In 1971 — well before the release of her first indie single (“Hey Joe”/”Piss Factory”) or her 1975 debut album Horses — the aspiring poet and author Patti Smith wrote a handful of articles for Creem and Rolling Stone. One of them was a Rolling Stone review of the album Runt: The Ballad of Todd Rundgren.
Smith was clearly a fan of Rundgren, the former Nazz member, and a vocal champion of his early solo career. Some sources even claim that Patti was the one who gave him the nickname “Runt,” though that can’t be definitively proven. She later went on to induct him into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2021.
In her review, Smith raved about the album, singling out one track in particular: “Chain Letter.”
Here’s what she had to say about Rundgren’s song:
“Though he has always created from the best of a pre-formed world, he is slowly enveloping these sources with his personal vision. “Chain Letter” is the cut which most seems to reflect this vision. The lyrics have his typical left-handed optimism and just when they get jaded the track opens up; and multiplies, as “Hey Jude” did. But “Chain Letter” has more balls and goes through several changes while “Hey Jude” never went past spirited repetition.”
Better than the Beatles’ “Hey Jude”? That is high praise indeed. Give the song a listen and decide for yourself.
Today is Valentine’s Day, so let’s discuss a certain type of love song.
Most songs about love affairs depend on secrecy. The thrill comes from what must be hidden, the drama from the risk of discovery. But a tiny handful of songs flip that premise entirely. Instead of fearing gossip, they name it outright — and either shrug it off or actively invite it. In these songs, public scrutiny isn’t the enemy of intimacy; it’s part of the charge.
Three recordings, spread across more than three decades and very different musical traditions, form a remarkably tight canon: “Let Them Talk” (in Gwen McCrae’s 1975 version), “After Midnight” by J.J. Cale (popularized by Eric Clapton), and “Something to Talk About” by Bonnie Raitt. What unites them is not just subject matter, but posture. Each narrator acknowledges an audience — and refuses to care what it thinks.
By the mid-1970s, Gwen McCrae was a seasoned soul singer with deep roots in the Southern R&B tradition. Born in Pensacola, Florida, and closely associated with the TK Records scene in Miami, McCrae had already scored a major hit with “Rockin’ Chair” and was known for a vocal style that balanced warmth, authority, and emotional clarity. Her version of “Let Them Talk” fits that profile perfectly.
The song wastes no time getting to its thesis. The refrain – “let them talk” — is not defensive or reactive. McCrae doesn’t argue with the gossip or attempt to correct it. Instead, she reframes it as irrelevant background noise to a relationship that needs no public validation. What’s striking is the absence of drama. There’s no sense that talk threatens the love; if anything, it confirms its visibility.
Musically, the track reinforces that composure. The groove is relaxed, the arrangement conversational rather than confrontational. McCrae’s vocal delivery is steady and unhurried, suggesting someone who has already made up her mind. This is confidence without explanation—a refusal to treat public opinion as something that requires engagement at all.
J.J. Cale, an Oklahoma-born songwriter and musician, built his career on understatement. By the time “After Midnight” appeared on his 1971 debut album Naturally, Cale had already developed the stripped-down, unflashy style that would become his signature and influence everyone from Eric Clapton to Mark Knopfler. His songs rarely sound like declarations; they sound like observations.
“After Midnight” approaches gossip from a different angle than McCrae’s song. Rather than responding to talk after it begins, Cale’s narrator predicts it in advance: “We’re gonna cause talk and suspicion / We’re gonna give an exhibition.” The choice of words matters. This is not accidental visibility; it’s behavior undertaken with full awareness that it will be noticed.
Yet the music itself remains almost studiously unexcited. The loping rhythm, light percussion, and casual vocal delivery drain the lyric of melodrama. The anticipation of talk is treated as a fact of life, not a source of anxiety or pride. If McCrae’s stance is serene dismissal, Cale’s is cool acceptance. Being seen is inevitable, and not worth raising one’s voice over.
