Nearly 47 years ago to the day, the British new wave group The Motors released their hit “Airport” — just a few days before my college graduation.
The song reached #4 on the UK charts and broke into the Top 10 in several other European countries. While it didn’t bother the U.S. charts, it did receive a fair amount of airplay on college and alternative rock radio stations.
I’m tempted to label “Airport” a UK one-hit wonder, though that’s not entirely accurate. Andrew McMaster — the band’s songwriter, vocalist, and keyboardist — also penned “Forget About You,” which climbed to #13 in the UK.
Although McMaster led The Motors, it was his bandmate Bram Tchaikovsky who arguably found greater post-Motors success. After leaving the group in 1979, Tchaikovsky formed his own eponymous band and scored a U.S. Top 40 hit with “Girl of My Dreams,” which peaked at #37 — making him a one-hit wonder stateside as well.
“Girl of My Dreams” is Tchaikovsky’s ode to his inflatable doll:
Some of the late ’70s and early ’80s power pop still holds up surprisingly well — even if only as a guilty pleasure.
Judy was an American girl She came in the morning with the U.S. mail Didn’t say nothing but she looked pretty good to me
Golden hair that shined so bright
Loving eyes that seem out of sight
She could keep the secrets that we shared in my world of dreams
Some of the late ’70s and early ’80s power pop still holds up surprisingly well — even if only as a guilty pleasure.
When Alison Krauss teamed up with Led Zeppelin frontman Robert Plant to create the Grammy-winning album Raising Sand, the unexpected pairing raised eyebrows in the country/bluegrass community. But for those who had followed Krauss’s eclectic career, the collaboration was less bewildering than it seemed. Krauss has long embraced a diverse array of musical influences, consistently demonstrating an adventurous spirit and an open ear.
One particularly surprising influence? Her admiration for British rock titans Def Leppard.
In the June 2025 issue of MOJO, journalist Sylvie Simmons conducted an insightful, revealing interview with Krauss that shed light on this unlikely connection.
You and Def Leppard have something going. Years ago you interviewed Joe Elliott for Q magazine.
It’s crazy. I don’t remember how that came together but I do remember when the idea came up. Union Station were making a record called So Long So Wrong (1997) and around that same time I was listening to Def Leppard all the time – just the way that they do their harmonies. Bluegrass people are crazy over Def Leppard. Because bluegrass is a lot about harmonies. Among other things, Def Leppard did the best harmony parts.
When asked which Def Leppard songs best resonate with the bluegrass crowd, Krauss didn’t hesitate.
The songs on Hysteria particularly, like Animal and Armageddon It. All the parts where they do the high lead and they put what we call the baritone underneath the lead. That’s a very kind of heroic sound for the bluegrass people. Because when you have a high male lead, and you stack the parts underneath, it’s a real magical harmony stack that bluegrass people love.
Here’s “Armageddon It”.
Krauss took her passion for Def Leppard to a new level in 2022, when she recorded two emotionally rich tracks — “This Guitar” and “Lifeless” — for the band’s album Diamond Star Halos.
“This Guitar” stands out as a tender, wistful ballad. Krauss’s ethereal harmony with Joe Elliott, paired with a gently weeping slide guitar, allows the song to slip seamlessly into contemporary country playlists.
The moral of the story? Stay curious. Like Krauss, refuse to confine music into neat little boxes. True artistry often lies where genres collide.
A few days ago, I stumbled upon a rare YouTube gem: the only known concert footage of the band Traffic. Filmed at the Santa Monica Civic Center on February 21, 1972, the performance featured songs primarily from The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys — released just three months earlier — and John Barleycorn Must Die (1970).
The concert opens with the song “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys”, today’s SotW.
The studio version of “Low Spark…” showcased Traffic’s core lineup at the time: Steve Winwood (vocals, guitar, keyboards), Jim Capaldi (vocals, percussion) and Chris Wood (sax, flute). They were joined by former Blind Faith bassist, Ric Grech, percussionist extraordinaire Rebop Kwaku Baah, and Zelig-like drummer Jim Gordon.
