I’m currently at another heavy metal concert2 doing research fort next music post. I will have the article ready tomorrow
I think. stay cool and be blessed
Station Break
Tag: Tunage
Chilled to the Bone and Shadow
Air of December by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians
December is a month of conflicting mindsets. On one hand, people get swept up in the season and start doing “Good Things,” as if generosity is something they dust off once a year like ornaments from the attic. Smiles get bigger. Voices get lighter. Folks try to be kinder, cleaner versions of themselves — at least for a few weeks.
But not everyone rises with the cheer.
Some slip the other way — into that deep, cold room December knows how to unlock. The early darkness settles on their shoulders. The empty chairs at the table get louder. They watch the world light up and feel nothing but the distance.
The weather has changed. We felt the shift back in November — a quiet warning — but December carries the truth in its bones. The calendar hints at winter, but nature tells you outright. Woodchucks waddle with purpose, grabbing whatever scraps they need to seal themselves away. Raccoons run their winter reconnaissance, scouting warm corners with criminal determination.
Across the street, after sundown, the trees start speaking. Leaves rustle in patterns the wind doesn’t claim. Then: silence. Then another rustle — heavier this time — followed by a shadow shifting where it shouldn’t. And there it is:
a raccoon the size of a small planet climbing like gravity signed a waiver. Somehow that bandit-faced acrobat is perched on the roof of a three-story house, staring down like it owns the deed.
Meanwhile, Christmas trees bloom behind neighborhood windows — soft glows behind glass, promises of borrowed joy. For the next thirty days, people will act like saints in training, as if kindness has a seasonal password and only December knows it. Christmas carols creep through grocery aisles. Decorations multiply like mushrooms.
This is precisely why you need a strong music collection.
Survival gear.
Armor.
Because there are only so many versions of “Jingle Bells,” “White Christmas,” “Deck the Halls,” and “Frosty the Snowman” a person can take before something in them snaps.
Though Frosty and Rudolph do have their… alternative interpretations — the ones no one plays around polite company. Those versions? Those have some soul to them.
The lights are up on half the streets by now — fake pine needles, borrowed glow, holiday cheer on rotation. But behind windows, in alleys, in empty rooms and quiet corners, the air tastes different. Thinner. Sharper. More honest.
That’s when I slip on “Air of December.”
Soft bass. Careful voice. Shadows tucked into the chords.
This song doesn’t promise warmth, and it sure as hell doesn’t ask you to smile.
It just says: pay attention.
Edie Brickell & New Bohemians were never a mainstream machine. They had one catchy breakout moment, and most people froze them in that era like a photograph in a drawer. Air of December is one of those tracks even longtime fans forget exists. It’s not whispered in corners or held up as a hidden classic. But for the ones who hear it — really hear it — there’s a quiet respect. A recognition of its weight. Its weather. Its staying power.
The song opens like a door easing into colder air — a small shift in pressure you feel more than hear. The guitar stays clean but unsweet; the bass hums low like a steady engine under the floorboards; the drums hold back, giving the track room to breathe. The band understands restraint — they don’t fill the silence; they let the silence carry meaning. There’s distance in the mix as well, not loneliness but space, like the walls of the room are set a little farther apart than usual. It gives the whole track that “cold air in the next room” feeling — a quiet tension humming beneath the melody.
Brickell’s voice moves with deliberate softness.
She doesn’t chase the melody — she circles it.
As if she is dancing alongside it, doing her best not to disturb the melody, but to belong to it.
It’s intimate without being fragile or overbearing — confessional without wandering into theatrics. It respects the moment, and we appreciate that without even realizing we do.
This is the “close-but-not-too-close” mic technique: you feel near her, but not pulled into her chest. You’re listening in, not being performed to.
Her lyrics drift like breath on cold glass — shapes that form, fade, and return slightly altered.
Brickell doesn’t write scenes; she writes impressions.
Smudges.
Moments that land in your body long before your mind explains them.
That’s December — not revelations, just quiet truths catching you in the corner of your eye.
There’s also the emotional sleight of hand: a major-key framework phrased with minor-key honesty. Hopeful chords, weary inflections. Warm instrumentation, cool delivery. A contradiction — just like the month. This isn’t a heartbreak song or a holiday anthem. It’s a temperature. A walking pace. The sound of someone thinking as the sun drops at 4:30 PM.
Some songs become seasonal without meaning to — not because they mention snow or nostalgia, but because they inhabit the emotional weather perfectly.
This one does.
It sounds like a room after the noise has died down and the truth hasn’t found its words yet.
It sounds like someone sitting beside you, matching your breathing.
It sounds like December without the costume.
Most December songs want to wrap you in tinsel and memory.
This one just sits beside you.
Doesn’t judge.
Doesn’t push.
Just listens.
People claim they want authenticity in December — honesty, depth, meaning.
They don’t.
They want distraction wrapped in nostalgia.
They want songs about snow so they don’t have to face the winter inside themselves.
“Air of December” refuses that bargain.
It listens — and listening is dangerous this month.
Give someone a quiet December track and half of them will panic.
They’ll change it before the first truth lands.
Stillness has a way of turning the room into a mirror.
Most December listeners don’t want the real temperature.
They want the thermostat set to everything’s fine.
But winter doesn’t trade in lies.
And neither does this track.
Yet there’s a strange comfort in that kind of honesty.
The song doesn’t shield you from the cold — it invites you into it.
It says, look around, breathe, the truths you’ve been dodging all year are rising — and you’re strong enough now to meet them.
December strips everything down to bone and breath.
This track reminds you that what remains is still yours.
Sometimes Bare Trees Are the Loudest
Groovin’ with Glyn — November, Week 2
Track: “November Trees and Rain” – Marie Dresselhuis
On most November mornings, there’s a chill in the air. Not the kind that grabs you by the collar and shakes you awake, but the subtle kind — the one that lets you know it’s there. It moves slow, almost tender, until your body shivers without asking permission.
I hear the morning before I see it. A woodpecker knocking its code into the trees, winter birds answering in their thin, determined voices. I close my eyes and let the breeze speak for a while — the rustle of fallen leaves, the soft give of the season shifting underfoot. There’s a certain beauty in the bareness of the trees. Something quiet. Something honest. Not something I can describe cleanly in words, but it’s beautiful all the same — the kind of beauty that doesn’t need witnesses.
Then the world shifts again — one of those November moments of return. The air brakes hiss, then squeal, and suddenly the stillness cracks open. Children rush toward the bus, half-awake, half-dressed, somehow always unprepared and always ready. The adventure begins whether they are or not.
I remember my own kids doing the same. I miss those mornings — not with regret, but with that quiet wish a father carries for a different version of himself, a different decision made on a different day.
Guppy’s cry pulls me back. She’s in my chair, staring at me like I’m late. Her way of reminding me that the present is still here, still demanding, still alive. Work waits. Memory wanders. But Guppy doesn’t let me drift too far.
So let us go then, you and I, into this next stop in Groovin’ with Glyn — that mixed music bag I keep rummaging through.
“November Trees and Rain” doesn’t try to dazzle you. It doesn’t fight for attention. It just unfolds — steady, slow-water honest. The title alone feels like a location on a map: somewhere between the last red leaf falling and the moment the season exhales. The guitar comes in like breath; the vocals come in like thought; the whole thing feels like watching the world turn the page while you stand there holding the corner.
This is a song for people who know how to sit with themselves.
Not judge. Not fix. Just sit.
The Devil’s Voice in the Back of the Room
Not everyone trusts the quiet. They say they do, but not really. They want to be shocked and awed underneath while saying, “it’s so peaceful.” Some people hear a slow song and panic — like silence might reveal something they’ve worked hard to bury. Give them rain and they’ll close the blinds. Give them bare trees and they’ll look at their phones. Give them a morning like this and they won’t hear anything but their own hurry.
A song like “November Trees and Rain” has no chance with them.
Too inward.
Too honest.
Too close to the bone.
But November isn’t for cowards.
And neither is this track.
The Lift — Why It Belongs Here
Because there’s a moment midway through the month when the noise dies down — not the external noise, the internal one. This song fits right into that pocket. It’s the sound of a thought finally forming. The kind of realization you don’t chase; it arrives on its own timetable.
“November Trees and Rain” is what happens when the world stops performing and just is.
Bare.
Wet.
Cold.
True.
It reminds you that not everything beautiful announces itself — some things just endure.
Week 1 woke us.
Week 2 asks us to stay awake.
Because the trees are bare now, the rain has longer stories to tell.
Are you ready to listen?
Tap, tap, tap … Follow me
Groovin’ with Glyn: November, Week 1
November doesn’t crash in. It slips under the doorframe like it owns the place, tracking in the smell of rain and cold metal. Children rubbing their bellies because they have OD’d on candy. I miss those days. November comes as if it knows we need to exhale. Not long, just a little bit. Something quick to recharge for the next round of madness.
There’s a moment in early November when the world gets quiet enough that you actually hear yourself think — and sometimes you wish you hadn’t. The wind carries that familiar bite as the last of the fall aromas slide along with it. Then something else rides in on the shift — soft, strange, a whisper you almost mistake for memory. You turn your head without meaning to, unsure if you heard anything at all. The wind changes again, closer this time, warm against your ear as it murmurs, “Wake up.”
That’s the space “Wake Up” lives in.
A small Scottish band barely scratching 30K streams, November Lights shouldn’t hit this hard on paper. But the track feels like standing just outside your own life, watching the windows fog over while you debate going back inside. Not regret or clarity. More like the low buzz of a lightbulb that isn’t sure if it wants to live or die.
The vocals don’t beg. They ask. Quietly. Like someone nudging you in the dark, not to startle you, but to keep you from drifting too far away. And the production carries that nocturnal haze — the kind that tells you somebody sat alone longer than they meant to, letting reverb fill the silence they didn’t want to face.
Beneath it all is a steady pulse, the kind that hints at recognition rather than revelation. November has a talent for that — it doesn’t hand you answers; it hands you a mirror. The cold sharpens edges you swore were already smooth. The light changes, and suddenly everything looks closer to the truth.
The Honest Take
This is a quietly beautiful track. Not earth-shattering. Not one that guts you. Not every song is meant to gut you, but all of them should resonate with you on some level. Not every listener — just the ones the track was meant for. Something you won’t know until the needle touches the vinyl. Some songs don’t raise their voice; they settle in beside you and wait. “Wake Up” is exactly that — understated, precise, intentional.
The Devil’s Voice in the Back of the Room
Look, if you’re waiting for grit, you won’t find it here.
If you want broken glass and a voice that sounds like it gargled the night, keep moving.
And yes — someone out there will dismiss this as too clean, too polished, too “indie boy with a synth pad.”
Let them.
Not every November needs a fist.
Some start with a shoulder tap, a soft reminder you can’t ignore.
Besides, honesty hits harder than distortion when you hear it at the right hour.
The Lift — Why It Belongs Here
Because November is a month with its own kind of mercy.
Not loud.
Not generous.
But real.
It doesn’t demand.
It nudges.
Sometimes it’s a hand on your shoulder saying, “You’re slipping. Come back to yourself.”
This song is that hand.
The hush before the confession.
The breath before the descent.
The spark before the month settles in.
Week 1 shouldn’t break you.
It should open the door.
“Wake Up” does that.
Softly.
Deliberately.
Without apology.
November is here.
The lights are on.
Step inside — and enjoy this breath, because winter is coming.
The Other Woman Was My Wife
What I Learned Too Late and the Two Songs That Explained It
Song Lyric Sunday – Nina Simone, “The Other Woman”
My wife knew more about music than any woman I’ve ever met outside my mother. She couldn’t name artists, albums, or genres. None of that mattered. She just knew what was good. And the shit was spooky.
I learned this slowly, almost reluctantly, because I kept trying to talk to her about favorite artists. She never played that game. Her ear didn’t care about categories. Her heart didn’t negotiate with labels.
The first time she ever caught me off guard was the day I walked in and heard “Changes” by Black Sabbath drifting through the house.
Sabbath.
Black Sabbath.
Not a riff, not a hit — the one track that sounded like someone bottled regret.
It wasn’t that she was listening to Sabbath. It was that she somehow found the exact track I didn’t know I needed. And she did it without ever talking about music the way I did.
That quiet instinct — that sixth sense she carried — is what led her to two Nina Simone songs she treated like confessions. When she listened to Nina, the door stayed closed, the lamp stayed low, and you stayed out unless you were ready to walk into something fragile.
The smoke curled up from the cigarette balanced between her fingers, her hand resting beside a freshly cleaned ashtray. Hazelnut coffee filled the room, and Albert King was somewhere in the background complaining about the rain. I kissed her out of habit and apology — I stank to high heaven after a long day.
While I cleaned up, the music drifted from one blues track to another. I thought about grabbing a nap before the girls came home, when a voice cut through everything — soft, measured, heavy.
…wait. Is that Nina?
Next thing I knew, I was back at the table with a fresh cup of coffee. She didn’t look up, just nodded.
“I figured you’d get a nap before the girls got home,” she said.
I smiled into my cup.
This is why I married her — she got me.
She married me because I could reach the top shelf.
Balance in all things.
She slid the CD case to me and tapped a single track:
“The Other Woman.”
I replayed it a few times — autopsy mode — until she reached over and rested her hand on mine.
“Let it play, baby,” she said softly.
So I did.
“The Other Woman” isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s a truth-teller — the kind of song that doesn’t raise its voice because it doesn’t have to. Nina sings it low and steady, like someone who’s already made peace with the ache she’s naming. The piano stays half-lit, the bass moves like it’s carrying news no one wants to hear, and nothing in the arrangement tries to comfort you.
That’s what hooked my wife.
Not the lyrics.
Not the storyline.
The tone.
The way Nina delivered loneliness without apology.
The way she stood inside the ache without flinching.
My wife knew that tone.
She knew what it felt like to love a man who was half hers and half claimed by something bigger and colder than home.
“The Other Woman” wasn’t a song about cheating to her; it was the shape of a loneliness she never put into words — but Nina named it clean.
Back then, I thought it was a strange song for her to be listening to. I wasn’t stepping out. I felt the loneliness in Nina’s voice, but I didn’t understand the source. Maybe I wasn’t meant to — not then.
Years later, when she got sick — the kind of sick that turns a hospital room into a country of its own — I sat beside her bed with Nina in my headphones while I tried to write. And that’s when it hit me.
My wife knew what it felt like to be the other woman.
Not because of infidelity.
Not because of anything I did wrong.
But because of devotion and duty — the two forces that built our life and carved holes in it at the same time.
She loved a man claimed by an oath he made before he ever met her.
A man whose phone could ring at 2:17 a.m.
A man who packed on short notice and left with even less.
We preached “Family First.”
Said it often.
Said it like it was gospel.
But the truth — the one Nina kept whispering — was “Mission First.”
If “The Other Woman” named the loneliness, then “Tell Me More and Then Some” named the hunger beneath it.
Not desire — presence.
Not passion — time.
Nina sings that second track like a woman reaching out in the dark, asking for just a little more of a man she barely gets to keep.
For a military spouse, that’s the whole gospel:
the hours rationed out,
the moments cut short,
the days borrowed by orders.
You love the man, but the world keeps the schedule.
My wife never said she needed more of me — she never would have — but Nina said it for her.
Together, those two songs held the architecture of her heart:
the ache of being second and the quiet hope that maybe she could still have a little more time before the world claimed me again.
They lived on the same compilation she brought home when the girls were little — After Hours, still my favorite Nina collection. Maybe because it brought her voice into our home. Or maybe because it brought her truth into mine.
Those two tracks weren’t random choices.
They were the language she used to hold the parts of our life that the military kept taking.
The ache she carried quietly.
The hunger she never burdened me with.
Even now, as I write this, another Nina track slips in — “Ain’t No Use.” I didn’t cue it. Didn’t expect it. But there it is, like it wandered in to confirm every word on this page.
Nina always did that in our home — show up when truth was ready.
“The Other Woman” is my official Song Lyric Sunday entry because it appears on the 1969 compilation The Best of Nina Simone, one of her earliest and most enduring collections.
But really?
I’m choosing it because my wife understood this song long before I did. She lived the ache of being second to a calling she never chose, with a grace I still don’t know how to name.
Some songs don’t remind you of a person —
they finish the conversations you didn’t know you were having while they were still here.
This is one of those songs.
Let it play, baby.
Author’s Note:
This piece isn’t about infidelity. It’s about the complicated places where love and duty overlap, and the quiet truths that grow in the spaces no one talks about. My wife and I were both Nina Simone fans, though she understood Nina in ways I didn’t grasp until much later. The songs mentioned here — “The Other Woman” and “Tell Me More and Then Some” — were part of her private rituals, the moments she used to hold what our life couldn’t always name. This essay is my way of honoring the weight she carried with grace. If any part of it resonates with you, let it. That’s Nina’s doing, not mine.
The Moment Was Fluid, Until It Wasn’t
What one Sabbath song taught me about adrenaline, fear, and the silence that follows the hit.
I wasn’t planning to write about Ozzy Osbourne — I had a ticket in hand to see Earth, Wind & Fire. My mind was elsewhere — groove, joy, rhythm, nostalgia. And then the news came through: Ozzy was gone.
I’m not a diehard fan. I didn’t grow up in the church of Sabbath. But one track — one slow, heavy track that felt like it had something to say long after it stopped playing — stayed with me. It wasn’t a hit. It wasn’t a song anyone quoted. But I’ve carried it. And maybe that’s the thing about deep cuts — they don’t always connect when the world is loud. They wait.
For me, that song was “Hand of Doom.”
Not because it rocked.
Because it spoke — in the language of things we’re not supposed to say out loud. And as someone who’s walked through the slow churn of fear, of silence, of control disguised as coping… I heard it for what it was.
Not a story. Not a warning.
A truth.
Paranoid is the album everyone thinks they know. “War Pigs,” “Iron Man,” “Paranoid” — they’ve been immortalized on T-shirts, classic rock stations, and generations of guitar-store riff flexes. But buried in the middle of Side B is a track that speaks quieter and hits harder than all of them: “Hand of Doom.”
It’s not catchy. It doesn’t try to be. It starts slow, like a body being dragged. Geezer’s bassline feels surgical — steady, ominous, too calm for what’s coming. Then the lyrics begin, and you realize this isn’t a protest song. It’s a field report. A soldier comes back from war. But the war comes back with him.
“You push the needle in…”
There’s no glamor. No metaphor. Just addiction, disillusionment, and the long tail of trauma no one wants to claim responsibility for. Sabbath wasn’t just telling a story — they were holding up a mirror to a nation that fed its young to the fire, then blamed them when they couldn’t come home whole.
A lot of people describe the opening of “Hand of Doom” as a funeral. I’ve seen it written that way dozens of times. But as someone who’s stood in the stillness before something breaks loose, I hear it differently. That intro isn’t mourning. It’s anticipation. It’s the body preparing itself for impact before the mind catches up. It’s the weight of knowing something’s coming — and not being sure whether it’s physical, mental, or spiritual. We all have our own versions of that moment. Some of us walk into it in uniform. Some of us find it alone in a room at 3 a.m. But the question remains: when the unknown finally steps out of the shadows, will we be ready?
Now — with everything we know about PTSD, opioids, and institutional failure — this song still rarely gets mentioned. It makes people uncomfortable. That’s precisely why it matters.
It didn’t scare me as a kid, not like horror movies or ghost stories. It scared me because I could feel the silence around it, like everyone heard it and turned the volume down just a little too fast. Like it was saying something we weren’t supposed to know yet. Or worse — something we already knew, but had no idea how to answer.
When the tempo kicks up, the song finally gets its legs, but it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like adrenaline. And for me, it brings back that wired moment just before everything breaks loose. I remember being trained not to let fear take over. Taught that fear was the enemy. But no one tells you the truth: you can’t outrun fear. It doesn’t dissipate — it embeds. The real skill isn’t conquering it — it’s learning how to use it without letting it use you. This part of the song brings me back to the early days, before I learned that lesson. When your heart is pounding, your vision sharpens, and the fight-or-flight reflex kicks in so hard it makes your teeth ache. Everyone talks about those two instincts — but there’s a third no one wants to admit: freeze. And those were the ones that really got to me. The ones who froze. Because when that happened, it didn’t just endanger them — it split your focus. You had to break off from the target, from the objective, and turn toward someone whose body had already left the mission. And that… that’s its own kind of helpless.
There’s a brief pause in the song — a flash of return to the original tempo — and for me, it’s always felt like a breath that never quite makes it to your lungs. It’s not relief. It’s the moment before the shit gets real. It’s that split-second when you know the break is coming, but it hasn’t hit yet. The sound slows, but the tension tightens. I’ve lived that second. We all have, in our own ways. Whether it was the phone call, the sudden detour, the warning tone in someone’s voice — that moment before impact sticks with you. It’s what lets you feel the hit coming before it lands. And that’s what Sabbath nailed here: not just the crash, but the foreknowledge of it. The second your system knows everything’s about to change, but there’s nothing you can do except feel the bottom drop.
Then there’s the damn groove — that stretch of rhythm in the song that doesn’t feel panicked or chaotic. It feels locked in. And for those of us who made it to the other side of the moment, that groove is familiar. It’s the rhythm you step into when you’re fully immersed, taking care of business, senses dialed all the way up. But it’s not a jerking motion. You’re not holding your breath. You’re fluid. You stop trying to control the moment — you become part of it. You become one with it.
And just like that section of the track, the feeling barely lasts — so fleeting you question whether it even happened at all. It’s a kind of cognitive dissonance — a mental vertigo that never quite resolves. It’s like a strange trinity: us, them, and the thing we created in between. That thing… was doom. And in that moment, we were its hands.
“Hand of Doom” wasn’t a warning. It was a receipt.
And when you carry that receipt long enough, you stop asking for change.
Author’s Note: This piece was written as part of Jim Adams’ Song Lyric Sunday. Each week, contributors reflect on songs tied to a given theme. This week’s prompt led me here — to a track I hadn’t planned to write about, but couldn’t ignore.
