
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.

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

Four chords, a mumble nobody could decipher, and the riff that ended one decade of rock and started another.
Keith dreamt the fuzz riff, taped it half-asleep, and woke up holding the sound of teenage frustration.
Chuck Berry's intro lick is rock's opening statement, a country boy's origin myth now drifting past the solar system.

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

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.
Elvis's first RCA single, all cavernous echo and empty rooms, the loneliest number one ever cut.

Harrison wrote it in Clapton's garden while skipping a business meeting, and it sounds exactly like that relief.

A nonsense holler cleaned up just enough to press, and the moment rock and roll stopped asking permission.

Leiber and Stoller wrote it for Big Mama Thornton; Elvis took it, sped it up, and set it on fire.
Seven minutes, four of them just na-na-na, and somehow nobody has ever wanted it to end sooner.

Garfunkel's voice climbing a gospel staircase, the last verse arriving like the cavalry.
Merry Clayton's voice cracking on "murder" is the sound of the sixties ending, mid-take, in one syllable.
Months of wall-of-sound overdubs poured into one getaway car, and every word still sounds like escape.

A folk flop until a producer secretly overdubbed electric guitars, and the duo heard their number one on the radio.
Eight minutes that climb from recorders to Page's solo, never released as a single and never needing to be.

Van Halen dropped in, played the solo for free, and Jackson made rock and pop the same building.

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

Strummer borrowing the BBC's wartime call sign to announce the end of the world, and sounding thrilled about it.

Six minutes with no chorus and so many vocal overdubs the tape wore transparent. Still nothing else like it.

A guitar pitched down to fake a bass, and the seven-note riff every stadium on earth now sings.
Recorded beside the Berlin Wall, Fripp's feedback howling while Bowie sings himself hoarse over a single defiant day.

Lennon's first draft listed bus stops in Liverpool; Martin's piano solo, taped at half speed, sounds baroque.

That opening arpeggio is a Lowrey organ's marimba repeat function; Dave Arbus's violin sends the ending careening.
Twelve minutes left at a Pennsylvania dance, so Charles improvised it on his Wurlitzer and many stations banned it.
Byrne borrowed a preacher's cadence, Eno hummed the chorus melody, and the band looped its own jams like samplers.

No Beatle plays an instrument on it; George Martin's string octet does everything, sawing away at two solitary lives.
Nicks wrote it in a black velvet studio room at Sausalito's Record Plant; it remains the band's only US number one.

McCartney dreamed of his mother Mary telling him it would be all right; Harrison cut two different solos.

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.

A tranquilizer shot before a 1977 Philadelphia show gave Waters the lyric; Gilmour brought the chords and the solo.
Felder demoed it on a four-track in Malibu, and his Les Paul duels Walsh's Telecaster through the outro.

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.

Take four, April 1982, a Yamaha synth from Roy Bittan, and the most misheard chorus in American rock.

Slash was goofing through a warm-up he called a circus melody; an hour later the band had this.

Clapton wanted his friend's wife; Duane Allman's slide answers every line, then Jim Gordon's piano coda changes everything.