#69: Dusty Springfield – Dusty In Memphis

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Throughout the next however many months I’ll be counting down my 100 favorite albums, because why not. I’m up to number sixty-nine.

The song “(You’re) Having My Baby” ruined my life.

I know. Yours, too.

It happened in 1974. Ol’ Betsy, my family’s blue station wagon with the imitation-wood paneling stickers, was still in the driveway when I asked my father to turn on “Musicradio 77 – WABC.” A song came on that I particularly liked. Maybe it was “Billy Don’t Be A Hero” or “Band on the Run” or “Rock the Boat” or the song that resonated deeply with every boy my age—“(You’re) Having My Baby.” What a lovely way for my spirits to be lifted. It’s as if that song’s writer/singer, Paul Anka, had been reading my diary. Whichever song it was, I did what any joyful ten-year-old would do: I started to sing along.

My brother, one year my senior, cut me off instantly, saying something along the lines of, “Shut up and stop torturing us.” My father chimed in with something equally dismissive, and my mom echoed the sentiment. They all had a good chuckle.

Some context: music was everything to me. My grandpa had gifted me a transistor radio a few months earlier, and I’d become obsessed. I lived for the Top 40. I listened to Casey Kasem run the countdown every Sunday, loving each and every song he played without judgment, until that dark day in November when “Cats in the Cradle” made its debut. As a kid, I couldn’t relate to this song about parental absence and regret. Five-plus decades later, I completely understand the song’s sentiments, and have a host of other reasons to still hate it.

In 1974 I bought every issue of Song Hits magazine so I could get the lyrics right. (Wait, it’s not “Waterloo / I had my feet there upon the wall?” The opening lines of Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On” aren’t “Beat it! Oh, Lou, I chose this blue life a seena strang mahna mahna?”) It was super important that I knew all the words. I was, in my own head, a burgeoning musical sensation. And why not? Michael Jackson and Donny Osmond were around the same age I was then when they started their recording careers. Between them they had all bases covered. MJ, with his emotive singing, electrifying dancing, boundless charisma, and otherworldly talent. Donny, with his nice teeth. Don’t think that I’m underselling Donny. He had SPECTACULAR teeth.

Maybe I didn’t sing as well as Michael Jackson or Paul Anka, but I thought I sang as well as any other kid in Mrs. Mazze’s music class, and it was an activity that made me happy. Or used to.

I shut up.

For good.

At least in the car. At least around them.

The lessons I learned that day in 1974:

  • Don’t poke the bear.
  • Don’t make waves.
  • Don’t stick your neck out.
  • Better safe than sorry.
  • Don’t put yourself out there, and no one can tell you you’re not good enough.
  • By not trying, you avoid the sting of failure.
  • Be quiet. Be small.
  • Invisible is safe.

Dinner time at the O’Brien home in 1940s London could be dangerous. It wasn’t unknown for Mrs. O’Brien—an alcoholic former dancer—to throw food, often while still in its serving dish. Mr. O’Brien, a frustrated would-be pianist with a violent temper, was said to call his daughter Mary names and sometimes hit her. She stayed quiet, lest she poked the bear.

In that house, music was an escape for Mary and her brother, Dionysius. Both enjoyed singing. Mary was, in her own head, a burgeoning musical sensation.

At her Catholic all-girls’ school, the nuns looked at the shy, awkward girl and predicted she’d likely make a living as a librarian. Mary had convinced herself they were right; she was boring, unattractive, and meant for a plain, quiet life. She was a girl waiting for permission to exist.

I didn’t stop singing entirely. I performed in my arts & music summer camp’s talent shows, guitar in hand. I auditioned for school and camp musicals, peaking in twelfth grade when I played Motel in Fiddler on the Roof to the genuine applause of my classmates, many of whom had never heard me open my mouth. After I got my driver’s license I sang in the car— alone, windows up, and never at stoplights where someone might glance over and catch me belting out the theme from The Greatest American Hero, thus opening me up to ridicule. Believe it or not, I still harbored a fear of being judged. I had elaborate fantasies of road trips with dates—not that I went on dates in high school—where we’d duet on “You’re the One That I Want” or “Stumblin’ In” or “Mockingbird,” singing loud enough for the back row at Carnegie Hall to hear us. Once, with an actual human present—my friend Ed, senior year of high school—I held the crazy long note at the two-thirds of the way in mark of Barbra Streisand’s “Woman in Love”—girl, you know the one:

I stumble and fall

but I give you it aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

—just to prove I could.

