The 500 - #138 - The Chronic - Dr. Dre

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #138
Album Title: The Chronic
Artist: Dr. Dre
Genre: West Coast Hip Hop, G-Funk, Gangsta Rap
Recorded: Death Row (Los Angeles, California)
Released: December, 1992
My age at release: 27
How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple songs
Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #37, moving up 101 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Lil' Ghetto Boy

"Fo shizzle, my nizzle!"

There was a time when that phrase was the height of cool. In the early 2000s, the Grades 7 and 8 students I taught tossed it around like a linguistic VIP pass. Though they lived in a predominantly white, working-class neighbourhood their speech was steeped in the slang and swagger of West Coast hip hop. It was language that had traveled straight from a recording studio in California to our Canadian classrooms on cassette tapes, CD's and music videos. One student, especially fluent in the culture, even gave me a nickname. I wasn’t “Mr. Hodgkinson” to him. I was “Mitta H.” “Mitta,” of course, being his hip hop remix of “Mister.” Thinking back it still makes me laugh: his slightly pudgy, freckled face delivering lines with the confidence of a seasoned MC.

"Mitta H? Can I axe you sumthin' real quick?"

"Mitta H? I ain't gonna lie, I didn't do the homework, but lemme explain."

"Mitta H? I can't stay, I gotta bounce."

The phrase “Fo shizzle, my nizzle!”, made famous by rapper Snoop Doggy Dogg (born Calvin Broadus Jr.), gained widespread traction with his 2000 single Snoop Dogg (What’s My Name? Pt. 2) from the album Tha Last Meal. It was part of Snoop’s signature linguistic flair: a playful remix of English where he added the suffix or infix “-izzle” to everyday words, creating a kind of lyrical shorthand. In this code, a table became a tizzable, a chair a chizzair, and a house a hizzle. So naturally, “Fo shizzle, my nizzle” translated to “For sure, my friend” -- with “nizzle” standing in for the N word, which, in African American Vernacular English, is often used as a term of camaraderie and cultural solidarity.

Snoop Dogg in 2000.

I’ve long been fascinated by the etymology and evolution of slang, so diving into the origins and trajectory of “Fo shizzle” for this post was a delight. As it turns out, what sounded like a fresh catchphrase from my gregarious student in the early 2000s was, in fact, the product of a linguistic lineage stretching back over sixty years. While Snoop Dogg popularized the phrase in 2000, its roots predate him by several years. The “-izzle” infix first surfaced in rapper E-40’s 1996 track, Rapper’s Ball, where he dropped “fo’ sheezy” into the mix. But even E-40 was riffing on an earlier influence. He'd borrowed it from Frankie Smith’s 1981 funk hit Double Dutch Bus, which featured playful “-iz” speak as part of its lyrical style.

Cover for the single Double Dutch Bus, by Frankie Smith.

Smith, in turn, drew inspiration from the coded language of the 1970s African American street culture, specifically the cant used by pimps and hustlers to obscure their conversations from law enforcement, the same reason that East Londoners in the U.K. contrived Cockney slang in the 1900s. Similarly, the, slang “izzle” was a linguistic sleight of hand, much like Pig Latin, which can be traced back to the Harlem Renaissance (1918–1935), when young black girls are believed to have developed rhythmic, coded chants while jumping rope. What began as a form of playful secrecy evolved into a cultural cipher, one that would eventually echo through boom boxes, bounce off classroom walls, and land in the everyday speech of kids hundreds of kilometers away.

Girls jumping "Double Dutch" in Harlem, New York (circa 1940).

Before he was a household name, Snoop Doggy Dogg made his explosive debut on Dr. Dre’s 1992 landmark album The Chronic. With his laid-back flow and unmistakable drawl, Snoop appeared on multiple tracks, including the iconic Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang, instantly becoming a standout voice in West Coast hip hop. His chemistry with Dre was undeniable and the buzz around this lanky Long Beach newcomer was electric.

