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Back when Kickball was first rehearsing, we held our practice sessions in John Gillespie’s hut. The Hut (as it was called) was a 100 square foot building behind John’s mom’s house off of Estes Drive on the north side of Chapel Hill. We fit a drum set, two amps, and three people in the Hut, but not much more. On the wall, John had this awesome poster from a show at Memorial Hall: Patti Smith, Queen of Rock. I had made a mental note to check out Smith’s work. I had heard a handful of her songs scattered here and there through the years, but it wasn’t until recently that I gave her 1975 debut, Horses, my undivided attention. 

Produced by John Cale (as in John Cale from the Velvet Underground John Cale) and released on November 10, 1975, Horses has been preserved in the National Recording Registry for being culturally, historically and/or aesthetically significant. In spite of being a critic’s darling of an album and appearing on any reputable “Greatest Albums of All Time List,” Horses has sold less than 500,000 copies. Like the debut album from the Velvet Underground, Horses influenced everyone who heard it, whether or not they actually purchased a copy. 

Horses has two outstanding features. First, Smith’s lyrics and phrasing are simultaneously poetic and punk. Fluid, dark imagery runs through Horses veins while Smith delivers her lines with an oddly sincere flippancy. Second, Smith somehow resuscitates new life into garage band classics like “Gloria” and “Land of 1,000 Dances” by reinterpreting them and mashing them together with her own imagery and lyrics. The tension in the opening track is remarkable and when she delivers the “G-L-O-R-I-A,” it’s so satisfying.

Other moments, like “Redondo Beach” and “Break It Up,” evoke different styles than what I expected from Patti Smith. “Redondo Beach” has a reggae flavor while “Break It Up” seems to come from a broken doo wop idea. Both tunes are brilliant. 

Patti Smith would go on to release ten more albums since Horses was released in 1975. She would have a commercial breakthrough with “Because the Night,” co-written with Bruce Springsteen, as well as a mid-90s creative resurgence with the albums Peace and Noise and Gone Again. But it’s Horses that gets the prize for innovation, relevance, and being culturally significant. 

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In 1984, the Swiss metal band Krokus covered “Ballroom Blitz,” originally recorded by The Sweet (a/k/a Sweet). In 1992, Tia Carrere performed “Ballroom Blitz” for the Wayne’s World soundtrack. Carrere’s version served as an important back drop to the film’s finale. While I enjoyed both iterations of the song in the respective time periods in which I heard them, nothing prepared me for the majesty, grace, and power of the original recording of “Ballroom Blitz.” The album that features “Ballroom Blitz,” Desolation Boulevard, is one of the best rock albums I’ve ever heard. I am kicking myself for not seeking out the original version of “Ballroom Blitz” sooner. 

Released in November of 1974 in England and released in July of 1975 in the United States, Desolation Boulevard sold over 500,000 copies in the U.S. within two years. The U.S. release of Desolation Boulevard is a super-album of sorts, the best parts of the British release backed with “Ballroom Blitz,” which was released first as just a single, and several tracks from their previous album, Sweet Fanny Adams. 

Desolation Boulevard excels as a glam rock album, heavier than T. Rex, more accessible than Gary Glitter, and more layered than Kiss. Sweet displays such incredible musicianship throughout Desolation Boulevard that their virtuosity detracts from the songs at times. Personally, I think “The Six Teens” would be much more powerful without four-part harmony throughout the choruses. But, in other instances, it works so well. “Ballroom Blitz” and “Fox on the Run” work because of the band’s collective prowess. 

After the success of Desolation Boulevard, Sweet changed directions in more ways than one. Sweet switched labels, which allowed them to pursue a different, but no less grand, approach to their sound. Their experiments produced the international hit “Love is Like Oxygen,” but may have alienated fans who wanted more “Ballroom Blitz” and less what ended up sounding like the kissing cousin of Electric Light Orchestra. 

Desolation Boulevard is such a tour-de-force that it’s a shame that all of Sweet’s albums aren’t available on streaming services, nor have they been remastered for modern devices. I would not be surprised if a remastering campaign re-issued so much of this important music. Until then, we have a version of Desolation Boulevard. At least that’s something. 

