Records is always well-stocked with new and used titles. I previously wrote about some of my favorites of the genre. Here are five recent releases I’d recommend.

Mike Campbell–Heartbreaker, A Memoir

You may not know who Mike Campbell is but you know his music. As lead guitarist in Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers from the group’s inception, he co-authored some of Petty’s most popular songs and lent sterling guitar work to nearly every song Petty released in his long, illustrious career. Campbell is highly introverted and thus functioned as a perfect sideman: while contributing much to what made Petty one of the most successful American rock acts of the last fifty years, he was perfectly content to stay in the background and avoid the spotlight except for when he was adding screaming guitar solos to classics like “American Girl” and “Runnin’ Down a Dream.” Campbell was also willing to do some of Petty’s dirty work for him: when bandmates pushed back on what they felt was unfair compensation for their contributions, Campbell was the one to remind them that they were in the Tom Petty business, a fact he also had to remind himself of on occasion. Campbell’s memoir can be a little technical at times–multiple sections address his style with detail only a fellow guitar player can appreciate–but Heartbreaker is still required reading for all Petty fans. It’s an inside look at the journey from struggling Gainesville rock band to musical legends with a unique perspective only Campbell can provide, including on Petty’s tragic, unexpected passing at sixty-six in 2017.

Notable excerpt, regarding a classic song Campbell wrote for Mick Jagger: 

“Mick loved the song. But the next thing I knew, Tom said he wanted it for his record. I thought, what a coincidence; what interesting timing. But I was happy. I would have gotten a kick at having written a song for Mick, but that’s where my songs belonged, on Tom Petty records. I couldn’t wait to hear what he had done with it.

Tom wrote lyrics and brought it in a few days later. We set up with the whole band to run through it. I asked Tom what it was called.

“It’s called “You Rock Me.”

I stared at him.

“It’s called “You Rock Me?”

“I know, I know.”

We played the song through with the whole band. It sounded great.

Benmont looked over at Tom.

“Are you singing, “You rock me?”

“Yeah.”

“You rock me, baby?”

“Yeah.”

Benmont looked appalled.

“That’s just…” Benmont shook his head. “You can’t sing ‘you rock me, baby. You just can’t.’”

“I know, I know.”

Tom came back a few days later and said he’d fixed it. Steve kicked us off and we launched into the song. Tom stepped up to the mic and sang. Every word was the same. But when we played the chorus, instead of singing, “You rock me, baby,” Tom sang, “You wreck me.”

I shook my head. Incredible. Half a syllable, and it changed everything. How did he do it?”

Cher–The Memoir, Part One

Cher might not fit the classic description of a rocker, but she was a member of the Wrecking Crew session band that played on many hits in the sixties and she worked extensively with Phil Spector. Part one of her memoir focuses on her first thirty-five years, including her launch into music and later TV stardom, and ends just as she begins acting (part two, covering the second half of her life, is due to be released this fall). In addition to its memories of an early life filled with amazing stories about growing up poor amidst Hollywood royalty, the book chronicles her rise and fall (and rise again) starting in the mid-sixties, when she parlayed her friendship with Sonny Bono into a highly successful career. Sonny and Cher struggled to break through until they visited the UK in 1965. Their hippie-gypsy hybrid fashion sense took the Brits by storm, knocking The Beatles (temporarily) off the top of the charts and paving the way for stardom when they returned home to Los Angeles. After a few years of hits, they were seemingly on the way to obscurity playing in nightclubs until, out of boredom as much as anything else, they added humorous banter to their stage show. As they finetuned the interplay, they transformed their act and ultimately created one of the most popular television variety shows of the seventies, hosting a who’s who of musical legends including David Bowie, Elton John and Bette Midler among many others. One revelation about the partnership: while Sonny Bono exploited her both financially and emotionally, Cher still harbors a surprising warmth for her longtime partner. 

Notable excerpt, regarding Cher’s joining the Wrecking Crew:

“One day in the summer of 1963, Darlene Love didn’t show up at the studio because her car had broken down. Phillip (Spector) was already behind schedule in recording the Ronettes’ next two singles, “Be My Baby” and “Baby, I Love You,” and this delay frustrated him. Time cost money, so he told everyone, “Let’s get something down anyway and I’ll play with it and see how it sounds. Sonny, you join the backup girls.” We all knew that if he asked for Sonny, he was desperate.

Undeterred, Sonny bounced up to the microphone like a puppy, and then I heard Phillip utter the words, “Okay, Cher, you too. Get up there. Sonny tells me you can sing.”

I almost fainted. Was he fucking nuts? Darlene was one of the greatest singers of all time. I’d be too low for the girls and too high for Sonny. I tried to explain my vocal qualifications to Phillip, but he interrupted me, saying “I don’t care, I just need noise. Get out there and sing.”

But what if my noise was off-key? I thought with a shiver. I stepped up to the microphone for the first time in my life and took my place next to Sonny, Fajita and Gracia. I was shaking so much I had to lock my knees together and fix my focus on the little speaker that allowed us to hear the rest of the song. There were no headphones at Gold Star; we all just played and sang. It was so intimidating. Phillip asked Gracia, “Okay, tell me what you’ll be singing,” and she went through her notes. When he did the same with Fanita, I thought I’d pass out on the floor if he asked me, as I wouldn’t have a clue what to say. I was planning on just listening to the girls and doubling up on Sonny’s part, then hiding until it was over. Thank God Phillip never asked, but then I think he kind of knew not to.

We were counted in and started singing, and somehow a sound came out that seemed okay. I didn’t know if it was luck or Larry’s skills. I began to relax, but then Phillip made everyone stop. “Cher,” he called. “Step back.” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant at first, but Sonny made a gesture for me to move away from the mic, so I took one step away and we started again.

Darlene was back in the studio the following day, and there was a collective sigh of relief. That woman was a force of nature, and still is, and the only one to stand up to Phillip if she didn’t like something. The moment she walked back in, she took one look at me standing in her place and shook her head. Then she threw it back and let out that great big laugh of hers as everyone exhaled. Then she looked at Sonny and said, “What you doing here?” She joined us at the mic, and when we started singing, the same thing happened as the previous day. “Step back, Cher. Step back,” Phillip instructed. “You’re still cutting through.” This went on and on until I must have been three feet from the others and virtually up against the wall. Eventually Darlene quipped, “She’ll be in Studio B at this rate!”

Ione Skye–Say Everything, A Memoir

Ione Skye might not be a musician, but she’s the next best thing, a rock’n’roll muse who has dated, married and/or inspired many successful artists. The daughter of famed British folkie Donovan, Skye is more widely known for an excellent film and television career that has seen her play featured roles with an eye for quality over commercial appeal. Skye entered into a long relationship with Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers when she was only sixteen and he was twenty-four, and stuck with him through his extended struggle with heroin (which he wrote about in “Under The Bridge,” the group’s breakthrough hit). She broke up with Kiedis just as he was on the brink of stardom to start a relationship with mutual crush Adam Horovitz, better known as Ad-Rock of The Beastie Boys, the group that played a huge role in bringing rap to a white audience for the first time. Skye later flirted with and then acknowledged her bisexuality, which is what ultimately ended her marriage to Horovitz. Through a film career that included working with a then-unknown Keanu Reeves and later John Cusack in arguably Cameron Crowe’s best movie, Say Anything, Skye slowly grows more comfortable in her own skin, culminating in developing a relationship with the father that abandoned her as a child and a still-going-strong union with Australian musician Ben Lee.

