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Archived from the original on July 21, Archived from the original on January 26, Retrieved August 2, Archived from the original on February 16, Retrieved July 25, PR Newswire. August 3, How do you make songs about aggressive stillness? Listen to an interview with Helado Negro on Bandcamp Weekly. But Ex Hex are warriors from another dimension, where Def Leppard still top the charts and ironic nihilism is strictly for squares, sent to us by the Gods of Rock on a glittery mission to lift hearts via sick riffs delivered with unalloyed ferocity in the service of fun and friendship.
Eat their stardust, kids. Read our interview with Mary Timony. The title, taken from a letterpress by artist Krista Franklin that was inspired by Margaret Burroughs poem, sets the tone for the archival specificity that shapes the album.
Woods brings to life a cross-section of Black luminaries, including Betty Davis, James Baldwin, and Sonia Sanchez—pinpointing and reimagining quotidian details of their lives as entry points for storytelling. Read our Certified interview with Jamila Woods. Listen to an interview with Jamila Woods on Bandcamp Weekly. It was to be his comeback—and oh, what a comeback it is.
A sharp observer of human emotion capable of spinning a smart country-rock tune around plain-spoken poetry, and an artist who could cut to the quick of depression and self-destructiveness with absurdist humor—the former Silver Jew should still be with us. Read our interview with Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah. His Britain lives in the streets, small-town and city alike, where the dispossessed and the forgotten feel the grim pressures of neoliberalism and austerity the most acutely.
Authenticity is a dicey subject, but there is something that feels both incredibly specific and incredibly universal on Nothing Great About Britain. Read our Certified interview with Damon Locks. Listen to an interview with Damon Locks on Bandcamp Weekly. For all their feel-good aesthetics, Sault have more on their mind than partying. There would be this moment — this collective breath from the audience — as he walked over, picked it up and started playing the most ripping, beautiful solo.
When he played, he was in communion with the instrument. He did this guitar solo in "City of Tiny Lites" where everybody in the band dropped out except drummer Chad Wackerman. I was in the balcony near the side of the stage. When Zappa turned his back on the audience to play with Chad, I saw this huge smile on his face. But this was also the guy who did 87orchestral pieces like The Yellow Shark. It's hard to believe somebody could do so many different things.
Zappa was a huge influence on how I wrote music for Phish. Songs like "You Enjoy Myself" and "Split Open and Melt" were completely charted out because he had shown me it was possible.
I never would have thought of doing that if I hadn't seen Zappa do "Stairway to Heaven" in Burlington with the horns playing Jimmy Page's entire guitar solo, in harmony. There is a whole generation of musicians coming up who can't play their instruments. Because of stuff like Pro Tools, they figure they can fix it all in the studio. With Frank, his musicians were pushed to the absolute brink.
Phish tried hard to do that too: to take our four little instruments and do as much as we could with them. I would not have envisioned that without him. Zappa gave me the faith that anything in music was possible. He demystified the whole thing for my generation: "Look, these are just instruments. Find out what the range is, and start writing. Oscar Wilde said that an artist has succeeded if people don't understand his work but they still like it.
By that standard, the Police were a huge success. Their songs are universal — they're part of all of our lives. You hear them on both pop and classic-rock stations, and they'll be played on the radio in Germany years from now. At the same time, everything they did was really smart and worked on a few levels; you could love a particular song, then realize a year later that you had totally missed the meaning. Take "Every Breath You Take. People don't realize how unique that is. All of us are lucky to have heard songs as good as "Message in a Bottle," "Walking on the Moon" and "King of Pain" on the radio.
Sting already had a career and a degree when the Police made it; he wasn't afraid of sounding like a grown-up. That kind of storytelling has fallen out of pop music, for the most part. Of course, the Police were amazing musicians. They were professionals who came up during the punk era and found their messages later on.
I'm a big fan of how they used reggae. Bands like the Clash had already mixed it with punk, but the Police did it flat-out — it was like reggae for music geeks. Sting played bass and sang, which you don't see very often.
He commanded both the rhythm section and melodies in the band. Stewart Copeland is a great drummer — you have to be to give songs like "Roxanne" and "So Lonely" their drive and also throw that reggae in there.
Andy Summers has both great technique and rhythmic sense. It's amazing how many rock bands with serious grooves are made up of skinny English dudes. The Police matured really quickly. All bands should pay attention to that. You should always try to keep moving forward. Even Elvis Presley knew why Wilson was called "Mr. Excitement": I heard that seeing Wilson perform made the King want to hide under the table.
When he took the stage, adorned in a magnificent white suit, he spread his arms open wide, as if trying to embrace the entire room. He started singing the opening notes of his song "Doggin' Around.
