Tag Archives: song of the week

Song of the Week – The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927

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The recent Helene and Milton hurricanes have made me reflect on music inspired by natural disasters. That’s just how my mind works! One of the most significant historical events that has inspired a wealth of music is the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927.

The flood resulted from a series of rainstorms that began as early as August 1926. By December, heavy rains in the northern Mississippi River states overwhelmed a levee system built in the 1880s. In the early spring of 1927, New Orleans was drenched with over 11 inches of rain, far above the usual 4.4 inches. The situation became critical on Good Friday, April 15, when 14 inches of rain fell in a single day. This was the final blow to an already strained system, leading to one of the most destructive floods in U.S. history.

The flood inundated 26,000 square miles, displaced over 930,000 people, and claimed between 250 and 500 lives. The devastation left a deep impression on the American consciousness, inspiring a range of music across generations.

One of the songs most associated with this catastrophe is “Backwater Blues” by the “Empress of the Blues,” Bessie Smith. Interestingly, Smith recorded the song in February 1927, before the April floods. It was likely inspired by an earlier flood in Nashville in 1926. However, the timing of the song’s release, just weeks before the Mississippi levees broke, allowed it to be perceived as an anthem for the unfolding disaster. Smith was already a major figure in blues music, and the song’s release cemented her connection to the tragedy.

Later that year, Smith recorded another song, “Homeless Blues,” this time directly inspired by the Mississippi flood’s aftermath, reflecting the widespread displacement of families and communities.

Delta bluesman Charley Patton also immortalized the event in his 1929 song “High Water Everywhere.” Patton’s song not only described the destruction caused by the flood but also shed light on the racial inequities that African Americans faced during the crisis. His music expressed frustration with how marginalized communities were disproportionately affected and largely neglected in relief efforts.

In the same year, Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie recorded “When the Levee Breaks,” a song that captured the desperation and suffering of those who lost everything when the levees gave way. The song’s powerful narrative of displacement and hardship resonated so deeply that decades later, Led Zeppelin reinterpreted it for their 1971 album Led Zeppelin IV, introducing the haunting story to a new generation.

The legacy of the 1927 flood continued to inspire artists well beyond the blues era. In 1974, Randy Newman released Good Old Boys, an album that included the song “Louisiana 1927,” which reflected on the flood’s impact. Newman’s song told the story of how the waters rose, the displacement of people, and the failures of government response. His portrayal of the event drew parallels with ongoing social and political challenges in the South.

Bob Dylan also took inspiration from the flood for his 2001 song “High Water (for Charley Patton),” from the album Love and Theft. As the title suggests, the track pays tribute to Patton and the blues tradition, even though Dylan’s lyrics reflect a more modern perspective on disaster and societal collapse.

Dylan had previously touched on the theme in “Crash on the Levee (Down in the Flood),” a song he recorded with The Band during their Basement Tapes sessions. While the song’s lyrics remain ambiguous, it’s easy to see how the imagery of a levee breaking connects to the legacy of the 1927 flood.

The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 left a deep scar on American history, and its influence on music has endured through decades. Whether through blues, rock, or folk, artists have continued to revisit the event, using it as a powerful symbol of natural disaster, social inequality, and human resilience.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Sorrow, Bad Religion

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Breakdown, Alan Parsons Project

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – She Don’t Love Me Now, Bruce Springsteen

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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:

https://www.sweetrelief.org

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – #9 Dream, John Lennon; Boy Blue, Electric Light Orchestra; You’re No Good, Linda Ronstadt

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Public Image, Public Image Ltd

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Acadian Driftwood, The Band

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For Sean

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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – Jerry Yester Productions

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – The Ostrich, The Primitives

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.

Song of the Week – No Milk Today, Herman’s Hermits

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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.

Enjoy… until next week.