Notable excerpt, regarding the most iconic scene in Say Anything:

“As Cameron told me the day we met, Say Anything was very much a love letter to music. Throughout filming, there were endless discussions about what song should play when Lloyd boom box-serenades Diane outside her window. At the time, no one knew the scene would become iconic, but we knew it was significant–the “Romeo under the trellis” moment, as Cameron put it. He’d originally written the scene while listening to Billy Idol’s “To Be a Lover,” so that song made it into the first draft of the script, but we all knew it wasn’t right. After weeks of exchanging mixtapes, Cameron and Johnny decided Lloyd would blast “Turn the Other Way” by Fishbone up to Diane’s window.

Johnny and I were scheduled to film our respective sides of the scene on separate days, which I was glad about. Johnny was being cynical about the whole thing. He thought Lloyd’s grand romantic gesture would come off as cheesy. “Why does he have to hold the boom box up?” he kept arguing to Cameron. “It makes him subservient. I want to try it with the box on the car beside me and I’ve got my arms folded and I’m defiant. She broke up with me! I’m pissed!”

Cameron felt certain that Lloyd should be all in, not holding on to his cool by sitting down, but he agreed to shoot the scene both ways to keep the peace. (Lazslo later confessed to Cameron that he hadn’t bothered to load film into the camera for Johnny’s version; he was that sure Cameron was right.) Initially, they filmed on the street outside Diane’s house, but Cameron wasn’t happy with the footage. Later, we were doing the 7-Eleven scene where Lloyd brushes glass out of Diane’s path (a nod to the movie’s origin story), and Lazslo noticed a tree-lined stretch of park across the street. “That’s our boom box spot!” he said. “Quickly, before the sun goes down!” The crew rushed over to set up the shot, and with minutes to spare, Johnny did the scene, wielding his portable stereo like a dare. The mixture of heartbreak and defiance he brought to the moment made it perfect.

Well, almost perfect. When Cameron reviewed the footage, he realized the funky, raucous “Turn the Other Way” made Lloyd come off less as a thinking teenager’s heartthrob and more like a crazed Fishbone fan. So the song search began again. Eventually, Cameron would have an epiphany while listening to his wedding mixtape. When Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” came on, he knew it was the one. Three other films were vying for Gabriel’s big song, but Cameron went to the mat to get it, and the rest is history.”

Kathy Valentine–All I Ever Wanted, A Rock’n’Roll Memoir

One of the more notable reunion sets at Coachella this year was by The Go-Go’s. While I can’t claim to be much of a fan, the fact is they were the first all-female group to top the charts with songs they’d written and performed themselves, an accomplishment that culminated in their induction into the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame in 2021. The group is known for their power pop and hits that included “We Got The Beat” and “Vacation,” but they emerged from the Southern California punk scene alongside bands like X and Black Flag. Valentine’s memoir is a surprisingly compelling look at a career in music, from her first being a fan of the band to the thrill of connecting with the other members and ultimately switching from bass to guitar to join up. The Go-Go’s were ahead of their time, and the book chronicles the group from early rehearsals through their fracture and ultimate reunion. Through it all Valentine struggles with a lifelong alcohol addiction that fogs many of her experiences and poisons her relationships with family and friends until she finally gets sober in her fifties. I can’t say it made me want to listen to more Go-Go’s, but I certainly respect them a lot more now.

Notable excerpt, regarding the impact of publishing royalties on band harmony:

“With a couple million records sold and being on the road for eight months straight, a significant payday was long overdue. At our accounting firm I sat on the edge of my chair in an office waiting for my check to be issued. Looking at it, I swooned. I had made over $300,000, almost $800,000 in present value. It was more money than I knew what to do with (of course, the accountants had ideas for that). My head reeled. I’ll buy a car! Definitely get a cool place to live. Almost out the accountant’s door, I turned back, suddenly curious. “Hey, what did everyone else get?” Surely it couldn’t be a secret. Everyone had busted ass to make the record sell. The numbers came: Charlotte, with most of the songwriting and the biggest hit, got a huge check. Next came Jane, just under Charlotte’s. My amount came next. Our lead singer, the star with the charisma and voice, made less than me, and Gina, the hardworking drummer who had turned the band into contenders, made the least. I had to let it swish around in the wash cycle of my brain for a while: this didn’t bode well for the band. The first real money had been paid, and there were some awfully big gaps.

It didn’t take long before I got the call. Gina had asked too. Our little drummer was a stick of dynamite, her fuse always lit and ready to explode. Most of the time that meant just playing with all her heart and soul, like a machine, making every ounce of her energy pour into her limbs and onto her drum kit. Other times it meant being a manic, loudmouthed ballbuster, yelling out truths most people would rather not hear. Gina had a straightforward world view: hard work pays off; be loyal and fair; honor your family and friends. The discrepancy in our earnings violated her sense of justice, and I couldn’t blame her. It gave me a big problem because everyone had to be happy and it had to be fun, or else all would be lost. My number-one priority had become keeping the band intact. I was living the experience of a lifetime and I wanted it to last.

Some issues aren’t clear-cut, black and white, one way is right and one way is wrong. I’ve had a lot of years to think about songwriting and income issues in bands and have my thoughts and opinions about it, but that’s all they are. There’s no law or manual. In the case of the Go-Go’s, the money issue became like a sixth unwanted member, always in the room.”

Peter Wolf–Waiting on the Moon: Artists, Poets, Drifters, Grifters, and Goddesses

Peter Wolf was first known to some as Woofa Goofa, the late-night rock disc jockey on Boston’s WBCN in the sixties; later he became the lead singer of the J. Geils Band, the Boston band that mixed rock and R&B and struggled to break through commercially for ten records before finally hitting the top ten with “Centerfold” and “Freeze Frame” in the early eighties. Wolf’s excellent new memoir contains surprisingly little about the J. Geils Band; instead, it is a fascinating look at the life of a painter, singer and first and foremost culture fiend. Wolf saw and hung out with Bob Dylan in the clubs, lived with David Lynch in college, married Faye Dunaway, and spent serious time carousing with Van Morrison, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger and many other musicians, poets, professors and playwrights that drove American art in the second half of the twentieth century. Above all else Wolf is a lover of the blues. His stories of hanging out with Muddy Waters, James Cotton, Howlin’ Wolf and John Lee Hooker reveal an aesthete who was both a fellow traveler and fan. His roles as DJ and rock star helped him become close friends with many of his idols, and this highly entertaining book is filled with engrossing stories and encounters that make it very hard to put down.

Notable excerpt, on hanging out on Willie Nelson’s bus:

“Willie and his mentor, the eighty-one-year-old honky-tonk pioneer Ray Price, were in the front lounge passing each other a large vape pipe attached to a hookah sitting on a table in front of Willie. Ray, once roommates with Hank Williams, was an important originator of the real whiskey-soaked honky-tonk sound, with a young Willie Nelson on bass in his band.

“Hey, Merle (Haggard), what’s in that bottle you’re holding?” Ray asked. “How about giving my coffee a bit of a booster shot?”

“Same for me,” said Willie. I thought Willie had stopped drinking, but maybe this was a special occasion. Merle obliged and said, “Pete, grab yourself one of those coffee cups and let me give you a refill.” They passed the pipe to Merle, who held on to it, taking several long, deep inhales.

“We just did some recording, and Pete here set up a whole studio in the dressing room.”

“Hope it’s a hit,” Willie said.

