Tunes Du Jour Presents Stevie Nicks

In a career that’s stretched across decades, bands, and Billboard charts, Stevie Nicks has managed a rare feat: establishing herself as both a defining voice in a group and a singular presence as a solo artist. Her work with Fleetwood Mac and on her own often feels like two sides of the same coin—distinct but inseparable. On one hand, there’s the collaborative dynamic of Fleetwood Mac, captured in songs like “Dreams,” “Rhiannon,” and “Landslide,” where her voice served not just as a sonic anchor but as a narrative thread in the band’s often-turbulent story. On the other, there’s the independence of Bella Donna and The Wild Heart, where she claimed space on her own terms with tracks like “Edge of Seventeen” and “Stand Back.”

What makes Nicks especially compelling isn’t just her voice, though that husky, otherworldly tone is unmistakable. It’s her songwriting. The stories she tells—whether personal or imagined—have a way of blurring the line between autobiography and myth. “Sara” and “Gypsy” evoke emotional landscapes more than plotlines, while “Silver Springs” is pointed and raw, its pain delivered without melodrama. Even her more radio-friendly hits like “Talk To Me” and “I Can’t Wait” retain a kind of emotional undertow that separates them from the disposable pop of their era.

She’s also a master of collaboration, though not in the typical sense. Her duets with Tom Petty (“Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around”) and Don Henley (“Leather and Lace”) don’t just showcase vocal chemistry; they underscore how well she uses other voices to sharpen her own perspective. And while she occasionally lent her voice to projects like Kenny Loggins’ “Whenever I Call You Friend,” it’s usually within settings that still feel connected to her larger musical identity—romantic, reflective, occasionally mysterious.

Dig deeper into her solo catalog, and you find tracks like “Nightbird,” “Outside the Rain,” and “Think About It”—songs that may not have hit the top of the charts but round out the portrait. These aren’t diversions from her work with Fleetwood Mac but extensions of it, revealing a consistent worldview: introspective but not self-pitying, emotional but rarely unhinged. Even a track like “Planets of the Universe,” recorded decades after her commercial peak, holds to the same creative compass that’s guided her from the start.

Stevie Nicks isn’t just a singer or a lyricist or a performer; she’s a builder of emotional spaces. Whether she’s conjuring the vulnerability of “Storms,” the weariness of “After the Glitter Fades,” or the defiance of “The Highwayman,” there’s a sense that she’s letting listeners into her interior life—sometimes invitingly, sometimes at arm’s length. Either way, it’s a voice you don’t mistake for anyone else’s.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents The Bob Dylan Songbook

One way to measure a songwriter’s reach is not by how often their work is covered, but how widely. The playlist below spans decades, genres, and sensibilities—from Adele to The Dead Weather, from Johnny Cash to the Neville Brothers—and all roads lead back to Bob Dylan. This is not just a reflection of his prominence; it’s a testament to the adaptability of his writing. Dylan’s lyrics aren’t locked into one style or moment—they hold up when filtered through gospel, punk, glam, folk, or soul. His songs invite reimagining because they’re grounded in strong narrative bones and emotional honesty, not ornamental frills.

Consider the different shades of “All Along the Watchtower.” Dylan’s original version is stark and cryptic; Hendrix turned it into an electrified storm. Likewise, “I Shall Be Released,” rendered with hushed reverence by The Band, has the structure of a gospel hymn but the ambiguity of a fable. “Make You Feel My Love,” one of Dylan’s later compositions, found new life in Adele’s version—proof that his songwriting didn’t peak in the ’60s, but simply evolved. His voice as a writer has always been the constant: a blend of plainspoken wisdom, sly humor, and a deep sense of historical and emotional context.

It’s notable, too, how Dylan’s songs seem to absorb the character of the performer. When Elvis Presley sings “Tomorrow Is a Long Time,” it feels like a Southern ballad. When PJ Harvey takes on “Highway 61 Revisited,” it becomes something raw and jagged. Nina Simone’s version of “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” brings out a haunted intensity not present in Dylan’s own delivery. That elasticity points to a rare kind of craftsmanship—songs written with enough specificity to be meaningful, but enough openness to be inhabited.

Even in unexpected settings, Dylan’s words linger. Tom Petty co-wrote the lyrics to “Jammin’ Me” with him, a pointed pop-rock critique of media saturation. Patti Smith’s “Changing of the Guards” channels the mystical imagery and layered storytelling that Dylan deployed throughout the ’70s. And when The Specials tear into “Maggie’s Farm,” it becomes a statement of punk-era defiance. These aren’t nostalgia pieces—they’re songs that meet each era on its own terms.

Dylan’s catalog isn’t just influential; it’s usable. His songs function as cultural currency, endlessly exchangeable yet retaining value. Whether you hear him through Joan Osborne’s gothic reading of “Man in the Long Black Coat” or the crystalline harmonies of Peter, Paul and Mary’s “Blowin’ in the Wind,” what’s most striking is not just who sings Dylan—but what his songs reveal when they do.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents Punk

Ask ten people to define punk rock, and you’re likely to get at least fifteen answers. That’s part of its charm—and its challenge. Punk has always been more than a style of music; it’s a way of questioning the status quo, pushing back against complacency, and refusing to color inside the lines. The 30 songs in this playlist represent the genre’s many branches: from the snarling minimalism of the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen” to the tightly coiled fury of Black Flag’s “Rise Above,” from Patti Smith’s poetic incantations to the danceable paranoia of Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.”

