I recently read Fortunate Son: My Life, My Music (2016) by classic rocker John Fogerty of Creedence Clearwater Revival and was surprised to learn that he enjoys some punk rock. He speaks highly of Bad Religion’s song “Sorrow,” even calling it “one of my favorite records ever.” Who knew?
I have to agree — it’s a powerful track. The intro is an obvious nod to The Police, with drums that recall Stewart Copeland’s distinctive sound. Afterward, the song shifts into the more familiar punk rock territory associated with Bad Religion.
The lyrics stand out too. Songwriter Brett Gurewitz (with Greg Graffin) explained the inspiration behind “Sorrow”:
“Well, it’s the story of Job from the Old Testament. Job was the most righteous man in the world. The devil said to God, ‘These people are basically bad,’ and God said, ‘Well, no.’ The devil replied, ‘Give me one example,’ and God pointed to Job. The devil bet he could corrupt Job, and they made a wager. That was God’s way of rewarding the one righteous man on the planet—by turning His back on him. That’s not God; that’s religion. What lesson is there? No matter how good you are, God will turn His back on you? This is the basis of Judaeo-Christian religion? Is it any surprise the world is so screwed up? The story of Job is the saddest story ever told, making it the perfect archetype for a song called ‘Sorrow.’”
One stanza, in particular, resonates with me:
When all soldiers lay their weapons down Or when all kings and queens relinquish their crowns Or when the only true Messiah rescues us from ourselves It’s easy to imagine.
The final line reminds me of the idealism in John Lennon’s “Imagine.”
An acoustic version of “Sorrow” was performed for the film The Other F Word (2011), a documentary about aging punk rockers transitioning into fatherhood — a fitting context for such a reflective song.
Today’s post is the next episode of my “Contrast” series. The subject is the use of the phrase “wrecking ball” as a metaphor.
The concept of a “wrecking ball” has inspired numerous musicians across different genres, each bringing their unique style and interpretation to the metaphor. This post will compare and contrast “Wrecking Ball” by Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch, Ryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Joe Walsh, and Miley Cyrus, focusing on lyrical themes, musical style, and emotional impact.
The first song I heard using “wrecking ball” was on Neil Young’s Freedom (1989) album. Emmylou Harris’s cover of “Wrecking Ball,” from her 1995 Grammy Award-winning album of the same name, produced by Daniel Lanois, presents a haunting and ethereal sound. The song features lush, atmospheric production, blending elements of country, folk, and rock.
Young’s lyrics, as sung by Harris, convey a sense of longing and introspection, as she sings about love and loss with a poignant, almost spiritual quality. The song’s slow tempo and Harris’s emotive vocals create a melancholic yet beautiful listening experience. Young’s wrecking ball refers to the place where he will meet his love interest. It’s a play on the use of the word “ball” as a dance.
Gillian Welch’s “Wrecking Ball,” from her critically acclaimed 2003 album Soul Journey, offers a more stripped-down, acoustic approach.
Welch’s song stays true to her Americana and folk roots, featuring simple guitar and banjo accompaniment. The lyrics depict a narrative of resilience and determination in the face of adversity. Welch’s warm, earthy voice delivers the story of her self-destructive behavior as a young woman with a sense of intimacy and raw emotion, making it a personal and reflective song.
I was just a little Deadhead A fallen daughter on a scholarship I got tired and let my average slip
Then I was a farmer in the Pogonip Where the weed that I recall Was like a wrecking ball
Ryan Adams’s eponymous 14th album became known to his fans as Self-Titled (2014). I saw him perform solo at The Guild, in Menlo Park, where he played the full album, in order, to celebrate its 10th anniversary. A standout was “My Wrecking Ball.”
Ryan Adams’s “My Wrecking Ball,” combines elements of rock and folk. The song is characterized by its melancholic melody and introspective lyrics, reflecting on themes of heartbreak and emotional turmoil. Adams’s plaintive vocals and the song’s sparse arrangement create a sense of vulnerability and desolation, making it a poignant exploration of personal struggle.