Album cover for Ain't Nuthin' But A G Thang featuring Dr. Dre
and Snoop Dawg. 

The Chronic was the groundbreaking debut solo album from rapper, producer, and future mogul Dr. Dre (born Andre Young). Released in 1992, the album marked a bold new chapter for Dre, who had recently split from the pioneering West Coast group N.W.A. following a bitter financial dispute with their manager, Jerry Heller, and groupmate Eazy-E. Frustrated by what he saw as unfair contracts and mismanagement, Dre left the group and co-founded Death Row Records with former bodyguard-turned-entrepreneur Suge Knight.

Vibe Magazine cover (1996) featuring (clockwise l-r)
Snoop Dawg, Dr. Dre, Tupac Shakur and Suge Knight.

Determined to carve out his own legacy, Dre poured his energy into The Chronic, crafting a sound that would come to define an era. Drawing heavily from 1970s funk, especially the grooves of Parliament-Funkadelic (#177, #276 and #479 on The 500), he pioneered the G-funk style -- a laid-back, synth and bass-driven sound that stood in stark contrast to the aggressive, sample-heavy beats of East Coast hip hop. The Chronic became a cultural juggernaut, selling millions of copies and reshaping the sound of hip hop in the 1990s. Many consider it more than an album. Critics and fans have lauded it as a statement of independence, a reinvention of West Coast rap, and the beginning of a new dynasty.

Funk collective Parliament-Funkadelic.

Despite the six-decade journey it took for “Fo shizzle” to land in the vocabulary of my students, it took barely a year for the phrase to hit cultural saturation and promptly flame out. Like so many slang terms that bubble up from Black culture and cross into the mainstream, especially when adopted by white audiences, it lost its edge seemingly overnight. By 2005, when Michael Scott awkwardly dropped it on television’s The Office in a cringey attempt to bond with his younger, more diverse staff at the fictional Dunder Mifflin Paper Company, the phrase had gone from cutting-edge to a cartoonish punchline.

Steve Carell portraying "Prison Mike" in a classic episode of The Office.

By the early 2000s, even I was using it, but only with a heavy dose of irony, usually to mock my own attempts at being “down with the kids.” And yes, "they fo shizzle rolled dey eyes, son".

The 500 - #139 - Rejuvenation - The Meters

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #139
Album Title: Rejuvenation
Artist: The Meters
Genre: Funk, Swamp Rock
Recorded: Sea Saint Studios, New Orleans, Louisiana
Released: July, 1974
My age at release: 9
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all
Is it on the 2020 list? No
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: It Ain't No Use

In 1967, after decades of service as a luxury transatlantic ocean liner and a World War II troopship, the Queen Mary was retired due to declining demand for ocean travel in the era of jet airplanes. The City of Long Beach purchased the ship with the vision of transforming it into a floating hotel, museum, and event space. The ship made its final voyage from Southampton to Long Beach, California that same year. It became a tourist attraction, offering historical tours, restaurants, convention rental space and overnight accommodation in the original staterooms.

I visited the pier where it was docked when on a trip to California and Nevada with my dad and my "Aunt" Jean in 1980. At the time, I was only marginally impressed by the 310-meter long boat. I wish I would have known more about its history. Built during the Great Depression, it is bigger than the Titanic, boasting Art Deco interiors, five dining rooms, two swimming pools, a library and a hospital. During World War II, it was nicknamed "The Grey Ghost" and transported more than 800,000 troops. It even set a maritime record when 16,683 passengers were on a single trip. Post war, it became a symbol of glamour and prestige, hosting stars who included Elizabeth Taylor, Clark Gable, Audrey Hepburn and Charlie Chaplin. 

Elizabeth Taylor on the deck of the Queen Mary.

