
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.

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

Two unfinished songs bolted together, an orchestra climbing to nothing, and the last piano chord in pop.
Keith dreamt the fuzz riff, taped it half-asleep, and woke up holding the sound of teenage frustration.

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

Two takes in different keys and tempos spliced into one, a Mellotron haze over Lennon's Liverpool childhood.
Cooke wrote it after a motel turned him away, and sang it like a hymn he already knew by heart.
It opens by admitting doubt and spends the next two minutes refuting it; McCartney still calls it the greatest.

Page's riff, Plant's howl, and a theremin freakout in the middle that still sounds like the roof coming off.

Handclaps, that leaping chord under "I can't hide," and five weeks later America belonged to them.

Harrison wrote it in Clapton's garden while skipping a business meeting, and it sounds exactly like that relief.
Seven minutes, four of them just na-na-na, and somehow nobody has ever wanted it to end sooner.

McCartney dreamt the melody, called it "Scrambled Eggs" for weeks, then let a string quartet make it immortal.
Merry Clayton's voice cracking on "murder" is the sound of the sixties ending, mid-take, in one syllable.

A folk flop until a producer secretly overdubbed electric guitars, and the duo heard their number one on the radio.

That four-note bassline, a gospel hymn turned into a promise, and one of the warmest vocals ever recorded.

Hal Blaine's four-beat drum intro is the most imitated in pop, and Ronnie Spector owns everything after it.

Motown shelved Gaye's version for over a year; it came out sounding like paranoia set to a Funk Brothers groove.

Hendrix took Dylan's parable and lit it, and Dylan has played it Hendrix's way ever since.

Nine questions, no answers, and the song the civil rights movement adopted whole and never gave back.

A child singing about regret over the springiest bassline Motown ever cut, and selling it completely.

The record where the beat moved to the one and funk quietly began. James Brown never looked back.

Lennon's first draft listed bus stops in Liverpool; Martin's piano solo, taped at half speed, sounds baroque.
Smokey Robinson wrote it for his wife Claudette, then handed David Ruffin his first Temptations lead vocal.

No Beatle plays an instrument on it; George Martin's string octet does everything, sawing away at two solitary lives.

The intro is a tritone, medieval music's forbidden interval, and Roger Mayer's new Octavia pedal makes the solo scream.
Faithfull handed Jagger Bulgakov, Richards turned the folk sketch into samba and played both bass and the solo.

Redding cut the vocal three days before the plane crash, and Cropper finished it into the first posthumous American number one.
Willie Nelson wrote it; Cline, back after a car wreck bruised her ribs, nailed the vocal in one take.
Spector printed 3:05 on the label of a 3:45 record, and it became the century's most-played song on American radio.

Robertson saw Nazareth stamped inside his 1951 Martin, and Helm sang the burden every verse hands over.
Lennon and McCartney started it on a tour bus after a Newcastle show; Martin thought the sixth-chord ending corny.

Brown recycled a flop he'd cut on Yvonne Fair, added Maceo Parker's alto, and landed his highest-charting single.

Lennon started it as a campaign song for Timothy Leary, then Ringo muffled his drums with tea towels.
Entwistle's bass solo needed a Fender after his Danelectro strings snapped, and Daltrey stuttered his way into history.

Twenty minutes of writing, and Fogerty had the sound of every draft board sending someone else's son.

A 1932 Tin Pan Alley ballad, rearranged by Isaac Hayes, until Redding and Al Jackson tear the roof off.

Garrison's four notes, then Coltrane overdubbing the chant nineteen times, one December day at Van Gelder's.

Anita Carter cut it first, her sister June wrote it with Merle Kilgore, and Cash added the mariachi trumpets.

Bruce Langhorne's giant Turkish frame drum gave Dylan the image, and the Byrds' cover turned it into folk rock.

Gaye co-wrote it and cut an early version; Reeves heard block parties in it and needed two takes.
Hilton Valentine's arpeggio, one take at De Lane Lea, and four and a half minutes when singles ran two.
Dave Davies took a razor blade to his little Elpico amp's speaker cone, and distortion arrived on British radio.

