This month In ’60s Throwback’ 01/12

1 . Aretha Franklin . Chain of Fools

“Chain of Fools” by Aretha Franklin doesn’t just begin—it practically strides in, drenched in swagger and loaded with grit. Written by Don Covay and brought to life by Franklin’s commanding voice, this is no mere breakup anthem but a slow-burn manifesto of betrayal.

The track opens with a hypnotic guitar riff, courtesy of Joe South, that loops like a hypnotist’s pendulum, daring you to look away. You won’t. Aretha’s vocals, firm but tinged with weariness, cut through the shuffle like a late-night confession in a smoky bar. It’s the sound of someone spilling the truth flawlessly on the very first take, which, in Franklin’s case, it was.

The Sweet Inspirations lend the background vocals their gospel-rooted heft, transforming the listener into the unwitting congregation of Aretha’s very personal reckoning. From Jimmy Johnson’s swampy rhythm guitar to Roger Hawkins’ assertive drumming, each supporting element strengthens the track’s raw pulse, rooted in blues but polished for pop radio.

Culturally, the song stands as a cornerstone of Franklin’s late-‘60s output, a time when her music wasn’t just entertainment but anthems for empowerment. The song’s success—an R&B chart-topper and a Billboard Hot 100 near-miss—is a reminder of her mainstream pull while remaining rooted in distinctly Black American storytelling.

It’s no surprise it snagged a Grammy for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance; Franklin wasn’t interpreting the song so much as she was embodying it. The Grammy Hall of Fame induction decades later only formalized what listeners already knew—the track is untouchable.

The song’s longevity is undeniable. It appears everywhere from Aretha’s live performance in Paris to the classroom antics of 2003’s *School of Rock*, making it an inadvertent soundtrack for multi-generational discovery. Even jazz interpretations, like Finnish singer Carola’s rendition, reveal layers of elasticity in its DNA.

But this is no neat and tidy package. There’s tension here. That looping riff never resolves, and neither does the sting of Aretha’s lament. The “chain” never breaks, leaving everyone—from its protagonist to its audience—both captive and captivated.

Lifted from : Atlantic publish Aretha Franklin’s album . ‘Lady Soul’ featuring ‘Chain of Fools,’ ‘(You Make Me Feel Like) . Natural Woman’ and ‘(Sweet Sweet Baby) Since You’ve Been Gone’ (1968)

2 . Buffalo Springfield . For What It’s Worth

“For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield sits somewhere between a cultural marker and a slow-burning musical anthem.

Released as a quick follow-up to a real-world incident, the track navigates the shifting tensions of 1966 Los Angeles, where counterculture clashed with authority in front of hotspots like Pandora’s Box.

Stephen Stills’ restrained, almost weary delivery pairs with a minimal arrangement—soft drums, a patient guitar riff—both understated and unnervingly effective.

The opening line, “There’s something happening here,” lingers like an invitation into the thick fog of ‘60s unrest, before cautiously walking listeners through a landscape of paranoia and looming confrontation.

Though often mistaken as an anti-war song, its true scope lies in its ability to capture a broader feeling of unease without overt specificity, making it less of a battle cry and more of a quiet lament.

The song reached No. 7 on the *Billboard* Hot 100 by spring 1967 and was retroactively added to the group’s debut LP, replacing a lesser-loved track as if asserting its inevitability in the canon.

Its cultural longevity owes as much to covers by artists like Cher and Led Zeppelin as to its countless needle drops in films, its economical runtime making it as collectible for directors as for record buyers.

In 2004, it landed at number 63 on *Rolling Stone’s* endless hunt for “greatest songs,” though its charm lies less in its rankable brilliance and more in its perfect encapsulation of when everything felt like a question mark.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Stephen Stills. ‘Stills dazzling after all these years’

3 . Steppenwolf . Berry Rides Again

“Berry Rides Again” is a collision of homage and chaos, a rock-fueled ode to Chuck Berry that rides Steppenwolf’s gritty energy straight through the halls of 1968’s countercultural noise.

John Kay’s songwriting here is an odd mix of reverence and rebellion, dragging Berry’s rock and roll spirit into a room filled with acid rock distortion and a faint whiff of garage-band rawness.

The track fuses coiled guitar riffs with a stomping rhythm section that feels more like a motorcycle rumbling down a dark highway than anything you’d tap your foot to at a sock hop.

Its lyrics are less an elevation of Berry’s ideals and more of a sly, rock-star grin that blurs the line between admiration and appropriation.

