Song of the Week – Kodachrome, Paul Simon; Us and Them, Pink Floyd; Stir It Up, The Wailers

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Congratulations to the New York Knickerbockers for winning the 2026 NBA Championship.  Much has been made of the Knicks’ 53-year title drought.  Their last championship came on May 10, 1973, when they defeated the Los Angeles Lakers four games to one, winning four straight after dropping the opening game in Los Angeles.

To appreciate just how much time passed between championships, let’s take a trip in the Way-Back Machine and revisit some of the terrific music we were listening to in the spring of 1973.

A logical place to start is There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, since Paul Simon is the quintessential New Yorker — even if he’s more of a Yankees fan than a Knicks fan. Released on May 5, 1973, the album earned a five-star rating in the first Rolling Stone Record Guide and was nominated for Album of the Year at the 1974 Grammy Awards.

The album opens with “Kodachrome,” which was released as a single and climbed to No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100.

More than fifty years later, “Kodachrome” remains one of the great summer songs, buoyed by an infectious melody, sunny harmonies, and a soaring chorus:

Kodachrome
They give us those nice bright colors
Give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away

If Paul Simon provided the soundtrack for a sunny afternoon, Pink Floyd supplied the soundtrack for late-night contemplation.  The Dark Side of the Moon was released on March 1, 1973, and has since become one of the most successful albums in history.  It has sold more than 45 million copies worldwide and spent an astonishing 996 weeks on the Billboard album chart.  Like There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, it earned a five-star rating in the first Rolling Stone Record Guide and was later included in MOJO’s The Greatest Albums of All Time.

While “Money” remains the album’s signature hit, I’m choosing “Us and Them” for today’s post.  Perhaps that’s my saxophone player bias. 

Originally composed by Richard Wright for Michelangelo Antonioni’s film Zabriskie Point, the music was ultimately rejected for the soundtrack.  Repurposed for The Dark Side of the Moon, it became one of the album’s emotional centerpieces, pairing Wright’s haunting melody with Roger Waters’ meditation on conflict, division, and human indifference.

Another landmark release from the spring of 1973 was Catch a Fire, issued by The Wailers on April 13.  Like Dark Side of the Moon, it earned a place in MOJO’s The Greatest Albums of All Time.  For many rock fans, Catch a Fire served as an introduction to reggae music, bringing the sounds of Jamaica to a much wider audience.

The album was memorable even before listeners dropped the needle.  Early pressings came packaged in an ingenious album-sized Zippo lighter sleeve, complete with a hinged top.  It was an expensive production choice, but one that perfectly matched the music’s originality. (I still have one in my collection.)

Among the album’s highlights is “Stir It Up,” a song Bob Marley had originally recorded and released as a single in Jamaica in 1967 before revisiting it for Catch a Fire.

Smooth, sensual, and effortlessly melodic, it’s the musical equivalent of a warm Caribbean evening.

So, congratulations to the Knicks on ending one of the longest championship droughts in professional sports.  And thanks for providing an excuse to revisit some of the remarkable music that filled the airwaves the last time New York stood atop the basketball world.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Moment of Truth, Earth, Wind & Fire

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Last Sunday, HBO premiered a new documentary, Earth, Wind & Fire (To Be Celestial vs. That’s the Weight of the World), directed and produced by Questlove.  The excellent film is as much a biography of Earth, Wind & Fire founder and guiding force Maurice White as it is the story of the band itself.

Of course, most of us know the group’s greatest hits: “Shining Star,” “Serpentine Fire,” “Fantasy,” “Reasons,” their spirited Beatles cover “Got to Get You Into My Life,” and the wedding-reception staple “September.”  But this is the SotW, where we prefer to dig a little deeper.  For this outing, let’s revisit “Moment of Truth,” a superb track from the band’s 1971 self-titled debut album on Warner Bros. Records.

Musically, the song is a perfect illustration of White’s vision for pushing soul and funk into new territory.  The influences are easy to spot — James Brown’s relentless groove, Sly & the Family Stone’s energy and punchy horns, and the jazz-funk experimentation of Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew era.  The result is raw, tense, gritty, street-level funk that crackles with urgency.

Lyrically, “Moment of Truth” is a socially conscious call for accountability, chastising those who ignore society’s problems while pursuing cheap thrills and material distractions.

