In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, the historic British town of Canterbury became the breeding ground for an idiosyncratic music scene that could have been called a movement if its avatars weren’t quite so unassuming in their demeanor. The Canterbury scene grew up around Soft Machine, which started out blending post-psychedelic weirdness with jazz influences before shifting into straight-up jazz-rock fusion in the ‘70s. Early Soft Machine and the bands that became part of their family tree (Caravan, Hatfield & The North, Egg, etc.) shared a quirky, very British sense of humor and a knack for blending jazzy jams into an offbeat but breezy brand of prog rock that boasted a much lighter touch than that of King Crimson, ELP, et al.

Following the US election on Nov 8, 2016, we asked Dowsers contributors to discuss the moods and music the results inspired. We collected their responses in a series, After the Election.In the early ‘80s, just as I was starting high school, starting to think for myself for the first time, and developing semi-informed opinions about the world around me, that world took a turn toward the troubling. With Maggie Thatcher in power in England and Ronald Reagan assuming the U.S. presidency, the Western world suddenly made a treacherous shift toward the right, and the neocon movement was on the rise.Fortunately for me, right around the same time, I discovered the joys of college radio, opening up the burgeoning world of post-punk and new wave to my eager, impressionable ears. As luck would have it, a number of artists from that realm in both the U.K. and U.S. were turning out tunes that expressed their frustration at the state of things. Naturally, punk was perfect for crafting urgent, aural agitprop fueled by righteous anger, and the likes of Black Flag, The Clash, The Dead Kennedys, and The Bad Brains were right on the money in that regard. But from the politically conscious synth funk of Heaven 17’s “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang” to The Specials’ spooky reggae noir portrait of Thatcher’s England on “Ghost Town,” there were plenty of ways to turn sociopolitical angst into affecting music that could both inform and inspire.That remained true throughout the ‘80s, and history shows that the evil these songs decried was eventually unseated. Three decades later, both sides of the big pond are beset by even darker political demons, and music remains a natural place to turn for solace and motivation. Soon, we will undoubtedly see a whole new crop of songs that speak to this disturbing moment in our history, but in the meantime, the ones that worked for us back in the ‘80s can still do the trick. Some of them are directed specifically to Thatcher and/or Reagan, but their targets are nevertheless timeless, and others provide just the kind of sympathetic sigh or rallying cry we need right now.

As detailed in Tim Lawrence’s Life and Death on the New York Dance Floor: 1980-1983, the early ‘80s marked the ascendance of the “rock disco” as funk and disco influences found their way into the new wave/post-punk world, and rock bands on both sides of the Atlantic discovered that it was permissible—and maybe even desirable—to make people groove. Not that every London or Lower East Side punk refugee suddenly became The Fatback Band—the adaptations of R&B that emerged from this cultural cross-pollination were often willfully jagged. But whether it was James White of the Contortions coming off like James Brown on crystal meth, established acts like The Clash and The Jam figuring out how to get their good foot on, or New Romantics like Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet fusing funk bass lines, cutting-edge electronics, and Bowie/Roxy influences to create a new kind of glam, it was all embraced by the underground NYC club scene at legendary venues like The Mudd Club, Hurrah, and Danceteria. Here’s a hint of the sounds that made rockers and dancers one within those hallowed halls.

This post is part of our Disco 101 program, an in-depth series that looks at the far-reaching, decades-long impact of disco. Curious about disco and want to learn more? Go here to sign up. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out by sharing it on Facebook, Twitter or just sending your friends this link. They’ll thank you. We thank you.When disco emerged as a dominant cultural force in the mid-to-late ’70s, regressive cultural forces converged under the banner of rockism to decry its ascendance. Racists, homophobes, and garden-variety closed-minded reactionaries started stirring up impressionable music fans with apocalyptic visions of disco taking over the world and crushing good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll into the dirt beneath its platform heels. Mass record burnings, graffiti, and sloganeering were all part of the benighted Disco Sucks movement. But if anyone ever bothered to ask actual rockers about the issue at the time, they would have gotten a very different perspective.Between the late ‘70s (when disco was at its zenith) and the early ‘80s (when it began to peter out), a remarkable number of high-profile rockers decided to take the plunge and adapt their sound to a disco groove, even if only for a song or two. Granted, it may not have been too huge a shock when try-anything types like The Rolling Stones and David Bowie turned out discofied tracks like “Miss You” and “Fashion,” respectively, especially since the no-disco movement was less prevalent in their native U.K. than in the U.S. But even some American bands you’d never expect to hit the dance floor were having a go at it.Hippie heroes The Grateful Dead got down with the four-on-the-floor feel for “Shakedown Street.” America’s Band themselves, The Beach Boys, put on their polyester (at least figuratively) for “Here Comes the Night.” And hard-rock demons Kiss stepped up to the plate with the ooga-ooga bass lines of “I Was Made for Lovin’ You,” ending up with one of the biggest hits of their career in the process.