Even the way he casually held his hands while singing was hypnotic. His dancing was spellbinding — twists and splits that left me in total disbelief.
Quickly soaked in sweat nobody knew how to sweat as good as Jackie Wilson , he took off his jacket and pretended he was going to throw it to the crowd, creating a pure sexual enchantment. There were real women in that audience who knew what they wanted. And what they wanted was Jackie Wilson. He seemed destined for such greatness, and yet his life ended up playing itself out like some cheap B-grade film noir. There was violence — a crazed woman once shot him — as well as tax problems, drugs, divorce and mob associations that made demands he couldn't refuse.
While performing at the Latin Casino, in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, he had a massive coronary and hit his head hard as he fell. At the hospital, he lapsed into a coma. He remained in that state for eight years, as the people around him fought over his estate, before he died in As I waited backstage to present my speech, I was approached by three women arguing with one another as to who should be the one to go onstage and claim the award that was to be given to Jackie.
Excitement would still not have peace. But that's also when I fell in love with David Ruffin's tenor — it jumped out of the speakers and ravished my soul. We'd try to change every one of our songs to try and capture their drumbeats. Their outfits were wonderful — I blame them for teaching me to wear loud colors. They also came up with the cutting-edge dance routines.
Nobody moved like the Tempts. His voice was so powerful — like a foghorn on the Queen Mary. He was so loud. My children grew up loving the Temptations, and we tried to see them every time they came to town. They would always pick me out of the audience with a spotlight, trying to get me up to the stage. But I never did. I'm too frightened. At the end of each term we would have a show, and this time we had Cream — in a small hall where I had once played Happy Loman in Death of a Salesman , which is beside the point.
The curtain drew back and the three of them started playing "Crossroads. I was simply staggered by the amount of equipment they had: by Ginger Baker's double bass drum, by Jack Bruce's two 4-by Marshall amps and by all of Eric Clapton's gear. It was an astounding sight and an explosive sound. Two-thirds of the way through their set, one of them said, "We'd like to invite a friend of ours from America out onstage.
He came on and did all that now-famous stuff, like playing with his teeth. That ticket cost about a pound or so. It might have been the best purchase I ever made. After that, Pink Floyd started to go professional, and we would run into Cream on the road. They affected so many people. Along with the Beatles, they gave those of us entering the business at that time something to aspire to that wasn't pop but was still popular.
I remember Ginger Baker was insane back then, and I'm sure he still is. He hit the drums harder than anyone I've ever seen, with the possible exception of Keith Moon. And Ginger hit them in a rhythmic style all his own that was extraordinary. Eric Clapton we don't have to talk about — it's obvious how amazing he is. Then there's Jack Bruce — probably the most musically gifted bass player who's ever been.
Cream were very innovative within the context of all the music coming from the West Coast of the U. Apart from being a great blues band, Cream had a real good go at so many other styles, even if some of it sounds a little silly now. And they achieved that.
Al Green has helped overpopulate the world. He's got some serious babymaking music. But what makes him such an inspiration is the raw passion, the sincerity and the joy he brings to his music. People are born to do certain things, and Al was born to make us smile.
You hear his voice and it lights everything up. Every time one of his songs starts playing — whether it's "You Ought to Be With Me," "I'm Still in Love With You," "Love and Happiness" or, of course, "Let's Stay Together" — when the stomp starts and the guitar comes in, you know you're in for something full of sweet love.
His songs weren't as political as Marvin Gaye and Donny Hathaway. But if those guys were speaking to you, Al Green was speaking for you. Al Green's voice will always remind me of driving the back roads of Memphis with my parents, listening to cassette tapes. Hearing Al as a kid made me want to become a singer and showed me that it was OK to have a softer, more falsetto voice.
I really related to that, because I never had a big, boisterous, American Idol showstopping voice. Al, he was a crooner.
The way he would squeeze out a note can't be trained and can't be imitated. Behind him was this incredible band. On songs like "Tired of Being Alone," the horns are tasteful and restrained but completely funky. I always loved the way the mistakes were kept in on his albums, like the way the band is almost out of sync at the beginning of "Love and Happiness. Eventually I found out this man I idolized lived five minutes from me in my hometown. Then, years later, I went to the White House back when Clinton was in office , and Al was there performing.
After I released my first solo album, I was doing a TV special in Memphis, and I called him and asked if he'd grace us with his presence. We sang "Let's Stay Together" on that stage, and it was a milestone in my short, unimportant career.