Merle continued chatting as he reluctantly handed back Willie’s pipe after I passed on having some. Merle began telling a story about the first time I met his longtime right-hand man, Fuzzy Owen, one of the architects of what became known as the Bakersfield Sound in country music. Merle said, “One night Pete came to my show and joined me and the band in catering. Pete sat right across the table from Fuzzy, and I introduced him. He seemed really excited about meeting Fuzzy, so he starts asking Fuzzy all sorts of questions about how he produced his records back in the day, how big the studios were, what kind of microphones he used, what amplifiers did the players have, all sorts of questions. Fuzzy just kept nodding his head and sometimes just saying, “Yes, sir, them sure was the good old days.’ Pete keeps asking Fuzzy questions, and Fuzzy just keeps nodding his head, until I finally had to break in and say, ‘Pete, you’re just wasting your breath. He ain’t got on his hearing aids. Fuzzy’s stone deaf. He can’t hear one damn word you’re saying!’”

Both Willie and Ray started laughing as it was the funniest thing either of them had ever heard.”

Grateful Dead Studio Albums From Worst to First

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2025 marks the sixtieth anniversary of the formation of the Grateful Dead, an American musical institution still thriving all these years later. Dead and Company, featuring original members Bob Weir and Mickey Hart, just finished an extended run at The Sphere in Las Vegas. Bill Kreutzmann, the only other surviving original member, still gigs occasionally in Hawaii (where’s he’s retired) with Billy and the Kids. Boulder has always been Deadhead Central; we may not have the most fans by volume, but we’ve been number one in Deadheads per capita for a long time.

The Dead are marking the feat with Enjoying The Ride, a sixty-CD collection that includes twenty-five shows from some of their favorite venues (including Red Rocks, pictured above). There is also a smaller box set of excerpts, The Music Never Stopped, out in 6LP and 3CD formats. And Dead and Company is playing three sold-out Golden Gate Park concerts in August for (natch) 60,000 fans per night. 

So what is it about the Dead that makes them arguably the most successful American musical act of the last sixty years? Few artists have spawned more cover acts or been honored more. Last December the band was recognized at The Kennedy Center Honors, followed in January by a MusiCares tribute over Grammy weekend. Jam bands and non-jam bands cover their material and there have been numerous tribute albums. The stereotypical view of their music may be acid-fueled exploratory jams just as the stereotypical view of their fans may be long hair, but neither fully reflects what’s made the group the leading icons of the sixties counterculture.

When examined en masse, it’s easy to see an obvious thread running through their studio oeuvre: a consistent struggle to translate the group’s concert magic into a representative sound within the confines of a production setting. The Dead’s most unique skill was their ability to form a hive mind through improvisational jamming wherein the different components weaved in and out of each other to create an unique hybrid of jazz and rock. Perhaps it’s not surprising that Grateful Dead studio releases more often than not failed to achieve the liftoff accomplished when the members were clicking onstage.

To help newbies navigate a large and intimidating discography, here are their studio albums ranked from worst to first.

Built to Last (1989)

In the wake of Jerry Garcia’s near-death in 1986, the Dead experienced a huge boost in popularity, fueled by the huge commercial success of “Touch of Grey.” Suddenly the band filled stadiums with newbies cynically called “Touchheads” by Deadheads. So how did they follow up this long-awaited commercial success? Curiously, by making a record in which they greatly minimized intraband interaction. Built to Last was created largely by having the members exchange parts, each adding their contributions one at a time; maybe they thought this was cutting edge? They also opted to let keyboardist Brent Mydland–who would be dead from a drug overdose within a year–contribute four songs. And while two of those compositions, ”Just a Little Light” and “Blow Away,” are his strongest, the album still bombed. Like their performance at Woodstock, which included an abbreviated “St. Stephen” and a forty-minute “Turn On Your Lovelight,” Built to Last is notable primarily as an example of the group failing to take advantage of a huge opportunity to make an impression.

Go To Heaven (1980)

Go To Heaven features many tracks that became an essential part of the Dead’s eighties musical repertoire. Its horrific cover was inspired (I believe) by a lethal combination of disco, cocaine (the drug of choice at the time) and a failed attempt to be punny. Along with two soft-rock efforts by then-new keyboardist Mydland, the production wrings the life out of every song. “Don’t Ease Me In” dispenses with jamming in the hope of achieving radio play while “Lost Sailor,” a song highly reminiscent of  earlier Bob Weir composition “Looks Like Rain,” features a protagonist too easily imagined as one of the group’s more drug-addled fans. But the absolute low point is “Feel Like a Stranger,” an R&B song that sounds like the Average White Band on quaaludes with an abrupt ending that doesn’t come nearly soon enough. How something so good live could be rendered so insipid in the studio is no small achievement. 

Shakedown Street (1978)

Featuring a classic cover by underground comic artist Gilbert Shelton of Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers fame, the last Dead album of the seventies was produced by Little Feat founder Lowell George. To aid in the continued search for commercial success, George watered down much of the material and substituted polish for heart. Opener “Good Lovin’” abandons the lengthy blues presentation from when Pigpen sang it for a radio-friendly gait closer to The Young Rascals hit (which was itself copied from The Olympics’ arrangement of the original single by Lemme B. Good). “Fire on the Mountain,” which usually lasted ten-plus minutes live, is squeezed into four minutes. The title track might’ve become an anthem in concert, but here it’s sped up in an attempt to capitalize on the disco fad. The remake of “Minglewood Blues” pales next to the high energy of the cover from the group’s debut, and album closer “If I Had the World to Give” is one of Garcia/Hunter’s weaker ballads and was only performed live three times. As is the case with so many Dead studio albums, Shakedown Street casts strong material in a weak light.

Aoxomoxoa (1969)

Perhaps no band is more associated with recreational drug use than the Grateful Dead. They got their start as the house band at Ken Kesey’s Acid Tests, and their debut is noticeably influenced by the consumption of speed. Unfortunately, nitrous oxide was the drug of choice for Aoxomoxoa, their third studio effort. The result is a confusing mess that weakens the power of the classic “St. Stephen” and mires “China Cat Sunflower” in a flower-power jumble. “Dupree’s Diamond Blues” marries highly misogynistic lyrics to a calliope effect that sounds like something from a carnival sideshow. But the true nadir has to be the unlistenable “What’s Become of the Baby.” Jerry Garcia and Phil Lesh soon realized the error of their ways, and in 1971 returned to the studio to remix the record and remove a number of its effects.

Terrapin Station (1977)

In 1976 famed record honcho Clive Davis signed the Dead to his new label, Arista Records, with the hope of helping them finally achieve mainstream success. To accomplish this goal he paired them with producer Keith Olsen, who had worked with Fleetwood Mac to create the eponymous record that would transform that band’s career. The result is a curious hodgepodge. While it contains some excellent material, most notably the title track and Bob Weir’s “Estimated Prophet,” it is horribly overproduced and applies a studio sheen that runs counter to the group’s spirit. The title track covers all of side two and is an enchanting, multi-part journey with some of lyricist Robert Hunter’s most evocative storytelling, orchestral and choral flourishes and a fiery, percussion-driven jam near its end. At the other extreme, the cover of Motown classic “Dancing in the Street” is simply embarrassing.

Anthem of the Sun (1968)

The Dead’s second album incorporated live recordings and is as psychedelic as they got in the studio. Producer David Hassinger famously exited after being asked to add “thick air” to the sound. After the dizzying speed of the debut, the band leaned into their stage persona and embraced long improvisational sections and Pigpen-led blues rave ups. The record is notable for being the first to entirely feature compositions written by band members. The opener, “That’s It For The Other One,” became one of their most oft-played live numbers in the ensuing decades, although other songs on the record made few if any onstage appearances after 1969. Anthem of the Sun introduced their psychedelic ethos to listeners unfamiliar with the live act and deployed studio effects that made it far ahead of its time. Sections feature multiple live samples interspersed and overlaid in a manner that brings the music in and out of focus much like the acid trips it was performed to.