Through my childhood and teen years, music remained my passion. Performing in school shows and summer camp was fun, but making a career out of performing? That felt too exposed, too risky. What if my family was right? What if the applause was just people being nice? What if nobody actually wanted to hear me? Better to choose safety over the chance of hearing “shut up and stop torturing us” on a larger scale. I decided to pursue the business side of music instead. After college, I landed a job at CBS Records in the Accounts Receivable department. I was over the moon. I relayed the exciting news to my mom. Her response? “I guess you could do that while you keep looking.” Eighteen years later, when I was named Vice President at Warner Music, I told her that news, proud of how far I’d come. Her response: “I guess this really is your career.”

The nuns wouldn’t have recognized the woman who eventually stepped onto the stage. She wore a blonde beehive and ample mascara inspired by the drag queens she loved. No spectacles sat on her nose. And she no longer called herself Mary. Her new first name came from the nickname kids gave her because she liked playing football in the dirt. Her brother, who performed with Mary in a folk-pop trio, came up with a new last name for the two of them. He wanted a name that would resonate with American audiences, and noticed a lot of towns and cities in the U.S. had the same name. And thus, shy Mary Isobel Catherine Bernadette O’Brien became Dusty Springfield.

In the early 1960s, The Springfields scored several UK hits and cracked the US top twenty with “Silver Threads and Golden Needles.”

In 1964 Dusty launched a solo career built on her obsession with American pop and soul and Motown. She had a solo smash right out of the gate with “I Only Want to Be with You,” which is going to be my wedding song should I ever get someone to propose to me—still wishin’ and hopin’. Speaking of, that first chartbuster was followed by a run of hits on either or both sides of the Atlantic, including “Wishin’ and Hopin’,” “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me,” “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself,” and “The Look of Love.” She didn’t just sing these songs; she controlled the sessions, including selecting material, shaping arrangements, and re-recording her vocals dozens of times until every note was exactly right, often refusing production credit even though she’d directed the entire vision.

Her obsession with American soul music went deeper than sound. She was a white British woman who became a “soul evangelist.” In early 1960s Britain, soul music was largely confined to underground clubs and dance halls. In 1965, Dusty hosted The Sound of Motown, a British TV special that gave The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, The Miracles, and The Temptations their first UK television appearances, introducing them to a national audience that had never seen them before. The special helped launch Motown’s success in Britain. In addition, she demanded it be written into her contract that she would only perform for integrated audiences. When she was told she had to play a segregated venue in South Africa, she famously told the New Musical Express she’d be “on the first flight home”—and she was, deported with a police escort.

To those watching her, she was fearless. But internally, she was still that girl dodging food.

I’m making a career pivot. I still love music, but I’m over the “business.” I am done with the egos, the politics, the greed, and the manufactured “next big things” with nothing real to offer. Mostly, I’m tired of answering to “the man.” I’ve decided I’d much rather answer to myself.

I’m pursuing corporate speaking. Yes, really. Me, Mr. “Invisible is safe,” now wants to stand on stages and talk to rooms full of people. Surely there are less terrifying career pivots, like skydiving or defusing bombs. At least with those, if you screw up, you don’t have to face anyone afterward. I want to do work that matters. At the same time, I want to keep my limbs so I can dance at my wedding. Still wishin’ and hopin’. Corporate speaking is the choice lets me do both: work that might actually make the world a little better, and Macarena.

Public speaking is not completely new to me. I’ve spoken at conferences and presented at company-wide meetings for years, putting an emphasis on being entertaining and relatable over PowerPoint slides and dry data. For example, as be a fun way to showcase projects my departments were working on, I wrote a parody video of the television show The Office, starring my staff and me. The majority of the company loved it.

There was one notable exception. The day after the video was shown at a company-wide forum, our head of Human Resources summoned me to her office to discuss some of the more “inappropriate” humor in the script, specifically, jokes connected to diversity. The irony: I managed the most diverse departments in our division (and, not coincidentally, the most successful). The rest of the division was whiter and straighter than Donny Osmond’s teeth. Apparently pointing that out was a problem.

That same day my colleague Lauren stopped me as I was walking down the hall. “Here,” she said, handing me a DVD. “I made a copy of your video to show Dwayne. He loved it. He thinks you’re hilarious.” Dwayne was her boyfriend, now husband. Dwayne Johnson. The Rock.

You’d think a thumbs-up from the biggest movie star on the planet would matter more than Ruth from HR’s disapproval. But The Rock didn’t offer me a job; Ruth could actually cause my career harm.

Being at Warner Music felt safe. When I spoke with artist managers or foreign affiliates or potential clients, I was representing the company, advocating for artists and catalog, delivering business strategies.