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In a Rolling Stone review, Lenny Kaye described Quadrophenia as “The Who at their most symmetrical, their most cinematic, and ultimately their most maddening.” After a few listens, I agree with Kaye’s characterization. Quadrophenia is essentially two a-list songs that bookend a double album—that’s the symmetry. In between “The Real Me” and “Love Reign O’er Me,” The Who deliver their best rock opera—that’s the cinematic quality. And, like Joyce’s Ulysses or Davis’ Bitches Brew, Quadrophenia’s genius is almost impenetrable and, therefore, maddening. 

Produced by The Who and written completely by guitarist Pete Townshend, Quadrophenia was released on October 23, 1973 and has since sold over a million copies in the United States. 

Quadrophenia self-identifies as a rock opera set to the backdrop of the mod/rocker cultural conflict of the mid-60s. While cultural historians, like Stanley Cohen, have debunked the veracity of the mod/rocker conflict, what it boiled down to was a clash of two sub-cultural mindsets. Rockers wore leather, listened to rock music, and rode motorcycles. Mods wore frilly clothes, listened to rock music with a swing, and rode Vespa scooters. If Austin Powers and James Dean went fisticuffs at a pub one night, you’d pretty much have a mod/rocker conflict. Behind this backdrop, Townshend tells the story of a mod named Jimmy in the midst of a coming of age struggle. 

For me, Quadrophenia works first as a musical work and second as a narrative work. I am drawn to the power of the singles, the instrumental segues that recast the motifs from the singles, and the hooks of the songs in between. “Bell Boy” and “Cut My Hair” often get stuck in my head after I listen to the album in its entirety. I recognize the narrative within Quadrophenia, but also hear a collection of songs that work independently of a story. 

Townshend recognized Quadrophenia as the last great album from The Who. It’s definitely the last record with focused drumming from Keith Moon. Granted, many post Quadrophenia albums, like The Who by Numbers and Who Are You, are fine recordings. The difference is that The Who never pursued anything grander in scope than Quadrophenia. That contrast says less about the integrity of the band and more about the monstrous ambit of The Who’s finest hour. 

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In Modern Problems, a truck accidentally sprays Max Fiedler (played by Chevy Chase) with toxic waste. In the movie, Max gets super powers. But in real life, Max would probably get really sick if he were sprayed with harmful fluids. Similarly, in All of Me, Roger Cobb (played by Steve Martin) is an attorney who runs across the street after work to play a jazz set on guitar. But in real life—and I know this from first hand experience—an attorney playing a gig after work is actually quite tired. Yet, in spite of the fatigue, I was excited to play at the Magnolia Street Music Hall once we got close to showtime. 

I rolled into Wake Forest, NC around 5:00 pm. I turned my Mazda down the alley way behind Magnolia Street and saw Scott loading in his drums from his Toyota. “In a suit!” he said. I literally walked from the closing table at Coltrane & Overfield to my car and didn’t think about changing until I had arrived. I loaded in my gear and greeted Ryan and Chris who were on stage checking their respective rigs. The room was small but big enough for our 75 pre-sold ticket holders to comfortably enjoy the show.

We took our time dialing in the sound, playing seven or eight songs during sound check. The trick to playing a small room is keeping the stage volume low enough so that the vocals can cut through but loud enough to inspire a good performance. 25 years ago, performing in a listening room meant playing acoustic and stripped back. But now, with amp emulation technology and improvements in small room live sound, we were able to perform in the space without compromising tone.

We began the show with three songs we don’t usually perform:“Crocodile,” “Trouble in the Barnyard,” and “Wonderland.” The first two were from my early-90s solo albums Building a Hole and The Lessons of Autumn. “Wonderland,” of course, was from Dirty Wake. The remainder of the set was nearly identical to our set from the Grove, minus three cover songs. We retained the Big Star and Pink Floyd covers. I felt like we played better at Magnolia Street than we did at the Grove, as a band does after a few shows and rehearsals. 

