All-Time Greatest Music

(This is the thirty-first artist that was named to this Top100 list, but started recording music in 1975 so they missed being a part of the 1960s generation by only five years). Of course what is significant about this is that 69 of the 100 artists were either active in the 1950s or 1960s which further supports that these years represent the best music of all time.

By Dave Sitek, is an American musician and record producer, known for his work with his band TV on the Radio. He has also worked with bands such as Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Liars, Foals, Celebration, Little Dragon, Wavves, Beady Eye, and Weezer. (years active: 2001-present).

Illustrator: Olaf Hajek

When I was a kid, I was really into hardcore punk. Hardcore was very rigid. Talking Heads was the first band I remember telling my punk friends about, saying, “Yo, check this out! This four-chord thing we’re doing? We’re missing out on something!”

The first song I really liked was “Once in a Lifetime.” MTV had just started to sink its claws into people, and that song was like an anthem for coked-up adults trying to make sense of their world. Remain in Light was this combination of ambient music and strong lyrics and incredibly inventive percussion and bass parts. I was a kid, but I still thought, “I should have been involved in that record!” It’s amazing.

Talking Heads greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2dlu9733i94I0xUBTGILBs?si=bcE7t7V7QjOn1EctOMUKag&pi=yFOSie5_RQaep

They had so many things going on. If you listen to a Talking Heads bass line, you think the song’s going one way, and then you listen to the drums and you think it’s going a different way, and then you listen to David Byrne’s lyrics and you’re like, “This is a completely different song from what I thought it was going to be.” And then the guitars come in, and then the ambience comes in — it’s like several songs all blending into one. If Talking Heads were around a cool idea, they would make it their own. I feel like they saw Brian Eno, their producer, as another instrument.

The town that I grew up in was called Columbia, in Maryland. It was a planned community with man-made lakes. David Byrne’s parents lived there for a while. It presented this facade that everything around us is solid and real and going to be here forever, even though we know we created it. Byrne’s lyrics spoke to the artifice of the American landscape. The American Dream has a lot of back alleys, and he was showing those things, and I felt like, here’s a guy trying to talk to me about something I had seen firsthand.

I think the artist’s primary responsibility is to reflect what life was like in their time. Talking Heads did that. I’m all over the map emotionally and spiritually, like most people are, so different Talking Heads records speak to me at different times, but with Remain in Light and Fear of Music, the grit of modern living is there. What they’re addressing still applies.

They weren’t always complex, either — there’s some stuff where it’s just bare-bones essentials. “This Must Be the Place” is probably one of the most important songs in my entire life. I find the lyrics really calming. The song is simple, but when you look at all the elements and how they’re put together and where the downbeat is, it’s kind of … clever is not even really the word. Genius, maybe?

By Tom Petty, was an American singer, songwriter, and guitarist who led the rock bands Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Mudcrutch. He also played in the late 1980s supergroup the Traveling Wilburys and released three solo albums. Petty’s career spanned decades, selling more than 80 million records and topping charts. His raw, introspective, and unapologetic music influenced rock and other genres. 

Illustrator: Shawn Barber

Carl Perkins’ songs will outlive us all. On tracks like “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Honey Don’t!” he took that country-picking thing into the rock world. He was an amazing guitar player: If you want to play Fifties rock & roll, you can either play like Chuck Berry, or you can play like Carl Perkins.

Carl Perkins greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/3c1QLP7CZxfIDxA8RwfAGN?si=7qu5kttwSGKqsd2YJ-r-JA

Considering how important he is to rock history, many people don’t know about him. But the right people did. The Beatles covered five of Carl’s songs on record. Carl was actually there in the studio when the Beatles cut some of them. Listen to the guitar break in “All My Loving”: George Harrison told me that the Beatles would study the B sides of Carl’s records to learn everything they could from him.

Carl was the real deal — a true rockabilly cat. He told me about picking cotton when he was a kid and learning the blues from an older black field hand he knew. Carl would go home from the fields, be practicing a Roy Acuff country type of thing on his guitar, and then he would start bending the notes. He told me his father would actually get mad, saying, “Play that thing right, boy, or don’t play it at all.” But it was organic with Carl. He took it to the honky-tonks — the real honky-tonks where people would be drinking out of a jug. It sounds like a cliché now, that rock music was born out of cornfields and honky- tonks, but with Carl it was all true.