As a teen, standing on that sun-warmed Californian pier, squinting at the grandeur of the Queen Mary with the kind of angsty detachment only a fifteen-year-old can muster, I had no idea about the history of this legendary ship. Indeed, the burgeoning rock fan in me had no idea that just five years earlier, Paul McCartney had thrown one of the most legendary parties in rock history aboard this historic vessel. It was March 24, 1975, and the former Beatles was fresh off recording his fourth studio record Venus and Mars with his new band Wings. To celebrate the recording, McCartney transformed the retired ocean liner's main ballroom into a floating fandango of music and star-studded excess.

Paul McCartney's fourth record with Wings, Venus And Mars.

In attendance was a who's who of music and pop culture including  Bob Dylan, Mick Jaggar, Joni Mitchell, Marvin Gaye, Cher, The Jackson Five, Dean Martin, Tony Curtis and George Harrison, in his first post-Beatles public appearance with Paul.

Entertainment news article celebrating the McCartney shindig.

McCartney had laid down much of Venus and Mars at Sea-Saint Studios in New Orleans, soaking in the city’s humid, music-infused magic. Immersed in the local scene, he discovered two electrifying acts: the legendary piano wizard Professor Longhair (whose New Orleans Piano sits at #222 on The 500) and a lean, locked-in five-piece funk machine called The Meters. Blown away by their groove, McCartney invited both to perform at his now-mythic Queen Mary bash. The impact? Seismic. So much so that Mick Jagger, in full rock god mode, declared The Meters “the best motherf*king band in the world” and immediately tapped them to open for The Rolling Stones’ 1975 World Tour. From the bayou to the ballroom, the funk had officially gone global.

A German poster promoting the Rolling Stones Tour (1975) with The Meters.

Rejuvenation was the fifth studio record by The Meters. It blended swampy grooves, syncopated rhythms, and sly vocals into a record that’s both laid-back and electrifying. Tracks such as Just Kissed My Baby and People Say are in a masterclass of funk minimalism and energetic fun. The eleven minute bluesy jam It Ain't No Use is a track I couldn't get enough of and was an easy pick for my The 500 Spotify Playlist.

In 1974, The Meters comprised Art Neville (keyboards, vocals); Leo Nocentelli (guitar); George Porter Jr. (bass); Zigaboo Modeliste (drums); and Cyril Neville (percussions, vocals). I was not familiar with this amazing funk band until discovering them in March, 2024 when I first heard their second studio record, Look-Ka Py Py (#214 on The 500). This record was even more exciting when it dominated my wife's and my background playlist this Thanksgiving weekend. 

Look-Ka Py Py album cover from The Meters.

Now, decades later, I find myself writing this from our cottage in the quiet lakeside hamlet of Port Burwell, Ontario, where history has a way of surfacing in unexpected forms. In 2012, my small town made its own bold maritime move, acquiring the decommissioned HMCS Ojibwa, an Oberon-Class submarine. The Ojibwa was built in 1965 by the Royal Canadian Navy. For more than 30 years, it prowled the depths of the Arctic Ocean during the Cold War, a silent sentinel in NATO operations. Fittingly, it too earned the nickname “The Grey Ghost”, echoing the Queen Mary’s wartime moniker. Now resting on dry land just down the road from where I am, the Ojibwa stands as a steel-clad reminder of Canada’s naval legacy...its cold corridors and sonar rooms whispering stories of stealth, tension, and resilience

Two vessels, worlds apart in purpose and design, yet united by history, mystery and the enduring power of human ingenuity. I imagine some teen standing outside this steel leviathan, squinting and muttering, “What even is this?” The teacher in me hopes that one day, he’ll look back and think, “Turns out, it was a story waiting to be heard.”