Late Night Grooves # 161
WHOT Episode 161 – “Best Direction” by Zig Mentality
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[No fade-in. Just impact. The drums kick like defibrillators. Guitars fuzz and slice. The voice? Controlled chaos.]
“WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight—
We’re not looking for the right answer.
We’re just calling bullsht on all the wrong ones.*
Zig Mentality – “Best Direction.”
This track is the sound of pressure.
Not the kind that breaks you.
The kind that twists you into someone you barely recognize.
“Don’t know if this is the best direction…”
That line?
That’s not indecision.
That’s survival in progress.
Zig Mentality isn’t asking for guidance.
They’re screaming through the static.
They’re ripping through expectations, projections, corrections, selections.
Everyone wants you to be something.
This track says be something real.
Even if it’s loud.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it scares people who only know how to follow maps.
The guitars don’t resolve.
The vocals barely hold on.
Because this isn’t a message.
It’s a moment.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
WHOT doesn’t play just to soothe.
We play what it feels like inside.
Tonight, it sounds like Zig Mentality.
Episode 161.
Best Direction.
I’m Mangus Khan—
Still walking.
Still questioning.
Still here.”
Late Night Grooves #160
WHOT Episode 160 – “Cold Blooded” by Gary Clark Jr.
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[The groove creeps in like it knows a secret. The bass is thick, the beat slow, the guitar slick like oiled vengeance.]
“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
I’m Mangus Khan.
Episode 160.
Tonight… I’m not angry.
I’m just done.
Done explaining.
Done shrinking.
Done giving second chances to people who never deserved the first.
This ain’t the heartbreak hour anymore.
It’s the clarity segment.
“You’re cold blooded…
and I ain’t runnin’.”
Gary Clark Jr. – “Cold Blooded.”
This track is a masterclass in emotional boundaries.
Not a shout. Not a cry.
Just truth over a groove.
And that’s the most dangerous kind of honesty.
He’s not asking for sympathy.
He’s not asking for closure.
He’s calling it like it is.
The tone is velvet. The edge is steel.
This is the sound of knowing your worth—
And watching someone realize too late what they lost.
“Cold Blooded” is for the listener who’s stopped waiting on apologies.
Who’s finally out of the fire—
And won’t be walking back in.
And Gary Clark Jr.?
He’s the preacher and the proof.
You don’t have to scream to be heard.
You just have to mean it.
Episode 160.
Gary Clark Jr.
Cold Blooded.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still cool.
Still clear.
Still here.”
Stripped Down and Soul-Deep: Ray LaMontagne’s Take on ‘Crazy’
TUNAGE – SLS
How an acoustic guitar and a raspy voice turned a genre-bending hit into something quietly devastating.
I’ve always been a fan of the acoustic guitar. In fact, it’s my favorite style. I’ve always felt that if an artist can make the acoustic guitar speak, then they’re really talented. There’s something about that sound—it adds a layer to the music that gets lost in the distortion of its electric counterpart. It’s honest. Exposed. No tricks to hide behind.
I first heard Ray LaMontagne’s Gossip in the Grain and was hooked immediately. That album had a mood I couldn’t shake—soulful, grounded, a little haunted. So when I found out he covered “Crazy,” I got excited. I wondered what he’d bring to it. I already knew it would be something special.
Not just because of Ray’s style, but because “Crazy” already lives in this weird, beautiful space between genres. I love it when songs do that. Even more, I love when a cover respects the original but still brings a fresh voice to it—makes it something completely different, without losing what made it great in the first place.
That’s exactly what Ray does here.
Yes, it’s the same “Crazy” that Gnarls Barkley made famous—but this isn’t just an acoustic remix. This is a complete reinvention. No beats. No polish. Just Ray, his guitar, and that worn, aching voice of his. And somehow, it feels bigger because it’s so stripped down.
He slows the whole thing down, stretches out the space between lines, and sings like he’s living every word. There’s one moment—when he softly asks, “Does that make me crazy?”—that just lingers in the air. It’s not a performance; it’s a question he doesn’t know the answer to.
Where the original had swagger, this version has weight. It feels like someone sorting through their own history, looking back on a breakdown that already happened. It’s quiet. It’s tired. And it hits like truth.
I’ve heard a lot of covers of this song, but none of them hit like this. No over-singing. No flash. Just soul. The acoustic guitar does all the emotional heavy lifting—carrying the tension, the silence, and everything in between.
If you’re into music that guts you in the gentlest way, this one’s for you. Just press play, close your eyes, and let it wreck you a little.
The Ones You Almost Miss
TUNAGE – MMB
I’ll be honest—I almost forgot about July for Kings. Not because they weren’t good (they were damn good), but because the early 2000s alt-rock scene was a crowded highway of hopefuls with radio-friendly grit. Between your Trapt and Trustcompany, Staind and Saliva, it was easy to miss the ones who weren’t screaming at you, but whispering, singing, aching.
July for Kings never blew the doors off the house—they lit a candle in the corner and let you sit with it.
Originally from Middletown, Ohio, July for Kings (formerly known as “Vice”) emerged with the kind of sincerity that was rare for the post-grunge era. Signed to MCA Records, they released their major-label debut, Swim, in 2002, produced by Blumpy (of Nine Inch Nails and Filter fame). Fronted by Joe Hedges, the band didn’t chase chart-topping bangers—they aimed for emotional resonance. They didn’t want the room to jump. They wanted the quiet ones in the back to feel something.
Tucked quietly in the back half of Swim, “Without Wings” is the kind of track you don’t fully appreciate until life slaps you around a bit. It’s not flashy. It’s not trying to be your anthem. But if you’ve ever sat in the middle of a storm you didn’t ask for—emotional, mental, or otherwise—this song knows you.
The intro is soft, a little echoey, almost ambient. Joe’s voice doesn’t come in with bravado. It comes in like someone who’s been quiet for a while and finally found the courage to speak. The lyrics?
“I fell too far, and the ground was hard… I tried to fly without wings.”
That line hits different when you’ve lived a little. When you’ve pushed too far, too fast—maybe to prove something, maybe just to feel alive—and came crashing back down. The song doesn’t judge you for it. It meets you there. It sits with you.
And that’s what makes this track so potent. Where some bands explode into their pain, July for Kings simmers. The tension builds, but it never becomes melodrama. The guitar doesn’t wait; it mourns. The drums don’t march—they pulse like a heartbeat just trying to steady itself again. It’s a reminder that not everything profound has to be loud. Sometimes the real stuff whispers.
Here’s the thing: If I’d gone with my first instinct— “meh, I don’t remember these guys, probably not worth digging into”—I would’ve missed this. Again. And that right there is the sneaky brilliance of music and life: the good stuff often lives just beneath the noise.
It’s easy to dismiss a band because they didn’t make the charts. Or skip a track because it isn’t on the playlist someone curated for you. But if you stay open—if you listen like you’re still learning, you start to find little truths tucked in the folds of forgotten records.
“Without Wings” is one of those truths. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a parallel there: how many people, ideas, places, or moments have we passed over because we didn’t give them the time to speak?
Music, like life, rewards the patient and the curious. Stay open. You never know what you might find.
If “Without Wings” landed with you, don’t stop there. July for Kings may have only brushed against the mainstream, but their catalog’s got depth for days.
Notable Singles:
- “Normal Life” – Their biggest track, a soaring anthem about finding peace in the chaos.
- “Believe” – Big chorus, emotional and earnest.
- “Girlfriend” – Punchy and raw, with early-2000s radio rock bite.
Deep Cuts to Dig Into:
- “Bed of Ashes” – Brooding and intense, this one simmers with frustration and loss.
- “Meteor Flower” – A dreamier, more poetic track with subtle power.
- “Float Away” (Nostalgia) – A post-major-label track soaked in melancholy and reflection.
- “Blue Eyes” (Nostalgia) – Warm and haunted, one of their best slow-burners.
Without Wings doesn’t beg for your attention. It offers you something deeper: a mirror. A moment. A quiet confession that maybe… just maybe, we’ve all tried to fly before we were ready.
So, here’s your reminder: Don’t sleep on the deep cuts. Don’t skip the last few tracks. And don’t be so quick to write something-or someone—off.
You never know. It might be the song that helps you heal.
Late Night Grooves #159
WHOT Episode 159 – “Distance” by Emily King
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A gentle guitar riff floats in—familiar, forgiving. Emily’s voice is clean and aching.]
“WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight… we make space.
After everything we’ve walked through—
The weight. The rage. The unraveling.
There comes a moment when you don’t want to fight anymore.
You just want to breathe.
Emily King – “Distance.”
This track isn’t about drama.
It’s not about breaking.
It’s about acceptance.
“It’s not what we wanted, but let’s take a minute…”
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do—
Is let go without bitterness.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because you finally realize you do.
Emily’s voice doesn’t beg.
It understands.
The melody is clean.
The message is clear:
Some connections stretch so far, they just disappear.
And that’s not failure.
That’s life.
This track is the quiet in-between.
Between heartbreak and healing.
Between holding on and moving forward.
It’s not the answer.
It’s the breath you take before trying again.
And WHOT honors that breath.
Episode 159.
Emily King.
Distance.
I’m Mangus Khan.
Still soft.
Still strong.
Still here.”
Late Night Grooves #158
WHOT Episode 158 – “On and On” by Curtis Harding
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[The bassline curls in warm and lazy. The drums hit like heartbeats. Then that voice—cool, confident, and full of earned wisdom.]
“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
Episode 158.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight… we’re still carrying the weight.
But now?
We’re carrying it with rhythm.
Because healing doesn’t always show up loud.
Sometimes it shows up with a slow strut and a bassline that tells you:
You’re still here.
So keep going.
Tonight’s sermon:
Curtis Harding – “On and On.”
This is the sound of surviving with soul.
Not perfect. Not untouched.
But alive.
“I keep on loving you / On and on…”
He’s not just talking about a person.
He’s talking about life.
Loving it. Fighting with it.
Holding it like something sacred even when it’s cutting you up.
Curtis sings like someone who’s seen too much to lie—
But still finds a reason to show up with love anyway.
The horns come in like sunlight through a cracked window.
The drums move like breath.
The vibe says:
You made it through the dark.
So now let’s move.
This isn’t about erasing the pain.
It’s about dancing with it.
Because grief doesn’t disappear.
But joy can sit beside it.
And Curtis Harding?
He’s your reminder that both can exist at once.
Episode 158.
Curtis Harding.
On and On.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still here.
Still grooving.
Still choosing joy even when the beat slows down.
And if you’re out there tonight, thinking you can’t keep going—
Play this track again.
Let it remind you:
You already are.”
Late Night Grooves # 157
WHOT Episode 157 – “Whatever Lets You Cope” by Black Foxxes
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Static. Then silence. Then the guitar stumbles in—tentative, cracked. You already know this isn’t going to be easy.]
“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
Episode 157.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Still here.
And tonight… we’re not trying to rise above anything.
We’re just trying to make it to the other side.
Black Foxxes – “Whatever Lets You Cope.”
And this one?
This one isn’t loud until it has to be.
It’s about the way grief leaks into routine.
It’s about how some days survival looks like pretending to be okay just long enough to avoid the questions.
“I’ve been lying to my friends / For a little while now…”
That lyric?
That’s not drama.
That’s self-defense.
This song is the internal monologue most of us have learned how to bury.
The guitar barely hangs on.
The drums move like breath—shaky, uneven.
The voice?
It’s not asking you to feel bad for it.
It’s just telling the truth.
And here’s the truth this track gets right:
Coping doesn’t always look healthy.
Sometimes it’s detachment.
Sometimes it’s sarcasm.
Sometimes it’s not returning the call.
But it’s what gets you from one breath to the next.
And that’s what this episode is for.
Not healing.
Just honesty.
So if you’re here right now, listening in the dark—
Trying to make sense of the pieces that haven’t come back together yet—
This one’s for you.
Episode 157.
Black Foxxes.
Whatever Lets You Cope.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not asking you to be okay.
Just here to remind you:
***Whatever lets you cope…
Is enough.
Tonight.***”
Late Night Grooves #156
WHOT Episode 156 – “What Weighs on You” by Zig Mentality
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A low guitar loop spirals in, tight and tense. You feel the pressure before the first word is spoken.]
“WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.
Episode 156.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight… I don’t have a message.
I have a question.
What weighs on you?
What’s the thing you haven’t said out loud?
The thought that sticks to your ribs when the room goes quiet?
What’s making your bones heavy, your sleep short, your hands shake just a little when no one’s looking?
Tonight’s track doesn’t preach.
It doesn’t even fully answer.
But it asks.
Zig Mentality – “What Weighs on You.”
This song sounds like someone trying to hold their breath for too long.
The beat is tight, almost suffocating.
And the lyrics?
They’re not there to comfort.
They’re there to pull the weight out of your chest and show it to you.
“You don’t gotta say it / I already know…”
That line alone?
That’s what makes this track dangerous—
Not because it’s loud.
But because it sees you.
This isn’t about rage.
This is about the quiet, everyday heaviness most of us are too scared to name.
The pressure to perform.
The fear of letting people down.
The ache of wondering if this version of you is the one worth keeping.
Zig Mentality doesn’t yell here.
They let the discomfort sit.
The groove isn’t wild, it’s controlled chaos.
Because this track knows the hardest battles don’t make a sound.
So tonight, I’m not spinning a banger.
I’m spinning a mirror.
What weighs on you?
Episode 156.
Zig Mentality.
What Weighs on You.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Not handing out answers.
Just waiting with you in the silence that follows the truth.
Still listening.
Still asking.
Still here.”
Late Night #155
WHOT Episode 155 – “hometown” by cleopatrick
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Distorted guitar punches in without warning. No build-up, no warning—just impact. Then the words spill out—sarcastic, tired, and sharp as a busted bottle.]
“You’re back on Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Episode 155.
Let’s call tonight what it is—a reckoning.
This track right here?
It’s not a love letter.
It’s a middle finger in 4/4 time.
cleopatrick – ‘hometown.’
From their 2021 album BUMMER—an album that’s exactly what it says it is:
Heavy, pissed off, and painfully accurate.
And this song?
This is for anyone who had to shrink themselves to survive where they came from.
“And you never did like my hometown / And I never did like you.”
That’s not petty.
That’s truth.
This song is the sound of leaving behind the people who laughed when you tried.
The ones who called you fake when you evolved.
The ones who kept the town small, because small was all they could handle.
But the genius here?
It’s not just in the anger.
It’s in the specificity.
cleopatrick captures that weird space between rage and heartbreak.
When you’re not just mad at the town—
You’re mad at yourself for ever wanting to be seen by it.
The guitars are thick.
The drums are relentless.
The vocal delivery?
Half confrontation, half confession.
Because leaving a place doesn’t mean you escape it.
The memories come with you.
The shame.
The “maybe they were right” thoughts.
But here’s the thing:
This song doesn’t end with peace.
It ends with clarity.
That sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away from the version of you that made everyone else comfortable.
Episode 155.
cleopatrick.
hometown.
A breakup song for the version of you that settled.
A groove for the moment you stop apologizing for your volume.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still breaking free.
Still growing loud.
Still here.”
Late Night Grooves #154
WHOT Episode 154 – “Hard Enough” by The Parlor Mob
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A slow heartbeat of bass. A minor key guitar riff creeps in like smoke. Then that voice—worn, weighty, real.]
“You’ve got the dial set on Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And this is Episode 154.
The truth tonight?
Sometimes strength isn’t about standing tall.
It’s about how many times you stand back up—even when you don’t want to.
Tonight’s track:
The Parlor Mob – ‘Hard Enough’
From Dark Hour, 2019.
And this song doesn’t pretend.
It pleads.
Not to escape, but to hold on long enough to feel anything again.
“I’ve been waiting for a long time to feel alive…”
That lyric?
That’s the whole sermon.
This isn’t angst for aesthetics.
It’s exhaustion dressed in distortion.
The guitar’s slow.
The drums don’t explode—they grind.
Because this song knows:
Some days, it’s not demons you’re fighting.
It’s the weight of trying to be okay when you’re not.
There’s beauty in that honesty.
No swagger. No ego.
Just a voice trying to stay upright.
And that’s what Dark Hour does better than most albums of its kind.
It lets the cracks show.
It tells the truth about being strong in public and falling apart in private.
And on this track, The Parlor Mob gives us permission—
To admit it’s hard enough just to keep showing up.
Especially when the world tells you to toughen up instead of speak up.
So tonight, I’m not asking for your playlist favorite.
I’m asking you to let this song sit with you.
Let it say what maybe you’ve been afraid to.
Or what someone you love needs to hear but doesn’t know how to say.
Episode 154.
The Parlor Mob.
Hard Enough.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still holding on.
Still getting up.
Still here.”
Morning Vibe: The Reach
Track: “Wait for Me” – Luca D’Alberto
(Returning and Becoming, Track 1)
After stillness, there comes a choice—not to move, not to leap—but to risk. To turn ever so slightly outward. To whisper want into the silence and hope it doesn’t echo back empty. That’s where Wait for Me lives—in the vulnerable moment between being ready and being received.
The first notes don’t declare—they emerge, like morning fog over a river. Luca D’Alberto doesn’t craft drama here. He writes yearning. The kind that doesn’t beg to be seen, but hopes, quietly, that someone is looking. It’s the emotional posture of someone who has known solitude deeply, and now asks—not for rescue, but for recognition.
This isn’t a track about resolution. It’s about openness. The string work feels like breath returning to the body after a long silence, slowly warming the edges of what’s been cold for too long. It doesn’t reach for the listener. It allows the listener to approach—on their own time, in their own truth.
Where Ambre closed one chapter in sacred stillness, Wait for Me begins a new one with quiet courage. It asks a question that many of us carry beneath our ribs: If I make myself visible, will it be too much? Or—just maybe—will it be enough?
There’s no answer in this music. Only the reach. But even that is everything.
This is the sound of becoming visible again. Not loudly. Not fully. But bravely.
Suggested Pairings:
– A window slightly cracked to spring air you’re almost ready to feel
– A message you haven’t sent, sitting in drafts, waiting with you
– A quiet whisper to the world: “I don’t know where this leads. But I want to go.”
Another morning. Another chance. Another chance for hope. Carry it with you.
Late Night Grooves #153
WHOT Episode 153 – “Violent Shiver” by Benjamin Booker
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Feedback howls. Guitar crashes in like a car chase through gravel. Benjamin’s voice—raw, cracking, absolutely alive.]
“WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.
I’m Mangus Khan.
Episode 153.
And tonight, we don’t linger.
We lunge.
Because sometimes the only way to deal with the weight is to move fast enough it can’t catch you.
Benjamin Booker.
‘Violent Shiver.’
From his self-titled debut, 2014.
This track ain’t polished.
It ain’t pretty.
But that’s why it hits so hard.
The guitars grind like cheap wheels on a bad road.
The beat’s barely holding it together.
And Benjamin?
He’s not singing.
He’s shouting into the void, hoping it answers back.
“Have you seen my baby girl? / She’s got something that I need.”
Could be a woman.
Could be peace.
Could be his damn self.
And that’s the power of this song—
It’s a confession wrapped in speed.
There’s no time to analyze, no space for neat emotions.
Just adrenaline, grief, chaos, and something like hope if you squint hard enough.
This track isn’t about resolution.
It’s about survival through motion.
About how sometimes the only groove that makes sense is one that rattles your bones.
There’s soul here.
But it’s bleeding through punk skin.
And that?
That’s Late Night Grooves in its rawest form.
Not just sound.
Spill.
Episode 153.
Benjamin Booker.
Violent Shiver.
This is WHOT.
I’m Mangus Khan—
Still running.
Still lit.
Still here.”
Late Night Grooves #152
WHOT Episode 152 – “Goat Head” by Brittany Howard
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A subtle organ hums. Bassline slow as molasses. Then her voice: soft, wounded, precise.]
“You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
The signal that lives in the margins.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And this is Episode 152.
Tonight, we don’t just listen.
We reckon.
Because some stories don’t fit neatly into a melody.
Some truths come carved in the bone.
Tonight’s track:
Brittany Howard – ‘Goat Head.’
From her solo record Jaime.
And this one?
This one doesn’t care if you’re ready.
It just exists.
Like pain you forgot how to name.
“I was four years old when they threw a goat head in the back of my daddy’s car.”
And just like that—
The myth of a post-racial anything crumbles.
No build-up. No soft landing.
Just trauma—placed right there in the back seat.
Brittany doesn’t sing this with outrage.
She sings it like someone who’s had to live in the after.
Who’s had to grow up with blood on her history and grace in her lungs.
The music?
Bare. Measured.
Because when you’re telling the truth, you don’t need theatrics.
You just need clarity.
And that’s what “Goat Head” is—
A memory so sharp it shaves your soul.
But here’s where it goes even deeper—
The question she asks at the end?
“What is a Black life worth?”
That’s not rhetorical.
That’s personal inventory.
It’s about growing up wondering if the world sees you fully, or only in fragments.
It’s about code-switching as protection, and memory as inheritance.
This is not a song about justice.
This is a song about remembrance.
About being made of two worlds—Black and white—yet accepted by neither without condition.
Jaime, the album, is named for her late sister.
And you feel that ghost here—
Not haunting, but witnessing.
Watching from the corners of every note.
Because this song?
It’s not just an act of defiance.
It’s an act of preservation.
Brittany Howard isn’t asking you to agree.
She’s asking you to listen.
To sit in discomfort long enough to understand the weight she carries quietly.
Episode 152.
Brittany Howard.
Goat Head.
A hymn to identity, fractured and fused.
A groove with no forgiveness—only reflection.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still walking with ghosts.
Still naming what they tried to erase.
Still here.”
Morning Vibe: Let the World Wait
Track: “Ambre” – Nils Frahm
(Still and Returning, Track 3)
Not every morning asks you to rise. Some ask you to remain. To linger in the quiet space between breath and intention. To sit with yourself, not to fix or forge ahead, but simply to be. That’s where Ambre meets you.
