Desolation had never sounded so elegant. At least not since Frank Sinatra’s “Sad Frank” albums from the ‘50s such as Where Are You?, Only the Lonely, and No One Cares. Roxy Music evoked that dead of night solitude and gave it a neon discothèque pulse. Humphrey Bogart, the mid-20^th century cinematic embodiment of loneliness, was venerated by “Ol’ Blue Eyes” and Roxy Music singer Bryan Ferry. On their 1972 self-titled debut, Roxy even paid tribute to Bogart with “2 H.B.” (Radiohead’s Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood teamed up with Roxy Music saxophonist Andy Mackay as The Venus in Furs on a cover of “2 H.B.” for 1998’s glam rock fantasia Velvet Goldmine.) Ferry was an art school Sinatra, yet unlike the extraordinary crooner, he was a storyteller who could write his own stories.

Roxy Music presented indelible tales, written and sung from the perspective of someone who looked like James Bond, but had the soul of Charlie Brown. Their 1975 masterpiece Siren starts off with the proto-Talking Heads nocturnal alternative funk of “Love Is the Drug” and “End of the Line,” a melancholy country-influenced ballad dealing with the aftermath of a relationship. Listening to them back-to-back, lust disintegrates into sorrow in less than ten minutes, exemplified by the lyrics “Catch that buzz” to “The more I see, the more I stand alone.” The sonic equivalent of a Hopper painting, “End of the Line” concludes with acoustic piano, ghostly organ, guitar, violin, and brief shades of electric piano gently fading as the protagonist walks out into a storm.

It’s one of many examples of how Roxy’s music was as vital as the lyrics. On 1982’s “More than This,” guitarist Phil Manzanera’s misty-eyed opening chords and Ferry’s sunset synths set the tone so perfectly that before they get to the vocals, you’re already moved. You can hear the influence it’s had on modern acts like Future Islands and The War on Drugs, especially 2014’s “Under the Pressure.” The 1973 dance classic “Do the Strand” featured a campy yet creepy unorthodox arrangement akin to the glam rock musical theatre of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, had free jazz ambience thanks to Mackay’s discordant saxophone, and presaged the quiet-loud dynamics of the Pixies by 15 years.

Being a few steps ahead of everyone is a principal part of their legacy. “Both Ends Burning” from 1975 and 1979’s “Dance Away” sounded more like atmospheric ‘80s new wave pop noir like Ultravox, The Fixx, INXS, Simple Minds, Duran Duran, ABC, Spandau Ballet, and Japan than anything of their time. Essentially, all your favorite alternative and synth-pop acts that had videos with sax solos and exotic locations owe a great debt to Roxy Music. Without Roxy (and Bowie) the ‘80s and MTV would’ve looked and sounded much different. Through glamour, gloom, and a strong sense of the absurd, Roxy Music chicly expressed both the euphoria and anguish of being alive.

Or as Ferry sang on 1974’s “The Thrill of It All,” “Oy Vey! High life ecstasy!”

Matt Leinwohl

“The world don’t owe me nothing.” A tall, balding, goateed, voluble gentleman was speaking to his much shorter, quieter, equally balding friend. Both men looked to be heading rapidly towards 60. “I’m at the point now where I don’t care if I die. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I want to, but I’m good.” His friend solemnly nodded in response.

It was unclear what had inspired the contemplation on mortality, this blunt, outer borough equivalent of Rutger Hauer’s “Time to die” speech in Blade Runner. Especially since he’d recently sung the jaunty Three’s Company theme song for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was the last two years worth of experiencing what’s essentially been Woodstock for those who smugly view incessant pandemonium as entertainment. The devastating week that had passed (the mail bomber, the Kentucky Kroger killings, and the Pittsburg Synagogue massacre) was particularly depressing and enraging.

Another factor could’ve been the somber occasion that brought a horde of us to a street corner in Forest Hills, Queens in the first place. On an idyllic, gray autumn Sunday morning a few days before Halloween, everyone from the former President of the Writers Guild of America West to a middle-aged guy proudly wearing a denim jacket with Billy Joel’s name in embroidered stitching on the back, were there to honor the late Walter Becker of Steely Dan.

Everybody had gathered on 112^th Street and 72^nd Drive, soon to be co-named “Walter Becker Way.” As some people looked beatifically at the Balfour apartment building,  where Becker was raised, church bells tolled from Queens Boulevard to indicate the start of afternoon. Right on cue, iconic New York DJ Jim Kerr started the ceremony. Currently with Q104.3, the majority of the middle-aged crowd had grown up listening to Kerr play Steely Dan in the ‘70s and ‘80s at WPLJ. When he first spoke it was difficult to hear him. Consequently, a male voice rose from the pack, shouting in the default tone New Yorkers have, which resides somewhere between good-natured and hostile, “SPEAK LOUDER, JIMMY!”

No matter who was speaking, whether it was Steely Dan guitar tech Ulrich Salazar or Matt Kearns, co-creator of a database featuring Becker’s amusingly cryptic stage raps during “Hey Nineteen,” everybody noted how smart he was. Each time this was pointed out, the Three’s Company guy would nod his head in agreement and say to no one in particular “Very smart.”

To get an idea of how beloved Steely Dan is, it wasn’t just the locals who paid their respects. A woman came in from Italy, and a stocky fiftysomething man with a long gray shag hairstyle traveled from England, looking like he’d just arrived from the set of a ‘90s Mike Leigh film. It was his lucky day, as he won Becker’s leather jacket in a trivia competition. (When Becker and Donald Fagen wrote “They got a name for the winners in the world” for “Deacon Blues,” they presumably didn’t have this exact scenario in mind.) Representing Boston were a father and son wearing matching red jackets. They ended up winning Becker’s windbreaker, and approximately 10 hours later, the Red Sox won the World Series. If you’re a member of that family, October 28^th, 2018 is in all probability the greatest day of all-time.