“We’re goin’ ’round / Tryin’ to get higher / Better come down / There’s gonna be a fire.”

“The moment of truth is near, oh-yeah / And my body trembles with fear / Just like you, I’m a guilty one / Thinkin’ ’bout nothin’, but havin’ me some fun.”

It’s a warning as relevant today as it was more than five decades ago.

Earth, Wind & Fire received little commercial recognition for their first two albums on Warner Bros.  It wasn’t until White relocated from Chicago to Los Angeles, revamped the lineup, and signed with Columbia Records that he fully realized both his musical vision and his commercial ambitions.  The extraordinary success that followed would make Earth, Wind & Fire one of the defining acts of the 1970s.

Questlove’s documentary tells that story with insight, affection, and remarkable depth. Check it out — you’ll come away with a renewed appreciation for Maurice White’s genius and the band’s remarkable rise to stardom.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Duvateen. Afghan Whigs

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Afghan Whigs, led by singer-songwriter Greg Dulli, have released a new single, “Duvateen,” their second new song of the year.

Formed in Cincinnati in 1986, Afghan Whigs carved out a singular niche in alternative rock, fusing the grit of indie rock with the emotional intensity of classic soul and R&B.  Dulli’s brooding songs and restless ambition helped the band stand apart from their grunge-era contemporaries and earned them a devoted following that has endured for decades.

“Duvateen” opens with a sparse piano figure and a steady drumbeat.  Layers of synthesizer gradually wash over the arrangement, creating an ominous atmosphere as the song builds toward its soaring chorus and ultimately its dramatic climax.

According to the press release, “The title of the song is a nod to the actual light-manipulating material, which here serves as a symbol for mortality, the dark abyss always framing the background of our lives.”

The 61-year-old Dulli elaborates:

“When I finished ‘Duvateen,’ it felt like my life passing before my eyes. The references to the teacher chasing me down the hall reminded me of my childhood. Digging a hole was an obvious allusion to a grave. I’m at a precipice in life where I can look behind and clearly see the forest of my youth, but I can also see the path to the other side. And it’s going to inform what I do for the rest of my days.”

At this stage of my own life, that’s a sentiment I understand all too well.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Miss O’Dell, George Harrison & Pisces Apple Lady, Leon Russell

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One of the most unlikely muses for rock musicians was an American woman named Chris O’Dell.  Though she lacked relevant experience, she was hired by Beatles insider Derek Taylor — whom she had met in L.A. — to move to London and work at Apple Corps.  She compensated for her lack of experience with grit, determination, and an unwillingness to take “no” for an answer.

Using those qualities, she made herself an invaluable part of the Beatles’ organization and later witnessed some of its most famous moments.  She was invited to sing on the closing chorus of “Hey Jude” and was on the rooftop at 3 Savile Row when the Beatles gave their final public performance on January 30, 1969.  And those are just two highlights from a remarkable résumé.

But O’Dell achieved a different kind of immortality when George Harrison wrote and recorded “Miss O’Dell,” released as the B-side to the 1973 single “Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth).”

Harrison was inspired to write the song after O’Dell arrived late for a meeting at his Malibu home in 1971.  The song opens with a reference to the famine in Bangladesh, a cause that deeply affected Harrison, before taking a sharply humorous turn.  He sings about California smog, waves crashing toward his porch, and the hangers-on of the L.A. scene — hipsters carrying drugs while trying to gain access to a Beatle.  Why isn’t Miss O’Dell there to rescue him?

(Extra-credit trivia: the phone number “Garston 6922” that Harrison mutters at the end of the song was Paul McCartney’s childhood phone number in Liverpool.)

The song’s loose, playful spirit is heightened by the three moments where Harrison breaks into laughter after flubbing lines in the verses — mistakes he chose to leave in the finished recording.  The backing track is equally relaxed, featuring Harrison on acoustic guitar and harmonica, with Klaus Voormann on bass and Jim Keltner on drums.

But “Miss O’Dell” was not the only song inspired by Chris O’Dell.  Leon Russell wrote “Pisces Apple Lady” while the two were falling in love during a passionate four-month affair.  O’Dell was a Pisces and, of course, closely associated with Apple Records.

O’Dell had originally met Russell when she recommended him as a substitute for Nicky Hopkins on sessions for Jackie Lomax, who was recording for Apple.  Russell and O’Dell connected immediately.

