#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 Daryl Hall + John Oates

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It’s an experience most of us have had. You’re in a grocery store, a coffee shop, or just flipping through the radio, and a song comes on that is instantly, undeniably familiar. It might be the bright piano chords of “You Make My Dreams” or the slinky, ominous bassline of “Maneater.” For decades, the music of Daryl Hall and John Oates has been a steady presence in the background of American life. But if you look closer at a collection of their work, you see more than just a series of catchy singles. You see a clear and compelling story of musical evolution, rooted in a deep appreciation for the artists who came before them.

Their journey began not as pop stars, but as students of Philadelphia soul. Listening to early tracks like the sorrowful, grand ballad “She’s Gone” or the smooth, intimate devotion of “Sara Smile,” you can hear the duo honing their craft. This was music built on classic R&B structures, focused on sharp songwriting and raw vocal emotion. Even their first number-one hit, “Rich Girl,” has a soulful bounce and a narrative sting that feels miles away from the slicker sound they would later develop. Their reverence for this era is made explicit in their faithful cover of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” a direct acknowledgment of the foundation upon which their entire career was built.

Then, of course, came the 1980s. With the arrival of MTV and new recording technology, Hall & Oates adapted brilliantly, crafting a string of hits that defined the decade. The sound became sharper and more polished, incorporating synthesizers, drum machines, and unforgettable saxophone solos. Tracks like “Private Eyes,” “Out of Touch,” and the minimalist groove of “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)” were perfectly engineered for radio and video. Yet, even within this pop framework, the soul never vanished. The propulsive beat of “Maneater” has Motown in its DNA, while the paranoid energy of “Family Man” and the synth-driven narrative of “Adult Education” showed they could blend new wave sensibilities with their signature R&B vocal stylings.

Beyond the chart-toppers, the playlist reveals a fuller picture of their artistry. The duo were masters of the thoughtful ballad, from the tender vulnerability of “One On One” to the pleading heartbreak in “Say It Isn’t So” and “Wait For Me.” Their love for performance and collaboration is on full display in the medley with Temptations legends David Ruffin and Eddie Kendrick, a powerful moment where they weren’t just covering soul music, but sharing a stage with it. Later tracks like “Everything Your Heart Desires” and Daryl Hall’s solo hit “Dreamtime” show a maturation, exploring a more refined, adult contemporary sound without losing the melodic core that made them famous.

Ultimately, what makes the work of Hall & Oates endure is this remarkable balance. They managed to create music that was both incredibly popular and musically substantive. They wrote pop songs with the heart of soul music and infused their R&B influences with a modern, rock-and-roll edge. It’s a body of work that is approachable on the surface but rewards a closer listen, revealing layers of craftsmanship and a genuine love for the power of a well-written song. They didn’t just make our dreams come true; they provided a lasting soundtrack for them.

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Tunes Du Jour Celebrates Famous Dates In Pop Music

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It was the third of September / That day I’ll always remember

It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day

Early morning, April 4 / Shot rings out in the Memphis sky

Do you remember the twenty-first night of September?

The theme of today’s playlist is dates referenced in song lyrics.

A date can do a lot of heavy lifting in a song. It can anchor a memory, mark a turning point, or drop us directly into a moment in history. Sometimes it’s deeply personal—Jay-Z naming his birthday in “December 4th”—and sometimes it’s collective, as in U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love),” with its reference to April 4, 1968, the day Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.

Songwriters also use dates to heighten mystery. Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe” begins on June 3, but instead of telling us what happened at the Tallahatchie Bridge, the lyric circles around it, making the day itself loom larger than the unexplained event. Similarly, the Temptations’ “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” ties the father’s death to September 3, a detail that sticks in the mind as much as the funk groove itself.

Not every date is somber. Earth, Wind & Fire turned September 21 into an annual celebration, and Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” keeps the Fourth of July grounded in a snapshot of music, sunshine, and family fun. Bruce Springsteen’s “4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)” is more bittersweet, capturing the mix of romance and restlessness that defined his early work.