When Bonnie Raitt recorded “Something to Talk About” for her 1991 album Luck of the Draw, she was already a veteran artist with a long history in blues, roots rock, and singer-songwriter circles. After years of critical respect and commercial frustration, the album marked a late-career breakthrough, bringing her voice — and her point of view — to a much wider audience.
Raitt’s song takes the logic of the previous two and pushes it outward. The title line is an invitation, not a response: “Let’s give them something to talk about.” The plural pronoun is key. This isn’t an individual shrug or private resolve; it’s a shared decision to provoke curiosity and speculation. Gossip becomes something to be generated deliberately, almost mischievously.
Musically, the song matches that extroversion. The rhythm is buoyant, the melody bright, and Raitt’s vocal carries a knowing smile. Unlike McCrae’s inward calm or Cale’s detached cool, Raitt sounds amused by the idea of being talked about. Visibility isn’t merely tolerated — it’s enjoyed.
Taken together, these songs outline three related but distinct responses to public scrutiny:
Acceptance (Let Them Talk): people will talk, and it doesn’t matter.
Anticipation (After Midnight): people will talk, and we know it.
Provocation (Something to Talk About): people will talk — so let’s make it interesting.
What’s remarkable is how rare this posture is. Popular music is full of songs about rumors, cheating, and reputation, but most frame gossip as threat, punishment, or tragedy. These three reject that framework entirely. They assume that intimacy can survive daylight — and might even thrive in it.
In that sense, they form a quiet counter-tradition: songs where love doesn’t hide, doesn’t apologize, and doesn’t flinch when the neighbors look over the fence. Instead, they look back — and keep going.
The mission of Song of the Week is summed up in the three-word tagline: Ignored. Obscured. Restored. Finding deep cuts and overlooked gems that have slipped below the radar is what this blog is all about.
A fine example is today’s SotW pick — “Come Home Baby” by Wilson Pickett.
Pickett had already tasted success as lead singer for the Falcons on the 1962 hit he co-wrote, “I Found a Love.” But a few years later, searching for another breakthrough, he signed with Atlantic Records in 1964.
Atlantic paired him with producer Bert Berns and arranger Teacho Wiltshire to record a new song written by Brill Building legends Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, already known for the song “On Broadway.” Berns cast the track as a duet with Tami Lynn (though some sources mistakenly credit Cissy Houston).
The result was a slick pop-soul record, in keeping with Berns’s polished productions of the time. But the single didn’t chart, and it’s largely remembered as a minor misstep — too smooth and urbane, lacking the raw, gospel-infused grit that would later define Pickett’s Southern classics like “In the Midnight Hour” and “Mustang Sally.”
Author Joel Selvin offered a vivid take on the song in Here Comes the Night:
Instead of his customary gospel chorus on “Come Home Baby,” Berns paired Pickett with the sole female voice of Tami Lynn, whose guttural growl rolls right into the foreground alongside Pickett’s more mannered vocal, starting with a snaking Ooh, yeah inserted between the first two couplets over the introduction. The dialogue between the two vocalists takes hold on the chorus, while the horn section builds behind them, giving the production the grandeur of a Phil Spector record without the murkiness. Every detail of Teacho Wiltshire’s arrangement – the spare verse accompaniment, the brassy crescendos, the muted trombone on the instrumental bridge – is in front of the production. Pickett, unlike most lead vocalists on Berns productions, sounds slightly remote from the emotional content of the Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil song, reluctant to fully commit, but with the background vocalist singing rings around him on the chorus, literally, his reliance on a cool professionalism seems judicious.
Even though the track sank into obscurity upon release in early 1965, it stands tall as a lost treasure — a hit in my book.
The Richard Kent Style was a British Invasion-era beat group that released a string of energetic singles, mostly on the Columbia label, between 1966 and 1969. Though largely forgotten today, the band carved out a niche with a handful of horn-driven floor-fillers back in the day.
One standout track is “Go Go Children,” the B-side to their 1966 single “No Matter What You Do”.
