#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 The John Lennon Songbook

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It’s interesting to start a playlist of John Lennon songs with David Bowie’s “Fame.” It feels like an outlier at first, until you remember Lennon co-wrote the track, contributed guitar, and sang backup vocals. It’s one of just a handful of songs on this list that isn’t a straightforward cover, and its placement at the top serves as a great reminder: one of the best ways to understand a songwriter’s impact is to see how their work thrives in the hands of others. Listening to a collection like this isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s an active exploration of how durable and adaptable Lennon’s compositions truly are, revealing the deep-seated melodic and lyrical strengths that invite constant reinterpretation.

The sheer variety of artists drawn to his work speaks volumes about its fundamental structure. A Lennon song can be a sturdy vessel for almost any style. In its original form, “Help!” was a desperate plea disguised as an upbeat folk-rock hit. But when Tina Turner gets ahold of it, she strips away the disguise, transforming it into a full-throated, soulful cry for salvation. Similarly, Johnny Cash takes “In My Life,” a song of youthful reflection, and imbues it with the profound weight of a long life lived, making each line land with a different, more somber gravity. From the raw R&B groove Otis Redding finds in “Day Tripper” to the cool, atmospheric poise Roxy Music brings to “Jealous Guy,” these songs prove to be exceptionally resilient, their core emotions accessible to any genre.

Beyond musical versatility, the playlist highlights the different facets of Lennon’s lyrical persona. There’s the acerbic political commentator, whose pointed dissatisfaction is channeled perfectly by the punk sneer of Generation X on “Gimme Some Truth” and the world-weary defiance of Marianne Faithfull on “Working Class Hero.” Then there is the deeply vulnerable Lennon, the man wrangling with insecurity and fame. You can hear this in the anxious, propulsive energy The Feelies bring to “Everybody’s Got Something To Hide (Except Me And My Monkey)” or the stark, pleading quality Maxïmo Park finds in the solo track “Isolation.” He could be pointedly political or achingly personal, and both modes have continued to resonate with artists who have their own truths to tell.

Of course, no look at Lennon’s work would be complete without touching on his more surreal and experimental side. These are often the songs that seem most tied to a specific time, yet they possess a dreamlike logic that continues to inspire. Elton John, a friend and collaborator, treats “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” not as a museum piece but as a glam-rock epic. R.E.M. leans into the hypnotic, floating quality of “#9 Dream,” while Fiona Apple’s take on “Across the Universe” honors its ethereal nature while grounding it with her distinctive emotional intensity. These artists don’t just copy the psychedelia; they find new ways to access the spirit of imaginative freedom that fueled the original recordings.

Ultimately, listening through these interpretations feels less like a tribute and more like a conversation across decades. We hear Billy J. Kramer’s simple pop charm on “Bad to Me,” a song Lennon wrote for him in 1963, and then Glen Campbell’s posthumous, heart-rending version of “Grow Old With Me,” one of Lennon’s last compositions. The journey between those two points is remarkable. This collection of songs, re-shaped by everyone from The Breeders to Bettye LaVette, demonstrates that the power of Lennon’s work isn’t just in his own iconic recordings. It’s in the bones of the songs themselves—the unforgettable melodies, the honest lyrics, and the restless spirit that others can’t help but be drawn to, again and again.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1984

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It’s hard to overstate how culturally dominant pop music was in 1984—or how much the year reshaped the landscape. Many of the songs on this playlist weren’t just hits; they were defining moments, launching or solidifying the careers of artists whose names still carry weight today. The sheer number of songs from 1984 that are still instantly recognizable points to a moment when creativity, commerce, and cultural change aligned. The presence of “Thriller”—Michael Jackson’s seventh single from the album of the same name—reminds us that the music business had never seen anything quite like this before. And yet, he wasn’t the only artist making history.

Prince’s “Purple Rain” marked not just a commercial breakthrough, but a creative one. It’s a song, an album, and a film—each enhancing the other’s mythology. Similarly, “Like a Virgin” signaled Madonna’s arrival as more than a pop star; she became a cultural force. Tina Turner, with “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” pulled off one of the most celebrated comebacks in music history. And Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” brought an infectious blend of new wave and punky playfulness to the mainstream, reshaping ideas about femininity and pop performance.

Meanwhile, the rock world was hardly on pause. “Jump” became Van Halen’s biggest hit, thanks to its synth hook and anthemic chorus, while Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” pushed his career into stadium territory. Across the Atlantic, U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love)” began their transformation from college radio favorites to global headliners. The Replacements’ “I Will Dare,” from Let It Be, captured the heart of American indie rock—irreverent, emotionally raw, and just tuneful enough to hint at wider possibilities. And among the post-punk and alternative set, songs like “The Killing Moon” by Echo & the Bunnymen and “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths gave moody introspection a lasting soundtrack.

What also stands out in 1984 is the range of genres that made a mainstream impact. Shannon’s “Let the Music Play” helped lay groundwork for freestyle, and Chaka Khan’s “I Feel for You” was a pivotal crossover moment, bringing together R&B, pop, and hip-hop. Run-D.M.C.’s “Rock Box” did something similar, blending rap and rock before it was fashionable. The Pointer Sisters’ “Automatic” was one of several hits that proved they could thrive in an electronic pop era without losing their vocal identity. Even novelty songs like “Ghostbusters” or the cheerful “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” helped shape the sound of the time.