I learned something incredible: Everything always has to be about the show. But Al Green is the show, and when you watch him perform, you see something honest and soulful and amazing. I've got pretty much every note the Kinks recorded on my iPod — certainly everything through And it all sounds good. The Kinks are the only major band from the Sixties I can think of that didn't go psychedelic, didn't do any of that crap that all of the other big bands did at the time.
Ray wrote songs about the things that were important to him. He invented his world and gave it life. And in that world, people weren't wearing Nehru jackets, smoking pot and jamming for 24 hours a day. The Kinks created a different world — and I'm glad they did it. When I first heard Village Green Preservation Society , in , I got this picture in my head of small-town English life: village greens, draft beer. But when R. I had this picture of a gorgeous vista — when it's really a kind of grimy area.
I realized these songs were all acts of imagination, that Ray was commemorating an England that was slipping away.
There is a great air of sadness in those songs. I am amazed at how great the Kinks' records sounded — even though, when you listen closely, there is very little going on in them. Village Green is the best example: Unlike a lot of records of its time, it's not stuffed with a ton of instruments.
And yet the songs are perfectly realized, well arranged. Ray wrote "You Really Got Me" on piano. Then he gives it to his brother Dave, this teenage maniac, who turns it into a demented guitar part. I read that an interviewer once asked Dave if he thought the Kinks had gone heavy metal in the Eighties. He said, "It wasn't called heavy metal when I invented it. So whenever I had to do a solo, I would just play that. The Kinks slipped into rock history through the back door.
All of those great albums that we talk about now, like Face to Face, Something Else by the Kinks and Village Green — nobody bought those records in the Sixties. But those of us who love those records — and a lot of us are musicians — have loved them for decades. There are three kinds of record producers. The first kind is the documentarian — someone like Leonard Chess, who goes into a bar on the South Side of Chicago, sees Muddy Waters with a six-piece combo, then pulls him into the studio the next day and says, "Play what you played last night.
Then there's the producer who does it all. Phil Spector could be the greatest of these. For Spector, the song and the recording were one thing, and they existed in his brain. When he went into the studio, it came out of him, like Minerva coming out of Jupiter's head. Every instrument had its role to play, and it was all prefigured. The singer was just one tile in this intaglio. Phil would get the track ready, then call upon the artist and say, "OK, now sing.
When I first met him, he was very young, sleeping on the couch at the Atlantic Records offices and using the switchboard after hours. He was brash, cocky and talented. I remember that if I would vouchsafe an opinion about something when we were together in the studio — a snare drum on a bridge of a song, or whatever — Phil would say, "Oh, man, I came here from California to make hits.
Tina Turner has become more than just a musical superstar and sex symbol, though she is definitely both of those things. For me — and I imagine for millions of others — Tina now stands as an enduring symbol of survival and of grace. Her music is a healing thing. Remember that famous introduction to "Proud Mary," when Tina talks about liking things "nice and … rough"? We all know that she faced some rough times in her life. But the reality is that life never threw her anything that she couldn't handle.
Tina doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end. I felt her music was always there, and I feel like it always will be. The story of Tina's rise and fall with Ike Turner is well-known. But I believe it's time to put the Ike story to rest. The truth is that when Tina came back in the Eighties, she became much bigger than she was the first time around.
Tina's story is not one of victimhood but one of incredible triumph. In the beginning, Tina's music was based on hard times and harsh realities. Think about a song like "Nutbush City Limits. But over the years, her story changed, and her music reflected those changes beautifully. Tina has the ability to dream, get out, get over and get on with it. She's transformed herself into an international sensation — an elegant powerhouse. But wherever she may be, whether it's in Spain, Asia or Egypt, she's never forgotten her humble beginnings.
Tina Turner knows who she is, and to this day, she remains one of the true greats. In every sense, the woman has legs. Joni Mitchell is a bigger icon than she is a star.
Bob Dylan and Keith Richards became so famous that they're stars and icons. Joni is still unknown to lots of people. The impact she had wasn't flashy. But she influenced people who became stars. I remember a friend in high school playing me "A Case of You," from Blue. I could tell that Joni was a painter by the way she wrote lyrics.
She describes smells and sounds and uses fewer words to transmit more feeling. Her melodies are about shapes. The singing lines are slow, steep plateaus. One of the things I learned from Joni: If you can tell the story and keep things moving, you don't need to return to the chorus on time.
What she writes is closer to journalism: On Blue , you hear everything she experienced, the highs and the lows. It's such a lonely album — not in the "I don't have any friends" sense but in the sense that you're a little bit removed, and always watching.
