Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Are: Eagles are one of only two artists (Michael Jackson being the other) in history to have produced two albums that have sold more than 40 million copies, so I think it’s safe to presume that if you’re the least bit musically sentient, then you know who they are, and what their music sounds like. (You might not know that their name contains no “The” in front of it, and I’m hewing to that throughout this article, even though it probably reads weird).

The group were founded in 1971 by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Bernie Leadon and Randy Meisner, who were working together as Linda Ronstadt’s backing band as she toured her largely-maligned Silk Purse album. While Henley and Frey emerged as the driving songwriting, singing, and directing duo over the years that followed, Meisner and Leadon actually came into the group with deeper bona fides, the former having been bassist for Ricky Nelson’s Stone Canyon band, the latter having played on two albums with the Flying Burrito Brothers, featuring the legendary Gram Parsons and ex-Byrd Chris Hillman. The original quartet issued two albums, 1972’s Eagles and 1973’s Desperado before adding lead guitarist Don Felder for their third album (On The Border) in 1974. Leadon left following 1975’s One of These Nights, replaced by ex-James Gang/Barnstorm string bender Joe Walsh (a successful solo artist in his own right) for 1976’s monumental Hotel California. Leadon’s era was capped by the release of Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975), which was even more monumental in terms of its sales record, handily the highest selling compilation album ever. Meisner was pushed out before 1979’s The Long Run, replaced by ex-Poco bassist Timothy B. Schmit; that spotty album was a significant critical and commercial backward step after the juggernauts that preceded it (i.e. only seven times platinum, not 20+), and the group split in 1980.

Following a 14-year break, The Long Run band reassembled to tour to great commercial acclaim, if not the best critical regards. Felder was forced out in 2001, before the group’s final studio release, 2007’s Long Road Out of Eden. Glenn Frey died in 2016, but the group soldiered on as a high-grossing concert act, with Vince Gill and Frey’s son Deacon (plus a slew of extra supporting hands) joining the core trio of Henley, Walsh and Schmit. While their music is much-loved and sells by the boatloads, and their type of country-rock is much-prasied when played by others, there’s a massive air of negativity around Eagles in critical and analytical circuits, with the group being blamed for (among other things) the blight of California soft/yacht rock, the fundamental role in rock of cocaine in the go-go ’70s, and the bloat of concert-ticket prices. There’s a wonderful documentary about the group from 2013 called History of the Eagles, which is riveting in revealing the true dysfunction in and around the group, and in clearly demonstrating that Don Henley and Glenn Frey are/were kind of awful people, especially cruel to Meisner, Leadon and Felder, and mercenary in recruiting affable go-with-the-flow types like Walsh and Schmit, who left their dictatorial leadership tendencies largely unchallenged.

When I First Heard Them: Summer of 1972, when their debut single “Take It Easy” raced up the American Top 40 charts, to be followed in rapid succession by the seemingly non-stop flow of hits that were eventually compiled for Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975), which was the first of their albums that I purchased. I then eagerly nabbed Hotel California upon its release, and quite loved it in its time. Like most fans, I then waited too long for The Long Run, which paled in comparison to its predecessors, and made their subsequent break-up seem not particularly painful, and somehow apt and expected. I never really re-engaged with them following their 1994 reunion, and have never seen them in concert. I have, however, made the pilgrimage to Winslow, Arizona, to stand on the corner made famous by Frey and Jackson Browne in the first Eagles hit, “Take It Easy:”

Why I Love Them: In looking at the 80+ articles that I’ve written thus far in this three-part series, I’d say that Eagles sit somewhat unusually in that I love much of the music they made over the first five years or so, but I have something of an active aversion to some of the people who made it, primarily Henley and Frey. But, fortunately I suppose, that aversion has never quite risen to the point where I can’t listen to their music together as Eagles, unlike, say, their fellow ultra-uber-mega-star Michael Jackson, whose music I just can’t spin anymore, ever.  As was the case in my prior article about INXS, I feel strongly that Eagles generated a mostly-unfair critical backlash over the years that’s not about the quality of the music, but rather about the changing times in which the music was made: Eagles hit their commercial peak as punk was emerging, so they became emblematic of all that punk rebelled against, while INXS fared similarly with the advent of grunge.

