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Motörhead’s rise to prominence in the mid-1970s represented a blistering burst of energy that would forever reshape the boundaries of rock and roll. With an uncompromising dedication to loudness, speed, and chaos, the band stood at the crossroads of punk and heavy metal, refusing to be categorized as either. At the center of it all was Lemmy Kilmister—a larger-than-life figure whose legendary lifestyle and distinct gravelly voice would become synonymous with Motörhead. However, Lemmy wasn’t alone in this revolution. Flanked by “Fast” Eddie Clarke and Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor, the classic Motörhead lineup carved a path into rock history that was as notorious as it was influential. This is the story of how they met, who they were, and the riotous adventures that followed. Lemmy Kilmister: The Reluctant Bassist Lemmy Kilmister’s journey to Motörhead began long before he ever picked up a bass guitar. Born Ian Fraser Kilmister in 1945, Lemmy grew up in post-war Britain, where he was drawn to the rebellious sounds of rock and roll. Before forming Motörhead, Lemmy had been involved in a number of groups, including The Rockin’ Vicars, where he experienced something otherworldly on a return trip from Yorkshire. “In 1966, we were coming back over the Yorkshire Moors which, incidentally, was before I even drank beer, so it couldn’t have been some acid flashback,” Lemmy recalled. “This thing came over the horizon and stopped dead in the middle of the sky. Then it went from a standstill to top speed, immediately. We don’t even have aircraft that do that now, never mind then. So that was pretty eye-opening for me.” After that alien encounter, Lemmy moved on to more grounded experiences, notably joining the road crew of The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Working for Hendrix taught Lemmy valuable lessons about the excesses and subtleties of rock stardom. “Jimi taught me how to find drugs in the most unlikely places because that was part of my job for him,” Lemmy admitted. “That’s how I learned to function on five hits of acid. But I also learned about theatrics and performing.” His journey through the underground music scene brought him to Hawkwind, a pioneering space rock band. Lemmy joined them initially as a guitarist but quickly found himself thrust into a new role. “I’d never played bass in my life!” Lemmy exclaimed. During a live gig at Notting Hill’s Powis Square in 1971, the bassist failed to show up, and keyboardist Dik Mik urged Lemmy to take his place. With instructions to “make some noises in E,” Lemmy passed the audition and would go on to tour and record with the band. He played bass on Hawkwind’s one hit, “Silver Machine,” which reached number three in the UK charts. But Lemmy’s tenure with Hawkwind would end abruptly in 1975. After a bust at the Canadian border for carrying amphetamines, the band—whose ethos was more aligned with psychedelics—decided that Lemmy no longer fit in. “The most cosmic band in the world fired me for getting busted with the wrong kind of drugs!” Lemmy recounted with a mixture of humour and irritation. It was from this humiliating moment that Motörhead would rise. Back in London and eager to start something fresh, Lemmy formed his new band, initially called “Bastard.” When advised that the name would prevent them from ever getting on television, Lemmy begrudgingly changed it to Motörhead, named after the final song he had written for Hawkwind. Enter “Philthy Animal” The first to join Lemmy in this new endeavour was a drummer who, much like Lemmy himself, was more notorious for his wild antics than his musicianship. Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor had been hanging around the same Hell’s Angels circles as Lemmy, often scoring dope at Lemmy’s house and passing out from his indulgence. “He was always telling us he was a drummer,” Lemmy recalled, “but we never took him seriously.” That changed when Lemmy’s initial choice of drummer failed to gel with the band in the studio. Philthy was called in as a replacement. “Phil said, ‘Sure, I’ll fuckin’ come down and do it for you,’” Lemmy remembered. Philthy proved to be just the maniac they needed, and he overdubbed the drum parts on their first album—setting the tone for the anarchic energy that Motörhead would become known for. Drugs were an inseparable part of Taylor’s existence, and like Lemmy, he had a particular fondness for speed. His manic drumming style was often fueled by amphetamines, which helped him keep up with the frenetic pace of Motörhead’s music. But while drugs and alcohol kept the engine running, they also took a toll on his health. “There were times when I thought my heart would explode,” Taylor once said. “I was playing so fast and doing so many drugs, I didn’t know if I’d survive the next gig.” “Fast” Eddie Clarke: The Final Piece of the Puzzle The last member of the classic lineup to join was guitarist “Fast” Eddie Clarke. Clarke had been working as a house painter and playing in various bands when he crossed paths with Lemmy and Philthy in 1976. His bluesy, raw guitar sound perfectly complemented Lemmy’s distorted bass and Philthy’s frenetic drumming, forming the foundation for Motörhead’s ferocious sound. Their self-titled debut album was a commercial failure upon release in 1977, but the band’s follow-up efforts would soon change their fortunes. Clarke was a key contributor to albums like Overkill  and Bomber , where the band found their signature sound of unrelenting speed and aggression. Chaos on the Road Motörhead’s live shows became infamous for their sheer volume and intensity, with Lemmy often declaring, “We are Motörhead, and we play rock and roll.” But their life on the road was anything but smooth. During the late ‘70s, punk fans adopted Motörhead as their own, even though the band wasn’t strictly a punk act. This led to a bizarre ritual known as “gobbing,” where audience members would spit on the band in a show of appreciation. “One time I saw a guy spit a big green thing on my arm,” Lemmy recalled. Rather than retaliating with aggression, Lemmy borrowed a line from Winston Churchill. He wiped the spit from his arm and said, “Tonight I’ll have a shower and I’ll be clean, but tomorrow you’ll still be a stinking asshole.” The Iron Fist Fiasco Motörhead’s rise culminated with the Iron Fist  tour in 1982, which featured an extravagant stage setup involving a giant mechanical fist. However, this Spinal Tap-esque contraption was plagued with technical difficulties. On the opening night of the tour, the band got stuck halfway up as the fist malfunctioned. Philthy nearly stepped off the drum riser and into oblivion. Despite these mishaps, the band pressed on, powered by their relentless drive and an insatiable appetite for chaos. Clarke’s exit from the band shortly after the Iron Fist  tour marked the end of the classic lineup, but by then Motörhead had already secured their place in rock history. The Legend of Lemmy Lemmy’s reputation for excess became the stuff of legend. His regular diet of speed, whiskey, and Marlboro Reds would have felled lesser mortals, but Lemmy seemed to thrive on it. His legendary lifestyle wasn’t without its consequences, though. In 1980, after years of drug and alcohol abuse, Lemmy considered undergoing a full blood transfusion. His doctor advised against it, warning that Lemmy’s blood was so toxic that healthy blood would likely kill him. One of the most notorious stories involving Lemmy occurred during a tour stop in Austin, Texas, in 1995. Ministry frontman Al Jourgensen recalled walking onto Motörhead’s tour bus and finding Lemmy dressed in full Gestapo regalia, spanking a naked woman with a riding crop. Jourgensen politely apologised and left the bus, leaving Lemmy to his eccentric pleasures. Yet beneath the debauchery, Lemmy maintained a sense of loyalty to his bandmates and fans. When Philthy fell ill in the early 2010s, Lemmy remained a close friend until Philthy’s death in 2015. The bond forged by years of playing together in the trenches of rock stardom was undeniable. Motörhead’s journey was one of rebellion, chaos, and pure rock and roll energy. From the alien encounter on the Yorkshire Moors to the heights of superstardom and back, Lemmy, Philthy, and Eddie embodied the ethos of living fast and playing loud. Despite the turbulent lifestyle that defined their legacy, their music remains timeless—a testament to a band that, against all odds, never stopped playing.

Above: July 1917 - West Indian men serving in the British Navy, in the Fleet Auxillary. Although Lord Kitchener objected to the idea of black men serving in the British armed forces, many black men still volunteered and were recruited during the First World War. More than 120,000 Black African men were recruited from Britain's African colonies, such as Gambia, the Gold Coast, Nigeria, and Sierra Leone. Additionally, over 15,000 black men from the Caribbean volunteered to join the British Army. Initially integrated into regular units, a new regiment called the British West Indies Regiment (BWIR) was established specifically for them in 1915. Caribbean volunteers had to cover their own expenses to travel to England. Due to unexpected course diversions via Canada, many suffered severe frostbite. Consequently, those affected were deemed unfit for service and had to return home without receiving any benefits or compensation. All officers in the BWIR were white, and black soldiers were not allowed to attain a rank higher than Sergeant. While white soldiers engaged in combat, the BWIR primarily performed support tasks like loading ammunition, laying cables, and digging trenches. Moreover, most of them were unarmed during their deployment. "Stripped to the waist and sweated chest, midday's reprieve brings much-needed rest; From trenches deep toward the sky, non-fighting troops and yet we die." - "Black Soldier's Lament", by an anonymous trooper The BWIR played a significant part in the conflict, especially in battling the Turkish Army in Palestine and Jordan. Out of the Regiment's eleven battalions, the 1st and 2nd were primarily stationed in Palestine and Egypt; the 3rd, 4th, 6th, and 7th were stationed in France and Flanders; the 5th served as reserves; the 8th and 9th were stationed in France and Flanders before moving to Italy; and the 10th and 11th were also stationed in France and Italy. Above: 1917 - Egyptian Labour Corps and British West Indies Regiment building dug outs for the XXth Corps Headquarters on the cliffs near the shore of the Mediterranean near Deir el Belah. The old headquarters camp at Deir el Belah had been shelled from Gaza by a Naval gun and also bombed by aeroplanes on four successive nights. "I have great pleasure in informing you of the gallant conduct of the machine-gun section of the 1st British West Indies Regiment during two successful raids on the Turkish trenches. All ranks behaved with great gallantry under heavy rifle and shell fire and contributed in no small measure to the success of the operations" - Palestine Campaign General Allenby to the then Governor of Jamaica William Henry Manning Following the conclusion of the War in November 1918, the BWIR was mainly stationed in and around the Southern Italian coastal town of Taranto. While white soldiers were being prepared for demobilization and received a pay increase, the BWIR soldiers were still required to work, including the construction of latrines for white soldiers. On December 6th, the 9th Battalion of the BWIR disobeyed orders and submitted a petition of grievances signed by 180 sergeants. Three days later, the 10th Battalion also refused to follow orders. Subsequently, 60 men were tried for mutiny and received sentences ranging from three to five years in prison. One soldier was imprisoned for twenty years, and another was executed. Throughout the period from 1914 to 1918, the British West Indies Regiment was honoured with over eighty bravery medals. Above: July 1917 - Men from Trinidad, Jamaica, and Barbados receive free refreshments at a buffet. A sign reads "Economy in Food - please do not take more than 1 sandwich" Above: 1916 - British West Indian troops undergo physical training at Kingston, Jamaica "Nothing we can do will alter the fact that the black man has begun to think and feel himself as good as the white." - Secret British Colonial Service memo, 1919 Above: July 30th 1918 - A royal visit to Roehampton Hospital, specialising in the treatment of soldiers who have lost limbs. The King speaks to Private Davis, a West Indian soldier who has two artificial legs