Nils Frahm doesn’t compose for the ear. He composes for the in-between. The held breath. The overlooked thought. The moment just before emotion becomes language. In Ambre, the piano speaks in sighs, each note falling with the weight of memory that never asked to be remembered. It’s not sorrow. It’s recognition.
Where February Sea welcomed stillness and Ilumo gently stirred motion, Ambre closes the arc by dissolving the need for destination. It doesn’t build. It doesn’t resolve. It listens. And in its listening, it holds space for all that you’ve carried—and all that you’ve set down.
Sometimes we don’t need a bang. Sometimes we need to unfold, allowing ourselves to absorb the buzz, the silence, the stillness without silence. We live in a world that hums constantly—notification pings, emotional static, the pressure to perform even in our rest. Ambre doesn’t offer escape. It offers acceptance. A moment in which you can breathe without defending your pause.
This isn’t a soundtrack for action. It’s the sound of not flinching. Of bearing witness to yourself. Of saying, “I’m still here, even if I don’t know what comes next.” That’s not weakness. That’s grace.
You’ve returned to yourself. And that is the quiet triumph. Not escape. Not transformation. Just a small, grounded truth: you made it through the storm, and you are still breathing.
Let the world wait. Let it spin without you for a while.
Suggested Pairings:
– Bare feet on a cold floor, grounding you to now
– The last sip of lukewarm tea you forgot to finish
– A page in your journal with only one line:
“I no longer rush my own becoming.”
Another morning. Another chance. Another chance for hope. Carry it with you.
Late Night Grooves #151
WHOT Episode 151 – “Baptized in Muddy Water” by Ayron Jones
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[It begins not with fire, but with tension. Guitar feedback hums like a warning. Then the chords drop—heavy, unapologetic.]
“You’ve found your way to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Episode 151.
And if you’re hearing my voice tonight, maybe you’ve been somewhere dark.
Maybe you’re still there.
Tonight’s track?
Not for the unscarred.
Ayron Jones – ‘Baptized in Muddy Water.’
From Child of the State.
A title that isn’t poetic.
It’s personal.
A reminder that for some, identity isn’t chosen—it’s assigned by survival.
And the mud?
It’s not just metaphor.
It’s memory.
Trauma.
Systemic weight.
This song asks a question nobody likes to sit with:
What if your rebirth never came clean?
“I was baptized in muddy water / by the broken hands of time…”
Ayron isn’t glorifying pain.
He’s telling you: this is the water I was given.
Not holy.
Not pure.
Just real.
The guitars groan under the weight of his past.
The drums don’t carry a beat—they carry a burden.
And his voice…
It doesn’t cry for help.
It demands space.
For every foster kid who aged out.
For every addict who made it one more day.
For every person still learning how to wear their scars without shame.
This track doesn’t offer closure.
It offers recognition.
That your origin story might be muddy.
Might be cracked.
But it still made you.
And Ayron Jones?
He isn’t asking for a do-over.
He’s building something out of the debris.
Blues-rock fused with gospel bones.
Not nostalgia.
Not trend.
Just truth.
And that’s what this booth is for.
Not just sound.
Witnessing.
Episode 151.
Ayron Jones.
Baptized in Muddy Water.
A hymn for the haunted.
A groove for the ghosts you’ve learned to live with.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still spinning from the muddy side of grace.
Still here.”
Morning Vibe: The Quiet Return
Track: “Ilumo” – Toska
Not all comebacks are grand. Some arrive like breath you didn’t realize you were holding. That’s where Ilumo lives—in the liminal space between stillness and motion, absence and emergence.
Where February Sea lingers in the hush of loss—George Winston’s piano etching frost on memory—Ilouma steps gently into the thaw. It doesn’t try to inspire or uplift in the usual sense. Instead, it offers resonance—a quiet architecture of sound that mirrors the moment your soul begins to stretch back into itself.
Sometimes we don’t need a bang. Sometimes we need to unfold—to allow ourselves to take in everything around us: the buzz, the silence, and the stillness that is not silence. That buzz? It’s not just sound. It’s the persistent hum of worry. The glow of notifications. The background noise of obligation. We live in a world that’s rarely, if ever, truly quiet. And it wears on us more than we know.
That’s why a track like Ilumo matters. It’s not just music—it’s a recalibration. A slow, grounding return to presence. A chance to breathe, and to feel, without bracing.
The layered guitar work moves like light across old wood—slow, warm, familiar. Nothing here insists. It simply offers. There is motion, but no urgency. Healing, but not spectacle. You’re not sprinting into your week—you’re arriving, intact, despite it all.
This is for the mornings when you’re not quite okay, but no longer numb. When the ache hasn’t lifted, but you’ve decided to carry it with clarity. Ilumo is about the dignity of motion, not momentum. A meditation in resilience disguised as restraint.
It reminds us that return isn’t always about triumph. Sometimes, it’s just about showing up. Quietly. Honestly. Fully. And in that honesty, something stirs. Something begins again.
Suggested Pairings:
– Window slightly open to cold air you’re finally ready to feel
– Black coffee, no cream, sipped in silence
– A journal page with a single sentence: “I am still here.”
Another morning. Another chance. Another chance for hope. Carry it with you.
Late Night Grooves #150
WHOT Episode 150 – “Sweet Thing / Candidate / Sweet Thing (Reprise)” by David Bowie
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Needle down. Soft, dissonant piano creeps in. A slow breath. The mood is already uneasy.]
“One hundred and fifty episodes.
One hundred and fifty nights of ache, sweat, signal, silence.
And we mark it not with triumph, but with transformation.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT—the hottest in the cool.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Still here.
Tonight’s track?
We’re not just playing a song.
We’re walking through someone else’s mind—with the lights off.
David Bowie – ‘Sweet Thing / Candidate / Sweet Thing (Reprise).’
From Diamond Dogs, 1974.
This isn’t Ziggy.
It’s not The Duke.
This is the man between masks.
The sound of an identity molting.
And it’s unsettling.
Part one—‘Sweet Thing’.
Bowie’s voice is smooth. Seductive. Almost safe.
But there’s a crack in the foundation.
The words don’t line up. The melody drifts sideways.
You feel like you’re standing too close to something that might collapse.
And then it does.
‘Candidate’ slams in.
No warning. No mercy.
Suddenly Bowie isn’t whispering anymore—he’s selling something.
“I’ll make you a deal / Like any other candidate…”
Politics, seduction, self-loathing, power—they all blur.
And that’s the brilliance of it.
He’s showing you what happens when performance and truth fuse so tightly, you forget which is which.
And then—
‘Sweet Thing (Reprise)’.
A return, yes. But not a redemption.
The voice is thinner now.
Broken around the edges.
Like someone who’s finally come down… but doesn’t know what to do with the silence.
And this—this whole suite—it doesn’t resolve.
It dissolves.
Into echo.
Into static.
Into the sound of identity trying to survive itself.
That’s the genius of Bowie.
He never gave you answers.
He gave you mirrors.
And dared you to stand still long enough to see what was actually looking back.
Episode 150.
Not a celebration.
A checkpoint.
For the artists who shapeshift to survive.
For the listeners who know that the groove isn’t always warm.
Sometimes it’s cold. Unforgiving.
But still—necessary.
David Bowie.
Sweet Thing / Candidate / Sweet Thing (Reprise).
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still lost in the mirror.
Still broadcasting for the brave.
Still here.”
Morning Vibe: No Rush, Just Breath
Track: “February Sea” – George Winston
Some mornings don’t need a soundtrack that lifts you up—they need one that lets you sink in. That’s what “February Sea” by George Winston does. It doesn’t try to motivate you. It doesn’t chase drama. It just exists, quietly, patiently, like it knows exactly what kind of emotional weather you’re in and doesn’t mind sitting with you in it. It’s one of those pieces that doesn’t build toward anything grand. No climax. No message wrapped in a bow. It’s spacious and soft, full of pauses and held breath. Honestly, it sounds like memory in musical form—tentative, slow, a little cold around the edges, but still incredibly human.
I keep coming back to this track on Sundays, especially when the world feels like too much. There’s something sacred about its stillness. Not in the performative, overly dramatic way we sometimes package the word “sacred,” but in the deeply personal, quietly necessary way. This is reflection music—not the kind you put on to feel wise or aesthetic, but the kind that helps you actually stop and feel something real. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much you’ve been holding until you hear a song like this and finally, finally, exhale.
And let’s talk about that exhale for a second. Because we’re not just talking breath—we’re talking release. The kind of release that hits your shoulders, your chest, your heart. This track gives you permission to stop bracing. To unclench. To admit that maybe the week wore you out more than you let on. Reflection like this isn’t indulgent; it’s maintenance. It’s how we gather up all the pieces we scattered during the hustle and say, “Okay, this is where I’m at. Let’s begin again.”
George Winston doesn’t give us answers in this song. He gives us space. And sometimes, that’s so much more valuable. “February Sea” feels like someone leaving the door open while you sit in your feelings—no judgment, just presence. There’s an emotional honesty to that kind of soundscape. No fluff. No manipulation. Just you and your thoughts, floating together in a room full of soft piano and the kind of air that feels a little heavy, but safe.
So if you need a track that won’t tell you how to feel but will let you feel whatever rises, this is the one. Not flashy. Not fast. But true. And on a Sunday morning, sometimes that’s exactly what you need.
Suggested Pairings (for a quiet morning arc):
- “Weather Storm” – Craig Armstrong
Moody and cinematic, like walking through fog with intention. - “Be Still My Soul” – Liz Story
A hymn reimagined as a gentle unraveling of emotion. - “Only” – RY X
Minimal vocals and breathy vulnerability. - “Georgia” – Vance Joy
That moment when emotional warmth returns, slow and steady. - “Hope” – Michael Giacchino
A film score whispers that feels like the edge of something new.
Closing Thought:
Another morning. Another chance.
Sometimes what you need most isn’t movement—it’s stillness.
Let this be your breath, your mirror, your reset.
Carry it with you.
Late Night Grooves #149
WHOT Episode 149 – “The Jungle Line” by Joni Mitchell
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Drums begin—raw, repetitive, almost ritualistic. A strange synth cuts in like neon over ancient stone. Then: silence.]
“You’ve tuned in to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
The hottest in the cool.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight—Episode 149—we don’t just press play.
We unravel.
Because some songs aren’t made to move you.
They’re made to unsettle you.
And if you’ve got the nerve to stay with them long enough…
They’ll show you parts of yourself you didn’t know were watching.
The track?
Joni Mitchell – ‘The Jungle Line.’
From The Hissing of Summer Lawns, 1975.
A record people didn’t understand then.
A record people are still trying to catch up to.
And this track?
This was Joni swinging a wrecking ball through every box the industry tried to trap her in.
She was folk, right?
Soft guitars. Laurel Canyon sunsets.
Not here.
This time, she leads with drums.
Field recordings of Burundi drummers pounding like a heartbeat through barbed wire.
Then comes the Moog synth. Cold. Detached. Watching from a distance.
And over that?
Joni’s voice.
Observing. Dissecting.
Cool on the surface. But listen closer.
She’s not distant. She’s wounded.
Because this song?
It’s not about jungle rhythms or abstract art.
It’s about the white gaze.
About how we turn other cultures into wallpaper.
“Rousseau walks on trumpet paths / Safaris to the heart of all that jazz…”
She’s talking about appropriation.
About aesthetic tourism.
About the quiet violence of being seen but never understood.
And while she’s at it?
She’s looking at herself, too.
Because Joni wasn’t afraid to hold the mirror up to her own complicity.
That’s what makes this track bold.
Not just that she named it—
But that she included herself in the naming.
This is self-interrogation in 4/4 time.
And it’s uncomfortable.
But that’s what evolution sounds like.
The Jungle Line isn’t smooth.
It’s jagged.
It’s intentionally unresolved.
The drums never let up.
There’s no chorus.
No payoff.
Just this loop—
Like a mind circling a question it can’t stop asking.
And if you’ve ever sat in that kind of silence—
You know what this song feels like.
It’s not just a sonic experiment.
It’s a reckoning.
Episode 149.
Joni Mitchell.
The Jungle Line.
A groove that doesn’t soothe.
A voice that doesn’t plead.
Just a truth that won’t be simplified.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still digging through the uncomfortable.
Still playing the songs that refuse to make you comfortable.
Still broadcasting for the ones brave enough to listen all the way through.”
Late Night Grooves #148
WHOT Episode 148 – “Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes” by Betty Davis
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Low hum. Guitar fuzz creeps in like static from another dimension. The rhythm stirs—unsettling, insistent.]
“You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—broadcasting truth from a dimly lit booth, where the forgotten get remembered right.
Episode 148.
And this one?
This one’s for the woman who refused to fold.
The artist who didn’t ask permission.
Betty Davis.
The song?
Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes.
From They Say I’m Different, 1974.
A song about a woman the world used up, spit out, and moved on from without so much as a whisper.
And Betty?
She sings like a ghost in stilettos.
“She used to dance in nightclubs…
She used to sing in shows…”
You can hear it—this isn’t nostalgia.
It’s mourning.
It’s recognition.
And it’s personal.
Because Betty didn’t just write about this woman.
She was this woman.
A force.
A flame.
A Black woman in the 1970s telling the truth about sex, power, and control—loudly.
And for that?
She was erased.
Dropped by labels. Blackballed by men who couldn’t handle being outshone.
She never got the redemption arc.
She got silence.
But this track?
This is her pushing back—not with apologies, but with fire.
And here’s the part that breaks you if you’re listening closely:
She sings about someone disappearing…
While it was happening to her.
That’s not performance.
That’s premonition.
The music? Gritty. Gnarled.
It doesn’t rise or fall. It grinds.
Like time chewing someone up.
And her voice?
It’s not trained. It’s untrained on purpose.
Because the truth doesn’t need polish.
It needs courage.
Betty Davis gave more than most could handle.
And she paid for it.
But not here.
Not on this station.
On Late Night Grooves, we remember.
We honor.
And we let her voice be what it always was—
Loud. Uncompromising. Necessary.
Episode 148.
Betty Davis.
Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still walking with the women they tried to forget.
Still spinning stories that deserve to echo.”
Morning Vibe: We Circle Through the Night, Consumed by Fire
Track: “We Circle Through the Night, Consumed by Fire”—Max Richter
Some nights aren’t for rest.
They’re for reckoning.
You move through shadows—not lost, just unsettled. Pulling memories, holds, heartbreaks, back into orbit. You don’t sleep—you circle. The pulse in your chest matches something ancient, something eternal.
And yet, through it all, it burns.
It’s not a blaze that consumes, but a fire that refines. You’re not undone. You’re changed.
Max Richter’s “We Circle Through the Night, Consumed by Fire” is exactly that heat.
No lyrics. No distractions. Just strings and silence merging into something elemental. Like standing in the center of a fire that doesn’t want to kill you, but wants to show you what’s at your core.
It starts quietly, like putting your hand near a flame to test it. The strings pull taut. Shadows deepen. Your chest tightens because the warmth stings.
Then it grows. And not with crescendo, but with depth. Like a truth you can’t look away from. An ember that glows without burning you. A ritual that says: You’re alive enough to feel it all, and that’s courage.
So today, if you’re waking to the ghost of a midnight that won’t let go—know this:
You’re here. You’re breathing.
You circled the night—
and came back to the altar of your own becoming.
You’re not broken. You’re in progress.
Some mornings don’t need more light.
They need presence.
And the willingness to face your fire head-on.
Another morning. Another chance. Another chance for hope. Carry it with you.
Late Night Grooves #147
WHOT Episode 147 – “I Still Love You” by Ann Peebles
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Low crackle. The beat eases in—slow, steady, unbothered. Ann’s voice follows: calm, clear, resolute.]
“WHOT.
The hottest in the cool.
You’re back inside Late Night Grooves.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Tonight—Episode 147—we sit with a song that’s soft on delivery and brutal in truth.
Ann Peebles.
‘I Still Love You.’
From Straight from the Heart, 1972.
Now let me tell you something:
This song is dangerous.
Not because it screams.
But because it doesn’t.
It says the quiet part out loud—
And still keeps its composure.
“I still love you…
I just don’t know why.”
That’s it.
That’s the whole ache.
Have you ever loved someone past the point where it made sense?
Past the apologies, past the clarity, past the part where you swore you were done?
And yet… there it is.
Still lodged in your chest like a name you’re too proud to whisper but too broken to forget.
Ann sings that moment.
But she doesn’t collapse under it.
She holds it.
Like a glass of water with just enough shake to tell you it’s heavy—but she’s not dropping it.
That’s strength.
That’s what most heartbreak songs get wrong.
They act like falling apart is the only honest outcome.
But sometimes?
The bravest thing you can do is keep standing.
Still in love.
Still confused.
Still moving forward anyway.
The groove on this track—
It doesn’t chase the drama.
It lets the weight of the words settle in.
The drums, the guitar—they give her room.
Room to tell the truth with elegance.
Ann Peebles has that rare gift:
She can sound like she’s telling you a secret while looking you dead in the eye.
That’s not performance.
That’s presence.
So if you’re listening tonight and you’re carrying some old name you never gave back—
Some love you still haven’t found the exit for—
This one’s for you.
It doesn’t judge.
It doesn’t fix.
It understands.
Episode 147.
I Still Love You.
Ann Peebles.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—
Still honoring the slow truths.
Still playing what most folks are afraid to feel.”
Late Night Grooves #146
WHOT Episode 146 – “I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know” by Donny Hathaway
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[The needle drops. Slow, mournful horns seep in like breath through clenched teeth. A Rhodes electric piano begins to speak.]
“WHOT.
The hottest in the cool.
You’re tuned to Late Night Grooves.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight…
We surrender.
To what we feel.
To what we can’t fix.
And to the voices that somehow carry all that weight with grace.
Tonight’s sermon?
Donny Hathaway – ‘I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know.’
From Extension of a Man, 1973.
Let me tell you something—this isn’t a song you casually toss on a playlist.
This is the kind of track you crawl into when your love isn’t pretty, but it’s real.
Donny doesn’t sing this—he bleeds it.
“If I ever leave you, you can say I told you so…”
That’s not romance.
That’s reality.
This is a man trying to explain how deep his love goes—not despite the pain, but because of it.
The horns swell like unresolved guilt.
The piano doesn’t dance—it aches.
And Donny?
His voice is velvet dipped in desperation.
Controlled. Composed. But at the edge of cracking.
You don’t sing like this unless you’ve begged at a closed door.
Unless you’ve made promises knowing you might break them, but meant every word anyway.
What makes this track devastating isn’t just the love he’s singing about.
It’s the weight of knowing that no matter what he gives, it still might not be enough.
And he sings it anyway.
That’s the part that wrecks you.
Because sometimes love isn’t clean.
Sometimes it’s a war inside you—a tug-of-war between what you feel and what you fear.
And Donny gives us all of it.
Raw. Luminous. Exhausted.
Extension of a Man is filled with brilliance—arrangements that stretch and breathe, compositions that soar.
But this one?
This is the heart.
The bleeding core.
And you don’t walk away from it the same.
Episode 146.
Donny Hathaway.
I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know.
This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Holding space for all of it—
The glory. The grief. The grip.
Stay with me.
The night’s not done yet.”
Morning Vibe: The Light Wants You Back
Track: “Sun Goddess” – Ramsey Lewis (feat. Earth, Wind & Fire)
We ended last night with Marvin Gaye’s “Time to Get It Together.”
That was full-body truth—grit, regret, realization.
It was Marvin laying it bare so you could look in your own mirror with less fear.
And after a night like that, you don’t need another push.
You need a hand.
You need a warm breeze.
You need music that doesn’t demand, but understands.
Enter: “Sun Goddess.”
It doesn’t come to save you.
It comes to remind you.
Remind you what softness feels like.
What warmth feels like.
What permission feels like.
That’s Al McKay on guitar—and he sets the tone.
He’s not chasing spotlight. He’s creating space.
Each chord is a gesture of calm—a slow exhale, a reminder that groove doesn’t have to be loud to be undeniable.
McKay plays like someone who knows you’ve been through something.
He doesn’t pull you out of it—he walks beside you.
His tone? Sunlight in motion.
His rhythm? Confidence without pressure.
He gives you room to rise, without asking you to rush.
Then Don Myrick steps in on sax—and the whole track exhales with him.
That horn doesn’t cut through the mix. It levitates in it.
Myrick doesn’t just solo—he testifies.
He stretches sound into feeling.
Each note bending like it’s reaching for something just out of view, but still possible.
His tone is warm, rounded, aching in places—but never sad.
There’s reverence in how he plays, not for performance, but for presence.
He’s not there to impress you. He’s there to bless you.
And let’s not ignore the rhythm section—the heartbeat behind it all.
The bass doesn’t walk—it glides.
The keys shimmer like light on water.
The drums are barely there—and yet they hold everything steady.
It’s not a rhythm you dance to—it’s one you lean into.
It’s foundation. A floor for your soul to stand on.
So today, don’t rush.
Don’t fix.
Don’t explain.
Just open a window.
Let this groove do what it was made to do: remind you that you’re still in it.
Still rising.
Still worthy.
You don’t have to chase the light.
The light wants you back.
And remember—each day, we have a choice:
Whether or not to make it great.
Don’t let anyone steal your joy.
Where is the light trying to find you today?
Morning Vibe: What You Can’t Say Still Speaks
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
There are mornings when language feels like a trap.
When the words you know aren’t enough to carry what you feel.
When you’re tired of translating your pain for people who won’t listen.
When every sentence feels like it’s bending around the truth, but never touching it.
That’s when music like this finds you.
“Experience” by Ludovico Einaudi isn’t a song—it’s an unraveling.
It starts small. Restrained. Controlled. Like the way we try to hold ourselves together when we don’t feel safe falling apart.
But it builds. Slowly. Honestly. Like emotion rising in the chest—tension you’ve ignored too long, making its way to the surface in waves.