Wake of the Flood (1973)

The Dead’s sixth studio release was the first on their own record label. In true hippie spirit, the band considered selling it via ice cream trucks as a new, unique distribution method. The songs on Wake of the Flood are uniformly excellent, foundations for long, extended jams that quickly became the highlights of any show in which they were performed. The problem with the studio versions is that the songs are shortened with emotionless vocals and questionable instrumentation. “Eyes of the World” is a shell of the jamming vehicle it evolved into live; “Stella Blue” contains some of  Robert Hunter’s most evocative lyrics but includes none of the pathos so endemic to Jerry Garcia’s vocals on his quieter ballads. “Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo” adds violin but similarly misses the potential it reached onstage. And Keith Godchaux’s only contribution to a Dead record, “Let Me Sing Your Blues Away,” is a novelty at best. 

Grateful Dead (1967)

The Dead’s debut is a curious concoction. Recorded in only four days in Los Angeles under the noticeable influence of amphetamines, seven of its nine tracks are covers. The lone group composition, “The Golden Road (to Unlimited Devotion)” is credited to McGannahan Skyjellyfetti, while “Cream Puff War” is Jerry Garcia’s sole attempt at writing lyrics (his partnership with lyricist Robert Hunter began with the group’s sophomore release). Yet the record still has its unique charms. Thanks to all that speed it is furiously upbeat, and even a slow ballad like “Morning Dew” gets played at a faster pace than its live renditions. The album culminates with a ten-minute jam on Noah Lewis’s “Viola Lee Blues,” first performed in 1928 by Cannon’s Jug Stompers, that spirals into the first extended improvisation the Dead committed to vinyl, with Garcia soloing at breakneck speed. Released in March of ‘67, Grateful Dead was the soundtrack to the Summer of Love.

In the Dark (1987)

In the Dark, released in the wake of Jerry Garcia’s near-death from a diabetic coma in 1986, contained mostly material the group had been playing for years before his illness. But the renewed interest in the group and their biggest/only Top Ten hit, “Touch of Grey,” spurred a popularity that has only increased in the thirty years since Garcia died from a heart attack at fifty-three in 1995. In addition to its lone hit, the record includes two of Bob Weir’s better compositions: “Hell in a Bucket,”  a straightforward rocker that opened many shows thereafter, and “Throwing Stones,” as close to a political song as the Dead got outside their cover of Bonnie Dobson’s “Morning Dew,” about the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

 

Ace (1972)

Ace is billed as a Bob Weir solo record, but his backing band on every track is the Dead, so it merits inclusion on this list (Jerry Garcia’s solo Reflections also features the Dead as backing band on a handful of tracks). Ace is 100% a Grateful Dead record, albeit with strictly Weir compositions. In fact, Ace features the track that sees the group come closest to capturing their live spirit in a studio setting, the nearly eight-minute “Playing in the Band” (the live version on Grateful Dead aka Skull and Roses has no jam at all). The album isn’t perfect thanks to the cheesy mariachi horns of “Mexicali Blues,” but still features some of the best collaborations between Weir and lyricist John Perry Barlow, most notably “Black-Throated Wind” and “Cassidy.” “One More Saturday Night,” the penultimate track, is one of Weir’s few attempts at writing his own lyrics.

Blues for Allah (1975)

Burned out by constant touring, in late 1974 the Dead embarked on a nearly two-year performing hiatus; in 1975 they played only three shows, all in their San Francisco backyard. They returned here with renewed energy. Side one is as good as anything they did in the studio. The trio of “Help on the Way,” “Slipknot” and “Franklin’s Tower” kick things off with a burst of energy, with complex, jazzy jamming and the infectious bounce of the last song in the triad. “The Music Never Stopped” and “Crazy Fingers” similarly match Hunter’s lyrical prowess to strong melodies; the latter is the closest the Dead ever got to reggae. Side two peters out somewhat in a series of more spacey explorations, but not enough to lessen its overall appeal. 

 

 

From the Mars Hotel (1974)

The group’s seventh studio release is the only one that comes close to reaching the heights of the one-two punch of 1970’s Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty. Apart from Bob Weir’s tepid “Money Money,” the album finds the group firing on all cylinders with notable contributions from the songwriting duos of Garcia/Hunter and Lesh/Petersen. The former’s “Scarlet Begonias” became one of the Dead’s most-beloved songs with its romantic lyrics and spirited, open-ended jamming, while the latter’s “Unbroken Chain,” never performed live until shortly before Garcia’s death, marries a hypnotic melody to a complex middle section that hinted at Blues For Allah‘s melodic fusion. Add classics “Ship of Fools,” “U.S. Blues,” “China Doll” and “Loose Lucy”–all songs that elicited strong fan responses in concert–and the result is one of the few studio Dead records that even a non-Deadhead will appreciate. 

Workingman’s Dead (1970)

As the seventies dawned, the folk-rock of Southern California was taking the world by storm. First hatched by The Byrds, The Mamas and The Papas and Buffalo Springfield a few years prior, the genre took a big step forward with the debut release by Crosby, Stills and Nash in 1969. That album’s three-part harmonies greatly influenced the Dead, who did a 180 from the extreme psychedelia of 1969’s Live/Dead, their first live album, and instead opted for shorter, harmony-drenched compositions. Workingman’s Dead surprised fans but also captured a lot of new ones with its anthemic “Uncle John’s Band,” lilting “High Time” and country-tinged “Dire Wolf.” “New Speedway Boogie” speaks to the carnage at Altamont, “Easy Wind,” the only song the Dead did with both music and lyrics by Robert Hunter, features a funky Pigpen lead vocal, and “Casey Jones” closes the album in memorable fashion. The Garcia/Hunter partnership took a giant leap forward here.

American Beauty (1970)

Workingman’s Dead may have been the album where the Dead took a sharp turn towards folk-rock and CSN-style harmonies, but American Beauty–released less than six months later–is where they reached their studio and songwriting apex. Three of their most widely-known songs–“Sugar Magnolia,” “Ripple” and “Truckin’”–are included. Garcia and Hunter also penned two of their most beautiful, resonant tracks, “Brokedown Palace” and “Attics of My Life,” while Hunter wrote the words for Phil Lesh’s album-opener “Box of Rain”  to help the bassist deal with the impending death of his father. Add in the David Grisman-aided “Friend of the Devil” and loping “Candyman” and you have a perfect record without a wasted second. If I was going to try to turn someone on to the Grateful Dead, this is where I’d start.

 

Ten Best Prog-Rock Albums

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Welcome to the latest Paradise Found Records Blog. Here are the ten best prog-rock albums of all-time, the prime examples of the genre that ruled the airwaves and charts in the early seventies. Fifty year later prog has splintered into a thousand subgenres. Like your prog with a sci-fi storyline? Check out Coheed and Cambria. Prefer a jazzier, more psychedelic approach? The Mars Volta are right up your alley. Wonder what a prog metal hybrid sounds like? Try Mirar. There’s a niche vertical in today’s musical landscape for every imaginable aspect of prog.

Prog was widely embraced within years of its inception. While no one ever confused it with power pop and its longer songs scared off a lot of listeners, leading practitioners like Pink Floyd and Yes still filled arenas. Prog so dominated the marketplace in the seventies that punk and new wave exploded in part as a response to its excesses and ubiquity.