Trekking in from Los Angeles was Howard A. Rodman, the aforementioned ex-President of the WGA West, who was a childhood friend of Becker’s. Providing a glimpse into what he referred to as their “tragically hip” past, Rodman reminisced about how on Friday nights they would wear pea coats and McCready & Schreiber boots, and would take the E train to the city to hang out at the Café Au Go Go. He later stated that his old friend viewed Forest Hills as “not a bedroom community, a bridge or a tunnel or an E train away from Manhattan, but as something grand and glorious in and of itself.”

The substantial impact Becker’s hometown had on him was evident from the beginning. “Do it Again,” the first song from Steely Dan’s 1972 debut Can’t Buy a Thrill, with its dusky electric piano, science fiction organ solo, spectral samba percussion and intensely hypnotic electric sitar solo, evokes evening descending on Queens Boulevard. The variety of sounds was likely a result of living in one of the most diverse parts of the world.

Having grown up in nearby Rego Park during the ‘70s and early ‘80s, I was familiar with that part of the world, but hadn’t visited in years. After the ceremony, I walked around different old neighborhoods, which were remarkably untouched by time. Aside from the occasional person taking photos with their phones, it may as well have been 1978, when sophisticated metropolitan nocturnal decadence like “Josie,” “FM (No Static at All),” and other Steely Dan songs were floating out of cars driving throughout Rego Park, Elmhurst, Kew Gardens, and Forest Hills in bright mid-afternoon. How fitting that this music which stirs up a certain time and place, was partially created by someone who just happened to be from that actual place.

Walking around that section of Queens was conducive to reflecting on Becker’s legacy, in particular Becker and Fagen’s extraordinary achievement of coming up with exquisite, accessible music which also had a rebellious, unconventional spirit. In pre-AIDS 1976, with “The Fez,” who else was making glitzy, elegant disco fantasias about practicing safe sex? It’s as if National Lampoon had written the theme to an Aaron Spelling production. And on 1977’s Aja, they decided to have the pensive, solitary mood of “Deacon Blues” precede the festive ambiance of “Peg,” feeling like a weekend in reverse, Sunday morning fading into Saturday night.

Becker’s accomplishments as a songwriter and producer often overshadow what an excellent guitarist he was. His haunting blues solo amidst Johnny Mandel’s (The Last Detail, M*A*S*H) beautifully melancholic ‘70s film noir string arrangement during the coda of “FM (No Static at All)” is one of Steely Dan’s most indelible moments. It conjures up the image of Albert King playing his Gibson Flying V guitar under a rotating neon disco ball. Pink Floyd were more than likely paying attention. A year later, they created a similar atmosphere with David Gilmour’s solo on 1979’s “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2).”

Most guitar heroes don’t interrupt their performance and remark to the crowd “Guess my solo’s over.” That was Becker’s deadpan introduction to the “Hey Nineteen” stage rap he did the last time I saw him, which was Countdown to Ecstasy night at the Beacon Theatre, Steely Dan’s penultimate show of their 2016 “The Dan Who Knew Too Much” tour. (The co-naming of his old street coincidentally fell on the two-year anniversary of the concert.) His stage raps simultaneously mocked and celebrated cheesy showbiz pageantry, which made him the rock’n’roll equivalent of comedians like David Letterman, Bill Murray and Martin Mull. That night, in his best smarmy rake voice, Becker concluded his “Hey Nineteen” shtick by inquiring of the Danettes, Steely Dan’s back-up singers, “Ladies, tell us about the Cuervo Gold.”

The following summer, five weeks before Becker’s death, Steely Dan were part of the Classic East Festival at Citi Field in Queens, just a few miles from his old apartment. He hadn’t performed at the Classic West in California two weeks before, so his absence at a hometown gig gave an otherwise celebratory occasion an air of ominousness. They were fortunate enough to have legendary guitarist Larry Carlton fill in, an ideal choice because of his illustrious history with Becker and Fagen. Witnessing him reprise his gritty, mournful solos on “Don’t Take Me Alive” was like seeing Salvador Dali take another crack at “The Persistence of Memory.” Carlton was exceptional, although it’d been strange to see Steely Dan without Becker, especially during “Hey Nineteen.” Considering the setting, you have to believe he would’ve delivered the stage rap to end all stage raps. By the time Steely Dan finished their set, twilight had descended on Queens.

A year later, it was afternoon in Queens, and in front of me was the building where I’d used to live on 63^rd Drive. Music is inextricably linked with my memories, so while walking from “Walter Becker Way” to my childhood home, virtually every street recalled a different song. Aside from Steely Dan, there was Elvis Costello’s “Allison,” Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move,” “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins, Van Halen’s “Dance the Night Away,” Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke,” “Let’s Go” by the Cars, John Lennon’s “#9 Dream,” Bruce Springsteen’s “Prove It All Night,” Supertramp’s “The Logical Song,” and seemingly every song that had ever been released up until 1981.

Nostalgia is a powerful narcotic. If you get too lost in its tranquil glow, the past will become so pervasive you’ll eventually start feeling nostalgic about the times you were feeling nostalgic. However, in a century that’s often been chaotic and vacuous, nostalgia can provide lucidity and a sense of reinvigoration. Looking up at my old apartment, I thought about what Rodman said about Becker, how he had viewed his hometown as “grand and glorious in and of itself.”

To paraphrase “The Royal Scam,” I saw and heard the glory.

Matt Leinwohl

Within minutes, all of the seats in a few nearby rows were ripped out. It was just as well the atmosphere valued rage over thought, since the music and audience were so loud, you couldn’t hear yourself think in the first place. For the past decade, those who feel perpetually aggrieved can rant and rave like lunatics on Twitter. You can even become president by doing this. Back in the ‘90s, however, you’d go see Pantera.

The destruction occurred during their opening song, “A New Level,” at the Great Woods Amphitheater (now the Xfinity Center) in Mansfield, Massachusetts. It was the summer of 1994, and Enigma’s dreamlike “Return to Innocence” had been as ubiquitous as oxygen. Enigma even made an impact on Pantera drummer Vinnie Paul, who considered their music so calming, he’d frequently listen to them while attempting to sleep.