The 500 - #140 - Parallel Lines - Blondie

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #140
Album Title: Parallel Lines
Artist: Blondie
Genre: New Wave, Power Pop, Pop Punk
Recorded: Record Plant Studios, New York City
Released: September, 1978
My age at release: 13
How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite
Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #146, dropping 5 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: One Way Or Another

The arrival of Heart of Glass, Blondie’s fourth single, hit like a seismic wave in my circle of friends during the winter of 1978. It quickly entered regular radio rotation in January, 1979, but what truly set it apart was its accompanying music video -- a groundbreaking concept at the time. Long before music videos became the dominant promotional tool of the 1980s, their appearance on late-night television felt revolutionary. Until then, our only glimpses of rock bands performing came from shows like American Bandstand (often featuring lip-synced performances), Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, The Midnight Special, and, later, CBC’s Wolfman Jack Show.

Heart of Glass wasn’t just a song, it was a glimpse into the future of music and media. However, perhaps more importantly to my teenaged friend circle, the video prominently featured a stunning lead singer who stole our adolescent hearts.

The logo for Don Kirshner's Rock Concert which aired (1978-1981).

The opening of Blondie’s Heart of Glass music video was a snapshot of late 1970s New York City, and for a kid growing up in rural, southwestern Ontario it was mesmerizing. It was equal parts gritty, glamorous, exciting and dangerous. The opening featured a sweeping aerial shot of the city skyline, capturing the iconic towers and the urban sprawl below. The atmosphere created by the pulsing disco beat that opened the song was both electrifying and raw, reflecting the tension and creativity of a city teetering between decay and artistic renaissance.

New York Skyline - Late '70s.

In the late 1970s, New York City was a paradox; economically strained, riddled with crime, yet bursting with cultural energy. At 12 e, I was already tuned in to the news, thanks to my parents’ devotion to CBC Radio. I was aware of the city’s darker side, especially the fear sparked when the Son of Sam killings gripped The Big Apple in summer, 1977.

Nevertheless, I was equally captivated by the city’s artistic pulse. Late-night shows, especially Saturday Night Live, offered insight into a world where rock, punk, disco, and new wave collided in legendary clubs such as CBGBs, The Bitter End, and Studio 54.

When Blondie’s Heart of Glass video aired, it brought that vibrant, chaotic cityscape into my living room. The graffiti-splashed streets and neon-lit nightlife felt thrilling and a little dangerous. In retrospect, I realize it was my first invitation to a city I would fall in love with and visit many times as an adult.

Legendary Manhattan Nightclub Studio 54.

Then there was the lead singer, Deborah Harry, with her shaggy pixie-cut, platinum blonde hair, slinky, shimming dress, and disco-glossy lips. I was smitten by her beauty, cool detachment and effortless charisma, as were my friends. In the parlance of the day, "she was a fox".

Deborah (or Debbie) Harry was born Angela Trimble in Miami, Florida, on July 1, 1945. Adopted as an infant, she was raised in Hawthorn, New Jersey, only 35 kilometres from Manhattan. After attending Centenary College, she worked as a secretary, dancer and Playboy Bunny. She had also been the vocalist for a New York-based psych-folk band called The Wind In The Willows in the late sixties. With her boyfriend Christ Stein, she was also part of a glam-rock, proto-punk band called The Stilettoes.

Harry as a Playboy Bunny in the late 60s/early 70s.

In 1974, she and Stein co-founded a group they dubbed Angel and The Snake. However, that hefty moniker only lasted two shows and by October, 1974, they were Blondie, comprising Harry (vocals); Stein (guitars); Fred Smith (bass); and Billy O'Connor (drums). O'Connor was soon replaced by Clem Burke, who remained their drummer until his death last April. Their Parallel Lines record, which was Blondie’s commercial breakthrough, featured their classic line-up of Harry, Stein and Burke, joined by keyboardist Jimmy Destri; bassist Nigel Harrison; and guitarist/vocalist Frank Infante.

Blondie - preparing for the Parallel Lines cover shoot (1978).

