Fanny – Hey Bulldog (1971)
The vinyl lands with a soft, final thud on the platter. The needle drops. A low, subterranean growl of bass…
The vinyl lands with a soft, final thud on the platter. The needle drops. A low, subterranean growl of bass…
I remember exactly where I was when the true, untethered nature of this recording hit me. It wasn’t a sleek,…
The lights are low, the room is thick with smoke and anticipation. You’re not in a stadium in 1970, nor…
I often find myself staring at the chrome grille of an old, analog jukebox—the kind lit by fading neon and…
I remember the first time I heard it, not on some dusty jukebox in a forgotten diner, but late one…
The air in the garage was thick with the scent of old gasoline and mildewed cardboard. It was a Saturday…
The air in the studio was thick, a palpable mix of cigarette smoke, hot vacuum tubes, and the faint, metallic…
There are certain records that don’t just mark time, they are time—a crystalline sample of a moment when disparate musical…
The needle drops, and immediately, everything changes. The lush, weeping melodrama of a classic Shangri-Las ballad—the mournful piano chords, the…
The air crackles before the first downbeat. It’s not simply the sound of old analog tape; it’s the palpable tension…