In Eagles’ case, the opprobrium seems especially jarring given the love and adulation steered toward Gram Parsons and other pioneers of his ilk forging the American country-rock idiom, which is just as historically meaningful and significant in this country as the folk-rock being crafted in England at the time by the likes of Fairport Convention. I think, at bottom line, that Eagles were simply damned by their own success, while Parsons has been over-lionized due to his short and tragic life, as often happens, and other country-rock flavored obscurities from the era are trotted out to display critics’ cultural cool and cache for knowing about stuff that nobody else did, or does. My favorite Eagles album is easily 1973’s Desperado, the most countryfied of the original group’s output, and the one most usually deemed as the weak link among the critical crowd. Oh well. I like what I like, and in the case of Eagles, that means that all but one of the songs in my Top Ten list below come from those first four albums, when they were making great, original, visionary work, that people actually wanted to buy and hear. Fancy that!

#10. “Life in the Fast Lane,” from Hotel California (1976)

#9. “Tequila Sunrise,” from Desperado (1973)

#8. “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” from Eagles (1972)

#7. “Desperado,” from Desperado (1973)

#6. “Take It to the Limit,” from One of These Nights (1975)

#5. “Bitter Creek,” from Desperado (1973)

#4. “One of the These Nights,” from One of These Nights (1975)

#3. “Already Gone,” from On the Border (1974)

#2. “Take It Easy,” from Eagles (1972)

#1. “Certain Kind of Fool,” from Desperado (1973)

Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Were: INXS were one of the most popular bands of the ’80s, visual and musical stalwarts of the peak/early MTV era, before a ferocious critical/cultural backlash made them uncool pariahs of the ’90s grunge era, with their story (mostly) ending after the tragic and untimely death of singer Michael Hutchence in 1997. Prior to Hutchence’s passing, the Australian sextet had never experienced a personnel change over two decades of music-making, with the three Farriss brothers (Andrew on keys, Jon on drums, and Tim on guitar) joined by bassist Garry Gary Beers, guitarist-sax player Kirk Pengilly, and Hutchence. The young band were taken under the wing of fellow road warriors Midnight Oil in their early years, honing their chops and songs in the crucible of Australia’s notoriously tough pub circuit. The group’s first two albums, released in 1980 and 1981, did well enough in their homeland, while 1982’s Shabooh Shoobah was their first disc to chart globally. Three records later (each selling more than the ones before it), 1987’s Kick marked the group’s commercial high water-mark, with an insanely popular and punchy collection of video and radio hits. The four subsequent albums reversed that commercial trend, with record buyers and critics alike becoming increasingly savage about their output, in one of those occasional feeding frenzies that often follow popular groups’ inexplicably massive successes. Think about the ways that the once-beloved Bee Gees were suddenly despised after Saturday Night Fever, or the ways in which Phil Collins became a punchline after his own ubiquitous ’80s era, for similarly unjustified critical dog piles of the type inflicted upon INXS through most of the ’90s. Hutchence’s death was generally treated salaciously in the music press, given his messy personal life at the time, and the nudge-nudge-wink-wink innuendos around whether he chose to take his own life, or whether he succumbed to auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong. Not widely covered at the time was the fact that he had been assaulted in 1992, suffering a fractured skull and traumatic brain injury, that dramatically altered his personality, reduced his pleasure in life (he lost his ability to taste and smell), and led to severe problems with anger management and impulse control. It’s a sad story, at bottom line, not a titillating one.  The other five members of the group continued on intermittently with various transitional lead singers, issuing two additional studio LPs in 2005 and 2010, before closing their story for (seemingly) good.

When I First Heard Them: Late 1982-ish, when “Don’t Change” and “The One Thing” from Shabooh Shoobah were regularly featured in MTV’s early days. (This was my plebe year at the Naval Academy, so the only time and way that I was able to watch television or listen to music was to plop down at a bar somewhere on a Saturday night with MTV airing, nursing cheap and watery beer as long as I could to get the music fixes I desired). I wasn’t as wild about “Original Sin,” the big single from 1984’s The Swing, but 1985’s Listen Like Thieves was a hit-filled masterpiece, and the first of their albums that I purchased in real time. I have a strong memory from that time of an argument with a friend, who I shall not name and shame here, about how to pronounce the group’s moniker; I knew it was “In Excess,” (inspired, in part, by XTC), but he was hell-bent and willing to go to the mat for his preferred “Inks-Is.” Errrr, nope. Later, Kick came out and hit big around the time Marcia and I started dating, and it was a big part of the soundtrack of our early years together, along with the pair of albums that followed it. I stuck with the band, happily, through Hutchence’s death, and while their ’90s albums received increasingly dire (and unfair, to my ears) reviews, I quite liked all of them, right up until the bitter end. Still do, actually, and you’ll see those later LPs well-represented in my Top Ten list below.

