The 500 - #99 - There's A Riot Goin' On - Sly and the Family Stone

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: #99

Album Title: There's A Riot Goin' on

Artist: Sly and the Family Stone

Genre: Psychedelic Funk, Psychedelic Soul, Deep Funk,

Recorded: The Record Plant, Sausalito, California

Released: November, 1971

My age at release: Six

How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple of songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #82 - rising 17 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Africa Talks To You (Asphalt Jungle)

In May, 1971, at the height of the Vietnam War, with racial tensions and political unrest rampant in the U.S., Marvin Gaye released his legendary 11th studio record What's Going On? (#6 on The 500). Six months later, Sly and the Family Stone answered Gaye’s question with their own release,...There's A Riot Goin' On. As the fifth record from the American funk and soul collective, the title was not a hopeful or optimistic response to the events of the day. But, it was an honest one.

The core members of The Family Stone include (l-r) Freddie Stone,
Sly Stone, Rose Stone, Larry Graham, Cynthia Robinson, 
Jerry Martini, and Greg Errico.

Listening to There's a Riot Goin' On in 2026, it's hard not to draw parallels to our own times. Scroll through the headlines on any given day and you'll find political polarization, protests, economic uncertainty, and people convinced that society is teetering on the brink. It's easy to believe we've never been this divided. And that's exactly why this album remains so powerful.

A crowd estimated at 1,500 gathered on the national mall
and marched to the U.S. Capitol demanding
ratification of the People’s Peace Treaty with
Vietnam on May 5, 1971.

As the saying goes, “history doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes”. With all the strife going on in the 1970s, Americans were conflicted over the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement was losing some of its most inspirational leaders, and trust in institutions was crumbling. Families argued over politics at the dinner table. While young people protested in the streets, older generations worried the country was coming apart.  Not unlike today’s wars and economic, social and political upheaval, those events sure “rhyme”.

An estimated 4,000 men, women and children braved
the sleet and snow for the first women’s liberation march 
on March 6, 1971 from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square, U.K.

It seems that Sly Stone considered the question posed by Gaye's groundbreaking concept record, looked at the swirling events of his time and answered with a title that captured the frustration, disillusionment, unrest and violence of the era. However, There's a Riot Goin' On isn't just about a riot in the streets. It's also about the turmoil that happens in our minds, our communities, and our country when people stop listening to one another.

However, the "riot" Sly describes in songs such as Family Affair, Runnin' Away and Thank You for Talkin' to Me, Africa is both personal and societal. On one level, these songs comment on a world marked by disillusionment, division, and the fading idealism of the 1960s. On another, they reflect Sly Stone's own struggles. At the time, he was battling drug addiction, and his relationships with his bandmates and his family members (who, in two cases, were one and the same) had become increasingly strained. As a result, the songs operate on two levels. They are observations about a fractured society, but also deeply personal reflections on a man whose own life was beginning to unravel.

Cover for the single, Family Affair, by Sly and the Family Stone.

More than 50 years later, There's a Riot Goin' On remains relevant, landing in the Top 100 of The 500 Greatest Albums for both the 2012 and 2020 Rolling Stones lists. In part, this is  because the tensions Sly Stone chronicled in 1971 echo today -- in a world marked by division, anxiety, inequality, and disillusionment.

However, one could argue that in the 2020s we don't have the same number of artists banging the drum for change. In the early 1970s, listeners could turn to Sly Stone, Marvin Gaye, Bob Dylan, Curtis Mayfield, Nina Simone, Gil Scott-Heron, Stevie Wonder, Joan Baez, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young for music that challenged injustice, questioned authority, and reflected a world in turmoil.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, the 1974 album by
poet Gil Scott-Heron.

I would argue that kindred artists still exist. In hip-hop, Kendrick Lamar's Alright and Childish Gambino's This Is America wrestle with race, identity, and power. In folk and Americana, artists such as Jason Isbell (White Man's World), Hozier (Nina Cried Power), and Noah Kahan have used deeply personal songwriting to explore broader social and cultural issues. And we've still got Bruce Springsteen and Tom Morello banging the drum.