John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd’s turn as “Joliet” Jake and Elwood Blues always walked a cheerful line between comedy and genuine musical devotion. Their origins were suitably odd. Back in 1976 on Saturday Night Live, the pair appeared in full bee costumes to perform Slim Harpo’s “I’m a King Bee,” a sketch that hinted at something more than just a throwaway gag. Aykroyd already nursed a deep, almost encyclopaedic love for blues and R&B, the sort of passion that inevitably spilled over to those around him. Before long, Belushi was stockpiling blues LPs like a man making up for lost time. The name itself came courtesy of SNL’s music director Howard Shore, who suggested “the Blues Brothers,” a title that stuck brilliantly. Their official debut arrived on 1978, with Belushi and Aykroyd performing on SNL backed by the show’s own musicians. Yet, when they decided to take the act on tour that summer, both men wanted a band steeped not merely in competence but in the real grammar of blues, soul and R&B. Keyboardist Paul Shaffer proved the key architect. He proposed blending a few trusted members of the SNL band with musicians who already had heavyweight reputations. It was Shaffer who came armed with the names, from Steve Cropper and Matt Murphy to Donald “Duck” Dunn. Belushi, armed with charm and sheer enthusiasm, phoned each prospective player himself, persuading them to join the project. By the summer of 1978, the Blues Brothers band was fully assembled and roaring. They not only brought the roof down while opening for Steve Martin at the Universal Amphitheatre in California, they recorded an album, Briefcase Full of Blues, which hit the shelves in November and promptly went to number one. The following year saw the filming of the now-iconic Blues Brothers movie, along with further live shows and recordings as the whole enterprise gathered cultural momentum. Belushi’s death in 1982, the result of long-standing struggles with drugs, didn’t bring an end to the band’s story. Various line-ups have continued to perform, record and reappear over the decades, most visibly in the 1998 sequel Blues Brothers 2000 (the less said about that the better). Members have come and gone, new faces have joined, and the sound has evolved, but the core musicians who played alongside Belushi remain central to the group’s early identity. In true Blues Brothers fashion, many of them also walked away with nicknames gifted by Belushi himself, small tokens from a performer whose mix of affection and mayhem helped define the band from the very beginning. Paul “The Shiv” Shaffer Paul “The Shiv” Shaffer The 'SNL' keyboardist didn’t merely suggest members for the Blues Brothers band. As the group’s musical director, he arranged the blues and soul covers to strike the right balance between the collective’s New York-based horn section and its Memphis/Chicago-based guitarists and bassist. Yet, for all his work putting the band together in 1978, Shaffer didn’t get to be in the John Landis-directed film because Belushi didn’t like that he was splitting his creative efforts between the Blues Brothers and Gilda Radner’s Broadway show. His role was filled by actor-musician Murphy Dunne in the movie. But, the Canadian musician returned to the fold for 1980’s 'Made in America' live album. After Belushi died, Shaffer became the musical director (and de facto sidekick) on both of David Letterman’s late-night talk shows, with his house band backing a who’s who of music stars from James Brown to Pete Townshend to Bruce Springsteen. For decades, Shaffer’s Letterman groups (known as the World’s Most Dangerous Band and/or the CBS Orchestra -- and containing a couple Blues Brothers alumni) also were the house band at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremonies. All the while, Shaffer has done studio work, recording with the likes of Ronnie Spector, Chicago, Paul Rodgers and Robert Plant’s Honeydrippers. Although Shaffer missed out on the first 'Blues Brothers,' he was able to appear in the 1998 sequel -- but as Marco and a member of the Louisiana Gator Boys, not a black-suited Blues Brother. However, during the film’s “Funky Nassau” sequence, he does ask Murph if he can cut in, which allows Shaffer to take his original spot in the band he helped create. Tom “Bones” Malone Tom “Bones” Malone Malone and Shaffer have been a musical team for many years, including time shared in the 'SNL' band and Letterman’s CBS Orchestra. The trombone player (hence the nickname) also played saxophone and trumpet with the Blues Brothers and was responsible for many of the band’s horn arrangements, both live and in the studio. It’s not clear if he held the same role in Murph and the MagicTones. Predating his SNL and Blues Brothers work, Malone played in big bands and worked with Blood, Sweat and Tears. In the ’70s, he teamed up with the Band for an album and tour, then played at 'The Last Waltz.' He’s been an in-demand session musician for his entire career, working with artists that range from his Blues Brothers movie castmates Aretha Franklin and B.B. King to jazz legends Miles Davis and Buddy Rich to pop singers Tina Turner and Carly Simon to rockers Meat Loaf and Lou Reed. Lou “Blue Lou” Marini Lou “Blue Lou” Marini Like Malone and Jordan, Marini was a New York-based sideman who was brought aboard the 'SNL' band in the NBC show’s early days. In addition to his saxophone playing with the Blues Brothers on 'SNL' and afterwards, Marini famously stepped out of a sarcophagus to play a solo during Steve Martin’s “King Tut.” Actually, that musical sketch was performed on the same night that Aykroyd and Belushi made their TV debut as the Blues Brothers. Before all that, Marini was a member of Blood, Sweat and Tears and played on jazz sessions, as well as Lou Reed and Frank Zappa albums that were recorded in New York. Around the same time that he was Christened “Blue Lou” by Aykroyd, Marini (along with 'SNL' bandmates Malone and Alan Rubin and future Blues Brothers players Steve Cropper and “Duck” Dunn) was part of Levon Helm’s short-lived follow-up to the Band, the RCO All-Stars. After becoming a Blues Brother -- appearing in both films and on every audio release -- the saxophonist’s high-profile work only increased, playing tenor sax on Aerosmith’s “Chiquita” and contributing to the horn section on records by Meat Loaf, B.B. King, the J. Geils Band and (his former Soul Food Cafe boss) Aretha Franklin. Since 2000, Marini has continued to reunite with his Brothers in blues while also appearing on albums by Steely Dan and James Taylor. He’s since become a jazz bandleader himself, releasing a run of solo albums, including 2004’s 'Lou’s Blues,' which included “Song for John.” Alan “Mr. Fabulous” Rubin Alan “Mr. Fabulous” Rubin According to his bandmates, Rubin got his Blues Brothers nickname from Belushi because of his brash, but humorous, sense of entitlement. The trumpet player certainly could back up the attitude, having been accepted to New York’s Juilliard School of Music when he was 17 (he quit before graduation to play lead with Robert Goulet’s band). He eventually made his way to the 'SNL' band and then joined the Blues Brothers. In any supergroup, there are bound to be disagreements and it seems that the Blues Brothers’ most significant clash was between Rubin (with his “East Coast” attitude) and Steve Cropper (and his Southern notion of manners). Alan’s cocky personality might have been too much for the Colonel sometimes, but it sparkled on screen. As the (former) maître d’ at the hoity-toity Chez Paul, Rubin is one of the better-acting band members in The Blues Brothers. In a band stocked with incredible musical resumes, Rubin’s is truly fabulous. Seemingly, he could play every genre of music, having served as a session man for classical, jazz, rock, blues, R&B and pop recordings, not to mention soundtrack work and live performances. Rubin was the trumpet player on Paul Simon’s smash “You Can Call Me Al” and backed Frank Sinatra. He trumpet work spanned the Rolling Stones, the 'Footloose' soundtrack and Duke Ellington. Rubin continued to record and perform with his fellow Blues Brothers until his death in 2011 from lung cancer. He was 68. Steve “The Colonel” Cropper Steve “The Colonel” Cropper Mr. Fabulous might claim the most varied resume in the Blues Brothers band, but none of the members is more important to the history of popular music than Steve Cropper. The man who Belushi nicknamed “The Colonel” was landing hit singles before “Joliet Jake” was a teenager. Cropper is a triple threat -- an influential guitar player, a solid songwriter and a smart producer. As a member of Booker T. and the M.G.’s, he backed just about all of the soul greats who recorded at Stax Records in the ’60s -- including Otis Redding, Carla Thomas, and Sam and Dave. He co-wrote Wilson Pickett’s “In the Midnight Hour,” Eddie Floyd’s “Knock on Wood” and Redding’s “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay.” Sam and Dave call him out by name (“Play it, Steve,” an aside Belushi would perpetuate) in “Soul Man.” Collaborating with those singers and playing in the M.G.’s, Cropper was one of the architects of the Memphis soul sound. After leaving Stax, Steve discovered that his playing and producing were revered by rockers who loved his work on those R&B classics. Because the Beatles were huge Stax fans, he ended up playing on Ringo Starr and John Lennon solo records. He produced the Jeff Beck Group and John Prine, and recorded with Rod Stewart, Levon Helm, Leon Russell and Big Star. And that was all before joining the Blues Brothers -- which must have taken more than a little convincing. But Paul Shaffer knew that a big part of Aykroyd and Belushi’s act was tied not just to the blues, but to the dynamic R&B interplay of duos such as Sam and Dave, so why not at least try to get one of the guys who backed them? It turned out that the band was able to lure more than one of the guys. Cropper came along with M.G.’s bassist “Duck” Dunn to help form the original backing group. When Steve Jordan couldn’t do the movie, it’s no wonder that Cropper and Dunn brought former Stax drummer Willie Hall (and latter-day M.G.) into the fold. Since the Blues Brothers’ heyday, Cropper has remained active in the music industry, delivering solo albums, playing live (on his own, and backing superstars) and producing artists who hail from multiple genres. The legendary guitarist died in December 2025. Donald “Duck” Dunn Donald “Duck” Dunn Unlike Cropper, “Duck” Dunn wasn’t a founding member of Booker T. and the M.G.’s -- that’s not his bass playing on the original version of “Green Onions,” for instance. But he joined soon enough (1964) to help define Stax Records’ indelible groove -- that is his bass playing on Johnnie Taylor’s “Who’s Making Love,” Albert King’s “Born Under a Bad Sign” and Otis Redding’s “I Can’t Turn You Loose,” which would later serve as the Blues Brothers’ intro tune. As one of the most respected and influential bass players in music history, Dunn parlayed his Stax work into becoming an all-star session bassist -- backing Elvis Presley, Tom Petty, Stevie Nicks, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and many more. His nickname, “Duck,” predates his time with the Blues Brothers (his father gave it to him while watching cartoons with his young son), but between “Duck” Dunn and Matt “Guitar” Murphy, Belushi and Aykroyd felt that everyone in the band should get a colourful nickname. Duck’s name might have been colourful, but the pipe-smoking bassist’s presence was reserved and his sense of humour was very droll. As such, he was only too pleased to deliver the line in 'The Blues Brothers': “We had a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline.” After the Brothers’ original run, Dunn continued to work as a recording musician and live performer, often reuniting with either his Booker T. and the M.G.’s bandmates (such as at their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction) or with his Blues Brothers brethren (on tour, on record and on film). Either way, he was most-often working in tandem with Cropper in a musical partnership that went back nearly five decades, and a friendship that dated to their Memphis childhood. Dunn went out the way he lived. He died in 2012 after a show in Tokyo, part of a tour with his old buddy Cropper. The legendary bassist was 70. Matt “Guitar” Murphy Matt “Guitar” Murphy If Cropper and Dunn were there to help the Blues Brothers tip their black fedoras to the legacy of Stax Records, Matt “Guitar” Murphy was brought aboard to electrify the group’s take on Chicago blues. Born in Mississippi, the Blues Hall of Fame member moved to Chicago before he was 20 and began playing his namesake instrument with Howlin’ Wolf not long after. Murphy recorded and performed with titans of the blues, R&B and rock ’n’ roll. His credits from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s speak to his blazing talent: Little Junior Parker, Ike Turner, Sonny Boy Williamson II, Memphis Slim, Chuck Berry, Koko Taylor, Willie Dixon, Etta James, Buddy Guy, James Cotton. When the man joined the Blues Brothers in 1978, Aykroyd and Belushi got the real deal. They surely knew they were working with an amazing player capable of stinging solos, but the comedians probably didn’t realize that they also had hired a man with enough presence to hold his own in scenes with Aretha Franklin. The fictionalized version of Matt “Guitar” Murphy is the on-again/off again love interest for the less-than-understanding Queen of Soul in both Blues Brothers movies. Having collaborated with legends and earned a new profile with the Blues Brothers, Murphy finally began a solo career in the ’90s, releasing four blues albums -- some of them featuring the Blues Brothers horn section. After a long career, Murphy died as the result of a heart attack in 2018. He was 88. Murphy “Murph” Dunne Murphy “Murph” Dunne With one Murphy and a Dunn already in the Blues Brothers band by ’79, why not add Murphy Dunne? When Paul Shaffer wasn’t able to be in the 1980 film, the group brought on the Chicago native who was both an actor and a musician. With his years on 'SNL,' Shaffer had proven he could handle comedy as well as keyboards (which wasn’t the case for every band member, although they all do OK in 'The Blues Brothers'). Dunne had done the same elsewhere, with projects that blended music and comedy such as the Conception Corporation and Lenny and the Squigtones (featuring Michael McKean and David L. Lander from 'Laverne and Shirley,' along with a pre-'Spinal Tap' Christopher Guest on guitar). Plus, unlike many of his bandmates, “Murph” had acted in movies before 'The Blues Brothers,' including Mel Brooks’ 'High Anxiety,' 'Oh, God!' and 'Tunnel Vision' (featuring fellow 'Blues Brothers' actor John Candy). Dunne stayed in the band for the post-movie tour (sharing keyboard duties with Shaffer) and appeared on the 'Made in America' live LP, but hasn’t been part of as many of the post-Belushi reunions (save for 'Blues Brothers 2000'). But the one-time leader of the MagicTones hasn’t been hanging out at the Armada Room, he’s been acting in Hollywood. From the ’80s through the present, Dunne has guested on a number of hit TV shows, including 'Simon & Simon,' 'Murphy Brown,' 'Night Court,' 'Frasier' and 'Mad About You.' He’s most recently been seen on 'Justified,' 'Pretty Little Liars' and 'Baskets.' Willie “Too Big” Hall Willie “Too Big” Hall Like “Murph,” Willie Hall joined the Blues Brothers for the 1980 feature film, becoming the band’s drummer after Steve Jordan opted to tour Japan. And Hall wasn’t new to filling in. On 1977’s Booker T. and the M.G.’s reunion record, 'Universal Language,' he became the band’s drummer after founding percussionist Al Jackson Jr. had been murdered in 1975. Recommended by M.G.’s bandmates Cropper and Dunn, Hall was an obvious choice for an act so heavily indebted to the Stax Records sound. He had drummed for the label from the late ’60s until the late ’70s, backing artists including Johnnie Taylor, Rufus Thomas and the Staple Singers. But his most notable collaborator was Isaac Hayes and Hall’s biggest claim to fame was having drummed on the “Theme from 'Shaft'.” But Hall isn’t strictly an R&B drummer. He’s toured and recorded with artists that span rock (Bonnie Raitt, Roger McGuinn), disco (KC and the Sunshine Band) and country (Earl Scruggs, Billy Joe Shaver). In more recent years, the Memphis native has worked with soul revivalists the Bo-Keys and contributed to 2008’s 'Soul Men' soundtrack, with his late pal Hayes.

