‘Screw the black market. This is a pop record, daddy-o!’
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freedom of discovery via unemployment compensation
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we were gods and goddesses
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the bottom of society
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who had an answer to the British Army?
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as pretty damn pure a piece of pop craft as was ever recorded
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‘Just sing `Baby, baby, baby.’
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I wanted a silly song that had a bit of new wave texture to it
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ready to trade me for a piece of architecture
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kissing and fainting
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the Dionne version sounds quite perfect
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that’s good enough for us
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images of woods, lakes, moonlight
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“I’m a black artist with white skin”
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just for the funk of it
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gladly anticipating, a physical altercation
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“teenage dreams so hard to beat”
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a swaggering sexual boast
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lines and scenes of struggle and decay
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an entire cycle of grief
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a sort of riff song
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feeling sorry for himself while picking up a barfly who liked to be smacked around
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a celebration, a sexual boast, and a political statement
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a concise, compelling James Burton guitar solo
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a patriotic statement even as it chastises the selfish and powerful
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a tough minded prescription for the solidarity and justice that were needed
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the spirit, high-spirited
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it can crumble even the most stable of emotional foundations
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I was forced to live the life of a monster…
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jazz, pop, soul, and funk brilliantly mixed together to transport the listener to a higher dimension
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he could lift the bandstand
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A faster, grittier version of “Revolution” backed “Hey, Jude”
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