For the uninitiated, prog-rock was created by British musicians and generally featured one of two specific elements. First, it borrowed motifs and melodies from classical music, updating them to a rock setting. For example, Procol Harum’s hit “A Whiter Shade of Pale” borrows from Bach’s “Air on a G String.” Second, it featured longer compositions with lengthy solos. Musicians sporting long hair were common–although not specific to prog–and lyrics ran the gamut from hippie-style proselytizing to Tolkienesque storytelling to word play where the sound and flow were more important than meaning. 

Here is peak prog, presented in chronological order over its less than a decade long heyday. 

The Moody Blues – Days of Future Passed (1967)

The Moody Blues started as a pop act before becoming a psychedelic rock band that made spiritually-focused lyrics a central theme of their albums. They still had hits as late as 1988. Days of Future Passed was one of the first rock concept albums, combining rock and classical passages to portray a full day’s cycle. No other prog work so extensively used an orchestra and thematic, concept-driven records later became standard issue in the genre. The album delivered two big hits, “Tuesday Afternoon” and “Nights in White Satin,” the latter of which has achieved iconic status over the ensuing decades with more than a quarter of a billion streams on Spotify. (Proggiest track: “The Afternoon: Forever Afternoon (Tuesday?)/Time To Get Away”)

King Crimson – In the Court of the Crimson King (1969)

Besides Days of Future Passed, this is often described as the first true prog record. King Crimson encompassed many different lineups over the years–all led by guitar wizard Robert Fripp–and toured as recently as 2021 (former member Adrien Belew led a Crimson-focused tour last year). Their debut featured Fripp, drummer Michael Giles, vocalist Greg Lake (later of Emerson, Lake and Palmer), and talented multi-instrumentalist Ian McDonald, whose horn, woodwind, harpsichord, organ and Mellotron chops added jazz and classical elements. The record–with its jarring cover painting by Barry Godber, who died shortly after its release–features no less than three iconic, influential tracks: “21st Century Schizoid Man,” “Epitaph” and the title tune.  In the Court of the Crimson King’s shortest song clocks in at over six minutes; its longer songs are broken up into shorter movements (for instance, “Moonchild” includes “The Dream” and “The Illusion”), a template still used by prog practitioners. (Proggiest track: “The Court of the Crimson King”)

Pink Floyd – Meddle (1971)

Pink Floyd started out playing 1967 London Trips Festivals replete with light shows, very much a British equivalent to the Grateful Dead. Later they became one of the biggest selling rock acts of all time, transcending prog and reaching listeners with little other interest in the genre. Their commercial peak extended from 1973’s Dark Side of the Moon–one of the best selling albums of all time–through 1979’s The Wall. Whether Dark Side of the Moon or Meddle is the group’s best is the subject of much debate; I prefer the latter, partially because it’s less overplayed. “One of These Days” starts side one with a menacing, distorted bass-driven melody spotlighting guitarist David Gilmour’s lap steel work before moving through the hypnotic descending chords of “Fearless” and the bouncy lounge vibe of “San Tropez.” Side two is Pink Floyd’s masterwork: “Echoes,” a twenty-three minute nautically-themed journey that gently builds to an anthemic, wordless chorus followed by a funky, chunky guitar jam and nearly six minutes of seagull-like sounds created by Gilmour using a delay effect device called an Echorec. “Echoes” stands as Pink Floyd’s single best side of music, no small feat in a rich and resonant career. (Proggiest track: “Echoes”)

Jethro Tull – Thick as a Brick (1972)

No other prog act had more Top Forty hits than Jethro Tull, named after a famous English agriculturist. Led by curmudgeonly flutist Ian Anderson, the group emerged from England’s late sixties blues scene but gradually moved to the middle, using the flute more extensively than any other act this side of Andre 3000. Following the peak of their FM success with Aqualung, Tull explored the limits of prog with this masterpiece that flummoxed DJs. Thick as a Brick is two sides with a single song, the title track “Part One” and “Part Two.” Each part contains many individual songs but also moves in and out of a central theme. The album rocked hard but also featured plenty of soft, melodic folk. (Proggiest track: “Thick as a Brick, Part One”)

Yes – Close to the Edge (1972)

Led by Jon Anderson’s shimmering alto tenor and his lyrics that painted pictures to blend with the virtuosic skills of his bandmates, Close to the Edge is where Yes tapped into the true essence of prog. The title track is a sidelong opus featuring a stumbling time signature, an irresistible chorus and a long, dreamy third passage that resolves into a final reprise; its nearly nineteen minutes blow by in an instant. Side two’s ”And You and I” and “Siberian Khatru” are no less engaging, the former a lilting love song and the latter a galloping rocker with an extended Steve Howe guitar solo at the end. Add Roger Dean’s spectacular artwork–a common graphic accompaniment to Yes albums–and the result is arguably the greatest prog work of all time. (Proggiest track: “Close to the Edge”)

Procol Harum – Grand Hotel (1973)

Procol Harum leaned toward the classical end of the spectrum, but Keith Reid’s often surreal, cryptic lyrics fit the profile and their sound embodied the best prog. Even though it failed to chart a hit, their sixth effort contained uniformly strong material. The title track evokes the white tablecloths and grandiosity of fancy mid-twentieth-century hotels over a slowly building melody leading to a bridge with an orchestral interlude notable for its spiraling time signature. “TV Caesar” speaks to the intrusiveness of the idiot box with a choir at its close to mimic the medium’s self-importance. And the album’s masterpiece, “Fires (Which Burnt Brightly),” addresses the futility and sadness of war atop a beautiful medley with a spellbinding, wordless vocal solo by Christine Legrand, aunt to Victoria Legrand of Beach House. If you like Clare Torry’s soaring vocals in Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig in the Sky,” you’ll love “Fires (Which Burnt Brightly).” (Proggiest track: “Fires (Which Burnt Brightly)”)

Can – Future Days (1973)

Most prog was the opposite of improvisational. Every note was carefully planned and the live shows typically recreated the recorded work almost note-by-note; it might have showcased stellar musicianship, but no one was ever going to confuse it with jazz. Germany’s Can focused on a more spontaneous interpretation. Some would argue they are not truly prog, but their long compositions and search for unique sounds make them at least prog-adjacent (and prog and psychedelic music share a lot of space on a Venn diagram). Featuring proto-rap vocals meant more to layer the sound than rise above it, the group hit their peak with the trifecta of 1971’s Tago Mago, 1972’s Ege Bamyasi and this release. Future Days conjures rainforest walks and spotlights drummer Jaki Liebezeit’s wide-ranging percussive rhythms, but you can also hear traces of post-punk and new wave in its Krautrock that would inspire many of the acts who later revolted against prog’s excesses. Can famously never played the same live show twice, instead performing extended, free improvisational jams that contained only fragments from their discography. (Proggiest track: “Future Days”)

Genesis – Selling England By The Pound (1973)

With the possible exception of Pink Floyd with their dour perspective and focus on post-war England, no band leaned into prog’s essential Britishness more than Genesis. Their fifth studio effort is their best, partially because it has fewer of the overly twee affectations that ran through their earlier work. Selling England By The Pound kicks off with the majestic “Dancing with the Moonlight Knight” and the sly “I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)” before arriving at the single greatest Genesis song, “Firth of Fifth,” wherein a brief intro/outro wraps around a magical middle instrumental passage highlighted by shifting time signatures that culminate in a masterful guitar solo by Steve Hackett. A far cry from the pop-rock that turned the Phil Collins-led lineup into a stadium-filling act in the eighties and nineties. (Proggiest track: “Firth of Fifth”)