The image of a funeral train rolling through the American heartland is both sombre and symbolic. One such train—the one that carried the body of Robert F. Kennedy—became an unforgettable emblem of a nation in mourning. This iconic moment in American history, which unfolded on June 8, 1968, was documented in a series of poignant photographs that still resonate with profound emotional weight. As the train made its way from New York City to Washington, D.C., to deliver the senator’s body to Arlington National Cemetery, thousands of Americans lined the tracks to pay their respects. RFK, a figure of great hope and promise, had been assassinated just days earlier, and his death, following that of his brother President John F. Kennedy, cast a long, dark shadow over the country. The crowds who gathered at the tracks bore witness to this grief, their faces etched with sorrow, reflecting the profound sense of loss that pervaded the nation. What makes the photographs of this funeral train particularly moving is their depiction of the silent, shared mourning that crossed the racial and socio-economic divides of the 1960s. The train, moving slowly through the landscape, became a focal point for national reflection, and the scenes captured along the way are now etched into the collective memory of America. Photographers working for Life magazine, along with other media outlets, snapped images of ordinary citizens standing in quiet tribute—men, women, and children who stood in the summer heat to say a final farewell to RFK. Perhaps the most famous image is the one taken by photographer Paul Fusco. Aboard the funeral train, Fusco aimed his camera outward, capturing the people standing along the tracks. His photos, shot through a window blurred with speed, captured a wide array of Americans—from factory workers, to families, to African American mourners, all standing in dignified silence. Some saluted, some held signs, while others simply looked on in quiet reverence. These images not only documented the funeral procession but also told a broader story of a divided nation in a rare moment of unity. The train journey, meant to be around four hours, stretched closer to eight as it crawled through the crowds of mourners. What stands out about Fusco’s photos is that they seem almost timeless—the people in them, frozen in their grief, look almost ghostly as they are blurred by the train’s motion. Despite the 1960s being a time of immense political upheaval, these photos show how Kennedy’s death brought together a cross-section of the country in their shared heartbreak. But it wasn’t just Fusco’s photos that immortalised this moment in history. The American photographer and painter Richard Avedon also captured striking images from the funeral, albeit in a different manner. His work focused more on intimate portraits, capturing the raw emotion of individuals as they grieved RFK’s passing. While Fusco’s work gave a sweeping view of the nation in mourning, Avedon’s lens brought the sorrow into sharper focus, narrowing in on the faces of those who had felt RFK’s loss personally. These photographs are more than just historical records; they are powerful symbols of the emotional turbulence of 1968. Kennedy’s death came on the heels of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, amid riots, protests, and a growing schism in American society over civil rights and the Vietnam War. Yet, for a brief moment, as the funeral train passed, these divisions seemed to melt away, replaced by a collective expression of sorrow and loss. Fusco’s images, in particular, serve as a reminder of the humanity that emerged during this period of tragedy. His photos do not depict the celebrities or political figures of the time, but rather, the ordinary people who had been touched by Kennedy’s vision for America—a vision that ended abruptly with his death but lived on in their memories. The legacy of RFK’s funeral train photography extends beyond the immediate historical context. Fusco’s images have been displayed in exhibitions and galleries, offering new generations the chance to engage with this moment in American history. The blurry, almost impressionistic quality of these photos speaks to the way memory and grief often work—fading in detail over time but never losing their emotional impact. Today, over half a century later, these photos continue to resonate. They evoke a time when a nation came together to honour a man who represented hope and progress in the midst of one of the most turbulent periods of modern history. The train that carried Robert F. Kennedy’s body to its final resting place also carried the weight of a nation’s grief, captured forever in the solemn faces of those who stood by the tracks, waiting to say their goodbyes. Jack Newfield , a reporter that had been travelling with the campaign, expressed his feelings on the effect of the assassination, closing his memoir on Kennedy with: "Now I realised what makes our generation unique, what defines us apart from those who came before the hopeful winter of 1961, and those who came after the murderous spring of 1968. We are the first generation that learned from experience, in our innocent twenties, that things were not really getting better, that we shall not overcome. We felt, by the time we reached thirty, that we had already glimpsed the most compassionate leaders our nation could produce, and they had all been assassinated . And from this time forward, things would get worse: our best political leaders were part of memory now, not hope. The stone was at the bottom of the hill and we were all alone."

Paul McCartney’s song "Blackbird" on the Beatles' White Album is often compared to Lennon's "Julia" for its tender qualities, possibly making it one of the most delicate songs in the band's entire repertoire. Inspired by a Bach piece that McCartney and George Harrison had learned in their youth, the finger-picked acoustic guitar in "Blackbird" gives it a folk lullaby feel. However, the song's complex time signatures and delicate melody made it challenging to record, with Abbey Road sessions requiring 32 takes, mostly being false starts, and only 11 complete recordings. The version included on the album is the final take, completed while Lennon was working on "Revolution 9" in the adjacent studio. The footage above shows 1:33 of that session, filmed on 16mm by a film crew from Apple Records under the direction of Tony Bramwell. This segment is part of a 10-minute promotional video that also features scenes of McCartney recording “Helter Skelter” and various other locations such as the Apple Boutique, Apple Tailoring, McCartney’s garden, and more, as noted by the Beatles Bible. It captures a fleeting glimpse of peaceful moments amidst the demanding 5-month White Album sessions, which despite their well-known tension and conflicts, also had their share of such serene instances. The recording of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," which lasted for three days and led to engineer Geoff Emerick quitting, stands in stark contrast. It suggests that the Beatles excelled when working individually in 1968. The accompanying video also reveals a technical aspect of the recording process: the ticking sound in the studio track is not from a metronome but from Paul's feet tapping on the wooden studio floor to keep time for the intricate song, which alternates between 3/4, 4/4, and 2/4 time signatures. “Part of its structure is a particular harmonic thing between the melody and the bass line which intrigued me,” he remembered, and we see him striving to get it right. In October 1968, the initial public rendition of “Blackbird” was unexpectedly witnessed by the girls who frequented The Beatles' residences, studios, and workplaces, as famously depicted in George Harrison’s track “Apple Scruffs.” One of the fans, Margo Stevens, remembered the moment when Paul McCartney and his new partner, Linda, were seen passing through the grand gates outside his residence in the picturesque area of St Johns Wood, merely a short stroll away from Abbey Road. “The light went on in the Mad Room, at the top of the house, where he kept all his music stuff and his toys. Paul opened the window and called out to us, ‘Are you still down there?’ ‘Yes,’ we said. He must have been really happy that night. He sat on the windowsill with his acoustic guitar and sang ‘Blackbird’ to us, standing down there in the dark.” The Civil Rights origins of the song The song was created based on a guitar technique influenced by Bach, a style that both Paul and George had enjoyed demonstrating since they were teenagers. It was written while they were at Paul's farm in Scotland. “I was in Scotland playing my guitar and I remembered this whole idea of ‘you were only waiting for this moment to arise’ was about, you know, the black people’s struggle in the southern states, and I was using the symbolism of a blackbird. It’s not really about a blackbird whose wings are broken, you know. It’s a bit more symbolic!” The assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr in Memphis in April 1968 marked a turning point in the civil rights movement.. “Blackbird,” like John Lennon’s “Revolution” and George’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” was penned as a reaction to the apparent disorder of what would later be known as a year marked by protests, fatalities, and hopelessness. “Those were the days of the civil rights movement, which all of us cared passionately about,” Paul said, “so this was really a song from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States: ‘Let me encourage you to keep trying, to keep your faith, there is hope.’ As is often the case with my things, a veiling took place so, rather than say, ‘Black woman living in Little Rock,’ and be very specific, she became a bird, became symbolic, so you could apply it to your particular problem.” The stripped-back production A major contrast between Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and “The White Album” lies in the more subdued approach taken with the orchestral arrangements on the latter. Paul’s “Blackbird” serves as a prime example of this difference. Just two days prior to the release of “The White Album,” Paul conversed with Radio Luxembourg’s Tony Macarthur at his residence on Cavendish Avenue. In response to Macarthur expressing anticipation for another leap from Sgt. Pepper , Paul remarked: “Well it is another step, you know, but it’s not necessarily in the way people expected. On Sgt. Pepper we had more instrumentation than we’d ever had. More orchestral stuff than we’d ever used before, so it was more of a production. But we didn’t really want to go overboard like that this time, and we’ve tried to play more like a band this time, only using instruments when we had to, instead of just using them for the fun of it.” When discussing "Blackbird," which was recorded on June 11, he went into detail: “Maybe on Pepper we would have sort of worked on it until we could find some way to put violins or trumpets in there. But I don’t think it needs it, this one… It is just one of those ‘pick it and sing it’ and that’s it. The only point where we were thinking of putting anything on it is where it comes back in the end… sort of stops and comes back in… but instead of putting any backing on it, we put a blackbird on it. So there’s a blackbird singing at the very end. And somebody said it was a thrush, but I think it’s a blackbird!” Following the era of the Beatles, McCartney incorporated “Blackbird” into his performances, including it in almost every concert since 1975. The enduring appeal of the song to him over the years was not solely due to its beauty, but also its connection to the Civil Rights movement, a cause that he expressed deep passion for, stating that “all of us cared passionately about.”. “Blackbird” is “symbolic, so you could apply it to your particular problem,” but the song’s intended message, he said, was “from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States: ‘Let me encourage you to keep trying, to keep your faith, there is hope.’” Below you can watch McCartney talk about the story behind “Blackbird” in a 2005 production called Chaos & Creation at Abbey Road.