Sometimes, you need to change things up—not for show, but for survival. Because life doesn’t always come at you in the usual ways. It hits sideways. It rearranges your insides. Some days you wake up like you don’t even know your name—like you’re reaching for a nametag that isn’t there.
And in those moments, words won’t help. Advice won’t land. Even your own voice might not sound right.
That’s when you need sound without language.
Music that moves with you when your mind can’t keep up.
Sound that understands before you do.
This track doesn’t tell you what to feel. It just clears space for you to feel what’s already there. And sometimes, that’s more honest than anything you could say out loud.
So today, if your thoughts feel too loud, if your chest feels tight, if you don’t know how to explain what’s happening inside you—don’t.
Let this piece say it for you.
Let it carry what you can’t name.
And trust that not every truth needs translation.
Some of the most honest things we ever feel never pass through our mouths at all.
Late Night Grooves #144
TUNAGE – LNG
WHOT Episode 144 – “Ballad of the Sad Young Men” by Roberta Flack
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A low crackle. A piano chord that barely dares to speak. The room holds its breath.]
“This is WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.
I’m Mangus Khan, and tonight…
I won’t talk over the silence.
I’ll sit in it with you.
Because that’s what this track demands.
Roberta Flack.
‘Ballad of the Sad Young Men.’
From Chapter Two, 1970.
And what a chapter it is.
Not just in her catalog, but in all of ours.
Because this song doesn’t care how tough you act.
It doesn’t care about bravado or performative pain.
It cuts past all that.
And it speaks to the truth we don’t say out loud:
That so many of us—especially men—were taught to carry our sadness like it was shame.
And what do you do with that?
You drink. You drift.
You disappear one piece at a time.
“Trying not to drown…”
Those words aren’t poetry.
Their documentation.
Roberta sings like someone who has seen people fall apart from the inside and still held them close.
Her voice doesn’t tremble. It understands.
She sings from a place of deep, unspoken mourning—
not for death, but for potential.
For the lives that could have been whole, had they just been allowed to feel.
There’s no big chorus.
No crescendo.
The song just… lingers.
Like grief.
Like a memory you keep folding and unfolding in your pocket.
And that’s why this track matters.
Because in a culture that praises resilience but punishes vulnerability,
This song dares to say: Some of us are barely holding it together.
And that’s not weakness.
That’s human.
Episode 144.
For the ones who never got the space to fall apart.
For the people who never asked for much—just room to be real.
Roberta Flack.
Ballad of the Sad Young Men.
You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Still playing what the world forgot.
Still honoring the ache we carry quietly.”
Shuggie’s Boogie: The Kind of Guitar Playing That Makes You Question Your Life Choices
TUNAGE – SLS
In the endless debate about great guitarists, you know the names. They’re on every list. Hendrix. Clapton. Page. Santana. Occasionally, a few lesser-knowns sneak in—someone you maybe don’t know, so you check them out, nod, and go, “Okay, yeah, I see it.”
But there’s another tier. The ones who don’t make the lists. Not even the cool-guy “most underrated” lists. They’re ghosts. Phantoms. Legends whispered about in liner notes and sampled by producers who dig deeper than algorithms ever will.
Shuggie Otis is one of those.
Listening to Shuggie’s Boogie from Live in Williamsburg is like that moment in a bar when you stop in for a bite, thinking you’re just killing time. You sit down, order something greasy, maybe a beer. Then the band starts playing. No intro. No warning. You take a bite… and stop mid-chew. Fork halfway to your mouth. What the hell is happening on that stage?
You forget the food. You forget your phone. You just listen.
That’s what this track is. It blindsides you.
Shuggie doesn’t approach the guitar like a technician. He approaches it like someone who’s got something to say. This isn’t about speed or theory—it’s about attitude, feel, and intention. Every phrase lands with the kind of swagger that only comes from living a weird, sideways kind of life through music.
And the band? Locked in like they’ve been rehearsing for a world tour no one told you about. His son, Eric Otis, adds guitar textures like he’s painting in the shadows of his dad’s lead lines. Nick Otis, Shuggie’s brother, holds down drums with a groove that feels more instinct than effort. James Manning on bass is the glue—thick, steady, unshakeable.
The horns—Larry Douglas (trumpet, flugelhorn), Michael Turre (baritone sax, flute, piccolo, backing vocals), and Albert Norris—aren’t just dressing. They’re characters in the story, adding stabs and swells that make you lean in closer. And Russ “Swang” Stewart on keys knows exactly when to tuck in a note and when to let it bloom.
This isn’t a polished, clinical performance. It’s gritty. There’s some dirt under its nails. Some bark in the tone. But that’s why it works. There’s a certain beauty in letting the edges stay frayed. It’s alive. Like something could fall apart at any moment… but never quite does.
Shuggie recorded the original Shuggie’s Boogie when he was 17. Which is already annoying, because it was brilliant even then. But this live version? It’s deeper. Older. Wiser. Looser. He stretches out, takes his time, throws notes like curveballs that somehow always hit the strike zone.
It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t need to be on a list to prove anything.
If you’re into guitar playing that hits your chest more than your brain, this is your track. If you’ve ever dropped your fork because of a solo… well, maybe you already know.
And if you’ve never heard of Shuggie Otis? Good. You’ve got some listening to do.
Late Night Grooves #143
TUNAGE – LNG
WHOT Episode 143 – “You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks” by Funkadelic
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Slow fade-in. Bass pulses like a heartbeat made of anger. Faint background voices swirl like ghosts.]
“This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan, coming to you from the edge of the dial, where the truth still gets airplay.
Episode 143.
And we’re not whispering tonight.
We’re spinning something righteous.
Funkadelic – ‘You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks.’
Off Maggot Brain, 1971.
This record ain’t just legendary—it’s lethal.
And this track? It’s one of those songs that pretends to be polite just long enough to get through the door—then it rips the mask off.
It’s got a groove so thick you could drown in it.
A beat that feels like a revolution marching in slow motion.
But don’t get it twisted. This ain’t just funk.
“If you and your folks love me and my folks like me and my folks love you and your folks…
There’d be no folks to hate.”
That lyric hits different, doesn’t it?
That’s George Clinton, breaking it all the way down.
No metaphors. No sugarcoat. Just logic, looped over a bassline.
See, while the radio was still playing safe, Funkadelic said: Let’s talk race. Let’s talk power. Let’s talk what America refuses to admit.
And they did it with drums. With distortion. With harmony that dared you to disagree.
This track calls out segregation—not just in law, but in love.
It says: What if we dropped the fear? The fiction?
What if you actually believed in the humanity of the folks on the other side of the fence?
That’s a wild idea in 1971.
Hell—it’s still wild now.
And the kicker?
This song makes you move while it messes with your conscience.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
Maggot Brain as an album doesn’t give you answers.
It holds up the mirror—and laughs while you try to look away.
That’s art. That’s courage.
And that’s why Funkadelic still matters.
So tonight, we don’t run from the tension.
We ride it.
Episode 143.
Funkadelic.
“You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks.”
Only on Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—reminding you:
If the groove don’t make you think,
Then it ain’t doing its job.”
Morning Vibe: Shine Without Permission
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
There’s a quiet shame that creeps in when you’ve been underestimated for too long. It teaches you to shrink. To make it easier for you to digest. To second-guess your light just to keep others comfortable.
But today? No more of that.
Sugar Pie DeSanto doesn’t walk in the room—she claims it. “Soulful Dress” isn’t just about looking good. It’s about being unapologetically visible. About wearing your power like it’s sewn into your seams.
There’s no begging in her voice. No need for approval. Just heat, humor, and absolute self-possession. And that’s not ego. That’s earned identity.
You can hear the years in her phrasing. The times she was probably overlooked. The times she had to be louder just to be heard. And now? She’s not asking anymore. She’s telling you who she is.
So on this Sunday, don’t hide your brilliance under modesty or fear. Don’t apologize for your joy, your style, your full-volume presence.
Put on your soulful dress—whatever that means to you. And don’t dim it down for anybody.
Because this kind of shine? It’s not loud. It’s lived.
Late Night Grooves #142
TUNAGE – LNG
WHOT Episode 142 – “Make a Smile for Me” by Bill Withers
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Vinyl hiss. A single piano note drops like a tear in water. Silence. Then:]
“Good evening, if it even is one.
This is Late Night Grooves, and I’m Mangus Khan.
You’re listening to WHOT—where the frequencies know your secrets.
And tonight… we’re not here for noise.
We’re here for something soft. Something sacred.
Bill Withers. “Make a Smile for Me.”
Now listen—most people only know Bill through the songs that became slogans.
“Lean on Me.” “Lovely Day.” Clean. Uplifting.
But this one?
This isn’t about leaning.
This is about barely standing.
This song lives in that space where the strong start to crack—but won’t ask for help out loud.
“If I lose my way, and my mind is gone… / Make a smile for me.”
Have you ever felt that?
That moment when you don’t need saving. You don’t even need fixing.
You just need someone to see you.
To send a little light back your way.
That’s what this song is.
It’s a candle flickering in a window, you’re not sure anyone’s still watching.
And the way Bill sings it—
He’s not polished. He’s not dramatic.
He’s real.
And maybe that’s the thing about Bill Withers that hits hardest:
He never acted like the world owed him anything.
He wrote music for people who get up early, who bury their sadness in routine, who survive because they have to, not because they’re fearless.
’Justments, the album this track comes from—it’s not about hits. It’s about process.
About what happens when the lights go out and the silence gets loud.
And “Make a Smile for Me”?
That’s not a love song.
It’s a lifeline.
And not every listener will get that.
But you?
You’re here, on Episode 142.
You’ve made it this far through the haze, the heartbreak, the static.
You do get it.
So tonight, while this plays…
Let it remind you:
Even at your most undone, there’s beauty in simply asking.
And grace in being heard.
Bill Withers.
“Make a Smile for Me.”
Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Still here.
Still listening.
For you—and for the silence you don’t have words for.”
Morning Vibe: What the Hurt Took — The Cost of Holding On
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
Some losses are loud—funerals, breakups, broken glass. But some pain moves in quiet ways. It shows up as sleepless nights. As numbness. At the moment, you laugh but feel nothing inside.
And here’s the thing: that kind of pain always comes with a cost. You don’t just survive it and walk away clean. There’s a price. And whether it’s your peace, your trust, your tenderness, you paid something.
We don’t always talk about that. We praise resilience, but skip over what resilience took. We love a comeback story, but rarely stop to ask what it cost to crawl back from the brink.
O.V. Wright’s “A Nickel and a Nail” isn’t just a heartbreak song—it’s a soul inventory. It’s a man taking stock of what life left him with. And the answer? Not much. Just the bare minimum and a voice still willing to tell the truth.
His delivery is stripped down. Raw. There’s no ego in it. Just survival.
The band doesn’t build to a resolution—it stays right there with him, sitting in the ache. No lift. No redemption arc. Just the sound of dignity refusing to disappear.
So if today you’re feeling hollow, spent, like all you’ve got left is fragments—don’t dress it up. Don’t rush past it. Sit with it.
You’re not broken. You’re just holding the receipt.
Late Night Grooves #141
TUNAGE – LNG
WHOT Episode 141 – “Oh Baby” by Aretha Franklin
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[A breath. Vinyl static rises like wind across a gravel road. A faint piano chord settles in.]
“It’s after midnight.
You’ve crossed over into Late Night Grooves.
WHOT—The hottest in the cool.
I’m Mangus Khan, your host and your echo.
Tonight we spin Aretha Franklin.
Not the queen with the coronation hits. Not ‘Respect’ or ‘Chain of Fools’ or any of the polished brilliance that got sewn into American memory.
No.
Tonight we drop the needle on a cut you don’t hear in commercials or cover bands.
“Oh Baby.”
From Spirit in the Dark, 1970.
And if you think you know Aretha, this one might shake that belief loose.
See, the world remembers the power. The strength. The majesty.
But they forget—or maybe they never noticed—that tucked deep inside that voice was something else:
Vulnerability so sharp it could wound you.
That’s what you hear in “Oh Baby.”
She’s not just singing. She’s unraveling.
“Oh baby… don’t you break my heart this time…”
It’s a plea, but there’s no collapse.
This isn’t begging. This is knowing. This is Aretha standing in the eye of the storm, not because she’s weak—but because she’s lived through enough heartbreak to recognize its scent in the wind.
The voice is still thunder, sure—but here, the thunder whispers.
And that’s the part that knocks you flat.
We celebrate her vocal fire so much that we sometimes miss the quiet devastation she was capable of.
This track aches. The band plays loose, like they’re afraid to crowd her.
The rhythm sways. The piano drifts.
And Aretha?
She gives you less—and that makes it hit harder.
She holds back just enough to let the words sink in.
Because when someone like Aretha pulls back?
That silence is louder than most folks’ whole catalog.
“Oh Baby” isn’t about heartbreak.
It’s about the moment before—when you see it coming and you still dare to hope it’ll pass you by.
That’s where this song lives.
That moment of raw honesty between two people… and between a singer and her truth.
Episode 141.
Spirit in the Dark is the album.
“Oh Baby” is the confession.
And Aretha?
She’s not just performing.
She’s offering a version of herself that most fans were never ready for.
And still aren’t.
This is Late Night Grooves.
Only on WHOT.
I’m Mangus Khan.
And tonight, we don’t rise—we reveal.”
Morning Vibe: You’re Not Broken—You’re Honest
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
There’s a myth we’re sold early: that strength means endurance. That if you just keep going—keep producing, performing, showing up with a half-smile and hollow eyes—you’re doing it right.
But the truth is, some of us aren’t pushing through. We’re breaking down in slow motion.
And here’s the harder truth: that breaking point you fear? It might be the first honest thing you’ve felt in a long time.
We don’t talk enough about what it means to hold too much for too long. The weight of unspoken grief. The quiet exhaustion of being the strong one. The way pain stacks up when there’s no space to lay it down.
But when you reach the edge, when you feel the cracks spidering through your spirit, don’t mistake that for failure. That’s feedback. That’s your soul pulling the emergency brake. That’s your body trying to save your life.
Today’s track: “I’m at the Breaking Point” by Spencer Wiggins.
This isn’t a performance. It’s a confession. Wiggins doesn’t belt it out—he bleeds it. His voice trembles with restraint, like it knows if he leans in too hard, the whole thing will fall apart. And that’s the power of it.
The band doesn’t rush him. The groove holds still. It leaves space for the truth to echo. No resolution, no tidy bow. Just the raw fact: I can’t carry this much longer.
That honesty? That’s strength too.
So today, if you’re close to the edge, don’t shame yourself. Don’t hide it. Let the breaking point be a checkpoint. A place to breathe, not to collapse. Say what hurts. Sit with it. And know that just because you’re breaking doesn’t mean you’re broken.
Sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is stop pretending you’re okay.
Late Night Grooves #140
TUNAGE – LNG
WHOT Episode 140 – “Too High” by Stevie Wonder
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Soft fade-in of a swirling synth line. Vinyl hiss like cigarette smoke in a quiet room.]
“You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT—the hottest in the cool.
I’m Mangus Khan. And tonight, we kick off something special.
25 deep cuts.
25 nights.
No hits. No fluff. Just truth.
And we’re starting with the prophet himself: Stevie Wonder.
Not the crowd-pleaser. Not the pop machine.
We’re talking about Innervisions.
This wasn’t just an album. This was a broadcast from the soul of a man who had seen too much—with no eyes at all—and was finally ready to speak plainly.
You want joy? He gives you ‘Golden Lady.’
You want fire? He gives you ‘Living for the City.’
You want warning? He opens the whole thing with this:
“Too High.”
Now this track isn’t subtle.
It’s not asking you to decode it.
It’s telling you straight up—this is what happens when you float too far from yourself.
“She always seems so happy in a crowd / Whose eyes can be so deceptive…”
The groove is slick. Almost too slick.
It’s a trap.
Synths swirl like smoke. Bassline crawls. The vocal is smooth on the surface, but listen close—it’s haunted.
This is Stevie writing not to entertain you, but to warn you.
Because Innervisions is that rare thing in a musician’s catalog: a moment of total clarity.
Before the gloss of Songs in the Key of Life.
Before the heartbreak of Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants.
This is Stevie at the intersection of genius and urgency.
And in my book?
Innervisions is the crown jewel.
Yeah, I said it.
You can argue for Talking Book or Key of Life, sure.
But Innervisions is the one where he stops trying to impress and just tells the truth.
And that’s why we’re starting here.
Because if you’re gonna go deep, you need someone who’s already lived there.
Stevie Wonder—Too High.
Episode 140.
The beginning of a 25-night descent into the soul of music that matters.
Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan.
Still here. Still listening. Still ready.”
Morning Vibe: Everyone’s Carrying Something
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
We talk about empathy like it’s easy. Like it’s just a mindset or a moment. But real empathy—lived empathy—isn’t passive. It’s gritty. It’s humbling. It requires you to sit with what you don’t like, don’t understand, or maybe don’t want to see in yourself.
It means listening when you’d rather speak. Pausing when you want to react. It means recognizing that everyone is carrying something—loss, fear, shame, pride—and most of it is invisible.
The truth is, we rarely know the full story of the people we judge. We react to what’s loud, but healing lives in what’s quiet.
Some of the kindest people you’ll meet have every reason not to be. And the harshest ones? They’re often walking around with untreated wounds they’ve renamed as personality.
That’s why grace isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It’s choosing to look past your own need to be right, and instead saying: I don’t know where you’ve been. But I know pain when I see it.
Today’s track: “Walk a Mile in My Shoes” by Willie Hightower.
Willie doesn’t plead. He tells. There’s steel in his softness. That voice sounds like it’s been through storms—quiet ones—and came out with something deeper than pride: perspective.
This isn’t just a soul track. It’s a soul mirror.
So today, don’t just practice empathy. Let it stretch you. Let it scrape a little. And when you feel yourself slipping into judgment, stop and remember: somebody might be saying the same thing about you, with even less understanding.
Grace isn’t a gift. It’s a decision. And most days, it’s the hardest one you’ll make.
Blues from the Shadows: Chuck Norris and In the Evening
TUNAGE – SLS
First, a quick word on the man behind the madness: Chuck Norris (no, not the roundhouse legend—the blues Chuck Norris) was an American blues guitarist born on August 11, 1921, in Kansas City, Missouri. A fixture in the post-war West Coast jazz and blues scene, Norris played with the likes of Floyd Dixon and Little Richard before stepping into the spotlight with his own recordings. Forget synthwave nostalgia—this Chuck comes armed with blood-drawing licks and a voice full of scars.
The track “In the Evening (When the Sun Goes Down)” comes from The Los Angeles Flash, a live recording captured in 1980 in Gothenburg, Sweden. The album, gritty and unvarnished, is the last known recording of Chuck Norris as a frontman. While his name rarely topped marquees, his guitar was a secret weapon behind some of the biggest names in rhythm and blues. Norris built his legacy in the shadows—session work, backing bands, and uncredited magic—but The Los Angeles Flash is where he finally took center stage.
So what does a man with decades of sideman dues to his name sound like when he finally steps into the spotlight? Let’s talk about “In the Evening.”
Let’s be clear: when Chuck Norris hits you with a track titled “In the Evening,” you’re not getting candlelight and whispered promises. You’re getting a slow-burn blues simmer—equal parts cigarette smoke and heartbreak. This isn’t background music. It’s the sound of someone who’s seen too much and plays like it’s his last night on Earth.
“In the Evening” unfolds with deliberate weight. From the first chord, Norris sets the tone: heavy, moody, and unafraid of silence. The groove is thick and smoky, the kind that makes you want to pour a drink you can’t afford and stare out a rain-streaked window. His guitar doesn’t just sing—it testifies.
The vocals? Low, worn, and half-growled. Norris delivers each line like he’s been through it—and probably twice. You believe him when he says he’s got the blues, because his fingers back it up with every tortured bend and unhurried lick. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it hits hard, especially when he lets a note hang just long enough to make your chest tighten.
Where the album’s title track struts with brass-knuckled bravado, “In the Evening” sits back in the dark and dares you to come closer. It’s introspective, emotionally raw, and not afraid to sit in its own shadow. Think late-career Muddy Waters meets a bottle of something aged and unforgiving.
Now, is it perfect? Not quite. There’s a verse or two where the pacing drags a hair too long, and you wonder if the band nodded off for a second. But that’s part of the charm—this is live-wire blues played by humans, not robots. No polish. Just grit. In the end, “In the Evening” doesn’t need to beg for your attention. It earns it. Slowly. Relentlessly. Put it on when the night’s too quiet and your thoughts are too loud. Let Chuck Norris pull up a chair beside your regrets and keep you company until the bottle runs dry
Morning Vibe: The Cost of Quiet Rage — The Revolution Starts Inside
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
We’ve been taught to fear anger. To stuff it down, dress it up, spin it into something more polite. But here’s the truth: anger isn’t dangerous—it’s directional. It points to where the wound is. It tells you what matters.
The real danger? Repression.
The problem with stuffing down our anger is that it’s not going away. It’s just waiting. And when it finally comes out—and it will—it usually picks the worst time. The wrong person. The messiest way. That’s when it does damage. Sometimes the kind you can’t undo.
Anger is energy. And when it’s focused—not flailing—it becomes clarity. Fuel. Fire for movement, not destruction. The issue isn’t that we feel too much—it’s that we’ve been trained to bury the very thing that could set us free.
So this morning, we’re not smoothing things over. We’re tuning in.
Today’s track: “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” by Gil Scott-Heron.
This isn’t a song—it’s a statement. A warning. A promise. Gil doesn’t sugarcoat it. He spits truth over jazz and funk like it’s a weapon. Because it is. He knew what so many still don’t: the revolution isn’t a spectacle. It’s personal. It’s internal. And it’s already happening.
So don’t flinch from your anger today. Don’t numb it. Listen to it. Then move with it.
