Thirty songs to celebrate this most important of month-long holidays.
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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1977
If you had to pick a single year that captured popular music at its most creatively overstuffed, 1977 would be a strong candidate. Rock was arena-sized and expensive. Disco was inescapable and, for a certain crowd, irresistible. Punk was arriving like a kicked-in door. And somewhere in between, artists were quietly making records that didn’t fit neatly into any of those categories. The year produced an almost absurd concentration of songs that people still know by heart, not because nostalgia has been kind to them, but because many of them are genuinely excellent pieces of music.
The rock side of ’77 was dominated by songs that have since become impossible to avoid. Eagles’ “Hotel California,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” and Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” all came from the same general tradition of polished, emotionally direct rock songwriting, the kind that prioritized feel and production in equal measure. Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” sat a little rougher and looser, and Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s “Blinded by the Light” was genuinely strange radio fare — a Springsteen cover that became more famous than the original largely on the strength of its own eccentric energy. Meanwhile, David Bowie’s “Sound and Vision” and Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” pointed toward something more interior and experimental, both artists having recently untethered themselves from previous identities and clearly enjoying the freedom.
Disco in 1977 wasn’t a single sound so much as a spectrum. At one end, you had Donna Summer’s extraordinary “I Feel Love,” which Giorgio Moroder produced using almost entirely synthesized instrumentation — Brian Eno reportedly told David Bowie it had just changed the future of music, and he wasn’t wrong. Further down the dial were Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way,” Marvin Gaye’s loose, joyful “Got to Give It Up,” Heatwave’s “Boogie Nights,” and KC and the Sunshine Band’s “I’m Your Boogie Man,” songs that prioritized the floor over the headphones and delivered accordingly. And then there was the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, which arrived in late 1977 and would go on to become, for a time, the best-selling album ever released. It’s remembered as a disco landmark, but its lead single was the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love” — a warm, unhurried ballad which doesn’t really fit the disco label. That the song was swept up into the disco phenomenon anyway says something about how powerful that cultural moment was: it absorbed everything in its vicinity, regardless of what the artists themselves thought they were making.
Punk was having none of it. The Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen” was banned by the BBC and still reached the top of the charts, which tells you something about both the song’s impact and the limits of official gatekeeping. Ramones’ “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker” was faster and more fun, but no less pointed. Television’s “Marquee Moon” and Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives” had a punk rock spirit that suggested the genre’s real legacy might not be volume or outrage but a renewed interest in wit and directness — a correction to the perceived excesses of the rock mainstream those same artists were reacting against. These records don’t sound like novelties now. They sound like a genuine argument about what music should be doing.
What’s striking, looking at a year’s worth of this material together, is how little any of these artists seemed to be aware of, or interested in, what the others were doing. “Somebody to Love” by Queen and “Sir Duke” by Stevie Wonder share roughly the same calendar year but almost nothing else. “Solsbury Hill” and “Float On” exist in completely separate universes. That independence — each act pursuing its own idea of what a good record sounded like — might be exactly why so much of this music has held up. Nobody was chasing a trend that would have dated them. They were mostly just making the best version of the thing they already knew how to do, and 1977 happened to catch a lot of them doing it very well.
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#69: Dusty Springfield – Dusty In Memphis
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 Celebrates Presidents’ Day
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 Presents Eurythmics
If you were to press play on the career of Eurythmics, you’d most likely start with “Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This).” It’s the song that made them global stars—an undeniable classic built on a stark synthesizer riff and Annie Lennox’s commanding, soulful vocals. But as a journey through their work reveals, that iconic hit is just one stop on a much more interesting and varied musical map. The creative engine of Eurythmics was the partnership between Lennox and Dave Stewart, a duo whose collaboration was defined by constant evolution, emotional complexity, and a refusal to be confined to a single sound.