Dirk Bogarde, whose real name was Derek Jules Gaspard Ulric Niven van den Bogaerde, was serving as a captain in the British Army at the time of Bergen-Belsen’s liberation. While his primary duties were not directly related to the camp’s liberation, Bogarde arrived at Bergen-Belsen shortly after its discovery. His experience there left an indelible mark on his psyche, and he would later describe the horrors he witnessed in rare and carefully chosen words. Though Bogarde was not among the first to enter the camp, his accounts are harrowing. He recalled the overwhelming stench of death and the sight of the emaciated, skeletal figures that remained. In later years, he was hesitant to speak in detail about his experience, only occasionally alluding to the overwhelming scale of human suffering. His time at Bergen-Belsen was something he struggled to process throughout his life, describing it as an experience that “redefined humanity.” As Bogarde wrote in The Daily Telegraph in 1988, someone in the unit to which he was attached as an intelligence officer – he spent much of his time analysing and interpreting reconnaissance photographs – said the Germans had abandoned a large concentration camp "and we ought to 'swan off ' and have a look." He hoped to find a pair of service-issue boots, which were better made in Germany, and had little suspicion of what lay ahead. "I had known for some time that the camps existed – we saw them on our aerial photographs often enough – but it didn’t really occur to me that through the greening larches and under a clear, hard, blue sky, the last traces of the snow melting in the woods, I would be entering a hell which I should never forget and about which, for many years, I would be unable to speak." One particularly haunting image he recounted was of prisoners still clinging to life, lying amongst the dead, too weak to move. He remembered handing cigarettes to survivors, only to watch them fall into unconsciousness, unable to smoke them. The sheer helplessness of the situation – the inability to offer comfort to those beyond hope – affected Bogarde deeply. The Immediate Aftermath of Liberation The British Army’s priority upon liberating Bergen-Belsen was to contain the rampant spread of disease and provide relief to the survivors. They restored the camp’s water supply and brought in food, though the prisoners’ starved bodies often could not handle the intake, leading to further deaths. Medical personnel, both military and civilian, arrived to provide treatment, but many prisoners were too far gone to be saved. Tragically, an estimated 14,000 people died shortly after liberation due to the extreme conditions they had endured. Dirk Bogarde’s Wider Experiences During the War Born in 1921, Dirk Bogarde came from a well-educated family and, like many young men of his generation, was swept into the war. He enlisted in 1939, joining the Queen’s Royal Regiment before transferring to the Intelligence Corps. His work as an intelligence officer placed him in several critical operations, particularly in the final stages of the war. During the Allied advance across Europe, Bogarde’s unit was responsible for scouting ahead, locating enemy positions, and reporting back to the advancing forces. This role brought him into close contact with the aftermath of many battles and skirmishes, providing him with a front-row seat to the war’s brutal realities. As an intelligence officer, Bogarde was also involved in sensitive operations. His duties included interrogating captured German soldiers and gathering information that could be useful for the advancing British forces. Bogarde spoke fluent French, which made him an asset in communications and translation in the European theatre of war. He had a sharp mind and strong analytical skills, qualities that made him a trusted officer. While Bogarde’s experiences at Bergen-Belsen stand out for their emotional and psychological toll, his wider wartime service also shaped him in profound ways. He was stationed in various parts of Europe and witnessed both the strategic and human aspects of the conflict. He had several narrow escapes, including a near-death experience in Italy, which added to his growing awareness of the fragility of life. He would later describe the war as a time when he was forced to confront the darkest aspects of human nature. Bogarde told interviewer Russell Harty it was like looking into Dante’s Inferno and spoke of the "mountains of dead people", recalling: "I can't really describe it very well, I don't really want to. I went through some of the huts and there were tiers and tiers of rotting people, but some of them were alive underneath the rot and were lifting their heads and trying… trying to do the victory thing. That was the worst." He admitted in the same televised interview that what he saw there had changed him forever: "After the war I always knew that nothing, nothing, could ever be as bad… nothing could frighten me anymore. I mean, no man could frighten me anymore, no director... Nothing could be as bad as the war or the things I saw in the war." He later wrote in one of his autobiographies: "At 24, the age I was then, deep shock stays registered forever. An internal tattooing which is removable only by surgery, it cannot be conveniently sponged away by time." There has been debate surrounding his wartime experiences, as some of the accounts in four of his volumes of autobiography and in private correspondence appear contradictory. Critic John Carey claimed in The Times analysis of Bogarde’s “wildly camp, funny and despondent, tactful and defamatory, petulant and generous” letters that "It is virtually impossible that he (Bogarde) saw Belsen or any other camp. Things he overheard or read seem to have entered his imagination and been mistaken for lived experience." In his best-selling authorised biography of Bogarde, published after his death, John Coldstream notes that Bogarde would have been extremely busy at that time with his job interpreting photographs taken by 39 Reconnaissance Wing of the Royal Canadian Air Force: “A considerable task it was, too, even at that late stage in the war: the total number of pictures processed in April 1945 by No 5 Mobile Field Photographic Section – one of two such teams operating with the Canadians – was a staggering 348,306.” Robin Dashwood, reviewing Coldstream’s book in the Times Educational Supplement, suggested that “the Rank matinee idol turned European art cinema darling turned best-selling author literally invented his own life, telling different people different facts about himself and often retreating behind the shield of fiction.” Coldstream writes on the extensive website set up by Bogarde's estate, dirkbogarde.co.uk , that "some of my interviewees said that received imagery was so vivid that soldiers serving in the vicinity became convinced that they had seen events for themselves. If Bogarde was experiencing what is now termed ‘false memory syndrome’, he had ample justification." However, since the biography's publication in 2004, no one serving with Bogarde has come forward to either confirm or refute his account to Coldstream. Evidence places 39 Wing about an hour away from the camp at the time of its liberation, and there were floods of visitors in the initial days afterwards, so it’s extremely likely that he was there. In Bogarde's own words - "I think it was on the 13th of April—I'm not quite sure what the date was" (it was the 15th) "—in '44" ( the camp was liberated on the 15th April 1945, and it was the 20th April 1945 when Bogarde made his visit) "when we opened up Belsen Camp, which was the first concentration camp any of us had seen, we didn't even know what they were, we'd heard vague rumours that they were. I mean nothing could be worse than that. The gates were opened and then I realised that I was looking at Dante's Inferno , I mean ... I ... I still haven't seen anything as dreadful. And never will. And a girl came up who spoke English, because she recognised one of the badges, and she ... her breasts were like, sort of, empty purses, she had no top on, and a pair of man's pyjamas, you know, the prison pyjamas, and no hair. But I knew she was girl because of her breasts, which were empty. She was I suppose, oh I don't know, twenty four, twenty five, and we talked, and she was, you know, so excited and thrilled, and all around us there were mountains of dead people, I mean mountains of them, and they were slushy, and they were slimy, so when you walked through them ... or walked—you tried not to, but it was like .... well you just walked through them, and she ... there was a very nice British MP, and he said 'Don't have any more, come away, come away sir, if you don't mind, because they've all got typhoid and you'll get it, you shouldn't be here swanning around' and she saw in the back of the jeep, the unexpired portion of the daily ration, wrapped in a piece of the Daily Mirror , and she said could she have it, and he" [the Military Police] "said 'Don't give her food, because they eat it immediately and they die, within ten minutes', but she didn't want the food, she wanted the piece of Daily Mirror —she hadn't seen newsprint for about eight years or five years, whatever it was she had been in the camp for. ... she was Estonian. ... that's all she wanted. She gave me a big kiss, which was very moving. The corporal" [Military Police] "was out of his mind and I was just dragged off. I never saw her again, of course she died. I mean, I gather they all did. But, I can't really describe it very well, I don't really want to. I went through some of the huts and there were tiers and tiers of rotting people, but some of them who were alive underneath the rot, and were lifting their heads and trying .... trying to do the victory thing . That was the worst." "After the war, I always knew that nothing, nothing, could ever be as bad ... but nothing could frighten me any more, I mean, no man could frighten me any more, no director ... nothing could be as bad as the war, or the things I saw in the war." The horror and revulsion at the cruelty and inhumanity that he witnessed still left him with a deep-seated hostility towards Germany; in the late 1980s, he wrote that he would disembark from a lift rather than ride with a German of his generation. Nevertheless, three of his more memorable film roles were as Germans, one of them as a former SS officer in The Night Porter (1974). Bogarde was most vocal towards the end of his life on voluntary euthanasia, of which he became a staunch proponent after witnessing the protracted death of his lifelong partner and manager Anthony Forwood in 1988. He gave an interview to John Hofsess, London executive director of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society: "My views were formulated as a 24-year-old officer in Normandy ... On one occasion, the jeep ahead hit a mine ... Next thing I knew, there was this chap in the long grass beside me. A bloody bundle, shrapnel-ripped, legless, one arm only. The one arm reached out to me, white eyeballs wide, unseeing, in the bloody mask that had been a face. A gurgling voice said, "Help. Kill me." With shaking hands I reached for my small pouch to load my revolver ... I had to look for my bullets—by which time somebody else had already taken care of him. I heard the shot. I still remember that gurgling sound. A voice pleading for death .... During the war, I saw more wounded men being "taken care of" than I saw being rescued. Because sometimes you were too far from a dressing station, sometimes you couldn't get them out. And they were pumping blood or whatever; they were in such a wreck, the only thing to do was to shoot them. And they were, so don't think they weren't. That hardens you: You get used to the fact that it can happen, and that it is the only sensible thing to do." Legacy of Wartime Experience Dirk Bogarde’s time in the army, particularly his experiences at Bergen-Belsen, left a lasting legacy. While he went on to become a beloved figure in British cinema, his wartime service provided him with a unique understanding of life’s fragility and the depths of human suffering. It informed his work both on and off-screen, as he brought a sense of gravitas and introspection to his acting roles and his later writings. Though he chose not to dwell publicly on his time at Belsen, the few glimpses he gave into his memories of the camp serve as a sobering reminder of the horrors of war and the unimaginable cruelty endured by so many during the Holocaust. Dirk Bogarde, like so many of his generation, carried the burden of these memories for the rest of his life, quietly reflecting on the darkness of the past while contributing to a post-war world in his own way.