But there was nothing relaxing about Great Woods that night. At around 40 seconds into the show, Paul shifted the tempo from lumbering to lightning, and essentially 1200 people (mainly men) transformed into the Hulk at the same time. Fortunately, the crowd’s fury was only directed at property, not at each other. During “This Love,” Phil Anselmo and everyone shouted the chorus with such wounded spite, we somehow made the word “love” seem violent. Of course, at the time it’s likely that most of us probably hadn’t been in a relationship before, so love was essentially an abstraction. A song performed later that night, “Fucking Hostile,” doubled as an anthem and a default setting.

Paul’s drumming wasn’t just rapid noise that inspired mindless vandalism and screaming. His battering style often sounded like Mike Tyson relentlessly hitting a punching bag, although the difference was Paul made the chaos groove. It’s something he learned from those who inspired him, drummers who could swing such as Black Sabbath’s Bill Ward, ZZ Top’s Frank Beard, Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble’s Chris “Whipper” Layton, and Alex Van Halen.

Like many who grew up in the ‘70s, Paul listened to Styx. During the Carter administration, it’s highly probable he practiced to “Come Sail Away,” especially that dynamic Who’s Next section following the ethereal synth interlude, where the guitars and drums suddenly detonate from the speakers. If you ever want to see two people appear simultaneously shocked and moved, there’s the 2012 episode of That Metal Show where Paul tells Styx guitarists Tommy Shaw and James “JY” Young that Styx is one of the all-time great American rock’n’roll bands. From the looks on their faces, it’s as if four decades of critical drubbing were instantly flushed down the toilet. That’s how much respect he commanded.

Ultimately, Kiss and Van Halen were the major touchstones for Paul and his younger brother, guitar genius Dimebag Darrell, as the latter even had a tattoo of Ace Frehley on his chest. The Van Halen brothers had such a profound impact on them, that prior to each show, Dimebag would yell “Van Halen!” to Paul to psych themselves. Those were his last words before he was shot dead on stage by a deranged fan on December 8^th, 2004, the 24^th anniversary that John Lennon had been shot and killed. Dimebag is buried in a Kiss Kasket (donated by Gene Simmons) with Eddie Van Halen’s yellow and black striped “Bumblebee” Charvel hybrid guitar, the one he poses with on the back cover and inside sleeve of 1979’s Van Halen II. Paul was also buried in a Kiss Kasket, after passing away in his sleep last month.

Even in death, rock’n’roll lifers.

Matt Leinwohl

As fate would have it, Jackson Browne performed in Manhattan, the adopted hometown of Tom Wolfe, the week the legendary writer passed away. Among countless other accomplishments, in 1976 Wolfe coined the phrase “The ‘Me’ Decade” to describe the ‘70s, which he perceived to be more selfish than the more socially conscious ‘60s. Based on some of Browne’s material from that time, it would seem he agreed with the dapper journalist, best exemplified by the opening song, “Before the Deluge,” from his 1974 masterwork Late for the Sky.

It was a perfect way to start the show, and perhaps the best of Browne’s many hymns for the disillusioned. Written in the shadow of Watergate, it’s about when your ideals and values are tested by the challenges of reality, and how easy it is to surrender, summed up by the line “And in the end they traded their wings/For the resignation that living brings.” That’s a beautifully poetic way of expressing how the idealism of ‘60s youth counterculture didn’t end with a bang or a whimper, so much as a weary shrug.

The heavenly Booker T. organ of keyboardist Jeff Young and the weary rural Americana lap steel work of Greg Leisz made “Before the Deluge” sound as elegiacal as ever. It also helped that the song is even more powerful in the context of present day America, where there’s no discernable difference between reality and madness.

In the ‘70s, Fleetwood Mac, Warren Zevon, Linda Ronstadt, and Browne were just a few of the acts making contagious pop music edged in country gloom, radiating sunny Southern California highways and bleak honky-tonks. “You Love the Thunder” is one of those songs, a catchy sing-along that portrays life on the road as a significant impediment to relationships. Appropriately enough, you could hear the tears emitting from Leisz’s lap steel.

“The Long Way Around,” from his most recent album, 2014’s Standing in the Breach, took on a whole new life at the Beacon, with Val McCullum’s ambient guitar evoking seagulls swooping down on an empty beach at dusk. With this rendition, you could hear Browne paying tribute to acts he influenced like Wilco, My Morning Jacket, and especially The War on Drugs.

Unfortunately, the lyrics are more applicable now than they were just a few years ago, in particular the line “It’s a little hard keeping track of what’s gone wrong/The covenant unravels, and the news just rolls along/I could feel my memory letting go some two or three disasters ago.” In the middle of the song, two fiftysomething women sat down in my row, the one next to me asking, “This isn’t Jackson Browne, is it?” Maybe she thought he was an opening act performing one of Browne’s songs, who just happened to look and sound exactly like Browne? Recent times have taught us that nothing is too absurd.

Browne went behind the piano for another gem from Late for the Sky, “Farther On.” It’s one more song for the road that looks forward, while also eulogizing the past, with Leisz’s lap steel conveying that notion as powerfully as the lyrics. On “Doctor, My Eyes,” McCullum did a memorable extended solo at the end, on par with the original from the late Jesse Ed Davis. Browne, who was only 23 when the song was released, had articulated the fatigued state of someone way beyond his years.

That shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise, as demonstrated by the next song he performed, “These Days,” written when Browne was just 16. By the time he was 18, Nico (who he was dating at the time) recorded it for her 1967 debut album Chelsea Girl. It’s remarkable that Browne could write something like “Don’t confront me with my failures/I had not forgotten them,” at such a young age. It was a moving experience seeing Browne sing that line at the Beacon, particularly with the realization that he turns 70 in October. McCullum’s ghostly desert guitar helped increase the sense of desolation emanating from the 50-year-old lyrics. The last song of the first set was “For a Dancer” from Late for the Sky, a contemplation on death. And on that note, the mostly older crowd stood up, stretched, and purchased some beverages.

During the break, there was a family of three walking back to their seats. The parents and their teenage daughter all wore the same shirt, which featured the album cover for Browne’s 1972 self-titled debut. The parents were smiling beatifically, as if they had found Utopia, and the daughter had a look on her face that seemed to reflect both embarrassment and pride.

