Note to my future exes – when it comes time for you to break up with me, blast some old school Philly soul-disco from Gamble and Huff as you start by telling me “I don’t love you anymore – it’s just that simple.”  I want horns and strings playing off each other when you say “We can’t work it out, no, not this time.”  Give me plenty of percussion when you tell me “We can’t be together, we can only be friends.”  Use your baritone growl to make it clear you “tried doing everything that I can but we can’t make it.”  Bring in backup singers to emphasize it’s not like before.  If I must go through the end of another relationship I want to enjoy it.  It’s just that simple.

Recommended by: Glenn Schwartz

Today’s pick “Fantasy,” is taken from the third and final Captain Beyond album, Dawn Explosion.  Starting with the former members of Iron Butterfly and Deep Purple in the early ’70s, Captain Beyond has gone through some serious changes since this album was released in 1977.  The biggest change was the addition of new lead singer Willy Daffern, whom you can hear howling away on today’s track.  With Fleetwood Mac and the Bee Gees dominating the air waves in ‘77, this album could have easily been overlooked.  But even if you did manage to catch this tune the first time around, you’ll find that it’s definitely worth another listen.  It’s time to rediscover Captain Beyond!

Recommended by: Dave Kapp

Take a handful of the Allman Bros, a slab of The Outlaws and a scoop of Marshall Tucker Band and you have the sum of the sounds of Grinderswitch’s “Redwing”.  It’s a groovin’ slice of southern rock that at once sounds familiar, but has what it takes to stand up to some of the best of the genre.  Today’s selection comes from the 1977 release Redwing, the only album the band put out under Atco Records.  So crank it up today to start your weekend off right!!

Recommended by: Dave Kapp

“Elevation” is the prototype for every U2, Police and R.E.M. song from 1980-1986, and then later, every alternative/post rock song from 2000 onwards. The brittleness of this song is like a cold, dark night on Ave A with someone following you in the shadows.

Recommended by: Ethan Kaplan

Before John Fogerty & Bruce Springsteen, Robert Plant & Alison Krauss and Simon & Garfunkel covered The Everly Brothers, Jesse Winchester had set the bar for all things Phil & Don redux.  His 1977 interpretation of “ Bowling Green ” framed perfectly this bluegrass region’s tranquility and splendor, especially during its lazier, hazier days of the summer solstice.  I should know; I was an undergrad at Western Kentucky University IN Bowling Green when Jesse’s version magically appeared like a soundtrack to our studies.  To have lived and spent many a night under Bowling Green stars represents more than merely good fortune.  Call it a blessing.

Recommended by: Gary Moore

One of Manchester’s very best bands. I bought this the day it came out and it still sounds great.

Recommended by: Johnny Marr of The Smiths

It’s kind of weird that the Ramones would toss in a moment as tender as this one on the album that launched the American punk revolution. It was written by Tommy Ramone, the original drummer, but Joey’s vocals are what take it to another level, all starry-eyed yearning and vulnerability. If you switched the title to “I Wanna Be Your Girlfriend,” it could be a great lost girl group classic, from the chiming Wall of Sound production to the minor chord that sweetens Joey’s vocal when he asks her, “Do you love me, babe? What do you say?” As Joey once noted, “The girls always like that one.” So did the Bay City Rollers, who wanted to cover it. But the Ramones said no. How punk is that?

Recommended by: Ed Masley

David Byrne, with his nerd-on-a-short-fuse persona(lity) and sophisticated grasp of irony, specialized in introducing unusual subject matter into popular song. In “No Compassion” he adopts the voice of somebody who has decided to take charge of his life and who has consequently grown intolerant of people who wear their neuroses as badges of honor, a syndrome that one might assume is more pronounced today than it was back in the ’70s when this delightful number, with its sinuous, loping grooves and abrupt rhythmic shifts, appeared on the Talking Heads first album, Talking Heads: 77. Both musically and lyrically this band were ahead of their time. In fact, the term “compassion fatigue” didn’t even enter the vernacular until the ’80s.