He didn’t get the breaks he deserved; hard luck seemed to follow him around. He had a terrible car crash on the way to The Ed Sullivan Show when “Blue Suede Shoes” was breaking really big. Elvis ended up covering the song and took a lot of the glory there. Some people might not know that Carl played guitar with Johnny Cash for 10 years on the road. At a certain point in the Sixties, things got tough for Carl — he had a drinking problem, which he eventually overcame — and he went back into the lead-guitar business.

Carl himself was a very bright guy, and very funny. He once told me, “Tom, I like you so much — if I lived by you, I’d cut your grass.” That warmth and wit came through in his music. He was not the kind of guy to blow his own horn; he was very humble. When we did a long stand at the Fillmore in the late Nineties, I talked Carl into sitting in with us. Backstage, Carl was very nervous about coming out with us. He said, “They may not know who I am.” I told him, “Carl, they’re going to know you and love you.” When Carl hit the stage, he just ripped the room apart. Neil Young was there that night, and he was shaking his head. Carl was that good.

By Boz Scaggs, is an American singer, songwriter, and guitarist. He was a bandmate of Steve Miller in the Ardells in the early 1960s and a member of the Steve Miller Band from 1967 to 1968.

Illustrator: Andrea Ventura

If, in the late Fifties and early Sixties, you were drawn to that place on the AM radio dial where the rhythms, the grooves and the beautiful sounds of African-American soul were playing, you would have found Curtis Mayfield. Many of us first heard him as backing vocalist in the Impressions behind Jerry Butler, singing “For Your Precious Love.” But he really came into focus in Butler’s next big hit, “He Will Break Your Heart,” which was written by Mayfield and features his strumming electric guitar to a saucy tango beat that you can hear echoing in Ben E. King’s “Spanish Harlem.”

After that he was front and center, singing the lead about a “Gypsy Woman” in an exotic brew of castanets and dark minor chords. At one point, after the lyric “She danced around and round to a guitar melody,” he fired off an accent on his guitar that resonated for years for many of us who tried to emulate him — she cast her spell and he followed, with the rest of us close behind. You can clearly hear his influence in the monumental “Little Wing,” by Jimi Hendrix.

But it was his voice that reached the higher ground. It burned with the abandon of the blues singer and an almost feminine longing, at once powerful and deeply personal. Women responded overwhelmingly to his profoundly respectful and sensitive approach. When he sang “The Wonder of You,” the vulnerability and passion got in real close. They knew he knew.

At first, he made a gospel-like call to rise up, get on board, get ready. “I know you can make it,” he exhorted to soul-stirring harmonizing. He later took the voice of activism, calling out diseases of urban America and challenging people to see what was going on, a plea Marvin Gaye would take up, too. The full range of his powers can be heard in the soundtrack to Superfly. It hits you in waves: driving rhythms with brass and strings countered by down-in-the-alley funk.

Curtis Mayfield greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2WIJ85ojJG29Ua47xtuODt?si=Gk4FHPIWRZawNf2rTkTLCg&pi=g-2axA81TgC1d

He was a dynamic performer right up until he was disabled in an accident onstage in New York in 1990. I only met him once, after a show in San Francisco. He was funny, gracious to all, had a beautiful smile and a genuine way about him — a gentle and humble man at heart.

(This is the thirtieth artist that made this Top100 list that began producing music in 1980. So, they are not a part of the 1960s generation).

By Colin Meloy, is an American musician, singer-songwriter and author best known as the frontman of the Portland, Oregon, indie folk rock band the Decemberists (2000-present). In addition to vocals, he performs with an acoustic guitar, 12-string acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bouzouki, harmonica and percussion instruments.

Illustrator: Anita Kunz

I first heard R.E.M. in 1986, a song tacked on to the end of a demos collection of a Eugene, Oregon, band that my uncle, then in school at U of O, sent to me for Christmas. The song was called “Superman,” a bit of meticulously crafted bubblegum that was so simple and honest and funny that my entire nascent library of cassettes (chiefly: Yaz, Scritti Politti and Depeche Mode) seemed to be rendered obsolete in the span of the track’s three minutes. I was fully hooked. Little did I know: Becoming enamored with indie bands in Helena, Montana, in the late 1980s was kind of like developing a taste for beluga caviar in rationing-era postwar Britain.