This new path is different. I’m not representing a label or a brand. I’m not representing anyone but myself. And for someone who spent forty years trying to ensure everyone liked the “corporate” version of him, standing on a stage with no company behind me is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.

My speaking topics, drawn directly from my work experience, are diversity and inclusion. To help market myself as a speaker on these subjects, I’ve written a book that uses stories about artists and songs and draws on examples from my four decades in the music business to show that innovation happens and productivity increases when organizations make space for people who don’t fit a set mold. I strongly believe that diversity isn’t just a moral imperative; it’s a competitive advantage.

The book, Make Diversity A Hit!: What My 30+ Years Of Negotiating 10k+ Deals For Music’s Biggest Artists Can Teach You About How Diversity Can Grow Your Business, took me five years to write. Five years of reading scores of articles and books about diversity and inclusion. Five years of writing and rewriting, proofreading and polishing, telling that voice in my head to be quiet so I could just finish the damn thing. Five years.

And then, hurrah! It was finished. Ready to be published. Ready to change lives. Ready to launch my speaking career.

That was in 2019.

I told myself not to rush into things. It was important I do this right. I had to learn how to self-publish. And as the book is meant to be a calling card for speaking, I had to prepare for that, too. And so, during these last six-plus years, I’ve been preparing. I read books about self-publishing. And books about speaking. And books about marketing books with the goal of speaking. I attended webinars and seminars and symposiums and conferences. I went to forums and panel discussions and roundtables. I listened to podcasts and audiobooks. I watched TED talks and YouTube tutorials and masterclasses. I took courses on personal branding, thought leadership, and teaching through storytelling. I learned about SEO optimization, social media strategy, and the algorithm. I joined LinkedIn groups and never posted or read what was posted because I hate LinkedIn. I joined Facebook groups and never posted or read what was posted because I hate Facebook. I bookmarked articles about overcoming impostor syndrome—141 of them. I traveled to Las Vegas to attend masterminds where I brainstormed with other speakers/writers, many of whom have magically published more than one book in that time and are now considered experts on their chosen subjects. I became an expert in preparing to plan to start getting ready.

A therapist may say I have anxiety stemming from perfectionism. But is perfectionism demanding of oneself an extremely high level of performance, in excess of what is required by the situation? I would say no, while the American Psychological Association Dictionary of Psychology says yes. Who are you going to believe—the combined wisdom of every licensed psychologist in America or the guy who still kicks himself because he doesn’t know the lyrics to Three Dog Night’s “The Show Must Go On”?

The truth is, I’m terrified to put it (me) out there.

At Toastmasters I won so many Best Speaker ribbons that one year the club president stopped giving them out. He thought it wasn’t fair to everyone else. I didn’t care about the ribbons. I was competing with myself, trying to convince that ten-year-old in the back of the station wagon that it’s okay to live out loud. To experiment. There was nothing of consequence at stake. It was safe to fail.

But now? Now I’m trying to make this a career. Now there’s something at stake. I look at other speakers—the ones with the PhDs and the massive platforms—and I feel like a fraud with a handful of blue ribbons. Okay, a boatload of blue ribbons. With just the thought of actually booking an engagement, I am instantly ten years old again, terrified that if I step out there, the world will echo my family and tell me to be quiet. What if I deliver a speech that isn’t well-received? And someone posts about my debacle? And that post gets shared? And every hiring manager in America knows I’m the guy who bombed on stage?  What if this one speech ruins any chance I have at this career?  That would prove the lesson I learned in 1974 was correct: By not trying, you avoid the sting of failure. Invisible is safe.

In 1968, Dusty Springfield went to Memphis to record with session musicians behind some of the soul records she revered. She walked into American Sound Studio. The rhythm tracks had already been recorded. Now it was her turn. She stood at the microphone in the same vocal booth where her heroes had stood.

She froze. A therapist may say she had anxiety stemming from perfectionism. She would have called it fear.

 “I hated it,” she later said, “because I couldn’t be Aretha Franklin. If only people like [record producer] Jerry Wexler could realize what a deflating thing it is to say ‘Otis Redding stood there’ or ‘That’s where Aretha sang.’ Whatever you do, it’s not going to be good enough.”

Eventually, she left. Wexler would later claim he “never got a note out of her” in Memphis.

The vocals would have to be recorded somewhere else. Somewhere she could relax. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere unintimidating. New York City, obviously. Away from the weight of that Memphis studio, she found her voice. Which means Dusty didn’t actually record Dusty In Memphis in Memphis, making it the most blatant case of a fraudulent album title since The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds.

The songwriters on Dusty in Memphis were a “Who’s Who” of pop music greatness—Carole King and Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Marilyn and Alan Bergman with Michel Legrand, and a rising star named Randy Newman.