From their initial breakthrough, Eurythmics demonstrated a remarkable sonic range. The synth-pop of tracks like “Sweet Dreams” and “Love Is a Stranger” established their early ’80s identity, blending electronic precision with a sense of psychological intrigue. But they were quick to move beyond that mold. Soon, the duo was infusing their music with American R&B and soul, resulting in the brass-fueled declaration of “Would I Lie To You?” and the driving rock of “Missionary Man.” At the same time, they could create lush, string-laden ballads like “Here Comes the Rain Again,” proving that their electronic roots could coexist with grand, orchestral arrangements.
Beneath the polished production, the songs often explored the more complicated aspects of relationships and society. While they could deliver a pure shot of joy like “There Must Be an Angel (Playing with My Heart),” they were equally adept at dissecting paranoia in “Who’s That Girl?” or the bitter end of a love affair in “Thorn in My Side.” This willingness to look at the darker corners is what gives their music its lasting weight. They could craft a powerful feminist anthem with Aretha Franklin one moment (“Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves”) and then create a stark, unsettling piece like “Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty Four)” for a film soundtrack the next.
The provided playlist also wisely includes a look at their individual paths, which helps illuminate what made the duo’s chemistry so effective. Annie Lennox’s solo career, with hits like the introspective “Why” and the baroque pop of “Walking on Broken Glass,” showcased her incredible power as a vocalist and songwriter in a more personal context. Meanwhile, Dave Stewart’s instrumental hit “Lily Was Here” highlights his strengths as a producer and composer, crafting a distinct mood and melody without Lennox’s voice at the center. These solo ventures weren’t a departure, but rather an extension of the individual talents that made Eurythmics so compelling.
Ultimately, listening to this collection of songs reveals a creative partnership that was always in motion. From the experimental art-pop of “Beethoven (I Love to Listen To)” to the mature reflection of their reunion track “I Saved The World Today,” Eurythmics consistently challenged expectations. They moved seamlessly between genres, moods, and themes, all held together by Stewart’s inventive arrangements and Lennox’s unforgettable voice. They left behind a body of work that is as intelligent and artistically curious as it is full of enduring hits.
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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Paul McCartney Songbook
Paul McCartney’s genius as a songwriter extends far beyond his work with The Beatles, revealing itself most clearly in how other artists have transformed his compositions across genres and generations. This remarkable collection of covers demonstrates McCartney’s rare ability to write songs that function as both complete artistic statements and flexible frameworks for reinterpretation. When Joe Cocker turned “With A Little Help From My Friends” into a soulful anthem, or when Guns N’ Roses gave “Live and Let Die” a hard rock edge, they weren’t just covering songs—they were unlocking different emotional possibilities that McCartney had embedded in the original compositions. The breadth of artists drawn to his work, from Aretha Franklin’s gospel-tinged “Eleanor Rigby” to Beyoncé’s contemporary reimagining of “Blackbird,” speaks to the universal resonance of his melodic and lyrical craftsmanship.
What makes McCartney particularly fascinating as a songwriter is his willingness to write specifically for other artists’ strengths while maintaining his distinctive voice. Songs like “A World Without Love” for Peter & Gordon and “Come And Get It” for Badfinger weren’t Beatles cast-offs but carefully crafted compositions that suited those acts perfectly. His collaboration with Elvis Costello on “Veronica” and his work with Michael Jackson on “Girlfriend” show an artist constantly evolving and adapting his approach to different musical contexts. Even when writing for others, McCartney’s melodic sensibility—that ability to find the hook that sticks in your mind—remains unmistakably present, whether it’s the yearning quality of “Yesterday” that En Vogue brought to R&B or the infectious rhythm of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” that Celia Cruz infused with Latin flavor.
The lasting power of McCartney’s songwriting becomes evident when artists as diverse as Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and Andre 3000 find something meaningful in his catalog. These aren’t novelty covers or tribute performances—they’re genuine artistic connections where musicians recognize something in McCartney’s work that speaks to their own creative vision. From Little Richard’s rock and roll interpretation of “I Saw Her Standing There” to k.d. lang’s haunting take on “Golden Slumbers,” each cover reveals new layers in songs that seemed perfectly complete in their original form. This ongoing dialogue between McCartney’s compositions and successive generations of artists suggests something profound about his approach to songwriting: he creates musical spaces that invite inhabitation rather than mere imitation, proving that truly great songs don’t just endure—they continue to grow.