While the A-side is solid, it’s the flip that truly shines. “Go Go Children” opens with a raw, driving riff that sounds like it could’ve been lifted from The Troggs’ playbook. The track blends garage grit with brassy R&B swagger — punctuated by sharp horn stabs and a punchy bridge that leads into a pleasantly dirty guitar solo.
The band hailed from Manchester, though, curiously, there was no one named Richard Kent among its members. The name was likely chosen for style rather than identity — an affectation not uncommon among Mod-era groups who sought to project sophistication or mystery.
While their original recordings have largely slipped out of print, you can still track down their music on various Mod and Northern Soul compilations. Collectors and DJs in the Mod revival scene have helped keep tracks like “Go Go Children” in circulation, recognizing their undeniable energy and dance-floor appeal.
If you listen to “Street Walker” for the first time, you might think it was recorded by one of the late ‘60s psychedelic rock bands like Steppenwolf.
So, let’s talk about “Street Walker,” the second cut off the Gotta Groove album the Bar‑Kays dropped in ’69 – released just two years after their world got turned inside out. It was the first record from the reformed Bar‑Kays following the tragic 1967 plane crash in Wisconsin that took Otis Redding and much of the original band.
What rises from the ashes is a record like Gotta Groove, and smack in the middle of it is “Street Walker,” a three-minute burner that doesn’t just walk — it glides through a shadowy, psychedelic back alley with fuzzed-up guitar, swirling organ, and a horn section that sounds like it’s been up all-night smoking with Sly Stone’s rhythm section. (The alum even kicks off with a “tribute” to Sly called “Don’t Stop the Dancing (To the Music)”.)
Gotta Groove reached No. 40 on the Billboard R&B LP chart and stayed there for four weeks, though it didn’t cross over to the pop charts. While “Street Walker” wasn’t released as a hit single, it played a key role in helping the album gain traction and establish the band’s post-reformation identity. It was probably too weird, too moody, too sideways. But that’s what makes it special. It wasn’t trying to sell — it was trying to explore.
And this is where you’ve gotta give the Bar‑Kays credit. They could’ve played it safe. They had the Stax name, they had the chops. But instead, “Street Walker” is steeped in a moody, fuzz-toned atmosphere: swirling organ riffs, distorted guitar licks, and a slightly off-kilter groove that gives it a late-night, acid-funk edge. The song’s instrumental layering — particularly its use of wah-wah guitar, echo-drenched horns, and droning rhythmic repetitions — recalls elements of psychedelic rock as heard in bands like Iron Butterfly, The Electric Flag, or even early Funkadelic, who were also blending soul with distorted, psychedelic textures.
“Street Walker” stands as a defining early statement from the reborn Bar‑Kays, melding psychedelic soul, incendiary funk, and jazzy sophistication into a compact 3-minute groove. It captures a band in transition, honoring their Stax past while pushing toward the richer, funk-infused future.
Dig it late at night with the lights low. Or better yet, spin it between “Dance to the Music” and “I Wanna Take You Higher” and watch the floor tilt sideways.
This past week has been heartbreaking for those of us who love music — especially if you grew up on the sounds of the ’60s and ’70s. We lost two absolute legends of Rock and Soul: Sly Stone and Brian Wilson, both coincidentally at the age of 82.
If you’ve read my missives before, you already know the major milestones of their lives and careers. But if you’re still hungry for more, I recommend their New York Times obituaries:
So much has already been said about them this week that I’ll keep this post short and sweet.
While There’s a Riot Goin’ On (1971) is widely considered Stone’s masterpiece, I’ve always had a soft spot for his earlier release of new material, Stand! (1969).
The album’s title track, “Stand!”, cracked the Billboard Hot 100 Top 40 — an impressive feat for a song that doubled as a subtle civil rights anthem. Its message of empowerment resonated broadly, not just with Black Americans, but with all underrepresented groups — including hippies. Maybe that’s part of why it struck such a chord. That, and its absolutely infectious melody.