After the 20 minute intermission, Browne and his band came back with “Looking East.” McCullum and Leisz took part in an impressive guitar duel, where the latter channeled the ragged heavenly beauty of Duane Allman’s work on “Layla.” The entire theatre got on their feet for “Somebody’s Baby,” from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. It was actually somewhat affecting witnessing the mainly grey-haired crowd dance as if they had found the Fountain of Youth, temporarily going back to their selves from 1982. Looking back, it’s odd to hear how much “Somebody’s Baby” sounds uncannily like another hit from that year, Rick Springfield’s “Don’t Talk to Strangers.”

For the older couple in front of me, the dancing continued during 1973’s “Redneck Friend,” as they did silly dances in their seats, including moving left and right at a comically fast pace, like they were on The Muppet Show. The original had Glenn Frey on vocal harmony and Elton John (credited as “Rockaday Johnnie”) doing his best impression of Jerry Lee Lewis on piano. In a catalog full of introspective brilliance, it was good to see Browne spotlight a song that conjures up a scene from a lost ‘70s film where Burt Reynolds, James Caan, and Nick Nolte are in the middle of a riotous bar fight with the locals.

“Shaky Town,” written by his one-time guitarist and iconic sideman Danny Kortchmar, was a welcome deep cut off the classic sonic travelogue Running on Empty, which was released at the end of 1977, amidst the luminous neon disco swirl of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and the brilliantly black and white goofball fury of Rocket to Russia by the Ramones. Running on Empty turned out to be the musical equivalent of Stephen Shore’s photographs of rural America from his July 1973 road trip. (It’s possible that during his time with Nico, the paths of Browne and Shore crossed, as both Nico and Shore were affiliated with Andy Warhol in the late ‘60s.)

In the summer of ’77, Browne and his band performed what were then new songs in concert and even where they were staying, with “Shaky Town” recorded at a Holiday Inn in Edwardsville, Illinois. Over 40 years later, it sounded just as good at the Beacon, with Leisz’s lap steel bringing the pastoral Midwest to the Upper West Side.

Now in the homestretch, Browne played two songs from his extraordinary 1976 album The Pretender: “Linda Paloma” and the title track, yet another anthem acknowledging the wide gulf between one’s ideal life and real life. The second verse Browne sang especially stood out: “I want to know what became of the changes we waited for love to bring/Were they only the fitful dreams of some greater awakening/I’ve been aware of the time going by/They say in the end it’s the wink of an eye/And when the morning light comes streaming in/You’ll get up and do it again/Amen.” The irony about Browne’s disappointment in the ‘70s is that it fueled his best work, which in the end (along with an endless amount of other artists) helped make that musically dynamic decade the greatest of the rock’n’roll era, even surpassing the ‘60s, the decade that haunts so much of Browne’s writing.

Warren Zevon was an indispensable part of the ‘70s, and Browne paid tribute to his late friend and collaborator with “Lawyers, Guns and Money,” from Zevon’s 1978 album Excitable Boy, which Browne co-produced. The crowd appeared to get a substantial charge out of the final line “The shit has hit the fan.” Back in ’78, you’d frequently hear “Lawyers, Guns and Money” alongside “Running on Empty” on the radio. At the Beacon, when Browne sang about “running into the sun,” the image called to mind Icarus as 70’s rock God.

“Running on Empty” got one of the more vociferous responses from the crowd, as it’s the anthem Browne’s most associated with, one that spoke to and for a generation that, because of the societal and musical advances of the ‘60s, had more liberties than previous generations. Despite (and in some cases, because of) these developments, relationships were just as complex as ever, as Browne reflected in the unforgettable line “Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive/Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive.”

To end the show, Browne continued the theme of driving out on the open road by performing “Take It Easy” (and later segueing into “Our Lady of the Well,” just like on For Everyman). It was written with his one-time neighbor Glenn Frey, who admitted in the stellar 2013 documentary History of the Eagles, that Browne’s steadfast work ethic inspired him to be a better writer. One imagines Frey would’ve been very happy that seemingly everyone at the Beacon was singing along. Given the last few years, could you blame us?

With that in mind, it was the opening song, “Before the Deluge,” that served as a prayer for these days, specifically the lyrics “Now let the music keep our spirits high/And let the buildings keep our children dry/Let creation reveal its secrets by and by/When the light that’s lost within us reaches the sky.”

Amen.

Matt Leinwohl

“Strange Things Happening Every Day.” That’s a fitting description for this exact moment in time. It’s also the name of Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s most widely known song, an early example of rock’n’roll from 1945, long before that term was used in a musical context. (And “Rock Me” came out in 1938, when Bing Crosby’s appealingly somnolent croon was considered the voice of America.) She even frequently used a Gibson SG guitar (not something that was prevalent back then), which hard rock/heavy metal titans Angus Young, Tony Iommi, Glenn Tipton, and Cream-era Eric Clapton would eventually become associated with.

As far as strange things, being ignored by the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame for the first three decades of its existence would definitely qualify as such. The 1986 inaugural class included Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and some of the other founding fathers who she influenced. That would’ve been the ideal time to honor Sister Rosetta Tharpe, not three years after Green Day were inducted.

Mark Knopfler is among the legions of guitarists who owe her a great debt. The band he led, Dire Straits, stood out for their extraordinarily grand guitar odysseys told from the perspectives of ordinary men, such as “Sultans of Swing,” “Tunnel of Love,” and especially “Telegraph Road.” The latter is essentially Stratocaster Steinbeck, a 14-minute saga that deals with the development of modern civilization, unemployment, and a decaying relationship. It shows how Knopfler is as exceptional a writer as he is a guitarist. High praise for someone whose playing evokes Chet Atkins, Albert King, and Ritchie Blackmore’s solo in Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water.”