The passing of Chuck Berry on March 18, 2017 at the age of 90 put the final punctuation mark at the end of this musical pioneers story. But the legacy left behind by the man who made rock n roll what it is today largely rests on a relatively small group of milestone singles—about a dozen or so, mostly released between the mid 50s and mid 60s. And, when youre talking about an artist like Berry, that leaves a lot of things out. Though Berry mostly stopped having hits by 1964, he kept on recording at a fairly steady clip through the late 70s. And even though most of his later records flew below the radar, they were full of worthwhile tunes. The deeper you dig into Berrys catalog, the clearer it becomes that he had plenty of tricks up his sleeve. Of course, the rock n roll godhead will be forever associated with the style he introduced on titanic tracks like "Roll Over Beethoven," "Maybellene," "Johnny B. Goode," et al, and rightly so—they were the road map for generation after generation of rockers. But Berrys endlessly surprising (and rewarding) eclecticism is revealed by even a casual spelunk into his archives.Traipsing through this collection of Chuck Berry esoterica, youll find just about everything you can think of and then some: the spooky, minor-key "Down Bound Train," the calypso-flavored "Run Joe," the jazzy swinger "Bring Another Drink," the Latin-tinged instrumental "Berry Pickin," the dreamy Charles Brown cover "Driftin Blues," the startling psychedelic experimentation of "Oh Captain," the 18-minute wah-wah-flecked jam "Concerto in B Goode"—you name it.And alongside all these surprising stylistic detours are tunes in the signature Berry style like "Tulane," "Jo Jo Gunne," and "Oh What a Thrill" that stand up right alongside their more famous cousins. It makes for a great way to remember rocks godfather, who, for all his renown, was an even mightier musical figure than many people realize.

No sentient human needs to be informed about Little Richard’s place in the rock ’n’ roll pantheon. The songs he recorded for Specialty Records in the ’50s were the seeds from which countless heroes would spring for generations to come—The Beatles, Otis Redding, David Bowie, Prince, and countless others. But those ’50s sides are so monumental that they tend to overshadow everything he did afterward. And from the ’60s forward, Richard Wayne Penniman ventured far beyond the roof-raising rock ’n’ roll that made him a legend.

After turning the world inside out with “Tutti Frutti,” “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” et al., Richard famously forsook the pop world for gospel at the end of the ’50s, having heard the calling from on high. And for a while, he had a good run with gospel, slipping into sweeter tones on songs like “Do Lord Remember Me” than he’d been known for previously. But despite having become a preacher as well as a gospel singer, after a couple of years, he had a rapprochement with rock.

Starting in the mid-’60s, Richard began exploring a riotous run of styles, bringing his reckless rock ’n’ roll spirit along for each step of the ride. He came off like a turbo-charged Ray Charles on a polyrhythmic R&B reinvention of Leadbelly’s folk/blues standard “Goodnight Irene.” He gave James Brown a run for his money with deep-grooving funk workouts like the chattering “Second Line” and snuck in some psychedelic touches with wah-wah-inflected grinders like “Nuki Suki.” He brought country down an R&B path with his stomping takeover of Hank Williams’ hit “Lovesick Blues,” funked up the swampy sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Born on the Bayou,” and made The Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar” sound like part of a Stax soul revue.

Richard released only one album in the ’80s, but by that time he was venturing even further afield, dipping into digital pop-soul on “Somebody’s Comin’” and even flirting with rap on “I Found My Way.” In his later years, Richard seemed to revel in spreading himself around, cutting a manic version of the folk staple “Rock Island Line” with Fishbone, duetting with Elton John on the New Jack Swing-tinged “The Power,” and even injecting some manic rock ’n’ roll abandon into the Sesame Street chestnut “Rubber Duckie.”

The world Little Richard left behind when he passed away at the age of 87 on May 9, 2020, is one that was radically altered for the better by his presence. And the playlist partnered with this assessment demonstrates that for all of Richard’s iconic status, there was still a lot more to his story than most people knew.

Todays tykes have no idea how easy theyve got it. If modern-day pop charts were filled with the kind of creepy, trauma-inducing fare that was commonplace when I was a child in the 70s, the FCC would be awash in lawsuits initiated by horrified parents.Though the 70s are commonly typecast as the decade when mellowness reigned supreme, radios gatekeepers thought nothing of filling the airwaves with songs of rape, murder, pedophilia, hate crimes, and other family-friendly activities. The eras artists in turn took the opportunity to let it all hang out.As a kid with a passion for pop, I would invariably have my bedside radio tuned to the local Top 40 station to help lull me into slumber. But some of the songs that slipped into my subconscious mind probably twisted my impressionable psyche for life.Clarence Carters R&B hit "Patches" concludes its wrong-side-of-the-tracks love story with—spoiler alert—a murder and consequent suicide. Rod Stewarts "The Killing of Georgie," true to its title, chronicles the murder of the homosexual title character by a bunch of gay-bashers. In Helen Reddys "Angie Baby," a young man tries to rape a mentally disturbed girl and is somehow eliminated by her supernatural abilities. Terry Jacks "Seasons in the Sun" adapts Jacques Brels "Le Moribond," in which a dying man tearfully bids farewell to each of his loved ones. And then there’s Ringo Starrs cover of "Youre Sixteen You’re Beautiful (And You’re Mine)," which ought to have been subtitled “(And Im 33).”At least Warren Zevons "Werewolves of London," with its account of little old ladies getting mutilated, was clearly played for laughs, but the bulk of these songs were unflinchingly earnest, and their 70s soft-pop trappings only made them all the more unsettling to a young mind. But go try and get a dour six-and-a-half minute song about a shipwreck where nobody survives into the Top 10 today—as Gordon Lightfoot did back in ’76—and see how far you get.