It's been well documented that AC/DC are the greatest band in the history of the galaxy, I've seen them a fair few times live and I can attest to their god-like status. (I even named my firstborn son after their lead guitarist) This is Bon's story though, the hell-raising singer that was with the band until his tragic death in 1980. Ronald Belford “Bon” Scott was born on July 9, 1946, in Forfar, Scotland , and grew up in the nearby town of Kirriemuir. His parents, Charles Belford "Chick" Scott and Isabelle Cunningham "Isa" Mitchell ran the family bakery in Kirriemuir's Bank Street. In 1952, when Bon was six years old, the Scott family emigrated to Australia as part of the Australian government’s immigration drive, known as the “Ten Pound Poms” scheme. They settled in Melbourne before moving to Fremantle, Western Australia . The cultural shift was significant “My new schoolmates threatened to kick the sh*t out of me when they heard my Scottish accent,” Scott said. “I had one week to learn to speak like them if I wanted to remain intact… It made me all the more determined to speak my own way. That’s how I got my name, you know. The Bonny Scot, see?” Bon's teenage years were marked by a dislike for school, he stopped going at 15, frustrated with the rigid educational system. He subsequently worked as a farmhand and a crayfisherman, and was later a trainee weighing-machine mechanic. In 1963 he spent a short time in Fremantle Prison 's assessment centre and nine months at the Riverbank Juvenile Institution, relating to charges of giving a false name and address to the police, having escaped legal custody, having unlawful carnal knowledge , and stealing petrol. He attempted to join the Australian Army , but was rejected and deemed "socially maladjusted" Bon’s passion for music was ignited during his teenage years. Initially, he was a drummer and played in local bands. His first significant band was The Spektors, formed in 1964, where he started as the drummer but gradually began to take on lead vocal duties. His charismatic stage presence and distinctive raspy voice quickly set him apart. In 1966, they merged with another local band, the Winstons, and formed The Valentines, in which Scott was co-lead singer with Vince Lovegrove. In 1970, after gaining a place on the National Top 30 with their single "Juliette", The Valentines disbanded due to artistic differences after a much-publicised drug scandal. Bon on backing vocals with The Valentines Following the disbandment of The Valentines in 1970, Bon joined Fraternity, a progressive rock band. Fraternity’s music was more sophisticated, and they enjoyed moderate success, even touring the UK. Despite their efforts, they struggled to achieve significant commercial success, and Bon was becoming restless. In 1974, Bon Scott’s life took a dramatic turn. After a drunken argument with members of Fraternity, Bon angrily threw a bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor and stormed out. In a fit of rage, he took off on his motorcycle. The ride ended in disaster when he suffered a serious crash, leaving him in a coma for several days. This near-fatal accident was a wake-up call for Bon and marked a pivotal moment in his life, leading to his next and most famous musical endeavour. In 1974, whilst recovering from his accident, former bandmate Vince Lovegrove and his wife gave Scott odd jobs, such as putting up posters and painting the office for their booking/management agency. Shortly after, Lovegrove introduced him to AC/DC who were on the lookout for a new lead singer. "There was a young, dinky little glam band from Sydney that we both loved called AC/DC ... Before another AC/DC visit, George Young phoned me and said the band was looking for a new singer. I immediately told him that the best guy for the job was Bon. George responded by saying Bon's accident would not allow him to perform, and that maybe he was too old (9 years older than Angus at the time). Nevertheless, I had a meeting with Malcolm and Angus, and suggested Bon as their new singer. They asked me to bring him out to the Pooraka Hotel that night, and to come backstage after the show. When he watched the band, Bon was impressed, and he immediately wanted to join them, but thought they may be a bit too inexperienced and too young. After the show, backstage, Bon expressed his doubts about them being "able to rock". The two Young brothers told Bon he was "too old to rock". The upshot was that they had a jam session that night in the home of Bon's former mentor, Bruce Howe, and at the end of the session, at dawn, it was obvious that AC/DC had found a new singer. And Bon had found a new band." At that time, AC/DC’s lead singer was Dave Evans, but the band was looking for a replacement. Bon, with his raw vocal style and undeniable charisma, was a perfect fit. The chemistry between Bon and the Young brothers was instant. His first gig with AC/DC was on October 24, 1974, and he quickly became the band’s frontman. Bon’s gritty voice, rebellious persona, and magnetic stage presence complemented the band’s raw, high-energy sound, and they soon began to make a name for themselves in the rock music scene. With Bon as their lead singer, AC/DC released a series of albums that became rock classics. “High Voltage” (1975), “T.N.T.” (1975), “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” (1976), “Let There Be Rock” (1977), “Powerage” (1978), and “Highway to Hell” (1979) solidified their status as one of the leading hard rock bands of the era. However, Bon’s success came with a dark side. He had a well-documented problem with alcohol and drugs. His hard-drinking lifestyle was part of his rock star image, but it took a toll on his health and personal life. Despite his struggles, Bon was known to enjoy life on the road with AC/DC in the early days, his lyrics often reflected his experiences, combining humour and pathos, capturing the spirit of his life in the band.. On February the 19th 1980, Scott met a few friends at the Music Machine club in London . There, he drank heavily before climbing into his friend Alistair Kinnear’s rented Renault 5 car. His friends figured he just needed to sleep it off. However, the following morning when they discovered him still inside the car, he was slouched in the back seat amidst vomit covering the interior of the vehicle. It was consequently speculated that the vomit had travelled into his lungs, choking Scott to death . The last photo of Bon on the night he died. But the idea that a seasoned drinker like Scott would die after a few drinks seemed unlikely to many. As his biographer Jesse Fink wrote in a later account of his death, “He was a prodigious drinker. The idea that seven double whiskeys would put him in the ground seems a strange notion.” It's plausible that drugs might have played a role in his death. Scott was known to use drugs like heroin and the people he was with that final night were known heroin dealers. Fink wrote: “When he got to London the in thing was snorting smack that was flooding London at the time, and it was brown heroin and very strong. All the characters linked to Bon in the last 24 hours of his life were allegedly associated with heroin. Heroin was a recurring theme in his death,” Scott had reportedly already overdosed twice on heroin by the time of his death. Combined with alcohol, a third overdose could have killed him. The chronology of events on 19 February, Kinnear's account of what happened, and when exactly Scott was found dead was disputed in Bon: The Last Highway . In the book Zena Kakoulli, a heroin user and wife o f Only Ones vocalist Peter Perrett, admitted to Fink she was with Scott and Kinnear: "I was there when he died, as I spent the night at Alistair's flat... I went back with Alistair and [Bon] to Alistair's flat. It was very late when we got back and I remember it being very cold. [My husband] Peter [Perrett] did not go with us that night." Regardless of the reason for his death, AC/DC had to move forward and carry on. Brian Johnson took over from Bon. The band continued to thrive, particularly with the launch of their album Back in Black , which came out only five months after Scott passed away. Some speculate that Scott had written much of what’s featured on the album. An ex-girlfriend of his claims to have seen his journals and notebooks with lyrics to You Shook Me All Night Long prior to his death. It certainly does have Bon Scott wordplay right through the middle of the song. It's been suggested that he deserved credit for the album posthumously and not his replacement, Brian Johnson. For the funeral arrangements, Scott's body was embalmed and later it was cremated, his ashes were laid to rest by his family at Fremantle Cemetery in Fremantle. Following Scott's passing, the remaining members of AC/DC briefly contemplated disbanding. Ultimately, they decided to carry on as Scott would have wished, and with the support of the Scott family, the band recruited Brian Johnson as their new vocalist. Scott had previously spoken highly of Johnson and his band Geordie to his friends, comparing the other vocalist to Little Richard and remarking (according to Angus Young) along the lines that Scott had found "a guy that knows what rock and roll is all about"

There have been many great 'adventurers'. People who have through force of will or luck or the ability to bullshit really REALLY well, have carved their names into the pages of history. Little people who do extraordinary things. One of my favourites is the illiterate Irish farmer who managed, without any support, to create for himself his own kingdom in India. Known as the "Jehazi Sahib" he briefly created a whole new state, with himself as a rajah, in the wild and dangerous era that fell upon India just before the British took over. His story is a window into a time and place long ignored by many historians. And above all it's a hell of a tale. (Only known portrait of George Thomas) The tale of George Thomas... George was born into utter poverty and shiteness. He never spent a day of his life in school, never learned to read or write, and his only true skill seemed be gaining a great love/mastery of horses from his father, a humble tenant farmer. He was born near Roscrea, County Tipperary, and lost both his parents by the age of 20. No skills, no education, no experience doing anything but manual labour- let's be honest, his prospects were pretty grim. This is the 1770's in Ireland here folks. Trust me, it's a properly fucking awful place. We know about 1776 or so George woke up one morning, looked at the backbreaking work he had for the day and went fuck that. He was a huge chunk of a man. His whole life had been spent lifting shit, and this had made him ripped to shit. So, he travelled south to the port of Youghal, in County Cork, where he got employment as a dock worker. But in 1779 his crap life decides to double down and get even crappier. George was drunk one evening and ended up on the wrong end of a press-gang. And NOW he was part of the Royal Navy. Where you don't enlist so much as get kidnapped and have to serve or get screwed. Discipline was kept with brutal efficiency and the job was worse than being on the farm. George found himself a crew man on a Man o'War captained by one Admiral Hughes; this Hughes guy was taking his ship and a decent sized flotilla and were sailing to India. For several months George survived the awful conditions onboard a Royal Navy ship, and the second he arrived at the port of Madras? He deserted. He literally jumped ship. Here was an Irish lad whose most exotic travel destination had previously been County Cork. And now he was in Madras in 1781. The sights, sounds, smells must have seen utterly alien to him. Would have been a huge relief for him to run into another Irish man. And not just that- a man from Tipperary called Kelly. This guy was actually running a bar there and George literally stumbled upon him and asked his fellow countryman for aid. Kelly gave him immediate shelter and then helped smuggle him out, away from the Royal Navy looking to recapture this deserter. It was Kelly who directed George to travel south to the Mysore region of India. Here were a group of locals called the Polygars. The Polygars were a leftover remains of previous state- feudal lords who spent a lot of their time raiding each other and other neighbours. Rough and ready and spikey, Polygars were mostly decent folks but were endlessly fighting. And they, like everyone in India at