But let’s not pretend this is a flawless execution—the song leans heavily into indulgence, like a band jamming for its own satisfaction rather than the audience’s engagement.

Despite that, its inclusion on compilations like “Steppenwolf Live” suggests it scratched some primal itch for fans eager to see rock’s formative roots grafted onto the amplified bravado of the late ’60s.

It’s less about melody or narrative and more about a mood, a grungy celebration of rock’s origins filtered through Steppenwolf’s unapologetically grimy lens.

Lifted from : ABC Dunhill publish ‘Steppenwolf’ their eponymous debut album featuring ‘Born to Be Wild’ and ‘The Pusher’ (1968)

4 . Johnny Cash & Carl Perkins . Folsom Prison Blues

“Folsom Prison Blues” is less a song than a phenomenon, a gritty narrative of regret that’s wrapped in the sparse, plodding rhythms of country and rockabilly.

Written by Johnny Cash in the shadow of a German Air Force station, it’s a stark dream of the American penal system, pulling inspiration from the high-drama absurdity of the film “Inside the Walls of Folsom Prison.”

The original 1954 recording is pinned together by Luther Perkins’ unmistakable guitar—lean, mean, and mirroring Cash’s own vocal timbre with eerie precision.

By 1968, the live version, recorded in front of actual inmates at Folsom Prison, added layers of desperation and dark humor, paired with the crass laughter of an audience that knew the lyrics better than most fans ever would.

This wasn’t Cash playing “Man in Black”; it was him bleeding it into the walls of a correctional facility.

The live album skyrocketed, charting not only in country but cutting across genres, a far cry though from the rather stagnant state Cash’s chart presence had seen since 1964.

The track peaks with the infamous line, “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die,” a phrase so calculatedly shocking it remains in the public’s muscle memory and moral debates alike.

Meanwhile, Carl Perkins tagged along in the margins of this outlaw renaissance, strumming his way through Cash’s touring circuit and prison gigs.

Although his fingerprints are absent on this specific track, Perkins’ mentorship in Cash’s broader trajectory represents the kind of unheralded, organic collaboration that mythologizes mid-century country music—a lineage of talent birthed in sweaty backroad bars rather than Hollywood’s polished vestibules.

Lifted from : We remember Carl Perkins. ‘Now Go, Carl, Go’

5 . The Doors . Hello, I Love You

“Hello, I Love You” by The Doors is a concise, unforgettable piece of late-’60s pop-psychedelia with a groove that practically strolls into your ears before you’ve had a chance to refuse it.

Jim Morrison’s lyrics walk the thin line between suave and slightly absurd, delivering what feels like an overheard pick-up line cloaked in louche charisma.

The song is lifted by Robby Krieger’s guitar riff, which unapologetically echoes The Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night,” though it’s more a nod than a theft—a kind of sonic time-share.

At 2:13, it’s not just catchy but mercifully brief, skimming the surface of obsession without getting weighed down by Morrison’s usual penchant for the dark and brooding.

Lifted from the “Waiting for the Sun” album, it does what so few Doors tracks manage: a radio-friendly bop that skips over the séance.

Its bright rhythm contrasts with the band’s tendency toward moody, sprawling opuses, making its climb to #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1968 equally surprising and inevitable.

Despite a legacy sometimes overshadowed by cries of unoriginality, its persistence on retro charts confirms its place as a curious historical bookmark in the psychedelic pop canon.

The fact that it still pops up, even decades later, says something both about the song’s sticky charm and society’s refusal to let Morrison’s swagger completely fade into the abyss of classic rock nostalgia.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, The Doors guitarist Robby Krieger, . Happy Birthday, the day is perfect for . ‘BESTS of The Doors’ post

6 . The Rolling Stones . Let’s Spend The Night Together

The Rolling Stones’ “Let’s Spend the Night Together” bursts forth with a brashness that defined its era, a cheeky anthem dripping in suggestive energy.

Released in 1967, the track shares a billing with the more overtly melodic “Ruby Tuesday,” but it’s this piano-driven romp that courts controversy and captures a braver side of the band.

Mick Jagger’s slyly unapologetic delivery underpins Keith Richards’ spry piano arrangement, punctuated by Jack Nitzsche’s touches and a serene Hammond organ line from Brian Jones.

The recording session offers its own oddity: the literal banging of policemen’s batons, blended seamlessly into the track, bridging rebellion with novelty.

Its lascivious lyrics proved too much for squeamish American censors, relegating it to a cultural tug-of-war, and leading to a sanitized rendition for “The Ed Sullivan Show” that still smirked beneath its forced restraint.