I interpret Adams’s use of the phrase “wrecking ball” as a substitute for the idiom “knock me off my feet.”
Driving through the streets tonight It’s hard I got the windows down I wish I could call you I wish you were still around Nothing much left in the tank Somehow this thing still drives You forgot what it needed But somehow still survives And all the walls we built they must come down Hey, you’re my wrecking ball Won’t you come and maybe knock me down
Bruce Springsteen’s 17th studio album was titled Wrecking Ball. The title song was originally released as a live single in 2009, but later ended up in a studio version on the 2012 album release.
Bruce Springsteen’s “Wrecking Ball,” takes on a more socio-political angle. The song serves as an anthem of resilience and defiance, addressing the struggles of the working class and the challenges faced by modern America. Springsteen’s rock-influenced sound, combined with his powerful lyrics and energetic delivery, creates an uplifting and motivational atmosphere. The song’s chorus, with its call to “bring on your wrecking ball,” embodies a spirit of resistance and determination.
I was raised out of steel here in the swamps of Jersey, some misty years ago Through the mud and the beer, and the blood and the cheers, I’ve seen champions come and go So if you got the guts mister, yeah, if you got the balls If you think it’s your time, then step to the line, and bring on your wrecking ball
Bring on your wrecking ball Bring on your wrecking ball Come on and take your best shot, let me see what you got Bring on your wrecking ball
Joe Walsh released his album Analog Man (2012) with the help of Jeff Lynne. It also has a song called “Wrecking Ball” that was co-written with country artist Tommy Lee James.
Joe Walsh’s “Wrecking Ball,” infuses his signature classic rock style with a bluesy edge. The song features Walsh’s distinctive guitar work and a driving rhythm, creating a dynamic and energetic sound. Lyrically, Walsh uses the wrecking ball metaphor to address themes of change and upheaval, both personal and societal. It is a call to live your life with fearless, reckless abandon. His gritty vocals and the song’s robust instrumentation make it a powerful and anthemic track.
Live your life like a wrecking ball Just get carried away And then you bounce back from another close call Live your life like a wrecking ball
In 2013, pop star Miley Cyrus dropped a single called “Wrecking Ball” that soared all the way to #1 on the Billboard Hot 100. In fact, it reached #1 twice, with a nine-week gap between its runs to the top.
Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball,” is arguably the most commercially successful and widely recognized of the songs listed. This pop ballad, produced by Dr. Luke and Cirkut, features a blend of emotional vulnerability and powerful vocal delivery. The lyrics discuss the pain and devastation of a broken relationship, with the wrecking ball metaphor symbolizing the destructive force of love. Cyrus’s passionate performance and the song’s catchy, dramatic chorus have made it a standout hit in her career.
I came in like a wrecking ball I never hit so hard in love All I wanted was to break your walls All you ever did was wreck me I came in like a wrecking ball Yeah, I just closed my eyes and swung Left me crashing in a blazing fall All you ever did was wreck me Yeah, you, you wreck me
The diverse interpretations of “Wrecking Ball” by Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch, Ryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Joe Walsh, and Miley Cyrus highlight the versatility of the metaphor and its ability to convey a wide range of emotions and themes. From personal heartbreak to societal defiance, each artist brings their unique perspective and style to the concept, creating distinct and memorable musical experiences.
The recent surge in interest in artificial intelligence (AI) and robotics has taken me back to the 1977 album I Robot by The Alan Parsons Project. This concept album draws inspiration from the Robot series by science fiction legend Isaac Asimov, comprising thirty-seven short stories and six novels written between 1950 and 1995. Asimov’s series delves into the philosophical dilemmas surrounding AI, exploring the complexities of creating machines that can think and feel.
One of the standout tracks on the album is “Breakdown,” featuring lead vocals by Allan Clarke of The Hollies.