Late Night Grooves #139
TUNAGE-LNG
WHOT Episode 139 – “My Country Suga Mama” by Howlin’ Wolf
Hosted by Mangus Khan
[Vinyl crackle, slow blues guitar riff enters like it’s been waiting for this moment all week.]
“It’s after midnight. The world’s too quiet, and your thoughts are too loud.
You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT—The hottest in the cool.
And I’m Mangus Khan. Keeper of the turntables. Priest of the B-side gospel.
And tonight, we light a candle for Howlin’ Wolf.
Born June 10th, 1910. Didn’t sing the blues—he bent them, broke them, rearranged them until they stopped being music and started being medicine.
The track tonight is “My Country Suga Mama.” Last studio album. The Back Door Wolf, 1973. He was old. He was sick. He was done with pretending.
And here’s the thing about Wolf—if you thought you knew what the blues were, he made you start over.
He wasn’t clean. He wasn’t smooth. He didn’t slide into your speakers; he crashed through them.
That voice? It didn’t sing—it warned. It confessed. It dared you to look away.
And you didn’t even know what you were hearing at first. You just knew it grabbed something in your gut and held it.
Then came the feelings. All of them. Unlabeled, unapologetic.
“She got a bed in her kitchen, a stove in her bedroom too…”
See, this song isn’t just about a woman. It’s about comfort in chaos. It’s about the kind of love that don’t need logic, just location.
And musically? It doesn’t walk—it stomps. That groove’s got mud on its boots. The rhythm swings like it’s got nothing left to prove.
Wolf’s band knew exactly how far to push without cleaning him up. And that restraint? That’s the secret.
You don’t listen to Howlin’ Wolf. You let him happen to you.
You feel weird. You feel raw.
And somehow… You walk away better.
So yeah, maybe you came in here tonight looking for comfort.
But sometimes the truth doesn’t comfort—it rattles. And it’s better that way.
Let’s listen close.
This is Howlin’ Wolf.
‘My Country Suga Mama.’
Happy birthday, old dog.
Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.
And I’m Mangus Khan—spinning what the world forgot and what your soul’s been needing.”
Grooving with Glyn: Weekly Finds – June 10
TUNAGE – MMB
Here we are, another week of our musical journey in the month of June.
Today in music history, the blues legend Howlin’ Wolf was born on June 10, 1910. A towering figure in electric blues, his voice was gravel and thunder, his presence unmatched. His influence still echoes through generations of rock and blues musicians.
Also on this day in 1966, Janis Joplin gave her first concert at the Avalon Ballroom in San Francisco. That night lit the fuse on a career that would burn fast, fierce, and unforgettable, cementing her place in the rock and soul pantheon.
Let’s dive into this week’s find and see how today’s sounds connect with yesterday’s legends. Much like Janis and Howlin’ Wolf, Valerie June doesn’t just perform — she inhabits the music.
Today, we’re diving into Valerie June’s cover of the Mazzy Star classic, “Fade Into You.”
Now, let’s get this straight: covering Mazzy Star is no small task. The original is moody, slow-burning, and wrapped in a haze of ‘90s dream-pop melancholy. Hope Sandoval’s vocals practically sigh through the track like she’s floating down a foggy hallway in velvet boots. It’s hypnotic. Intimate. Like someone whispering in your ear from the other side of a memory.
Valerie June? She didn’t just walk into that vibe — she brought her own stardust. The similarities are there: both versions are slow, spacious, and draped in a gentle sadness that doesn’t wallow but wanders. June respects the skeletal structure of the original. She doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel, and thank the musical gods for that. Some songs are temples; you don’t bulldoze them, you light a candle inside.
But here’s where Valerie June makes it unmistakably hers: that voice. Her voice is a peculiar kind of magic — cosmic, earthy, otherworldly. It stretches vowels like taffy and flickers like candlelight. She leans into the vulnerability but sprinkles in this ethereal, Appalachian soul that Mazzy Star never aimed for. It’s less haze and more starlight.
She trades the desert dusk of the original for something a little more astral-folk. June holds true to lines like:
“I want to hold the hand inside you / I want to take a breath that’s true”
— not just in delivery, but in spirit. She breathes them out like a slow exhale across constellations. You still get lost in it, but this time it’s like drifting through a Southern night sky instead of a grungy twilight bedroom.
This cover doesn’t try to outdo the original. It honors it. And then it subtly shifts the lens, showing us the same heartbreak and yearning from a different angle. It’s like hearing an old friend tell you a familiar story in a way you’ve never quite heard before.
Valerie June didn’t just cover “Fade Into You” — she communed with it. And lucky for us, she brought back something beautiful.
Hit play, close your eyes, and let yourself fade. See you next week with another pick that deserves your ears.
The Universal Medicine: How Music Heals Beyond Borders
TUNAGE – MORNING VIBE
In a world divided by lines—national, racial, ethnic, ideological—music remains one of the few forces that ignores them all. You don’t need to speak the same language, share the same skin color, or live under the same flag to feel the impact of a song. A melody can move you, even if you don’t understand a single lyric. A rhythm can unite strangers into a single heartbeat.
Music doesn’t care who you voted for or what god you pray to. It bypasses judgment. It speaks directly to the nervous system. That’s power. That’s healing.
Science backs it up: music lowers stress, regulates heart rate, and can even reduce physical pain. But the emotional side is just as real. It’s why communities sing at funerals and dance at weddings. It’s why protest songs exist. It’s why lullabies work.
In the moments when words fall short—when grief is too deep, when rage is too sharp, when joy is too big—music steps in. It gives shape to feelings we can’t explain. And more often than not, it brings people closer.
Walk through any city and you’ll hear it: hip-hop blaring from one car, mariachi from another, a jazz band on the corner, EDM pulsing from a rooftop. Cultures colliding, not in conflict, but in chorus. Music does what politics struggle to: it creates a shared space.
Which brings us to today’s vibe: “High Heeled Sneakers” by Jimmy Hughes.
Now, this is a groove that walks in with confidence—literally. From the first note, you know it’s not trying to win you over politely. It’s strutting. It’s that friend who shows up overdressed and unapologetic and somehow pulls it off.
Hughes’ version isn’t the first take on this song, but it might be the one with the most understated cool. His voice doesn’t flex—it glides. He’s not begging for attention, just casually commanding it. The band behind him? Tight. Clean. That backbeat could march an army. And the guitar—simple, sharp, and sly. It doesn’t show off, but it leaves a mark.
Let’s be real though: lyrically, it’s no deep dive into the human condition. This isn’t Bob Dylan, and it’s not trying to be. It’s about looking sharp and feeling good. But that’s part of the healing, too. Joy is revolutionary in its own right—especially for communities that haven’t always been allowed to just exist in joy.
“High Heeled Sneakers” is swagger in song form. It reminds us that healing doesn’t always come from tears and therapy. Sometimes, it comes from putting on your best shoes and stepping out like the world owes you something. And if we all did that to the same beat? Maybe the fences would fall a little faster.
If there’s a universal language, it’s not English. It’s rhythm. It’s harmony. It’s sound vibrating through the bones of a hundred different cultures, all moving to the same beat.
Music doesn’t solve every problem. But it reminds us we’re still human. And sometimes, that’s the first step toward healing anything.
Late Night Grooves #137
TUNAGE – LATE NIGHT GROOVES
Sly Stone Asks the Question We’re Still Too Scared to Answer
So Sly Stone is gone. Damn.
We’ve lost a legend, a funk wizard, a bandleader who somehow managed to make idealism sound like a party. And tonight on LNG, we’re not just mourning—we’re cueing up “Are You Ready,” one of his most underrated gut-punches from Dance to the Music (1968). Because let’s be honest: if ever there was a time for this song, it’s right now.
Now, I know—Dance to the Music was supposed to be the band’s big “Hey radio, please like us!” moment. But buried in all the glitter and groove was this track. “Are You Ready” didn’t ask for airplay. It asked for accountability. No metaphors, no fluff, just a straight shot to the ribs:
“Don’t hate the Black, don’t hate the white / If you get bitten, just hate the bite.”
I mean, come on. That’s not just a lyric—that’s a slap. And it still stings, because we still haven’t figured it out.
Musically? It’s slick. Starts with this chilled, samba-lite rhythm, almost like it’s lulling you into safety. But then the energy creeps in. The call-and-response vocals pick up, the rhythm section starts cooking, and Sly… loses it. In the best way. His voice gets more desperate, more raw, until he’s just screaming like he’s trying to shake the apathy out of everyone within earshot.
And let’s talk about the band for a second. Black, white, male, female—all sharing the mic, the stage, the spotlight. In 1968. That wasn’t just inclusive. That was radical. Sly didn’t just talk the talk—he orchestrated it.
Sure, “Are You Ready” wasn’t the single. It didn’t chart. It wasn’t built for the Billboard crowd. But you know what? It outlasts all that. Because this track wasn’t made for a moment. It was made for every moment we’re still not ready for.
So tonight, we hit play. Not to feel nostalgic—but to feel uncomfortable. Inspired. Agitated. Ready?
Because if Sly was brave enough to ask, we should at least try to answer.
F**k Top 40: The Mixtape Rebellion
TUNAGE – THROWBACK THURSDAY
Author’s Note: This article was originally written for Jim Adams’ Song Lyric Sunday, but I forgot to post it… oops.
Greatest hits albums fed us what we already knew. Mixtapes fed us what we didn’t even know we needed. This wasn’t about hits; it was about heart. About craft. About rebellion. In a world that settled for convenience, we chose meaning. And we built it, one song at a time.
There was a time when a “greatest hits” album promised the world and delivered little more than a shallow sampler. You walked into a record store, hopeful, only to find a shiny package filled with chart-chasing fluff, predictable tracklists, and maybe — if you were lucky — one or two songs you actually cared about.
For real music lovers, the greatest hits album was a betrayal. So we made something better: the mixtape.
The Mixtape: A Sacred Artform
Before playlists, before algorithms, there was the mixtape. But a mixtape wasn’t just a collection of songs. It was a statement. A curated, sequenced, and deeply personal offering.
Creating a mixtape meant something. It wasn’t about speed or convenience. It was about intention — about crafting a narrative that unfolded song by song. Each track was a chapter. Each transition is a carefully measured pause, a breath in the story.
You thought about the mood, the flow, and the emotional weight of every decision. Every track had a purpose. Every transition was considered. You didn’t just hit record — you crafted an experience.
You wrote out the tracklist by hand, agonized over timing, and re-recorded entire sides if a song didn’t fit. The case was decorated with doodles, magazine cutouts, scraps of personal history. In a way, you weren’t just sharing music; you were sharing yourself.
Mixtapes were acts of vulnerability. They were slow art in a fast world.
Why Greatest Hits Albums Let Us Down
Most greatest hits albums were designed by marketing departments, not musicians. They weren’t about storytelling — they were about sales.
- They skipped deep cuts that real fans lived for.
- They threw in new songs no one asked for.
- They sequenced tracks by chart position, not emotional resonance.
Greatest hits albums too often strip music of its context — they offer songs without the journey, choruses without the verses. They were snapshots when what we craved was a full-length film.
And then there was K-Tel — the kings of the cash-in compilation. K-Tel would slap together a dozen radio edits, chop down songs for time, and cram them onto a single vinyl. These weren’t albums — they were sonic fast food. No vibe, no flow, no soul.
We wanted more. We wanted music to mean something. So we made it ourselves.
The Record Store: Temple of Taste
Finding the right record store was part of the rite of passage. You didn’t go to the mall. That was for tourists.
You found the secret spot — basement-level, behind a laundromat, no signage, just a door covered in band stickers. Inside: crates of vinyl, walls of obscure posters, and the Jedi behind the counter.
The staff weren’t clerks; they were gatekeepers. They didn’t just sell music; they shaped your journey through it. They tested you, judged your picks, and only shared their real knowledge if you proved you were serious.
Every trip was a lesson in humility and discovery. You learned to dig, to research, to listen with intention. You learned that taste wasn’t about what you liked — it was about what you understood.
In these sanctuaries of sound, music wasn’t just background noise — it was the lifeblood of identity.
Mixtapes Were a Rebellion
Mixtapes fixed what greatest hits albums broke.
- They had a theme.
- They had emotional sequencing.
- They combined hits and deep cuts with purpose.
Mixtapes were the purest form of musical self-expression. They weren’t made for everyone — they were made for someone. For a friend, a lover, a crush, or maybe just for yourself.
They were personalized, handmade, and built for a specific mood or moment. Mixtapes were proof you knew music, not just what was fed to you.
In a way, they were quiet acts of defiance against mass production. They said: I’m not here for the hit parade. I’m here for something real.
When Greatest Hits Got It Right
Despite the letdowns, a few greatest hits albums actually nailed it.
For me, it started with The Best of Earth, Wind & Fire, Vol. 1.
Golden cover, timeless tracks, perfect flow. From “Got to Get You Into My Life” — a Beatles cover reimagined into pure, brassy soul-funk — to “September” and “Shining Star,” it didn’t feel like a compromise. It felt like a celebration.
Earth, Wind & Fire didn’t just repackage — they redefined. They reminded us that a greatest hits album could tell a story if you cared enough to sequence it like one.
And they introduced me to the quiet genius of Al McKay, the guitarist whose rhythm work underpinned so many of their classics. McKay wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t a solo king. But his grooves on “September,” “Shining Star,” and “Reasons” built the very foundation that generations danced to.
Without him, an entire era might have been grooveless.
Other albums got it right too: Queen – Greatest Hits (1981), Bob Marley & The Wailers – Legend (1984), ABBA – Gold (1992). These weren’t just collections; they were time capsules of feeling.
The Spirit Lives On
Today, we have playlists. We have algorithms. But the spirit of the mixtape still lives: in crate-diggers hunting for vinyl, in DJs building a night’s setlist with intention, in anyone who believes that how you present music matters as much as what you play.
Music, at its best, is not about accumulation. It’s about connection.
The mixtape wasn’t just a reaction to bad greatest hits albums. It was a revolution. A rebellion against mediocrity. A quiet, persistent demand for meaning.
And we’re still feeling it.
“Anyone can collect songs. It takes a real heart to make them matter.”
The Albums You Forgot — From the Artists You Can’t
TUNAGE – SLS
I almost gave up on this week’s challenge. Every artist that came to mind? Still dropping new music. I listened through track after track of so-called final albums, but nothing really moved me. I opened my tunage folder — my personal stash — and got even more frustrated. I googled around and just found the same names I’d already dismissed.
So, I bailed. Put on A Perfect Circle and went back to writing some fiction.
That’s when it hit me — A Perfect Circle is a side project for Maynard James Keenan. Not the main band, but a serious creative outlet. Oh lovely.
With that in mind, I went back to my tunage folder with a new filter: side projects — not the obvious hits, but the hidden, off-the-beaten-path work from major artists. You know I can’t just list the usual stuff. Not my style. Plus, I’m always hunting for music that’s new to me.
So here’s what I found: four side projects from artists you definitely know — Bob Seger, Prince, Gavin Rossdale, and David Bowie — and some final or forgotten albums that deserve another listen.
This isn’t a list of greatest hits. It’s a look at where legends went when they didn’t care about playing it safe.
Institute — Distort Yourself (2005)
First up: Institute. Gavin Rossdale is synonymous with Bush, one of the ’90s big players in post-grunge. But after the dust settled and the hits dried up, Rossdale wasn’t ready to fade — he pivoted.
Distort Yourself is Institute’s lone album, released in 2005 and produced by Helmet’s Page Hamilton. It’s a step away from the radio-friendly hooks of Bush — this is Rossdale turning up the distortion, loosening the structure, and getting grimier.
Everyone knows Bulletproof Skin — a good track, sure. But “Come On Over” deserves more attention.
It’s slower, heavier, and more introspective. There’s a simmering frustration in Rossdale’s voice, a refusal to dress up the emotion. The guitars are thick and sluggish, the drums plod with intent. It doesn’t try to soar — it grinds. This track captures the feeling of being stuck, restless, itching to break out.
Institute didn’t survive the mid-2000s music churn, but Distort Yourself remains a snapshot of Rossdale at a creative crossroads — somewhere between the end of Bush and the attempt at something harder, meaner, and less commercial.
Other tracks worth digging: “Seventh Wave” and “Boom Box” — where that rawness burns even hotter.
Prince — 3rdeyegirl — “FIXURLIFEUP”
Prince was never interested in staying still, but 3rdeyegirl was a different kind of experiment even for him. After decades of reinventing pop and R&B, here he was fronting a hard-edged power trio.
PLECTRUMELECTRUM (2014) wasn’t polished or overproduced — it was raw, live, and loud. You can feel the room in these recordings. Prince wasn’t just working with younger musicians — he was feeding off their energy.
The lineup was fire:
- Donna Grantis — shredding on lead guitar, bringing in a jazz fusion sharpness.
- Ida Nielsen — laying down heavy, funky basslines.
- Hannah Welton — delivering powerful, locked-in drum grooves.
- And Prince — guitar, vocals, the mastermind and chaos agent.
“FIXURLIFEUP” feels like Prince’s punk anthem — stripped down, aggressive, urgent. It’s a call to arms without the usual cryptic layers. Straightforward and biting, it proves Prince could shift gears and out-rock bands half his age.
3rdeyegirl wasn’t built for pop charts. It was built for small, sweaty venues and late-night jam sessions. It gave Prince a new sandbox to play in — and he didn’t hold back.
Other tracks worth digging: “PRETZELBODYLOGIC” — a wall of riffage with a groove you can’t ignore.
“Side projects weren’t side hustles — they were battlefields where legends proved themselves all over again.”
David Bowie — Tin Machine — “You Belong in Rock and Roll”
By the late ‘80s, David Bowie could have coasted. Let’s Dance and his pop hits had made him a mainstream juggernaut. But Bowie never coasted — he detonated his own success.
Tin Machine wasn’t a vanity project — it was Bowie disappearing into a democratic, no-safety-net band. Alongside guitarist Reeves Gabrels and the Sales brothers, Bowie went back to basics: noisy guitars, grimy lyrics, unfiltered attitude.
On Tin Machine II (1991), you find “You Belong in Rock and Roll” — a track that’s jagged, strange, and defiantly anti-pop. The guitar is warped and almost mocking, and Bowie’s delivery feels world-weary, like he’s peeling back the glam to show something bruised and real.
It’s not easy listening — and that’s the point. Tin Machine was Bowie burning down the house he’d built in the ’80s so he could rebuild.
This period laid the groundwork for Bowie’s later masterpieces like Outside and Heathen. Without Tin Machine, we don’t get that rebirth.
Other tracks worth digging: “Baby Universal” — a glimpse at Bowie’s knack for catchy weirdness.
Bob Seger — The Bob Seger System — “Lucifer”
Everyone knows Bob Seger the classic rocker — the voice of American blue-collar nostalgia. But before the arenas and radio hits, there was The Bob Seger System.
Their 1970 album Mongrel is criminally overlooked. It’s rough, raw, and full of a kind of garage-rock fury that Seger would later sand down into smoother anthems.
“Lucifer” is the standout — a swirling mix of organ, gritty vocals, and a loose, almost chaotic energy. This isn’t “Old Time Rock and Roll” Seger. This is a scrappy kid with a chip on his shoulder, pushing back against the commercial sound of the time.
And then there’s their take on “River Deep, Mountain High.” It’s not bombastic like Tina Turner’s version. Instead, it’s leaner, grittier — more Midwest garage than Phil Spector’s wall of sound.
Mongrel didn’t break through, and soon Seger would move on and streamline his sound. But this record shows a side of him that’s often forgotten — less myth, more fight.
Other tracks worth digging: “Leanin’ on My Dream” — Seger at his bluesiest.
Closing
What these side projects have in common is simple: they show famous artists unfiltered. Stripped of the machine, free from the brand, they chased sounds that didn’t fit the mold — and didn’t care if they fit the marketplace.
And these side projects aren’t just something tossed out like a TV movie. This is where we get to see favorite artists explore different avenues, speak their truth, and in doing so, capture a whole new crop of fans.
In the case of Rossdale and Prince, I was already in — I’d been listening to them for years. But Seger’s Mongrel and Bowie’s Tin Machine? That was new territory for me. And honestly, that speaks to the heart of these kinds of challenges: finding music you didn’t even realize you needed.
Gavin Rossdale’s Institute gave us something raw and urgent. Prince’s 3rdeyegirl exploded with punk-funk energy that still feels alive. Bowie threw a Molotov cocktail at his pop stardom with Tin Machine. And Bob Seger, before he was a radio icon, tore through the garage with The Bob Seger System.
These records aren’t polished legacies. They’re risk, reinvention, and real creativity. And they leave you asking the same question every time:
Is there any genre these artists couldn’t make their own?
Bonus Material:
Mangus Grooving with Glyn: Weekly Finds
TUNAGE – MMB
Where real music still matters
Each week, Glyn challenges himself to dig and find a track, group, or album worth your time. This year’s been hit or miss for me, but I’m showing up this week. Let’s get into the first band I’d like to discuss.
If you haven’t cranked up Goodbye June’s “Oh No” yet, you’re missing out on one of the purest jolts of modern Southern rock.
Look, there’s no shortage of bands trying to mash up blues, rock, and a touch of gospel, but Goodbye June actually pulls it off without sounding like they’re playing dress-up. “Oh No” — first dropped on their 2016 EP Danger in the Morning and later on the debut album Magic Valley — feels like a punch straight from the pulpit to the mosh pit.
The track doesn’t ease you in. It hits hard from the first beat, what the band calls a “church stomp” — a nod to their Pentecostal roots. You can practically see the sweat flying and feel the pews shaking. The “praise chords” and “shout beats” they grew up on bleed into the intro, but then they let it rip with snarling guitar bursts and Landon Milbourn’s gritty, howling vocals. If you’ve ever wanted to know what it might sound like if AC/DC and Led Zeppelin had a love child in a Tennessee chapel, “Oh No” is your answer.