Today, the track stands as a bold nod to the freewheeling audacity of the ’60s, even if it was, at times, deemed unsuitable for airplay.

Lifted from : Decca publish The Rolling Stones’ fifth album . ‘Between the Buttons’ featuring ‘Ruby Tuesday’ and ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’ (1967)

7 . Wilson Pickett . Everybody Needs Somebody to Love

“Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” struts in with swagger, courtesy of Wilson Pickett’s powerhouse 1966 rendition.

Pickett transforms the original gospel-tinged anthem by Solomon Burke into a gritty, electrifying showcase recorded at FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals.

The energy spikes as Pickett shouts out Burke in the opening lines, blending reverence with his signature raw intensity.

The brass erupts in bursts, the percussion pounds relentlessly, and a thick bassline anchors this joyous plea for connection.

It hits No. 29 on the US Billboard Hot 100, proving Pickett could translate fiery studio performances into commercial success.

The song’s ubiquity gets a rocket boost with its theatrical cameo in 1980’s “The Blues Brothers,” forever linking it to convulsive dance moves and comedic chaos.

From The Rolling Stones to Genesis, cover versions stretch across genres, yet few match Pickett’s feral urgency.

More than a track, this is a raucous sermon on human vulnerability, where rock meets rhythm in a thundering embrace.

Lifted from : We remember Wilson Pickett. ‘We Need The Wicked Pickett’

8 . Jefferson Airplane . Somebody to Love

Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love” originates from a different era and a different band—The Great Society, where it simmered before finding its bite with Jefferson Airplane.

Darby Slick penned the piece, but the transformation it underwent when Grace Slick took it to her new group was a turning point.

The original version wore a languid, syncopated cloak, but Jefferson Airplane stripped that away, injecting a frenetic urgency that practically demanded attention.

By the time it landed on the 1967 album *Surrealistic Pillow*, it was a shot of adrenaline threaded with disillusionment, set to a tight instrumental arrangement that didn’t shy away from its emotional undercurrents.

Its chart peak at #5 wasn’t some accident of timing—it catered to a generation caught between the ecstasy of rebellion and the ache of isolation.

The song’s lyrics strike a raw chord: battling lies, striving for connection, and confronting the void when joy evaporates, all while set to a vocal delivery that borders on a commanding plea.

And let’s not forget Woodstock, where the track’s live rendition reaffirmed its place in the counterculture canon. By then, it was less a song and more an emblem, carrying with it the chaotic vibrancy and melancholic yearning of a rapidly changing world.

Lifted from : We Remember Paul Kantner

9 . Otis Redding . Pain in My Heart

Otis Redding’s “Pain in My Heart” rests uneasily between raw confession and calculated homage, offering both emotional fire and a debatable sense of originality.

Released in 1964 as the title track of his debut album, the song operates within classic rhythm-and-blues sentimentality, with Redding’s voice commanding attention like a preaching soliloquist.

Crafted by Allen Toussaint under the alias Naomi Neville, the song walks a narrow line that prompted critics and listeners alike to note its striking resemblance to Irma Thomas’s “Ruler of My Heart.”

The tension isn’t just in the lawsuit it inspired but in the musical push-and-pull itself; Redding’s voice, deliberate and horn-like, drapes melancholy over a deceptively restrained arrangement.

Despite its technical simplicity, the track takes on almost orchestral emotional weight, carried singlehandedly by Redding’s ability to wring every syllable dry of sentiment.

The Billboard Hot 100 placed it at a modest number 60, a chart position that belies its endurance as a fascinating cornerstone of 1960s R&B.

It’s a performance that balances on contradictions—a young artist navigating between homage and theft, restraint and excess, heartbreak and theatricality.

And yet, even now, the song demonstrates that great music can exist in the murky spaces between inspiration and appropriation.

Lifted from : Atco Records publish Otis Redding’s debut album . ‘Pain in My Heart’ (1964)

10 . Dusty Springfield . Son Of A Preacher Man

Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man” arrives with swagger, a sultry slice of narrative-driven pop that nestles itself in the crossroads of soul and R&B. Written by John Hurley and Ronnie Wilkins, the track was initially designed for Aretha Franklin but found its true voice in Springfield’s smoky, seductive delivery. Produced by the industry’s crème de la crème—Jerry Wexler, Tom Dowd, and Arif Mardin—it exudes a sophistication that defined Springfield’s turn to American-rooted sounds.