O’Dell later recalled that she first realized “Pisces Apple Lady” was about her while sitting in a studio control room with Eric Clapton during a playback of the track.

And those two songs do not complete O’Dell’s musical legacy as a muse.  Russell would later write a second song about her as well: “Hummingbird.”

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Ah-Leu-Cha, Charlie Parker All-Stars (feat. Miles Davis)

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Next Tuesday, May 26th, Miles Davis would have turned 100 years old.  In honor of that milestone today’s SotW will feature Davis.

One of my favorite Davis performances is “Ah-Leu-Cha.” Many fans know the tune from the groundbreaking 1957 album ‘Round About Midnight.  That version features Davis on trumpet sparring with John Coltrane on tenor sax, backed by Red Garland (piano), Paul Chambers (double bass), and Philly Joe Jones (drums).  The performance charges ahead at a frenetic pace.  An even faster take can be heard on Miles & Monk at Newport, recorded in 1958 and released in 1964.

The version I return to most often, however, is the original recording by its composer, Charlie Parker, cut in September 1948 with Davis on trumpet in the Charlie Parker All-Stars.  (Davis had famously replaced Dizzy Gillespie in Parker’s group in 1945.)

This take on the bebop classic unfolds at a more relaxed tempo, allowing the listener to fully absorb the intricate counterpoint between Parker and Davis.  Parker built the tune as a contrafact, combining the chord structures of two swing-era standards — “Fats” Waller’s “Honeysuckle Rose” for the A section and the Gershwins’ “I Got Rhythm” (known as “rhythm changes” in jazz circles) for the bridge — into something entirely new.  The result is pure candy for the ears.

Happy birthday, Miles — and thank you for all the remarkable music you left behind for us to celebrate and remember.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Maggie’s Farm, Bob Dylan; Junior’s Farm, Paul McCartney; Dooley’s Farm, Molly Tuttle

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A few weeks ago, I saw Molly Tuttle for about the 10th time in the last 4 years.  She performed her song “Dooley’s Farm” (co-written with fiancé Ketch Secor) which prompted me to write another essay in my Contrast Series of posts.  This one is about “the farm” in songs.

There’s something deeply embedded in the mythology of rock music about “the farm.” Not the pastoral ideal of Grant Wood paintings or Jeffersonian self-reliance, but the farm as metaphor: obligation, exploitation, inherited expectations, and the endless grind of laboring for somebody else’s benefit.

Three songs separated by sixty years — “Maggie’s Farm” by Bob Dylan, “Junior’s Farm” by Paul McCartney and Wings, and “Dooley’s Farm” by Molly Tuttle — all use the image of “the farm” in remarkably different ways. Yet they also form an accidental lineage, one that says a great deal about how popular music has evolved from rebellion, to escape, to historical reckoning.

Dylan’s “Maggie’s Farm,” recorded in 1965 for Bringing It All Back Home, is the ur-text here. It is less a story than a declaration of independence. Dylan structures the song as a litany of grievances against Maggie and her dysfunctional clan: Maggie’s brother hands out nickels and dimes, Maggie’s ma talks with “all her servants,” Maggie’s pa is exhausted and broken. Every figure represents a corrupt system that drains individuality and spirit.

But the song’s power comes from the repeated refrain: “I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.”

In hindsight, it’s impossible not to hear the song autobiographically. Dylan was rebelling not merely against folk orthodoxy but against every institution trying to define him — fans, critics, managers, politics, expectations. When he plugged in at the Newport Folk Festival later that year, “Maggie’s Farm” became a mission statement. The “farm” was the folk establishment itself.

“I try my best/To be just like I am/But everybody wants you/To be just like them.”

Musically, the song is deliberately abrasive. Mike Bloomfield’s electric guitar slashes through the track while Dylan half-sneers the lyrics. The blues structure grounds it in tradition even as the performance blows tradition apart. It sounds like somebody kicking down a door.

Nearly a decade later, McCartney approached the farm from an entirely different direction. “Junior’s Farm,” released in 1974, has none of Dylan’s bitterness or political edge. Instead, it feels like a surreal roadside postcard from a musician delighting in movement and freedom.

