Strange Brew
Pappalardi and Gail Collins wrote new words over a shelved "Lawdy Mama" take, and Clapton borrows Albert King wholesale.
Pappalardi and Gail Collins wrote new words over a shelved "Lawdy Mama" take, and Clapton borrows Albert King wholesale.

Among Plant's first songwriting credits, a CBS contract having blocked him on the debut, over guitars panning across both channels.

Stalled at sixty-two in 1967, then a brotherhood radio spot pushed the reissue to number five two years later.

Hunter set his lyric in Grosvenor Square, and from 1977 the Dead ran it straight into Fire on the Mountain.

Verses at 123 beats a minute collapsing to 65 in the chorus, cut live with Auerbach's band in Nashville.
Twenty minutes at the tail end of the Fire session, and Hendrix trading fire for something quiet and blue.

A Jewish songwriter watching Porter Wagoner sing gospel on television, a Telecaster with the fuzz built in, and heaven.

Miller ran a Stratocaster through an Echoplex for that staggered triplet echo, and the synthesizer drifts like weather.

Two chords built for jamming, Mickie Most in the producer's chair, and folk-pop suddenly acquired a shiver of paranoia.

Moreve's riff, Monarch's feedback spliced onto the front by the engineer, and words Kay wrote about his new stereo.

Stewart's electric sitar, a title Stevie Nicks said out loud one night, and Petty at his strangest.
Densmore's bossa nova drum feel, Krieger's riff borrowed from a Butterfield blues cover, and a refrain their producer censored.

Five hours on brand-new sixteen-track, with a vocal fed through an Ampeg amp's tremolo for that shimmering close.

Erickson wrote this kiss-off at fifteen, and Tommy Hall's electric jug gave Texas garage rock its strangest sound.

Emerick taped the backing fast and slowed it on playback; Ringo called it the best record he ever made.
Townshend called it his ace in the hole and never forgave Britain for stopping it at number ten.

One note shaken into a wide vibrato, then feedback, then the sharp-ninth chord that carries his name.
A 5/4 intro that worried the label, Pappalardi's violas, Baker's timpani, and Clapton's wah-wah doing the talking.

Argent and Blunstone rowed over the vocal at Abbey Road, and the band had broken up before America noticed.

An irregular heartbeat diagnosis sent Dharma writing about mortality and lasting love, and the cowbell did the rest.
Krieger's raga-style tuning, Morrison at his most unnerving, and nearly twelve minutes Coppola later gave to Apocalypse Now.

Mars Bonfire's used Ford Falcon inspired it, Steppenwolf sped it up, and Easy Rider made it biker culture's signature.
Bruce came home from a Hendrix show carrying the riff, and Baker answered it by drumming on one and three.

Slick borrowed the one long crescendo from Bolero and Lewis Carroll's cast, then rode both to number eight.

Erma Franklin had it first in 1967, then Joplin tore the same Ragovoy and Berns song wide open.

Columbia rejected the RCA session on a technicality, so McGuinn recut his Coltrane-inspired twelve-string and radio banned it anyway.

Lennon stitched three unfinished songs together, then let a live BBC King Lear broadcast wander into the mix.

Fisher's Hammond nods at Bach for a bar before veering off, and Reid took the title from a party remark.
Cut May 3, 1968 with an ABC film crew rolling, and it became Hendrix's only British number one, posthumously.
Krieger wrote most of it, Manzarek built a Bach-shaped organ intro, and Morrison sang the banned lyric on Sullivan anyway.
Jones's sitar made it the first number one to feature the instrument, and Decca added the comma by mistake.

The intro is a tritone, medieval music's forbidden interval, and Roger Mayer's new Octavia pedal makes the solo scream.

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

Two takes in different keys and tempos spliced into one, a Mellotron haze over Lennon's Liverpool childhood.

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