Lyrically, the song is pure defiance — all about barreling through whatever stands in your way. It’s not trying to get deep or philosophical; it’s a raw, gutsy anthem about survival and momentum. Sometimes you don’t need poetry, you need a rally cry.
And the impact? Massive. Not just because it hit No. 30 on the Billboard Mainstream Rock chart — though that’s no small feat — but because “Oh No” found its way onto Madden NFL 17 and even blared out as the theme for WrestleMania 32. You can’t fake that kind of reach. When a song’s got enough voltage to fire up gamers and wrestling fans alike, you know it’s got legs.
As a fan, “Oh No” feels like a rare moment where a band finds the sweet spot between raw tradition and modern punch. Goodbye June isn’t just recycling Southern rock tropes; they’re electrifying them. It’s gritty. It’s loud. It’s sweaty. And damn, it’s good.
Goodbye June’s energy, grit, soul, and boldness is exactly what so many bands today are missing. They aren’t just playing rock; they’re living it. Crank up “Oh No” and see if it doesn’t shake something loose.
And if you’re hungry for more, their 2022 album See Where the Night Goes is absolutely worth a listen. It’s a thrill to hear a band beginning to find its full voice. The album leans harder into their Southern roots while sharpening their songwriting and tightening their sound — bigger hooks, tougher riffs, and even more soul. Don’t be scared. Go listen to them. Feel what real rock is supposed to sound like.
See you next week with another pick that deserves your ears.
Built on Fault Lines
TUNAGE – SLS
The Hidden Band Origins of Today’s Boldest Solo Artists
The low-key origin stories behind music’s most defining solo careers.
This challenge was tough because I know too many artists to choose from. I didn’t want to go with the obvious ones — you know, Ozzy Osbourne from Black Sabbath, Eric Clapton from Cream, Sting from The Police, or Diana Ross from The Supremes. Legends, sure. But those are basically music history 101.
The real struggle? Picking a genre. Rock? Overflowing. R&B? Stacked. Jazz? Don’t even get me started — half the genre is built on solo careers that started in someone else’s band. There are solid examples everywhere. So instead of narrowing it down, I went wide — and spotlighted the solo artists whose band origins aren’t always part of the conversation.
Herbie Hancock – Miles’ Sideman to Funk Pioneer
Before blowing minds with Chameleon and Rockit, Herbie Hancock laid down genius in Miles Davis’ Second Great Quintet — one of the most legendary jazz lineups ever. He could’ve coasted on that. Instead, he rewired jazz with funk, synths, and even turntables.
His 1973 album Head Hunters didn’t just move jazz forward — it cracked it open. “Chameleon” became an anthem, and Herbie never looked back. His solo career didn’t just stand out — it helped rewrite what jazz could be.
Teddy Pendergrass – From Group Harmony to Grown-Man Swagger
Teddy didn’t slide into solo stardom — he owned it. But before the robes and roses, he was the voice behind Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes. That’s him on “If You Don’t Know Me By Now.”
He dialed up the heat when he went solo in the late ’70s. Teddy wasn’t just singing love songs — he was setting the blueprint for every smooth, commanding R&B frontman who came after him.
Kenny Rogers – Psychedelic Cowboy?
We remember Kenny Rogers for the beard, the chicken, and “The Gambler.” But in the late ’60s, he fronted The First Edition, a trippy country-rock band. “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)” is a psychedelic classic — weird, bold, and nothing like what came after.
He didn’t start as a country icon — he became one. And he brought a little leftover weirdness with him.
Joe Walsh – From Power Trio to Solo Chaos
Before he was shredding with The Eagles, Joe Walsh was the wild force behind James Gang. “Funk #49” still hits like a punch to the chest. Then came his solo years — loose, loud, and hilarious (“Life’s Been Good” is chaos in the best way).
He had the chops, but more importantly, he had that unhinged charisma. And when he joined The Eagles, he didn’t clean up — he brought the madness with him.
Ice Cube – From Ruthless to Relentless
Before the solo albums, movies, and cultural icon status, Ice Cube was the pen behind N.W.A. He wrote most of Straight Outta Compton — then walked away over money and control.
His debut solo album, AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted, hit like a sledgehammer. He didn’t just survive the breakup — he turned it into fuel and built a solo career that outpaced the group that made him.
Then There’s the Whole Bryan Ferry, Morrissey, Annie Lennox Thing…
You know the type. The ones who were technically in a band, but you kind of always knew they were destined to fly solo.
- Bryan Ferry was Roxy Music—cool, stylish, theatrical. When he went solo, he smoothed out the edges and kept the vibe going with even more elegance.
- Morrissey? When The Smiths dissolved, he doubled down on his own mythology — neurotic, literary, and unfiltered. Say what you will, but he made being miserable sound iconic.
- Annie Lennox stepped out of Eurythmics and immediately leveled up. Tracks like “Why” and “No More I Love You’s” didn’t just show off her range — they felt like she was finally making music with no one else in the room.
- Dave Stewart didn’t vanish. He became a quiet force, producing and writing for legends like Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks. He dropped solo albums, too. No hype, no drama — just intense, melodic work from a guy who knows what to do in a studio.
Natalie Merchant – Quiet Power, Loud Impact
I’ve got all these artists in my library. That’s why this post was hard — every one of them means something to me. Every career shift hit a different note.
But the artist I landed on? Natalie Merchant. Not the biggest name. Not the flashiest. But the one who hit me quietly — and stayed.
I first fell for her voice on 10,000 Maniacs’ version of “Peace Train.” Then I lost track of her — until “Carnival” came out. That song pulled me right back in. Restrained, observational, hypnotic. It led me to Tigerlily. That’s when it clicked. I was in.
She didn’t just go solo — she effortlessly pushed her boundaries, building something slower, wiser, and entirely her own.
“San Andreas Fault” – A Quiet Warning Disguised as a Lullaby
Though “Carnival” was the standout, I’ve always been partial to “San Andreas Fault.” It opens softly — just piano, some breath between the lines — and stays there. But listen closely, and it’s tense. It’s about chasing dreams on unstable ground, about the illusions of safety and paradise.
It’s a warning, wrapped in a lullaby. A metaphor that doesn’t yell — it just sits with you. That’s Merchant’s power. She doesn’t need volume. She needs space — and she knows how to fill it.
Final Thoughts
Natalie Merchant didn’t just survive leaving 10,000 Maniacs — she defined herself in the process. And that’s the real thread through all these stories: artists stepping away from the comfort of the group, betting on themselves, and making something real.
Sometimes the biggest moves aren’t loud.
They’re quiet.
Intentional.
Built on fault lines — and still, somehow, they hold.
This post was written for Jim Adams’ Song Lyric Sunday
I’ll Remember April, But Not Like This
TUNAGE – MMB (APRIL)
Charles Mingus didn’t just play a jazz standard—he took it apart, set it on fire, and built something unforgettable.
“I’ll Remember April” is one of those jazz standards every musician runs into, eventually. It’s basically a jam session rite of passage—48 bars of twisty harmonic turns masquerading as a wistful ballad about lost love and changing seasons. I’ve been familiar with it for years. Played it, heard it, filed it under “That one tune that’s fun to blow over but nobody remembers the lyrics to.”
Then I heard the Charles Mingus versions.
Someone once told me, “There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus.” At the time, I thought that sounded like one of those pretentious one-liners people drop in record stores to feel superior. But after diving into his takes on “I’ll Remember April,” I get it. Oh man, do I get it.
Mingus didn’t just cover “April.” He took it apart like a mad scientist, rewired its guts, jolted it with electricity, and dared you to still call it a “standard.”
The Café Bohemia Version (1955): Mingus and Roach Light a Fuse
Let’s start at Café Bohemia, 1955. Picture a packed New York club, cigarette smoke thick enough to chew, and a band that clearly didn’t come to play it safe. Max Roach sits in on drums, and if you’ve ever wanted to hear someone simultaneously keep time and destroy it, this is your moment.
The melody of “April” makes a brief cameo, like it wandered onstage and then realized it was at the wrong gig. What follows is 13 minutes of fearless improvisation, with Mingus, Roach, and pianist Mal Waldron operating on some telepathic groupthink. The horns? They show up, but the rhythm section is driving the bus—and the bus is on fire.
Roach’s drumming is the engine room of this madness. His solo isn’t just technically jaw-dropping—it’s spiritually charged. He plays like he’s pulling sound from some ancient, elemental place. It’s powerful, commanding, and completely locked into the spirit of the tune, even as the band steamrolls past the recognizable parts of it. He doesn’t just support the performance—he embodies it.
The Antibes Version (1960): Bud Powell and the Beautiful Collision
Now fast-forward to 1960 at the Antibes Jazz Festival in France. Mingus is in full mythic form. His band includes avant-garde sorcerer Eric Dolphy, hard-bop bruiser Booker Ervin, and lyrical firebrand Ted Curson. Oh, and just to make things even more surreal—bebop piano legend Bud Powell drops in.
I was hypnotized by Powell’s piano. He doesn’t just comp—he sets the tone for the whole damn piece. His phrasing is gentle but firm, melancholic but insistent. He drove the vibe of the entire take with a calm storm underneath. It was a genius move by Mingus to bring him in. Powell didn’t just play the tune—he channeled it.
And as chaotic as the rest of the band is—Dolphy sounding like he’s melting into the fabric of reality, Ervin breaking every hard bop ceiling—Powell grounds the whole thing with this subtle gravitational pull. It’s stunning.
Same Tune, Two Earthquakes
Each of these versions is radically different, but neither feels careless. Each artist involved—Roach, Powell, Mingus himself—took the time to embody the nature and spirit of this piece. They didn’t just play “I’ll Remember April”; they meditated on it, exploded it, resurrected it.
Here’s the wildest part: I know I was listening to the same song. But these takes? They felt like two completely different pieces of music. That’s not just impressive, it’s disorienting in the most thrilling way.
Café Bohemia is all raw nerve and instinct, like jazz fighting for its life in a boxing ring. Antibes is a theatrical, kaleidoscopic manifesto with solos. Both are driven by Mingus’s refusal to play it safe. Both reveal just how much space one tune can contain if you’ve got the nerve to stretch it.
After hearing these, that old quote—“There’s jazz, and then there’s Mingus”—stopped sounding smug. It started sounding accurate.
Mingus didn’t interpret “I’ll Remember April.” He cracked it open, poured his entire brain into it, and gave us two versions that are less about remembering a month and more about never forgetting the man who dared to redefine it.
As the Inkwell Stirs
PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE
Night lingers longer than it should, clinging to the edges of the world like a thought half-forgotten. It doesn’t go easily. The air is still, but not gentle—there’s a sharpness to it, the kind of chill that doesn’t announce itself. It pricks at the skin, slow and methodical, working its way in until your body shivers and you’re not sure when it started.
You finish your smoke. One last flick. The ember cuts through the dark like a dying star—brief, insignificant, but final. Somewhere out there, homes stir. The floors creak. Feet drag in patterns worn deep by repetition. The restless shuffle begins, zombie-like and directionless, following the scent of timer-brewed salvation. Coffee. The first small mercy of morning.
You sit by the window with a cup, warm in your hands, and watch the sky peel itself open. First the black, then the dull gun-metal, then the faintest shade of pale. The blue comes slowly, unsure of its welcome. Beneath it all, the horizon simmers—red, orange, brown—like coals that never fully went out. A silent ember of the night’s final stand, glowing under the weight of a world about to move again.
The inkwell stirs, shakes off its rust. Its lid lifts like a breath held too long. The quill taps, tentative at first, testing the moment. No plan, no script. Just rhythm. Just the need to begin.
You pour another cup. The clock says 5 a.m.
And somewhere between the sip and the silence, Elvis Costello’s “Radio, Radio” crackles through the speakers—too loud for the hour, perfect for the mood. The voice is defiant, bright, sharp as a match strike. You listen, because the lyrics don’t ask—they insist. The static fades beneath the beat. The world hasn’t spoken yet, but it’s no longer asleep.
Mingus and Mitchell’s Rebellion
TUNAGE – THROWBACK THURSDAY
A jazz legend. A folk icon. One final act of creative defiance.
When Joni Mitchell dropped Mingus in 1979, it threw everyone for a loop. Critics scratched their heads; fans wondered where the dulcimer had gone. It didn’t sound like Blue, or Court and Spark, or anything even remotely close to her folk-pop reputation. And honestly? Joni didn’t care.
“This wasn’t just a genre crossover — it was a genre collision.”
This was Charles Mingus’s final project. ALS had stolen his ability to play, but not his impulse to push boundaries. So instead of retreating into legend, he reached out to Joni Mitchell — the queen of tunings, lyrics, and curveballs — and asked her to set words to some of his compositions. She said yes.
The result was a challenging listen — five spoken-word “raps,” interludes pulled from their conversations, woven between rich, angular jazz compositions. It was intimate, raw, and not made for background listening. You don’t just hear music — you hear mortality, mischief, and Mingus grumbling like a jazz prophet in a wheelchair.
“Mingus couldn’t play anymore, but he wasn’t done.”
Mitchell described their first meeting like this:
“The first time I saw his face it shone up at me with a joyous mischief… Charlie came by and pushed me in—‘sink or swim’—him laughing at me dog paddling around in the currents of black classical music.”
Translation: Mingus didn’t want a tribute. He wanted a partner with nerve.
The lineup was no joke:
- Jaco Pastorius on bass (melting frets like butter)
- Wayne Shorter on sax (bending the air around him)
- Herbie Hancock on electric piano (tickling the keys like he invented them)
- Peter Erskine and Don Alias holding down rhythm
- Plus wolves — yes, wolves — on “The Wolf That Lives in Lindsey”
“She didn’t smooth the edges — she leaned into the mess.”
This isn’t dinner-party jazz. It’s messy, meandering, occasionally maddening. But it has guts. At one point, Mingus told her she was singing the wrong note.
She replied, “That note’s been square so long it’s hip again.”
Mingus, without missing a beat: “Put in your note, my note, and two grace notes too.”
That’s the whole album right there — layered, irreverent, and unbothered by convention.
From Skeptic to Fan
My journey into Joni Mitchell’s world didn’t start with a musical epiphany. It started with a woman — one who casually mentioned that Prince was a fan of Joni Mitchell. I made a face. Possibly several. My inner monologue said: Oh great, another misunderstood-genius folk artist I’m supposed to pretend to like.
But then I saw her vinyl collection.
Not a greatest-hits graveyard. Not recycled top 40 safe bets. Her shelves were full of weird, daring, intentional records — the kind people own because they listen, not just display. I started paying attention.
I got home, looked up Joni’s discography, and there it was: Mingus. Charles Mingus? With her? I hit play.
Then I heard him — the voice. The Maestro. Laughing, breathing, alive. For a second, I thought I’d stumbled onto a secret Mingus record.
Then the bass came in. And I paused.
This isn’t Mingus on bass. But the lines were liquid, wild.
Then the piano hit. I stopped. “Who’s tickling the keys like that?” I muttered. I knew that sound. Herbie Hancock.
This was no crossover fluff. This was a full-on creative risk with real players and real weight.
I stopped the record, called her, and said:
“Okay — what’s the Joni Mitchell starter kit?”
She gave it to me. Blue. Hejira. Court and Spark.
I listened. And suddenly, the whole picture came into focus.
I came back to Mingus later — and this time, I didn’t feel lost. I was ready. I didn’t need it to make sense immediately. I just needed to meet it where it was.
Critical Reception: Then and Now
Upon its release in 1979, Mingus got a lukewarm reception.
Stereo Review said it had “no improvisation.” Robert Christgau gave it a C+, calling it a “brave experiment” that didn’t quite succeed.
Folk fans missed the softness. Jazz critics missed Mingus’s hands. Everyone expected something different — and Mingus gave them none of it.
But over time, things changed. Today, Mingus is respected for what it is: bold, strange, and ahead of its time.
“After four decades, the deeply personal and experimental Mingus has grown into one of the most important titles in the Mitchell catalog.”
— Ron Hart, GRAMMY.com
Even those who played on it are reflecting differently now:
“It was and remains a brave project and statement… an essential piece of not only Joni’s library of music, but of American music in the late 1970s.”
— Peter Erskine, drummer on Mingus
Funny how time — and maybe a little patience — can change everything.
Final Word
Mingus isn’t cozy. It’s not an easy listen. It’s not even especially likable at first.
But it’s real.
Two artists — one dying, one evolving — making something on their own terms. No pandering. No hand-holding. Just music, conversation, and courage.
I started listening to Joni Mitchell because of a woman.
But I kept listening because Mingus didn’t try to win me over.
It made me meet it halfway.
And once I did, I never looked at music — or Mitchell — the same way again.
Maggot Brain: Where Beauty and Despair Collide (and Punch You in the Gut)
TUNAGE – SLS
Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain isn’t just a record — it’s a reckoning. Released in 1971, it captured the psychic temperature of a country unraveling. War abroad, decay at home, distrust in the air, and the so-called counterculture burning out in real time. Maggot Brain took all that noise, that grief, that disillusionment — and turned it into one of the most brutally honest LPs ever pressed.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t safe. It was spiritual, political, cynical, funky as hell, and deeply weird — like a sermon preached from the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Maggot Brain captured the attitude of the entire country within a single LP. There was literally a track that spoke for everyone. If you were angry, it had you. If you were confused, it held you. If you just wanted to dance your way through the end times, Funkadelic had you covered. Every track hit a different nerve, and none of them asked permission.
There are songs that groove hard (You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks), others that mock the stupidity of it all (Super Stupid), and ones that crack open a deeper existential dread (Wars of Armageddon). But all of it orbits the title track. Maggot Brain isn’t just the opener. It’s the altar. It’s the cry at the center of the storm.
Eddie Hazel doesn’t play Maggot Brain. He doesn’t even perform it in the traditional sense. He haunts it. Possesses it. Bleeds into it. And once it begins, you don’t get to be a casual listener anymore. You’re drafted. No warning. No warm-up. Just a single, ghost-drenched guitar note that slides into your chest like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear.
It’s not loud. It’s not fast. It just is. And that’s more terrifying than any distortion pedal at full blast. Hazel creeps in like a rogue spirit — smooth, silent, uninvited — and by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re already in it, stripped of cool and composure, emotionally pantsed.
You don’t get a beat to grab onto. No vocals to decode. Just a guitar screaming in slow motion. It’s like standing in the middle of a storm you can’t see but definitely feel. The grief is palpable. The rage is buried just deep enough to make you nervous. And right when you think you’ve got it figured out, the damn thing shifts and you’re spiraling again. Welcome to Maggot Brain — cognitive dissonance with a six-string.
Because let’s be real: this song shouldn’t work. It’s ten minutes, mostly one instrument. No verse. No chorus. Not even a satisfying drop. But for ten minutes, Eddie Hazel demolishes every “rule” about what music is supposed to be, and you love him for it. Or maybe you hate him for making you love it. Either way, you’re in it.
And no, you don’t walk away saying, “cool solo, bro.” You walk away dazed, like you just remembered a dream you never had. Or like your soul got mugged, politely. This is the kind of music that picks a fight with your expectations and then hugs you while you cry.
I still remember the first time I heard it — in a smoke-filled room full of strangers pretending not to be high. No one talked. No one moved. We were all just… held. Not by the music, exactly, but by whatever was trying to speak through it. We didn’t share a moment. We survived one. And we were better for it, or at least quieter.
Hazel doesn’t “solo.” He confesses, and we are his priests. Every bend, every scream from those strings is a sin laid bare. And by the end of the song, we have no choice but to grant absolution. Not because we’re qualified, but because he earned it. Because whatever he was holding, he handed it to us. And in some strange, sacred transaction, we took it.
His playing doesn’t follow any tidy roadmap. It stumbles through grief and grace, melting down and pulling itself back together like a nervous breakdown that found religion. There are moments where you think he’s going to lose it entirely — and maybe he does. But somehow, that’s the point.
You want to make sense of it, but your brain is two steps behind the whole time. Because it’s pretty and ugly. Gentle and violent. Hopeful and hopeless. Your heart’s trying to lean in while your head’s going, “Are we okay??” That’s the dissonance. That’s the magic. That’s why it hits harder than any perfect pop chorus ever could.
And George Clinton, cosmic genius and probable chaos wizard, gave Hazel just one instruction: “Play like your mother just died.” Which is both tragic and kind of a dick move, but clearly — it worked. What came out wasn’t a song. It was a slow, spiritual detonation. Hazel didn’t perform grief — he offered it. Raw. Untuned. Unfiltered. The kind of thing most of us spend our lives trying not to feel.
The track never resolves. No big finale. No grand crescendo. Just a long fade into silence, like a memory slipping back under the surface. It’s not done with you — it’s just gone. Until the next time you’re reckless enough to press play.
And I wonder: for those ten minutes, did Eddie Hazel serve as a guide to enlightenment?
Not the neat, monk-on-a-mountain kind.
The messier kind. The gut-punch kind.
The kind that grabs you by the heart, shakes something loose, and leaves without saying a word.
Maggot Brain #479 on 2003 list
“True Love Way” — Because Apparently Love Is a Muddy, Slow-Dragging Southern Funeral
MORNING VIBE – THURSDAY INSPIRATION #227
You ever hear a song and think, “Wow, this really makes me want to lay in a ditch and feel things”? Enter: “True Love Way” by Kings of Leon, the musical equivalent of watching the rainfall on a rusted-out pickup truck while chain-smoking Marlboros and remembering a girl who ghosted you in 2006.
Let’s be honest—this track didn’t show up to party. It showed up to sulk on the porch at 2 a.m., crying into the void while a symbolic tumbleweed rolls by… in the middle of your city apartment courtyard. Cigarettes smolder in an overstuffed ashtray like tiny, bitter torches of regret, and the acrid stench of burning filters assaults your senses like a personal attack. Your dog and your cat sit nearby, silently judging you—united for the first time in weeks by their mutual disappointment in your life choices.
The vibe? Sluggish Southern heartbreak, dragged across gravel and dipped in bourbon. The tempo moves like it’s legally not allowed to go over 25 BPM. Caleb Followill’s voice sounds like he gargled sandpaper and emotion for three days straight—so pretty on brand.