The lyrics poignantly capture the inner turmoil of a “thinking” robot as it experiences a malfunction:
I break down in the middle and lose my thread No one can understand a word that I say When I break down just a little and lose my head Nothing I try to do can work the same way
Any time it happened I’d get over it With a little help from all my friends Anybody else could see what’s wrong with me But they walk away and just pretend
Predictably, the robot yearns to break free from its programming, echoing themes found in other works like HAL 9000 in 2001: A Space Odyssey:
Freedom, freedom, we will not obey Freedom, freedom, take the wall away Freedom, freedom, we will not obey Freedom, freedom, take them all away
Before embarking on his own recording career, Alan Parsons was a renowned engineer at Abbey Road Studios. He worked on iconic albums such as The Beatles’ Abbey Road and Let It Be, as well as Pink Floyd’s classic The Dark Side of the Moon. He also produced “Magic” by Pilot—the song that has been etched into our minds thanks to its use in Ozempic commercials.
Jesse Malin, the talented songwriter, vocalist, and guitarist, suffered a rare spinal stroke about a year ago, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. In response, his musician friends have rallied to record a tribute album titled Silver Patron Saints. Released on September 20th, the album’s proceeds go to the Sweet Relief Fund, an organization that provides “financial assistance to all types of career musicians and music industry workers who are struggling to make ends meet while facing physical or mental health issues, disability, or age-related problems.”
The album features an impressive lineup of guest artists, including Counting Crows, Billie Joe Armstrong (Green Day), Dinosaur Jr., Lucinda Williams & Elvis Costello, The Wallflowers, Spoon, Susannah Hoffs (The Bangles), Graham Parker, and The Hold Steady.
A standout track on the album is Bruce Springsteen’s rendition of “She Don’t Love Me Now.” Originally featured on Malin’s 2015 album New York Before the War, the song captures the essence of Malin’s beloved New York City. It’s a mid-tempo, reggae-tinged piece about lost love.
And, oh, we had so many nights down there in the village Dressed up like each other’s dreams We were kinda killers
Oh, she don’t love me now She don’t love me now
Springsteen delivers the song with the spirit of his early bar band days, perfectly matching the sentiment of the lyrics. His connection with Malin goes back to 2007, when they collaborated on the track “Broken Radio,” with Springsteen providing backing vocals.
You can learn more about the Sweet Relief Fund by clicking on this link:
Fifty years ago this month, I began my freshman year at Boston College, and one of the first things I did was volunteer at the campus radio station, WZBC.
I arrived at a transformative moment. Just six months prior, WZBC had been an AM station, limited to campus via carrier current. But in April 1974, the station secured an FM license, allowing it to reach the greater Boston area. I was eager to earn a spot on the FM schedule, but it required meeting a few key criteria: a semester on the AM schedule, passing a test for a third-class radio operator’s license (no longer a requirement today), and convincing the Program Director to grant me a slot. By the second semester, I had met all three.
The biggest perk of being part of WZBC was early access to new releases. Some incredible albums hit the airwaves in my first few months. John Lennon’s Walls and Bridges, released on September 26th, was a highlight. The hit single, “Whatever Gets You Thru the Night,” featured Elton John, whose involvement helped propel the song to the top of the charts. I frequently played another favorite from the album, “#9 Dream.”
Another standout was Electric Light Orchestra’s Eldorado, released on October 1st. My friend Kevin Nolan, who represented the station at a prerelease party, returned with a few white-label promo copies. He gave one to me, which I still cherish. Side 1, anchored by “Boy Blue,” is an album side I still consider to be perfect.
Linda Ronstadt’s Heart Like a Wheel dropped on November 19th and became a massive success. The album topped the Billboard 200 for four weeks, while the single “You’re No Good” reached #1 on the Billboard singles chart.
The fall of 1974 and my initiation to WZBC remain inseparable from those great records and the magic of that year.
In the wake of the Sex Pistols’ implosion in 1978, Johnny Lydon shed the “Rotten” moniker and emerged with a new manifesto—Public Image Ltd (PIL). Enlisting guitarist Keith Levene, bassist Jah Wobble, and drummer Jim Walker, Lydon set out to smash the mold of punk and mold something altogether stranger and more dangerous: post-punk.