By the time Lifes Rich Pageantwas gracing the yellow Sony Sports boomboxes of the world, R.E.M. was totally a going concern. The following year brought Document, and that landed them a video on MTV, even. Still, in Helena, being an R.E.M. fan meant being part of a tiny community. A community that, as far as I could tell, consisted of exactly one person. Then Green came around, and suddenly this band was on a major label, playing arenas, and every human in America with two ears and access to radio was being demanded to “Stand.” I listened to Chronic Town — procured on a recent family vacation to Los Angeles — on my Walkman backstage during rehearsal for the school production of Guys and Dolls, rehearsing the conversation in my head:

“What are you listening to?” they’d ask.

“R.E.M.,” I’d reply.

“Oh — they do that song ‘Stand.'”

“Yeah,” I’d reply casually, “I’m not really into that song — this is their first EP. It’s, like, from 1982.”

It was well-rehearsed, but it never actually happened. I had to suffer the philistines — stealing my band — silently. But still: To be an ardent R.E.M. fan, happy to venture beyond the pale of the radio singles, was a rare thing. Middle school was brutal for me, and I clung to my music like a life raft. Murmur, Reckoning … even Dead Letter Office, with its beer-soaked goofs and discarded B sides, provided a much-needed insulation against the cruel, Queensrÿche-and-Garth-Brooks-listening world. “When I was young and full of grace/And spirited, a rattlesnake/When I was young and fever fell/My spirit? I will not tell….” However inscrutable Michael Stipe’s lyrics were, they always gave language to this weird, agonizing metamorphosis taking place in my head. I was desperately searching for like-minded kids, but with every semester that went by, I felt like my isolation only grew.

R.E.M. greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7KmRZTShlhaeHIQSy1HFSR?si=ir9mXixZTluLCWdri66h4w&pi=WQKoEvDtQQaNl

My parents, at a loss, suggested I get involved in the local community theater’s after-school program. I was initially skeptical, but I agreed to give it a shot. As I climbed the stone steps toward the theater’s entrance, the doors flew open and out walked a girl I’d never seen before — someone from the high school, maybe — wearing a gauzy sundress and a notable lack of hair spray in her long hair. But the thing that caught my eye: She was wearing a Fables of the Reconstruction T-shirt. I was floored. She smiled shyly — probably more embarrassed at my gaping than anything — and walked by.

I’d been given the signal. A wayward fugitive, stumbling through the door of some Provençal cafe, his hat and coat soaking wet from the journey. The customers turn and look, each more untrusting than the next. Till a flash of a badge or the wave of a ribbon can be seen from the farthest table, and he knows: This is it. You’re in the resistance now, son.

By Antonio “L.A.” Reid,  is an American record executive, A&R representative, and record producer who served as president and CEO of Arista Records from 2000 to 2004, as well as chairman and CEO of the Island Def Jam Music Group from 2004 to 2011 and Epic Records from 2011 to 2017. He co-founded the record label Hitco Entertainment in the latter year, which was sold to Concord in 2022.

Illustrator: Dale Stephanos

For almost 30 years — my entire career, really — all I’ve been doing is trying to discover another Diana Ross. I obviously still have my work cut out for me. She was gorgeous and skinny — and this was back in the Twiggy days, when skinny was new — and she had that big, beautiful hair. And, of course, she was glamorous: I remember all those furs, diamonds and early bling-bling. Everything about her — her mannerisms, her look, her aura — exuded stardom.

The Supremes were the epitome of the Motown sound. People look at Ross and say she had great songs, she was a good-looking girl, behind her she had Berry Gordy — who, in my book, is the greatest record man who ever lived — she had all these things. Holland, Dozier and Holland were amazing songwriters, just pure melody men. As we all know now, the unsung heroes were the Motown house band, the Funk Brothers. They could take those great songs and give them sound. “Where Did Our Love Go,” “Baby Love,” “Come See About Me,” “Stop! In the Name of Love,” “I Hear a Symphony” — at the time, people thought those songs were disposable. And now we realize that they’re true masterpieces. They’re so alive. Everything about the songs was great, even the intros — every one of them had a distinctive, memorable intro, which was a hook in and of itself. And, of course, there were two other wonderful singers in the Supremes, Mary Wilson and Florence Ballard.