Why I Love Them: Great tunes, played with punch and panache, at bottom line. The main songwriting team of Andrew Farriss and Michael Hutchence had deep skills at crafting ear-worm melodies with engagingly interesting lyrics, and the group’s pub-honed and long-stable chemistry made them tight, tight, tight, on hard rockers, dance tunes, and smooth ballads alike. Their peak coincided with the emergence of such fellow ’80s superstar stalwarts as the Police, U2, Dire Straits, Duran Duran and others, but their sound and approach felt richer and deeper to me in their time (likely attributed to their sextet configuration, which allowed them a broader palate than many of their fellows), and I listen to INXS far more often than I do their peers of that era, their music sounding less-dated to my ears in 2024 than some of the other biggest contemporary hits of their original heyday. While they certainly embraced the visual approaches of the early MTV era, there always seemed to be a nice bit of grit behind the gloss, with Hutchence’s smoky and sultry R&B-inflected voice resonating more strongly for me than, say, the archness of the New Romantic types, or the self-seriousness of U2’s anthems, or the keening tenors of Sting and his many would-be imitators. They were a great rock band offering tunes with great beats that you could dance to (and I did that, a lot), and a solid stable of well-crafted songs that still make me turn the volume up, lamenting as I do both their unfortunate end, and the way that they were treated in pop culture in the years following their commercial apex. I’m sure some might want to lump my love for the group into the “guilty pleasures” bucket, but I don’t feel that way at all, as there’s nothing guilt-inducing for me in loving good music like this, even if it’s not cool to do so. (Note that since INXS were such video-making monsters, every one of my Top Ten songs below features “official” imagery, even some of the deeper cuts, which is unusual among the artists covered in this series).

#10. “The One Thing,” from Shabooh Shoobah (1982) 

#9. “Listen Like Thieves,” from Listen Like Thieves (1985) 

#8. “The Messenger,” Full Moon, Dirty Hearts (1993)

#7. “Need You Tonight,” from Kick (1987)

#6. “The Gift,” from Full Moon, Dirty Hearts (1993)

#5. “What You Need,” from Listen Like Thieves (1985)

#4. “Don’t Change,” from Shabooh Shoobah (1982)

#3. “Devil Inside,” from Kick (1987)

#2. “Suicide Blonde,” from X (1990)

#1. “Not Enough Time,” from Welcome to Wherever You Are (1992)

Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Are: While many of the artists I’ve covered in this ongoing series are fairly obscure, this is one of a small number of cases (to date) where I’m writing about a massively popular group, with an estimated 120 million records sold world-wide, and with membership in the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. So I’m guessing that most folks have at least heard of Red Hot Chili Peppers, even if somehow you haven’t actually heard them. The quartet were formed in Los Angeles in 1982, playing a sort of high-speed punk-funk-rap hybrid in their early years, then expanding their oeuvre over the ensuing four decades to incorporate psychedelic, pop, experimental, and hard-rock elements. Singer Anthony Kiedis and bassist Michael “Flea” Balzary have been in place since the group’s inception, while drummer Chad Smith has held down his throne since 1988, with wayward guitarist John Frusciante back since 2019 for his third stint in the group, his first having begun at the same time as Smith’s. The quartet have endured various tragedies over their careers, alongside the triumphs, most notably the overdose death of founding guitarist Hillel Slovak in 1988, and the near-death incapacitation and (first) departure of Frusciante at the arguable peak of their popular powers in 1992. But the group rumbles on with authority to this day, having released a pair of long studio albums in 2022 (Unlimited Love and Return of the Dream Canteen) that stand to these ears as one of the most expansive and audacious huge-form musical dumps since Guns n’ Roses pulled a similar stunt with their Use Your Illusion albums in 1991.

