All-Time Greatest Music

By Dr. John, An icon and emdodiment of New Orleans musical legacy. Best known for his 1973 hit “Right Place, Wrong Time.” Illustrator: Dan Adel.

After John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Fats Domino and his partner, Dave Bartholomew, were probably the greatest team of songwriters ever. They always had a simple melody, a hip set of chord changes and a cool groove. And their songs all had simple lyrics; that’s the key. There are no deep plots in Fats Domino songs: “Yes, it’s me, and I’m in love again/Had no lovin’ since you know when/You know I love you, yes I do/And I’m savin’ all my lovin’ just for you.” It don’t get no simpler than that.

Fats Domino’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/06srT6zqpIJQEIhfHUFdQ4?si=bjs9qdD-QI2cG5r3HRuaWA

Even when Fats Domino did songs by somebody else, it was still Fats. He could really lock in with his band and play those hard-driving boogie shuffles — it was pre-funk stuff, and it was New Orleans, and he did it all his way. One thing that most people miss, which he did on some of his biggest records, like “Blueberry Hill”: He could do piano rolls with both hands. A couple of guys, like Allen Toussaint, could do Fats to a T, but with Fats, there was brothsome little different thing. He was like Thelonious Monk that way. You can always tell when it’s Monk and when it’s somebody trying to play like Monk.

I give a lot of credit to Dave Bartholomew, Fats’ producer and songwriting partner. They were a team. Dave produced records perfect for Fats. He had the sense to go with the best-feeling take when they were recording. People would have missed something great about Fats if they had just heard the more “correct” takes — the ones without that extra off-the-wall thing that Fats would bring.

You can’t hardly hear the bass on some of Fats’ early records. Later, they started doubling the bass line with the guitar, and it made for a very distinctive sound. That became standard with Phil Spector. I don’t know if Phil picked it up from Fats or from somebody who picked it up from Fats, but it started with Fats. You can hear a lot of Fats in Jerry Lee Lewis. Anytime anybody plays a slow blues, the piano player will eventually get to something like Fats. I can’t tell you the number of times I played sessions and was asked specifically to do Fats. Eighty kajillion little bands all through the South — we all had to play Fats Domino songs. Everybody, everywhere.

Fats is old school to the max — he loved to work the house, do looooong shows and push the piano across the stage with his belly. That innocence is there in his music. He’s a good man, and people respond to that goodness. I don’t think it was about anything other than the tradition of working the house and what felt good to Fats.

When all the payola scandals were happening and it looked bad for rock & roll, Fats did an interview in some magazine. He said, “I don’t know what all the trouble is about us being a bad influence on teenagers. I’m just playing the same music I played all my life.” That’s what Fats was about. He didn’t look on what he did as special or different. He just did what Fats did.

By Moby, a singer brought electronic techno into the mainstream. Illustrator: Jody Hegill.

I’d be curious to know how many pianos Jerry Lee Lewis has gone through in his lifetime. Whoever was responsible for keeping the piano in tune and making sure it didn’t fall apart at Sun Studio must have wept every time he showed up to play. I don’t know what switch got flipped in his brain when he was born that compelled him to play so fast and so hard, but I’m glad it got flipped.

There’s a perhaps apocryphal story that when he and his cousin, the evangelist Jimmy Swaggart, were children, they went to a roadhouse and listened through the window to some amazing R&B band. Jimmy Swaggart supposedly said, “This is the devil’s music! We have to leave!” But Jerry Lee just stood there transfixed and couldn’t tear himself away. He was an evangelist for the devil’s music.

If you listen to his records, they sound more punk rock than just about anything any contemporary punk band is doing. His records sound faster than they actually are, and they sound louder than they actually are. If you listen to them on a crummy little stereo on low volume, they still sound like they’re exploding out of the speakers.

Jerry Lee Lewis’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/02FCCye8QsWyjHwedg9Quj?si=awSXDlgVRuCu2xiGSLouwg

Whether it’s Jerry Lee Lewis or Little Richard or Gene Vincent, these guys were dripping sex and anarchy. Their records all have a sense of abandon, like they had given up all hope of commercial success or ever being respected, so they just wanted to play crazy music and get laid.

If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her date a musician, because most of them are just too dumb. In Jerry Lee’s case, if he were coming over for dinner, I would literally lock her up. The story of him marrying his 13-year-old cousin is unbearably sad. Elvis had just been drafted, Jerry Lee was about to tour England for the first time, and the scandal broke. He was never able to ascend to the throne that was rightfully his. And the piano faded because it was too big and too hard to mic. The beauty of the electric guitar is that it’s small, portable, loud and easy to mic.