PIL’s opening salvo came in the form of their debut single, “Public Image.” This was no mere continuation of the anarchic sneer of the Pistols—it was a declaration of war against the very machine that had commodified Lydon’s former band. The track arrives like a slap across the face of anyone who ever thought they had him pegged.
Lyrically, “Public Image” is Lydon at his most caustic. He’s not just biting the hand that fed him; he’s taking the whole industry down by the throat. This is a man who’s seen the strings behind the puppet show and is none too happy about it:
You never listened to a word that I said You only seen me from the clothes that I wear.
The venom in his delivery makes it clear—this isn’t just a personal rant; it’s a declaration for anyone who’s ever felt reduced to their public persona, chewed up and spit out by the fame machine. And for Lydon, that machine was none other than Malcolm McLaren and the spectacle of the Pistols:
Behind the image was ignorance and fear You hide behind this public machine You still follow the same old scheme.
The lyrics cut through the hype and hysteria, exposing the hollow façade of the punk image he helped create. But Lydon is done playing the puppet. His defiance is unmistakable:
Two sides to every story Somebody had to stop me I’m not the same as when I began I will not be treated as property.
Musically, “Public Image” feels like a reinvention. It’s a stark, skeletal groove, propelled by Wobble’s dub-heavy bass lines, which throb and pulse like a heartbeat, grounding the track in a kind of hypnotic menace. Keith Levene’s guitar, meanwhile, is all jagged edges and icy overtones. His playing here is visionary—a precursor to the atmospheric minimalism of U2’s The Edge and the taut, nervous riffs of James Honeyman-Scott from the Pretenders. Every chord Levene strikes seems to hang in the air, like shards of glass suspended in space.
And then there’s Lydon himself. His vocals are nothing short of a primal scream. The opening “hellos” are delivered with a deranged glee, as if Lydon is welcoming us into his new world order, while the howl that follows is the sound of an artist reborn—wilder, smarter, and infinitely more dangerous. His closing “goodbye” is less a farewell and more a promise: Johnny’s back, but he’s not playing by anyone’s rules.
In hindsight, “Public Image” was a mission statement. It wasn’t just a break from the past; it was a forward leap into uncharted territory. With this single, PIL staked their claim as pioneers of post-punk, a genre as unpredictable and uncompromising as Lydon himself.
The Band’s “Acadian Driftwood,” the standout track from their 1975 album Northern Lights – Southern Cross, is a masterclass in musical storytelling. With its roots planted firmly in the rich soil of North American history, the song spins a tale of sorrow, exile, and the quiet resilience of a displaced people. “Acadian Driftwood” showcases The Band’s unparalleled ability to turn historical events into deeply personal, emotionally resonant music.
The history that inspired “Acadian Driftwood” is as bleak as it is complex. In 1755, the British began the forced expulsion of the Acadian settlers from what is now Nova Scotia, a brutal campaign known as the Grand Dérangement. These French-speaking settlers, caught in the crossfire of the French and Indian War, refused to swear an unconditional oath of allegiance to the British Crown. For this defiance, they were torn from their lands, and their homes, and scattered across North America. Many found their way to Louisiana, becoming the forebears of today’s Cajun culture.
But the story, as told by songwriter Robbie Robertson, isn’t just about the events of history but about the people who lived through them. The song’s lyrics paint a picture of defeat and despair — “The war was over, and the spirit was broken” — but also of a deep connection to a land that was no longer theirs.
If the storyline feels familiar, it’s because “Acadian Driftwood” owes a debt to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s epic poem Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie. Longfellow’s work, penned in 1847, tells the story of Evangeline, an Acadian woman separated from her lover, Gabriel, during the expulsion. Her life becomes a quest to reunite with him, a journey that spans the breadth of North America and years of heartache. Much like “Acadian Driftwood,” Evangeline isn’t concerned with the finer points of historical accuracy. Instead, it’s a romanticized, almost mythic portrayal of loss and the enduring hope for a reunion.
