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

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.

It took about seven hundred hours of studio time when their first album took one day, and no singles were released from it.

Seven generations of one family in Macondo, where insomnia comes as a plague and the rain lasts four years. García Márquez reports the impossible as plain fact.

Andy Warhol's only real production instruction was to leave the mistakes in. It sold badly enough that the band were dropped soon afterwards.

Hendrix cut it on four tracks in stolen studio hours between gigs, and nobody had heard a guitar do any of it before.

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

The devil arrives in Stalin's Moscow with a retinue that includes an enormous talking cat, and the literary bureaucrats never recover. Threaded through it runs a stark short novel about Pontius Pilate.
I have also decided to stick with love...hate is too great a burden to bear.

A generation was told their parents were wrong and believed it: Nichols made aimlessness look cinematic, and the soundtrack put Simon and Garfunkel into every house in America.
Davies started it as "Liverpool Sunset," moved it to the Thames, and Dave's tape-delay guitar did the rest.

The Muscle Shoals session collapsed in a fight after a day and a half, and the rest was finished in New York without the argument.

Every filmmaker who has ever shot a hitman putting on a hat is quoting this: Melville stripped the crime film down to ritual, silence and a trench coat.
Krieger wrote most of it, Manzarek built a Bach-shaped organ intro, and Morrison sang the banned lyric on Sullivan anyway.

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

Fourteen near-black panels in an octagonal room, where your eyes adjusting to the dark is the point. Rothko died before it opened.

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.

New Hollywood starts here: the violence was unlike anything American films had shown, the Newsweek critic who panned it printed a retraction a week later, and the studio system collapsed.

Written in 1964 while Reed was a staff songwriter, and Tucker abandoned her drums at the climax, unable to hear.

Fisher's Hammond nods at Bach for a bar before veering off, and Reid took the title from a party remark.

Twenty-two takes at A&R Studios, the Sweet Inspirations behind him, and a song Morrison says never paid him royalties.

Lennon stitched three unfinished songs together, then let a live BBC King Lear broadcast wander into the mix.
Recorded in Hollywood with Cale on piano, the rhythm pushing like a subway train under Reed's flat delivery.
Hayes lifted the title from Detroit buildings marked soul to spare them; Cropper gets shouted out mid-song.

Arthur Lee was convinced he was about to die and wrote it as a goodbye. Session players were hired when the band could not play.

Muscle Shoals, January 1967, Oldham on Wurlitzer, and a session that fell apart in an argument right after it.

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

A glockenspiel, a Leslie speaker meant for organs, and Hendrix fading out after two minutes and twenty-five seconds.

Two quiet verses, then Artie Schroeck's brass kicks the door in, and Valli's solo single stalled one place from number one.
Bruce came home from a Hendrix show carrying the riff, and Baker answered it by drumming on one and three.

Joe South's tremolo guitar opens it, Don Covay wrote it young while singing gospel, and Franklin turns it merciless.
Beamed live to 400 million on the first global satellite link, opening on La Marseillaise, its coda quoting Bach.

Bunuel's most seductive film, and the role Deneuve never quite escaped: a bored bourgeois wife takes afternoon work in a brothel, and her fantasies blur in without warning.

American English took a line about failure to communicate from it, and Newman his best role: a man who will not be broken, on a chain gang that keeps trying.
Krieger's raga-style tuning, Morrison at his most unnerving, and nearly twelve minutes Coppola later gave to Apocalypse Now.

Starr sang it at dawn after ten takes, having first made them cut the line about thrown tomatoes.

Gentry's demo vocal was kept, Jimmie Haskell added four violins and two cellos, and the intended B-side became the A-side hit.
Cohen thought Simon's orchestration overblown, but the four-track master wouldn't let him strip it; Judy Collins recorded it first.

Tati built a working modern city on the edge of Paris and it bankrupted him: there is no plot, no close-up, and something funny in every corner of the frame.

James Jamerson's bass, cut in Chicago with Funk Brothers moonlighting for cash, and Wilson sounding weightless above it.

Webb mapped a drive that is geographically impossible, and Sinatra still called it the greatest torch song ever written.

One note shaken into a wide vibrato, then feedback, then the sharp-ninth chord that carries his name.

Hal David wrote it about a woman whose man is in Vietnam; Bacharach thought the finished take too rushed.
Brian Jones on recorder, Wyman fingering a double bass while Richards bowed it, and the Stones' most delicate number one.

Wheeler got the idea from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and Cash and Carter trade the taunts like they mean them.

Cale's viola drone, Reed's ostrich guitar, Tucker's tambourine: one of three songs the band recut in Hollywood.

Light My Fire was mostly written by guitarist Robby Krieger, who had been in the band a matter of months and had never written a song.

Colonists rebelled because they believed London was conspiring to destroy their liberty. Reading hundreds of pamphlets, Bailyn showed that ideas made the Revolution. A generation of historians rewrote the founding on his terms.

John Cale had left, taking the viola and the noise with him. They recorded it through small amplifiers because their equipment had been stolen.
Townshend called it his ace in the hole and never forgave Britain for stopping it at number ten.

Darby Slick wrote it after his girlfriend left; Grace Slick brought it from the Great Society to number five.

Lived experience has been replaced by images of itself: in 221 numbered theses Debord argues capitalism now sells the appearance of living. Spectacle became the word critics of media reach for.
Dozier had three Bernadettes in mind, and Levi Stubbs shouts the name at the false ending like a man drowning.