My Jukebox Favorites
The emphasis on my home jukebox is on records I loved in the 1950s and 1960s, which for me was the jukebox era. I haven’t changed the 50 records much since I bought the jukebox in the early 1970s. But I thought it would be fun to put together jukebox lists for different eras: the 1950s-1960s, the 1970s-1980s and 1990s-2000s. To see the lists, just click on the various links below.
Don’t look at the selections as a carefully reasoned list of the “best” or “most important” records of the various eras—though some of the choices fall into that category. I was mainly thinking about records I’d play on a jukebox whether it was in a Waffle House in Tennessee or my own den. For the most part, they are hits that sound good in a roomful of people—and I could easily have come up with a second Top 50 for each era. These are the ones that just seemed right on an evening in July, 2009. Each list is roughly chronological by year.
Don’t look at the selections as a carefully reasoned list of the “best” or “most important” records of the various eras—though some of the choices fall into that category. I was mainly thinking about records I’d play on a jukebox whether it was in a Waffle House in Tennessee or my own den. For the most part, they are hits that sound good in a roomful of people—and I could easily have come up with a second Top 50 for each era. These are the ones that just seemed right on an evening in July, 2009. Each list is roughly chronological by year.
The 1950s-1960s list.
The 1970s-1980s list.
The 1990s-2000s list.
Click on the Jukebox picture above for my Final Jukebox Favorites -- 1950s to 2000s.
My Favorite Road Trips
From a longer list -- including Neil Young, the Rolling Stones and the Sex Pistols -- that appears in "Corn Flakes with John Lennon."
Elton John in the Soviet Union, Spring 1979
By the late 1970s, Elton's record sales had slipped noticeably, and in hopes of shaking things up, Elton's advisors suggested that he do a series of concerts in the Soviet Union. As the first Western pop star to tour there, he would be treated like royalty and the publicity would help him back home. Elton invited me to go along as the only US journalist on board. I hooked up with the touring party in London, and then we flew to Moscow and proceeded to Leningrad by train.
Elton performed in a luxurious 3,500-seat concert hall, and there was near pandemonium when he played the Beatles' "Back in the USSR." But the highlight was in the dressing room after the show. We were in the third-floor room when we heard shouting outside. Opening the window, Elton saw a couple thousand fans in the street chanting his name. We assumed they hadn't been able to get tickets because admission was limited to people with ties to government officials. The fans in the street were hard-core Elton enthusiasts who risked arrest because they were blocking traffic.
As I watched him wave to the fans below, I remembered Janis Joplin and what she had said about how hard it is to be loved by thousands on stage and then face the world alone. I stood next to him as he listened to the continuing chants of "Elton, Elton." Even on this night of triumph, there was something about Elton that made it obvious that he felt terribly alone.
Elton John in the Soviet Union, Spring 1979
By the late 1970s, Elton's record sales had slipped noticeably, and in hopes of shaking things up, Elton's advisors suggested that he do a series of concerts in the Soviet Union. As the first Western pop star to tour there, he would be treated like royalty and the publicity would help him back home. Elton invited me to go along as the only US journalist on board. I hooked up with the touring party in London, and then we flew to Moscow and proceeded to Leningrad by train.
Elton performed in a luxurious 3,500-seat concert hall, and there was near pandemonium when he played the Beatles' "Back in the USSR." But the highlight was in the dressing room after the show. We were in the third-floor room when we heard shouting outside. Opening the window, Elton saw a couple thousand fans in the street chanting his name. We assumed they hadn't been able to get tickets because admission was limited to people with ties to government officials. The fans in the street were hard-core Elton enthusiasts who risked arrest because they were blocking traffic.
As I watched him wave to the fans below, I remembered Janis Joplin and what she had said about how hard it is to be loved by thousands on stage and then face the world alone. I stood next to him as he listened to the continuing chants of "Elton, Elton." Even on this night of triumph, there was something about Elton that made it obvious that he felt terribly alone.
Bob Dylan in Israel, Fall 1987
On paper, Bob's first concert in Israel seemed a sure success: rock's most acclaimed songwriter playing Tel Aviv for an audience that stronger identified not only with his socially conscious music, but also with his Jewish roots. And sure enough, the nearly forty thousand fans in a sprawling park on the edge of the city lit thousands of candles in salute and set off flares that brightened the night sky. But there cheers eventually gave way to confusion and disappointment.
Rather than tailoring the material to an audience that had waited decades to hear his early anthems, Bob stuck to newer, lesser-known tunes like "Joey" and "Senor." There was considerable grumbing in the rviews the next morning in Tel Aviv's four largest newspapers. The writers used words like "boring," "monotonous," "flat," and "withdrawn" to describe Bob's manner and song selection. "Robert Zimmerman, your time has passed."
At breakfast, Bob asked, "How was the crowd?"
