
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.

Four chords, a mumble nobody could decipher, and the riff that ended one decade of rock and started another.
Party chatter, a sax that sighs, and Gaye asking the question Motown begged him not to ask.
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.

That bassline, mixed and remixed until it gleamed, and the four minutes that integrated MTV.
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.
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.
Elvis's first RCA single, all cavernous echo and empty rooms, the loneliest number one ever cut.

A Bronx schoolteacher's poem about lynching, sung in a single spotlight, still the bravest three minutes on record.

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.
The record that proved hip hop could report and not just party, and the edge everyone's been close to since.

McCartney dreamt the melody, called it "Scrambled Eggs" for weeks, then let a string quartet make it immortal.

Garfunkel's voice climbing a gospel staircase, the last verse arriving like the cavalry.

Barry Gibb's falsetto over a drum loop so metronomic that paramedics still use it to time chest compressions.
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.

That four-note bassline, a gospel hymn turned into a promise, and one of the warmest vocals ever recorded.
Eight minutes that climb from recorders to Page's solo, never released as a single and never needing to be.

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.
Moroder's pulsing synth track, Summer floating above it, and the record Eno reportedly called the sound of the future.
Dolly pleading with her rival rather than fighting her, written the same day as "I Will Always Love You."

Berlin's snowless Christmas song, the best-selling physical single ever pressed, and the sound of every soldier's homesickness.

Two chords and all the space in the world, Davis proving that less was the most radical idea in jazz.

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

Vincent Price cackling over a disco-funk groove, and a fourteen-minute video that turned pop into event television.

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.

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.

Written between takes on a film set, delivered like a man with exactly one shot at everything.

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

Armstrong's twelve-second opening cadenza announced that jazz had a soloist, and everything since has been the answer.

A guitar pitched down to fake a bass, and the seven-note riff every stadium on earth now sings.

Wonder wrote that clavinet riff for Jeff Beck, heard it back, and sensibly kept it for himself.

Seventeen and gliding across the floor, the rare disco record that sounds like joy and ache at once.
Recorded beside the Berlin Wall, Fripp's feedback howling while Bowie sings himself hoarse over a single defiant day.

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

MGM cut it from the film twice until Arthur Freed threatened to quit; Garland was sixteen.

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

Big Bank Hank auditioned outside the pizzeria where he worked, rapping lines borrowed from Grandmaster Caz's notebook.

That opening arpeggio is a Lowrey organ's marimba repeat function; Dave Arbus's violin sends the ending careening.
Smokey Robinson wrote it for his wife Claudette, then handed David Ruffin his first Temptations lead vocal.
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.

Spike Lee asked for a defiant anthem, and the Bomb Squad answered with layered samples and Branford Marsalis's saxophone.

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.

RZA looped a lonely piano figure from the Charmels, and Inspectah Deck's second verse became hip hop scripture.

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

The title flips Captain and Tennille into its opposite, and the single arrived a month after Curtis's death.

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

Dre built G-funk on a Leon Haywood sample, handed Snoop the mic, and gangsta rap reached number two.
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.

Marley credited it to Tata Ford, whose Trenchtown soup kitchen the royalties kept running; the title means woman, don't cry.

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.

Rich Harrison looped a Chi-Lites horn fanfare; Jay-Z turned up at three in the morning and improvised his verse.

Cash slipped paper under his guitar strings for that snare tick, and hums to find each new key.
Spector printed 3:05 on the label of a 3:45 record, and it became the century's most-played song on American radio.

Cut in leftover studio minutes with Sammy Davis Jr. waiting outside, it flopped until Blackboard Jungle put it under the credits.
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.

Dre and Yella built it in a Torrance studio on almost no money, and Compton stopped being invisible.
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.

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

The 45 King looped Dido under four letters, and Eminem's fan character ended up in the Oxford dictionary.

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

Andre 3000 apologizing to Erykah Badu's mother, who liked it enough to buy a Ms. Jackson license plate.

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

Ross Gorman slurred the opening clarinet as a joke in rehearsal, and Gershwin kept the wail for Aeolian Hall.

Written on a tour bus in Norway and premiered at Alexander McQueen's last show, all nonsense syllables and appetite.

Lennon started it as a campaign song for Timothy Leary, then Ringo muffled his drums with tea towels.

Tommy wanted a Bay City Rollers chant; the album around it cost $6,400 and took seven days.

Premier built the beat on the spot; Nas nailed verse one in a take, muttering doubt into the intro.

Morello kept soloing in five, so the quartet built him a tune in 5/4; Desmond wrote the theme.
Entwistle's bass solo needed a Fender after his Danelectro strings snapped, and Daltrey stuttered his way into history.
Structured as a mock trial with Dre presiding, and it drew a warning letter from an FBI assistant director.

Page tuned to DADGAD, Plant wrote it driving through southern Morocco, and none of them had seen Kashmir.

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.

Beyonce found Bob Fosse's Mexican Breakfast on YouTube; three Grammys and a decade of wedding receptions followed.

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

Johnson was told the Bon Scott tribute could not be morbid, so he wrote a celebration over Angus Young's riff.
Presley started clowning through an Arthur Crudup blues on a break; Sam Phillips heard it and rolled tape.
Willie Mitchell and Al Jackson handed Green a track; he reportedly had the lyric in five minutes.

Anita Carter cut it first, her sister June wrote it with Merle Kilgore, and Cash added the mariachi trumpets.
Iommi's riff arrived as three-minute filler for the album, Butler wrote the words fast, and Sabbath had their biggest UK hit.

Issued as a B-side because jukeboxes wanted uptempo, with Jerry Byrd's steel guitar shadowing every line Williams sings.

Grapefruit, Ono's book of poems, supplied the idea; Lennon supplied the piano; in 2017 she finally got the credit.
A single voice and acoustic guitar close Uprising, with a line lifted from Marcus Garvey and Marley already ill.

Pizarro built it from a Joe Sample loop and the Spinners' Sadie, and the Library of Congress later archived it.

Rubin handed Cash a Nine Inch Nails song, and Reznor watched the video and said it was no longer his.

Timbaland set a tumbi melody over tabla and left Elliott acres of empty space to fill.

Patrick Leonard co-wrote it, Prince played the intro guitar, and Pepsi pulled its five million dollar ad but paid anyway.

One chord, no changes, Sumlin's guitar circling, and Wolf's howl answering the trains whose sparks named the song.

Buckingham aimed Mick Fleetwood at the Street Fighting Man groove, then sang a breakup line Nicks demanded he cut.

Poke and Combs looped Mtume's Juicy Fruit, and Wallace told the rags to riches story that hip hop kept retelling.

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

Slash's riff, McKagan's breakdown recycled from his old punk band, and roughly three hours from nothing to finished song.

Eno reckoned half the album's sessions went into it and nearly wiped the tape; the Edge's delay does the rest.

Ed Townsend conceived it as a spiritual; Gaye kept the backing track, rewrote the lyric, and Billboard number one followed.

A die-cut sleeve modelled on a floppy disk, an Oberheim drum machine, and the best-selling twelve-inch single ever pressed.

Gaye co-wrote it and cut an early version; Reeves heard block parties in it and needed two takes.

Charles took a gospel record he heard on tour, swapped the subject, and cut soul music's blueprint in Atlanta.
Hilton Valentine's arpeggio, one take at De Lane Lea, and four and a half minutes when singles ran two.