Diana Ross and The Supremes greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3nsa1qXpcKvsI3AwUKIWto?si=2n55k9H2Sv2MbO0SnPb1PQ&pi=Xlz37_JETne2U

But at the end of the day, Diana Ross’ voice would come on the air and give you chill bumps. It had such presence, terrific tone, and was so identifiable. She didn’t sing like Aretha Franklin — she wasn’t a gospel singer — but she was a stylist, and you always believed her. She was captivating, romantic. When she asked, “Where did our love go?” she sounded like she was begging.

To this day, I believe that her voice could work on contemporary radio. She set the road map for the success of Janet Jackson, Madonna — anybody who could sing but wasn’t a real crooner like Aretha or Patti LaBelle or Gladys Knight. I still ask artists in the studio to “sing this like Diana Ross would.” So far, no one has.

(This is the twenty-ninth artist that made this Top100 list but was active in recording music in the 1970s. Therefore, they are not a part of the 1960s generation).

By Al Kooper, is an American songwriter, record producer, and musician. Throughout much of the 1960s and 1970s he was a prolific studio musician, including playing organ on the Bob Dylan song “Like a Rolling Stone”, French horn and piano on the Rolling Stones song “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”, and lead guitar on Rita Coolidge’s “The Lady’s Not for Sale”. He also formed and named Blood, Sweat & Tears, though he did not stay with the group long enough to share in its subsequent popularity.

Illustrator: Joshua Gorchov

In 1972, the radio was logjammed with progressive rock like you wouldn’t believe — Yes, Pink Floyd, Genesis — I was searching for a great three-chord band to produce. And so, that year, I heard Lynyrd Skynyrd making their Atlanta debut at a very dangerous club on Peachtree Street called Funocchio’s. They were playing a weeklong engagement, and each night I’d hear another great original song from them and knew I’d found the band I was searching for.

As I got to know them, I marveled at their work ethic. They had a shack on the swamp in their native Jacksonville, Florida, where they rehearsed constantly, honing their original material into polished, shining steel. They may have had three guitar players, but they understood restraint. Of all the bands I’d come across in my life, they were the finest arrangers. “Sweet Home Alabama” sounds like seasoned studio musicians twice their age.

Lynyrd Skynyrd greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/7CocMpFkEjPUMkWyPH3s0v?si=rdlVGRseSSC0qw1_xLqcRg

Ronnie Van Zant was Lynyrd Skynyrd. I don’t mean to demean the roles the others played in the group’s success, but it never would have happened without him. His lyrics were a big part of it — like Woody Guthrie and Merle Haggard before him, Ronnie knew how to cut to the chase. And Ronnie ran that band with an iron hand. I have never seen such internal discipline in a band. One example: These guys composed all of their guitar solos. Most bands improvised solos each time they performed or recorded. Not them. Ronnie’s dream was that they would sound exactly the same every time they took the stage.

After three or four albums, Lynyrd Skynyrd transcended the Southern-rock tag. They became one of the greatest rock & roll bands in history. They feared no one. On their very first national tour, they opened for the Who. And got encores!

When Ronnie went down in that terrible 1977 plane crash, the forward progress of the band ended. After the survivors all healed, they miraculously reassembled. Ronnie’s kid brother Johnny took over, and you had to rub your eyes to make sure it wasn’t Ronnie. But while the band could duplicate the majesty of past live shows (and still can), the heart and soul of the band was gone forever.

(This is the twenty-eighth artist that made this Top100 list but started recording in 1988, so therefore was not a part of the 1960s generation).

By David Bowie, was an English singer, songwriter and actor. Regarded as among the most influential musicians of the 20th century, Bowie received particular acclaim for his work in the 1970s. His career was marked by reinvention and visual presentation, and his music and stagecraft have had a great impact on popular music. His first hit “Space Oddity” (1969) jump started his career.

Illustrator: N. Vetri

When the gods of nasty sounds tacked audition cards to the trees around town encouraging the brutes of industrial rock to brawl for the crown, a small lad with a tuba was probably not what they had in mind for a contender. His name was Michael Trent Reznor, and he also played sax and piano and learned early in life how to engineer a recording-studio console. He produced a terrific debut album called Pretty Hate Machine. Melodically oriented — and, because of record-company contractual problems, supported by what became a three-year tour — it birthed the first real mainstream breakthrough for industrial rock, selling over a million copies.