Dates can also mark social upheaval. Sublime’s “April 29, 1992 (Miami)” references the Los Angeles riots, while the Neville Brothers’ “Sister Rosa” pays tribute to Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her bus seat on December 1, 1955. Songs like these remind us that a single day can ripple outward into history.

Taken together, this playlist shows the many ways a songwriter can spin meaning out of the calendar. A date can be the start of a story, a marker of joy or tragedy, or just a sly joke. What matters is how it sticks in your memory, long after the last chord fades.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1965

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Have you ever looked at a playlist from a single year and felt a sense of disbelief? It’s one thing for a year to produce a few memorable hits, but it’s another for it to feel like a highlight reel of music history. Looking at the charts from 1965 is exactly that kind of experience. It wasn’t just a year of good songs; it was a pivotal moment when popular music seemed to mature in several different directions at once, producing an astonishing collection of classics that still resonate today.

On one hand, 1965 saw the art of the immaculately produced pop song reach a new peak. The Motown machine was in full, glorious swing, giving us the suave romance of The Temptations’ “My Girl” and the intricate heartbreak of Smokey Robinson’s “The Tracks of My Tears.” The Supremes demanded attention with the dramatic plea of “Stop! In the Name of Love,” a perfect example of studio craftsmanship meeting raw emotion. Across the Atlantic, Petula Clark’s “Downtown” offered a sweeping, cinematic vision of city life. These weren’t just catchy tunes; they were impeccably arranged, powerfully sung, and emotionally direct pieces of art that defined a certain kind of pop perfection.

At the very same time, a grittier, more defiant sound was taking hold. The Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” wasn’t just a hit song; it was a statement of intent, built around a fuzzy, unforgettable guitar riff that sounded like pure frustration. This raw energy was a common thread. From the garage-rock howl of Them’s “Gloria” to the stuttering, youthful angst of The Who’s “I Can’t Explain,” rock music was shedding its cleaner-cut image. This wasn’t the polished sound of the studio; it was the restless sound of the rehearsal room, and it was connecting with an entire generation.

Beyond the evolving sounds, the lyrical substance of popular music was deepening profoundly. Bob Dylan completely rewrote the rules with “Like a Rolling Stone,” a six-minute epic of poetic scorn that proved a hit single could be complex, challenging, and literary. That same year, The Byrds took Dylan’s words and electrified them, creating a new genre overnight with their shimmering version of “Mr. Tambourine Man.” This new lyrical consciousness also carried immense social weight. Sam Cooke’s posthumously released “A Change Is Gonna Come” and The Impressions’ hopeful “People Get Ready” became enduring anthems of the Civil Rights Movement, demonstrating that music could be both a comfort and a powerful call for progress.

What makes 1965 so striking is that none of these developments happened in isolation. It was a year of convergence, where you could hear the sweet soul of Marvin Gaye’s “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” on the radio right next to the birth of funk in James Brown’s “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.” The carefree optimism of The Beach Boys’ “California Girls” shared the airwaves with the deep, aching soul of Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long.” The sheer volume of landmark recordings from this single 12-month period is a testament to a unique moment in time—a year when the boundaries of pop music were expanding in every direction, leaving us with a collection of songs that feel less like relics and more like foundation stones.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Original Versions

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Many of us grow up assuming the hit version of a song is the original. This playlist celebrates those surprising musical genealogies: well-known songs that were originally recorded by someone else, often with little fanfare. Here are the stories behind the transformations—where they started, and how they became iconic.

“Don’t Leave Me This Way” – Thelma Houston / Originally by Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes (1975)
Houston’s disco anthem actually began life as a Philly soul track sung by Teddy Pendergrass. Thelma took it to the dancefloor—and to #1.

“War” – Edwin Starr / Originally by The Temptations (1970)
This protest song started as an album cut by The Temptations. Starr’s rawer, angrier take made it a searing hit during the Vietnam era.

“Strawberry Letter 23” – The Brothers Johnson / Originally by Shuggie Otis (1971)
Otis’ dreamy, psychedelic original flew under the radar until producer Quincy Jones supercharged it with funk for The Brothers Johnson.