The roots of punk go deep, even before the term existed. “I’m Waiting for the Man” by The Velvet Underground and “Kick Out the Jams” by MC5 helped pave the way with their raw sound and confrontational lyrics. By the mid-1970s, punk had taken recognizable form in both New York and London. The Ramones stripped rock to its bare essentials with “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker,” while The Clash’s London Calling album pointed to punk’s potential to absorb and reflect broader influences—including reggae, ska, and politics.

Acts like Gang of Four and Television took the energy of punk and redirected it into jagged rhythms and angular guitars. The B-52’s “Rock Lobster” and Talking Heads introduced eccentricity and art-school sensibilities, while the Dead Kennedys and Sham 69 channeled punk into direct political protest. Meanwhile, bands like The Jam and Buzzcocks added a melodic urgency, and Iggy Pop and the New York Dolls injected glam and danger into the proceedings.

In the decades that followed, punk fragmented and flourished. Rancid’s “Time Bomb” leaned into ska-punk; Blink-182’s “Dammit” helped define a generation’s version of pop-punk adolescence. Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl” roared from the riot grrrl movement with feminist fire, and Billy Bragg brought punk’s commitment to social critique to a solo singer-songwriter context. Even grunge touchstones like Mudhoney carried punk’s DNA—loud, unpolished, and emotionally direct.

This playlist doesn’t claim to be definitive—if anything, it’s a conversation starter. It suggests that punk isn’t a sound so much as a stance. Whether it’s The Replacements thumbing their nose at success in “Bastards of Young,” or Green Day channeling disillusionment into “American Idiot,” punk continues to reinvent itself. It may shift forms, but it never goes quietly.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents 1960

The year 1960 often gets passed over in rock history—a transitional time between the first burst of rock and roll and the cultural and musical revolutions just a few years away. But to call it sleepy is to miss the point. In fact, many of the year’s hits still reverberate today, not just as nostalgic touchstones but as enduring standards. “The Twist” by Chubby Checker launched a dance phenomenon that would ripple through pop culture for years. And “Save the Last Dance for Me” by the Drifters remains a masterclass in balancing heartbreak and sweetness—still played at weddings and in soundtracks, still finding new generations of listeners.

Ballads carried a lot of weight in 1960, and few did it better than Elvis Presley’s aching “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” or Roy Orbison’s “Only the Lonely,” which showcased his operatic vulnerability. Country narratives crossed into the mainstream with Marty Robbins’ “El Paso,” a story song that unspooled like a Western in miniature. At the other end of the spectrum, Maurice Williams & the Zodiacs’ “Stay” packed teenage yearning into a lean, irresistible one minute thirty-five seconds. And “Wonderful World” by Sam Cooke, though modest in ambition compared to some of his later work, remains a model of warmth and accessibility—a song that’s managed to feel timeless for more than six decades.

The sense of genre boundaries being tested is another hallmark of the year. Ray Charles brought gospel, blues, and pop together on his definitive reading of “Georgia on My Mind,” while Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want)” helped lay the foundation for Motown’s impending ascent. Fats Domino’s “Walking to New Orleans” fused New Orleans rhythm with a subtle orchestral flourish, and Bobby Darin’s “Beyond the Sea” added a cosmopolitan swagger to the charts. These weren’t experiments for their own sake—they were evolutions of form, often rooted in deep tradition.

Rock’s wilder edges were still alive, though not always in the spotlight. Ike and Tina Turner’s “A Fool in Love” marked Tina’s explosive debut on the national stage—raw, commanding, and impossible to ignore. Instrumentals also carved out real estate, from the cinematic calm of Percy Faith’s “Theme From ‘A Summer Place’” to the proto-surf energy of The Ventures’ “Walk Don’t Run.” And in the novelty corner, “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” and “Alley Oop” proved that humor and absurdity had a place in the pop ecosystem.

So while 1960 may not have produced a defining movement, it certainly produced defining songs. These weren’t just placeholders between rock and roll’s rise and the British Invasion—they were records that resonated, sometimes quietly at first, but with a staying power that’s hard to deny. Whether filtered through covers, samples, soundtracks, or simple endurance, many of these tracks are still with us. It wasn’t a year of reinvention—but it was a year of remarkable staying power.

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Tunes Du Jour Presents Adele

Few artists in the 21st century have managed to make vulnerability feel as commanding as Adele does. Emerging from North London with her debut album 19 in 2008, she quickly distinguished herself with a voice that carried both technical precision and emotional depth. The songs weren’t flashy or heavily produced; instead, they leaned on classic soul and singer-songwriter traditions, framing heartbreak in ways that felt both timeless and personal.

What’s notable about Adele’s rise is how she has consistently succeeded on her own terms. At a time when pop music was increasingly leaning into EDM and maximalist production, she held firm with piano ballads and slow-burning anthems. Her second album, 21, became a global phenomenon not because it chased trends, but because it tapped into something universal—loss, regret, and the ache of moving on. “Someone Like You” and “Rolling in the Deep” didn’t just climb charts; they lingered, prompting singalongs in arenas and solo tears in bedrooms alike.

Over the course of her career, Adele has kept a relatively low profile between releases, letting the music—not a nonstop media presence—do the heavy lifting. Each album (25, and more recently, 30) has arrived as a kind of chapter marker, reflecting not just shifts in her personal life but broader changes in how we listen and connect with music. Her songwriting has grown more introspective with time, more willing to sit with ambiguity rather than resolve it neatly.

Despite the accolades and massive sales, Adele has remained surprisingly unvarnished in public. There’s a candor to her interviews and a grounded quality to her stage presence that seem to resonate just as strongly as her lyrics. In an industry often defined by reinvention, Adele’s appeal may lie in her consistency—both in her sound and in her refusal to be anything but herself.

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