But the song that became the album’s hit single was written by the lesser known team of John Hurley and Ronnie Wilkins. They intended it for Aretha Franklin to sing, but the Queen of Soul, famously the daughter of a preacher man, passed on singing how the only man who could ever love her was the son of a preacher man.

Dusty took “Son of a Preacher Man” and made it a global Top 10 smash. (Seeing its success, Ms. Franklin did end up recording her own version.)

Despite the popularity of the single, the album Dusty In Memphis was a commercial “meh,” missing the British and American top 40. It would be just shy of 20 years before she again achieved the commercial height of “Son of a Preacher Man,” when Pet Shop Boys, over the objections of their record label, who preferred they record with Tina Turner or Barbra Streisand, recruited Dusty for their song “What Have I Done To Deserve This?”

That single went to #2 on both sides of the Atlantic. She was back. Critics dusted off their copies of Dusty in Memphis and realized they were holding a masterpiece. Soon it was included in many Best Albums Of All Time lists. Elvis Costello called it a record “that will chill and thrill, always and forever,” adding “Dusty Springfield’s singing on this album is among the very best ever put on record by anyone.”  Then came 1994 and Quentin Tarantino. The writer/director put “Son of a Preacher Man” in Pulp Fiction. The soundtrack sold over three million copies in the U.S. alone; more people owned that album than had ever owned a Dusty Springfield record.

On March 2, 1999, the day she was scheduled to receive an award at Buckingham Palace as an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for “services to popular music,” breast cancer took Dusty Springfield’s life. Two weeks later, she was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, where Elton John called her “the greatest white singer there has ever been.”

Where Mary O’Brien was terrified of saying the wrong thing, Dusty made herself heard. She’d fought for integrated audiences and came out publicly as bisexual in 1970, a time when the number of openly LGBTQ pop stars could be counted on one fist.

Mary O’Brien spent her childhood being quiet to stay safe. But with a beehive and a little mascara (okay, a lot of mascara), she transformed herself into Dusty Springfield and made herself heard.

I don’t sport a beehive, nor do I wear mascara (that one night in college notwithstanding). I never found my superhero uniform, the one that would make me invincible. Instead, I spent years being invisible, thinking silence was safety. It wasn’t safety; it was erasure. I succeeded in the corporate music world because I was confident I could. I won ribbons at Toastmasters because the stakes were low enough for me to feel comfortable to experiment. The truth is I only tried things where I already believed I could succeed. I avoided anything that might give the world a reason to criticize me. Fear of failure didn’t stop me from achieving; it stopped me from risking. And spending my life avoiding the risk of failure is still a kind of failure—the failure to find out who I might have been without the fear.

I recently came across an interview with Fiona Apple, an artist I adore, worship, admire and worship, not in a creepy way. In 2020, another Apple admirer, Bob Dylan, invited her to the studio to play piano on a song he was recording. Even with all her acclaim and years of experience, she was terrified, convinced she’d mess up the work of a legend. She told Dylan of her trepidation. His response: “You’re not here to be perfect, you’re here to be you.”

After spending many hours thinking about that, I realized that I had been auditioning for a role that doesn’t exist. “Perfect Glenn.” He never messes up, because he never actually participates.

Dusty Springfield managed to finish making Dusty In Memphis, and it became a masterpiece—not because she stopped being afraid, but because she sang through the fear. I’m done waiting for proof that outweighs my doubt. My book has been gestating for twelve years, and now I’m having my baby. I’m putting the book out. I’m seeking the gigs.

Maybe my work will be as great as Dusty in Memphis. Maybe it won’t. Either way, I’m turning the radio up. My voice deserves to be heard.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1973

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If you were flipping through radio stations in 1973, you might have been forgiven for wondering whether you’d accidentally landed on multiple stations at once. In a single week, you could hear Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” — all nervous funk and clavinet — followed immediately by Tony Orlando & Dawn tying a yellow ribbon around an oak tree. That wasn’t a coincidence or a quirk of programming. It was just what 1973 sounded like: a year when pop music was genuinely pulling in several directions at the same time, and somehow holding together anyway.

Soul and R&B were operating at an extraordinary level. Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” Gladys Knight’s “Midnight Train to Georgia,” the O’Jays’ “Love Train,” and the Spinners’ “Could It Be I’m Falling In Love” all landed that year, each with its own emotional weight and personality. Curtis Mayfield’s “Superfly” brought something sharper and more cinematic to the mix, while Ann Peebles’ “I Can’t Stand the Rain” — still somewhat underappreciated in the wider cultural memory — was as raw and soulful as anything released that decade. Eddie Kendricks, fresh off his Temptations run, went solo with “Keep On Truckin’,” and it clicked immediately. The breadth of what Black artists were producing in this single calendar year is genuinely remarkable.