Were you there? If you were, and would like to be featured on my next podcast, send me a voice memo of your experience. Please answer three questions: (1) what did you see? (2) what did you hear? and (3) how did you feel?

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Only a handful of songs have reached number one twice (when recorded by different artists). “Lean on Me,” originally performed by Bill Withers and subsequently performed by Club Nouveau, is one of those exceptional songs. While a chart topping song is often the only standout track on an album, Still Bill by Bill Withers is an outlier in that regard. All of its songs are well-crafted gems. 

Produced by Benorce Blackmon, Bill Withers, James Gadson, Melvin Dunlap, and Ray Jackson, Still Bill sold over 500,000 copies in 1972, the year it was released. Containing the singles “Lean on Me” and “Use Me,” Still Bill is so good that really any song could have been a single. 

Still Bill excels as a singer/songwriter album, but to not recognize its genius as a funk/soul masterpiece would be a disservice. Generally, when good songs and good players meet in the studio under good direction, the outcome is a good recording. Still Bill obviously met all of those conditions. But it also picked up a rare, transcendent quality that most albums lack. Check it out and you’ll hear what I mean. 

Not having been too familiar with Bill Withers before listening to Still Bill, what struck me most was Benorce Blackmon’s versatility as a guitar player. On some songs he’s playing straight funk parts, while on others—like “I Don’t Know”—he steps out and plays a charming jazz guitar solo. I find no faults in Still Bill. 

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The Who makes three appearances in this album exploration. The Who has made magnificent albums, but, so often, compilations cherry pick the best single moments from those albums. An anthology cannot express the width and breadth of an epic like Tommy or Quadrophenia. Who’s Next contains the Greatest Hits staples “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Baby O’Riley,” and “Behind Blue Eyes,” while offering a solid host of album cuts. As with My Generation, it’s been easy for me to pass over Who’s Next because its singles are so ambitious. 

Produced by The Who and Glyn Johns and released on August 14, 1971, Who’s Next has sold over 3 million copies. While the album works just fine as a traditional album, Who’s Next was culled from the ashes of a concept album that was to be called Lifehouse. Lifehouse was to be a futuristic rock opera and follow up to their highly successful rock opera, Tommy. Townsend’s writing process was, in part, feeding biographic data into nascent computer technology.

The most notable difference between Who’s Next and earlier Who albums is the use of the synthesizer. Townsend intended for the arpeggiated synthesizer parts to be in the foreground on many tracks. The synth offers compelling textures to a spacious and bombastic album. Keith Moon’s drumming challenges all who would subsequently get behind a drum set. Chances are, no drummer will ever approach the drums with such explosive musicality. Daltrey’s vocals on “Behind Blue Eyes” are splendid and Entwistle’s vocal, performance, and writing contributions are significant. 

The Who’s Next album cover is as iconic as its music. Entwistle, Townshend, Moon, and Daltrey are standing near a trash pylon, each having just peed on it and each zipping up his fly. Legend has it that the band just happened to be passing by the area and randomly chose the site. Three years prior, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey debuted and featured a dark monolith that eluded explanation. No one knew what it meant. The Who didn’t care what it meant, what with having pissed on a similar monolith. 

I love the space and size of the album. It’s one of the first rock albums that sounded huge from the opening notes through the end. The synth parts on “Baba O’Riley” and “Won’t Get Fooled Again” hypnotize me every time I hear them. Daltrey gives rock n’roll one of its best vocal howls at the end of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” At one point, someone licensed the song “Bargain” to a car commercial and it ruined the song for me. Whenever I hear it, I see slow motion wheels peeling out in the desert. That’s not a blemish on the album itself, just in how it’s been used. 

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I’m in the minority of human beings who consider Carlos Santana’s 1999 album Supernatural unappealing. While it sold over 30 million copies worldwide, won just about every Grammy possible, and has a lot of really good songs, there’s something about it that seems like a blatant cash grab. Even though Santana and industry mogul Clive Davis did team up to construct the album that became Supernatural, it outsold everyone’s expectations. It’s one of those sorry/not sorry scenarios. Radio’s welcoming embrace of Supernatural and its subsequent overplaying of Supernatural’s six successful singles deterred me from exploring Carlos Santana’s back catalog for decades. Abraxas, his 1970 album, is one such album and I’m glad I’ve gotten over my issues with Santana’s music.