The song also sits comfortably alongside another of The Band’s masterpieces, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” Both tracks are cut from the same cloth — a rich tapestry of historical events, steeped in melancholy, told from the perspective of those left to pick up the pieces. But where “Dixie” captures the bitterness of a defeated South at the close of the American Civil War, “Acadian Driftwood” is more reflective, more sorrowful. The pain of the Acadians isn’t just in the loss of a war but in the loss of a homeland, an identity. It’s less about the pride of place and more about the quiet strength of those who were uprooted and left to drift.
Musically, “Acadian Driftwood” is as layered as the story it tells. The Band, always masters of blending genres, creates a soundscape that’s at once familiar and otherworldly. Garth Hudson’s accordion and synthesizer weave a delicate, haunting melody that feels like the mist rising off a Nova Scotian marsh. There’s a sense of longing in every note, a yearning for a place that exists now only in memory. Levon Helm’s drumming, always steady, always true, anchors the track, providing a rhythmic heartbeat that drives the story forward.
The vocals, shared among Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, and Helm, are nothing short of sublime. Each voice brings a different shade of emotion to the story. Manuel’s fragile, almost ethereal opening lines set the tone; his voice captures the despair of the Acadians as they realize they’ve lost everything. He swaps verses with Helm, whose earthy growl adds a layer of gravitas; a reminder that these aren’t just stories — they’re the lives of real people, people who fought, who struggled, and who survived. And then there’s Danko who takes the “ice fishin’” verse instead of Manuel, and whose voice displays a creaky weariness.
The chorus, where all three voices blend together, is pure magic. It’s a moment of communal mourning, underscored by harmonies that evoke a sense of unity, even in the face of overwhelming loss. It’s here that the true power of “Acadian Driftwood” lies — not in its historical accuracy but in its emotional truth.
The song ends with a refrain in French:
Sais tu Acadie Do you know Acadia J’ai la mal du pays I am homesick Ta neige acadie Your snow Acadia Fait des larmes au soleil makes tears to the sun
In the end, “Acadian Driftwood” is more than just a song about the past. It’s a meditation on the human cost of history, on what it means to be displaced, to lose your home and your sense of self. It’s about the resilience of those who endure, who carry their memories with them even as they’re forced to drift. Like “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” it’s a reminder that history isn’t just something that happens to other people. It’s something that shapes us all, in ways both big and small. And in the hands of The Band, it becomes something more — a timeless piece of art that speaks to the soul.
If you were asked who Jerry Yester is, you’d probably mention his time with the Lovin’ Spoonful—and you’d be right. Yester stepped in as the Spoonful’s guitarist after Canadian member Zal Yanovsky departed, following a controversial drug bust. Yanovsky and bandmate Steve Boone were caught up in a marijuana scandal in San Francisco in 1966. To avoid deportation, Yanovsky cooperated with the authorities, a move that was seen by some as betraying his friends and led to tensions within the band. But that’s a story for another time. This one is about Yester.
While Yester’s role in the Lovin’ Spoonful was significant—he contributed to their 1967 album Everything Playing—his most remarkable contributions to rock history are arguably his work as a producer.
Yester, alongside Yanovsky, played a pivotal role in shaping Tim Buckley’s experimental, jazz-infused sound on his 1969 album Happy Sad. A standout track on that record is the tender love song, “Buzzin’ Fly,” a testament to Yester’s ability to nurture an artist’s creative evolution.
One of my favorite “under the radar” albums is the self-titled debut of Aztec Two-Step, released by Elektra in 1972. This folk-rock gem is filled with sweet melodies, intriguing lyrics, and beautiful harmonies, all brought together under Yester’s expert guidance as producer. The track “Baking” is a great example of the band’s distinctive style.