Emerson, Lake & Palmer – Brain Salad Surgery (1973)

Prog’s first supergroup brought together keyboardist/Moog synthesizer wizard Keith Emerson from The Nice, bassist/vocalist Greg Lake from King Crimson and drummer Carl Palmer from Atomic Rooster. Alongside Genesis, the group had a rep for being on the showier side live, with laser light shows and Emerson famously throwing knives at his banks of keyboards to elicit new and unusual effects. Brain Salad Surgery, known for its cover artwork by MR Giger of Alien fame, stands as the pinnacle of the group’s creative output. Besides the soft pop of “Still You Turn Me On,”  the album is mostly comprised of ELP’s opus “Karn Evil Nine,” which includes three “impressions” spanning thirty minutes and cover a side-and-a-half of the LP. (Proggiest track: “Karn Evil Nine (1st Impression — Part 1)”)

Supertramp – Crime of the Century (1974)

Supertramp became hugely successful as they strayed from their prog roots in later years, but their third release is their masterpiece, so sonically superlative it was one of the first rock albums to be released in audiophile Mobile Fidelity format. Crime of the Century features eight stellar tracks. “School” kicks things off with a plaintive harmonica cry that leads to impassioned lyrics questioning authority before careening into an anxious piano solo interlude played at breakneck pace. “Rudy” tells the story of a lost soul trying to find himself on a train ride that picks up speed as his mind races with a confused search for meaning. The title track closes the record with a piano coda filled with orchestral flourishes and a slow fade. The album hints at the group’s later stardom: minor hits “Dreamer” and “Bloody Well Right” garnered the group’s first significant radio play. (Proggiest Track: “Rudy”)

Top Five: Bob Dylan’s Best Records

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It was only a matter of time before Bob Dylan received the conventional Hollywood biopic treatment. The recently released A Complete Unknown is a thrilling romp through the first few years of his career culminating with his controversial 1965 Newport Folk Festival appearance, where he outraged folk purists by plugging in and rocking out. Telling Dylan’s true story has never been easy; the man himself plays around with how others perceive him every chance he gets. 

A Complete Unknown was directed by James Mangold, most famously known for his lauded Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line. And while it unsurprisingly takes more than a few artistic and historical liberties in the service of accessibility and narrative, it largely hews to the reality of Dylan’s first few years of notoriety. This is in direct contrast to Martin Scorsese’s Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story, the 2019 film about Dylan’s traveling caravan which “documented” the famous 1975-76 tour that included a Fort Collins stop by adding fictional elements, most specifically conversations with hangers-on who in actuality weren’t there.

Like The Beatles, that other leading musical force of the sixties, Dylan has been over analyzed ad nauseum. But unlike the Fab Four, who stopped putting out albums together in 1970, Dylan’s steady stream of new material and decades-long Never Ending Tour has kept him top of mind for sixty five years. His ubiquity makes him a relevant part of the musical knowledge of any one over a certain age, but hopefully A Complete Unknown exposes him to a younger audience. Much in today’s culture is influenced by him and he can legitimately lay claim to being the most important American musical artist of most living people’s lifetime. He is also the only songwriter to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Not counting live and archival releases–of which there are many–Bob Dylan has released forty (!) albums since his 1962 debut. With rare exceptions all have been original material. To help newbies navigate this intimidating discography, here are his five best albums. Picking just five is no small feat; while he has not always maintained his high standard, much more than half his output is highly rewarding and many critics count his misfires in the single digits. In chronological order: 

The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan (1963)

Dylan’s first four records were almost entirely acoustic affairs, and his eponymous 1962 debut features only two original compositions. Its follow-up, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, features twelve originals with only a single cover, and first demonstrates the skill that made him the greatest lyricist of the twentieth century. Some of his most well known, oft-covered songs are here, among them “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” The album also features the classic cover shot of Dylan and then-girlfriend Suze Rotolo depicted in A Complete Unknown.

 

Blonde on Blonde (1966)

The first double-album Dylan released was his third with electric guitars. After a failed attempt with The Hawks (later known as The Band) as backup, Dylan instead leaned on Nashville studio wizards to create the most sophisticated-sounding music he’d made up to that point. Al Kooper’s organ is a big part of the sound, an ironic touch considering Kooper only moved to the instrument after the much better Mike Bloomfield (who had accompanied Dylan at that famous Newport performance) showed up to play guitar at the session. Blonde on Blonde contains two of Dylan’s earliest cracks at long ballads, “Visions of Johanna” and “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” It kicks off with the raucous “Rainy Day Women #12 and #45” (with its chorus “Everybody must get stoned”) and also features the tender “Just Like a Woman” and uptempo “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.” With no weak spots among its fourteen tracks, many would argue this is Dylan’s finest hour.

Nashville Skyline (1969)

The Byrds and Gram Parsons may have trailblazed the country rock sound later popularized by The Eagles, but Dylan broke barriers less than a year after Sweetheart of the Rodeo by exposing his rock and folk followers to country. Starting with a duet with country legend Johnny Cash on his classic “Girl from the North Country,” which first appeared on The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, Nashville Skyline is another effort recorded in Nashville using Nashville cats and features Dylan affecting a baritone previously not in his vocal arsenal (which he achieved in part by ending a cigarette habit). “Lay Lady Lay” was Dylan’s biggest hit since “Like a Rolling Stone.” Other classics including “I Threw It All Away” and “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You” are part of the album’s too-brief twenty-nine minute running time.

Blood on the Tracks (1975)

Dylan’s “breakup” album, made in the wake of the dissolution to his marriage to Sarah Lowdnes (the subject of “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands”), is arguably the best album ever about heartbreak. Blood on the Tracks cycles through the different stages of grief over love lost, from longing and sentimentality (“Tangled Up in Blue”) through anger and pain (“Idiot Wind,” “You’re a Big Girl Now”) to acceptance and  gratefulness (“Buckets of Rain,” “Shelter From the Storm”). Anyone who’s had their heart broken will recognize the emotions Dylan captures with such depth here, although it’s hard to imagine them being put into words more powerfully.

 

Time Out of Mind (1997)

Dylan’s stature naturally waned as grunge exploded and hip-hop ascended in the mid-nineties. This “comeback” album refocused attention on him and marked the beginning of an impressive second arc of his career that has flowered through 2021’s Rough and Rowdy Ways. Working with French Canadian Daniel Lanois, who’s produced popular records–sometimes in partnership with Brian Eno–by U2, Emmylou Harris, Peter Gabriel and many others, Dylan rediscovered his mojo in a haunting, swampy sound set to his best set of lyrics in years. Leading off with the desolation, weariness and menacing rhythm of “Love Sick,” the self-reflective shuffle of “Dirt Road Blues” and the heartache and resignation of “Standing in the Doorway,” Time Out of Mind was Dylan’s biggest success in decades.

 

The Next Five: Bringing it all Back Home (1965); Highway 61 Revisited (1965); The Basement Tapes (1975); Desire (1976); Love and Theft (2001)

 

Top Five: David Bowie’s Best Records

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2024’s comprehensive Rock ’N’ Roll Star! 5CD box set features a deep dive into David Bowie’s legendary The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars and is a great reason to celebrate a highly influential artist. Nearly eight years after his death, Bowie is still as important as ever and it’s easy to spot devotees across the full spectrum of music.

