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

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

A child singing about regret over the springiest bassline Motown ever cut, and selling it completely.
Spector printed 3:05 on the label of a 3:45 record, and it became the century's most-played song on American radio.

Jones thought nobody would play something so morbid; Sherrill spent eighteen months coaxing the vocal onto tape.

Carmichael whistled the tune to his band at Gennett and cut it fast; Parish added the lyric two years later.

Buckley learned it from John Cale's version and cut over twenty takes at Bearsville; the edit sounds like one breath.

Dylan recut it in Minneapolis with his brother producing, then spent decades rewriting a story already told out of order.

A demo kicked around since the mid-seventies, rebuilt on a Roland drum machine that appalled their punk friends.
Prince wrote it for a side project that went nowhere; O'Connor's tears in the video were real, and unplanned.

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

Cut in a converted Camden church in 1927, two takes, and the yodel that made hillbilly records big business.

Nobody in the room had the lyrics, so Bunny Robyn spliced three broken takes into Domino's biggest hit.

Joplin taped the vocal days before her death; Kristofferson did not hear it until the day after.

Dozier reportedly took the Morse code guitar figure from a radio news signal, and Ross demands her exit over it.

Two years after Junior Parker cut it at Sun, Moore's slapback guitar turned the same train into rockabilly.
Armstrong's cornet answering every line Smith sings, with only a wheezing harmonium underneath, cut in New York in 1925.
Ocean wrote it for Bridget Kelly's album, kept it instead, and the falsetto he reaches for does the rest.

Dan Wilson of Semisonic at the piano, Adele singing, nothing else added; five weeks at number one.

A Don Gibson country weepie, Marty Paich's strings behind it, and five weeks at number one in 1962.

Fred Rose wrote it in the forties; Nelson's Texas version had Columbia's boss asking why he'd sent a demo.
Five years in Scholz's basement, a hundred-dollar Yamaha twelve-string on the intro, and Delp stacking harmonies over the top.
Campbell built the track on a LinnDrum, Petty passed, and Henley wrote middle age onto somebody else's demo.
Jake Holmes wrote it in 1967, the Yardbirds absorbed it, Page cut it at Olympic with a violin bow.

Strings, timpani and a Brazilian baion; Wexler reportedly dismissed the playback as a radio caught between two stations.

Costello glimpsed a supermarket checkout girl, Clover backed him before the Attractions existed, and one line titled his debut.

Young's tone in double drop D, a blown console that erased the last verse, and a Franco-era Spanish ban.

Seven sections in under three minutes, no chorus repeated, and a melody Orbison said arrived while half asleep.

Simon learned it from Martin Carthy in London; Garfunkel wound an anti-war lyric through the ballad as counterpoint.
A minor key, a Hohner Pianet solo, and a debut single Argent wrote to fit Blunstone's upper range.

Twelve players at Western, an empty water jug for percussion, and Murry Wilson speeding the tape a semitone.

A house fire left Smith with photographs of Mary salvaged from his wallet, and one became the single's sleeve.
Brian Jones on recorder, Wyman fingering a double bass while Richards bowed it, and the Stones' most delicate number one.

Originally called Indiana Girl, until Petty decided he couldn't sing that line; Stan Lynch's last sessions with the Heartbreakers.

Tony Arata's lyric works as a breakup song or an elegy, and Brooks' video chose the elegy.

Pitchfork's fifteenth-best song of the 2000s, the Dreijer siblings' synth pulse, later stripped to one acoustic guitar by Jose Gonzalez.
Smith's six-string bass, acoustic guitars strummed to a blur, and the Cure's sunniest song about feeling old.

Teddy Riley's new jack swing under a nostalgia lyric, with John Singleton staging the video in ancient Egypt.

Written for Kay Starr and shelved, resisted by Cline, then sung to victory on Arthur Godfrey's talent show.
Tremolo guitar from arranger Billy Strange, a murder-ballad chorus, and the reading Tarantino chose for Kill Bill's credits.

Three months alone in his father's Wisconsin hunting cabin, and falsetto stacked until one voice becomes a choir.

Ferry's voice drops out almost two minutes before the end, leaving a synthesizer to finish the thought.

The riff arrived in the back of a U-Haul, and DeLeo's ragtime chords carried grunge to a Grammy.
Cameron resisted a pop song entirely, then kept Dion's demo vocal, one take, in the finished film.

Arlen and Koehler wrote it for the Cotton Club in 1933; a decade later Horne made it hers on film.
Todd Terry's remix pushed a subdued album cut into New York house, then held the Hot 100 for a year.
His biographer says Jones grumbled about all the 'just becauses'; Jones denied it, then sat six weeks at country number one.

Shadow Morton had never written a hit when he cut this demo, seagull effects and all, to prove he could.
Owen Bradley produced the December 1961 session; Cline works through an inventory of keepsakes while Floyd Cramer's piano answers.

An earlier version with different lyrics sat unreleased until Good Will Hunting sent Smith to the Oscars in white.

Nella Dodds's cover reached shops first, so Motown rushed theirs out; the Supremes took it to number one.

Written for Cab Calloway, who missed the Cotton Club bill; Waters premiered it there in 1933 and owned it.

Two verses, two voices, and Jerry Douglas's Dobro; Bill Anderson and Jon Randall wrote country's bleakest modern ballad.

Norbert Putnam moved the sessions to Miami for the beachfront air, and Buffett turned one ruined afternoon into the chorus.
Stewart reportedly wrote the lyrics on a matchbox cover, and Page's double-tracked vocal held number one for nine weeks.

Jeff Porcaro's half-time shuffle carried it to Record of the Year, and drummers have been chasing that groove since.

A Johnny Bush song Nelson borrowed for Shotgun Willie, then used to open nearly every concert since 1974.

Millie Kirkham's soprano wailing over the Jordanaires at Radio Recorders, 1957, with Scotty Moore answering every line.

A Manhattan church studio, Richard Barrett's piano figure, and a sixteen-year-old lead vocal that opened the girl-group era.
A Mellotron faking the strings, producer Al Kooper credited as Roosevelt Gook, and Van Zant's rambling farewell.