Rock was doing its own sprawling thing. The Rolling Stones released “Angie,” one of their more restrained and melancholy singles. Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” was the title track of a double album that showed he could sustain a full artistic statement across four sides of vinyl, not just deliver three minutes at a time. Pink Floyd’s “Money” brought an odd-time signature to FM radio in a way that probably shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. And then there were the louder contingents: Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” became one of the most-played riffs in guitar shop history, Grand Funk Railroad declared themselves an American band, and Slade and Sweet were doing glam rock with considerably more volume than glamour. Meanwhile, Iggy & the Stooges released “Search and Destroy” — which most of 1973’s radio audience largely ignored, though history would eventually course-correct on that.

The year also captured several artists at particularly interesting transitional moments. David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” originally released in 1969, finally broke through in the US in 1973, reaching American audiences who were now ready for its strange, detached storytelling. Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” had no business being as widely played as it was, given its subject matter, but here we are. Bob Dylan contributed “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” via his Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid soundtrack — unassuming and brief, but immediately recognizable as something that would last. T. Rex’s “20th Century Boy” and George Harrison’s “Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth)” filled out a year that seemed to have room for almost anything, provided it had a decent hook.

What holds up most clearly, looking back at 1973’s output, is that the music wasn’t being made according to any unified cultural script. Some of it was deliberately commercial; some of it was confrontational; some of it was deeply personal. Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain,” Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song,” and Paul Simon’s “Loves Me Like a Rock” feel like they come from entirely different worlds, yet they all landed in the same twelve-month window. Ringo Starr had a hit with “Photograph.” The Allman Brothers were rambling. Cher was charting with “Half-Breed.” By any measure, 1973 was a disorganized, contradictory, frequently excellent year for popular music — and that’s precisely what makes it worth revisiting.

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Tunes Du Jour Celebrates Presidents’ Day

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From folk protest to funk, punk rock to hip-hop, this eclectic Presidents’ Day playlist spans decades of American political commentary through the lens of popular music. Not every commander-in-chief makes an appearance—some presidencies inspired little musical response, while others (particularly Kennedy, Reagan, and George W. Bush) sparked entire catalogs of artistic reaction. The collection moves chronologically through the office holders, though the songs themselves range from contemporary responses to retrospective reflections, capturing how each president’s legacy resonated with musicians of different eras and genres. Whether celebratory, satirical, or scathing, these tracks remind us that popular music has always served as a vital form of political discourse, holding power accountable and giving voice to the frustrations, hopes, and criticisms of the American people.

James K. Polk – They Might Be Giants
An infectiously catchy history lesson that chronicles Polk’s ambitious single-term presidency and his campaign promises to expand American territory.

Abie Baby – Hair Original Cast
This number from the groundbreaking musical Hair celebrates Abraham Lincoln’s legacy of emancipation with psychedelic 1960s exuberance.

Louisiana 1927 – Randy Newman
Newman’s haunting ballad captures the devastating Mississippi River flood during Calvin Coolidge’s administration and the government’s inadequate response.

We’d Like To Thank You Herbert Hoover – Annie Original Broadway Cast
A Depression-era shantytown chorus sarcastically thanks Hoover for the economic catastrophe that left Americans destitute and homeless.

Harry Truman – Chicago
This gentle rock ballad uses Truman as a symbol of simpler times and American authenticity before the cynicism of later decades.

Eisenhower Blues – The Costello Show Feat. The Attractions & Confederates
Costello’s cheeky cover plays with 1950s nostalgia while questioning the era’s conformity and Cold War anxieties.

Murder Most Foul – Bob Dylan
Dylan’s seventeen-minute meditation on the Kennedy assassination weaves together American mythology, cultural memory, and the loss of innocence.

President Kennedy – Eddie Izzard
The British comedian takes on the misunderstanding that President Kennedy declared himself to be a doughnut.

The Day John Kennedy Died – Lou Reed
Reed’s stark, melancholic reflection places Kennedy’s death in the context of personal memory and national trauma.

Lyndon Johnson Told The Nation – Tom Paxton
Paxton’s folk protest song sardonically captures LBJ’s escalation of the Vietnam War and the duplicity of official statements.

You Haven’t Done Nothin’ – Stevie Wonder
Wonder’s funky, cutting critique of Nixon’s broken promises and political corruption became an anthem of Watergate-era disillusionment.