the time, were on the lookout for European soldiers, as these white guys had turned up over the last few decades and had shown above all things- they were brilliant at war. India at the time was a place where mercenaries could make a fortune. George Thomas didn't speak a fucking word of the local dialect, but he was a huge lad, and he basically bullshitted his way into a position of military advisor to one of the local rulers. And it helped that he knew how to handle a horse. Very quickly he finally found something he was good at. Violence. Over the next few years George spent his life in almost constant battle. Big fights and small fights were constant and real life combat is a great teacher. You either get good real fast. Or you die. George got good and actually became a decent cavalry commander. After a few years doing shit like this and with a bit of a reputation? He travelled north, and sought out Ali Khan, the Nizam of Hyderabad (left). Khan had a LARGE army- and a proper one with infantry units, artillery and a brace of European officers helping install some harsh European war discipline into the ranks. George was hired as a cavalry commander and was now able to begin a new life, all respectable and secure. While he served with the forces of the Nazim, learning from French and British mercenaries who treated him as a peer, George found himself sent to control a very wayward bunch of soldiers. The Pindaris were basically mounted outlaws; as the Mughal empire fell apart, they had gone from light shock cavalry units in the Muslim armies, to little more than mobile raiders and bandits. George was given the unlikely job of trying to tame a bunch of them for Ali Khan's army. After all the years he spent with the Polygars, he and the Pindaris got on like a house on fire. To them, he was this white skinned foreigner; huge of build; natural on horseback and utterly insane/seemingly without fear most of the time. To him? They became his 'Irish Pindaris'. Again after a few years George gave up this contract and travelled north. But this time the Pindaris cavalrymen came with him. They headed north towards Delhi, looking for mercenary work and in 1887 he found himself in Sandhara. And it was here he met a woman. One HELL of a woman. Begum Samru: the Iron Queen of Sandhara. Right this lady needs her own entry as she is fucking ferocious. And her story is even more impressive than George's. She was born Farzana Zeb un-Nissa, and she also came from a piss poor background, most likely born in Kashmir. Farzana was about 13 or so when she got a job as a nautch and soon caught the eye of a 45-year-old German mercenary called Water Reinhardt Sombre. Sombre led a large mercenary army which was in the service of fading Mughal Empire. By all accounts he was an untrustworthy swine, who swapped sides endlessly, with a reputation for cruelty. He rather liked the look of the dancing girl and she instantly saw a chance to improve her station. And while she was a small petite wee thing (four and half feet tall barefoot), she was tough, and extremely smart. She not only beguiled him, she complimented him. Quickly she supplied the brains to Sombre's army, and he and his European and Indian commanders quickly learned that this young woman knew what the fuck she was talking about. While she held no rank and she wasn't even married to him, Ferzana became second in command to Sombre. He spent years travelling around northern India, was heavily involved in the vicious internal politics of the place and she was his guide and his main advisor. He eventually became a governor of a region called Sandhara. Nine years later Sombre died and aged only 24 or so, this pint-sized powerhouse actually managed to become commander of this large ramshackle mercenary force, gaining the respect of Indian warriors and European mercenaries alike. She took the title Begum Samru and took over running Sandhara. She was brilliant at it. Seriously the woman was a genius. She became so rich that even today there is legal action taking place about the fortune she left behind. She was one hardcore lady. She was aged about 40 when George turned up to take the position as head of her artillery. She had a thing for European men and she obviously still had it... as she and George quickly became an item. She was self-created as he was; she was catholic (she had converted a few years earlier- making her one of only two Catholic rulers in Indian history) and he was a huge slab of Irish adventurer. George had become quite fluent in Hindustani by now, and she taught him Persian as well (oddly enough while he never learned to read and write English, he did learn to read/write those two languages) and they became quite the team. They were not a 'sit around and be pretty' type couple. This was a union based upon their self discovered an affinity for war. She had an army and together they led it into the field several times to defend the Shah. While mercenaries, they served the Mughal Empire with honour and their forces made a real difference as the empire faced endless rebellions. Indeed at the siege of Gokalgarh, the Begum Somru led her mercenary forces into the battle personally and at a crucial moment when the Shah seemed on the verge of capture, George led a desperate cavalry charge; he and his Pindaris plunged into the thick of the fighting, rescuing the Mogul Shah personally and turning the battle. You did not fuck with this couple. Across India word soon spread that the army of the Begum Somru was arguably the best fighting force out there after the East India Company's and their prestige grew. These were the good times. And they came to a swift end. The Begum grew bored of George and kicked him out of her bed and company, replacing him with a Frenchman named Levassoult. Even though he was now her general in charge of all her forces, she wanted him gone. George took employment with a guy called Appa Khandi Rao (the Mahratta governor of Meerut). This guy was basically a little shit, motivated by greed and more venal needs. George drilled his forces and lead them into battle after battle as Rao subjugated the nearby Rajputs. After a string of victories George was granted a noble rank (jagir) for his services. Meanwhile his ex the Begum Samra found her new lover had begun alienating many of the army and the good folks of Sandhara, to the point where she was replaced by a guy named Zafar-yab-Khan. George was away serving Rao at the time, and only got word of the situation when his ex-lover sent him a desperate appeal. Levassolut was dead and she was being kept tied to a wagon wheel under armed guard. George immediately rode back. It was a measure of how respected and feared he was by now, especially by the troops he had formally led into battle, that the army switched their allegiance back to the Begum at his request without a single shot being fired. This crazy Irishman now had serious chops. She rewarded him by arranging the marriage of George to an Indian-French girl later called Marie, and they had four kids. When George was away campaigning, his ex-lover took them in and raised them in her court. In 1797 Appa Khandi Rao had died and his nephew took over. George had had enough working for useless employers. He knew the land by now, and he had his eye on a choice price of real estate... Harinara. The Green Land' was a much contested piece of real estate. The Sikhs and Mahrattas had been fighting each over for it for years. Located to the northwest of Delhi it was a decent place to start his own kingdom... Thus in 1789, our George led his own army into the region. What followed was some damned hard fighting but, by year end, this illiterate farmer's boy from Tipperary was ruler of his own little Indian kingdom and was now, formally, a bloody rajah. An Irish rajah. Setting up his capital in the town of Hansi, he immediately constructed a fortress to secure the area (called Georgerah because what self-respecting adventure doesn't name a fortress after himself) and actually began RULING his little kingdom. He founded a mint to make his own currency, and established a bunch of foundries to make canon and muskets. His army was disproportionately large but he covered the cost by expanding his territory. He was by all accounts pretty decent- seems that in the chaos of the disintegrating Mugal Empire the criteria for being a good leader was basically 'don't act like a total bastard and actually give a shit about folks'. I know- seems revolutionary. But it worked for him. Those who were loyal to him were rewarded handsomely and he is still spoken about fondly by local historians as a somewhat enlightened ruler given the times. He wasn't content with just a small little kingdom. George had plans guys. Serious plans. He wanted to own the entire Punjab. That's some serious real estate. And what's more? He had the army and the balls to do it. Over the next three years George Thomas carved more and more territory out as his own. A little bit of Ireland in India. By 1800 he was quite the growing power. It's easy to forget however- George was still a foreigner. And he was carving a kingdom out of the remains of a decaying empire. Borders were porous, allegiances and alliances came and went quickly, and Wars were waged over minor issues. To the south the Mahrattas viewed George as a real threat. To the north, the Sikhs saw him as the bastard who kept beating their armies. His ex lover the Bagrum saw him now as a threat to her power. And the Mahrattas armed forces were led by a French general called Perron who saw George as a British agent and feared growing British control... By all accounts George HAD contacted the East India Company in the hope that they would see him as a natural ally and support his campaign. For the record, they thought he was the tits. BUT... their influence didn't spread that far. They couldn't help him. In 1801 while George was away to the north of his new kingdom kicking ass, his enemies invaded to the south led by General Perron. Within a few months George and his forces (numbering around 5,000) were besieged in his capital by an allied army of about 20,000+ The siege lasted weeks and several times when the enemy attacked, the attack was blunted as George personally led desperate counter attacks. By now his reputation as a giant damn near psychotic who was pure death in combat preceded him. At one point a Mahrattas detachment led by a British officer ran into George during an attack... The officer was the veteran of several Indian wars, was know for his bravery and yet he said upon seeing George Thomas, "He looked so ferocious that I eyed him for a moment, and then turned and ran, and my men after me.” Some say George was seeking death at this point. But his suicidal bravery was actually causing serious losses for his enemies. Even with many of his small garrison jumping the walls and surrendering, George held off and kept inflicting grievous casualties. Eventually they offered him really good terms if he surrendered. Reluctantly he did. And was treated more as an honoured guest than a vanquished enemy. George took this as a sign. He decided it was time to return home (this is Ireland in the early 1800's- if he had any idea how bad shit was there he would never had said this). His wife didn't want to go as she did have an inkling as to how well a half Indian woman would be greeted back in Europe. She stayed with his ex, the Bagram (George didn't take it personally she had sent troops to aid his downfall). But George never made it. He travelled to Bengal, telling his tales of adventure to an English officer who wrote it down, before apparently meeting his fellow Irishman the future Duke of Wellington, who he happily told all about the Mahrattas (Wellington would soon after go and kick their arses in battle). And there in a place called Baharamphur, on a river boat sailing down the Ganges, George was struck down with a fever and died, aged only 44. George Thomas brings us to a world often overlooked. India just before the British took over. A series of warring states, where mercenaries could make a fortune and actual adventurers like him could even carve out their own kingdom. It wasn't easy. It was a brutally tough life. George died so young because he had spent 15 years living this mad lifestyle. He had by all accounts fought dozens of battles, winning damn near all of them. For a few years this Irish farm boy dared to dream, and created his own kingdom in the lush fields of India.

