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.
If there’s a quintessential Carole King moment, it might be “Brother Brother.” The track, from her 1971 album Music — an album often overshadowed by the iconic Tapestry — isn’t just a song; it’s an unraveling of personal tragedy, a chilling elegy that gives voice to the unspoken anguish of familial estrangement and mental health despair. It goes way beyond being a simple response to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” released earlier the same year, as it has often been interpreted.
The song was written about her younger brother Richard who was born deaf and suffered from severe mental infirmity. So severe was his disability, that his parents felt incapable of raising him on their own and had him institutionalized. She wrote “Brother, Brother” to convey the feelings she recalled from visits to him at the mental hospital.
It’s hard not to hear “Brother Brother” as a lament, a plaintive cry that echoes through the silence of institutional walls. The song’s somber chord progression serves as the perfect vehicle for King’s exploration of loss. Yet, the real heartbreak lies in its lyrical content. King’s verse —
You have always been so good to me And though you didn’t always talk to me There wasn’t much my lovin’ eyes could not see And I don’t believe you need all your misery
— isn’t just a lyric; it’s a window into a soul grappling with the constraints imposed by society on mental health and family. The distance, physical and emotional, reflects an era’s inadequate understanding of mental illness, but also the isolation that personal tragedy can bring.
In the end, King’s “Brother Brother” is more than a song; it’s a profound exploration of familial love and institutional despair, a piece of music that bridges personal suffering and public awareness. Through its melancholy melodies and poignant lyrics, it captures the essence of a moment when the personal was beginning to be recognized as inherently political. And in this recognition, it speaks to us still, echoing through the decades with a voice that remains as relevant as ever.
It’s time for some new tunes. How about this one from Kim Deal who first gained fame as the bassist in the Pixies and then went on to further success with the Breeders — a solo single called “Coast.”
Several media outlets, including Rolling Stone, have reported Deal’s inspiration for the song:
“According to Deal, the song came about 4 years ago when she attended a friend’s nuptials and heard the wedding band play (Jimmy) Buffet’s “Margaritaville.” Combined with an unsatisfying trip she took too many years ago to Nantucket – where she went to “duck and roll out of my life,” she sings – Deal concocted her own, ironic take on a bummed-out escapist tune.
Deal’s sister Kelly plays guitar, and former (Breeders) band bassist Mando Lopez also contributes. Woozy horns and a lazy, laconic guitar lead only add to Deal’s wry observations on the local surfers checking the swells on the WAM chart: “All hold up and abandon plans for the good times/Where forgotten roads take lost lives/To beautiful kids on the coast.””
Does anybody else hear a fractured resemblance in the melody to Blondie’s “Sunday Girl?”
The track was recorded by producer Steve Albini, who died of a heart attack last May, at his Chicago studio – Electrical Audio.