Parallel Lines captivated more than me and my friends. It met universal acclaim from music critics and was quickly certified as a platinum seller in multiple countries, including Canada, where it sold 400,000 copies. To date, the album has surpassed 12 million sales worldwide. Heart Of Glass, the fourth of six singles from the record, was the group's first number one hit. Three additional number one songs followed over the next four years -- Call Me, from the soundtrack to American Gigolo, in April, 1980; The Tide Is High, from their fifth album, Autoamerican, in January, 1981; and Rapture, from the same record two months later.

Autoamerican album cover (1981).

Blondie’s arrival on the mainstream stage wasn’t just a musical milestone, it was a cultural shift. The group fearlessly embraced the New York music scene of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, blending everything from rock, punk, reggae, disco and hip-hop into their genre-defying pop sound. For me, the band provided a glimpse into a world far beyond my rural Ontario surroundings and Heart Of Glass became a shimmering piece of a larger media mosaic – one that  eventually shaped my lifelong fascination with New York City,  which became my wedding venue decades later.

Me and my bride Angela on our wedding day as the sun sets  over Battery Park, Manhattan, 2006.

The 500 - #141 - Live At The Regal - B.B. King

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #141
Album Title: Live At The Regal
Artist: B.B. King
Genre: Blues
Recorded: November 21, 1964
Released: 1965
My age at release: Not Born
How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple songs
Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #299, dropping 147 spots
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Worry, Worry

In the summer of 2004 my soon-to-be-wife and I made our first of many pilgrimages to New York City, a place that had loomed large in our imaginations thanks to decades of movies, sitcoms, and late-night talk shows. It was a city we felt we already knew, even though we’d never set foot in it. Thankfully, it did not disappoint.

Our week-long visit was a whirlwind of adventure, exploration, and sore feet. We packed our days with iconic experiences: nearly getting sunstroke in the bleachers of Old Yankee Stadium, wandering for hours through the lush pathways of Central Park, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot, attending a taping of Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn and attending several comedy clubs. We were determined to see it all.

But we were rookies…classic tourists making every rookie mistake. We stopped in the middle of busy sidewalks to look up at skyscrapers, snap photos, or consult our trusty paper maps (yes, 2004 was before cell phones for us). In the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, blocking pedestrian traffic is practically a cardinal sin.

New Yorkers, we quickly learned, are a paradox: brusque on the surface, but surprisingly kind when it counts. They’ll happily help you find your way if you look baffled in a subway station, but don’t expect them to slow down too much while doing it. They have places to be. Now, after nearly ten visits to the city, we move through the streets like locals. We know which subway lines to take, where to grab a decent slice, and how to cross a street safely. And yes, we now find ourselves getting quietly frustrated by the wide-eyed newbies impeding the flow of pedestrians.

During that same trip, we experienced another first: a Broadway play. With so many dazzling options to choose from, we decided to go off the beaten path and see After The Fall, one of Arthur Miller’s lesser-known works which was playing at the American Airlines Theatre. Our choice was driven by the casting because Peter Krause, whom we adored from our favourite television series at the time, Six Feet Under, was playing the lead. Seeing him live on stage was surreal and unforgettable.

Before the show we made another classic rookie mistake – we grabbed drinks at a restaurant in Times Square. Don’t get me wrong, Times Square is a must-see. The light show alone is a sensory overload, and the energy of the crowds can electrify even the most cynical, jet-lagged traveller. But it’s also a tourist trap in the truest sense. Food, drinks and souvenirs are often double the price compared with spots just a few blocks away.

Before the curtain rose, we decided to grab a couple of beers at the venue next door to the theatre—Lucille’s Grille, part of B.B. King’s Blues Club. For me, it was more than just a convenient spot for a pre-show drink. In my early twenties, I went through a full-blown blues phase, diving deep into the genre’s raw-emotional storytelling. Naturally, I became a fan of B.B. King, often dubbed “The Undisputed King of the Blues”.