He presents the mundanities of everyday life in Technicolor, where they come across as transcendent and cinematic. Making Movies isn’t just the title of his best record, it’s an accurate description of Knopfler’s music. The 1980 album, equal parts gritty and sublime, features “Romeo and Juliet,” perhaps the supreme achievement of Dire Straits. It’s a story narrated by “Romeo,” reminiscing about his time with “Juliet,” giving a post-mortem of their relationship. The past is all that’s left for them, yet he still can’t help but miss her, as expressed in the line, “All I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme/Juliet, I’d do the stars with you any time.” It’s beautifully sentimental, while also meta, since the first part is actually referring to the song itself. At the end, Knopfler’s guitar is immersed in melancholy and sounds distant, conveying a time and place that’s gradually vanishing.

Dire Straits came out with their first album in 1978, a few month’s after the Cars released their self-titled debut, which is one of those records that, even in these divisive times, everyone seemingly loves. From the very beginning, “Good Times Roll” made a huge impression with its herky-jerky rhythm guitar, electronic drum bloops, eerie keyboards with a classical tinge, brief guitar licks that added some bluesy nuance, and vocals that brought to mind a sensitively blasé vampire. The album demonstrated that the Cars universe encompassed everything from Kraftwerk to Carl Perkins, and were just the right combination of avant-garde, pop, and hard rock. The people who hated Talking Heads but loved Aerosmith and vice versa, would love the Cars.

Long Island native Elliot Easton was a big reason why they would soon fill arenas. His guitar gave the songs heft, like the opening head-banging riffs in “Just What I Needed,” and the ‘50s sock hop solo in “My Best Friend’s Girl.” Rick Ocasek was the mastermind who wrote all the songs, but he was savvy enough to let the late bassist Benjamin Orr sing on some of their best material. The Cars could’ve passed for employees at the then-up and coming Apple, with the exception of Orr, who looked and sounded like a 70’s rock god, crooning like an ideal combination of Bryan Ferry, Paul McCartney and Scott Walker. His finest hour was 1984’s “Drive,” where grief never sounded quite so lush. The irony is, for a band that would sometimes be thought of as robotic, and in a decade overflowing with synth-pop ballads, the Cars created the most empathetic and humane one of all.

“Runaway” came out the same year as “Drive,” and was everyone’s introduction to Bon Jovi. Moonlighting from the E Street Band, Roy Bittan (an indispensable part of Making Movies) contributed the distinctive keyboard bleeps that propel the song. It was a modest hit, but at that point, they were somewhat overshadowed by contemporaries like Ratt and Twisted Sister.

The following year, Bon Jovi released “Silent Night,” a stellar power ballad with a pugnacious, soulful Mink Deville spirit that separated them from their peers. It was ubiquitous on WXRK, a station that had recently hired Howard Stern. Bon Jovi would become semi-regulars on his show, just before they broke out worldwide with 1986’s Slippery When Wet. The second single “Livin’ on a Prayer,” an infectiously catchy tune about economic hardship you could dance to, took over the airwaves, MTV, and the Bar/Bat Mitzvah celebrations of 1986-1987. The song became so successful that it assured the band they’d never have to live like the financially struggling characters in “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

Had Depeche Mode not already used it, Songs of Faith and Devotion would’ve been a perfect Bon Jovi album title. One of their biggest hits, “I’ll Be There for You,” is emblematic of how the themes of loyalty, ambition, and persistence permeate their entire career. Richie Sambora’s hypnotic coral sitar that pops in throughout the song connected South Asian-inflected ‘60s psychedelia to ‘80s suburban glam metal Americana. While driving around Long Island in the summer of ’89, that song really was there for you, as it seemed to be on anytime you turned on the radio. It made for good company.

When Nina Simone sang “Tomorrow Is My Turn” in 1965, she wasn’t kidding around. It’s been 15 years since her death, and Simone is now more popular than she ever was in her lifetime. You hear her in movies, television, commercials (bizarrely enough, even in a Ford spot during the 2017 Super Bowl), and sampled in countless hip-hop songs. Her visibility also increased with the Academy Award nominated 2015 documentary What Happened, Miss Simone?

Watching the violence in Charlottesville last summer, and the president’s cowardly, mealy-mouthed response, it was difficult to not have her civil rights anthems come to mind. Simone’s legacy is defined by those songs and her influence on the evolution of music in the ‘60s. It was during that time when rock’n’roll started to lean towards the exotic, sophisticated and baroque. You can hear her in the psychedelic blues of the Animals and the Doors that were equals parts roadhouse and haunted house, as well as the plaintive and intense folk-jazz-soul of troubadours like Tim Hardin, Fred Neil, and Nick Drake.

The Moody Blues had been a major part of this sea change. Initially, they were primarily an R&B act, the British equivalent of the Rascals. Original singer Denny Laine had one of the greatest voices of that era, sounding more Belmont Avenue than Birmingham, England. For those who only know of the Moody Blues as the progressive orchestral band who like looked variations of Dr. Strange, the pure soul power of 1964’s “Go Now!” (a Bessie Banks cover) will be a revelation.

When Laine left the band in 1966, that could’ve easily left a devastating void. However, it ended up being the best thing that could’ve happened to them, as they hired guitarist-singer Justin Hayward and bassist-singer John Lodge. The following year, they released Days of Future Passed, an introspective psychedelic folk September of My Years. The album conjured up a desolate city blanketed in snow, with isolated figures trudging through cobblestone streets. Essentially, they went from Eddie Kendricks to Edward Hopper.

In 1981, “Gemini Dream” blasted out of roller discos everywhere, sounding uncannily like another Birmingham band, ELO. The follow-up single was “The Voice,” haunting baroque folk with synth-pop flourishes that had one foot in the 1880’s, and the other in the 1980’s. In the year of Moving Pictures, Tattoo You, and numerous other memorable musical highlights, there was nothing like it.

You could say the same about the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame class of 2018.

Matt Leinwohl

That was quick. On just the second pitch he saw, Giancarlo Stanton hit a 426-foot, two-run home run in his first at-bat with the Yankees. Even quicker was just how rapidly the ball went into the stands, with an exit velocity of 117.3 miles per hour. It was the hardest-hit opposite-field home run in Statcast history, as well as the fastest one ever tracked at the Rogers Centre in Toronto. Stanton also contributed an RBI double in the fifth inning, and a 434-foot solo homer in the ninth. For one day, he made meeting expectations look effortless.

