
Taxi Driver
Travis Bickle escaped the picture and entered the language: Scorsese and De Niro made a lonely man's interior so exact that it stopped being about one man at all.

Travis Bickle escaped the picture and entered the language: Scorsese and De Niro made a lonely man's interior so exact that it stopped being about one man at all.

It took so long that Wonder and the band took to wearing T-shirts reading We're Almost Finished. Twenty-one songs, and no filler.

Seventeen and gliding across the floor, the rare disco record that sounds like joy and ache at once.

The two guitars at the end of the title track were worked out note for note in advance, and have to be played identically every night.

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

Fourteen songs in twenty-nine minutes, recorded for about six thousand dollars. Nothing on it is longer than two and a half minutes.

Lydon picked anarchist because it rhymed with antichrist; EMI dropped the band six weeks later and punk was loose.

Written as satire in 1976 and now indistinguishable from television: Chayefsky imagined a network that would put a man's breakdown on air for ratings, and got everything right.

Every journalism film gets held up against this one: two reporters chase Watergate through phone calls and parking garages, and verifying a single fact becomes unbearably tense.

Mercury wrote it at the piano, then three voices were multitracked into something the size of a gospel choir.

Wonder cut it for his newborn daughter Aisha, harmonica and all, and refused to shorten it for a single.

Horns and drums lock into one riff and hold it for minutes before Fela sings a word, which is how he built nearly every track.
Five years in Scholz's basement, a hundred-dollar Yamaha twelve-string on the intro, and Delp stacking harmonies over the top.

An irregular heartbeat diagnosis sent Dharma writing about mortality and lasting love, and the cowbell did the rest.
Richman borrowed two chords from Sister Ray and turned Route 128 after midnight into the happiest song about driving.

Gorham and Robertson's twin leads on a track the band nearly left off Jailbreak; Kentucky radio saved it.

Jimmy Ellis over eleven minutes of Philadelphia rhythm, a flop in 1976 until Saturday Night Fever made it a hit.

In our family, Maclean writes, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. Two brothers and their minister father on the Big Blackfoot, and a love that cannot save anyone.

Keegan asked what a battle feels like to the man standing in it, and answered through Agincourt, Waterloo, and the Somme. He put the reader inside the ranks and remade military history.

A sixteenth-century Italian miller told the Inquisition that the world formed as cheese forms from milk, and the angels were worms in it. From that file Ginzburg reconstructs an entire peasant mind.

Stallone wrote it himself and would not sell the script unless he could star: a club fighter from Philadelphia is handed a title shot as a publicity stunt, and takes it completely seriously.
Seger walked out of American Graffiti with a story of his own, and took six months finding the words.

Kerry Livgren's last-minute addition to Leftoverture opens a cappella, then hands Kansas their first top forty hit.

Victorian society did not silence sex, Foucault argues. It talked endlessly, until sodomy stopped being an act and the homosexual became a species. Queer theory has worked inside that claim for fifty years.

Eastwood fired the director and took over, and the union wrote a rule to stop it happening again: a Missouri farmer rides out after the war and keeps collecting strays he never wanted.

Eggleston shot a child's tricycle from ground level and suburban Memphis in dye-transfer color. The critic Hilton Kramer called the 1976 exhibition perfectly boring, and color photography has been art ever since.

Stephen King's first novel became this, and no adaptation since has been meaner: De Palma films high-school cruelty in slow motion and split screen, and the prom is a fifteen-minute held breath.

Genes, not organisms, are what selection acts on, and bodies are the machines genes build to carry themselves forward. Dawkins turned that inversion into how biologists think, and gave us the word meme.

Kingston's aunt drowned herself in the family well, and no one may say her name. Out of that silence and the legend of a woman warrior, Kingston remade what American memoir could do.

Miller ran a Stratocaster through an Echoplex for that staggered triplet echo, and the synthesizer drifts like weather.

They recorded it in a converted warehouse they rented as a clubhouse. Slash and Kurt Cobain both named it the record that started them.

It was the first album certified platinum, and for decades it traded places with Thriller as the best-selling record in America.

Thirty-five years in a Prague cellar, Haňťa crushes wastepaper and saves the banned books he is paid to destroy, wrapping each bale in an art print with a rescued volume inside.

Started life as "The Fat Man", written by Bell for his teased son, and Philippe Wynne made it fly.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.