Soft Rock, primarily the candy-coated version (“Shannon is gone, I heard…”)įor a specific subgenre, “Soft Rock” is a pretty broad descriptor. R&B aka Soul Music (the first single I ever bought was by The Spinners, the first LP was by Billy Preston)Ģ. And there were two things being churned out in ample quantities back then that I especially loved:ġ. Meaning I was exposed to a helluva lot of ’70s AM pop radio as a kid. It was in this magical machine that my musical foundation was established and my taste was, some might say tragically, molded into shape. This oddball interest has roots in all the times I spent as a captive backseat passenger in my Mom’s 1972 white Chevy Nova with the sunflower painted on the side (only one word for that car: bitchin’). Specifically, those recorded in the same era as the originals, when the originals themselves were still young, topical, and ubiquitous. In a nutshell, I have an insatiable fascination with R & B covers of ’70s Soft Rock songs. It’s a “thing” I’m obsessed with, which, while exceedingly specific and adhering to a strict set of self-invented rules, doesn’t technically exist as an established, formalized entity. I am now going to introduce you to my imaginary friend, my Harvey, my Snuffleupagus, my Drop Dead Fred. By that, I mean that they have an obsession with some weird-ass thing or self-invented category, one that may not be audible to the ears of others, but feels oh so real to them. What I’m trying to say is, most dyed-in-the-wool music nerds have what I’m going to call an imaginary friend. Hmmm… I’m making this sound way more dignified than it is. Musical obsessions are not always as cut and dried as “this is my favorite song/ album/ band/ genre.” Occasionally you will find yourself in uncharted territory, involuntarily drawn to something so specific and esoteric that it doesn’t fall under the umbrella of an actual existing category.
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