Album cover for the single, This Is America, by Childish Gambino

Jesse Welles has built a large following on TikTok by composing topical folk songs about current events, earning frequent comparisons to Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie. Even newer acts, such as So Good (I Will Love You Until), have found audiences through our new social media platforms, proving that the singer-songwriter tradition is still alive.

Jesse Welles has built a large enough following 
for a successful tour.

The difference may not be the artists themselves, but the way we consume music and media. In the 1970s, artists needed to break through a limited number of radio stations or appear on one of the half-dozen television networks in order to land in record stores for commercial viability. Today, audiences are scattered across streaming platforms, social media feeds, podcasts, YouTube channels, and algorithm-driven recommendations. The plethora of sources is why a friend can rave about a brilliant streaming series that is in its fourth season...and you've never heard of it. Not because it isn't popular, but perhaps because you don't subscribe to a particular streaming service.

Some of the many subscription, streaming services available.

As our media landscape has fractured, so has our shared cultural experience. The songs, shows, and artists that once dominated water-cooler conversations are increasingly replaced by thousands of smaller, parallel conversations happening within digital communities. This fragmentation extends beyond entertainment into politics, social interactions, and even our understanding of the world. We are no longer just divided by ideology; we are divided by the stories, music and media we encounter every day.

That's one reason There's a Riot Goin' On resonated with me. Sly Stone's concerns about isolation, division and a society pulling itself apart feel as relevant as ever. The difference is that in 1971, millions of people were hearing the same warnings at the same time. Today, we still have our modern-day Slys, Marvins and Dylans, but instead of sharing one riot, the algorithm has handed us a whole bunch.

The 500 - #100 - Odessey and Oracle - The Zombies

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: #100

Album Title: Odessey and Oracle

Artist: The Zombies

Genre: Chamber Pop, Baroque Pop, Psychedelic Pop

Recorded: EMI and Olympic Studios, London, England

Released: April, 1968

My age at release: Three

How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple of songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #243 - dropping 143 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: A Rose For Emily

Right from the start, something didn't sit right when I first saw this record coming up on Rolling Stone Magazine's 500 Greatest Albums list. Then it hit me. Odessey and Oracle is spelled wrong. Initially, I assumed the missing "y"  a  psychedelic statement but, as it turns out, it was just a typographical error.

The album cover designer, Terry Quirk, who was a friend of Zombie's bassist Chris White, made the mistake. By the time it was noticed, the record was ready for release and the band was on the verge of breaking up. In fact, the five members were already investigating new careers.

• Vocalist Colin Blunstone was training to be an insurance broker/clerk. 
• Drummer, Hugh Grundy had lined up a job in banking. 
• White, who was also the primary songwriter, planned to return to his studies to become a teacher. 
• Organist Rod Argent and guitarist Paul Atkinson were weighing the options of returning to university, or pursuing music with a new group. (They would chose the latter and the rock group Argent was formed in 1969).

The typo should have been an exclamation mark on a short and forgettable career. Instead, it marked an important milestone for the group. Sixty five years after forming in St. Albans, England, The Zombies remain one of the most beloved bands of The British Invasion.

They had enjoyed moderate success with the hit She's Not There from their debut record Begin Here, but The Zombies never quite broke through the way many of their British Invasion peers did. By the time they entered the studio in 1967, the band was running low on money, momentum and optimism. However, this is what made Odessey and Oracle special. It was forged by a group that more or less thought the end had arrived. Instead of chasing trends or desperately searching for a hit, they simply made the album they wanted to make. It was one filled with gorgeous harmonies, imaginative arrangements and songs that often disguised loneliness, regret and uncertainty, set within delightful melodies structured like finely crafted Baroque-Pop symphonies.