“Great Balls of Fire” and “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On” are the iconic singles. But if you really want to understand Jerry Lee Lewis, find some video performance of him doing “Great Balls of Fire.” It’s pure, narcotic rock & roll excitement.

(This is the second artist of the first 23 that was not releasing songs in the 1950s or 60s. Bruce was active in the 1970s including Born in the USA.)

By Jackson Browne Illustrator: Owen Smith

In many ways, Bruce Springsteen is the embodiment of rock & roll. Combining strains of Appalachian music, rockabilly, blues and R&B, his work epitomizes rock’s deepest values: desire, the need for freedom Noand the search to find yourself. All through his songs there is a generosity and a willingness to portray even the simplest aspects of our lives in a dramatic and committed way. The first time I heard him play was at a small club, the Bitter End in bNew York, where he did a guest set. It was just an amazing display of lyrical prowess. I asked him where he was from, and he sort of grinned and said he was from New Jersey.

Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4adcEAzQKaVJLlo94o3nVU?si=s-nPfLw_ShWf7MtmxC0Rrw&pi=cKae9iDAT4ikj

The next time I saw him play it was with his band, the one with David Sancious in it. I’d never seen anybody hdo what he was doing: He would play acoustic guitar and dance all over the place, and the guitar wasn’t plugged into anything. There wasn’t this meticulous need to have every note heard. It filled that college gym with so much emotion that it didn’t matter if you couldn’t hear every note.

A year or so later I saw him play in L.A., with Max Weinberg, Clarence Clemons and Steve Van Zandt in the band, and it was even more dramatic — the use of lights and the way it was staged. There were these events built into the music. I went to see them the second night, and I guess I expected it to be the same thing, but it was completely different. It was obvious that they were drawing on a vocabulary. It was exhilarating, and at the bottom of it all there was all this joy and fun and a sense of brotherhood, of being outsiders who had tremendous power and a story to tell.

Bruce has been unafraid to take on the tasks associated with growing up. He’s a family man, with kids and the same values and concerns as working-class Americans. It runs all through his work, the idea of finding that one person and making a life together. Look at “Rosalita”: Her mother doesn’t like him, her father doesn’t like him, but he’s coming for her. Or in “The River,” where he gets Mary pregnant and for his 19th birthday he gets a union card and a wedding coat. That night they go to the river and dive in. For those of us who are ambivalent about marriage, the struggle for love in a world of impermanence is summed up by the two of them diving into that river at night. Bruce’s songs are filled with these images, but they aren’t exclusively the images of working-class people. It just happens to be where he’s from.

Bruce has all kinds of influences, from Chuck Berry and Gary U.S. Bonds to Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie. But he’s also a lot like Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando and James Dean — people whose most indistinct utterances have been magnified to communicate volumes. He is one of the few songwriters who works on a scale that is capable of handling the subject of our national grief and the need to find a response to an event like September 11th. His sense of music as a healing power, of band-as-church, has always been there. He’s got his feet planted on either side of that great divide between rebellion and redemption.

(First artist that made this Top100 list that was not from the 1950s or 1960s. Their best recordings began in 1976)

By Chris Martin, Lead singer of Coldplay. Illustrator: Anita Kunz

I don’t buy weekend tickets to Ireland and hang out in front of their gates, but U2 are the only band whose entire catalog I know by heart. The first song on The Unforgettable Fire, “A Sort of Homecoming,” I know backward and forward — it’s so rousing, brilliant and beautiful. It’s one of the first songs I played to my unborn baby.

U2’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0NsBqiR0s3D3Tz05L5B6x6?si=FA_Bc9KvSBuRLIqPVd2P-w&pi=2LpJKXlcQeiCm

The first U2 album I ever heard was Achtung Baby. It was 1991, and I was 14 years old. Before that, I didn’t even know what albums were. From that point, I worked backward — every six months, I’d get to buy a new U2 album. The sound they pioneered — the driving bass and drums underneath and those ethereal, effects-laden guitar tracks floating out from above — was nothing that had been heard before. They may be the only good anthemic rock band ever. Certainly they’re the best.