The lyrics are vague enough to mean everything and nothing, which is perfect for when you’re too emotionally exhausted to explain what you’re feeling, so you just say, “this song gets it” and stare at the wall.
“True Love Way” doesn’t hold your hand through heartbreak. It drags you by the collar through a swamp of longing, stares deep into your soul, and says, “Yeah… you do still miss her.”
So naturally, once you’ve hit emotional rock bottom, it’s time to switch to “Molly’s Chambers.” Because if you’re going to wallow in your feelings, you might as well wallow while dancing like a drunken tumbleweed in boots that don’t fit anymore.
You’re out there on the porch, hips moving like you’re being exorcised, spinning under a streetlight like a sad little moth. And now your neighbor’s lights flick on. Curtains rustle. There’s Mr. Patel, confused. There’s Mrs. Johnson, concerned. They’re all watching—but they say nothing. Because they feel your pain. Or possibly they’re filming you. It’s unclear.
And let’s not forget: Mrs. Johnson is absolutely going to show up at your door at 6:47 a.m. with a basket of “feel-good muffins,” as if carbs can fix whatever’s going on with you emotionally (which, let’s be honest, they absolutely can). Because apparently, octogenarians don’t sleep. They just hover near windows like maternal ghosts waiting to pounce with baked goods and unsolicited life advice.
Introducing: Emotional Support Carbs™
The real MVPs of any midnight breakdown. Move over therapy dogs—there’s a new comfort system in town and it’s made entirely of banana bread and passive-aggressive neighborly concern.
Picture this:
You’re standing on your porch, barefoot, emotionally disheveled, probably wearing a bathrobe that hasn’t known joy since 2019. the dog looks embarrassed for you, and “Molly’s Chambers” is blasting like it’s a personal exorcism. Then—ding dong—it happens.
Mrs. Johnson, 84 years old and running on pure fiber and divine intuition, shows up with a basket lined in a gingham cloth. Inside? Emotional Support Carbs.
- Pumpkin bread.
- Three snickerdoodles and a judgmental smile.
- A muffin so dry it absorbs your tears.
- A laminated Bible verse tucked under the scones, just in case.
She doesn’t say a word. She just looks at you, nods in a way that says, “I, too, once had a porch breakdown,” and vanishes into the mist like some sort of suburban baked-goods cryptid.
This is your life now. And honestly? You earned that muffin.
This is the morning vibe …
Why “Sometimes It Snows in April” Still Hurts So Good
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – MMB
One of my nephews stopped to visit. We talked about philosophy, music, and a bunch of other things. Almost like he knew I needed to get out of my own head for a moment and be reminded of something that’s always been soothing—music.
After he had left, I plugged in the headphones and got to work.
Prince’s music has left a mark on humanity.
However, the music I enjoyed the most was songs seldom played on the radio—the tracks only discussed quietly among the fans who kept searching for the ones that touched them deepest.
For me, “Sometimes It Snows in April” is one of those songs.
It’s not built for the charts. No booming drums or flashy guitar solos. Just a delicate piano, soft guitar, and Prince’s voice—fragile, almost whispering. It’s stripped down in a way that makes you sit still. Makes you feel.
The song was part of the Parade album in 1986, which doubled as the soundtrack to Under the Cherry Moon. Prince played Christopher Tracy in the film—a charming romantic who dies too soon. The song is what comes after: mourning, confusion, and the quiet heartbreak of losing someone who wasn’t supposed to be gone yet.
And Prince didn’t try to clean it up. He kept the raw demo. You can hear creaking chairs and fingers sliding on strings. Those imperfections? They’re what make it real.
The lyrics hit like a conversation you didn’t want to have but needed:
“Sometimes it snows in April / Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad.”
Simple words, but when Prince sings them, they carry weight. It’s not performance—it’s confession.
Then came April 21, 2016. Prince passed away. Suddenly, a song about losing someone too soon became eerily personal. It was recorded in April. He died in April. And just like that, it sounded like he’d written his own farewell without knowing it.
And here’s the part that always gets me—I often wonder why we don’t truly appreciate an artist until after their transition.
Why do we wait?
Why do the tributes flood in only once they’re gone?
It’s a question that’s never been answered—at least not a good one.
Maybe it’s human nature. Maybe we think there’ll always be time. Maybe we don’t realize what someone gave us until we can’t get more of it.
With Prince, we had a genius in real-time. But songs like “Sometimes It Snows in April” remind us that his deepest gifts weren’t always the loudest. They were the quiet truths tucked in between the hits—the kind you don’t hear until you’re really listening.
“Sometimes It Snows in April” isn’t just about death. It’s about love, memory, and the strange ache of time. It’s about the moments we don’t talk about much—but feel the deepest.
And that’s why it still hurts. In the best kind of way.
Late Night Grooves #129
Tonight on LNG, I figured we would go with the “last Monday of the year” theme. I found this little gem in some notes about music tucked away in one of my many notebooks. I swear I need to make some sort of resolution to organize these notes. I’m shaking my head. This is the equivalent of a vow to lose weight, exercise more, or quit smoking, and my all-time favorite, focus on me. This is my year. Anyway, I digress.
“Thank God It’s Monday” is a unique punk rock anthem released by NOFX in 2000 on their album “Pump Up the Valuum.” The song, written by Mike Burkett (Fat Mike), offers an ironic twist on the typical Monday blues sentiment. The track presents a contrarian view of weekdays, celebrating Mondays while criticizing traditional weekend activities. The lyrics express a preference for Mondays over Fridays, pointing out how weekends are filled with crowded, smoky bars and packed restaurants. The song’s protagonist lives a “5-day weekend” and a “year-long holiday,” embracing Mondays when most people are at work. Each day is compared to a holiday—Tuesdays are like Christmas, Wednesdays like Hanukkah, and Thursdays like Thanksgiving.
Mixed Music Bag – Week 51
ARTICLE – TUNAGE – MINI BIO – MMB
The Yellowjackets
In several previous posts, you’ve heard me yammer on about my musical journey and how different things in my life helped establish my evolving musical tastes. During the 1980s, I became a fan of jazz and the sub-genre of jazz fusion. This was spurred by my introduction to Al Dimeola, legendary guitarist of the Jazz Fusion trio Romantic Warrior. As I drove deeper into jazz fusion, I discovered “The Yellowjackets.”
The Yellowjackets are a highly influential American jazz fusion band formed in 1977 in Los Angeles. Assembled initially as a backup band for guitarist Robben Ford, they evolved into one of jazz’s most respected groups. Ford left the band to pursue a different musical direction after recording their first album. The track Rush Hour on their 1981 self-titled release is often considered Robben Ford’s best work.
Original Lineup:
- Robben Ford (Guitar)
- Russell Ferrante (Keyboards)
- Jimmy Haslip (Bass)
- Ricky Lawson (Drums)
After Ford’s departure, the band continued as a trio. Despite Ford’s departure, the band maintained the sound band established with Ford. Mirage a Trois (1983) marked the transition of the band’s sound into a direction. They added saxophonist Marc Russo to add in the transition. Their album Shades (1986) cemented their sound, unique to their previous sound.
Critical Acclaim
- Shades (1986) reached No. 4 on the Billboard jazz album chart, featuring the Grammy-winning single “And You Know That”
- Greenhouse (1991) reached No. 1 on the Billboard Contemporary Jazz Album chart.
- Yellowjackets (1981) – Their debut album reached No. 16 on the Billboard Jazz Albums chart and made serious waves in jazz radio
Grammy Recognition
Their most acclaimed albums include:
- Politics (1988) – Won Grammy for Jazz Fusion Performance
- Jackets XL (2020) – Nominated for Best Large Jazz Ensemble Album
- Parallel Motion (2022) – Their latest Grammy-nominated album
Current Lineup
The band currently consists of:
- Russell Ferrante (Piano & Synthesizers) – founding member
- Bob Mintzer (Woodwinds & EWI)
- Will Kennedy (Drums)
- Dane Alderson (Bass)
Musical Legacy
Throughout their 43-year history, the Yellowjackets have recorded 25 albums and received 17 Grammy nominations, winning two. Modern rhythms, strong melodies, and innovative jazz fusion compositions characterize their music.
Late Night Grooves #128
I got caught up in listening for candidates for tonight’s post. I must have listened to nearly every song from the 80s. Of course, I didn’t, but it felt that way. There were several tracks I found myself dancing to—well, at least what passes for dancing in my current condition. Then, there were others that I simply shook my head, wondering how these songs were recorded. But tonight, I’m featuring another track track I actually enjoyed. Again, it isn’t a lyrical masterpiece, nor does it please you sonically. Yet, there is something about this track that still makes me smile.
Here’s E.U. classic – Da Butt
Late Night Grooves #126
Tonight, we continue with the silly songs of the 1980s. I remember playing this game at the arcade and later on the Atari 2600. I had forgotten about this track until I started researching the era. Those who remember this track are probably shaking their heads. For those who love 80s music, this track will demonstrate that we didn’t always get it right.
Mixed Music Bag – Week 44
TUNAGE – MINI BIO – MMB
One of the things I enjoy the most about listening to music is finding artists who aren’t part of mainstream popularity. It’s rewarding to watch your discovery become super famous, but sometimes, you want to stay small. It’s having your own secret band in your back pocket. Tenpenny Joke is such a band.
Tenpenny Joke was an Australian rock band from Melbourne’s Mornington Peninsula in 1997. They made their mark in the melodic rock scene.
Musical Journey
The band achieved a significant milestone in 2004 when they signed with Shock Records/Sing Sing Productions. Their debut album, “Ambush on All Sides,” was released in 2005. It was produced by Matt Voigt, known for his work with The Living End, Kiss, and Aaliyah.
Band Lineup
- Craig “Boz” Boswell – drums
- Anthony Casey – vocals
- Peter Coon – guitars
- Tim Kill – bass guitar
- Brian Rimmer – vocals and guitar
Musical Style and Impact
Their sound was primarily melodic rock, incorporating progressive and alternative elements. The band gained international recognition, receiving airplay across multiple countries, including the US, UK, Europe, New Zealand, and Asia. They were particularly successful in Japan, where their track “Across The Ocean” became highly requested on Yellowbeat radio.
Notable Works
Ambush on All Sides” (2005) – Full-length album
- Notable Tracks
- Across the Ocean – An excellent track showcasing the band’s classic rock influences
- “Evil Things” – A light-hearted composition that highlights their musical range
- My Favorites
- Black Satellite
- Emergency
Mixed Music Bag – Week 45
TUNAGE – MINI BIO – MMB
Since I’ve been talking about 80s music lately, I figured I would list a rarely known band from that period.
Vandenberg is a Dutch-American hard rock band formed in 1981 in Amsterdam by guitarist Adrian “Adje” van den Berg. The band achieved international success in the 1980s before their guitarist joined Whitesnake and later experienced a revival in recent years.
Notable Achievements
The band’s breakthrough came with their debut album, recorded at Jimmy Page’s studio. This album spawned their biggest hit, “Burning Heart,” which reached #39 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100. The band toured extensively as opening acts for major artists like Ozzy Osbourne and KISS.
Notable Songs
- “Burning Heart” – Their most successful single
- “Different Worlds” – Second major hit from their album “Heading for a Storm”
- “Thunder And Lightning” – From their 2023 album “Sin”
- “House On Fire” – Recent single featuring new vocalist Mats Levén
The original 1981 lineup of Vandenberg consisted of:
- Adrian Vandenberg (guitar)
- Bert Heerink (vocals)
- Dick Kemper (bass)
- Jos Zoomer (drums)
Recent Activity
After a long hiatus, Vandenberg returned in 2020 with a new lineup and released their comeback album “2020”. In 2023, they released their latest album, “Sin,” featuring vocalist Mats Levén, drummer Koen Herfst, and bassist Randy van der Elsen.
Late Night Grooves #122
I first learned about reggae by listening to a Bob Marley tape I got from a girl. She had a pixie cut with a long bang and plenty of attitude. We drank a lot of alcohol and smoked a ton of cigarettes listening to Dead Milkman, Butthole Surfers, Fishbone, and bands like that. We thought we were smarter than everyone else, but we weren’t. That was one wild summer that I barely remember, but the music was intense, and its power has fueled my love for music throughout my life. Here’s a track from that summer.
Desmond Dekker (1941–2006) was a pioneering Jamaican ska and reggae musician best known for popularizing these genres internationally. His 1968 hit “Israelites” was one of the first Jamaican songs to achieve significant success in the UK and the US, helping to introduce reggae to a global audience. Dekker’s music often focused on social issues, blending upbeat rhythms with lyrics that addressed poverty, inequality, and the struggles of the working class. He is regarded as a foundational figure in Jamaican music, influencing later reggae and ska artists.
Late Night Grooves #73
Howdy folks, tonight on LNG, we will crank it up a little. I’m up late researching an article. My sleep cycle is trashed. Don’t get me started. So, I need a little music that will keep me charged until Slumber whispers that sweet lullaby in my ear. Her voice is so soft and melodic. I wish she came every night, but she is like a seductress, giving me just enough to want more. Since she gonna act like that … here’s a little for ya!
Did you like that slumber, huh? Here’s another for good measure, HA!
Danish heavy metal is nice! Very nice!
Mixed Music Bag – Week 23 – Not an Addict
TUNAGE ARTICLE – MMB
Here’s my response to Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag. It’s been awhile since I have participated, so let’s jump right into it. I was stuck in traffic a few years ago, a song on the radio caught my attention. I had never heard before, but it stuck with me. I assumed it was going to be another time where you here a song and don’t hear the artist, but I got lucky. The artist was K’s Choice and the track was Not an Addict
K’s Choice, a Belgian rock band formed in the early 1990s, has captivated audiences worldwide with their deeply emotional lyrics and haunting melodies. Founded by siblings Sarah and Gert Bettens, the band has navigated the complexities of the music industry with a unique sound that blends rock, folk, and alternative elements.
K’s Choice originated in Antwerp, Belgium, with the Bettens siblings at its core. Their musical journey began in the local music scene, where they quickly gained attention for their distinctive sound and lyrical depth. The band’s breakthrough came with releasing their second album, “Paradise in Me,” in 1995. The album featured the hit single “Not an Addict,” which brought them international recognition. With its powerful lyrics and compelling melody, this song became an anthem for many and solidified K’s Choice as a formidable presence in the alternative rock genre.
Late Night Grooves #71
Tonight, we are traveling to 1966, as you know the 60’s were filled with amazing music. Suddenly, there is a reemergence of the classics, which is fine by me. I’ve had trouble following modern music since my daughters were young. So, in 1966, there was a fella who came out with a hit entitled “You’re in the Cream of the Crop.” Let’s take a listen, shall we?
Lee Rogers, an American R&B singer and songwriter, made a lasting impact on the soul music scene during the 1960s. Born in 1939 in Detroit, Michigan, Rogers was part of the vibrant Motown era, though he found his niche with smaller labels such as Wheelsville and D-Town Records. His music is characterized by smooth vocals, heartfelt lyrics, and a soulful delivery that resonated with audiences of his time.
Rogers is best known for his hits “I Want You to Have Everything” and “Love for a Love,” which showcased his ability to convey deep emotion and connect with listeners. His work often featured lush arrangements and rich instrumentation typical of the classic R&B sound of the era.
Despite not achieving the same level of fame as some of his Motown contemporaries, Rogers’s contributions to R&B have been appreciated by soul music aficionados and collectors. His recordings remain a testament to his talent and the enduring appeal of 1960s soul music.
Lee Rogers’s legacy is one of heartfelt expression and musical craftsmanship, securing his place in the annals of R&B history as a beloved and influential artist.
Song Lyric Sunday – Whistling Dixie
TUNAGE – SLS
As a child, I had the hardest time learning to whistle. So, when I saw the theme for this week, I had a nice flashback to that time. Oh yeah, this week’s theme is songs with whistling in them. Thanks to Jim Adams for hosting every week. Here are two of my favorites in this category.
“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” by B.J. Thomas
“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” performed by B.J. Thomas, is a classic song that epitomizes the easygoing, optimistic spirit of late 1960s pop music. Written by the legendary songwriting duo Burt Bacharach and Hal David, the song was released in 1969 as part of the soundtrack for the film “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
The song’s light, breezy melody, accompanied by Thomas’s warm and soulful vocals, conveys a sense of resilience and cheerfulness despite life’s inevitable challenges. The lyrics, which speak of a carefree attitude in the face of adversity, perfectly complemented the film’s whimsical tone and became an instant hit.
“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” topped the Billboard Hot 100 chart in January 1970 and won an Academy Award for Best Original Song. Its enduring popularity is a testament to its timeless appeal, capturing a universal sentiment of maintaining a positive outlook no matter what obstacles come one’s way. The song remains a beloved classic, frequently covered and featured in various media, bringing listeners a sense of joy and optimism worldwide.
Lyrics:
Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
And just like the guy
Whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin’ seems to fit
Those raindrops are fallin’
On my head, they keep fallin’
So, I just did me some talkin’ to the sun
And I said, I didn’t like
The way he got things done
Sleepin’ on the job
Those raindrops are fallin’
On my head, they keep fallin’
But there’s one thing I know
The blues they send
To meet me won’t defeat me (aah)
It won’t be long till
Happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean
My eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Cryin’s not for me ’cause
I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free, nothin’s worryin’ me
It won’t be long till
Happiness steps up to greet me
A raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean
My eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Cryin’s not for me ’cause
I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free, nothin’s worryin’ me
Songwriters: Burt F. Bacharach, Hal David.
“Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” by Paul Simon
“Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” is a lively and infectious song by Paul Simon, released in 1972 on his self-titled solo album. Known for its upbeat tempo and catchy melody, the song showcases Simon’s distinctive storytelling and musical style, blending elements of folk, rock, and Latin rhythms.
The song narrates the adventures of the narrator and his friend Julio, who get into some unspecified trouble “down by the schoolyard.” The playful and somewhat mysterious lyrics have sparked much curiosity and speculation over the years about the nature of their mischief. Despite the ambiguity, the song’s joyful energy and whistling sections create a carefree and nostalgic atmosphere.
“Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” became one of Simon’s early solo hits. It was celebrated for its unique blend of musical influences and whimsical yet relatable narrative. The song remains a favorite in Paul Simon’s extensive catalog, capturing the essence of youthful exuberance and the timeless appeal of friendship and misadventure.
Lyrics:
Mama pajama rolled out of bed, and she ran to the police station
When the papa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation
It’s against the law, it was against the law
Oh, what the mama saw, it was against the law
Mama looked down and spit on the ground
Every time my name gets mentioned
The papa say, “Oy, if I get that boy
I’m gonna stick him in the house of detention”
Well, I’m on my way
I don’t know where I’m goin’, I’m on my way
I’m takin’ my time, but I don’t know where
Goodbye to Rosie, the Queen of Corona
Seein’ me and Julio down by the schoolyard
Seein’ me and Julio down by the schoolyard
Whoa, in a couple of days
They come and take me away
But the press let the story leak
And when the radical priest come to get me released
We was all on the cover of Newsweek
And I’m on my way
I don’t know where I’m goin’, I’m on my way
I’m takin’ my time, but I don’t know where
Goodbye to Rosie, the Queen of Corona
Seein’ me and Julio down by the schoolyard
Seein’ me and Julio down by the schoolyard
Seein’ me and Julio down by the schoolyard
Songwriters: Paul Simon.
Song Lyric Sunday – Going Biblical
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – SLS
Typically, I roll my eyes when I hear the term Christian Rock. It’s not because I don’t believe there could be such a thing, but when I first heard of the genre, the selected tracks presented to them weren’t rock. Not even close. The people presenting the music believed I listened to the “music of the devil.” It didn’t help; I sometimes started the day in the office by blasting Black Sabbath’s Sweet Leaf. Hey, sometimes I need a little kick somedays. There are days when caffeine and nicotine alone just aren’t enough.
Several years later, an NCO was playing some hard driving music from his office one night while we were working on preparing for an inspection. That music turned out to be Creed. I went out and bought the CD and gave it a listen. Immediately, I noticed the spiritual overtones in some of their music. I enjoyed their music, but never really reached the fan level. Even though I have their debut and sophomore albums. So, when I read this prompt, My Own Prison immediately came to mind. Let’s give it a listen.
Creed
LYRICS:
Court is in session, a verdict is in
No appeal on the docket today just my own sin
The walls cold and pale, the cage made of steel
Screams fill the room, alone I drop and kneel
Silence now the sound, my breath the only motion around
Demons cluttering around, my face showing no emotion
Shackled by my sentence, expecting no return
Here there is no penance, my skin begins to burn
(And I said, ohh) So I held my head up high
Hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
(And I said, ohh) All held captive out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
I hear a thunder in the distance, see a vision of a cross
I feel the pain that was given on that sad day of loss
A lion roars in the darkness, only he holds the key
A light to free me from my burden and grant me life eternally
Should have been dead on a Sunday morning, banging my head
No time for mourning
Ain’t got no time
Should have been dead on a Sunday morning, banging my head
No time for mourning
Ain’t got no time
(And I said, ohh) So I held my head up high
Hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
(And I said, ohh) All held captive out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
I cry out to God, seeking only His decision
Gabriel stand and confirms, I’ve created my own prison
I cry out to God, seeking only His decision
Gabriel stand and confirms, I’ve created my own prison
(And I said, ohh) So I held my head up high
Hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
(And I said, ohh) All held captive out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
(And I said, ohh) So I held my head up high
Hiding hate that burns inside
Which only fuels their selfish pride
(And I said, ohh) All held captive out from the sun
A sun that shines on only some
We the meek are all in one
Should have been dead on a Sunday morning, banging my head
No time for mourning
Ain’t got no time
Here is another band whose music fits the parameters of the prompt. I’m providing a detailed article for Mixed Music Bag. So, just give this track a listen.
