By: David Smay

Rock undreamt of in your petty philosophies.

By: David Smay

The baggy ambiguities of his genius only fit the Seventies.

By: David Smay

Forget HEE HAW — he was of the architects of the country sound.

By: David Smay

It’s the blackness in his writing that stays with you.

By: David Smay

Beyond the jargon of authenticity, dissonance and dark places.

By: David Smay

A lost, louche world of hair-tossing karate chops and sexy banter.

By: David Smay

Beneath the flash and fun, a slick of moral quandaries.

By: David Smay

Hippiedom’s early inquirer into the appetites and their obstacles.

By: David Smay

His elegant electronics gave us the soundtrack of a fractured and funky tomorrow.

By: David Smay

A very curious monkey, a lineage of gestures, and scenes from a marriage.

By: David Smay

Her voice was an unalloyed conduit of broken love.

By: David Smay

He suffers exactly enough to make the joke.

By: David Smay

Like Brando and Billie Holiday, an inescapable exemplar.

By: David Smay

Her gro­tesques are often theo­logical heresies made flesh.

By: David Smay

His was a sophisticated form of spectacle-as-critique.