When I First Heard Them: In 1984, at the legendary Washington, DC nightclub Poseurs, where their debut music video “True Men Don’t Kill Coyotes” was a regular and popular floor-filler cut for late night dancing and debauchery. I bought their self-titled debut album on the strength of that single, and it was okay, but didn’t really move me all that much, beyond its lead single. But their second record, 1985’s Freaky Styley, was produced by P-Funk mastermind George Clinton, and that one did blow my mind in the best possible ways with its then-unique frappe of forms and approaches, delivered with muscular power and awesome attitude. I saw them live for the first time soon thereafter in Washington, DC, I believe at the Ontario Theater (memories are fuzzy), and they were dynamite in concert, cementing my love and appreciation for the group. I’ve only seen them live again once, in 2000 at Albany’s Whatever-It-Was-Called-Then Arena, during John Frusciante’s second tenure, supporting the massive Californication album, with Foo Fighters and Muse on the under-card. It was moving to see that they’d survived and thrived that long, and remains so for me, all these years on.

Why I Love Them: Out of spite, it seems much of the time, as the Chili Peppers seem to be one of those groups that most critics and other music geeks in my circuit seem to loathe as a point of principle. See also Korn, who I similarly adore in the face of conventional critical wisdom. Most critical types will grudgingly acknowledge that Flea is a true force of nature on his bass guitar, one of the masters of the instrument, and others will get all goo-goo eyed about John Frusciante’s highly-experimental and often self-indulgent solo work, while tut-tutting about how he’s slumming somehow whenever he returns to the group that made him, playing stadium-sized shows and selling millions of records. Nobody much seems to have many opinions about Chad Smith on drums, but I think he’s also a monster player, and his work is especially punchy and in-your-face on that pair of 2022 albums; after ~35 years together, he and Flea are a fine and forceful rhythm section with which to be reckoned. Most of the critical opprobrium pointed in the Peppers’ direction centers on Anthony Kiedis’ vocals and lyrics, but you know what? I think Anthony is great. I love what Anthony does, and I love the growth he’s shown as an artist over the group’s run. I have little-to-no patience with the “haters gotta hate” crowd who denigrate him as a performer and composer and person who has overcome a wide variety of missteps, mistakes, and misfortunes (yes, many of them self-inflicted, I know) to make joyful, melodic, and rhythmic music that moves me. Together, the Kiedis-Flea-Smith core have produced loads of memorable albums and songs for me since the late ’80s, usually with Frusciante, though I was also fond of the Josh Klinghoffer years ( 2009-2019); the only era of the group’s history that I actively disliked was when Dave Navarro of Jane’s Addiction (who I can’t stand) stepped in for a couple of years during Frusciante’s first hiatus. No good, that. Glad it was ephemeral. At bottom line, Red Hot Chili Peppers are unique and (as much as most critical folks don’t want to admit it) trailblazing in their own special ways, and their ongoing success and productivity make me very happy indeed. What’s not to love about that?

#10. “Brendan’s Death Song,” from I’m With You (2011)

#9. “American Ghost Dance,” from Freaky Styley (1985)

#8. “Backwoods,” from The Uplift Mofo Party Plan (1987)

#7. “Scar Tissue,” from Californication (1999)

#6. “Dark Necessities,” from The Getaway (2016)

#5. “Tippa My Tongue,” from Return of the Dream Canteen (2022)

#4. “Knock Me Down,” from Mother’s Milk (1989)

#3. “The Heavy Wing,” from Unlimited Love (2022)

#2. “Behind the Sun,” from The Uplift Mofo Party Plan (1987)

#1. “Give It Away,” from Blood Sugar Sex Magik (1991)

Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Are: A legendary and deeply influential British folk-rock band, originally formed in 1967 and active to this day, with but one significant hiatus period in the early 1980s. The group originally and briefly focused on an (American) West Coast psychedelic sound with strong male and female lead vocalists, not unlike the original incarnation of Jefferson Airplane, before more aggressively working to meld traditional English, Irish and Scottish melodies and songs with electric rock arrangements, supplemented by exceptional original songs by a stellar cohort of composers serving within the group. According to Wikipedia, there have been 25 official members of Fairport Convention over their career arc, and 21 of them appeared with the group during its tumultuous first dozen years, pre-hiatus. But those who came, and those who left, often continued to work together in a vast and interwoven musical network that touched scores, if not hundreds, of other influential artists and acts. Among their better-known alumni were Richard Thompson (solo artist, and duo with his ex-wife Linda), Sandy Denny (solo artist, Fotheringay), Ashley Hutchings (Steeleye Span, Albion Band), Dave Pegg (Jethro Tull), and Iain Matthews (Matthews Southern Comfort). Since their reformation in 1985, the group has experienced far more personnel stability, with Simon Nicol (guitar, and the sole founder still remaining), Dave Pegg (bass), and Ric Sanders (fiddle) having served continually since that time, supplemented by multi-instrumentalist Maartin Allcock and drummer Dave Mattacks (another ’60s/’70s veteran of the group) in their earlier incarnations, then Gerry Conway (drums) and Chris Leslie (various stringed instruments) from the mid-’90s on. Conway had to step away a few years back due to health issues, and he passed away recently; Mattacks returned once again to take his place. Fairport’s Cropredy Festival is one of Britian’s longest running musical events, having been staged most years since the late ’70s, often bringing various friends and family members of the group together for unique live performances.