The home opener was a different story. On a drizzling, chilly afternoon, the fans were even colder than the weather, as they booed Stanton for striking out in all five of his at-bats. And this was a game where the home team won. The Yankees beat the Tampa Bay Rays 11-4, with eight of those runs driven in by shortstop Didi Gregorius, who hit two three-run homers, a two-run single, a double, and walked. But the man who’s now warmly referred to as “Sir Didi,” knows all too well what it’s like to be the object of irrational wrath.

The high standards New York sports fans expect from their teams occasionally begets low standards in common sense and decency. In the case of Gregorius, he was replacing Derek Jeter, one of the most beloved and accomplished figures in Gotham sports history. Early on in 2015, his first year with the team, he got off to such an underwhelming start, the home fans judged him not necessarily for who he was, as for who he wasn’t, mocking him by chanting “DEREK JETER!” Three years later, the eight RBIs by Gregorius were the most by any Yankee in a home opener, and were a single-game record for a Yankee shortstop, symbolic of how the vast shadow of Jeter has long since faded.

The following day, Stanton rebounded immediately in his first at-bat. Reminding everybody that he won the NL MVP Award last year with the Marlins, Stanton annihilated a 458-foot, two-run shot into the second deck in leftfield. At 117.9 miles per hour, it was the hardest-hit ball in the big leagues this season. The same people who jeered him at his worst, no doubt cheered him at his best.

There’s no place like home.

Matt Leinwohl

Baseball came back at just the right time. And what a time it is. As the unthinkable rapidly becomes inevitable and the unacceptable gets shrugged off as acceptable on a daily basis, America’s favorite pastime now serves as a great escape from what currently passes for America.

Yet the line between modern life and what Robert DeNiro in The Untouchables referred to as “enthusiasms” got blurred a few weeks ago in Port St. Lucie, just before the first Mets spring training game. 80 miles away from where yet another shooting massacre had recently occurred, the Mets wore Stoneman Douglas High School baseball caps to honor the victims. Some of the school’s students joined David Wright in delivering the lineup card, a powerful image of resilience.

A rich athlete dealing with the twilight of his career, spinal stenosis and various surgeries is obviously not on the same level as what these kids are adapting to, which includes being called “crisis actors” by the lunatic fringe that’s been mainstreamed the last few years. However, since 2015 Wright’s life has essentially been the Thin Lizzy song “Fighting.” Instead of merely relaxing and counting the millions left on his contract, he’s been a beacon of tenacity, battling his way back from numerous setbacks to the only team he’s known. The latest occurred last week when he was shut down from participating in any baseball activities for two months. If Wright is successful in his efforts, the third baseman nicknamed “Captain America” is never going to be the kind of player he once was, but the Mets will benefit from him being the kind of man he is.

Last month, they braced themselves for the increasing likelihood of Wright’s retirement by signing the free agent third baseman Todd “The ToddFather” Frazier. He was introduced at a press conference that could only be viewed on social media. So as the New Jersey native made genuine, good-natured statements like “This is my home, man” in a booming East Coast honk reminiscent of Garden State legend Bill Parcells, comments from Mets fans would pop up. These included “I wish the Wilpons would die in a fiery car crash” and the old nugget “Sandy Balderson.” Frazier’s casual affability and the sheer bitterness of the people who’ll be cheering (and booing) him made for an amusing dichotomy. You could see the difference between someone who’s achieving their dreams, and those who more than likely are not.

After the press conference, he took part in a “Twitter Takeover,” answering the kind of probing inquiries you’d find on Fox & Friends like “If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be?” and “What’s your favorite kind of cookie?” He actually replied to each of those questions with “Watermelon, because it has good flavor!” and ‘I’m simple, chocolate chip. And thin mints are always great.” Someone who was clearly an Airplane fan asked “Do you like gladiator movies?” (Frazier ignored that one.) When it was over, he said “Thanks for the great questions” with a straight face, and sincerely meant it. There are good sports, and then there’s Todd Frazier.

In his debut appearance as a Met, Frazier hit a single. Not as dramatic as smashing a home run, but preferable to him straining his groin on the way to first, the kind of thing we’ve come to expect from the Metropolitans in the last two years. Jacob Rhame, Jamie Callahan, and Drew Smith, all acquired last summer in the Curtis Granderson, Addison Reed, and Lucas Duda trades, combined for three shutout innings, as the Mets beat the Braves 6-2.

Even when the Mets are unwatchable (as they were last year), they’re always fun to watch because of Ron Darling, Gary Cohen, and Keith Hernandez, the best broadcast team in baseball. During first base prospect Peter Alonso’s initial at-bat, Darling mentioned that the bulky slugger brought back memories of “Bye-Bye” Balboni, a name that conjures up the post-Reggie, pre-Mariano era of the Yankees, which was a moment in time that’s inextricably linked to our existing state of affairs. This was the early ‘80s, back when Darling, Hernandez, and a bunch of other unforgettable characters had arrived in Queens, with the Mets about to take over the city, while George Steinbrenner ran the Yankees in a cruel, self-defeating, moronic, chaotic way that made a prodigious impact on a real estate developer friend/protégé of his.

Steve “Bye-Bye” Balboni was a feast or famine hitter known for his home runs and strikeouts, and who had the great misfortune to come up with the Yankees as a first base prospect the same exact time as Don Mattingly. He eventually got traded to the Royals and received a World Series ring in 1985, leading the club in home runs. Incidentally, the late Dick Howser was the manager of that championship team. Five years before, he managed the Yankees to 103 regular-season victories. When they were swept by the Royals in the American League Championship Series, Steinbrenner fired him. Making matters worse, he held a news conference to state that Howser left to pursue a Florida real estate opportunity. At the present time, even vintage bullshit has a contemporary stench to it.

And what a time it is.