The song emerged during a loose, transitional period for McCartney and Wings. Recorded in Nashville while the band was between projects, it carries an easygoing spontaneity. Unlike Dylan’s oppressive workplace, “Junior’s Farm” feels more like a place you blow through at 2 a.m. on a cross-country drive. The lyrics are famously impressionistic — “take me down, little Susie, take me down” — less concerned with coherent narrative than with atmosphere and momentum.

Where Dylan’s farm is confining, McCartney’s is liberating.

The contrast reflects the personalities of the two writers. Dylan often weaponized ambiguity to challenge listeners. McCartney uses it melodically, chasing feel rather than confrontation. “Junior’s Farm” barrels forward on a muscular riff and one of McCartney’s great unrestrained rock vocals. If “Maggie’s Farm” is about refusing to work, “Junior’s Farm” is about refusing to stay still.

In his book, Paul McCartney – The Lyrics, McCartney says “It was such a relief to get out of those business meetings with people in suits, who were so serious all the time, and go off to [his farm in] Scotland and be able to just sit around in a T-shirt and corduroys.”

There’s another interesting layer here. Dylan’s song rejects community because community has become coercive. McCartney’s song practically revels in communal looseness — a bunch of musicians in Nashville, cutting tracks and enjoying the ride. One sees the farm as imprisonment; the other sees it as open road Americana.

Then comes Dooley’s Farm, which twists the farm metaphor in an entirely different direction.

Unlike Dylan’s bitter labor allegory or McCartney’s freewheeling travelogue, Molly Tuttle’s song inhabits the world of outlaw agriculture — specifically, marijuana farming. The “farm” here is not symbolic abstraction so much as a concrete place operating outside respectable society, continuing a long American tradition of rural bootlegging and black-market survival.

That distinction gives the song an entirely different energy. “Dooley’s Farm” is populated not by exploited workers or wandering rock stars, but by characters living close to the edge of legality. The farm becomes a hidden enterprise, part counterculture refuge and part criminal risk. In that sense, Tuttle’s song has more in common with old Appalachian moonshine ballads than with classic rock.

Musically, Tuttle reinforces that connection beautifully. Her virtuosic flatpicking and bluegrass arrangements root the song firmly in traditional American string-band music, while the subject matter pulls those traditions into the modern era. It’s a clever juxtaposition: pristine musicianship wrapped around a story about illicit cultivation and rural hustling.

And unlike Dylan’s outright rejection of “Maggie’s Farm,” Tuttle’s narrator seems fully embedded in the world of Dooley’s Farm. There’s danger there, certainly, but also camaraderie, self-reliance, and even a kind of pride. The farm isn’t a prison. It’s an alternative economy.

That changes the broader comparison in an interesting way.

Dylan’s farm represents oppression by institutions.

McCartney’s farm represents freedom of movement.

Tuttle’s farm represents opting out of the mainstream altogether.

All three songs are ultimately about independence, but they define it differently. Dylan escapes the system. McCartney cruises past it. Tuttle builds a parallel one in the hills.

It’s also fascinating that none of these songs are really about agriculture. Farms in popular music rarely are. They become stand-ins for systems larger than themselves: family, commerce, tradition, class, art, obligation. That elasticity is what makes the metaphor so durable.

And perhaps that’s why these songs still resonate decades apart. Most listeners have never worked on a farm. But nearly everyone has experienced a “Maggie’s Farm” situation — feeling trapped by expectations. Many have longed for the freedom and motion of “Junior’s Farm.” And increasingly, people recognize the pull of ancestry and rootedness embedded in “Dooley’s Farm.”

Three farms.

Three generations.

Three visions of American and rock-and-roll identity.

Same dirt. Different ghosts.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – 2 or 3, The Lemon Twigs

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The Lemon Twigs – the brainchild of brothers Brian D’Addario and Michael D’Addario – released a new album, Look For Your Mind!, yesterday. The lead single is the irresistible “2 or 3.”

The song is steeped in the ’60s psych-influenced power pop that the Lemon Twigs trade in so well: ringing guitars, tight harmonies, a singable chorus, and even a key modulation for the final refrain.  What’s not to like?

Brian said the lyrics came to him in a dream.  “I had to interpret what ‘she’s lived 2 or 3 as many lives as me’ meant,” he explained.  “It made me think of a guy who wasn’t cultured or worldly enough for his girlfriend and had to pretend to be interested in fine art and history.”