I also knew the story behind his beloved Gibson guitar, famously named Lucille. It wasn’t just an instrument, it was a symbol. After rescuing his guitar from a burning dance hall during a fight over a woman named Lucille, he gave his hollow bodied ES-355 axe the same name. It was supposed to serve as a reminder never to risk his life for something so reckless again.

As we settled into a “standing room space” in the packed Lucille’s Grille, I couldn’t resist sharing this bit of trivia with my ever-patient lady. She humoured me, as always. After 20 years together, she had learned that being a storyteller and factoid fanatic are part of my molecular structure and we quickly made our drink order to toast our first Broadway adventure.

Back home in Ontario, a pint of good lager would run about $4.00, so I confidently handed our waitress a crisp $20 U. S. bill, expecting change and maybe a smile. Instead, she leaned in close and said, with the kind of gentle pity reserved for wide-eyed tourists, “That’s $21.” I blinked. “Of course,” trying to mask my surprise with a casual shrug. I fished out another five and added, “Keep the change,” hoping the tip would smooth over my embarrassment and restore a shred of dignity.

Live at the Regal is King’s landmark live album, recorded on November 21, 1964, at the Regal Theater in Chicago and released in 1965. Often cited as one of the greatest live blues recordings of all time, the album captures King at the height of his powers, blending soulful vocals with his signature guitar style on his beloved Lucille.

The songs are terrific, but it is the audience’s interaction with King's charismatic stage presence that make the recording feel intimate and electric. The album has influenced countless guitarists, including Eric Clapton, Carlos Santana.

Clapton and King.

Despite its raw sound, the album was meticulously arranged. King often rehearsed his band to perfection before live shows. Live at the Regal is the second of two King records on this list. The first, Live at Cook County Jail, appears at #499 on The 500 and I wrote about it back in January, 2019. It, like this week’s album, was recorded near Chicago, Illinois. The Regal was one of the premier locations for black artists to perform on the Chitlin' Circuit. The others included The Howard Club in Washington and The Apollo in Harlem, New York.

B.B. King remains one of the greats in blues music. He can convey heartbreak, joy, longing and resilience in just a few notes on Lucille. His voice is equal parts velvet and gravel, capturing the ache and the soul of surviving hard times.

However, given the price of cocktails and food at his New York establishment, which remained open until 2020, five years after his death, I am not sure how he justified singing the blues. Unless he wanted to complain about having trouble spending all his money. 

The 500 - #143 - The Night Tripper Gris-gris - Dr. John

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #143
Album Title: The Night Tripper - Gris gris

Artist: Dr. John

Genre: New Orleans R&B, Swamp Blues, Swamp Rock, Psychedelic Funk

Recorded: Gold Star Studios, Los Angeles

Released: January, 1968

My age at release: 2
How familiar was I with it before this week: Not at all

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at 356, dropping 212 places
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: I Walk On Guilded Splinters

The music scene in 1968 was one of the most explosive, diverse and transformative in modern history. Amidst global cultural upheaval, music became a mirror and a megaphone as it blended rebellion, experimentation, and a deepening sense of political urgency and spiritual searching. In fact, 22 albums from 1968 appear on Rolling Stone Magazine’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time (2012 edition), including eight in the Top 100.

• Rock music got heavier, more psychedelic, and more politically charged. The Beatles released The White Album, Jimi Hendrix unleashed Electric Ladyland and The Rolling Stones returned to raw blues with Beggars Banquet.

• Folk rock, Americana, and protest music evolved in bold directions. The Band’s Music From Big Pink redefined roots rock, The Byrds’ Notorious Byrd Brothers fused country and psychedelia, Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends offered poetic introspection, and Johnny Cash’s At Folsom Prison brought outlaw country into the mainstream.

• Soul, funk and R&B deepened their emotional and political resonance. Aretha Franklin released Lady Soul, Sly and the Family Stone began work on Stand!, and James Brown declared Black pride with his landmark single Say It Loud -- I’m Black and I’m Proud.