The universe of Beatles bootlegs is, quite frankly, boundless. From live performances and outtakes to demos and the inevitable studio goof-offs, there are enough recordings to occupy a lifetime of listening. For many fans, the historical value of these recordings often outweighs the musical merit—some being of poor quality or fragmentary, with snippets barely holding together. For others, however, the mere fact that "the fab four" were involved somehow grants the session a mystical quality. It seems to be a common belief that everything John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr touched turned directly to gold. Yet, for the average fan, this claim doesn’t always hold up under scrutiny. Among these countless recordings, one particular bootleg stands out— A Toot and a Snore in ’74 , a recording with undeniable historical significance but questionable musical value. This bootleg, captured at Burbank Studios in Los Angeles on the 28th of March 1974, is particularly notable because it documents the last time Lennon and McCartney ever played together. That alone makes it a piece of history worth hearing, even if the music itself leaves much to be desired. Who Was There? Aside from Lennon and McCartney, this laid-back jam session included some rather illustrious company. Stevie Wonder was there, lending his talents on electric piano. Harry Nilsson, the session’s initial catalyst, was present as well, providing some vocals and an acoustic guitar contribution. Guitarist Jesse Ed Davis and saxophonist Bobby Keys (a stalwart of the Rolling Stones’ horn section) rounded out the more musical attendees, while May Pang, Lennon’s companion during his so-called “Lost Weekend,” played tambourine. It was a session born out of spontaneity. At the time, Lennon was producing Harry Nilsson’s album Pussy Cats  during his infamous separation from Yoko Ono, which saw him embark on a drug-fuelled binge of sorts. McCartney, meanwhile, had not seen Lennon for three years, their once close friendship having deteriorated after the Beatles’ breakup. Despite the bad blood, when McCartney found himself in Los Angeles, a casual jam seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so, on that fateful night, they gathered together, old tensions momentarily set aside. Why Did They Jam Together? The answer is simple enough: it was a product of circumstance and whimsy. Lennon was in town, deep into his "Lost Weekend" phase—a chaotic period of drinking, drugs, and creative outbursts. McCartney, on a visit to Los Angeles with his wife Linda, happened to be around. Despite the animosity that had brewed between the two former bandmates following the Beatles' split, the opportunity to play together was evidently too enticing to resist. What transpired in that session was hardly a serious attempt at music-making. Rather, it was a loose, inebriated jam that meandered through covers and off-the-cuff improvisations, interspersed with lots of studio chatter. The tone was casual and hazy, and the title A Toot and a Snore  is telling enough—the phrase refers to Lennon offering Stevie Wonder cocaine during the opening moments of the session. “Do you want a snort Steve? A toot? It’s going round,” Lennon quipped. From there, things only got looser, the "snore" being a possible reference to the lack of any coherent direction the session took. What Did They Play? The recording itself—released in 1992 by Germany's Mistral Music—is more of a curio than anything. What survives on tape is far from a polished product, and the session is clearly more about the joy of playing than the quality of the music. It features half-hearted attempts at rock 'n' roll standards like “Lucille,” “Stand By Me,” and “Cupid,” with Lennon on lead vocals and guitar, and McCartney mostly on drums (Ringo’s drumkit, to be precise). Stevie Wonder adds flourishes on electric piano, though none of the contributions are particularly groundbreaking. Lennon and McCartney sing together on occasion, with McCartney’s harmonies slipping in every now and then. For those searching for a moment of pure magic, however, there isn’t much to be found in this impromptu gathering. Pang, who wrote about the night in her 1983 book Loving John , described the event as one filled with “joyous music,” but it’s clear that this is something you probably had to witness firsthand to fully appreciate. Richard Metzger from Dangerous Minds  captures the essence of the session aptly when he describes it as “a drunk, coked-up jam session.” That’s precisely what it was, albeit one of historical importance. And in that historical importance lies its main appeal—Lennon and McCartney, the two titans of pop music who had once dominated the world together, briefly reunited to jam once again. It was a fleeting glimpse of what might have been, if only for one more night. When Lennon later spoke of the session in a 1975 interview, he reflected on it with a certain warmth. “I jammed with Paul,” he recalled. “We did a lot of stuff in L.A. There was 50 other people playing, but they were all just watching me and Paul.” The fondness in his tone suggests that the experience meant more to him than the slapdash recordings might imply. McCartney, on the other hand, recalled the night as “hazy, for a number of reasons” during a 1997 interview—likely alluding to the abundance of substances being passed around that night. Ultimately, A Toot and a Snore in ’74  holds a significant place in Beatles lore. While the recording itself may not offer much in terms of sonic brilliance, it remains a poignant document—proof that Lennon and McCartney could still come together and make music, however briefly, after all the acrimony. In that sense, it is worth a listen, if only to hear two legends setting aside their differences, if only for a fleeting, coke-laced evening. #beatleslastrecording #lostweekend

“Woody…is just a voice and a guitar. He sings the songs of the people and I suspect that is, in a way, the people….There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But there is something more important for those who will listen. There is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression. I think we call this the American spirit.” – John Steinbeck Few American musicians have left a legacy as powerful, complicated, and contested as Woody Guthrie. His songs – “The Sinking of the Reuben James,” “Roll on Columbia, Roll on” “Union Maid” and “Pastures of Plenty”, became some of the most recognisable contributions to twentieth-century folk music. To many admirers, Guthrie was the father of the modern American folk song, a troubadour whose words carried the voices of labourers, farmers, and migrants who endured the Great Depression. Guthrie rose to prominence in an era when struggling blue-collar workers were gaining a romanticised place in the nation’s cultural imagination. The rise of radio and phonograph brought his voice into homes across America, but it was the hardship of the Dust Bowl and the political unrest of the 1930s that gave his music its edge. Yet Guthrie’s story is not a simple one of homespun virtue. His legacy reveals how a flawed, radical man became a mythologised figure of Americana. He was a poet, but also a wanderer, womaniser, absentee father, and outspoken communist. His anthem “This Land Is Your Land” — now sung in classrooms and political rallies — originally carried sharp verses challenging capitalism. The sanitisation of Guthrie tells us as much about American memory as it does about Guthrie himself. Guthrie's Birthplace, Okfuskee County, OK.1979. A Childhood of Fire and Loss Born in 1912 in Okemah, Oklahoma, Guthrie grew up in a middle-class family that unravelled through tragedy. His father, Charlie Guthrie, was a successful politician and real estate dealer, but poor investments ruined his fortunes. Woody’s mother, Nora, descended into mental illness later diagnosed as Huntington’s Chorea, a hereditary disease that would eventually devastate Woody himself. The Guthrie household was marked by trauma. Woody’s sister Clara died after setting herself on fire during an argument with Nora. Rumours swirled that Nora later set her husband ablaze, an injury he never fully recovered from. Eventually she was committed to an asylum. This instability marked Woody’s early years. He later recalled his youth to folk musicologist Alan Lomax while recording songs for the Library of Congress, painting a picture of a boy surrounded by both music and misfortune. The Road to Music In 1929, Guthrie resettled with his father and brother in Pampa, Texas. The oil boom briefly gave the town life, and it was here that Guthrie’s musical identity began to take shape. His uncle Jeff, a fiddler, let Woody accompany him at county dances. Guthrie also married young — the first of three marriages — but soon abandoned domestic life for adventure. By 1937, he was riding freight trains and hitching west. On the road he gathered folk songs from across the country and absorbed radical ideas from Wobblies, members of the Industrial Workers of the World. These encounters shaped his political and musical voice, fusing traditional balladry with biting social critique. Woody and Lefty Lou – Los Angeles Radio In Los Angeles, Guthrie found an unlikely stage. He began performing with Maxine Crissman, later known as Lefty Lou. The pair hosted a daily two-hour slot on KFVD, a progressive radio station run by Frank Burke. Their simple folk duets offered listeners a nostalgic connection to the songs of their parents and grandparents, a counterpoint to the jazz and swing dominating radio. For many Dust Bowl migrants who had landed in California, Woody and Lefty Lou’s programme was a reminder of home and identity. Guthrie’s popularity grew, but so did his awareness of the harsh realities faced by these very migrants. Firsthand Misery By the mid-1930s, some 50,000 migrants had entered California, lured by flyers promising steady work in fruit orchards. Instead they found themselves competing against thousands of others for meagre wages. Locals derided them as “Okies,” regardless of whether they came from Oklahoma or not. “No Okies” signs hung on storefronts, and paramilitary groups often crushed efforts to unionise farm labour. Migrants lived in desperate camps, forbidden by armed guards from eating fruit off the trees they harvested. Starvation and disease spread. John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath  captured this misery, and when the film adaptation was released Guthrie was asked to write a ballad about it. His 17-verse ode to Tom Joad remains one of his most haunting works. Songs for the Downtrodden The camps radicalised Guthrie. He saw families robbed of their dignity and began writing songs that gave them a voice. “Pretty Boy Floyd” became a Robin Hood ballad of sorts, celebrating an outlaw who stole from the rich. “The Jolly Banker” mocked bankers who foreclosed on farms. In the camps, he often heard the hymn “This World Is Not My Home.” It angered him. As his biographer Joe Klein explained, Guthrie believed it urged the poor to meekly await rewards in the afterlife rather than fight for justice in the present. Guthrie responded with “I Ain’t Got No Home”: I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-roaming around I’m just a wandering worker, I go from town to town And the police make it hard wherever I may go And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore. His songs became less about heaven and more about hunger, eviction, and resistance. The Almanac Singers and the War Years In 1940, Guthrie moved to New York and joined the Almanac Singers, alongside Pete Seeger, Millard Lampell, and Lee Hays. They cultivated a working-class image and played union halls and strikes, writing songs for labour causes. Initially, they opposed U.S. involvement in World War II, echoing the Communist Party line. But after Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, their stance shifted. Guthrie himself wrote “The Sinking of Reuben James” about an American destroyer sunk by German forces, while carrying a guitar stencilled with “This Machine Kills Fascists.” The Almanacs briefly tasted success when CBS used their “Round and Round Hitler’s Grave” for a war series. But their communist ties soon drew criticism. Offers dried up, and they became too controversial for mainstream outlets. Woody’s Political Identity “I ain’t a communist necessarily, but I’ve been in the red all my life,” Guthrie once declared. Whether or not he ever carried a Party card remains unclear, but his FBI file identified him as a communist and “Joe Stalin’s California mouthpiece.” Guthrie used humour, folk melodies, and storytelling to critique inequality. He described his politics not as communism but “commonism”: “Every single human being is looking for a better way… To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” He disliked long political debates, preferring action and music. His philosophy was practical, rooted in empathy for ordinary workers. “This Land Is Your Land” – Protest or Anthem? Guthrie’s most famous song, “This Land Is Your Land,” began as a rebuttal to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” In 1940, Guthrie bristled at Berlin’s rosy patriotism, knowing the harsh realities of poverty. His original verses included biting critiques: Was a great high wall there that tried to stop me A sign was painted said: Private Property But on the back side it didn’t say nothing— God blessed America for me. One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple By the relief office I saw my people— As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if God Blessed America for me. Guthrie in New York. