The 500 - #142 - A Christmas Gift For You - Phil Spector

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: #142
Album Title: A Christmas Gift For You
Artist: Phil Spector
Genre: Traditional Christmas Songs, 60s Pop
Recorded: Gold Star Studios, Los Angeles
Released: November, 1963
My age at release: Not Born
How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple songs
Is it on the 2020 list? No
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: 

The music

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.

The 500 - #144 - Straight Outta Compton - N.W.A.

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: #144
Album Title: Straight Outta Compton

Artist: N.W.A.

Genre: West Coast Rap, Gangsta Rap

Recorded: Audio Achievements Studios, Torrance, California

Released: January, 1989

My age at release: 23
How familiar was I with it before this week: A couple songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at 70, rising 75 places
Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Straight Outta Compton

In his 1890 novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, satirist Oscar Wilde famously wrote:

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” 

With this quip, Wilde critiqued the vanity and superficiality of Victorian high society. He challenged the era’s rigid emphasis on morality and reputation, suggesting that notoriety, even though scandalous, was preferable to being ignored. By mocking the obsession with public image, Wilde exposed the hypocrisy of a culture that valued appearances over authenticity, and celebrity over character.

The quote resonates with me as a middle school educator. There are times when a student feels excluded by their peers. Heartbroken, they confide that former friends are “talking behind their back” or “spreading rumours.” In these moments, I turn to Wilde’s words to offer comfort and perspective. I explain that being talked about, while painful, can also be a sign of significance…that they matter enough to be noticed.

To deepen the message, I share a lyric from The Go-Go’s song Our Lips Are Sealed, which wisely reminds us:

“There’s a weapon we can use in our defense — silence.”

Together, Wilde’s wit and the Go-Go’s wisdom can help students reclaim a sense of agency, reminding them that their value isn’t defined by gossip, and that silence can be a powerful response.

Our Lips Are Sealed from the debut album 
Beauty and the Beat from The Go-Go's
#414

In 1989, the hip hop group N.W.A., hailing from the Compton neighborhood of Los Angeles, California, burst onto the North American music scene with their debut studio album Straight Outta Compton. In many ways, their unapologetic presence echoed Oscar Wilde’s philosophy that being talked about, even scandalously, is better than being ignored. N.W.A. didn’t just make music, they made noise, challenging societal norms and demanding attention.

Originally a six-member collective, the group featured four rappers: Eazy-E (Eric Wright), Ice Cube (O’Shea Jackson), MC Ren (Lorenzo Patterson), and  Arabian Prince (Kim Nazel) -- who left before the album was released. Supporting them were two innovative DJs, Dr. Dre (Andre Young) and DJ Yella (Antoine Carraby), who crafted the group’s sound using drum machines, turntables, and early sampling technology to drive the rhythm and melody. Together, they redefined the boundaries of hip hop and forced mainstream audiences to confront the realities of life in South Central L.A.

The original five members of N.W.A. (Arabian Prince left
the group before the release of Straight Outta Compton)

I was in my mid-twenties when the controversies surrounding N.W.A. reached my corner of the world, Southwestern Ontario. At the time, I was managing a restaurant in North Toronto, near the Downsview area. The location sat among two vibrant cultural hubs and a college campus, creating a unique social dynamic. To the west were York University and the Jane and Finch intersection, a densely populated, low-income area renowned for its extraordinary cultural diversity, with over 100 nationalities and a multitude of languages spoken. To the east lay North York and Thornhill, the heart of Toronto’s Jewish community, characterized by high-rise apartments and a growing number of Jewish-owned businesses, including kosher markets, wig shops, and clothing stores.

North Toronto area where I worked (see pin). Jane & Finch
neighbourhood to the west, Jewish neighbourhood to the east.

This geographic intersection was reflected in the restaurant’s staff. Roughly a third came from the Jane and Finch area, primarily working in the back of house. Another third hailed from the Jewish community, working as servers and hosts. The remaining staff were university students and second-generation Chinese immigrants. For me, a young man raised in predominantly WASPy environments, it was an eye-opening and enriching experience, one that broadened my understanding of cultural identity, community, and the power of music to spark conversation across boundaries.

At night, during closing duties, the kitchen staff often played hip hop music on a cassette deck, including Straight Outta Compton. At the time, I didn’t grasp its innovative brilliance or cultural significance. Like many in the WASPy white majority, I dismissed it as simplistic, aggressive, and laced with misogyny, homophobia, and even racism. I suspect I saw it as a threat to the music of my generation. Ironically, most members of N.W.A. were my age. However, their cultural experiences were vastly different.

The group’s confrontational tone and unapologetic language were jarring, especially to someone like me, unfamiliar with the realities of systemic racism and urban poverty. The track F**k Tha Police felt unnecessarily caustic, and I struggled to understand its purpose. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just provocation, it was protest, a raw and urgent expression of lived experience that I simply wasn’t equipped to interpret at the time.

I wasn’t the only one who misinterpreted Straight Outta Compton. Tipper Gore, wife of future Vice President Al Gore, led a high-profile campaign against explicit music in the 1980s through the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC). Her activism began in 1984 after buying Prince’s Purple Rain for her 11-year-old daughter and being shocked by the lyrics in Darling Nikki, which referenced masturbation. Disturbed by the lack of warning labels, she rallied support from other Washington insiders to form the PMRC.

Prince - Purple Rain (#76 on The 500)

The group compiled the infamous “Filthy Fifteen”-- a list of songs they deemed offensive and featuring artists such as Prince, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, AC/DC, and Def Leppard. Their efforts culminated in a Senate hearing in September, 1985, where musicians, including Frank Zappa, John Denver, and Twisted Sister’s Dee Snider, testified against what they saw as censorship and a threat to artistic freedom.

Zappa, Snider and Denver testify in front of Tipper Gore
and a Senate Hearing on artistic freedom.

Ultimately, the PMRC’s campaign led to the creation of the now-iconic “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” sticker, which began appearing on albums in 1990. Straight Outta Compton was among the first records to retroactively bear the label, a symbol of both controversy and cultural impact.

However, in Wilde’s immortal words: – “The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about" -- the controversy around N.W.A. only served to amplify their reach, especially to white, suburban youth, who pushed Straight Outta Compton to triple platinum status (three million records sold) the following year.

By the time I left that Toronto job and returned to London, Ontario, to continue my university studies, N.W.A. had become a cultural phenomenon. The generation just behind me was ravenous for the group’s sound and raw social commentary. They recognized something that took me longer to understand: N.W.A.’s music wasn’t just entertainment, it was journalism, reporting on the harsh realities of life in South Central L.A. Their refusal to sanitize their message for white audiences or advertisers was a radical act of defiance. As Ice Cube said in 1989:

“Our music's not shocking to people who know that world. It's reality. It's shocking to outsiders. Sometimes the truth hurts.”

Looking back, I realize that Straight Outta Compton didn’t just challenge the music industry…it challenged listeners like me to confront truths we hadn’t been exposed to. And that, perhaps, is the real power of art -- to disrupt, to provoke and to be talked about. After all, when it comes to issues of social equity, the only thing worse than being talked about…