David Bowie may have borrowed from others (who hasn’t?) to create his unique synthesis of glam, rock and pop, but ultimately his chameleon-like style was wholly his own. The London native, born David Jones but forced to change his name because original Monkees member Davey Jones beat him to fame with that moniker, combined the androgynous spirit of Lou Reed, the pre-punk energy of Iggy Pop and the showmanship of Alice Cooper to forge his own musical fashion. The conventional wisdom is that Bowie made his best music in the seventies, but he reached peak popularity in the eighties and made great records right up until Blackstar, a powerful examination of mortality released the same month he died.

Bowie’s ability to shape-shift has inspired countless acts that followed, so picking five best records is no easy feat. Fans will have their own passion for which record touched them the most. While you can’t really go wrong anywhere in his catalog, here are the five Bowie albums that resonate the most with me, in chronological order (not including live albums, an entire sub-genre of the Bowie discography):

Hunky Dory (released December 1971)

Bowie’s first big hit in the UK, “Space Oddity,” came in 1969; it failed to land in the U.S. that year and only became a hit here upon its re-release in 1973. Bowie struggled to replicate his UK notoriety elsewhere before Hunky Dory was released at the end of 1971. His most focused effort to date, every song displays the pop sensibility that would find him a global audience. Hunky Dory’s leadoff track, “Changes,” quickly became an FM radio staple in the states, but the ensuing decades have burnished the popularity (and stream counts) of many other tracks. The anthemic “Life on Mars?” piano ballad is now one of his most favored and oft-covered songs, while the Velvet Underground-inspired “Queen Bitch,” the theatrical “Oh! You Pretty Things” and the breezy pop of “Kooks” each get better with age. Hunky Dory is a great place to start because it’s also the first time Bowie started to achieve stardom on both sides of the pond. 

The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars (released June 1972)

Bowie wasn’t nearly the first musician to pen a rock opera, but when he did he leveraged his androgynous, other worldly appearance for maximum effect. Aided by guitarist Mick Ronson, the album navigates a path through apocalypse-themed balladry (“Five Years,” “Rock and Roll Suicide”), pop (“Starman,” ”Star”) and rock (“Hang On to Yourself,” “Moonage Daydream”) while telling the story of a band that flames out as quickly as it flares up. Arguably Bowie’s finest work, this is a breathless romp that never gets old and flies by without a single weak moment. Artists have been paying tribute ever since to its Sgt. Pepper-like adoption of a new persona.

Station to Station (released January 1976)

Bowie first hit the top of the charts in the U.S. with “Fame” from Young Americans, his 1975 “plastic soul” album recorded largely in Philadelphia in late 1974. But it was that LP’s follow-up, the cocaine-drenched Station to Station, that revealed surprising new depths and variety. The ten-minute-long title track leads off  with a train whistle blow that dissolves into a funky, mechanical march before ultimately resolving into an frenzied, extended guitar-driven coda. Elsewhere, “Golden Years” and “Stay” build on the R&B of Young Americans but add more heart and energy without the plastic, while “TVC 15” prophesizes interactive media alongside an infectious, anthemic chorus. The album closes with a breathtaking cover of “Wild is the Wind,” the ballad first popularized by Johnny Mathis and Nina Simone in the fifties (Fun fact: Bowie was a huge fan of Simone and the two became close friends).

Low (released January 1977)

Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy, helmed by producer Tony Visconti and featuring the cutting edge synthesizer effects and production style of Brian Eno, starts here. The first side is bookended by short, instrumental tracks that surround five songs of catchy synth-pop weirdness, while the second presents four tracks of atmospheric music. Bowie was hardly the first musician to travel down this path, but he was by far the most popular musician to expose his audience to the ambient genre and it was a radical departure from expectations. Low is forward-thinking enough to make it the most influential of his many records. The title track of its successor, Heroes, might be the most popular song to emerge from the Berlin Trilogy, but Low is where Bowie took his musical expansion to a new level and inspired punks, new wavers and ambient soundscapers to step out of their comfort zones.

Blackstar (released January 2016)

Bowie’s death from liver cancer powerfully coincided almost to the exact day with the release of his final album. Blackstar is a haunting, jazz-tinged effort that radiates the self-examination terminal illness forces (the title track, “Lazarus”), rues the passing of time (“Girl Love Me”) and concludes mournfully with “I Can’t Give Everything Away.” By making some of his best and most meaningful music while struggling through his final days, Bowie proved his art was timeless, evocative and capable of simultaneously inspiring sadness, hope and gratitude for a life well-lived.

Beyond One Love: Buyer’s Guide to Bob Marley

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One of the biggest film success stories of 2024 has been the biopic Bob Marley: One Love, an engaging look at the global superstar who did more than any other musician to bring reggae to the masses. Unsurprisingly, the best part of the movie is its music, from depictions of studio recordings to live performances. Marley’s songs run the gamut from passionate political anthems to gentle love songs. Even at their most intense, the rhythms are irresistible. I was lucky enough to see him twice, in Philadelphia in 1977 and at DU in 1979. In-person Marley was highly charismatic and his shows were powerful and unforgettable.

For the uninitiated, a quick recap of the man and The Wailers, his backing band: Marley’s parents were a 64-year-old British Army Private and an 18-year-old Jamaican native. His father was largely absentee and died when his son was only 10. Marley met Neville Livingstone, later known as Bunny Wailer, in middle school; the pair became stepbrothers when Marley’s mother and Livingstone’s father had a daughter together. Soon after they recruited Peter Tosh and began the Impressions-influenced vocal group The Teenagers that morphed into The Wailing Rudeboys and then The Wailing Wailers, the moniker used on their first album, a compilation of singles. It wasn’t until later in the sixties that the trio learned musical instruments. As documented in The Islander: My Life in Music and Beyond, Chris Blackwell’s excellent autobiography, the earliest ska, reggae and rock steady singles were sold from car trunks. The founder of Island Records, Blackwell got his start scouring Jamaica for 45s which he would sell to DJs to use at parties. Blackwell and his competitors famously scratched the names of the artists off each single in an effort to maintain proprietorship over the music they were peddling. 

If you enjoyed the movie and are ready to broaden your exposure to the reggae legend, here is a guide to how to pick and choose from his discography, in order:

Legend (1984)

It pains me to put a greatest hits collection at the top of the list, but Legend is one of the best-selling albums of all-time and has been in the Top 200 charts for decades. It is a great introduction to his music, although the track selection is deliberately softened up for mass consumption. It overly relies on Exodus (five of its twelve tracks come from that one LP) and crucially skips all of his pre-1973 non-Island Records material, but it cherry-picks effectively from his last albums. If you’re going buy one Bob Marley album–and he deserves much more of your musical attention–there’s a reason Legend has sold 23 million copies in the 40 years since its release.

 

Exodus (1977)

Marley’s ninth studio effort is his most popular and biggest seller outside of Legend, and deservedly so. It perfectly builds a bridge from his earlier political material to a more commercial focus. Where the former is concerned, “Natural Mystic” opens with a slow build to a lament that “many more will have to suffer,” while the title track embraces Rastafarian deity Haile Selassie’s belief that people of African ancestry should return to their home continent, a belief he shared with Malcolm X. At the other extreme are the perfect pop confections “Three Little Birds” and the radio-friendly “Jamming.” It’s no surprise that in 1999 Time Magazine crowned Exodus the best album of the 20th century; it is an essential part of any collection and the best way to start a serious Marley library.