A Rose For Emily, described as a "whirling mini-symphony"
by Irish Independent critic Ed Power, is one of several
gorgeous tracks on the record.

Throughout the beautiful arrangements, the thing that stood out to me was White's bass work. Rather than simply following the chord changes or reinforcing the melody, he frequently slipped into what musicians call a countermelody, which is defined as an independent musical line that complements the song while charting its own course. It's a style of bass playing I've always loved. Some of my favourite bassists include Geddy Lee of Rush, Chris Squire of Yes, John Entwistle of The Who and Steve Harris of Iron Maiden They built entire careers on the idea that the bass could be more than a supporting instrument.

So, I decided to do a little research into the history of countermelody or, as it is sometimes called, contrapuntal bass playing. Fittingly, for the Baroque Pop record Odessey and Oracle, the origins of countermelody can be traced all the way back to the most famous Baroque composers, Johann Sebastian Bach. 

In Bach's music, every voice had its own identity. Rather than one melody sitting on top of simple accompaniment, multiple melodic lines, including the bass line, would weave around one another, each contributing to the whole while maintaining its own character. 

Johann Sebastian Bach

Centuries later, jazz bassists began creating walking bass lines that moved independently beneath the melody. However, in the early days of rock and roll the bass was often relegated to a simpler role, dutifully outlining the chord changes and staying out of the way. That changed when Elvis Presley's bass player, Bill Black, introduced a slap technique that brought rhythm and energy to tracks, including That's All Right.

Bill Black (right) performing with Elvis.

Then along came players like James Jamerson at Motown records who is credited with transforming the bass from a time-keeping instrument to one that provided a melodic voice. Jamerson filled songs with inventive runs and syncopated rhythms that seemed to have a conversation with the main melody. He became a massive influence on Beatle Paul McCartney who increasingly treated the bass like a melodic instrument, particularly on one of my favourite Beatles' songs, Something.

Sheet music for Something shows the complexity
of the bass melody.

By the late 1960s, musicians were pushing the idea even further. Not only was Chris White of The Zombies creating subtle countermelodies on Odessey and Oracle, John Entwistle of The Who was playing complex bass runs that often sounded like the lead guitar operating in the lower register. It is surprising how much is going on when listening to an isolated track of his bass work on the song Won't Get Fooled Again.

From there, progressive rock embraced the concept wholeheartedly. Chris Squire of Yes turned the bass into a second lead instrument, while Geddy Lee of Rush filled every available space with intricate melodic runs that somehow never overwhelm the songs.

Geddy Lee on the cover of Bass Guitar magazine
(October, 2019).

Heavy metal adopted the idea in its own way. Steve Harris of Iron Maiden used galloping, highly melodic bass lines that often carried as much momentum as the guitars. Listening to Harris, you get the sense that the bass isn't following the song so much as pulling it forward.

Steve Harris of Iron Maiden.

Today, contrapuntal bass playing can be heard across genres -- from progressive rock and metal to indie rock and modern jazz. Yet the basic idea remains the same as it was in Bach's day -- music becomes more interesting when the bass stops blindly following everyone else and starts having a conversation of its own.

Odessey and Oracle finally found an audience after The Zombies had already given up on it. When the album was released in 1968 it barely made a ripple and the band broke up, with most members moving into "civilian life". Then, the strangest thing happened. A rock radio station in Boise, Idaho, introduced the record's final track, Time Of The Season, into regular rotation. It quickly found an audience, and by the spring of 1969 it was sitting near the top of the American charts.

Album jacket for the single, Time Of The Season.

Unfortunately, by the time Time of the Season climbed the charts, The Zombies no longer existed. However, this was not the end of their collective Odyssey. The band reunited briefly in 1991 and later returned for a remarkable second act that introduced their music to a new generation of listeners.

This autumn, they will perform at the third Begin Here Festival in St. Albans, England, the city where their journey began more than six decades ago. Four of the band's five original members will be part of the celebration. The only absence will be guitarist Paul Atkinson, who died of cancer in 2004. Chris White will be present, playing his countermelodic basslines at 83 years of age.

