What's Going On
Party chatter, a sax that sighs, and Gaye asking the question Motown begged him not to ask.
Party chatter, a sax that sighs, and Gaye asking the question Motown begged him not to ask.

Berry Gordy called it the worst thing he had ever heard and refused to release it until Gaye said he would never record for Motown again.
Eight minutes that climb from recorders to Page's solo, never released as a single and never needing to be.

There is no title and no band name anywhere on the sleeve, just four symbols the members chose. The label thought it was commercial suicide.

Mitchell was so exposed making it that she asked visitors to leave the studio. Kris Kristofferson told her to keep something back for herself.

That opening arpeggio is a Lowrey organ's marimba repeat function; Dave Arbus's violin sends the ending careening.

What survived an abandoned science-fiction project became this record. The keyboard figure opening Baba O'Riley was generated by a machine rather than played.

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

Kubrick pulled it from British cinemas himself after the reaction, and it stayed unavailable there for twenty-seven years: a state that enforces goodness, an invented slang, imagery nobody forgets.
Willie Mitchell and Al Jackson handed Green a track; he reportedly had the lyric in five minutes.

Grapefruit, Ono's book of poems, supplied the idea; Lennon supplied the piano; in 2017 she finally got the credit.

Sly overdubbed most of it alone onto a drum machine at home. The title track is listed as running zero seconds and has no music.

Rick Wakeman's piano, Bowie's own saxophone, and a stutter on the title that flopped before it defined him.

Rawls asks which rules you would pick for a society without knowing your place in it. His answer, equal liberties and inequality only when it lifts the worst off, reset political philosophy.

Rick Wakeman plays the piano throughout, and Bowie wrote Kooks in an afternoon for his newborn son. Ziggy Stardust was still a year away.

Eight and a half minutes, a Lowrey organ run through a VCS3, and Daltrey's scream tearing into the final verse.

Andy Warhol's sleeve had a real working zip, which scratched the records stacked behind it in the crates. The tongue logo starts here.

King had already written dozens of hits for other people before anyone heard her sing. This one sold twenty-five million copies.