Len Barry 1965 – 1.2.3
The dial glows softly in the pre-dawn kitchen, spitting static between the big city radio stations. It’s 1965, and the…
The dial glows softly in the pre-dawn kitchen, spitting static between the big city radio stations. It’s 1965, and the…
The year is 1961. Trad jazz—that spirited, nostalgic, New Orleans-revival sound—still pulses through Britain’s dance halls and late-night clubs. Amidst…
The transistor radio, that constant companion of the mid-sixties teenager, had a way of flattening everything into an audible, vibrating…
It is April 1961, and the neon lights of the city are spilling rain-streaked colors across the cobblestone. Forget the…
The room is dark, save for the ruby glow of a late-night radio dial, the kind with thick, satisfying vacuum…
The year is 1964. The British Invasion is no longer a rumour; it is a full-scale occupation of American radio…
The summer of 1960 hung heavy in the air, a mix of gasoline, salt spray, and the faint scent of…
I remember the first time this particular piece of music truly hit me. It wasn’t on a crackling transistor radio,…
Imagine the year 1967. The Summer of Love is in full, kaleidoscopic bloom. San Francisco is awash in feedback, sitars,…
The air in Los Angeles in late 1966 was charged with a heavy, restless energy. The sunshine façade of California…