
Like a Rolling Stone
A snare crack, a sneer, and Kooper's uninvited organ swirling through the song that split rock open.

A snare crack, a sneer, and Kooper's uninvited organ swirling through the song that split rock open.

The summit of the American crime film: Coppola turned an immigrant family's rise and rot into the country's own epic, and made damnation look like a coronation.

Aretha takes Otis Redding's song away from him for good, spells out the demand, and never gives it back.

Welles was twenty-five and had never directed a feature before: he built a portrait of a man whose whole life nobody around him can add up, and changed everything.

Brian Wilson made it with session players while the rest of the band toured, using bicycle bells, dog whistles and a Coca-Cola can.

Two unfinished songs bolted together, an orchestra climbing to nothing, and the last piano chord in pop.

Every film about assembling a team for one last job descends from this one: Kurosawa makes seven men matter, then stages a battle in the mud nobody has equaled.

Four chords, a mumble nobody could decipher, and the riff that ended one decade of rock and started another.

A screaming horse, a mother with her dead child, all in grey. Picasso painted it in weeks after German bombers leveled a Basque town.

On Tomorrow Never Knows, engineers held five tape loops on pencils and mixed them live. No Beatle plays an instrument on Eleanor Rigby.

Nobody has ever made obsession look this beautiful or this sick: a man falls for an image instead of a person, and Hitchcock follows him past every point it should stop.
Party chatter, a sax that sighs, and Gaye asking the question Motown begged him not to ask.

Davis handed the players sketches on the day and most of what you hear is a first take. Two sessions, and it was done.

Kubrick took the audience from the first bone tool to the far side of Jupiter, explained almost nothing, and made every science fiction film since look domestic by comparison.
Keith dreamt the fuzz riff, taped it half-asleep, and woke up holding the sound of teenage frustration.

The quiet masterpiece of ordinary life: Ozu finds the ache of a whole century in parents visiting children who have no time for them, and it will find you too.

Brian Wilson's pocket symphony, months and a fortune spent chasing one shimmering theremin line into the sunlight.

Al Kooper was not the organ player and sat down at it anyway, which is the sound everybody remembers from Like a Rolling Stone.