“I Feel for You” – Chaka Khan / Originally by Prince (1979)
Prince wrote it, recorded it, and released it on his 1979 self-titled album. Chaka Khan added Stevie Wonder’s harmonica and Melle Mel’s rap, creating a genre-blurring smash that gave the song a second life—and a much bigger audience.

“Louie Louie” – The Kingsmen / Originally by Richard Berry (1957)
Berry’s calypso-tinged rhythm & blues song became an unintelligible rock ‘n’ roll classic in the hands of teenage garage rockers.

“Pass The Koutchie” – Musical Youth as “Pass the Dutchie” / Originally by Mighty Diamonds (1981)
Musical Youth’s version cleaned up the ganja references but kept the groove. A British reggae hit born from a roots original.

“Tainted Love” – Soft Cell / Originally by Gloria Jones (1964)
This Northern Soul favorite was ignored in the U.S. until Soft Cell’s chilly synth-pop cover turned it into an international sensation.

“You Are So Beautiful” – Joe Cocker / Originally by Billy Preston (1974)
Preston’s gospel-inflected original was co-written with Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys. Cocker slowed it down into a tearjerking ballad.

“The First Cut Is The Deepest” – Rod Stewart / Originally by P.P. Arnold (1967)
Before Cat Stevens, the song’s writer, sang it himself, P.P. Arnold delivered a powerful version. Stewart’s cover gave it global traction.

“Red, Red Wine” – UB40 / Originally by Neil Diamond (1967)
Diamond’s mournful original was a slow ballad. UB40’s reggae version confused even him—he didn’t recognize his own song on the radio.

“Brand New Cadillac” – The Clash / Originally by Vince Taylor and His Playboys (1959)
This rockabilly obscurity became a snarling punk track on London Calling. Vince Taylor later served as an inspiration for David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust persona.

“Take Me To The River” – Talking Heads / Originally by Al Green (1974)
Green’s swampy soul gave way to Talking Heads’ jittery art-funk. An old-school spiritual reborn in new wave style.

“The Tide Is High” – Blondie / Originally by The Paragons (1967)
Jamaican rocksteady meets NYC cool. Blondie took this mellow gem and gave it a global pop sheen.

“Brandy” – Barry Manilow as “Mandy” / Originally by Scott English (1971)
English’s sad and simple original got a new name and new polish. Manilow’s grand version topped the charts.

“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” – The Animals / Originally by Nina Simone (1964)
Simone’s pleading ballad became a snarling British Invasion hit. Her nuanced sorrow gave way to the raw edge of rock.

“Bette Davis Eyes” – Kim Carnes / Originally by Jackie DeShannon (1974)
The original was breezy and piano-driven. Carnes and her producer Val Garay turned it into new wave noir.

“Heaven Must Have Sent You” – Bonnie Pointer / Originally by The Elgins (1966)
Pointer’s disco version revived a Motown deep cut and put it back on the charts over a decade later.

“Love Buzz” – Nirvana / Originally by Shocking Blue (1969)
Nirvana turned this obscure Dutch psych-rock tune into a distorted grunge landmark. Their debut single.

“Piece Of My Heart” – Big Brother & The Holding Company / Originally by Erma Franklin (1967)
Aretha’s sister recorded it first, but Janis Joplin made it a fiery centerpiece of her legend.

“It’s Oh So Quiet” – Björk / Originally by Betty Hutton (1951)
A novelty big-band number revived by Björk into a theatrical showstopper. Old Hollywood meets Icelandic art-pop.

“China Girl” – David Bowie / Originally by Iggy Pop (1977)
Co-written with Bowie, Iggy’s version was skeletal and raw. Bowie’s version added synth gloss and MTV appeal.

“Good Lovin'” – The Young Rascals / Originally by The Olympics (1965)
The Olympics had the groove, but The Rascals turned it into a garage-rock rave-up and a #1 hit.