The 500 - #101 - In The Wee Small Hours - Frank Sinatr

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: #101

Album Title: In The Wee Small Hours

Artist: Frank Sinatra

Genre: Vocal Jazz, Traditional Pop

Recorded: KHJ Studios, Hollywood, California

Released: April, 1955

My age at release: Not born

How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple of songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #282 - dropping 181 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: What Is This Thing Called Love?

If you’ve been following this project for a while, you already know how I feel about concept albums. I went long on that subject back in my post on American Idiot, (#225 on The 500 List) in February, 2024, so I won’t rehash the whole “why I love concept records” thing here. If you want the full sermon, this is the place to visit.

An assortment of concept albums, including a few of my favourites.

This week, I want to talk about the album that quietly invented the idea of the concept album decades before rock bands made it a staple: Frank Sinatra’s In the Wee Small Hours (1955).

Sinatra on the cover of Time Magazine in 1955,
shortly after the release of In The Wee Small Hours.

Unlike the concept albums that captivated me as a teen, the kind that tell a literal, often fantastical, story, Sinatra’s record builds a concept based on feelings. The result is a late‑night emotional journey...the quiet ache of being awake when the rest of the world is sleeping and you feel compelled  to navigate loss, heartbreak and regret all alone.

Alternative cover for In The Wee Small Hours.

In 1955, this was revolutionary. At the time, most crooners selected a mix of standards from the Great American Songbook -- the shared canon of American popular songwriting from the 1920s through the 1950s. They would choose a few moody selections that suited their voice, a couple of upbeat tunes to keep things lively and the rest was filler, often chosen by the record label. Albums were not built to be cohesive; they were assembled to be convenient. The public bought them because they collected songs that were familiar and organized in order to entertain.

One of many published scores containing a
collection from The Great American Songbook.

Sinatra, however, approached In the Wee Small Hours as something different. Rather than a collection of songs, his was a journey through moods, with each track carefully chosen and sequenced to deepen the emotional atmosphere. It wasn't entertainment; it was a companion for those lonely hours when sleep won't come. An experience familiar to us all, no doubt.

Sinatra didn’t make In the Wee Small Hours because he wanted to invent the concept album. He made it because he was heartbroken. The record comes straight out of the emotional fallout of his breakup with Ava Gardner. He was in a rough place, personally and professionally. His film career had stalled, his public image had taken a hit, and the Gardner relationship had triggered a tabloid circus.

Sinatra and Gardner at their 1951 wedding.

Sinatra chose songs that matched the way he actually felt. He skipped the big-band swagger and the upbeat swing numbers found on his previous record, Swing Easy! (1954). Instead, he stuck with quiet, late-night torch songs painstakingly arranged with legendary arranger, composer and conductor Nelson Riddle. This is the reason the album feels so unified. Sinatra was making a record that sounded like his life, and the first concept record was born.

Sinatra with Riddle, arranging songs in studio.

Bonus Addendum
When researching this record, I couldn't help but notice some similarity with the Sinatra album cover and the Edward Hopper's iconic 1942 painting Nighthawks. I had to know if one inspired the other. The mood seemed so similar.

Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. 

Nighthawks loomed large in my classroom over the past year. Each week, my students and I examine a famous painting or album cover and imagine how it might be captioned as a modern day meme. Since memes are the language much of Gen Alpha (and Gen Z) uses to communicate, it's a fun conduit for sneaking in a little art history, music appreciation, comedy writing and critical thinking. That's a win-win in my book.

Nighthawks really struck a chord with them. What started as a quick meme activity turned into an entire class period spent exploring the painting's history and uncovering its fascinating, and slightly unsettling, details. The empty streets, harsh lighting, and sense of isolation felt strangely familiar to many of my students because it reminded them of The Backrooms, a Gen Z internet phenomenon built around images of vast, empty, "liminal" spaces that feel eerily wrong.