Beyond chart success, 1984’s songs carried messages—sometimes playful, sometimes political. “Free Nelson Mandela” by The Special A.K.A. was a global anthem of protest. Depeche Mode’s “Blasphemous Rumours” examined faith and fate with a dark electronic edge. And “Somebody’s Watching Me,” a paranoid slice of synth-pop, foreshadowed a media culture on the verge of explosion. Whether on the dancefloor, in dorm rooms, or through the television set, 1984’s music didn’t just reflect its era—it helped define it.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Prince Songbook

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Prince’s genius as a performer is well-documented, but his legacy as a songwriter may be even more far-reaching. The songs he wrote—sometimes directly for others, sometimes borrowed or reimagined—traveled in unexpected directions, often landing in voices very different from his own. Sinéad O’Connor’s haunting version of “Nothing Compares 2 U” turned emotional restraint into a global anthem, while Chaka Khan’s take on “I Feel for You” transformed a tightly wound synth-funk track into a dancefloor juggernaut with help from Melle Mel and Stevie Wonder. The Bangles’ jangly “Manic Monday” showed his facility with classic pop forms.

Sometimes Prince gave away songs without credit. Stevie Nicks has said “Stand Back” wouldn’t exist without his impromptu help; he played the synth part that defined the track, and then slipped away, declining a formal writing credit. His fingerprints are on the Sheila E. hit “The Glamorous Life” and The Time’s “Jungle Love,” both written and produced by Prince but performed by his protégés. Even artists as distinct as Alicia Keys and Tom Jones found new depths and textures in his work, whether covering “How Come You Don’t Call Me” or reinterpreting “Kiss.” In many cases, he gave female artists some of their most complex and empowered material: see Sheena Easton’s risqué “Sugar Walls” or Martika’s spiritual “Love… Thy Will Be Done.”

What’s most remarkable is how well these songs hold up when refracted through other voices. Cyndi Lauper brought vulnerability to “When You Were Mine,” TLC made “If I Was Your Girlfriend” even more intimate, and even idiosyncratic takes like Sufjan Stevens on “Alphabet Street” or P.M. Dawn’s dreamlike “1999” as incorporated in “Fantasia’s Confidential Ghetto” show how flexible his songwriting was. Prince’s compositions had structure, hooks, and heart, but they were never rigid. That elasticity allowed other artists not just to sing his songs, but to inhabit them.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents The David Bowie Songbook

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David Bowie’s songwriting genius extends far beyond his own performances, as evidenced by this eclectic collection of covers spanning five decades. From punk pioneers to country legends, pop icons to elementary school choirs, artists across the musical spectrum have found fresh ways to interpret Bowie’s compositions. Iggy Pop’s raw, proto-punk “Lust for Life” shares space with Willie Nelson and Karen O’s unlikely but touching duet on “Under Pressure,” while Barbra Streisand’s take on “Life on Mars” contrasts with Ibibio Sound Machine’s Afrofuturistic reimagining of “Heroes.”

What’s particularly fascinating is how these songs illuminate different facets of Bowie’s writing. Some artists stay relatively faithful to the originals, while others take bold creative liberties. Together, these versions demonstrate not only Bowie’s versatility as a songwriter but also the enduring adaptability of his work across genres, generations, and cultures.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents Tina Turner

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Tina Turner’s musical odyssey is a testament to resilience, talent, and the transformative power of self-reinvention. From her early days performing with Ike Turner to her groundbreaking solo career, she emerged as one of the most electrifying performers of the 20th century. Today’s playlist reveals a remarkable journey—a narrative that spans rock, soul, and pop, showcasing her incredible versatility and enduring musical impact.

The playlist tells a story of two distinct musical eras. Her work with Ike Turner, including tracks like “Proud Mary” and “A Fool in Love,” demonstrated her raw, powerful vocal style and dynamic stage presence. But it was her solo career that truly defined her legacy. Songs like “What’s Love Got to Do with It” and “The Best” became anthems of personal empowerment, reflecting her own remarkable journey of overcoming adversity and reclaiming her artistic identity.

Turner’s musical range was extraordinary. From rock-infused hits to soulful ballads, she effortlessly crossed genre boundaries and connected with audiences across generations.

Beyond her musical achievements, Tina Turner was a cultural icon who symbolized strength and resilience. Her songs were more than just music—they were statements of personal empowerment. Her transition from a challenging early career to becoming a global superstar inspired millions, proving that talent, determination, and courage can overcome significant obstacles.

In her later years, Turner’s legacy continued to grow. Her music transcended mere entertainment, becoming a powerful narrative of personal transformation. From her early rock and soul roots to her later pop successes, she remained an unparalleled performer who redefined what it meant to be a true musical legend. The playlist below is not just a collection of songs, but a journey through one of the most remarkable careers in music history.

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Your (Almost) Daily Playlist: 11-26-23

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Superstar producer Phil Spector went to see Ike Turner. He told Ike that he wanted to record a song with Tina that would become a number one smash on the pop charts and break them bigger. However, Ike could have nothing to do with the recording. Ike agreed, provided his name was still on the record label, which led to the awkwardly phrased Ike & Tina Turner featuring Tina. The track, “River Deep—Mountain High,” was recorded over five sessions. At various times during the recordings, studio guests included Mick Jagger, Brian Wilson, and Dennis Hopper. After subjecting Tina to take after take, Spector finally got what he wanted. He knew he had a smash on his hands.

In the US, the single debuted on the Hot 100 at number 98. The following week it was up to number 94. The next week, number 93. Then number 88. And that was that. Its chart run was over. In the UK the record went to number 2, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Spector, who retreated from music production for the next couple of years.  

The late great Tina Turner was born on this date in 1939. Lots of Tina on today’s playlist.

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