Don’t Ask Me What I Say Manfred Mann
The year is 1964. The airwaves are thick with the joyous, infectious syncopation of the British Invasion, a sound that,…
The year is 1964. The airwaves are thick with the joyous, infectious syncopation of the British Invasion, a sound that,…
The hour is late. The radio dial is still sticky with the dust of a thousand forgotten stations. And then,…
The air was thick and golden, not unlike the fading light filtering through the stained glass of a forgotten church…
The air in the summer of 1967 felt like a tuning fork struck against the hard surface of American consciousness.…
The scene is Nashville, 1957. The air in the RCA Victor studio, or perhaps Owen Bradley’s famed Quonset Hut, is…
The air was thick with static and the smell of hot vacuum tubes. I remember it vividly—a late-night re-run of…
The prevailing memory of The Dave Clark Five—the undisputed architects of the Tottenham Sound—is usually one of exuberant, driving rhythms…
I remember the first time this sound truly hit me. Not just as background noise on a dusty compilation, but…
The air in the rehearsal space was thick with cheap cigarette smoke and the humid musk of four young men…
The hour is late. The neon sign for “Cold Beer” is half-burnt out, casting a sickly pink glow onto the…