It takes a lot of courage to be that honest, especially as a woman. When she did it, it was a fluffy time — pretty girls singing about pretty things. Joni had an edginess that not many women expressed then. Joni Mitchell never made a big deal out of being a woman. She had such a strong sexuality, but she didn't feel the need to deny that part of her in order to be taken seriously.
She also didn't play it up — although many of her songs are about sex. I met her at a Vanity Fair photo shoot. Stevie Wonder introduced us. I didn't have anything to say to her. Her influence on me is so obvious. I hope she can hear it. In , I was on tour with my band, somewhere in the middle of America.
It was around or in the morning. We're all crammed into our van, with all our equipment. It was raining. We were tired, we'd been on the road. And this music comes on the radio.
I couldn't believe that it existed. My mind was being blown by this beautiful violence that was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. It wasn't punk rock. It wasn't heavy metal. It was precise and explosive and heavy.
It was aggressive and intense, and it had these really wild and bizarre rhythm changes. But it still held together as a bitchin'-ass song. I was singin' along with it by the end, though it certainly wasn't using any conventional pop-song pattern that I had ever heard. That song was "Fight Fire With Fire. When Metallica started in , they didn't really take your typical path to success.
I don't know if massive stardom and selling a zillion records were on their minds when they were getting the ball rolling. But if they were aiming at becoming one of the most successful rock bands of all time, they sure were going about it in a kooky way. Maybe they were thinking they were going to break into Casey Kasem's Top 40 countdown with their debut record, Kill 'Em All. They were definitely going for a hit single with the song " Anesthesia Pulling Teeth. That song is one of the great moments in rock history for the electric bass guitar.
Every Cliff Burton-based solo I've ever heard is a soulful, psychedelic, headbanging expression that rocks your world, trips your brain out and gets the house rockin'. It's a beautiful piece of music played by an awesome rocker of a young man who was a masterpiece of a human being. I can never listen to any Metallica record without thinking of him. It is clear that the gift he gave lives on in that band's music. The fact that Metallica connected with the world in the way that they have is phenomenal.
They have become a household name with music that is anything but mainstream. It's outsider music. And for it to do what it has done is truly mind-blowing. When I hear Metallica, I get this feeling that they're doing something that they have to do. There is this thing in them wound up so tight that they have to let it out, let that thing uncoil; it has to be released.
An infinite well of sadness, a hell of a lot of pain and anger, but mostly, a lot of love for the process of releasing this stuff. For the people who give it up and get rocked by Metallica, the world is a less lonely place. When a person gets rocking to their music, everything else disappears, and that person is just one with the rock. It is an inexplicable, awesome thing, and I bow down to it.
Pain and hurt can be a muse for great art. It's one of the greatest rites of passage for any artist, and it's something that touches us most deeply.
Anyone who has ever been to a Metallica show, and banged their head, and thrown up the devil horns, has been a part of something great. Rocking so hard to the brutal beat of Metallica for those couple of hours, in a way, is as healthy as any spiritual exercise — group meditation, any love-in, anything.
Metallica's career is a huge, dynamic thing, and they have done it all. They have worked their way up from nothing, and written the jams that rocked the world. Metallica are fucking rad! The music is bitchin'! It is unbelievable!
And they continue to rock on. Whatever gets thrown at them, they persevere and they get stronger; they are a family. And they are as intense and inventive as ever. The Sex Pistols released just one album — Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols — but it punched a huge hole in everything that was bullshit about rock music, and everything that was going wrong with the world, too.
No one else has had that kind of impact with one album. Never Mind the Bollocks is the root of everything that goes on at modern-rock radio. It's just an amazing thing that no one's been able to live up to. It's a myth that these guys couldn't play their instruments. Steve Jones is one of the best guitarists of all time, as far as I'm concerned — he taught me how a Gibson should sound.
Paul Cook was an amazing drummer with a distinct sound, right up there with Keith Moon or Charlie Watts. There are bands out there still trying to sound like the Sex Pistols and can't, because they were great players. The difference between John Lydon and a lot of other punk singers is that they can only emulate what he was doing naturally.
There was nothing about him that was contrived. As far as the bass player goes, I don't think it was necessarily a mistake to replace Glen Matlock with Sid Vicious. Matlock was cool, but Sid was everything that's cool about punk rock: a skinny rocker who had a ton of attitude, sort of an Elvis, James Dean kind of guy.
That said, there's nothing romantic about being addicted to heroin. He was capable of playing his instrument, but he was too fucked up to do it. The things that Lydon wrote about back in '76 and '77 are totally relevant to what's going on right now.
They paint an ugly picture.Oct 19, · If there were Now That’s What I Call Music albums back in it would more than likely contain at least five songs from from Rumours. This was Fleetwood Mac’s eleventh studio album and it.