Wikipedia offers a vivid description of the track:
It begins with a gradual fade-in and ends with a slow fade-out. The signature two-chord piano vamp enters after the fade-in, cued by the dry rattle of a vibraslap. Verses are sparsely arranged with a slow deliberate pace in D minor contrasting with double-time densely-layered pop choruses modulating to D major. The tune fades out with a dissonant, reverberating final chord sustained over the vamp.
So, what the hell is “the low spark of high heeled boys”?
Again, according to Wikipedia, co-writer Jim Capaldi once explained in an interview with WNEW radio that the phrase originated during a trip to Morocco with Oscar-nominated actor Michael J. Pollard (Bonnie and Clyde):
Pollard and I would sit around writing lyrics all day, talking about Bob Dylan and The Band, thinking up ridiculous plots for the movie. Before I left Morocco, Pollard wrote in my book ‘The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys’. For me, it summed him up. He had this tremendous rebel attitude. He walked around in his cowboy boots, his leather jacket. At the time he was a heavy little dude. It seemed to sum up all the people of that generation who were just rebels. The ‘Low Spark’, for me, was the spirit, high-spirited. You know, standing on a street corner. The low rider. The ‘Low Spark’ meaning that strong undercurrent at the street level.
Given that Capaldi co-wrote the song with Winwood, that may be the definitive explanation. Still, other interpretations — such as those offered by the blog I’ve Got the Hippy Shakes — add intriguing layers:
One theory suggests the song is about drug culture, with “Low Spark” representing injection and the “High-Heeled Boy” symbolizing a speedball (a mix of cocaine and heroin). The verses supposedly chart the experience of a user, a dealer’s overdose, and a philosophical meditation on mortality.
Another posits that the song criticizes the music industry: “Low Spark” represents the creative energy of artists, while the “High-Heeled Boys” are agents or industry figures profiting off their clients’ dreams and living extravagantly on their backs.
In the end, the meaning is beside the point. It’s simply a great song.
Though “Low Spark…” was never released as a single — likely due to its length — it has become a staple of Album-Oriented Rock (AOR) radio and remains one of Traffic’s most enduring tracks.
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the Stones kicked in – “Monkey Man” roared through the speakers like a freight train full of mescaline and bad decisions. Nicky Hopkins, God bless his ghostly British soul, hammered that piano line like a madman trying to summon Satan with eighty-eight keys and a jug of bourbon. Suddenly, the whole trip made sense. This wasn’t just music – it was gospel, prophecy, a searing manifesto of the damned.
Rock music wasn’t background noise for Hunter S. Thompson. It was blood in the ink, the sonic chaos that drove the typewriter at 3 a.m. while the walls breathed and the lizards danced. He didn’t just listen to it — he inhaled it, snorted it, blasted it through his skull like auditory ether. The man once called Herbie Mann’s Memphis Underground “the best album ever cut by anybody,” and who the hell are we to argue with that?
Far Out magazine, in a rare moment of journalistic clarity, unearthed the gospel according to Thompson: ten albums that lit his brain on fire during the so-called “rock age” – a time of beautiful noise and narcotic truth. It wasn’t just a playlist. It was a manifesto.
Behold the holy relics:
Herbie Mann – Memphis Underground (absolutely filthy jazz-funk, pure American madness)
Bob Dylan – Bringing It All Back Home (a lyrical fever dream with a harmonica snarl)
Bob Dylan – Highway 61 Revisited (America on the verge, painted in amphetamine blues)
The Grateful Dead – Workingman’s Dead (acid-sweat Americana for the true believers)
The Rolling Stones – Let It Bleed (dirty, dangerous, and soaked in gin and blood)
Buffalo Springfield – Buffalo Springfield (flower-power on the edge of a nervous breakdown)
Jefferson Airplane – Surrealistic Pillow (psychedelic lullabies for the chemically unhinged)
Roland Kirk – Various Albums (the sound of a man strangling the cosmos with three horns at once)
Miles Davis – Sketches of Spain (matador jazz played in slow motion by a stone-cold killer)
Sandy Bull – Inventions (instrumental mysticism for interstellar cowboys)
These weren’t just albums. They were tools – instruments of psychic warfare, necessary for surviving Nixon’s America and the corporate stranglehold of post-‘60s dream rot. You had to have the soundtrack right, or the whole illusion fell apart.