When I First Heard Them: Ironically, right after they broke up in 1979. I was a huge Jethro Tull fan at the time (and still am, of course), and was surprised upon arriving at a Tull show at Nassau Coliseum in support of their Stormwatch album to discover that beloved bassist John Glascock was missing (he died of a heart condition soon thereafter), replaced by some guy named Dave Pegg. The concert program referenced Pegg’s prior group, Fairport Convention, so I dutifully trundled over the Nassau Community College record lending library to see what I could discover about the group, as I usually did in those pre-Internet, and pre-having-money-to-buy-albums days. The first Fairport album I picked up was a compilation, that had a wonderful Pete Frame-style rock family tree on its cover, and I always loved parsing those:

I was pleased to learn that Fairport had relational connections with Steeleye Span, who I’d already discovered and quite liked, both because vocalist Maddie Pryor had appeared on earlier Jethro Tull albums, and because their records were always binned alphabetically right next to my much-beloved Steely Dan in the record stores, so my curiosity had already led me to investigate who they were, and what they sounded like. I nabbed a few early Fairport albums in the years that followed, though they weren’t often readily available in the States in those days; following their reformation, and with the advent of the CD-era, their records became much more accessible. I’ve only seen them live once, in 1989, fittingly opening for Jethro Tull when Maartin Allcock and Dave Pegg were both serving in both groups simultaneously.

Why I Love Them: I’d be hard-pressed to come up with another group who have so strongly displayed a balance between incredible internal songwriting skills and a  sublime sense for covers, both traditional and contemporary, than Fairport Convention have demonstrated over their long career. Of course, grand songs don’t fly unless they’re recorded and performed by skilled players and singers, and Fairport have also been extraordinarily blessed with to-die-for instrumental and vocal talent. Examples: the late Sandy Denny was truly a generational talent as a writer, singer, and player; Richard Thompson continues to shine as one of the century’s greatest guitarists; early singers Judy Dyble and Iain Matthews were brilliant and under-appreciated, sometimes lost in the glow of their better-known band-mates; the late Dave Swarbrick was a charismatic player who revolutionized the way that the fiddle can be deployed in a rock setting; and modern-era primary vocalist Simon Nicol has one of those fine baritone voices that make any-and-everything he sings moving, comforting, delightful. I can’t underestimate the importance of the group’s expanded family tree in my own personal musical pantheon either; I’ve got an English Folk playlist that I spin and adapt regularly, and while it’s not filled with Fairport, per se, the vast majority of the artists I feature on it either worked with Fairport members, were influenced by their music, or emerged from the same early mergers of traditional folk and psychedelic rock that Fairport pioneered. The group’s regular personnel turnovers throughout much of their history mean that there are eras and albums that I like more than others, but the continuity and persistence of vision demonstrated for nigh unto 60 years means than their classic albums are all worth listening to, and their emergent music is always worth considering. As I worked to select my 10 favorite Fairport songs for the list below, the density of greatness of their early works really shone through; all ten of my selected cuts were originally issued on but four albums, rapidly released between 1968 and 1970.

#10. “Walk Awhile,” from Full House (1970)

#9. “Autopsy,” from Unhalfbricking (1969)

#8. “Nottamun Town,” from What We Did on Our Holidays (1969)

#9. “Percy’s Song,” from Unhalfbricking (1969)

#6. “Genesis Hall,” from Unhalfbricking (1969)

#5. “She Moves Through the Fair,” from What We Did on Our Holidays (1969)

#4. “Matty Groves,” from Liege & Leaf (1969)

#3. “Time Will Show the Wiser,” from Fairport Convention (1968)

#2. “Meet on the Ledge,” from What We Did on Our Holidays (1969)

#1. “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?,” from Unhalfbricking (1969)

Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Are: Modern English are an English post-punk/pop group formed in 1979 by Robbie Grey (vocals), Stephen Walker (keys), Gary McDowell (guitar), Michael Conroy (bass), and Richard Brown (drums). After self-releasing a single in 1979, Modern English were signed to the influential (and then-just-emerging) 4AD label, along with the likes of The Birthday Party, Bauhaus, Cocteau Twins, and many others. Their debut album, 1981’s Mesh & Lace, was an arty, airy, edgy platter, well in keeping with 4AD’s general aesthetic. But their second album, 1982’s After the Snow, was a completely different sort of beast, spawning the ubiquitous and much-beloved single “I Melt With You.” Following the release of 1984’s excellent Ricochet Days, which was very much of a piece with After the Snow, Modern English left 4AD and the core quintet began to fracture. Between 1995 and 2010, the group was an intermittent going concern, often with only Robbie Grey remaining from the original line-up; these incarnations of Modern English released four albums. In 2010, 80% of the original line-up reunited (missing only drummer Richard Brown), and have toured and recorded fairly consistently since then, releasing two excellent albums, Take Me to the Trees (2016) and the brand new 1 2 3 4.

When I First Heard Them: The obvious answer would be when “I Melt With You” was omnipresent on the radio, dance floors, television, and music journals, but I’m pretty sure that I actually had Mesh & Lace and After the Snow before that song became such a huge hit, drawn to them by actively following the 4AD roster sheet of the time. Regardless of how that initial time sequence went down, After the Snow and Ricochet Days were big favorites for me during the latter half of my Naval Academy days. Stop Start, the first non-4AD release, came out just before I graduated from Annapolis; I wasn’t much chuffed with it, and only loosely paid attention to the group’s ongoing activities until the mostly-original line-up reformed.

Why I Love Them: At their best, Modern English are capable of perfectly blending arty and accessible elements, and they’ve got a keen sense for ear-worm melodies that make their strongest songs stick in your noggin like nobody’s business. But for me, “at their best” means when the Grey-Walker-McDowell-Conroy quartet is working together. I’m a big believer in the ineffable magic of chemistry when it comes to musical ensembles, and those four artists do indeed become and make things greater than the sum of their parts when they collaborate. All four of them have distinctive and recognizable sounds, in terms of the instruments they deploy, and the textures and tones they pull from them. This effect was most ably demonstrated by their last two album releases, which picked up and built upon the creative pinnacle they’d achieved over a quarter-century earlier when they last all worked together on After the Snow and Ricochet Days. My top ten Modern English cuts cited below are all culled from those four albums accordingly; the core four of the group were also together for the debut album, Mesh & Lace, which I liked in its time, but in retrospect, it feels tentative and exploratory when compared to what was to come. I’ll blow any suspense right up front about where “I Melt With You” will rank, as I do not include it in my Top Ten; it’s a fine song, and I’m glad it made them some money and gave them some fame, but I’ve been so over-exposed to it for so long that I don’t often feel any need to hear it again, as an active listening choice, though I don’t mind or complain when do hear it, as happens pretty regularly, even all these years on.

#10. “You’re Corrupt,” from Take Me to the Trees (2016)

#9. “Machines,” from Ricochet Days (1984)

#8. “Long in the Tooth,” from 1 2 3 4 (2024)

#7. “After the Snow,” from After the Snow (1982)

#6. “Exploding,” from 1 2 3 4 (2024)

#5. “Moonbeam,” from Take Me to the Trees (2016)

#4. “Tables Turning,” from After the Snow (1982)

#3. “Plastic,” from 1 2 3 4 (2024)

#2. “Rainbows End,” from Ricochet Days (1984)

#1. “Life in the Gladhouse,” from After the Snow (1982)

Note: For an index of all articles in all three Favorite Songs series, click here, then scroll down.