I told him the audience had been disappointed that he hadn't done more of his familiar songs. Bob scoffed. He said the same thing I had heard from Bruce. He never wants to feel like the audience is dictating what he should do on stage. Besides, he pointed out, he went to see Frank Sinatra and he wasn't upset that Sinatra didn't do many of the songs from his classic Capitol albums. He said he wanted to hear whatever Frank wanted to sing, and that's how all audiences should approach a concert.
I told him I normally would agree, but this was a special case. These shows were the most eagerly anticipated concerts in Israel's history.
"Okay," he finally said. "What songs do you think I should do?"
I tore a sheet of paper from my notebook and wrote down song titles, starting with "The Times They are a-Changin'."
The next night I stood with nine thousand other Dylan fans in the scenic Sultan's Pool, which was built by Pontius Pilate and is located at the base of the stone wall that surrounds the Old City of Jerusalem. Rushing on stage with a determined gait, Bob stepped to the microphone and, before even looking out at the crowd started singing "The Times They Are a-Changin'." He followed with several more songs from my list, including "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Ballad of a Thin Man." The crowd was ecstatic.
Fifteen years later in Los Angeles, I brought my second wife, Kathi, backstage to meet Bob. I must have seen him a half-dozen times since Israel, but he never mentioned the piece of paper I gave him in Tel Aviv. When I introduced her, though, Bob smiled and said, "Does your husband have a set list for me tonight?"
On paper, Bob's first concert in Israel seemed a sure success: rock's most acclaimed songwriter playing Tel Aviv for an audience that stronger identified not only with his socially conscious music, but also with his Jewish roots. And sure enough, the nearly forty thousand fans in a sprawling park on the edge of the city lit thousands of candles in salute and set off flares that brightened the night sky. But there cheers eventually gave way to confusion and disappointment.
Rather than tailoring the material to an audience that had waited decades to hear his early anthems, Bob stuck to newer, lesser-known tunes like "Joey" and "Senor." There was considerable grumbing in the rviews the next morning in Tel Aviv's four largest newspapers. The writers used words like "boring," "monotonous," "flat," and "withdrawn" to describe Bob's manner and song selection. "Robert Zimmerman, your time has passed."
At breakfast, Bob asked, "How was the crowd?"
I told him the audience had been disappointed that he hadn't done more of his familiar songs. Bob scoffed. He said the same thing I had heard from Bruce. He never wants to feel like the audience is dictating what he should do on stage. Besides, he pointed out, he went to see Frank Sinatra and he wasn't upset that Sinatra didn't do many of the songs from his classic Capitol albums. He said he wanted to hear whatever Frank wanted to sing, and that's how all audiences should approach a concert.
I told him I normally would agree, but this was a special case. These shows were the most eagerly anticipated concerts in Israel's history.
"Okay," he finally said. "What songs do you think I should do?"
I tore a sheet of paper from my notebook and wrote down song titles, starting with "The Times They are a-Changin'."
The next night I stood with nine thousand other Dylan fans in the scenic Sultan's Pool, which was built by Pontius Pilate and is located at the base of the stone wall that surrounds the Old City of Jerusalem. Rushing on stage with a determined gait, Bob stepped to the microphone and, before even looking out at the crowd started singing "The Times They Are a-Changin'." He followed with several more songs from my list, including "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Ballad of a Thin Man." The crowd was ecstatic.
Fifteen years later in Los Angeles, I brought my second wife, Kathi, backstage to meet Bob. I must have seen him a half-dozen times since Israel, but he never mentioned the piece of paper I gave him in Tel Aviv. When I introduced her, though, Bob smiled and said, "Does your husband have a set list for me tonight?"
Paul McCartney in Rotterdam, Winter 1989
When I heard Paul was returning to live shows for the first time in thirteen years, I headed to Rotterdam even though I was suffering from the flu. I interviewed Paul before the concert, and we were scheduled to get together again afterward. I felt so bad that I rested backstage rather than watching the concert. Then, I was disappointed to hear that Paul was going to fly back to London rather than spend the night in Rotterdam. He told me he was going to say that we could finish the interview before the next night's show in Rotterdam, but when he saw how sick I was, he suggested instead that I go home and he'd call me in a couple of days so we could finish the interview. I was nervous because I had a tight deadline and knew that some musicians might not follow through. But Paul called right at the appointed time and I got everything I needed for the story. I was extremely grateful.
When I heard Paul was returning to live shows for the first time in thirteen years, I headed to Rotterdam even though I was suffering from the flu. I interviewed Paul before the concert, and we were scheduled to get together again afterward. I felt so bad that I rested backstage rather than watching the concert. Then, I was disappointed to hear that Paul was going to fly back to London rather than spend the night in Rotterdam. He told me he was going to say that we could finish the interview before the next night's show in Rotterdam, but when he saw how sick I was, he suggested instead that I go home and he'd call me in a couple of days so we could finish the interview. I was nervous because I had a tight deadline and knew that some musicians might not follow through. But Paul called right at the appointed time and I got everything I needed for the story. I was extremely grateful.
