Frankie Laine – Rawhide (1958)
It’s late evening, the air thick and warm, and you’re driving. The radio signal is fading in and out, the…
It’s late evening, the air thick and warm, and you’re driving. The radio signal is fading in and out, the…
The air in the dimly lit lounge was thick, smelling faintly of spilled gin and expensive furniture polish. The year…
The year is 1958. The airwaves are a glorious, restless sonic soup—a mix of saccharine teen idols, the first hard…
The memory of late-night radio, filtered through the static and the heavy summer air, is often a more visceral experience…
The air in the room was thick, not with smoke or dust, but with a kind of electric, anticipatory dread.…
The needle drops in 1953, not with the pristine clarity of modern premium audio, but with the rich, unmistakable hiss…
The year is 1958. The air in the converted Midtown Manhattan church, reportedly used for its unique acoustics, is thick…
It’s an image burned into the collective unconscious: a convertible slicing through the Arizona desert, red dust swirling in the…
The year is 1958. A transistor radio sits humming on a dusty shelf in a roadside diner, its plastic grille…
I remember a damp, late-autumn evening, cruising the suburbs with a friend, the car windows fogged up, the radio hiss…