Nine Inch Nails greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5yRMJxpxttJUR1sOGNE3Cz?si=mrasewvfQDWZCt2rAAD87A&pi=VUhnSKXKSaKJ_

Following Brian Eno’s example, Reznor unpacked his synth and threw away the manual. In making The Downward Spiral, he encouraged the computer to misconstrue input, willed it to spew out bloated, misshapen shards of sound that pierced and lacerated the listener. As a companion piece to Baudelaire’s “To the Reader” — the preface to his Flowers of Evil — and second to the Velvet Underground, there has never been better soul-lashing in rock.

I had a strange dream a few years back. Lou Reed, myself and a friend known as Warren Peace were having dinner in one of those old-style Greenwich Village places where Pollock was supposed to have fought other painters. Our meal was served by one of the members of Einstúrzende Neubauten. I slowly became aware of the house music and that it was infuriatingly familiar. Our waiter, Blixa Bargeld, leaned in to me and whispered, “The music is a birthday surprise for Lou. Trent Reznor remixed this version of Metal Machine Music as a present.”

As he said this, strands, splodges and blots from a Pollock early-Fifties “drip” painting materialized in front of our faces. While the music got louder, the paint hurtled around us faster and faster till we ran nauseous from the cafe, chased by infernal screaming lavender, blue and black snakes.

And that is it, really. Trent’s music, built as it is on the history of industrial and mechanical sound experiments, contains a beauty that attracts and repels in equal measure: Nietzsche’s “God is dead” to a nightclubbing beat. And always lifted, at the most needy moment, by a tantalizing melody.

I cannot believe that Spiral was released nearly 20 years ago now. It still sounds incredible today. And, no, no one ever calls him Mickey.

By Isaac Hayes, was an American singer, songwriter, composer, and actor. He was one of the creative forces behind the Southern soul music label Stax Records in the 1960s. Best known for creating the theme song for the movie “Shaft” (1971).

Illustrator: Joseph Adolphe

Booker T. and the MGs had that Southern funk flavor. Motown took care of the North with their polished sound, but the MGs were gritty and raw, and they could really groove. You can hear their sound reverberating throughout the whole industry today — especially since hip-hop guys sample so much of what they did back then. They were an integrated band — half white, half black. There was a “cotton curtain” back in the Sixties: Bands were all segregated in Memphis. But the MGs were like a family. That integration was a sign of things to come.

The MGs made a name for themselves with all those great instrumentals, like “Green Onions,” but they were the house band at Stax/Volt, so they had real adaptive ability. Otis Redding had his sound, Sam and Dave had theirs, Albert King had his own thing. But it was always Booker T. and the MGs playing. When I did my first sessions at Stax, I learned everything about record production from those guys.

Booker T and the MGs greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/3ATCCblIQHWzgP6gzssd5r?si=Djn85rfqQt6q_-urKMzKXQ

In the MGs, Steve Cropper and Donald “Duck” Dunn were the rock & rollers, but they also had the country thing covered, as well as the blues. Most guitar players like to go crazy, but Steve picked his spots, and when he spoke, it was profound. Duck was a great bass player, and very funny — one of them good old Southern beer-drinking boys.

Al Jackson’s father was a drummer, so Al had a background of rhythm. Al had a little jazz flavor along with those R&B grooves. You know when I did “Shaft,” with those 16th notes on the high-hat? That was actually a break Al played on Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness.” That stuck with me.

Booker T. pioneered a lot of sounds on the organ. When you heard him play, you knew it couldn’t be anyone else. I remember one time, Booker accidentally had two dates booked at the same time, so he took some other band and went somewhere in Kansas, and I went with the MGs to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where I had to go pose as Booker T. Halfway through, some guy yells out, “Hey, man, that guy ain’t no Booker T.! He ain’t got no hair!” We said, “Oh, shit.” But the groove took over, and that calmed them down.

(This is the twenty-seventh artist that made this Top100 list that began recording music in 1985, therefore, wasn’t a part of the 1960s generation).

By Joe Perry,  is an American musician best known as a founding member, guitarist, backing and occasional lead vocalist of the rock band Aerosmith (1970-present). Had many hits including “Dream On” (1973).

Illustrator: Anita Kunz

Guns n’ Roses revived our kind of rock. I remember someone handing me a copy of Appetite for Destruction and saying, “You’ve got to hear these guys — they’re the new big thing.” Bands like Bon Jovi and Whitesnake were big then, but Guns n’ Roses were different. They dug down a little deeper into rock’s roots. I heard a lot of Aerosmith in them, which meant I also heard a lot of bands that came before us. And I remember being a little jealous, because they were really hitting the nail on the head.