Poster from the 2026 film release, Backrooms, 
based on the internet phenomenon.

The appeal of both Nighthawks and The Backrooms (and the recently released and wildly successful film Backrooms) lies in the same unsettling feeling of being alone in a place that should be full of people. A few students were so captivated that they chose it to write about it following our Walter Mitty Unit, where we explored themes of isolation and connection.

As it turns out, the connection I noticed between Nighthawks and In the Wee Small Hours wasn't just in my imagination. Sinatra's album cover, painted by artist Nicholas Volpe, was indeed inspired by Hopper's famous painting. The lonely figure standing beneath the streetlamp occupies the same emotional world as Hopper's late-night diners...disconnected, reflective, and quietly nursing heartache while the rest of the city sleeps.

Here was the entry the class voted as "memeist" from our "Meme That Classic" challenge:

If you read this far, thanks for indulging me with two posts this week!

The 500 - #102 - Fresh Cream - Cream

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: #102

Album Title: Fresh Cream

Artist: Cream

Genre: Blues Rock, Psychedelic Rock

Recorded: Rayrik and Ryemuse Studios, London, England

Released: December, 1966

My age at release: 1

How familiar was I with it before this week: Several songs

Is it on the 2020 list? No

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: I'm So Glad

Like any profession, members in a rock band arrive preloaded with their own set of stereotypes and jokes. They are usually a mix of funny, unfair, exaggerated...and, sometimes, painfully accurate.

The lead singer is the egotistical prima-donna, primping before a show.

Q: How many lead singers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 

A: One -- he just holds it up and expects the world to revolve around him. 

The lead guitarist? Talented, brilliant, and a seemingly effortless player; but not built for much else. 

Q: What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend? 

A: Homeless. 

The bassist? Steady, dependable, but terribly dull. He is stereotyped as the human equivalent of beige wallpaper.

Q: What do bass players use for birth control?

A: Their personalities.

And the drummer? Legendarily depicted as the wild man in the band. They are loud, unpredictable and, much like their Muppet counterpart "Animal", possibly feral. 

Animal, the drummer, from The Muppet Show band, 
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.

In fact, Animal, the drummer in the fictional band Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem on The Muppet Show (1976-1981), was conceived as a mash-up of three of Rock music's most notorious madmen, musicians as famous for their chaos as their percussive chops. Animal was a creation of Jim Henson’s Muppet team. He was designed by Michael K. Frith and brought to unhinged life by Frank Oz. Henson's team have confirmed that he was a composite character based on drummers Keith Moon (The Who), John Bonham (Led Zeppelin) and Ginger Baker (Cream) -- perhaps leading to the decision to give him red hair. Collectively, this trio of musicians have 15 records on The 500 list, but their off-stage mayhem is equally legendary.  I touched on Moon's antics when I wrote about The Who's My Generation, (#237) in November, 2023, and there will be plenty of time to discuss Bonham in future posts -- four Zeppelin albums are in the top 100.

This week, let's focus on Peter Edward Baker, who embraced the sobriquet "Ginger" because his fiery red hair matched his equally combustible temperament. Born in South London in 1939, Ginger’s life was shaped early by loss. His father, a lance corporal in the British Army, was killed in World War II when Ginger was just four. School never quite held him. He was restless, often in trouble and drawn more to rhythm than routine. A brief start on the trumpet gave way to drums, and by his mid-teens he was sitting in with bands around London, soaking up the influence of jazz greats.

A young Baker pounding the skins with London Jazz bands.

By the early 1960s, Baker had carved out a reputation on the British jazz and R&B circuit, where he met bassist Jack Bruce when the two of them played in the Graham Bond Organisation in 1963. Their partnership was electric and volatile, marked by arguments, onstage clashes, and at least one story involving a smashed instrument. It was a relationship that seemed destined to implode, yet in 1966 Baker insisted on bringing Bruce into a new band he was forming with Eric Clapton. That band was Cream.