What I love most about U2 is that the band is more important than any of its songs or albums. I love that they’re still best mates and that they each play an integral role in one another’s lives as friends. I love the way that they’re not interchangeable — if Larry Mullen Jr. wants to go scuba diving for a week, the rest of the band can’t do a thing. U2 — like Coldplay — maintain that all songs that appear on their albums are credited to the band. And they are the only band that’s been around for more than 30 years with no member changes and no big splits.

It’s amazing that the biggest band in the world has so much integrity and passion in its music. Our society is thoroughly screwed, fame is a ridiculous waste of time, and celebrity culture is disgusting. There are only a few people around brave enough to talk out against it, who use their fame in a good way. And every time I try, I feel like an idiot, because I see Bono actually getting things achieved. While everyone else was swearing at George Bush, Bono was the one who rubbed Bush’s back and got a billion dollars for Africa. People can be so cynical — they don’t like do-gooders — but Bono’s attitude is, “I don’t care what anybody thinks, I’m going to speak out.” He’s accomplished so much with Greenpeace, in Sarajevo, at the concert to shut down the Sellafield nuclear plant, and he still runs the gantlet. When the time came for Coldplay to think about fair trade, we took his lead to speak out regardless of what anyone may think. That’s what we’ve learned from U2: You have to be brave enough to be yourself.

By Steve Cropper, Lead guitarist for Booker T & The MGs. Illustrator: Dale Stephanis

The first time we saw Otis Redding was in 1962, and he was driving a car for Johnny Jenkins and the Pinetoppers out of Macon, Georgia. They had a moderate hit, an instrumental called “Love Twist,” and they wanted to record a follow-up in Memphis with my band, Booker T. and the MGs. I saw this big guy get out from behind the wheel and go to the back of the truck and start unloading equipment. That was Otis. And we had no idea he was also a singer. In those days, instrumental groups always carried a singer so they could play the songs on the radio that the kids wanted to dance to.

We had a few minutes left at the end of the session, and Al Jackson, our drummer, said, “This guy with Johnny, he wants us to hear him sing.” Booker had already left for the day, so I sat down at the piano, which I play only a little for writing. Otis said, “Just gimme those church things.”

We call them triplets in music. I said, “What key?”

He said, “It don’t matter.”

He started singing “These Arms of Mine.” And, man, my hair stood on end. Jim [Stewart, co-owner of Stax] came running out and said, “That’s it! That’s it! Where is everybody? We gotta get this on tape!” So I grabbed all the musicians who hadn’t left already for their night gigs, and we recorded it right there. When you hear something that’s better than anything you ever heard, you know it, and it was unanimous. We almost wore out the tape playing it afterward. “These Arms of Mine” was the first of 17 hit singles he had in a row.

Otis Redding’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/19HWlK29BcgW5CCgpjRW4S?si=7f1tDGObQ_q6mA7WXCH2tA&pi=BkrzvPnRSLefq

Otis had the softness of Sam Cooke and the harshness of Little Richard, and he was his own man. He was also fabulous to be around, always 100 percent full of energy. So many singers in those days, with all due respect, had just been in the business too long. They were bitter from the way they were treated. But Otis didn’t have that. He was probably the most nonprejudiced human being I ever met. He seemed to be big in every way: physically, in his talent, in his wisdom about other people. After he died, I was surprised to find out I was the same age as he was, because I looked up to him as an older brother.

When I wrote with Otis, my job was to help him finish his songs. He had so many ideas that I’d just pick one and say, “Let’s do this,” and we’d write all night long. “I Can’t Turn You Loose” was just a riff I’d used on a few songs with the MGs. Otis worked it up with the horns in about 10 minutes as the last thing we did one night in the studio. Just a riff and one verse that he sings over and over. That’s all it is. With Otis, it was all about feeling and expression. Most of his songs had just two or three chord changes, so there wasn’t a lot of music there. The dynamics, the energy, the way we attacked it — that’s hard to teach. So many things now are computer-generated. They start at one level and they stop at the same level, so there isn’t much dynamic, even if there are a lot of different sounds.

I miss Otis. I miss him as much now as I did after we lost him. I’ve been to the lake in Madison, Wisconsin, where they have the plaque. The best explanation I’ve read is that his plane missed the runway on the first approach, and it circled around over the lake when the wings iced up. That was December 10th, 1967. It’s been difficult for me to listen to Otis since then. It brings back too many memories, all great except for the end.