Impeach the President – Honey Drippers
This funk instrumental’s famous drum break refers to Nixon, though it’s become better known as one of hip-hop’s most sampled beats.

Funky President (People It’s Bad) – James Brown
The Godfather of Soul delivers hard-hitting social commentary on economic hardship during the Ford administration.

(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang – Heaven 17
British synth-pop warriors take aim at Reagan’s cowboy diplomacy and the early 1980s conservative political climate.

Ronnie, Talk to Russia – Prince
Prince’s Cold War plea urges Reagan to pursue diplomacy and nuclear disarmament before it’s too late.

Bonzo Goes to Bitburg – Ramones
The punk legends blast Reagan’s controversial visit to a German cemetery containing SS graves, delivered with their signature three-chord fury.

Old Mother Reagan – Violent Femmes
The Femmes’ acoustic punk assault critiques Reagan’s policies with youthful anger and folk-punk energy.

Reagan – Killer Mike
The Atlanta rapper delivers a scathing indictment of Reagan’s policies on race, drugs, and economics decades after leaving office.

5 Minutes (B-B-B Bombing Mix) – Bonzo Goes To Washington
This mashup satirizes Reagan’s notorious hot-mic joke about bombing Russia by splicing it with dance beats.

If Reagan Played Disco – Minutemen
The iconoclastic punk band imagines an absurdist alternate reality with their typically angular, political edge.

Fuck You – Lily Allen
Allen’s chipper, profanity-laced dismissal of George W. Bush was initially posted on her MySpace page under the title “Guess Who Batman.”

When the President Talks to God – Bright Eyes
Conor Oberst’s devastating critique questions Bush’s certainty and religious justifications during the Iraq War.

Mosh – Eminem
Eminem’s urgent call to political action rallied young voters against Bush’s policies in the 2004 election.

Let’s Impeach the President – Neil Young
Young’s protest rocker methodically lists grievances against Bush with straightforward outrage and rock-and-roll directness.

I’m With Stupid – Pet Shop Boys
The synth-pop duo skewers Tony Blair’s subservience to Bush’s foreign policy agenda with biting British wit.

Dear Mr. President – P!nk featuring Indigo Girls
P!nk’s open letter challenges Bush to walk in others’ shoes and confront the human cost of his decisions.

Obama – ANOHNI
This haunting piece wrestles with disappointment in Obama’s continuation of drone warfare despite his hopeful campaign promises.

Fuck Donald Trump – YG & Nipsey Hussle
The West Coast rappers deliver an unfiltered denunciation of Trump’s rhetoric and policies with raw urgency.

The President Can’t Read – Amy Rigby
Rigby’s folk-rock takedown questions Trump’s competence and intellectual curiosity with pointed observations.

Streets of Minneapolis – Bruce Springsteen
The Boss’s response to the killings of American citizens by US Immigration and Customs Enforcement under directions from President Trump.

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Tunes Du Jour Celebrates Black History Month

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Music has always been more than just a backdrop to history; it is a living, breathing part of it. It’s the coded message in a spiritual, the roar of protest in a soul anthem, and the unshakeable pride in a hip-hop verse. This playlist was curated with that spirit in mind. It is not just a collection of songs by Black artists or about Black experiences, but a deliberate sonic journey where each track serves as a chapter in the long, complex, and powerful story of Black history. From the harrowing journey of the Middle Passage in The O’Jays’ “Ship Ahoy” to the defiant celebration of identity in Beyoncé’s “BROWN SKIN GIRL,” every song here is a direct link to a person, an event, a movement, or some combination of the three.

The running order is intentional, designed to guide the listener through a powerful emotional and historical arc. We begin in the depths of oppression, bearing witness to the brutality of slavery, the terror of Jim Crow, and the pain of foundational betrayals. From that bitter root, the playlist pivots to the fire of resistance. It chronicles the fight for Civil Rights in America and the parallel global struggle against apartheid, honoring the heroes who led the charge and the anthems that fueled their movements. The narrative then moves into the modern era, where the fight for justice continues in the face of new challenges, chronicled with unflinching honesty by artists from Bruce Springsteen to Janelle Monáe.