Cream were (l-r) Bruce, Baker and Clapton. 

The group's debut record, Fresh Cream, lands at #102 on The 500, and I have already written about their psychedelic breakthrough -- Disraeli Gears (#114) and their final full studio release, Wheels of Fire (#205). Three albums in just over two years, all canonized. Not bad for a band that could barely stand to be in the same room together.

Cream, performing.

Cream channeled musical chemistry, but it was a volatile concoction. Baker's explosive drumming style and combustible temperament spilled into every corner of the band’s existence. Fights were frequent, especially with Jack Bruce. Arguments boiled over into physical confrontations that went well beyond artistic disagreement. This was open warfare and Bruce even reported keeping a knife in his pocket in preparation for Baker's drumstick assaults.

Baker in studio.

And then there were the excesses, especially the drug use. Cream burned bright and fast because it almost had to. Sustaining their level of intensity, musically and personally, was never a possibility. All three continued their music futures, with Clapton and Baker reuniting briefly in the group Blind Faith. Bruce and Clapton ultimately continued on more conventional paths, working with a variety of collaborative and solo projects over the next 50 years. Baker, however, marched to a different beat, a continent away. For him, the next move wasn’t to form another band or clean up his act. It was to leave. At the start of the 1970s, restless, strung out on heroin, and still chasing something he couldn’t quite name, he walked into a dealership, bought a Range Rover, and decided to drive to Africa. That's right, the lunatic didn't want to fly...he wanted to drive.

Baker and his Range Rover, en route to Nigeria.

What followed was less a road trip and more an act of obsession, chalking up thousands of miles from London, across Europe, through the Mediterranean, and then deep into North Africa, navigating the Sahara with fuel cans strapped to the vehicle and wrecked cars littering the roadside like warnings. He was arrested along the way, nearly stranded more than once, and kept going.

Baker fixing his Range Rover in the Sahara.

It was a pilgrimage. Baker was chasing rhythm at its source, drawn by the music of Fela Kuti, whose Afrobeat fused jazz, funk and West African traditions into something new. When Baker finally arrived in Lagos, he didn’t just visit. He stayed, built a studio, and immersed himself in the music, proving once again that for him, chaos wasn’t a detour. It was the path. I recommend highly, their collaborative record from 1970. Recorded in Abbey Road Studios in July, 1971, Live!, is an intoxicating blend of afrobeat, fused with American funk and jazz. Baker only appears on two tracks, but both are funky, 13 minute jams.

To appreciate more fully the madness, the genius, and the fury of Ginger Baker, it’s also worth spending 90 minutes with the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker. Directed by Jay Bulger, the film is a clear‑eyed portrait of a musician whose brilliance is inseparable from his volatility.

Poster for documentary, Beware Of Mr. Baker.

The documentary traces Baker’s life from his early days in London jazz clubs through Cream, Africa, and into his later years living in semi‑isolation on a fortified compound in South Africa. The title is taken from a rusting sign near the compound’s front gate.

Rusted sign outside Baker's compound in South Africa.

The sign reveals much about the unorthodox Mr. Baker: the innovation, the influence, the addiction, the broken relationships, the financial ruin, and the stubborn refusal to soften with age.

Interviews with Clapton, Bruce and others circle around the same conclusion. Baker may have been one of the most important drummers in rock history, but he was also a most difficult man to be around. The film doesn’t just tell you that. It shows you in the first few minutes when Baker attacks Bulger, the film-maker, striking him with a cane hard enough to leave his victim bloodied after taking issue over how the film was being made. See the clip here.

Baker, in a screen capture from Beware Of Mr. Baker,
striking the documentarian, Bulger.

Which brings us back to where we started. Those stereotypes exist for a reason: The guitarist, lost in his own world. The bassist holding it all together in the background. And the drummer...the animal at the back of the stage.

Because in the end, Ginger Baker didn’t just play like the wild man behind the kit. He lived like him, too.