So today, we are looking at a really specific
mechanism in the music industry. Yeah, the anatomy
of a career pivot. Right. Because if you look
at the year 1966, the landscape of popular music
is just undergoing this radical, almost aggressive
transformation. Absolutely tectonic. Everything
is shifting. Exactly. And caught right in the
center of that tectonic shift is a voice that
you almost certainly recognize. Even if you just
know from television later on. Yeah. Exactly.
But today we are exploring the legendary Della
Reese, specifically focusing on her 1966 studio
album. I like it like that. Yes, I like it like
that. And we are putting this entire project
completely under the microscope. We're going
to unpack what actually happens in the recording
booth, the boardroom and even the trade magazines
when an artist with a massive established background
in pop and jazz just decides to pivot hard into
blues standards. It's such a sharp left turn,
even the title itself. I like it like that, is
stylized completely in lowercase. Lowercase with
an exclamation point at the end. Right. Which
immediately signals a deliberate break from formality.
It's a total aesthetic choice. It is. So... Our
mission for this deep dive is to completely deconstruct
this album. We're looking at the mechanics of
a label jump, the inherent friction of having
a manager take over as the creative producer.
Is it always a risky move? Highly risky. And
we're also going to look at the fascinating reality
of what happens when the people trying to sell
a record in 1966 fundamentally disagree with
the historians evaluating that same record decades
later. It really is the ultimate case study in
the tension between art and commerce. we're treating
this 12 -trap album not just as a collection
of songs, but as a physical artifact of an industry
in transition. Definitely. By looking closely
at the specific personnel involved, the producers,
the arrangers, the songwriters, and contrasting
that contemporary hype with the retrospective
criticism, we start to really see the gears of
the 1960s music business turning. We're going
to examine the very deliberate choices made to
engineer a specific sound. And whether that engineering
resulted in a genuine artistic statement or just
a calculated commercial commodity. OK, let me
attack this. Because to understand why I like
it like that is such a fascinating pivot, we
really have to establish the baseline of power
Della Reese brought to the table. Right. She
wasn't a rookie. Not at all. She was not a developing
artist trying to find her footing. By the time
we hit the mid -1960s, she is operating from
a position of undeniable commercial strength.
Which was largely built during her tenure at
RCA Victor. Exactly. That RCA Victor era is the
bedrock of her industry capital. And to quantify
that power, you just have to look at one specific
data point from the year 1959. The single. Yes.
She releases a single called Don't You Know?
And it climbs all the way to number two on the
U .S. Hot 100. Number two. Let's just let's contextualize
what a number two hit on the Hot 100 actually
meant at the end of the 1950s. It meant everything.
Yeah. That isn't a niche jazz chart or a regional
rhythm and blues chart. That is the mainstream
undisputed metric of American popular culture.
Exactly. Holding the number two spot on the Hot
100 in 1959 requires a staggering volume of physical
unit sales. people physically going to stores
and buying the 45. Buying the wax, yeah. And
it requires ubiquitous radio syndication across
every major market. It means your voice is essentially
inescapable. You are a proven blue chip commodity.
You are. And she didn't just have a flash -in
-the -pan moment with that single either. She
capitalized on that momentum at RCA Victor by
building out a really substantial, diverse catalog.
He was working constantly. Constantly. She recorded
a steady stream of studio albums. She recorded
live albums. She proved she could move LP units,
not just the shorter 45 RPM singles. Which makes
her next move so compelling to look at. You have
this massive success, this proven track record
at RCA Victor. And then we hit 1965. The jump.
The label jump. She leaves RCA and signs with
Larry Newton at the ABC Paramount label. And
a label jump for an artist of that tier is never
just a change of stationary. It is a massive
strategic realignment. High stakes. Very high
stakes. When Larry Newton brings her over to
ABC Paramount, there is an implicit understanding.
that they are either going to breathe new life
into her existing pop jazz formula, or they are
going to utilize her massive vocal talent to
break into new stylistic territory. And their
initial strategy seems to be, well, establishing
a solid, perhaps slightly safe beachhead. Right.
Playing it relatively cool at first. Because
in 1965, her very first release for the new label
drops. It's titled Newman and Here, De La Reese.
And for this introductory statement at ABC, they
put a highly established producer at the helm.
Bob Thiel. Bob Thiel. And having Bob Thiel produce
that initial 1965 record makes perfect sense
from a label perspective. You want a steady hand
to transition an RCA star into the ABC Paramount
ecosystem. You don't want to scare off the fans
who followed her? Exactly. It is about establishing
trust both with the artist and with that existing
consumer base. But the stability doesn't last
at all. By the very next year, 1966, they are
preparing her second album for the label. The
subject of our focus today, I like it like that.
And there is an immediate seismic shift in the
personnel. Bob Thiel is out. The producer's chair
is empty. And the person who steps into that
role is Lee Majid. Now, Lee Majid is not just
a random studio hire. No. Lee Majid is Della
Reese's manager. What's fascinating here is the
psychological and professional tightrope of that
dual role. Think about the fundamental duties
of a manager versus a producer. They're completely
different jobs. Entirely. The manager is a fiduciary.
Their mandate is to maximize the artist's earning
potential, to negotiate the most favorable terms
with Larry Newton at the label, and to ensure
the artist's brand remains commercially viable.
They're looking at the macro level, the market
landscape. Right. But the producer is supposed
to be the artistic compass. They're in the booth
focusing on the micro details. How does the brass
section sound? Is the vocal take emotionally
resonant? Does this arrangement actually serve
the song? So when you merge those two roles into
one person, when Lee Medjid puts on both hats,
you are inherently blurring the line between
creative expression and commercial calculation.