The song paints a forbidden allure between a preacher’s son, Billy Ray, and the narrator, hinging on moments stolen under the gaze of religious propriety. Its lyrical brevity sidesteps the moral narrative, diving straight into unapologetic memory, making it more provocative than didactic. The orchestration is restrained but powerful, riding on understated horn bursts and a syncopated rhythm section—all sewn together by that intimate drawl in Springfield’s phrasing.

Charting in the top ten on both sides of the Atlantic, the track’s impact wasn’t limited to its 1969 release. Its DNA pulses through later covers by Aretha Franklin, Janis Joplin, and even Ike & Tina Turner, each adding their personal vocabulary while preserving its smoky mystique. Decades later, Quentin Tarantino resurrected it for *Pulp Fiction*, ensuring its grooves found fresh ears. Rolling Stone’s list of all-time greats cements its legacy, yet it’s neither stale nostalgia nor kitschy retread—it’s a timeless slow-burn.

Lifted from : Atlantic publish Dusty Springfield’s fifth album . ‘Dusty in Memphis’ featuring ‘Son of . Preacher Man’ (1969)

11 . Pink Floyd . Astronomy Domine

Pink Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine” opens like a spacecraft warming up its engines, with Peter Jenner’s megaphoned recitation of celestial bodies setting the tone for a cosmic expedition.

Released in 1967 as the inaugural track on the band’s debut album, *The Piper at the Gates of Dawn*, it serves as a declaration of intent: they’re not here to make standard rock ‘n’ roll.

Syd Barrett’s lyrics float between hallucinatory and scientific, name-dropping planets alongside strange, almost alien imagery, all while the Farfisa organ hums like intergalactic static.

Richard Wright’s vocal harmonies mingle with Barrett’s, weaving a tapestry of sound that feels both expansive and claustrophobic—a fitting contradiction for a song about the vastness of space.

Live performances often take this track further into the void, with the *Ummagumma* version expanding the arrangement and David Gilmour stepping in to fill Barrett’s absent presence.

It doesn’t just glide through the galaxies; it collides with them, all strobe lights and distorted riffs, morphing into a rawer, heavier iteration of its studio counterpart.

And then, of course, there’s the bizarre promotional film shot in Belgium, where Gilmour lip-syncs a man he replaced, encapsulating the bittersweet irony that often shadows Pink Floyd’s history.

“Astronomy Domine” sits outside the orbit of traditional psychedelia, leaning hard into its interstellar subject matter but remaining grounded enough to resonate with listeners earthbound or otherwise.

Lifted from : As we wish, today, Pink Floyd’s drummer Nick Mason . ‘Happy Birthday,’ the day is perfect for . ‘Pink Floyd at their Bests’ post

12 . Soft Machine . Moon in June

“Moon in June,” a sprawling 19-minute track by Soft Machine, occupies a singular place in their 1970 double album *Third*, serving as both a farewell to their psychedelic roots and a precursor to their full immersion into jazz fusion.

This song acts like a love letter to the band’s early days, yet simultaneously turns the page, blending nostalgia with departure.

The piece unfolds in three distinct sections, starting with Robert Wyatt’s introspective solo musings, recorded in a period of creative isolation and built from lyrical fragments spanning early Soft Machine material and fresh ideas traced back to 1968 demos during his New York retreat.

By the time the full band joins in the later sections, the track transforms into a labyrinth of textures with contributions from Hugh Hopper’s seismic bass lines, Mike Ratledge’s organ wizardry, and a cacophony of woodwind and brass from Elton Dean, Jimmy Hastings, and others, creating an almost irresponsible level of richness.

The latter sections unravel into freeform territory, leaning on improvisation without entirely abandoning structure, reflecting the push-and-pull between jazz ambition and rock lineage that defined Soft Machine during this period.

It’s both experimental and oddly languid, a contradiction that feels intentional, as though the band is deliberately resisting easy categorization.

Wyatt’s vocals, the last lyrical statement in the band’s discography, swing between tender and alienating, giving the impression of someone both at home in and estranged from his own work—an emotional tension that adds depth beneath the musical virtuosity.

The song’s live history provides further intrigue; its 13-minute performance on John Peel’s “Top Gear” in 1969 is a leaner, more raw rendering, while the various demo versions, like the 21-minute epic featured on *Backwards*, showcase the evolution of a track that never stops unfolding itself.

This isn’t a song that meets listeners halfway; it demands patience and rewards in pieces, an alluring if stubborn highlight in the Soft Machine catalog.

Lifted from : Happy Birthday Robert Wyatt