My All Time Rock 'n' Roll Dinner Party
The complete guest list in "Corn Flakes with John Lennon" represents the 25 present and potential Rock and Roll Hall of Fame members that I've most enjoyed being around. Here are some.
Johnny Cash -- I listened to Folsom Prison Blues for five decades before asking myself, "If the guy in the song shot a guy in Reno, what's he doing in prison in California?" When I asked John about it, he burst out laughing. "I never did get good grades in geography."
Elvis Costello -- Elvis must have been born with an extra supply of brainpower. Name a subject and he can give you a funny, provocative, and insightful thousand or so words on it. If he's in the right mood, there's a good chance you'll both laugh so hard tears will run down your cheeks.
Curtis Mayfield -- If the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. had been a singer-songwriter, he would have been Mayfield. There is in the best of his music a spiritual eloquence and unwavering faith. Thanks to his Superfly album, Curtis was at his commercial peak the first time I interviewed him in the early 1970s, but the thing I most remember about him was his gentle manner and seeming lack of ego. I never spent time with Curtis without coming away feeling inspired.
Jack White -- I'll make sure not to serve hamburgers. Jack once drove me some thirty miles to a Dearborn, Michigan, bar raving the whole time about its double cheeseburgers. After I mentioned the experience in a story, Blender magazine had fun with its irreverent feature "When Will Your Favorite Pop Star Croak?" The goofy column predicts a star's life expectancy , adding or subtracting years depending on the star's lifestyle. In Jack's case, his double-cheeseburger craving cost him four years. So for our next lunch he took me to a restaurant near the Vanderbilt University campus in Nashville, where he now lives. Passing on the high-cholesterol items, he ordered a health-conscious chicke-fettuccine salad. As we sat down, he leaned over with a smile and said, "This should give me back a couple of years."
Johnny Cash -- I listened to Folsom Prison Blues for five decades before asking myself, "If the guy in the song shot a guy in Reno, what's he doing in prison in California?" When I asked John about it, he burst out laughing. "I never did get good grades in geography."
Elvis Costello -- Elvis must have been born with an extra supply of brainpower. Name a subject and he can give you a funny, provocative, and insightful thousand or so words on it. If he's in the right mood, there's a good chance you'll both laugh so hard tears will run down your cheeks.
Curtis Mayfield -- If the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. had been a singer-songwriter, he would have been Mayfield. There is in the best of his music a spiritual eloquence and unwavering faith. Thanks to his Superfly album, Curtis was at his commercial peak the first time I interviewed him in the early 1970s, but the thing I most remember about him was his gentle manner and seeming lack of ego. I never spent time with Curtis without coming away feeling inspired.
Jack White -- I'll make sure not to serve hamburgers. Jack once drove me some thirty miles to a Dearborn, Michigan, bar raving the whole time about its double cheeseburgers. After I mentioned the experience in a story, Blender magazine had fun with its irreverent feature "When Will Your Favorite Pop Star Croak?" The goofy column predicts a star's life expectancy , adding or subtracting years depending on the star's lifestyle. In Jack's case, his double-cheeseburger craving cost him four years. So for our next lunch he took me to a restaurant near the Vanderbilt University campus in Nashville, where he now lives. Passing on the high-cholesterol items, he ordered a health-conscious chicke-fettuccine salad. As we sat down, he leaned over with a smile and said, "This should give me back a couple of years."
Sinead O'Connor -- Sinead was in her early twenties when I first met her in England, where she was already on a fiercely combative mission against child abuse and what she saw as widespread hypocrisy. Shortly after her version of "Nothing Compares 2 U" earned her a Grammy nomination for single of the year, she asked me to do a story announcing that she was withdrawing to protest the "false and destructive materialistic values of the music industry and the world." Knowing how many fans thought she was already over the top, my first thought was "No, Sinead. Why don't you just stop at the false and destructive values of the music industry? You don't need to take on the whole world." A fearless, marvelously gifted artist.
Jerry Lee Lewis and Bruce Springsteen photos by George Rose for the Los Angeles Times. For more photos by George go to georgerose.com
Neil Young photo by Lori Shepler for the Los Angeles Times. For more photos by Lori go to lorishepler.com
Joni Mitchell photo taken in 1987 by Ken Hively for the Los Angeles Times.
Stevie Wonder photo by J. Albert Diaz for the Los Angeles Times.
Neil Young photo by Lori Shepler for the Los Angeles Times. For more photos by Lori go to lorishepler.com
Joni Mitchell photo taken in 1987 by Ken Hively for the Los Angeles Times.
Stevie Wonder photo by J. Albert Diaz for the Los Angeles Times.
