At the end of a road that was supposed to go on forever, Gregg Allman sits down to talk with Acoustic Guitar magazine about The Allman Brothers Band’s rocky journey.
It seems ironic that two of the loudest, most prolific, and most politically vocal bands on North Carolina’s so-called new music scene represent a silent minority, shunned as if they were the black sheep of the South’s new musical family.
Tamara McIlwain remembers a time when powerful young female rappers ruled the airwaves with positive messages. It was the late ’80s and early ’90s. The queens were Latifah, MC Lyte, Yo-Yo, and the sassy Salt ‘n Pepa. “Women like that — they had something to say,” says Mcllwain
The handful of fans has swelled into a formidable crowd, swaying along to the intense squall of guitars, hands waving in the air, eyes tightly shut as if everyone is praising God. Everyone is.
This Oakland outfit continues to create danceable manifestos for the masses: “I got scars on my back, the truth on my tongue,” front man Boots Riley raps. “Tell Homeland Security we are the bomb.”
Death was just another African-American R&B act from Detroit before the Stooges and the MC5 changed their lives
A highlight of my career as a music journalist was being asked to write liner notes to a box set of music by my all-time favorite singer and songwriter, Phil Ochs — and then getting a Grammy nomination for my work.
By 2012, Erykah Badu had undergone a beautiful evolution from pioneer of late-’90s neosoul to hard-hitting, politically inspired, space-funk godchild of George Clinton. I needed to talk to her. And so I did.
In my 2004 book Dixie Lullaby, I wrote about a confrontational encounter I had with Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes backstage in Los Angeles in 1992. This is the story of that incident.
The old grey Jack Kerouac sweatshirt that dated back to my college years in the early ’80s was nowhere to be found. But today it’s in good hands.