• Even jazz and avant-garde music were breaking boundaries. Miles Davis edged toward fusion with Filles de Kilimanjaro, while John Coltrane’s posthumous Cosmic Music pushed jazz into spiritual terrain.

• Meanwhile, art rock flourished: The Doors (Waiting for the Sun), Pink Floyd (A Saucerful of Secrets), and Frank Zappa (We’re Only in It for the Money) released albums that blended dark poetry, whimsical psychedelia and biting satire.

And in the midst of this vibrant musical kaleidoscope, a New Orleans-born songwriter and performer named Malcolm John Rebennack, better known by his stage persona Dr. John, was conjuring something entirely different in a Los Angeles studio -- a voodoo-soaked debut called Gris-Gris.

Gris-gris (pronounced gree-gree) is a type of talisman or charm traditionally used for protection, healing or good luck. Rooted in West African spiritual practices, it was carried to the Americas through the transatlantic slave trade and became a central element in Haitian and Louisiana Voodoo.

A gris-gris from the West African Tuareg People.

Typically, a gris-gris is a small cloth bag filled with a symbolic mix of items -- herbs, stones, bones, hair, written prayers, or other spiritually charged objects. It can be worn on the body, placed in a home, or buried in a meaningful location. While often used with positive intentions (to attract love, ward off illness, or invite success) it can also serve more protective or retaliatory purposes, such as hexing or shielding against enemies.

Years ago, I played pick-up hockey with a chum who swore by his leather gris-gris. He wore it, a small satchel tied to a suede cord, around his neck, resting near his sternum. Inside were a handful of inexpensive but, to him, spiritually potent gemstones. Ironically, during one particularly aggressive scrimmage, he was checked hard into the boards…face first. The impact drove the satchel into his chest, leaving him with a bruised chest plate. So much for good luck that day.

When Dr. John titled his debut album Gris-Gris, he wasn’t just naming a record, he was casting a spell. Drawing from the mystical traditions of New Orleans voodoo, he blended psychedelic soundscapes, ritualistic rhythms, and swampy incantations to create something that felt less like an album and more like a sonic talisman. Gris-Gris is hypnotic, mysterious, and steeped in spiritual symbolism.

Released in the chaotic creative storm of 1968, the album absorbed the influences swirling around it, but never conformed to them. It’s psychedelic, but not in the flower-power San Francisco sense. It’s bluesy, but not Chicago slick. It’s funky, but not James Brown tight. Instead, it’s a strange and simmering gumbo of voodoo chants, jazz improvisation, R&B grooves, and psychedelic haze. It is an album that sits at the crossroads of genres and defies easy categorization even today.

Its inclusion on The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, especially at a lofty #144 ranking, might seem surprising at first glance. Gris-Gris had no hit singles, modest sales, and is rarely cited as a direct influence by mainstream artists. And yet, its eerie, genre-defying atmosphere has quietly echoed through decades of music. The album’s final track, I Walk on Gilded Splinters, has proven especially enduring. It has been covered, sampled and reimagined by a wide range of musicians. Most notably, Beck built the rhythm track for his 1993 breakout hit Loser around a drum loop from Johnny Jenkins’ version of Gilded Splinters.

In many ways, Gris-Gris, like the voodoo traditions that inspired it, endures as a fascinating artifact from a world I don’t fully understand, but can’t help being captivated by. I’ve always been a sucker for a little superstitious lore woven into my media diet, and this album fits right in. Back in the late ’80s, my wife-to-be and I bonded over films such as Angel Heart and The Serpent and the Rainbow…moody, mystical, mysterious and steeped in shadowy voodoo vibes. Listening to this record stirred up those same feelings, my own gumbo of curiosity, unease and sonic appreciation.

So maybe I don’t need to understand Gris-Gris or its placement on this list. Like any good spell, it works best when you just let it take hold. Regardless, when I attempt to return to hockey again following a two-year, hip-replacement hiatus I’ll certainly leave my gris-gris in the locker room.