They opened up for us in 1988, and one of the things that impressed me was how much personality they put across, even when they weren’t playing. Axl knew how to work an audience. They used to have to go out there and tape foam rubber around everything that Axl could touch — from his teleprompter to his mic stand — to make sure he wouldn’t break anything, or hurt himself. I think people saw that he was basically just let out of the cage. Part of the thrill was wondering what he was going to do next.

They were called metal at the time, but they weren’t: Metal isn’t sexy, but rock is. To put it another way: You can have the rock, but you need the roll. Songs like “Paradise City” and “Welcome to the Jungle” were just simple enough; the chorus lines came right when you wanted them. Slash plays what’s needed for the song, as opposed to trying to make the tune a showcase for his technique. Guns n’ Roses’ music wasn’t full of the overblown gymnastics that a lot of guys were doing then — their stuff is just very tasty. Duff McKagan is like the bass player in AC/DC: His parts were fairly simple, but they made the band an unstoppable force. Izzy Stradlin was also important. Guns n’ Roses played as a gang, which is just what you want.

Guns n’ Roses greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6kgQeWAXXVYTiA9azbn39q?si=dMUz6q9cQ1mUGbUloc2qMQ&pi=iutoUoLSQHGwb

Guns n’ Roses are still an example of how a band can move rock forward. Sometimes you think, “How can you top anything by the Yardbirds, or Zeppelin, or the Stones?” And then you hear Guns n’ Roses, and it’s inspiring. You can think that it’s all been written, but it hasn’t. There’s another way to twist those three chords around, to make it sound new, fresh and rebellious.

(This is the twenty-sixth artist that made this Top100 list but did not produce any recordings until the 1970s, therefore, was not a part of the 1960s generation).

By Stevie Nicks, is an American singer-songwriter, known for her work with the band Fleetwood Mac (1967-1995) and as a solo artist. Many hits including “Albatross” in 1968.

Illustrator: Jody Hewgill

In 1976, I’d been in Fleetwood Mac for about a year when I heard Tom Petty’s debut. I became a fan right then. I loved the way Tom’s Florida swamp-dog voice sounded in cahoots with Mike Campbell’s guitar and Benmont Tench’s keyboards. Tom had the same influences we had — the Byrds, Neil Young, Crosby, Stills and Nash — but he dropped in lots of serious old blues. And Tom is such a great singer and so charismatic onstage. I became such a fan that if I hadn’t been in a band myself, I would have joined that one.

When I started doing my first solo album, Bella Donna, my first thought was, “Who produces Tom Petty?” When they said Jimmy Iovine, I got Jimmy, because I wanted my solo work to be as much like Tom’s as possible.

I first met Tom in the studio, and he was pretty much what I expected. There’s not a fake bone in his body. Jimmy and Tom decided to give me “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,” which they had written with Campbell. When they showed it to me, I was like, “Is this the right thing to do? I only get 11 songs and one of them won’t be mine.” And both Tom and Jimmy said to me, in a brutally honest way, “You don’t have a single on this record. And here’s a single for you.”

Tom Petty’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6tdwGqurUgukH5uc5PCbiA?si=YysuuJU7RYS1XLuILWIWzA&pi=lIajx5nMQgS8M

Tom is a great and loyal friend, but he’s also honest like that. In 1994, I had just gotten out of rehab, and Tom and I had dinner. I wanted to make a new record but I was scared. I said to him, “Will you help me write a song or two?” I didn’t really expect the reaction I got, which was, “No, I won’t. You are one of the premier songwriters in this business. Go home and turn off the radio. Don’t be influenced by anything. Just write some great songs — that’s what you do.” He reinforced that I was still Stevie Nicks. I wrote a song about him I’ve never recorded, but I will someday. It goes, “Sometimes he’s my best friend, even when he’s not around.”

In 2006, I did 27 shows with him. Tom made me a little platinum sheriff’s badge that had 24-karat gold and diamonds across the top and said “To Our Honorary Heartbreaker, Stevie Nicks.” On the back it says “To the Only Girl in Our Band.” I keep it on my black velvet top hat. It goes with me everywhere. It’s probably the most beautiful piece of jewelry a man has ever given me, ever.