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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Smokey Robinson Songbook
ABC wasn’t wrong—when Smokey sings, everything is wonderful. But just as impressive as his voice is his pen. Smokey Robinson didn’t just write hit songs; he crafted narratives, emotions, and melodies so timeless that they continue to be recorded and reinterpreted decades later. His songwriting, marked by poetic lyricism and effortless hooks, helped define the Motown sound and set a gold standard for pop and R&B composition.
His songs weren’t just catchy; they were masterclasses in storytelling. “My Girl” gave The Temptations a signature hit with a lyric so simple yet evocative that it remains a cultural touchstone. “My Guy” did the same for Mary Wells, its playful devotion making it an anthem of unwavering love. Whether it was the swagger of “Get Ready,” the tenderness of “Ooh Baby Baby,” or the clever metaphor of “The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game,” Smokey knew how to tap into universal feelings and dress them in melodies that lingered.
His influence extended far beyond Motown, as shown by the sheer range of artists who have covered his work. The Beatles took on “You Really Got a Hold on Me,” Elvis Costello recorded “From Head to Toe,” The Rolling Stones tackled “Going to a Go-Go,” D’Angelo put his own spin on “Cruisin’,” and Peter Tosh reimagined “(You Gotta Walk And) Don’t Look Back.” Whether through his own performances or the countless reinterpretations of his songs, Smokey Robinson’s writing continues to resonate, proving that while it’s great when Smokey sings, it’s just as magical when Smokey writes.
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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1986
Looking back at 1986, what stands out isn’t just the quality of the music, but how effortlessly genres merged and boundaries dissolved. Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” wasn’t just a collaboration – it was a statement about how rock and hip-hop could amplify each other’s strengths. Prince, at the height of his powers, stripped everything down to bare essentials with “Kiss,” proving his superstardom could take any form. Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” became inescapable, powered by one of the era’s most iconic videos, while Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” merged art rock with soul and funk, accompanied by groundbreaking stop-motion animation.
The women of pop music wielded particular influence that year. Madonna continued pushing buttons with “Papa Don’t Preach,” tackling teenage pregnancy in a way that sparked national conversation. Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” showcased her extraordinary vocal range while proving dance-pop could be both sophisticated and irresistible. Janet Jackson asked “What Have You Done for Me Lately,” establishing herself as a force independent of her famous family. Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” transcended its moment, becoming an enduring anthem of self-acceptance that would be covered for decades to come.
The underground was rising to the surface, but keeping its edge. The Smiths’ “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” brought literary depth to alternative rock, while New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” helped blueprint the future of electronic dance music. The Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls” married street-smart observations with pristine synth-pop, and Public Image Ltd.’s “Rise” proved post-punk could evolve without losing its bite. Even The Cure, with “In Between Days,” found a way to make melancholy sound surprisingly radio-friendly.
Soul and R&B were experiencing their own renaissance. Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” brought sophisticated quiet storm to the mainstream, while Cameo’s “Word Up!” demonstrated funk’s continuing vitality. Grace Jones’ “Slave to the Rhythm” showcased the artist’s commanding presence, and James Brown reminded everyone he was still the Godfather of Soul with “Living in America.” The year also saw George Michael step out of Wham!’s shadow with “A Different Corner,” proving he could hold his own as a solo artist.
The year proved fertile ground for both established and emerging voices. Bruce Springsteen’s “My Hometown” painted a portrait of a changing America, while Billy Bragg’s “Levi Stubbs’ Tears” showed how personal stories could carry political weight. Elvis Costello’s “I Want You” pushed the boundaries of what a love song could express, and R.E.M.’s “Fall on Me” managed to be both cryptic and urgently relevant. Meanwhile, LL Cool J’s “I Can’t Live Without My Radio” brought hip-hop closer to the mainstream while maintaining its street credibility. In retrospect, 1986 wasn’t just a great year for music – it was a moment when artists across the spectrum proved that innovation and accessibility weren’t mutually exclusive.
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