Released on September 23, 1970 and produced by Fred Catero and Carolos Santana, Abraxas has sold over 5 million copies. Containing remarkable versions of “Black Magic Woman” and “Oye Como Va,” originally recorded by Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac and Tito Puente, respectively, Abraxas presents a classic sounding, accessible dive into latin-fusion rock. 

Upon each listen of Abraxas, what strikes me most is Carlos Santana’s unique guitar tone. He approaches the guitar with sustain and distortion while still being smooth and melodic. Like any guitar great, one only needs to hear two or three notes to know it’s him who’s playing. Greg Rolie offers lead vocals on a handful of songs, but his presence does not detract from Santana’s, who is center stage on each track. Not one, but two percussion players compliment Michael Shrieve’s drumming—the three appear as a massive rhythm machine and give the album a distinct latin vibe. 

Abraxas is a piece of the early fusion dialog that emerged in the late 1960‘s and eventually morphed into modern fusion by the 1980s. Fusion is traditionally thought of as the combination of rock and jazz. But with Santana, an unmistakable latin feel runs concurrently with rock and jazz. Latin tone, it seems, is more than just multiple percussion parts—it’s a vibe, a feel, and an instrumental philosophy. Take, for example, Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew. That album features twice the percussion players as Santana, but it sounds more like music from 50 years in the future than latin fusion. 

Abraxas is a welcome addition to my record collection. It has few flaws, if any. Its title intrigues me. Purportedly taken from Hermann Hesse’s Demian, the title refers to a demon from the Gnostic tradition. Abraxas is said to be a deity or demigod who embraces both good and evil and recognizes just one force in the universe. I liked this idea so much that I wrote a short story about it. Any album that can get me to write is a good album in my book.

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Bonus Link 1: Santana performing “Black Magic Woman” in 1970.

Bonus Link 2: My short story on the Reedsy blog – Abraxas.

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Pee Wee Herman introduced me to Sly and the Family Stone. During the first third of his 1981 stage show, Pee Wee Herman and Jelly Donuts performed a musical tribute to Sly Stone. If you remember it, Pee Wee’s hilarious and odd comedy special aired on HBO for most of the early 1980s. Pee Wee and the Jelly Donuts wove several Sly Stone songs together and performed them in caricature. As a kid, I remember thinking that the songs were catchy and fun. Fast forward to the late 90s and I picked up a Sly and the Family Stone anthology album that featured most of their singles and hits. As it would turn out, six of the eight tracks that comprise Stand! were also a part of that anthology. And, as it would turn out, many of the six songs on the anthology were cut-down single edits. So, in a lot of ways, I never really heard Stand! until recently, although I have been quite familiar with its songs. 

Released on May 3, 1969 and produced by Sly Stone, Stand! sold 500,000 copies in its first year and over three million copies total. It contains the ubiquitous singles “Stand!” and “Everyday People” as well as celebrated deep cuts “You Can Make It If You Try” and “Sing a Simple Song.” 

Stand! conveys the progressism of the 1960s. “Stand!” empowers listeners to stand up for what they believe to be right. “Everyday People” expresses the commonality of all people, in spite of color. “Don’t Call Me N*&&$#, Whitey” portrays racial tension felt both then and now. 

The legacy of Stand! seems to be its inspired performances. The guitar riff and other elements of “Sing a Simple Song” would go on to be covered or sampled on several dozen occassions. After his groundbreaking Bitches Brew double LP, Miles Davis recorded A Tribute to Jack Johnson, which, at times, sounds inspired by Stand!. The near 14 minute “Sex Machine,” which takes up most of the second side of Stand!, resonates boldly among its shorter adjacent tracks. 

I love the energy of Stand!, especially how it captures the band’s live sound. By 1969, rock music had become a staple on various television broadcasts. The few that are preserved on YouTube of Sly and the Family Stone from 1969 are pure gold. 

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Bonus: Sly and the Family Stone on TV in 1969