Matt Leinwohl

Rock’n’roll isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. However, you wouldn’t know it based on the Grammys, since the evening was defined as much by who wasn’t on stage as who was. Elton John, Sting, and U2 represented classic rock, while a brief appearance by Gary Clark Jr. was the only nod to the new guard. Modern rock artists Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, Foo Fighters, The National, and The War on Drugs all won their respective categories. But none of them performed, and the rock acts were relegated to receiving their awards in a pre-telecast ceremony. It must be strange being honored in an environment of indifference bordering on contempt. Largely ignoring rock music was a particularly odd thing to do on a night that celebrated Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, and Tom Petty, who on his 1976 debut proclaimed “Anything that’s rock’n’roll’s fine.” The Grammys would seem to think otherwise.

The last time the Grammys were held in New York was 2003. The city was celebrated throughout the show, most memorably by having the legendary Patti Lupone sing “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” from Evita. The Long Island native played the title role in the original 1979 Broadway production, and it was oddly moving seeing Lupone, for all intents and purposes, reprise her role from almost 40 years ago. The rock’n’roll equivalent would be when Eddie Van Halen performs 1978’s “Eruption” during his 10 minute solo. In each case, you’re reminded that Gods still roam the earth.

New York themed songs were played as the presenters walked to the stage. Katie Holmes came out to Bruce Springsteen’s “New York City Serenade,” from his 1973 masterpiece The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle. It was good to hear this relatively obscure sublime ballad, equal parts Curtis Mayfield, Astral Weeks, and Mean Streets, on such a mainstream program. Even if it was just 15 seconds of Springsteen and the E Street Band doing the call and response, “No, she won’t take the train!”

Sting, Shaggy, and host James Corden should definitely not have taken the train. In what was the worst part of the show, the three of them were in an excruciatingly unfunny sketch where they were annoying people on the subway. They should have gone the David Letterman route, and simply interacted with actual New Yorkers. You’re never going to top the real thing. Instead, there was a guy who looked like a “New Yawk” meathead version of conservative author Andrew Sullivan threatening them, with baffling random close-ups of Sting making odd facial expressions. The Grammys somehow thought this was a better alternative than giving Jason Isbell or The National a prime showcase. On the positive side, Sting and his band did “Englishman in New York.” Some folks on Twitter wondered why he chose to do it, which appeared to be a joke at first, but they were being serious. Apparently, the title of the song wasn’t enough of a giveaway.

Looking at social media while watching the Grammys was an amusing experience. During Patti Lupone’s indelible performance, a professional music writer had the guts to admit that he preferred Madonna’s interpretation of the song. Admittedly, my initial reaction was to burst out laughing. Then came the realization that I’m the guy who thinks the sinister, meditative Michael Mannish cover of “Tomorrow Never Knows” by Phil Collins is as good if not better than the groundbreaking original from the Beatles. (It’s essentially the prototype of the dusky ambient music that bookend Pearl Jam’s Ten.) Ultimately, we’re all entitled to our harmless unconventional opinions.

Speaking of which, the Elton John/Miley Cyrus rendition of “Tiny Dancer” matched the original. With Elton about to embark on his last tour, the rural ‘70s Americana of “Tiny Dancer” sounded more elegiac than usual. In general, the past seemed to haunt the Grammys. U2 performing on a barge with the Statue of Liberty as a gloriously symbolic backdrop was supposed to invoke the present. But it brought to mind their video of 1981’s “Gloria,” which also had them playing on a barge. Even Donald Glover/Childish Gambino, perhaps the most respected contemporary artist who performed, expertly channeled the sultry ‘70s “quiet storm” soul of Smokey Robinson, and Moon Safari-era Air.

Going deeper into the past, the tributes to Fats Domino and Chuck Berry by Jon Batiste and Gary Clark Jr. had been worthy of the two men who were among the founding fathers of rock. And when Chris Stapleton and Emmylou Harris sat down with acoustic guitars, you knew they were going to do Tom Petty’s “Wildflowers.” Since its release in 1994, it’s become one of his most beloved songs, a moment in tranquility from someone who, to paraphrase “Refugee,” “had to fight to be free.” Four month’s after his sudden, shocking death, it’s still hard to fathom he’s gone.

Lady Gaga, SZA, and Bruno Mars with Cardi B also gave stellar performances on a night filled with frustration, greatness, and loss. What else would you expect? As DJ Khaled reminded everyone at the top of his lungs, “THIS THE GRAMMYS!!!”

Matt Leinwohl

Dreams don’t fade away so easily. While Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi were determined to achieve world domination, fellow New Jersey native Pat DiNizio was simply happy to join the family business, picking up trash for N.A. DiNizio & Sons Disposal. But like so many others, he got swept up in the musical tsunami that was 1977. Talking Heads: 77 and Elvis Costello’s My Aim Is True, both debuts, were just two examples of what inspired him to follow through on what he was always meant to do. Or as he memorably put it in a 2010 interview with PopEntertainment.com, “I lost interest in garbage and rekindled my lifelong interest in rock’n’roll and the guitar.”

When the Smithereens released their first EP, Girls About Town in 1980, DiNizio had a job at an advertising agency in Times Square. Around the same time in nearby Hell’s Kitchen, Bon Jovi worked for his cousin Tony Bongiovi as a janitor/gofer at the legendary Power Station recording studio. Back in the year that changed the course of DiNizio’s life, Bongiovi co-produced Talking Heads: 77 and Rocket to Russia by the Ramones. The latter featured “Here Today, Gone Tomorrow,” a mid-tempo danceable dirge dealing with a breakup. In other words, proto-Smithereens. DiNizio even sounded like Joey Ramone, and the perpetually bouncing and kicking bassist Mike Mesaros resembled Dee Dee Ramone.

It wouldn’t be until 1986 when the Smithereens released their full-length debut, Especially for You. The first single “Blood and Roses” was all over the radio and MTV that year. It became as an indelible a part of ’86 as Peter Gabriel’s So, The Dark Knight Returns, Miami Vice, Pretty in Pink, R.E.M.’s Lifes Rich Pageant, The Color of Money, Late Night with David Letterman, Van Halen’s 5150, the World Champion New York Mets, and of course, Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet, their mainstream commercial breakthrough, where they went from Uncle Floyd to Pink Floyd.