 

Catch a Fire (1973)

The Wailers’ first real attempt to find fans in the UK and USA had an interesting birth: Chris Blackwell was intrigued enough to bankroll its recording, but he found the result too edgy for rock-oriented seventies audiences. Enter guitarist Wayne Perkins from The Swampers, the legendary backing band from Muscle Shoals, who had literally no experience with reggae. Perkins dubbed in the guitar parts that jump out on album opener “Concrete Jungle,” the oft-covered classic “Stir It Up” and “(Baby Baby) We’ve Got a Date.” The resulting mix put Marley and the Wailers on the map and paved the way for greater success. Later expanded editions of Catch a Fire include both the original Jamaican version and the Perkins-enhanced edition that most fans are familiar with.

 

Live! (1976)

Recorded at the Lyceum in London in July of 1975, Live! was another big step toward finding a larger audience; “No Woman, No Cry” is still Marley’s biggest hit all these years later. The album finds Marley aggressively stepping into a leadership role after the departure of Tosh and Livingstone. The material from Natty Dread, Burnin’ and Catch a Fire packs a stronger punch in a live setting. “Trenchtown Rock” opens the record with an upbeat welcome (with the classic first line “One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain”) before “Burnin’ and Lootin’” and “Them Belly Full (But We Hungry)” pull the listener into the frustration and anger of the Rasta struggle. Much live Marley material was released in the following decades, but this is still the best representation of his in-concert magnetism.

 

The Capitol Session ‘73 (2021)

This gem was discovered in the vaults nearly a decade after Marley’s death but still not released until three years ago. Recorded the same October 1973 week as Talkin’ Blues at a studio session at Capitol Records in Los Angeles, the real find here is a DVD of the performance only available with the CD edition. The compelling footage finds a loose Wailers rehearsing and casually working up material and includes Tosh taking lead on his excellent compositions “You Can’t Blame the Youth” and “Stop That Train.”

 

 

Burnin’ (1973)

The follow-up to his Island Records debut was the last album Marley made with Peter Tosh and Neville Livingstone; both musicians left to pursue solo careers as the spotlight increased on their bandmate. Burnin’ featured several tracks that became Wailers staples: album opener “Get Up, Stand Up,” which Marley and Tosh cowrote, is one of their most widely known protest songs, and “I Shot The Sheriff” spurred the Eric Clapton cover that became the guitarist’s biggest hit after his work with Cream. The LP also included inspired reworkings of older Wailers classics “Small Axe,” “Duppy Conqueror” and “Put It On.” The last song on the last album from the original band was the traditional Rastafarian hymnal “Rasta Man Chant.”

 

Songs of Freedom (1992)

One of the first large box sets released as CDs supplanted vinyl in the early nineties was this stellar career-spanning 4-CD collection. Over thirty years later, it still stands as one of the best career retrospectives of any musician ever. Re-released as the 6LP set Songs of Freedom–The Island Years in 2021, that reissue sadly omits what made the original box so special: an entire disc of his pre-Island recordings dating back to his first work in the early sixties, along with a stunning acoustic medley from 1971 that finds Marley in rare form, strumming through compositions including “Stir It Up” and “I’m Hurting Inside.” Used copies of the CD box are widely available and well worth chasing down.

 

 

Rastaman Vibration (1976)

Rastaman Vibration was the Marley release that removed all the rough edges of his sound. Backup singers The I-Threes (Rita Marley, Judy Mowatt and Marcia Griffiths) have a much higher profile, while “Roots, Rock, Reggae” and the title track celebrate the genre with no mention of its political underpinnings. But Marley didn’t completely abandon his themes of oppression: “Crazy Baldheads” is a searing indictment of white imperialism, “Who The Cap Fit” calls out hypocrisy inside and outside the Rasta community, and “War” takes its lyrics from a Haile Selassie speech to the UN General Assembly in 1963. The album’s highlight is Marley’s cover of his wife Rita’s “Johnny Was,” a powerful, moving story of a mother discovering her dead son in the street, the victim of a stray bullet.

 

Babylon by Bus (1978)

Marley’s second live album followed the one-two commercial punch of Exodus and Kaya and is his best latter-day Wailers live collection. The most popular tracks from those two studio efforts are included, along with energetic versions of earlier Wailers classics “Stir It Up,” “Kinky Reggae” and “Concrete Jungle.” The album’s real treasure is “Punky Reggae Party,” the B-side of the “Jamming” single in which Marley acknowledges the British punk scene in a song written after first hearing The Clash cover Junior Murvin’s “Police and Thieves.” The lyrics mention The Clash, The Jam, The Damned and Dr. Feelgood along with The Wailers and The Maytals.

 

Natty Dread (1974)

Marley’s first studio effort without longtime bandmates Tosh and Livingstone is a transitional effort; The I-Three’s are still finding their way into the mix, and Natty Dread sounds more like the albums that precede it than the ones that follow. The album contains two of Marley’s most beloved songs, “Lively Up Yourself” and “No Woman, No Cry,” but both tracks receive more spirited renderings on Live!, and those are the renditions most are familiar with. The album still has bite thanks to the threat of “Them Belly Full (But We Hungry),” the anger of “Rebel Music (3 O’Clock Roadblock)” and the slinky reworking of sixties Wailers classic “Bend Down Low.”

 

Kaya (1978)

The success of Exodus was hard to follow; Marley opted to kick back with a less aggressive sound. Kaya is still enjoyable and goes well with a sunny day, but there’s nothing threatening or angry about it. It’s the first album where his reggae rhythms have been buffed to an polished sheen in order to appease anyone who found Exodus too political. It’s as if Marley tried to make an entire album that sounded like “Three Little Birds.” “Is This Love?” is certainly one of his most beautiful love songs, and “Easy Skanking,” “Kaya” and “Satisfy My Soul” go down easy, but the complete lack of sharp edges is disappointing. Kaya contains a fraction of the spirit Marley had when he was partnering with Tosh and Livingstone. 

 

Talkin’ Blues (1991)

In October of 1973 the Wailers were booked as openers on a Sly and the Family Stone tour. The group was fired after four dates, reportedly for blowing the headliner off the stage. Whatever the reason, the band found themselves stranded on the West Coast with time to kill. As a result they played a previously-unscheduled session at the famed Record Plant in Sausalito. Talkin’ Blues includes tracks from that day alongside a couple of alternate cuts and excerpts from a Marley interview. It’s a great, rare opportunity to hear the group at the peak of their power when Marley still shared the spotlight with Tosh and Livingstone; the only reason it’s below The Capitol Session ‘73 (recorded the same week) is its lack of accompanying video footage.

 

WANT A DEEPER DIVE?

The island rhythms of the early and mid-sixties were deeply influenced by The Impressions, a late fifties American R&B act led by Jerry Butler and Curtis Mayfield, later of solo and Superfly fame. The unique vocal harmonies of the band made a huge impression on Jamaica musicians and inform the earliest ska, rock steady and reggae. Bob Marley’s first recordings start from that evolutionary point and gradually move toward the reggae beat. In addition to the aforementioned first disc on the Songs of Freedom box, there are three earlier records that find Marley developing his sound. 

1965’s The Wailing Wailers is a collection of his earliest Studio One singles produced by Clement Dodd; the depiction of the “Simmer Down” Studio One session is one of the highlights of One Love. Soul Rebels from 1970 was the first Wailers album to be released outside Jamaica and features the group under the stewardship of famed producer Lee “Scratch” Perry. 1971’s Soul Revolution Part II, which was re-released and expanded under the title African Herbsman in 1973, also features Perry at the controls, and is Marley’s last LP before he connected with Chris Blackwell at Island Records. All three LPs are essential for more passionate fans of the genre and feature many classics that Marley reworked on later efforts.