Session men cut the track and McGuinn's twelve-string Rickenbacker rang over one Dylan verse; folk rock started there.
Davies started it as "Liverpool Sunset," moved it to the Thames, and Dave's tape-delay guitar did the rest.
Anka typed the lyric overnight in New York asking what Sinatra would say, then handed him a life's summing-up.

Claudette said she was going out, Dees answered that a pretty woman never needs money, and the riff followed.
Mark James flopped with it first, in the same Memphis studio; Moman then handed Presley his last American number one.

Hoagy Carmichael's 1930 tune, remade as Charles's first Billboard number one and adopted as Georgia's state song in 1979.
Jones's sitar made it the first number one to feature the instrument, and Decca added the comma by mistake.
Harrison lifted the opening line from James Taylor and wrote the first Beatles A-side that wasn't Lennon or McCartney.
Released five days before Apollo 11 launched, with a children's Stylophone buzzing under an astronaut who never comes home.
Two accordions, a key change eight beats in, and 21 takes at Gold Star before Wilson sang about growing up.

Coltrane picked up the soprano saxophone Miles gave him and stretched a Rodgers and Hammerstein waltz past thirteen minutes.
Named for the gardener who woke them up, and cut with an acoustic guitar recorded into a Philips cassette recorder.

Dylan set out to write an anthem on purpose, borrowing the cadence of Irish and Scottish ballads, and got one.

Tarplin brought the guitar figure first, Robinson and Moore wrote words to it, and Motown got its saddest smile.
Krieger wrote most of it, Manzarek built a Bach-shaped organ intro, and Morrison sang the banned lyric on Sullivan anyway.

A choral intro from the London Bach Choir, Al Kooper on French horn, and producer Jimmy Miller on drums.

McCartney heard a piccolo trumpet on a Bach broadcast, called David Mason in, and pop had never sounded brighter.

King wrote the melody and the string arrangement, and a girl group topped the Hot 100 for the first time.
Mayfield turned the gospel train of the spirituals into a civil rights hymn, and King used it to steady marchers.
Harrison opened a book at random, saw "gently weeps", and Clapton came in uncredited to play the solo.

Starr's slip of the tongue supplied the title, and the opening chord is still argued over by musicologists.

Simon had it as Mrs. Roosevelt with nonsense syllables for a verse, and it won Record of the Year.

Webb sent it over unfinished, one verse short, and Campbell cut the loneliest three minutes in country music.

Fogerty came out of the National Guard and wrote it in two days, Beethoven's Fifth hiding in the intro.

Harrison's sitar, widely reckoned the first on a rock record, and Lennon smuggling an affair past everyone.
Sledge gave the writing credits away to two bandmates, and Atlantic pressed the take with the out-of-tune horns.

Riley Hampton's strings behind a 1941 film tune James took over, and the Library of Congress preserved it.

Recorded May 5, 1959, with the band reading it cold, and those third-related key changes remain jazz's hardest exam.
Never a professional singer, Gilberto sang at the 1963 session because she spoke English; Record of the Year followed.

Stills wrote it about the Sunset Strip curfew riots, not Vietnam, and Young's harmonics ring like a warning bell.
Armstrong took union scale so the orchestra could collect overtime; ABC's president hated it and buried the record.
Cut May 3, 1968 with an ABC film crew rolling, and it became Hendrix's only British number one, posthumously.

Larry Graham slapping and popping the bass line credited with inventing the technique, and a verse quoting their own hits.

Bert de Coteaux's twelve-piece string section, overdubbed a week later, carried King's minor-key blues onto pop radio.

Ely shouted on tiptoe at a mic hung overhead, and the FBI spent thirty-one months failing to decode him.

Holland-Dozier-Holland pitched Stubbs at the very top of his range, and Paul Riser opened it with piccolo and flute.
Producer Jimmy Miller opens it on cowbell, and the single arrived in Britain the day after Brian Jones died.