Recommended by: John Tottenham

“Pretty Vacant” couldn’t hope to cause as big a stir as the Sex Pistols’ earlier triumphs, “Anarchy in the U.K.” and “God Save the Queen.” Once you’ve declared yourself the Antichrist and followed through by skewering the Queen on the occasion of her Silver Jubilee, how many eyebrows can you honestly expect to raise with “We don’t care?” But apathy has rarely sounded more aggressive, crashing the gate with one of punk’s essential riffs—a textbook case of less-is-more, driven home by guitar antihero Steve Jones, who’s soon surrounded by an army of himself. “What I wanted to get was a new Wall of Sound,” the guitarist once told NME. But any similarity between this record and the great Phil Spector ends the moment Johnny Rotten takes the mike with an opening sneer of, “There’s no point in asking. You’ll get no reply.”

Recommended by: Ed Masley

Sinister. That’s only word that still comes to mind when Bill Payne’s organ oozes through the JBLs on this tour-de-Feats best captured on their 1978 double-live set, Waiting For Columbus. Called “the Orson Welles of rock” by Jackson Browne, Hollywood High and Mothers of Invention alumnus Lowell George fronted one of the most overlooked bands in rock (despite being Jimmy Page’s favorite American band). This version, complete with the Tower of Power horns, comes from a 1977 show at Lisner Auditorium in D.C., the same site where he would give his last performance on June 28, 1979. A party wasn’t officially a party at my alma mater—Western Kentucky University—until the needle dropped on Columbus. The Feat never failed us.

Recommended by: Gary Moore

Sometimes it’s tough on the ol’ ticker being Rod Stewart. Oh, sure, he loves his hot legs, his fun with blondes, his passion. But eventually love’s a bitch, and he knows he’s losing you. And we all know about that debilitating deep first cut. Therefore, it’s in his musical DNA to write a good “she really done him wrong” song, which found its way to the 1977 record Foot Loose & Fancy Free and then the album rock radio airwaves. Maybe it clicked because it’s that rarest of Rod tunes—one where he’s actually begging a woman to leave!

Recommended by: Gary Moore

Newman’s 1977 album, Little Criminals, is probably best known for its misunderstood song, “Short People,” but its lesser-known tracks, including “Baltimore,” are great too. The song features Glenn Frey of the Eagles on guitar and backing vocals, along with Glenn’s friend and Eagles collaborator J.D. Souther. About the song Randy said that while a lot of folks in Baltimore didn’t like it, “It’s got those changes people have always loved. Try playing it backwards. It’s just like ‘House of the Rising Sun’ played backwards.” Challenge accepted.

Recommended by: Gary Moore

A great album has a flow and character to it from beginning to end. It also needs to be built entirely out of great songs. Television’s Marquee Moon remains one of the most audacious debuts of the 20th century. “See No Evil” functions as a sort of overture, and it gives hints of everything that is to follow. Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd’s intertwined guitars, contrasting yet sympathetic to one another, are there from the start. Then, like a car that can go from zero to 60 in a few seconds, Television are off and roaring across the landscape. It’s hard to hear this song and not want to either play guitar or drive very fast.

Recommended by: David Greenberger

I was 18 years old, living over a thousand miles from home, when I wandered into an East Village record shop and picked up an old copy of Young Loud And Snotty by the Dead Boys. I’d never heard it before—I don’t even think I owned a turntable at the time—but it seemed like an album I’d want to have. When I finally got a record player, I listened to the first track, “Sonic Reducer,” over and over again. At first I didn’t give much thought to its bizarre sci-fi lyrics, but then it hit me: The song wasn’t about time machines or electronic dreams; it was about a kid like me, hanging out, listening to music, and fantasizing about being in a rock band.

Recommended by: Rob Hatch-Miller