This journey through pain and protest ultimately leads to a place of empowerment, joy, and hard-won hope. The final act of the playlist is a celebration of contribution, a lesson in self-love for future generations, and a recognition of monumental triumphs. It culminates in the profound resilience of Aretha Franklin’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”—a final, stirring testament to an unshakeable faith in the future. This Black History Month, we invite you to not just hear these songs, but to truly listen. Follow the stories, look up the names, and feel the weight and glory of the history they carry. Let the rhythms move you, but let the histories change you.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents Jeff Lynne & Electric Light Orchestra

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Of all the bands that filled the airwaves in the 1970s, perhaps none had a sound as instantly recognizable as Electric Light Orchestra. You know it the moment you hear it: the soaring strings, the stacked vocal harmonies, the crisp, thumping drum beat, and a rock and roll foundation holding it all together. A glance at a playlist of their work, with hits like “Mr. Blue Sky,” “Livin’ Thing,” and “Don’t Bring Me Down,” reveals a remarkable consistency. This wasn’t the sound of a band finding its way; it was the execution of a singular, ambitious vision. That vision belonged to one man: Jeff Lynne.

To understand ELO is to understand Lynne’s role not just as a songwriter and frontman, but as a master producer and arranger. He aimed to create a band that would, as the initial concept went, “pick up where The Beatles left off.” Listening to early tracks like “10538 Overture” or their grand re-imagining of “Roll Over Beethoven,” you can hear that idea taking shape. The music is a deliberate fusion of rock band energy and classical grandeur. Songs like “Telephone Line” and “Can’t Get It Out of My Head” aren’t just pop tunes with strings layered on top; the orchestral elements are woven directly into the song’s emotional core, as essential as the guitar or bass.

What’s particularly interesting is how this sound evolved while remaining unmistakably “ELO.” The band could deliver a straightforward, string-less rocker like “Don’t Bring Me Down,” then pivot to the disco-infused pulse of “Shine a Little Love” or “Last Train to London.” They could craft elaborate, charming narratives in songs like “The Diary of Horace Wimp” or deliver the operatic flair of “Rockaria!” Through it all, Lynne’s production—those tightly harmonized backing vocals, the precise layering of instruments, and an impeccable sense of melody—acts as the common thread, giving the entire catalog a sense of cohesion.

The true scope of Jeff Lynne’s influence, however, becomes clear when you look at the songs on this playlist that aren’t by ELO. Listen to Roy Orbison’s “You Got It” or Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” The sonic fingerprints are all there: the clean acoustic guitars, the punchy rhythm section, and the rich vocal arrangements are pure Lynne. His sound became so respected that when The Beatles needed a producer to help them complete “Free as a Bird” for their Anthology project, they called him. George Harrison not only enlisted him for his own solo work, like the affectionate “When We Was Fab,” but also made him a bandmate.

That brings us to the Traveling Wilburys. Hearing songs like “End Of The Line” alongside ELO tracks feels less like a departure and more like a family reunion. In this supergroup, Jeff Lynne wasn’t just a producer for his heroes—George Harrison, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, and Bob Dylan—he was their musical partner, an equal architect of their sound. The playlist, taken as a whole, tells a story not just of a great band, but of a distinct musical creator whose unique approach to record-making left a lasting mark on the work of his peers and the sound of popular music itself.

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Tunes Du Jour Celebrates Have A Bad Day Day

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Today is Have A Bad Day Day. Per holidayinsights.com, as a greeting today, you are encouraged people to wish people a lousy or terrible day.

I think wishing a terrible day to someone to their face might put you in danger. Instead, I choose to celebrate with song. If someone were to hear one of the songs on my Have A Bad Day Day playlist, they’d know that somebody out there wants their day to suck.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 2000

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The year 2000 arrived with a collective sigh of relief. The much-hyped Y2K bug turned out to be a non-event, and the new millennium stretched out before us, feeling both futuristic and strangely familiar. Looking back at the music from that year, you can hear a similar dynamic at play. It wasn’t a time of radical genre fusion or crossover; instead, it felt like several distinct musical movements were all cresting at the exact same time, each one confident and fully-formed. It was a year where you could switch the radio station and feel like you were jumping between entirely different worlds—from the polished pop of Britney Spears to the raw energy of DMX.

On one hand, pop and R&B were operating at peak performance, dominating the charts with precision-engineered hits. This was the era of the blockbuster music video, and artists delivered. Madonna reinvented herself yet again with the electro-thump of “Music,” while Britney Spears’s “Oops!…I Did It Again” perfected the formula she had established just a year prior. At the same time, R&B was in a period of remarkable innovation. You had the staccato, futuristic production of Timbaland on Aaliyah’s “Try Again,” the iconic, conversational flow of Destiny’s Child on “Say My Name,” and the deep, simmering soul of D’Angelo’s “Untitled (How Does It Feel).” These weren’t just great songs; they were statements of intent from artists at the top of their game.