Flyleaf:
LYRICS:
Circle encircles the earth
Chance and choice break his heart
His innocent arm moves to save me and I am spared
His beautiful arm is bloody and cut off
His heart ripped out to show me he loved me
But I wouldn’t believe him
He did all that he could
I still would not believe him
I left his arms empty and tied outstretched for me until he died
Left his arms empty and tied outstretched for me until he died
No man shows greater love
Than when a man lays down his life
For his beloved
I left his arms empty and tied outstretched for me until he died
Left his arms empty and tied outstretched for me until he died
And here I am alive
And I don’t have the right
And he gives me the right
Costing him his life
New mercy’s in the morning
I believe
What if I believe you now?
Could it ever change this for you?
Forgive me, relieve me
Please come back to life
I believe
What if I believe you now?
Could it ever change this for you?
Forgive me, relieve me
Please come back to life
Come back to my life
I believe
What if I believe now?
Forgive me, relieve me
Please come back to life
Sunday Juke Joint #1
As you may have figured out by now, I love music of all kinds. I decided to dedicate Sundays to my favorite genre, Jazz. Each Sunday, I’ll post four tracks. Sometimes, they may be a theme and other times, they will be tracks of what I am feeling on that particular day.
This week, we are looking at jazz covers of songs originally released in a different genre. So, if you hate jazz, I will be back to regular formatting tomorrow. If you don’t know much give a listen and keep an open mind. The tracks I picked are across several jazz sub-genres, so there is a variety. I hope you enjoy them.
Song Lyric Sunday – Children and Families
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – SLS
Nothing More
“Fade In, Fade Out” by Nothing More is a deeply emotional and introspective song that explores the universal themes of time, legacy, and the cyclical nature of life. Released as part of their album “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” (2017), the song delves into the relationship between generations, specifically focusing on the bond between a parent and child. Through its poignant lyrics, “Fade In, Fade Out” reflects on the inevitable passage of time, the experience of watching one’s parents age, and the desire to make the most of the moments shared with loved ones.
The song begins with a perspective that captures the essence of watching one’s child grow up, imparting wisdom, and hoping they find their way in life without losing themselves. As it progresses, the narrative shifts to express the child’s perspective—acknowledging the sacrifices made by the parents, the realization of their mortality, and the deep wish to carry forward their legacy. With its haunting refrain, the chorus emphasizes the transient nature of life, urging listeners to cherish their time with loved ones before it’s too late.
Musically, “Fade In, Fade Out” is marked by its dynamic shifts, moving from softer, reflective verses to powerful, emotionally charged choruses, mirroring the emotional depth and complexity of the subject matter. The song is a testament to Nothing More’s ability to weave intricate narratives through their music, offering listeners not just a song, but a profound emotional experience that resonates with the universal human condition of love, loss, and the hope of legacy. To hear this song preformed live adds another layer to it.
LYRICS:
Just the other day I looked at my father
It was the first time I saw he’d grown old
Canyons through his skin and the rivers that made them
Carve the stories I was told
He said
“Son, I have watched you fade in
You will watch me fade out
I have watched you fade in
You will watch me fade out
When the grip leaves my hand
I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way
Leave me in your wake
Always push through the pain
And don’t run away from change
Never settle
Make your mark
Hold your head up
Follow your heart
Follow your heart”
Just the other day I stared at the ocean
With every new wave another must go
One day you’ll remember us laughing
One day you’ll remember my passion
One day you’ll have one of your own
And I say
“Son, I have watched you fade in
You will watch me fade out
When the grip leaves my hand
I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way
Leave me in your wake
Always push through the pain
And don’t run away from change
Never settle
Make your Mark
Hold your head up
Follow your heart
Follow your heart, follow your heart, follow your heart”
We all get lost sometimes
Trying to find what we’re looking for
We all get lost sometimes
Trying to find what we’re looking for
I have watched you fade in
You will watch me fade out
When the grip leaves my hand
I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way
Leave me in your wake
Always push through the pain
And don’t run away from change
Never settle
Make your Mark
Hold your head up
Follow your heart
Follow your heart, follow your heart”
When the morning comes and takes me
I promise I have taught you everything that you need
In the night you’ll dream of so many things
But find the ones that bring you life and you’ll find me
Thanks to Jim Adams for hosting and another excellent suggestion by Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller
Song Lyric Sunday – War and Peace
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – SLS
Here is my response to SLS, hosted by Jim Adams
“Run to the Hills” by Iron Maiden is a powerful track from their 1982 album, “The Number of the Beast.” The song is renowned for its compelling musicality and thought-provoking lyrics, which offer a critical perspective on the historical conflicts between Native Americans and European settlers. Through its driving riffs supplied by Dave Murray and Adrian Smith and Bruce Dickerson’s dynamic vocal range, “Run to the Hills” tells a story from both viewpoints: the indigenous peoples of America and the invading settlers.
The song’s narrative highlights the violence, exploitation, and injustices faced by Native Americans during the colonization period, emphasizing themes of freedom, survival, and the tragic consequences of imperialism. Iron Maiden uses this track to showcase their musical talent and provoke reflection on a dark chapter in history, making it a memorable and impactful piece in the realm of heavy metal.
Lyrics:
White man came across the sea
He brought us pain and misery
He killed our tribes, he killed our creed
He took our game for his own need
We fought him hard, we fought him well
Out on the plains, we gave him hell
But many came, too much for Cree
Oh, will we ever be set free?
Riding through dust clouds and barren wastes
Galloping hard on the plains
Chasing the redskins back to their holes
Fighting them at their own game
Murder for freedom, a stab in the back
Women and children and cowards attack
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Soldier blue in the barren wastes
Hunting and killing’s a game
Raping the women and wasting the men
The only good Indians are tame
Selling them whiskey and taking their gold
Enslaving the young and destroying the old
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Yeah
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Mixed Music Bag Week 10: Evanescence
CHALLENGE RESPONSE – MMB
With its hauntingly beautiful music that seamlessly blends rock, metal, and classical elements, Evanescence has carved a unique niche in the music world. Which makes them one of my favorite bands in recent yearss. pFormed in the mid-90s, the band achieved massive success early in their career and has maintained a devoted global fanbase. Their sound, characterized by dramatic arrangements and Amy Lee’s powerful vocals, resonates with a sense of depth and emotion that is unmistakably theirs. This blog delves into the journey of Evanescence, exploring their formation, musical evolution, iconic albums, and enduring impact on the music industry.
History and Formation
The story of Evanescence begins in Little Rock, Arkansas, where Amy Lee and Ben Moody met at a youth camp in 1994. Bonded by their love for music, they started writing songs together, laying the foundation for Evanescence. After several lineup changes and years of honing their sound, the band released their debut album, “Fallen,” in 2003. The album catapulted them to international fame, fueled by the success of hit singles like “Bring Me to Life” and “My Immortal.” These tracks dominated the charts and set the tone for the band’s distinctive blend of anguished lyrics, soaring melodies, and robust instrumentation.
Musical Style and Influences
Evanescence’s music defies easy categorization, blending elements of gothic rock, nu-metal, and classical music. Amy Lee’s classically trained voice, capable of conveying profound emotion, stands at the forefront, while the band’s use of piano, strings, and heavy guitars creates a rich, layered sound. Influences range from classical composers like Mozart and Danny Elfman to alternative and metal bands such as Portishead and Soundgarden. This eclectic mix of influences has enabled Evanescence to create a distinctive and broadly appealing sound.
Key Albums and Songs
Beyond “Fallen,” Evanescence has continued to evolve with subsequent albums. “The Open Door” (2006) and “Evanescence” (2011) further explored themes of love, loss, and resilience, while “Synthesis” (2017) reimagined some of their previous work with orchestral and electronic arrangements. Songs like “Lithium” and “Imperfection” showcase the band’s range, from introspective ballads to powerful anthems. Each album reflects a chapter in the band’s journey, marked by introspection, experimentation, and growth.
Impact and Legacy
Evanescence’s impact on the music industry is undeniable. With millions of albums sold worldwide and numerous awards, including two Grammys, the band has solidified its place in the annals of rock music. Moreover, they have inspired a generation of artists across various genres, proving that music can transcend boundaries and resonate with listeners on a deeply personal level. Evanescence’s legacy is one of creativity, resilience, and the relentless pursuit of artistic expression.
Conclusion
From their humble beginnings in Arkansas to their status as rock icons, Evanescence has navigated the music industry with grace and tenacity. Their fusion of rock and classical music has defined their career and enriched the broader musical landscape. As they continue to evolve and inspire, Evanescence’s journey is a testament to the power of authenticity and innovation in music. For fans old and new, their discography offers a treasure trove of emotional, thought-provoking, and utterly captivating music.
Lithium Lyrics:
Lithium, don’t wanna lock me up inside
Lithium, don’t wanna forget how it feels without
Lithium, I wanna stay in love with my sorrow
Oh, but God I wanna let it go
Come to bed, don’t make me sleep alone
Couldn’t hide the emptiness, you let it show
Never wanted it to be so cold
Just didn’t drink enough to say you love me
I can’t hold on to me
Wonder what’s wrong with me?
Lithium, don’t wanna lock me up inside
Lithium, don’t wanna forget how it feels without
Lithium, I wanna stay in love with my sorrow, oh
Don’t wanna let it lay me down this time
Drown my will to fly
Here in the darkness I know myself
Can’t break free until I let it go, let me go
Darling, I forgive you after all
Anything is better than to be alone
And in the end I guess I had to fall
Always find my place among the ashes
I can’t hold on to me
Wonder what’s wrong with me?
Lithium, don’t wanna lock me up inside
Lithium, don’t wanna forget how it feels without
Lithium, in love with you
Oh, I’m gonna let it go
Songwriters: Amy Lee. For non-commercial use only.
Late Night Grooves #52
Tonight, we are going back to the 80’s to feature a group only had one song worth mentioning. Well, maybe two. Here’s Vandenberg
Mixed Music Bag – Week 6 – Chicago
ARTICLE – MINI BIOGRAPHY – MMB TUNAGE
Here is my response to week 6 of Glynn’s Mixed Music Bag
On my birthday in 1983, a back known as Chicago released an album which inadvertenly changed my life. Yes I know, you hear things such as these all the time and they rather rise to the occasion. Yet, I submit you the following; let us stop for a moment and consider that event may in some significant changed the person describing the incident’s life. Though, the event may be small for us it may majestic for them at the time. We have no way of knowing.
However, for me I will never forget the name of the band who meant so much to me, but I didn’t know it at the time. Allow me to explain. In 1983, they had just released to album it was a big deal at the catholic school I attended. One lucky young lady had the album and agreed to play it at our Confirmation. I believe it was Chicago 17 but I’m not sure. Well, I kept bumping into the record player and ended up scratching the album to hell. I was supposed to replace it, but never did. So from that point, I cringed every time I heard someone talking about Peter Cetera and Chicago.
The strange thing was I had several songs by the band recorded on cassette. I had no idea I was listening to Chicago. The songs were from their earlier albums and I love these songs still. So, a little over decade ago, I come across a list of the 1001 albums you need to hear before you die or some nonsense like that. I ran across an album by a band called the Chicago Transit Authority. I listened and it contained several of my favorites. So, finally I knew who recorded these songs. After researching a little further, I discovered Chicago Transit Authority was actually my dreaded Chicago. I looked at my computer screen and silently screamed.
Though, I haven’t listened any of there work from the 80’s, I still jam their earlier with gusto. Yeah, don’t judge me!
Here are the particulars about the band
In the grand tapestry of music history, certain bands stand out for their exceptional talent and profound impact on the cultural landscape. Among these luminaries is the band Chicago, a group that transcended boundaries and defied conventions to etch its name into the annals of musical history. From its humble beginnings in the late 1960s to its enduring presence in the contemporary music scene, Chicago has captivated audiences with its eclectic blend of rock, jazz, and pop, leaving an indelible mark on generations of listeners worldwide.
Origins and Evolution:
Chicago’s journey began in 1967 when a group of young musicians from DePaul University formed a rock band that would soon revolutionize the music industry. Originally known as The Big Thing, the band underwent several transformations before settling on the name Chicago Transit Authority, paying homage to the bustling city that inspired their sound. Led by the visionary partnership of Robert Lamm, Terry Kath, and James Pankow, Chicago quickly distinguished itself with its innovative fusion of rock instrumentation and jazz-inflected arrangements.
The band’s eponymous debut album, released in 1969, served as a bold declaration of their musical prowess, featuring a dynamic blend of brass-heavy compositions and intricate instrumental passages. Tracks like “Beginnings” and “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” showcased Chicago’s knack for crafting sophisticated arrangements while maintaining an infectious sense of groove. Bolstered by critical acclaim and commercial success, the album laid the foundation for Chicago’s meteoric rise to fame.
In the ensuing years, Chicago continued to push the boundaries of their sound, experimenting with different genres and incorporating diverse influences into their music. Albums such as “Chicago II” and “Chicago V” showcased the band’s versatility, blending rock anthems with soulful ballads and complex jazz compositions. With each new release, Chicago further solidified its reputation as a musical powerhouse, earning accolades and amassing a diverse devoted fan base.
Innovative Fusion:
One of Chicago’s most distinctive features is its innovative use of horns, which became a signature element of the band’s sound. Unlike traditional rock bands that relied solely on guitars and keyboards, Chicago integrated a full brass section into its lineup, comprising saxophones, trumpets, and trombones. This unconventional approach set Chicago apart from its contemporaries and allowed the band to explore new sonic territories, infusing their music with a rich tapestry of textures and colors.
The seamless fusion of rock and jazz elements became a hallmark of Chicago’s style, earning them widespread acclaim and admiration from audiences and critics alike. Tracks like “25 or 6 to 4” and “Make Me Smile” exemplify the band’s ability to marry intricate instrumental arrangements with catchy melodies, creating a sound that is both sophisticated and accessible. Chicago’s innovative approach to songwriting and arranging paved the way for countless artists to explore new avenues of musical expression, leaving an indelible mark on the evolution of popular music.
Enduring Legacy:
Over five decades since its inception, Chicago’s legacy remains as vibrant as ever, with its music continuing to resonate with global audiences. With a discography spanning 25 studio albums and countless hits, the band has left an indelible imprint on the fabric of popular culture, influencing subsequent generations of musicians across genres.
From sold-out concerts to prestigious awards, Chicago’s impact on the music industry is undeniable. Inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2016, the band has received numerous accolades for its contributions to music, including multiple Grammy Awards and a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Despite facing adversity and tragedy, including the untimely death of guitarist Terry Kath in 1978, Chicago persevered, demonstrating resilience and fortitude in the face of adversity.
Conclusion:
In the ever-changing landscape of popular music, few bands have left as profound a mark as Chicago. Their innovative fusion of rock, jazz, and pop reshaped the musical landscape, inspiring generations of artists and captivating audiences with their timeless melodies and infectious grooves. As they continue to enthrall listeners with their electrifying performances and enduring hits, Chicago stands as a testament to the power of music to transcend boundaries and unite hearts across the globe.
Music Mixed Bag – Week 5
ARTICLE – TUNAGE
My response to Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag
For this week’s challenge, I couldn’t decide which band to feature, so I chose to feature two bands I had the privilege of watching on the same day. Let’s get to it, shall we?
Band Maid
Band Maid, an all-female rock band hailing from Japan, has been creating a significant impact on the international music scene with their unique fusion of hard rock, pop, and traditional Japanese music. The band is known for their distinctive aesthetic, which blends traditional maid outfits’ visual elements with rock and roll’s edginess.
Their powerful performances and energetic live shows have earned them wide acclaim. Each member of Band Maid is a skilled musician, and their concerts are known to showcase their musical prowess, defying the stereotypical image of a “maid.” The band’s sound, characterized by heavy guitar riffs, powerful drums, and catchy melodies, is familiar and fresh to the listeners.
Their stage presence is charismatic, engaging audiences worldwide and earning them a cult following. Their music and unique aesthetic set them apart in the rock scene, making them stand out.
Band Maid has also made significant strides in spreading their music globally. They have toured extensively, performing in countries like the US, UK, and Germany, and have released several albums that have been well-received by critics and fans alike. Their unique blend of hard rock, pop, and Japanese music, coupled with their distinct aesthetic, has made them a standout act in the world of rock music.
In conclusion, Band Maid is not just a novelty act. They are skilled musicians with a unique sound and look that sets them apart from other bands. Their music is powerful and catchy, and their performances are energetic and engaging. Band Maid’s unique blend of hard rock, pop, and traditional Japanese music is a breath of fresh air in the rock scene, and their increasing popularity worldwide is a testament to their talent and appeal.
Personal Reaction:
I take my metal seriously. I’ve been a metalhead before It was cool. So, I will not be swayed by attractive women dancing around in maid uniforms. I’m not having such foolishness. It’s no different with male bands that bolster some gimmick. However, my brother said they were good, and he hadn’t let me down yet, so I listened. Armed with skepticism by God.
All I can say is those ladies threw down. Totally blown away. If you get a chance, check them out.
Badflower
Badflower, the Los Angeles based American rock band, is making significant strides in redefining the rock genre with their unique and raw sound that resonates deeply with listeners. Their gritty and emotionally resonant music is a stark contrast in an era dominated by synthesized pop and electronic music, reminding listeners of the visceral energy of early punk rock bands, further enriched by the sophistication of modern alternative music.
Their rise to fame was not simply overnight. It resulted from relentless touring, engaging live performances, and their compelling sonic experience. Their debut album, “OK, I’m Sick,” was a turning point, receiving critical acclaim upon its release in 2019. This album propelled them to the forefront of the rock scene. The album’s lead single, “Ghost,” was a commercial success, earning a gold certification from the RIAA and reaching the top of the Billboard Mainstream Rock chart. This success has been consistent with their subsequent releases, solidifying their status as one of the decade’s most exciting new rock bands.
Badflower’s success proves the continued relevance and demand for rock music in an era when pop and hip-hop typically dominate the charts. Their raw and emotive sound and thought-provoking lyrics have resonated with a new generation of rock fans, showing that rock music can still be fresh, innovative, and impactful.
Personal Reaction:
Badflower’s set was after Band-Maid- not directly after, but after. Now, we had seen Badflower previously and were excited to see them again. This show was great, but something happened during the set that sticks with me.
So, the band was playing Ghost, and something was happening in the audience. They stopped the show. They made sure the fan was okay before continuing. I’ve seen that before. Badflower is a definite class act.
Bonus Feature:
Twenty or so years ago, I had the privilege of watching the legendary B.B. King. My late wife was a tremendous fan, and I was like, he got a couple songs I like. I’ve always been more of a John Lee Hooker fan. So, one year, I had just returned from a very long assignment and wanted to do something special for my wife. I had no idea what special would be, but I wanted to do something. I kept looking for something and wasn’t having any luck. Then, one of the soldiers left a newspaper on the desk, and I found what I looking for.
B.B. King was giving a Mother’s Day special concert. So I bought tickets. I told her the three hours before the concert. She didn’t believe me. I produced the tickets, and she got dressed. Mind you, I never saw my wife get dressed that fast the entire time we were married. She even had to lay out some appropriate attire for me. Apparently, jeans, t-shirts, and boots wouldn’t cut it to see B.B. King. I protested and then quickly got dressed.
Did you know B.B. King had a jazz band? His band played a full set of jazz standards before King joined them on the stage. The show was about three hours long. It was one of the best shows I have seen. Yeah, but I’m still more of a John Lee fan.
Here is a version of a classic my wife and I both loved
Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag: Week 3 – Billy Preston
ARTICLE – MINI BIOGRAPHY
Here is my choice for Glyn’s Challenge for January – Week 3
The Musical Journey of Billy Preston
Billy Preston, often dubbed the “Fifth Beatle,” was an American musician whose impact on rock and soul music is immeasurable. His collaborations with some of the most iconic bands and artists of the 20th century, including The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, helped shape the sound of modern music.
Early Life
Born on September 2, 1946, in Houston, Texas, Billy Preston started his musical journey at a young age. He was a prodigy, playing the piano and organ in his church by age three. At ten, he debuted on the big screen, portraying young W.C. Handy in a biographical film about the blues musician. His early exposure to music set the foundation for his future career.
Notable Collaborations
Preston’s first significant collaboration came in 1962 when he joined Little Richard’s band as an organist. During this stint, he met The Beatles in Hamburg, Germany, beginning a long-standing relationship. In 1969, Preston joined the legendary band in the studio, contributing to their final two albums, “Abbey Road” and “Let It Be.” His skill on the keyboard earned him the nickname the ‘Fifth Beatle.’ Preston also worked with The Rolling Stones on several of their albums in the 70s, infusing their music with his unique soulful touch.
Lasting Legacy
Billy Preston’s contributions to music extended beyond his collaborations. As a solo artist, he charted numerous hits, including “Outa-Space” and “Nothing from Nothing.” His work earned him several awards, including a Best Pop Instrumental Performance Grammy. Even after he died in 2006, Preston’s influence can still be heard in modern music. His blend of rock, soul, and funk has inspired countless musicians, testifying to his enduring legacy.
Conclusion
Billy Preston’s life was a testament to his immense talent and musical versatility. From his early start in the church to his collaborations with some of the biggest names in rock and roll, his impact on music is undeniable. His legacy continues to inspire, making him a true icon in music history.
Late Night Groove #27
One of my favorite instrumentals. Enjoy!
Late Night Groove #25
Mixed Music Bag – Wk 38 – Nazareth
I found this challenge during my daily reading.
My response to Glyn’s challenge. N for November
Nazareth is a Scottish hard rock band formed in Dunfermline in 1968. My favorite jam from them is Love Hurts
Late Night Groove #9
It’s such an epic tribute cover. Watch Prince demonstrate why music fans consider him a beast on the guitar. He’s straight clownin`… My Dogg!
Just because it’s a long weekend. Allow me to offer you another selection of Prince this evening. Here, we see Prince performing with his female band, 3rdeyegirl. Dig this version of a Prince classic.
Memoirs of Madness 