This post is part of our Psych 101 program, an in-depth, 14-part series that looks at the impact of psychedelia on modern music. Want to sign up to receive the other installments in your inbox? Go here. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out by sharing it on Facebook, Twitter or just sending your friends this link. Theyll thank you. We thank you.When it comes to subgenre tags, “space rock” is one of the most literal—its music intended to evoke an interstellar journey. But while theres plenty of trippy otherworldliness involved, the sound is anything but ethereal. The seeds of space rock were sown back in 1967 when Syd Barrett led Pink Floyds expeditions into the cosmos, but the real template was created in the early 70s by the likes of Gong, Hawkwind, and Nektar, who tapped into a post-psychedelic stoner vibe and combined explicitly cosmic lyrics with heavily effected guitar riffs and swooshing, burbling electronics to create the mind-expanding sound we know today as space rock.In the 90s, a new generation of aural astronauts inspired by those 70s sounds started an underground space-rock revival. The likes of Ozric Tentacles, Magnog, Farflung, Quarkspace, and Bardo Pond fused the influences of old-school space rock with a contemporary indie aesthetic to create a sound that helped to further codify the style and even edged things forward by introducing elements of ambient music and other varied flavorings. More than ever, Hawkwind is acknowledged as the center from which all things in the space-rock universe flow, and the raw, hard-rocking riffs and squiggly synth effects that defined the bands classic 70s albums became de rigueur for any new arrivals aspiring to take a tumble through the galaxy.In the new millennium, a third wave of space rockers has arrived. Wooden Shjips, Comets On Fire, White Hills, Moon Duo, and the rest have firmly dug into the fuzziest, shaggiest, beardiest riff-a-rama aspects of space rock, fetishizing its 70s roots even more so than any of their 90s predecessors. But for all their growl and grit, they never forget the stoner side of things—one of the crucial aspects on which the movement was based. After all, if youre not already high when youre listening to a space-rock record, the music should make you feel like you are.

When Winfred “Blue” Lovett gravely intones, “This has got to be the saddest day of my life,” in the intro to The Manhattan’s 1976 hit “Kiss and Say Goodbye,” you believe him. But compared to some of their contemporaries, the group might as well have been crooning “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” The rampant introspection of the “me decade” helped make it a boom time for songs that filled the schedules of suicide hotline volunteers to overflowing. When somebody wasn’t dying in a ‘70s hit, like the protagonist in Terry Jacks’ “Seasons in the Sun,” the horse fancier and her steed in Michael Martin Murphey’s “Wildfire,” or a freakin’ dog in the Henry Gross hit “Shannon,” they were at least at the brink of oblivion. In retrospect, it’s amazing that Harry Nilsson made it to the end of “Without You” alive. The real masters of ‘70s melancholy managed to suck you in by making their songs sound deceptively cheery—check the opening flute riff of Albert Hammond’s angst fest “It Never Rains in Southern California” for proof—but by the time you get to the undeniably catchy chorus you’re hailing the nurse for your meds.

They said it would never last—back in the early ’80s, when synth-pop came in vogue, short-sighted detractors deemed it a fad and predicted it would have a short shelf life. Nearly four decades later, history has told a very different story: Not only were the original wave of synth-poppers succeeded by new generations of electronic artists, there are still plenty of old-schoolers still hanging on and plugging in, proving that you’re never too old for synth-pop.Gary Numan was one of the first performers to bring synths to the fore in the post-punk era, and even as he edges toward sexagenarian status, he hasn’t compromised his musical vision one iota. When Depeche Mode started turning heads, they were callow youths with some upstart ideas. But as the elder statesmen of electronic pop today, they’ve become one of the most influential bands of their generation.As the ‘80s marched on, the likes of Erasure (including former Depeche Mode man Vince Clarke) and Pet Shop Boys popped up, adding a more danceable feel to the synth-pop canon. Back then, nobody guessed that these groups would take their sound into the 2010s, but here we are.However, you don’t have to be a superstar to stick around in the synth-pop realm. British duo Blancmange never really made it past cult-hero status back in the day, but that didn’t stop them from releasing a string of new albums starting in 2011. After he split from Ultravox at the end of the ‘70s, John Foxx took an innovative, and ultimately underground, path into electronic sounds, but his absence from the spotlight hasn’t hurt his artistic longevity one bit.These are the synth-pop survivors—the artists who firmly planted their feet into new musical ground long ago and never let their electronic dreams die out.Click here to follow this playlist on Spotify.