And then – “Monkey Man.” That’s not just a song. That’s the anthem for the freaks, the outcasts, the wide-eyed maniacs who chose not to play the game. “I’m a monkey!” Jagger shrieks. Yes. Yes, we are. All of us. Scrambling through the ruins of the American Dream, chasing shadows, chewing through vinyl and broken glass just to feel something. But it’s Nicky Hopkins’ piano that makes it immortal. That intro doesn’t just open the song – it launches it, like a bullet from a gold-plated revolver fired in a jungle nightclub.
God bless the Stones. God bless the chaos. And God help anyone who tries to understand it without a damn good stereo and a suitcase full of dubious substances.
The Beatles’ “Revolution,” written by John Lennon but credited to the Lennon–McCartney songwriting partnership, stands out for having one of the most complex recording histories in the band’s catalog.
The song’s genesis traces back to early 1968, when the Beatles were in Rishikesh, India, studying Transcendental Meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. At the time, a growing youth movement was actively protesting the Vietnam War, and Lennon, increasingly politically conscious, sought to express his views more directly through music. While much has been written about the political message of “Revolution” and the reactions it provoked among fans, this post will focus on the song’s unique and multifaceted recording history.
The earliest known version of the song was a demo recorded at Kinfauns, George Harrison’s home in Esher. These sessions previewed many of the tracks that would eventually appear on The Beatles (November 1968), commonly known as the White Album. For years, the demos circulated unofficially among collectors and fans through bootlegs, but the “Revolution” demo was finally released officially on the White Album’s Super Deluxe Edition.
The version titled “Revolution 1” was recorded starting on May 30, 1968. Take 18, which runs over ten minutes, was chosen for further development. This slower, blues-influenced rendition became the version included on the White Album. It notably contains audio elements that were later manipulated and repurposed for the avant-garde, musique concrète, sound collage piece “Revolution 9.”
The full Take 18, once a coveted bootleg, was eventually made available on the White Album’s Super Deluxe Edition. If you are familiar with “Revolution 9” and listen to Take 18 all the way through, you will recognize many of the snippets that were used.
During the “Revolution 1” sessions, Lennon famously recorded his lead vocals while lying on his back at Abbey Road Studios. Overdubs, including electric guitar, horns, and the distinctive “shoo-bee-do-wop” backing vocals, were added later to arrive at the final White Album version.
“Revolution 9,” one of the most experimental tracks ever released by a major rock band, was heavily influenced by Yoko Ono’s avant-garde sensibilities on Lennon’s artistry and marked a significant departure from traditional song structure. Though polarizing at the time, it has come to be appreciated for its innovation and its role in expanding the boundaries of what pop music could be.
Lennon had initially hoped to release “Revolution” as a single, but the other Beatles felt the original version was too slow and politically charged. Undeterred, Lennon reworked the track into a faster, harder-rocking arrangement. Though recorded after “Revolution 1” and “Revolution 9,” this up-tempo version was released first, as the B-side to the “Hey Jude” single in August 1968.
Music critic Richie Unterberger, writing for AllMusic, described the song’s electric guitar intro as “a startling machine-gun fuzz guitar riff.” He noted its resemblance to the riff from Pee Wee Crayton’s 1954 recording “Do Unto Others.” Unterberger leaves open the possibility that the similarity is coincidental. I think Lennon intentionally nicked it.
Like “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “A Day in the Life,” “Revolution” illustrates the Beatles’ creative ambition and the layered complexity of their recording process. The evolution of the track across its various incarnations underscores the restless experimentation that defined the band’s late 1960s output.