By Iggy Pop, punk singer for The Stooges that he formed in 1967. Illustrator: Mark Summers

Bo Didley’s music is enormous. It’s deeply moving. It has the sultry, sexual power of Africa. There’s all sorts of mystery in that sound. People listen to Bo Diddley recordings and think, “Oh, you can just go bonk-de-bonk-bonk, de-bonk-bonk, and you got a Bo Diddley beat.” But it isn’t that easy. He played really simple things but with incredible authority. I first heard him on a Rolling Stones album, on their cover of “Mona.” It was such a great song; I looked at the credits and it said “Ellas McDaniel,” and I thought, “Who the hell is that?” But when I wanted to get into songwriting, he was the key for me. I didn’t have a lot of vocal range, and I didn’t know a lot of chords on the guitar. So I was looking for a way to write, and there he was, writing very complete, very memorable songs without a lot of fuss. They weren’t florid. He never bothered to change the chord, for one thing — which is very heavy-metal! It’s hypnotic. And, of course, there’s the attitude, a chin-up, chest-out sort of thing. He was a bull; he had a bullish quality to everything he did and everything he played. Vocally, he reminds me of gutbucket Delta blues: Muddy Waters, but brought to town, rocked up. And his voice is so damn loud. It’s just a huge voice, and he’s got a big, deep shout.

Bo Didley’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2bfapHkoIx0vXWRwezVR4n?si=hmNP_2y0QOWrCktHRVD0ag&pi=OqucxHEqTlSQj

Then there’s the way he played the guitar. First of all, Bo’s hands were about a foot long from the wrist to the tip of the finger. He really controlled his guitar. Bo plays his instrument, and the way the rhythm clicks is unique. What seems to pass for guitar more and more now is some wimp with a fuzz box. Somewhere around Hendrix, the line was crossed. Hendrix had both: He had the hands, and he had the fuzz box. Now all they have is the fuzz box — a lot of them.

Bo Diddley had a huge impact on Sixties rock. The Stones covered Bo Diddley, and the Yardbirds did “I’m a Man,” and the Pretty Things did his song “Pretty Thing.” My band in high school, the Iguanas, did a few of his songs, including “Road Runner,” and you can hear a bit of him in the Stooges. You can be damn well sure that Jack White has studied Bo’s records.

I’ve had a little personal experience with Bo. I worked with him in Vegas once, and I kept running into him on airplanes in the Eighties and Nineties — always in first class, always alone, always with a roll bag, his police hat and his sheriff’s badge. I think Bo and Chuck Berry have both suffered the trivialization of people who are covered too much. His influence is everywhere, but his personal career could have used a boost. Some car or jeans company needs to put a track of his in a commercial so a lot of young dudes and dudettes can go, “Whoa — that’s rockin’!”

By Julian Casablancas, Lead singer for The Strokes which he formed as a teenager in 1998. Illustrator: Jose Jammet

When you listen to a classic-rock station today, why don’t they play the Velvet Underground? Why is it always Boston and Led Zeppelin? And why are the Rolling Stones so much more popular than the Velvets? OK, I understand why the Stones are more popular. But there is also a part of me that has always felt that it should have been the other way around. The Velvet Underground were way ahead of their time. And their music was weird. But it also made so much sense to me. I couldn’t believe this wasn’t the most popular music ever made.

Listening to those four studio albums now is like reading a good book that takes place in a distant time. When I hear The Velvet Underground and Nico or Loaded, I feel like I’m in Andy Warhol’s Factory in the 1960s or hanging out at Max’s Kansas City. The way Lou Reed wrote and sang about drugs and sex, about the people around him — it was so matter-of-fact. I believed every word of “Heroin.” Reed could be romantic in the way he portrayed these crazy situations, but he was also intensely real. It was poetry and journalism.

A lot of people associate the Velvets with feedback and noise. White Light/White Heat is the kind of record you have to be in the mood for. You have to be in a shitty bar, in a really shitty mood. But the Velvets created some very beautiful music, too: “Sunday Morning,” with John Cale’s viola; “Candy Says”; “All Tomorrow’s Parties” — I can’t imagine that song without Nico singing it, although I thought Maureen Tucker had a cool voice, as well as being a really cool drummer. She had a femininity. I thought she sounded hotter than Nico.