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Later recordings left these verses out, transforming the song into a simple patriotic anthem. Yet Guthrie continued to sing them, teaching them to his son Arlo, who has performed them ever since. Pete Seeger too preserved the verses, warning against “the danger of this song being misinterpreted.” Seeger even added his own line: Maybe you been working just as hard as you’re able And you just got crumbs from the rich man’s table Maybe you been wondering, is it truth or fable This land was made for you and me. Decline and Influence By the mid-1940s, Guthrie’s health was failing. As the war escalated, Woody enlisted with the merchant marines, at least partially to avoid the draft. Ironically, though, the army inducted Woody in May 1945, the very day Germany surrendered to the Allies. After a brief and uneventful peacetime stint in the military, the army released Woody from duty to return to his second wife in Brooklyn. Throughout the late 1940s and early 1950s, Woody noticeably deteriorated as the hereditary Huntington’s Chorea, now known as Huntington’s Disease, made itself shown. Woody spent the last decade of his life in hospitals in an increasingly incapacitated state, where he nevertheless inspired his many visiting fans, including a young Bob Dylan. The Shaping of a Legacy Even before Guthrie’s death in 1967, mythmaking was underway. The 1956 benefit concert for his family at New York’s Pythian Hall was later remembered as the rebirth of folk music. It also marked Guthrie’s canonisation. The FBI’s “communist mouthpiece” became, in later decades, a celebrated cultural figure. In 1966, the Department of the Interior named a power substation after him. In 1998, the U.S. Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp. Critics like Irwin Silber remarked: “They’re taking a revolutionary, and turning him into a conservationist.” Arlo Guthrie called it “a stunning defeat” for a man who hated respectability. “Commonism” Woody was critical of the vast inequality of wealth in American society, but at the same time had an unswerving faith that the American people would ultimately do the right thing (once telling a newspaper, “I can safely say that Americans will let you get awful hungry but they never quite let you starve.”) Woody’s outlook was as much fueled by disdain for the impersonal forces of Wall Street as it was a profound empathy for the struggling common man. Woody summarized his sociopolitical philosophy as “commonism.” In his words: “Every single human being is looking for a better way…when there shall be no want among you, because you’ll own everything in Common. When the Rich will give their goods unto the poor. I believe in this Way…This is the Christian Way and it is already on a big part of the earth and it will come. To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” Whitewashed Legacy Why was Woody’s legacy whitewashed? Woody embraced communism at its peak in the United States, but as the nuclear tension of the Cold War made the communist threat that much more immediate to Americans, prompting purges of communist influence from the government and entertainment sectors, it was likely harder to reconcile Woody’s leftist leanings with his role as an American cultural hero. As Yale cultural historian Michael Denning has written, “Cold War repression had left a cultural amnesia,” minimizing the real intellectual and cultural influence the Popular Front, and communist singers like Woody, had on American society. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Woody Guthrie’s Complicated Spirit Guthrie was deeply imperfect, a womaniser, absentee father, hygiene avoider, and erotic letter-writer. But his genius as a songwriter is undeniable. He wrote an estimated 1,000 songs, transforming the struggles of ordinary Americans into enduring folk anthems. His music gave voice to the voiceless. He mocked the wealthy, comforted the poor, and challenged listeners to confront injustice. As Steinbeck wrote, “There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But… there is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression.” That is Woody Guthrie’s true legacy, not the sanitised folk hero of postage stamps, but the troubadour who sang America’s pain and resilience. Sources Joe Klein, Woody Guthrie: A Life  (1980) Will Kaufman, Woody Guthrie, American Radical  (2011) Alan Lomax recordings at the Library of Congress – https://www.loc.gov/collections/alan-lomax/ Michael Denning, The Cultural Front  (1997) “The Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie” – Smithsonian Folkways – https://folkways.si.edu/woody-guthrie Irwin Silber, radical music commentary archives – https://www.marxists.org/history/etol/newspape/folk_music.htm

Some people juggle, some perform card tricks, and then there was Alfred Langevin—who could smoke a pipe through his eyes. A Man of Unique Talents Langevin was a resident of Detroit, Michigan, in the 1930s, a time when the world was reeling from the Great Depression and desperate for a bit of amusement. Enter Mr. Langevin, whose particular skill set was equal parts astounding and slightly unsettling. Not only could he inhale tobacco smoke through his mouth and exhale it through his eye sockets, but he could also blow up balloons and even play the recorder using his eye socket. And just to be clear—because you're probably wondering—yes, he had two perfectly normal, functioning eyes. The Science (or Mystery) Behind the Skill How exactly was Alfred Langevin able to perform this ocular sorcery? The precise reason remains uncertain, but the best guess lies in an anatomical anomaly related to his tear gland. A rare defect in the nasolacrimal system—the part of your body that connects the eyes, nose, and throat—may have created an unusual passageway, allowing him to redirect air (or smoke) in ways most of us cannot. This condition is not entirely unheard of. In fact, the same kind of tear duct oddity is responsible for an even stranger Guinness World Record: the furthest distance for "squirting milk from the eye." Yes, this is an actual competitive category, and the reigning champion is Mike Moraal from Vancouver, Canada, who propelled a stream of milk an eye-watering 8.745 feet in 2001. Alfred Langevin, Ripley’s Star Performer Langevin’s abilities did not go unnoticed. He was featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not!  cartoon series, an institution dedicated to chronicling the weird and wonderful. He wasn’t just a footnote either—his talent earned him a place in Ripley’s famous Odditorium , the travelling museum of the strange, from 1933 to 1940. His likeness even made it onto a 1933 Odditorium  postcard, which is probably one of the few pieces of mail in history that required a double-take. Imagine, for a moment, being a guest at a 1930s dinner party where Langevin decided to demonstrate his skills. One moment, he’s lighting up his pipe, the next—smoke is emerging from his eye. You would either drop your drink in amazement or reconsider your life choices altogether.

The occupation of Alcatraz Island by Native American activists from 1969 to 1971 marked a significant turning point in the modern Indigenous rights movement in the United States. What began as a symbolic act of defiance against centuries of broken treaties and cultural erasure developed into a prolonged and powerful protest that captured national attention and had a lasting impact on federal policy towards Native Americans. The occupation was the culmination of years of grievances and frustration over the U.S. government’s treatment of Indigenous peoples, and it ignited a wave of activism that reverberated across the country. The Early Symbolism: 1964’s Brief Occupation The seeds of the Alcatraz occupation were planted on 8 March 1964, when a small group of Sioux made landfall on the island, which had been abandoned as a federal prison the previous year. Invoking the 1851 Treaty of Fort Laramie, which promised that any surplus federal property would be returned to Native ownership, the activists sought to reclaim Alcatraz as Indigenous land. Though their occupation was brief — lasting only a few hours before federal marshals removed them — it was a symbolic act that resonated with Native Americans across the country. This event was a precursor to the larger movement that would follow, highlighting the growing discontent over federal policies of relocation and termination, which sought to encourage Native Americans to leave reservations for urban areas and to strip tribes of their sovereignty. The Lead-Up to the 1969 Occupation Throughout the 1960s, the plight of Native Americans was becoming more widely recognised, particularly as a result of the federal government’s relocation and termination policies. Native peoples were being encouraged to move to cities, where they faced poverty, discrimination, and alienation from their cultural heritage. Meanwhile, tribal sovereignty and recognition were being undermined by government actions. This discontent fostered a growing sense of unity and activism among Indigenous communities across the United States, particularly in urban areas like San Francisco, where various tribes had relocated. In San Francisco, proposals were being floated about what to do with the disused Alcatraz Island. Local Native American groups began to see the island as an opportunity — a chance to reclaim a piece of land and transform it into a cultural centre for Indigenous peoples. The idea gained traction, and on 9 November 1969, dozens of Native Americans from numerous tribes gathered at Pier 39 in San Francisco and issued a proclamation, claiming Alcatraz by right of discovery. In a symbolic gesture mirroring the offer made by European colonists to Native peoples, they offered to buy the island for $24 in beads and cloth. A symbolic sailboat cruise around the island followed, during which several passengers leapt overboard and attempted to swim to the island. While only one succeeded in reaching the shore, the others were swept away by the tide and had to be rescued. That night, 14 determined activists persuaded local fishermen to take them to the island, where they spent the night. These actions were trial runs for the true occupation, which began later that month. The Full-Scale Occupation Begins: November 1969 In the early hours of 20 November 1969, nearly 80 Native Americans landed on Alcatraz Island, beginning what would become an iconic and transformative 19-month occupation. The occupiers represented over 20 tribes from across North America and called themselves the “Indians of All Tribes,” symbolising their solidarity in the face of shared grievances. Among the prominent leaders was Richard Oakes, a charismatic Mohawk from New York who had gathered support from Native communities around the Bay Area and from Indigenous students at UCLA. Once on the island, the occupiers quickly set about organising themselves. They established an elected council and began making decisions through consensus. Jobs were assigned to manage the day-to-day operations of the occupation, and the group released a list of demands to the federal government, calling for the return of the island and the creation of a Native American cultural and educational centre. The occupiers invited the government to negotiate, but the initial response was dismissive, with officials demanding that the activists leave. Government Tactics and Media Attention The federal government initially responded by imposing a Coast Guard blockade to prevent supplies from reaching the island, though this tactic was later abandoned in favour of a strategy of non-interference. Officials hoped that by waiting long enough, the occupation would collapse under its own weight. Yet, the opposite occurred: the occupation garnered widespread media attention, shining a spotlight on the long-standing grievances of Native Americans and generating popular support across the country. The media coverage helped to amplify the occupiers’ message of broken treaties, cultural erasure, and governmental neglect. Solidarity protests and occupations sprang up across the United States, as Native Americans and their allies rallied behind the cause. Celebrities like Marlon Brando and Jane Fonda lent their support, and the rock band Creedence Clearwater Revival even donated a boat to assist the occupiers. A pirate radio station, Radio Free Alcatraz, was established by Santee Sioux activist John Trudell, broadcasting the occupiers’ message to a growing audience. Challenges and Decline of the Occupation The occupation reached its peak on 27 November 1969, when some 400 Native Americans gathered on the island to celebrate Thanksgiving, marking the event as a day of solidarity and reclamation. However, challenges soon began to emerge. Leadership struggles arose following the departure of Richard Oakes, particularly after the tragic death of his 12-year-old stepdaughter Yvonne in January 1970, which prompted him to leave the island. Factions developed as new occupiers arrived, with some groups more focused on their own agendas than on the original purpose of the occupation. Non-Indigenous individuals, including hippies and drug users, began showing up, complicating the dynamics of the community. Efforts were made to bar non-Natives from staying overnight, but the occupation began to lose its original focus. In secret negotiations, the federal government offered an alternative site at Fort Mason in San Francisco for the creation of a Native American cultural centre, but the occupiers rejected the proposal. In response, the government increased pressure on the activists. Electricity, water, and telephone services were cut off, and tensions on the island grew. On 1 June 1971, a fire broke out, destroying several buildings. Both the government and the occupiers blamed each other for the incident, which marked a turning point in the occupation’s decline. The End of the Occupation and Its Legacy On 11 June 1971, nearly 18 months after the occupation began, federal marshals, with the approval of President Richard Nixon, landed on the island and evicted the remaining 15 occupiers. Though the occupation ended in what appeared to be a defeat, its impact was far-reaching and lasting. The protest had drawn attention to the struggles of Native Americans in a way that few other events had, and it helped to shift public opinion in favour of Indigenous rights. One of the most significant outcomes of the occupation was the abandonment of the federal government’s policies of relocation and termination. The Nixon administration adopted a new policy of self-determination for Native American tribes, which resulted in a series of reforms that improved conditions for Native peoples. Tribal lands that had been taken were returned, including the sacred Blue Lake area in New Mexico and Mount Adams in Washington State. The occupation also inspired a new generation of Native American activists, many of whom went on to participate in other landmark protests, such as the 1972 takeover of the Bureau of Indian Affairs headquarters and the 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee. The spirit of resistance and solidarity fostered on Alcatraz Island lived on, helping to reshape federal policies and reaffirm the rights of Indigenous peoples.