As for Brian Wilson, his masterpiece is Pet Sounds (1966) — and you won’t hear any argument from me. Just look at how it’s fared in critical rankings over the years:
It’s the most perfect pop song ever written and recorded. The lead vocal is stunning, the harmonies are flawless, and the instrumentation—courtesy of the legendary Wrecking Crew — is nothing short of sublime. Wilson, as producer, guided it all. The Baroque stylings complement the lyrics beautifully, and small touches — like Hal Blaine’s use of sleigh bells (who uses sleigh bells outside of Christmas music?) — elevate it to something transcendent. It’s one of the few songs that can still bring me to tears.
Even Paul McCartney, no slouch in the songwriting department himself, has often named “God Only Knows” as the greatest song ever written.
As the week winds down, let’s take a moment to honor Sly Stone and Brian Wilson — for making this world a better, more soulful, more beautiful place through their music.
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.
The Cleveland based band pioneered the “art punk” genre and were a major influence on any number of groups, from Talking Heads to The Pixies. Here’s a description of the band from the Trouser Press:
In its first incarnation, Ubu combined disorienting, often dissonant, rock and urban blues in a stunningly original and outlandish mix, but never lost an urgent, joyous party atmosphere. Lead singer David Thomas’ plebeian warble, the band’s most noticeable sonic feature, colors all of Ubu’s proceedings in a bizarre light; casual listeners might, as a result, overlook the powerful, polished musicianship. One of the most innovative American musical forces, Pere Ubu is to Devo what Arnold Schoenberg was to Irving Berlin.
“Heaven” was originally released as the b-side to their indie single “Modern Dance” in 1977. It was later included on the Datapanik In The Year Zero EP (1978).
About two decades ago I made a mix tape that my cousin Tom listened to on a cross country trip. “Heaven” was on it. He later told me the tape saved him from hours of boring, heartland country music stations. If that’s true, it was because songs like this get better with every listen.
The Radiants were a R&B/soul group in the ‘60s. As was typical of the day, the group underwent several personnel changes. They hit their stride as a trio led by Maurice McAlister, who was also half of the duo Maurice and Mac (McLarin Green) who recorded the timeless “You Left the Water Running” (1968).
In 1964, the Radiants scored a #51 hit on the Billboard charts with “Voice Your Choice,” a Curtis Mayfield-inspired track.
This song is masterfully played (dig the horns) and beautifully sung. Dave Marsh, in his book The Heart of Rock & Soul – The 1001 Greatest Singles Ever Made, notes, “The singers switch the lead from line to line, their pleas rising and falling with varying amounts of tension and raunch.” Marsh positioned the track at #348.
Though its lyrics aren’t political, this track is a staple every election day. It tells the story of choosing one love over another — a terrific example of Chicago-style soul.
Now that the presidential election is over, I’ll be stepping back from the news and tuning into other things on TV — probably more sports and binge-watching some series. Before I started a heavy travel schedule in mid-September, I began rewatching The West Wing from the beginning. I wish Jed Bartlet were really running for president. Now that was a man of character!
One of my favorite scenes is from Season 1, Episode 18, “Six Meetings Before Lunch.” In this episode, the White House staff successfully confirms their first Supreme Court nominee, Justice Roberto Mendoza. The team throws an impromptu celebration party, and they coax C.J. Cregg (Allison Janney) to perform her iconic lip-sync routine to “The Jackal.”
“The Jackal” is a track by British guitarist Ronny Jordan, released in 1993. The Grammy-nominated Jordan was known for his style of music, often called “urban jazz” or “acid jazz.”
The track features a spoken-word vocal by Dana Bryant, telling the story of a streetwise ladies’ man, with heavy use of ‘70s street slang:
Fly boy was in the buttermilk, hard, livin’ fast, livin’ large, 6 foot 4 and not an ounce of fat!
When women asked, ‘is you a Cat?’ He said ‘I did more that that.
I’m the froest of the fro
And in case you hadn’t known, they call me ‘The Jackal’.
Jordan passed away at the young age of 51 in 2014, leaving behind a legacy in jazz that’s still celebrated by fans today.