The Velvet Underground greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4mWGeVlq9hWjMgyIkxGIgU?si=rlPNZs0cS9CUvIf_j-ksdw&pi=0upzOIdvSiK4X

In the beginning, the Strokes definitely drew from the vibe of the Velvets. I listened to Loadedall the time when we started the band, while I was writing my first songs. For four solid months, it was just Loaded and this Beach Boys greatest-hits record, Made in the U.S.A. A lot of our guitar tones are based on what Reed and Sterling Morrison did. I honestly wish we could have copied them more. We didn’t come close enough. But that was cool, because it became more of our own thing. Which is something else I got from the Velvets. They taught me just to be myself.

By Smokey Robinson Illustrator: Andrea Ventura

At Motown, Marvin was one of the main characters in the greatest musical story ever told. Prior to that, nothing quite like Motown had ever existed — all those songwriters, singers, producers working and growing together, part family, part business — and I doubt seriously if it will ever happen like that again. And there’s no question that Marvin will always be a huge part of the Motown legacy.

When Marvin first came to Motown, he was the drummer on all the early hits I had with the Miracles. He and I became close friends — he was my brother, really — and I did a lot of production and wrote a lot of songs for him: “Ain’t That Peculiar,” “I’ll Be Doggone.” Of course, that means that I spent a lot of time waiting for Marvin. See, Marvin was basically late coming to the studio all the time. But I never minded, because I knew that whenever Marvin did get there, he was going to sing my song in a way that I had never imagined it. He would Marvinize my songs, and I loved it. Marvin could sing anything, from gospel to gutbucket blues to jazz to pop.

Marvin Gaye’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jBkEtXp80vXneXV9B6ydq?si=fVFb4QX3Qa-4mmto1wjt1g&pi=E0kyzYHiTAi8j

But Marvin was much more than just a great singer. He was a great record maker, a gifted songwriter, a deep thinker — a real artist in the true sense. What’s Going On is the most profound musical statement in my lifetime. It never gets dated. I still remember when I would go by Marvin’s house and he was working on it, he would say, “Smoke, this album is being written by God, and I’m just the instrument that he’s writing it through.”

Marvin really had it all — that voice, that soul, that look, too. He was one very handsome man. He had sex appeal and his music was sexy. You couldn’t blame women for falling in love with Marvin.

I said before that when you worked with Marvin, it meant you were waiting for Marvin. But Marvin was always worth the wait. I suppose that in a way, I’m still waiting for Marvin.

By Billy Gibbons, Singer and blues guitarist for ZZ Top. Illustrator: Shawn Barber

Muddy and his band opened for ZZ Top on a tour in 1981. This was over 40 years after his first recordings, and that band could still play the blues, not just as seasoned pros but with the same enthusiasm Muddy had when he started out. When he sang that his mojo was working, you could tell his mojo had not slowed down at all. He was satisfied, composed, self-contained. If he had an opinion on a subject, he didn’t allow a whole lot of latitude to be convinced otherwise. If he was bitter about the way he’d been treated by record companies, he never showed it. We talked to him a lot as we traveled, when he wasn’t chasing young girls through the airport. He told us a story once about his friends Freddie King and Little Walter walking from Dallas to Chicago. I’ve always had that image in my mind of two guys walking from the South to the North. Everyone else in the great migration took the train. I hope they weren’t carrying their equipment.

People call his sound raw and dirty and gritty, but it wasn’t particularly loud. It just sounded that way. A guitar amplifier in the Fifties was maybe the size of a tabletop radio. To be heard over a party, you had to crank that thing as loud as it would go. And then you left behind all semblance of circuit design and entered the elegant field of distortion that made everything so much deeper. If you didn’t have a big band with 20 guys, you had 20 watts.

I first heard Muddy Waters through two friends of mine, Walter Baldwin and Steve Roberts, in junior high in 1962 or ’63. We grew up together and jumped on every piece of musical madness we could find. Most people in my generation probably discovered Muddy backwards from the Rolling Stones, who got their name from a Muddy song. I heard him just before the Stones got here, but it was all good, whether you discovered it backwards, forwards or sideways.

Anyway, I picked up the guitar because of Muddy Waters as much as anyone. Jimmy Reed, Howlin’ Wolf, T-Bone Walker, Albert King, B.B. King, Freddie King — they all had an impact too, but they all followed Muddy Waters. He started out in Mississippi playing acoustic, using his thumb to play the bass line and a real bottleneck slide for melody on the upper strings. The slide guitar got the nuance of the human voice better than any other instrument. Basically, it was a Robert Johnson thing, and Muddy took it to Chicago, electrified it, added a bass player and a harp with a good backbeat, and you had a party. His bands were always powerhouses, and his voice had an amazing depth.