“Valerie” – Mark Ronson featuring Amy Winehouse / Originally by The Zutons (2006)
The Zutons wrote it as a bluesy rock song. Winehouse made it retro-soul perfection.

“Police On My Back” – The Clash / Originally by The Equals (1967)
A stomping, paranoid track from Eddy Grant’s first band. The Clash turned it into a punk fugitive anthem.

“After Midnight” – Eric Clapton / Originally by J.J. Cale (1966)
Cale’s laid-back shuffle was juiced up with guitar licks by Clapton, who kept the songwriter’s cool intact.

“On Broadway” – The Drifters / Originally by The Cookies (1962)
Songwriters Barry Mann & Cynthia Weil gave this to a girl group first, but The Drifters made it a city-slick R&B classic.

“Love Hurts” – Nazareth / Originally by The Everly Brothers (1960)
Gentle heartbreak became hard rock agony. Nazareth’s arena wail made the song a power ballad staple.

“I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” – Joan Jett & the Blackhearts / Originally by The Arrows (1975)
Jett saw it on UK TV and recorded a fiercer, snarling version that girls (and boys) everywhere could scream along to.

“Without You” – Nilsson / Originally by Badfinger (1970)
Badfinger’s version was plaintive; Nilsson’s was operatic. He didn’t just sing it—he wailed it.

“Superman” – R.E.M. / Originally by The Clique (1969)
A psychedelic pop obscurity turned indie-rock cult classic. One of R.E.M.’s rare early tracks not written by the band.

These songs remind us that inspiration doesn’t always strike where the spotlight shines. Sometimes greatness is borrowed—and reinvented.

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Tunes Du Jour Celebrates International Be Kind To Lawyers Day

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It started, as these things often do, with a law.

Or more accurately, with three: “Law of the Land” (Temptations), “The Laws Have Changed” (New Pornographers), and “You Can’t Rule Me” (Lucinda Williams). A trifecta of declarations, all suggesting that whether you’re enforcing the law or dodging it, someone’s about to get into trouble.

This playlist is my musical tribute to International Be Kind To Lawyers Day — a real holiday, celebrated annually on the second Tuesday in April, for reasons that are presumably legal. It’s not just about lawyers, though. This 30-track journey follows the trajectory of a full-blown legal drama: rules are established, rules are broken, crimes are committed, time is served, lawyers are called, and justice is… complicated.

We meet a few Fun Lovin’ Criminals, some Smooth Criminals, and even those who insist they’re just Criminal Minded. The lawbreakers get caught — there’s fighting, testifying, jail time, and at least one unfortunate visit to the Court of the Crimson King (which, I suspect, is not a traffic violation court).

And let’s not forget the lawyers themselves. They’re gun-toting in one song, love-struck in another, and altogether overburdened. But in honor of their service — and in defense of their billable hours — we end on a note of redemption: “Return to Innocence” by Enigma. Because if music has taught us anything, it’s that legal complications can always be resolved in just over four minutes.

So, whether you’re in the mood to break the law, beat the rap, or rap to the beat of the Fat Boys (or Snoop, Freddie Gibbs, Boogie Down Productions…), press play and pass the gavel. And if you happen to know a lawyer, consider saying something nice. After all, they know where all the paperwork is buried.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1966

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By 1966, rock and pop music had reached a critical turning point. The early, relatively simple sounds of rock and roll were giving way to a more experimental, ambitious approach, yet the airwaves were still filled with instantly memorable melodies. The year saw the release of songs that would go on to define entire careers—The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations” took pop production to new heights, The Four Tops’ “Reach Out (I’ll Be There)” solidified Motown’s dominance, and The Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” pushed rock into darker, more dramatic territory. Meanwhile, The Monkees burst onto the scene with “I’m a Believer,” adding a dose of manufactured but undeniably catchy charm to the mix.