Who They Are: Earth, Wind & Fire are a joyously genre-crossing ensemble formed by former Ramsey Lewis Trio drummer Maurice White in 1969. The group issued a pair of funk-centric albums  in 1971, then provided the score to Melvin Van Peebles’ seminal blaxploitation film Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, before Maurice White rebooted the band with an entirely new line-up; only his brother, bassist Verdine White, survived the transition. Vocalist-percussionist Philip Bailey joined for 1972’s Last Days and Time, and by 1973, the group’s “classic line-up” had largely cohered, debuting on their first platinum certified album, Head to the Sky. Over the ensuing decade, Earth, Wind & Fire scored platinum or gold certifications for eight additional albums, along scores of killer singles, most of them chart monsters in their own rights, before Maurice White put the group on hiatus in 1984 to pursue other creative and musical interests, including producing hit albums for Ramsey Lewis, Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, among others. Philip Bailey also emerged as a significant solo artist in this period, including a hit duet with Phil Collins; Genesis and Phil (solo) also borrowed EWF’s horn section during this period. In 1987, Maurice and Verdine White, Bailey, Ralph Johnson (drums/percussion), and Andrew Woolfolk (reeds) from the classic line-up reunited with additional players to re-launch the Earth, Wind & Fire brand; the latter incarnations of the group have earned another three Gold Records, but never quite hit the same level of dense studio success as they had in the ’70s and early ’80s. The respect and affection for their work never dwindled, though, and they were inducted into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame in 2000, among many other honors over the years. Maurice White was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in the late 1990s, and slowly stepped away from active involvement with the group he had founded; he died of the complications from the condition in 2016. The group continue on on this day, with Verdine White, Bailey, and Johnson as the core members.

When I First Heard Them: Probably in 1973 or 1974, almost certainly on pop radio, where I would have followed the rise and fall of “Mighty Mighty,” “Devotion,” and “Shining Star” (their first #1 single on the Hot 100) on Kasey Kasem’s American Top 40 each week. When I lived at Mitchel Field on Long Island from 1976 to 1980, EWF were big favorites among my social circle of the time, so I acquired and listened to their older albums (except the first two), and then stayed abreast with all of their work through the 1984 hiatus. There was also sort of a “Beatles vs Stones” dynamic between EWF and the sprawling P-Funk empire during that time, for me; one group nominally wholesome and suitable for family play, one group kind of nasty, and reserved for listening when parents were not about. I never quite got back onboard as intensely with the group in its latter days, though I stayed interested in their work and progress. I saw them live for the first time around 1980 at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island, at the peak of the classic group’s prowess. I saw them again in Albany, New York, shortly after September 11, 2001, the first concert I attended after that devastating attack. The show was powerful and moving on a variety of planes, highly memorable because of the circumstances associated with being together with a large, diverse community in public again after a period of hunkering down and being frightened by what had happened and what was yet to come. It was one of the finest examples in my personal experience of the power of music to uplift and transform.

Why I Love Them: It’s tough to straddle diverse genres and make popular magic in so doing, but Earth Wind & Fire were utter masters at that approach during their heyday, blending jazz, soul, funk, pop, rock and African melodies/rhythms into a perfect, seamless whole, technically challenging, but utterly captivating to audiences of all stripes. Their music is dense, crafted with multiple vocalists, batteries of percussion, horns, strings, keys, reeds and more, but the song craft and accessibility of their output never suffered for that, whereas other groups attempting similar approaches often succumbed to unwieldy bloat. The heart of the group, for me, has always been Verdine White, an utterly killer bass player who provided the anchor around which the rest of the group sailed, his lines crisp, clear, and mighty, mighty indeed. The vocal blend of Maurice White (baritone) and Philip Bailey (tenor) was also magical, both of them effortlessly stepping into and out of lead lines as dictated by the necessity of the songs and ranges they were tackling. Underneath all of those technical and sonic aspects was a general vibe of joy, improvement, celebration, and uplift in both their arrangements and the words they put atop them. This is music to make you think, yeah, and to make you move, sure, but at bottom line, it’s music to make you happy. And it works, without the sickly-sweet glurge that so many other ostensibly inspirational bands so often spew. To lightly amend one of their most famous lyrics: “When you feel down and out, play an EWF song, it’ll make your day.” Yes, that. Precious, rare, and oh so valuable.

#10. “Mighty Mighty,” from Open Your Eyes (1974)

#9. “Sun Goddess,” from Sun Goddess (Ramsey Lewis)(1974)

#8. “September,” from The Best of Earth, Wind & Fire, Vol. 1 (1978)

#7. “That’s the Way of the World,” from That’s the Way of the World (1975)

#6. “Gratitude,” from Gratitude (1975)

#5. “Shining Star,” from That’s the Way of the World (1975)

#4. “Fantasy,” from All ‘n All (1977)

#3. “Getaway,” from Spirit (1976)

#2. “Sing a Song,” from Gratitude (1975)

#1. “Serpentine Fire,” from All ‘n All (1977)