The remarkable thing is that the blues never died out, ever. It’s been rediscovered every 10 years since the Twenties. Nobody can do what Muddy did, but his energy is still fueling that fire. You can hear his enthusiasm in bands like the White Stripes or the Black Keys. I’d recommend his first album, The Best of Muddy Waters, with the early Chess singles, to anyone. Every track is worthy. The albums Johnny Winter produced in the late Seventies, Hard Again and I’m Ready, are also terrific.

Muddy Waters greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/album/6xU8hHhpGaDmFdOVEGRzpY?si=1rL23MP8SemKnHjS9DMm8A

It was all supposed to be disposable. Just noise on a shellac disc. And here we are in the 21st century still trying to figure out how such a simple art form could be so complicated and subtle. It’s still firing brain synapses around the world. You’ve got the Japanese Muddy Waters Society corresponding with fans in Sweden and England, and his music can still propel a party in the U.S. He made three chords sound deep, and they are.

By Art Garfunkel  Illustrator: Charles Miller

Sam Cooke was grounded in a very straightforward singing style: It was pure, beautiful and open-throated, extraordinarily direct and unapologetic. Let’s say you’re going to sing “I love you for sentimental reasons.” How do you hit that “I”? Do you slur into it? Do you put in a little hidden “h”? The attack on that vowel sound is the tip-off to how bold a singer is. If you pour on the letter “i” from the back of your throat, the listener gets that there is no fudge in the first thousandth of a second. There’s just confidence from the singer, that he knows the pitch, and here’s the sound. That’s what Sam was great at. He had guts as a singer.

Sam also threw a lot of notes at you. Today you hear everyone doing those melismatic notes that Mariah Carey made popular. Sam was the first guy I remember singing that way. When he’s singing, “I love you for sentimental reasons/I hope you do believe me,” the next line should be, “I’ve given you my heart.” But he goes, “I’ve given you my-my-mah-muh-my heart/Given you my heart because I need you.” It’s as if he’s saying, “Now that I’ve sung the word, I’m going to sing it again, because I’ve got all this feeling in my heart that demands expression.” He gave us so much that he could have given us less, and that would’ve been enough, but he put in all those extra notes, as in “You Send Me,” where he’s scatting between the lines: “I know, I know, I know, when you hold me.”

Sam Cooke’s greatest hits playlist:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0np2HNT03OM2DgvE8Lu4bq?si=Y-I6lbThS2qXs9kgn_sC2w&pi=oBqDIEz-SIWRk

He had fabulous chops, but at the same time fabulous taste. I never felt that he was overdoing it, as I often feel with singers today. He stayed rhythmic and fluty and floaty; he always showed brilliant vocal control.

I must have sung “You Send Me” to myself walking up and down stairwells at least a thousand times. It was on the charts right when I was having my first little success with Paul Simon as Tom and Jerry. Our “Hey, Schoolgirl” was on the charts with “You Send Me” and “Jailhouse Rock.” “Jingle Bell Rock” had just come out. I was just a kid, calling on radio stations for promotional purposes, and all I heard was “You Send Me.” Sam was great to sing along with. He was my hero.

There was a deep sense of goodness about Sam. His father was a minister, and he obviously had spent a lot of time in church. His first success came early as a gospel singer, and he expanded into R&B and pop. It looked like he was making the right choices in life until he got shot by the night manager of a motel. You wonder who he had fallen in with.

Paul Simon, James Taylor and I covered “Wonderful World,” which he also wrote. It was a teenage short story like Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” or “School Days.” You’re stroking the teenager’s sense of style with those pop songs. Sam was a master of that idiom. “Wonderful World” was unsophisticated but very Tin Pan Alley.

Sam came along before the album was discovered as an art form. You think of him in terms of songs. My favorites are “Sad Mood,” “Wonderful World,” “Summertime,” “(I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons” and “You Send Me.” I think that “A Change Is Gonna Come” shows where he could have gone if he had lived through the Sixties, doing Marvin Gaye kind of lyrics about the society we live in. It was a tremendous loss when he was killed. I remember thinking, “Oh, that can’t be.” He was such a rising star, a fabulous singer with intelligence. And that brilliant smile.

I used to think he was just a great singer. Now I think he’s better than that. Almost nobody since then can touch him.