Psychedelia was creeping into mainstream music, foreshadowing the sonic explorations that would fully take hold in the coming years. The Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” and The 13th Floor Elevators’ “You’re Gonna Miss Me” hinted at a new, mind-expanding direction for rock, while The Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” and its B-side, “Rain,” found the band toying with the limits of studio technology. The Who’s “My Generation,” released in late 1965 but peaking on the US charts in ’66, captured the rebellious energy of youth culture, while ? and the Mysterians’ “96 Tears” gave garage rock one of its most enduring anthems.

Soul music was also in full bloom, delivering some of its most powerful and enduring records. Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” became an instant classic, dripping with raw emotion. Jimmy Ruffin’s “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” and The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” showcased Motown’s knack for blending heartache and joy in equal measure. Meanwhile, James Brown’s “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World” was a testament to his singular ability to infuse deep soul with commentary. Over in the R&B realm, Ike & Tina Turner’s “River Deep – Mountain High”—though not a hit in the U.S. at the time—demonstrated producer Phil Spector’s bombastic “Wall of Sound” approach at its most overwhelming.

The year also had its share of songs that were simply too infectious to ignore. The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City” painted a sweltering urban landscape with its mix of laid-back verses and explosive choruses. Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” turned a simple, stomping beat into a statement of defiant cool. The Walker Brothers’ “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” and The Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renée” delivered lush, baroque pop melancholy, while Eddie Floyd’s “Knock on Wood” became one of the defining records of Stax-style Southern soul.

Perhaps what’s most striking about 1966 in retrospect is just how many of these songs have endured. Whether through original recordings, countless covers, or their presence in film and television, these records still resonate. From the garage rock sneer of The Bobby Fuller Four’s “I Fought the Law” to the hypnotic stomp of The Troggs’ “Wild Thing,” the music of 1966 wasn’t just a snapshot of its time—it was the foundation for what was to come.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1971

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The music of 1971 was shaped by a world in transition. The optimism of the ’60s had given way to a more complicated reality—political upheaval, the Vietnam War, and shifting cultural norms weighed heavily on society. In response, many artists channeled these changes into their music, whether through protest, storytelling, or deeply personal reflection. The result was a year that produced enduring songs across multiple genres, from confessional singer-songwriter fare to hard-hitting rock and infectious soul.

Some of the most memorable hits of the year leaned into personal themes rather than overt social commentary. Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” and Elton John’s “Your Song” exemplified the rise of the singer-songwriter era, blending lyrical vulnerability with sophisticated melodies. Al Green’s “Tired of Being Alone” showcased his effortless mix of longing and smooth Southern soul, while Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” became his breakthrough solo hit, telling the story of youthful romance with a blend of folk and rock. At the same time, Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” took a broader view, addressing war, inequality, and injustice in a way that felt both urgent and timeless.

Rock music remained as dominant as ever, though it took on new forms. Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” showcased their thunderous power, while The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” harnessed synthesizers and political defiance to craft an enduring anthem. The Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar,” released without much controversy at the time, has since been reevaluated due to its lyrical content. Meanwhile, The Doors painted a dark, atmospheric landscape on “Riders on the Storm,” and Paul & Linda McCartney’s “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” leaned into whimsical experimentation, proving that rock still had room for playfulness.

Soul and funk made significant strides in 1971, with Sly & The Family Stone’s “Family Affair” pioneering a more subdued, groove-heavy sound. The Staple Singers’ “Respect Yourself” and Curtis Mayfield’s “Move On Up” carried messages of empowerment, while Honey Cone’s “Want Ads” and Jean Knight’s “Mr. Big Stuff” infused attitude into their infectious rhythms. The Jackson 5’s “Never Can Say Goodbye” demonstrated a maturing sound beyond their bubblegum pop beginnings, while Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” and Melanie’s “Brand New Key” brought storytelling into the pop realm with memorable melodies and an enduring campiness.

Fifty-plus years later, the music of 1971 still resonates. Whether through the social commentary of “What’s Going On,” the country-rock warmth of “Me and Bobby McGee,” or the swampy energy of Ike & Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary,” these songs remain essential listening. They serve as both a time capsule and a reminder that great music doesn’t just reflect its era—it continues to shape the generations that follow.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Smokey Robinson Songbook

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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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