In the synth-dominated ‘80s, “Blood and Roses” stood out, bridging the gap between the ‘70s folk/punk/psychedelic nocturnal delirium of “Gimme Danger” by the Stooges, and the ‘90s power pop melancholia of The Lemonheads and Nirvana. Not surprisingly, Kurt Cobain once mentioned that Nirvana frequently listened to the Smithereens when they recorded Nevermind. In Journals, he listed Especially for You as one of his favorite records, alongside other classics like Aerosmith’s Rocks and Master of Reality by Black Sabbath.

Much like Nirvana, the Smithereens were a mighty combination of grief and guitar, with DiNizio writing breakup songs as well as anyone. He completely understood the mournful desolation of a relationship’s immediate aftermath. In “Strangers When We Meet,” just the vocal harmonies alone convey a powerful sense of loss. And their second album, 1988’s Green Thoughts, had gems like “Only a Memory” and “House We Used To Live In.” The latter contains the lyrics “Our house was not a home/And we both felt alone it seems/It is empty now/Worn and broken like our dreams.” They weren’t called the Smithereens for nothing.

Ironically, their most well-known song wasn’t about endings, but the earnest optimism of a new beginning. Cameron Crowe commissioned the Smithereens to write the theme song/boom box moment for Say Anything… However, the decision was made not to use the song, because it was felt the lyrics to “A Girl Like You” revealed too much of the plot. So close to cinema immortality, yet Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” was undeniably the right choice. A few years later, Crowe gave DiNizio a cameo as Sid in Singles. Fittingly, he can be seen briefly in the background during the disintegration of a relationship, as Bridget Fonda dumps Matt Dillon, justifiably damning him with the faint praise, “I think you’re very… entertaining.” Another scene has Campbell Scott and Kyra Sedgwick going through Scott’s vinyl collection, with Especially for You prominently displayed near them. It’s a perfect homage to a band whose songs were often about the complexities of relationships.

The only time I saw the Smithereens live was with my ex-girlfriend, appropriately enough, as part of a 2010 tribute to the Who at Carnegie Hall. They did “The Seeker” (originally covered by them as the B-side to “Strangers When We Meet” back in ’86), which then segued into the majestic instrumental “Sparks” from Tommy. (Cameron Crowe used it for the pivotal “Listen to Tommy with a candle burning and you will see your entire future” scene in Almost Famous.) It was a savvy decision to combine the two, since “Sparks” actually feels like the act of seeking, and both are songs of introspection executed with brute force.

The Smithereens clearly realized this, so while deservedly renowned as an elite power pop band, there was an emphasis on “power” that evening. Like the band they were honoring, their performance fused the primitiveness of garage rock with the grandiosity of classical music, resulting in intense psychedelic hard rock euphoria.

On the morning of December 13^th, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame revealed that Bon Jovi, after almost a decade of eligibility, would finally be inducted. Just a few hours later, it was announced that DiNizio had passed away. He never attained the level of success Jon Bon Jovi has managed to sustain for the last three decades. Instead, DiNizio did something even more substantial. He became one of music’s keenest observers of the world, while still creating the kind of loud, riff-based rock’n’roll that makes it a better, more dynamic place to live.

Not all dreams are the same. We should consider ourselves fortunate that DiNizio accomplished his.

Matt Leinwohl

Powerage wasn’t just an album title. It was also a fitting description of Malcolm Young’s life’s work. He was a diminutive man with an intimidating demeanor, like his doppelgänger Jackie Earle Haley in Breaking Away. (You have to figure the “Cutters” listened to a lot of AC/DC.) When the band chants “Oi! Oi!” on “T.N.T,” it sounds like they’re saying “Fight! Fight!” They may as well have, as Malcolm’s riffs were as pugilistic as his presence.

He and his younger brother teamed up for sheer brutal guitar carnage, with Angus combining the sophisticated, melodic blues of Free’s Paul Kossoff and the avant-garde maximum voltage of Lou Reed. After the guitar solo for “Whole Lotta Rosie,” Angus and Malcolm go back and forth, the former continuing to play lead, while the latter answers him with the hammering stop-start riff (a metallic spin on Bo Diddley’s “I’m a Man”) that begins the song. It’s as if the guitars are having a volatile argument with each other. And if it sounds like the amp was smoking and eventually melted during the recording of the frenzied “Let There Be Rock,” that’s because it actually happened.

As rhythm guitarist, Malcolm was the Keith Richards of AC/DC, creating a foundation of hard-hitting riffs and hooks that grooved, so Angus could be Mick Taylor and Mick Jagger. The persistent mesmerizing riff in “Down Payment Blues” epitomizes Malcolm’s intense minimalism, generating an ominous atmosphere suitable for a song dealing with financial hardship. Eddie Van Halen has cited it as one of his favorites. The album where “Down Payment Blues” is from, 1978’s Powerage, clearly made an impact, as the following year’s Van Halen II features “Somebody Get Me a Doctor,” which has a similar larger than life, “Release the Kraken” opening as “Sin City.”

When you think of AC/DC, guitar violence and lecherous screaming come to mind. However, off-beat backing vocals, usually done by Malcolm, are also a vital part of their sound. The melodious grunts at the beginning of “Thunderstruck” (“UH-AH-AH-AH-AH!”) could be cavemen attempting Doo-wop. For “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” the creepy, percussive way “Dirty deeds and they’re done dirt cheap” is croaked at the end of each chorus, is pure sleaze splendor. During live performances, whenever Malcolm would go to the microphone and sing, it appeared as if he were in a constant state of electric shock. This helped make him stand out in a band that wasn’t exactly lacking in iconic characters.

But it all comes back to the riffs. The Cult loved the one in “Rock’n’Roll Singer” so much, Billy Duffy played it on “Wildflower.” It led off their 1987 classic Electric, an album unthinkable without the influence of Malcolm Young. And it’s unlikely Def Leppard would exist without him. “Let It Go,” “High’n’Dry (Saturday Night),” “Photograph,” and many other stellar songs that made them an indelible part of 80’s suburban Americana, are all built on Malcolm’s riffs. Most importantly, so were AC/DC.

“Let there be guitar. There was guitar.”

Matt Leinwohl