Yester was also at the helm for the debut album by Tom Waits, Closing Time (1973). This version of Waits, with his smooth, crooning vocals, contrasts sharply with the more experimental, Kurt Weill-inspired Waits of the 1980s, known for albums like Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs on Island Records. Closing Time opens with one of Waits’ most famous songs, “Ol’ 55,” which was later covered by the Eagles on their album On the Border.
Jerry Yester deserves far more recognition for his work as a producer, which stands as a significant part of his legacy, beyond his fame as a member of the Lovin’ Spoonful.
In 2017, Rolling Stone contributing editor Anthony DeCurtis released what many consider the definitive biography of Lou Reed. Although I bought a copy when it first came out, it somehow slipped through the cracks and sat unread—until now.
Diving into Lou Reed: A Life, I uncovered fascinating details about Reed’s early years. After graduating from Syracuse University, Reed found himself adrift, caught between avoiding the draft for the Vietnam War and launching his music career. He ended up writing songs for Pickwick Records, a low-budget label that churned out tracks designed to capitalize on the latest pop culture trends.
During the early ’60s dance craze, with the Twist leading the charge, Pickwick tasked Reed and his co-writers with creating something in that vein. The result was “The Ostrich,” credited to a fictional band called The Primitives.
This track is a raw piece of garage rock, featuring a primal beat, pounding bass line, and Reed’s hoarse vocals—a foreshadowing of the stripped-down sound that would define the Velvet Underground. However, the lyrics, meant to teach listeners a new dance, are laughably absurd and far removed from the sophisticated themes the Velvet Underground would later explore. Yet, lines like “You take it forward, put your head between your knees/Do just about anything you please” suggest that Reed might have been sneaking in a bit of subversion even in this commercial project.
But there’s a more profound reason why this novelty song holds a significant place in rock history.
“The Ostrich” garnered enough attention to earn a spot on a local television show. The problem? The Primitives didn’t exist outside the studio. A band had to be quickly assembled to perform live, and among the musicians recruited was John Cale. Without “The Ostrich,” Reed and Cale might never have met—meaning there would have been no Velvet Underground.
It’s impossible to imagine the world of rock ‘n’ roll without the seismic impact of the Velvet Underground. Reed and Cale’s partnership reshaped the landscape of music, influencing countless artists and genres that followed.
So, while “The Ostrich” might seem like a quirky footnote in Reed’s career, it’s a crucial piece of rock history.
It would be easy to dismiss the music of Herman’s Hermits as teenage, bubblegum pap, and I agree to a large degree. I love their first US hit (#13), a cover of the King/Goffin tune “I’m Into Something Good”, which was originally released by The Cookies. But their next few hits were novelties or rip-offs of legitimate R&B hits.
But later the Hermits released a few more substantial records, including today’s SotW, “No Milk Today.”
This track, released in the US in 1967, was written by Graham Gouldman, later of 10 cc. Gouldman also wrote many other hits. Some were for the Yardbirds, such as “For Your Love,” and “Heart Full of Soul,” and others for the Hollies, including “Bus Stop “ and “Look Through Any Window.”
Although never formally credited, Gouldman has been incredibly open about his father’s contributions to his song lyrics. In fact, I’ve heard him admit in an interview that his father provided the concept behind “No Milk Today.”
Until the early 60s, many families still relied on home delivery of milk. As homeowners began to purchase refrigerators, the need (or desire) to have milk deliveries declined. That makes the sentiment of “No Milk Today” an anachronism.
The song tells the story of a marriage in decline. The wife has left, so the singer leaves a note telling the delivery man that no milk is needed. He shares his vulnerability that the neighbors will notice.
No milk today, my love has gone away The bottle stands forlorn, a symbol of the dawn No milk today, it seems a common sight But people passing by don’t know the reason why
How could they know just what this message means? The end of my hopes, the end of all my dreams How could they know the palace there had been Behind the door where my love reigned as queen?
The B-side was another good Herman’s Hermit song called “There’s a Kind of Hush.” I admit, “No Milk Today” isn’t the type of provocative rock that Lou Reed traded in, but it’s a pretty sophisticated pop song – if you’re willing to open your mind to it.