After one final East Coast date in Washington tonight (May 9), the Lemon Twigs head west, including a June 17 stop at The Fillmore in San Francisco.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Back Stabbers, Soo Catwoman

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Susan Lucas (aka Soo Catwoman) was known for her distinctive hairstyle and makeup that made her one of the most recognizable faces of the mid-to-late ’70s British punk scene.   iconic fashion aesthetic — part feline glare, part art-school provocation — helped elevate her to a kind of underground celebrity, with her image splashed across magazine covers and emblazoned on T-shirts.

Soo’s insider proximity to the scene also gave her a foothold as a performer.  She appeared with the band the Invaders and occasionally stepped out on her own, less as a traditional frontwoman than as an extension of punk’s anything-goes ethos — where attitude and presence could matter as much as technical polish.

Today’s SotW is her 1998 solo cover of “Back Stabbers”, originally recorded by The O’Jays.  Here, Soo handles the vocals, backed by Derwood Andrews (Generation X) on guitar and Rat Scabies (The Damned) on drums — a lineup that immediately signals a very different intent from the silky precision of the original.

Musically, the transformation is striking.  Where the O’Jays’ version glides on lush strings, tight harmonies, and a groove rooted in Philadelphia soul, Soo’s rendition strips the song down to its bones and rebuilds it with a jagged, punk sensibility.  The rhythm section hits harder and more directly, Andrews’ guitar slashes rather than soothes, and Soo’s vocal trades refinement for attitude — more sneer than croon.  The result is less about seduction and more about confrontation, turning the song’s theme of betrayal into something raw and immediate.

While the O’Jays’ original remains impeccable, this cover earns its place by reimagining rather than imitating.  It’s a reminder that a great song can survive radical reinterpretation — and sometimes even reveal new edges when filtered through a completely different lens.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Only You Know and I Know, Dave Mason

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Rock stars from the ’60s and ’70s classic rock era are dropping like flies these days.  Some of these passings hit me hard; usually, I can see it coming.  But when I learned this week that Dave Mason died on April 19, I was surprised by how deeply it affected me.

I’ve long been a fan of Traffic, and it’s sobering to realize that only Steve Winwood remains from the original quartet.  I followed Mason not only through Traffic, but also in his work as a sideman and across his solo career.  I won’t attempt a full recap of his accomplishments here; the recent obituary in The New York Times does that far better than I could.

New York Times – Dave Mason obituary

To honor Mason in today’s SotW, I’ve chosen “Only You Know and I Know” from his debut solo album Alone Together, memorably released on collectible marble vinyl on the Blue Thumb label.

“Only You Know and I Know” was later popularized by Delaney & Bonnie, who covered it on their 1971 album D&B Together — a record Mason himself played on, alongside an impressive roster that included Eric Clapton, Duane Allman, and Leon Russell, among others.

The track has a driving yet laid-back feel, pairing a catchy pop melody with a loose, rolling groove.  It gallops along on a sturdy bass line and shuffle beat, accented by Mason’s distinctive, fluid guitar lines.

Although Mason is credited with writing a number of rock classics — most notably the oft covered Traffic track “Feelin’ Alright” – “Only You Know and I Know” may well stand as his true masterpiece.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Cocaine and Chicken Fricassee

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I’m posting today from New Orleans, where I’m back in town for another French Quarter Festival — a weekend of great food, plenty of drinks, and fantastic local music.

Keeping with that theme, today’s Song of the Week is “Cocaine and Chicken Fricassee” by John “Papa” Gros.

Gros (pronounced “Grow”) is a multi-instrumentalist and a fixture on the New Orleans music scene — an active performer and an in-demand sideman.  His style is a true gumbo of rock, funk, and blues — in other words, quintessential New Orleans music.

Over the years, he has released albums featuring both covers of NOLA classics and his own compositions, first with his band Papa Grows Funk and later as a solo artist.

He has also contributed keyboards on sessions for Little Feat, Better Than Ezra, The Neville Brothers, The Funky Meters, Bonerama, and Anders Osborne, among others.  He appeared as a performer in the HBO series Treme and was part of the house band for the 2014 all-star tribute The Musical Mojo of Dr. John: Celebrating Mac and His Music, produced by Don Was — a show I was lucky enough to attend thanks to the foresight and generosity of my cousin Kevin J.

When you can experience this level of talent for free, it’s easy to understand why I look forward to the “Quarter Fest” every year.

Enjoy… until next week.