Meanwhile, rock music was pulling in several different directions at once. Pop-punk had fully broken through to the mainstream, and blink-182’s “All the Small Things” was its endlessly catchy, stadium-sized anthem. More established acts like Foo Fighters and Red Hot Chili Peppers were delivering some of their most memorable melodic rock with “Learn to Fly” and “Californication,” respectively. Yet, on the fringes, things were getting much stranger and more interesting. Radiohead completely abandoned guitar-rock expectations with the anxious, electronic pulse of “Idioteque,” while Queens of the Stone Age offered a taste of heavy, hypnotic desert rock with “Feel Good Hit Of The Summer.” There was no single, unified “sound of rock” in 2000; there were several.

Hip-hop was arguably the most creatively vibrant and commercially powerful force of the year. The genre’s expansion was on full display, from the confrontational wit of Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady” to the pure, unbridled velocity of OutKast’s “B.O.B.” which still sounds like it was beamed in from the future. The clubs were fueled by the aggression of DMX’s “Party Up (Up in Here)” and M.O.P.’s “Ante Up,” while Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin’” projected an image of untouchable cool. And of course, you can’t talk about 2000 without acknowledging the songs that were simply inescapable. The unabashedly goofy charm of Sisqó’s “Thong Song” and the perhaps baffling, universal appeal of “Who Let the Dogs Out” added a unique and memorable flavor to the year’s sonic identity.

Listening back to this collection of songs now, what’s most striking is how separate but equal everything feels. This was one of the last moments before the digital revolution would completely flatten the music landscape, encouraging artists to borrow from everywhere at once. The year 2000 wasn’t about blending; it was a snapshot of distinct scenes, each with its own definitive soundtrack. From the raw scream of Kelis on “Caught Out There” to the quiet contemplation of Moby’s “Porcelain,” it was a year of powerful, parallel streams, a final, confident roar from the 20th-century music industry before everything changed.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1975

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Fifty years ago, radio dials and turntables were spinning an uncommonly diverse mix of sounds. The charts of 1975 didn’t follow a single storyline—instead, they captured a moment when multiple musical currents were flowing with equal strength. Disco was gaining momentum but hadn’t yet dominated everything in its path. Rock was simultaneously reaching for arena-sized ambition and stripping down to raw emotion. Soul and funk were evolving into more sophisticated forms, while pop continued doing what it does best: making people hum along whether they meant to or not.

The year belonged, in many ways, to artists who understood that hooks and ambition weren’t mutually exclusive. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” arrived like a desperate prayer wrapped in Phil Spector production, while Queen’s “Killer Queen” proved that flamboyance and precision could coexist in three minutes of glam-rock perfection. Led Zeppelin stretched “Kashmir” across nearly nine minutes of Eastern-influenced grandeur, and Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” turned melancholy into an art form. Even Bob Dylan, never one to stand still, was crafting the narrative complexity of “Tangled Up in Blue.” These weren’t just songs—they were statements about how far popular music could reach while still connecting with listeners.

Meanwhile, dance floors were becoming cultural epicenters. KC and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s the Way (I Like It)” and Gloria Gaynor’s “Never Can Say Goodbye” helped establish disco as something more than a passing trend. The Bee Gees’ “Jive Talkin'” showed that the brothers Gibb could pivot from balladeers to funk-influenced hitmakers. Labelle’s “Lady Marmalade” brought New Orleans sass and unapologetic sexuality to the mainstream, while Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Shining Star” blended funk, soul, and jazz into something that felt both cosmic and grounded. The groove wasn’t just a rhythm—it was becoming a philosophy.

What’s striking about 1975 is how much sonic territory gets covered without any single approach dominating. 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love” used studio technology to create something hauntingly atmospheric, while Kraftwerk’s “Autobahn” was quietly suggesting what electronic music might become. Barry White continued orchestrating romantic opulence, Minnie Riperton’s five-octave range soared through “Lovin’ You,” and Linda Ronstadt’s “You’re No Good” proved that straightforward rock could still pack a punch. David Bowie’s “Fame,” co-written with John Lennon, showed him already moving past glam into funk-inflected territory. Glen Campbell brought “Rhinestone Cowboy” to country-pop crossover success, while Average White Band demonstrated that Scottish musicians could master American funk with “Pick Up the Pieces.”

Listening to these songs now, what emerges isn’t just nostalgia but a reminder of a particular kind of creative confidence. These artists weren’t afraid to be big or vulnerable, funky or introspective, polished or raw—sometimes all within the same track. The year didn’t belong to any single movement or sound, and that might be exactly what made it memorable. It was a time when the radio could take you from the Staple Singers’ gospel-infused soul to Sweet’s glitter-rock crunch to ABBA’s pristine pop architecture without anyone thinking twice about the journey. That kind of range feels worth celebrating.

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