You have to. Every artistic choice made in that
studio is now filtered through the lens of a
manager who is acutely aware of what is currently
selling on the charts. Let me push back on that
for a second, though. Isn't it possible that
a manager who intimately knows the artist's capabilities
and trusts their talent more than anyone might
actually be the best person to produce them?
How do you mean? Well, they don't have to waste
time translating the artist's vision to a third
-party producer. They already share a brain in
a business sense. It is entirely possible. And
history is full of manager producers who have
facilitated masterpieces. But the inherent risk
is the loss of objective friction. The pushback.
Exactly, the pushback. A great producer often
challenges an artist, pushes them out of their
comfort zone, or tells them a commercial idea
is actually artistically hollow. When the producer
is also the person whose percentage cut relies
on the album being a massive hit, the temptation
to chase contemporary trends rather than artistic
timelessness is incredibly high. And that dynamic
is the central lens through which we have to
view the blues style they decided to adopt for
this record. Because it wasn't a subtle shift.
No, it was a hard pivot. And Majid isn't executing
this vision alone. He knows he needs a musical
architect to translate this strategy to the studio
floor. He needs a tactician. Right. And the liner
notes for the album explicitly credit another
crucial figure, Bobby Bryant. Bryant is brought
in to serve as both the arranger and the conductor.
The arranger is the person who actually builds
the house. If Majid says, we are doing a blues
heavy record, Bobby Bryant is the one who decides
what the rhythm section is going to play, where
the horn stabs are going to land, and how the
tempo is going to swing. He is making the blueprints
real. He takes the theoretical concept of a blues
style and writes the actual charts for the musicians
sitting in the room. The fact that Majid and
Bryant share such a prominent billing on this
project highlights that this wasn't just some
loose, let's see what happens jam session. Not
at all. This was a highly structured, orchestrated
effort to pivot Della Reese's sound. And that
structure is incredibly apparent when you look
at how they built the physical track list. The
architecture of a 12 -track vinyl album from
1966 requires a level of deliberate pacing that
is just completely foreign to the modern playlist
era. You can't just shuffle it. We have to...
analyze the psychology of the sequence, side
one and side two. They have to hook the listener,
sustain their attention, and convince them to
physically interact with the turntable. They
have to want to flip the record over. Right.
And the overarching aesthetic they chose to glue
these 12 tracks together was an explicit lean
into blues standards. They didn't just write
12 new blues songs. They packed the album with
covers of established, heavy -hitting compositions.
And covering established standards is a very
specific type of music currency. It provides
immediate context for the listener. Let's look
at the specific composers they chose to tackle.
This is where the ambition of the project really
shows. They include a cover of Billy Eckstein's
Fool That I Am. And then serving as absolute
pillars of the album, we have two tracks written
by the iconic Johnny Mercer. Track one, opening
the entire album, is Travel in Light. And later
on, we have Drinking Again. Let's analyze the
decision to open the album with Johnny Mercer's
Travel in Light. Mercer is an absolute titan
of American songwriting. His work is ingrained
in the cultural subconscious. Everyone knows
a Mercer tune. By placing his composition as
the very first thing the listener hears, when
the needle drops on side one, Majid and Bryant
are making a declarative statement. It's an anchor
of legitimacy. It really is. It tells the traditional
jazz and pop audience, the people who bought
the RCA Victor Records, don't worry, we are still
engaging with the great American songbook. We
are still operating at the highest level of compositional
quality. We haven't abandoned you. Right. But
it also allows Della Reese to reinterpret a familiar
text through this new orchestrated blues lens.
It is much easier to introduce a new sonic style
to your audience if the underlying song is already
a trusted friend. But the pressure of that, if
you are going to record Traveling Light or Billy
Eckstein's Fool That I Am in 1966, you are acutely
aware that your audience has already heard legendary
definitive versions of these songs. Oh, the definitive
versions were already out there. You are actively
inviting direct comparison to the absolute greats.
That is the gambit. If you succeed, you elevate
yourself to their peer group. You prove that
your vocal chops can handle the heaviest material
in the genre. And if you fail. If you fail, you
sound like a lounge act doing an imitation. Maded
acting as the manager producer. Clearly believe
Della Reese had the vocal sheer force to not
just survive those comparisons, but to weaponize
them to prove her blues authenticity. But they
didn't solely rely on the safety net of Mercer
and Eckstein. This is the detail in the track
list that completely shifts how I view this album.
The original credits. Yes. Della Reese wasn't
just a vocal interpreter on this project. She's
actively credited as a songwriter. Which completely
alters her agency in the creation of the album.
She holds writing credits on two distinct tracks.
We have Every Evening credited to Dee Reese,
and I ain't ready for that, also credited to
Dee Reese. And the placement of these originals
is vital. Both of them are on Side 1. If we connect
this to the bigger picture of album sequencing,
putting the artist's original compositions on
the A -side is a massive vote of confidence from
the label and the producer. Because Side 1 is
where the commercial battle is won or lost. Exactly.
You open with Johnny Mercer to hook the audience.
You establish the blues atmosphere. And then...
seamlessly woven into that same sequence, you
introduce Dee Reese, the songwriter. You sneak
it in right past the gate. You do. It forces
the listener to evaluate her original work on
the exact same terms as a Mercer standard. It
is a brilliant way to establish artistic credibility.
And she is in good contemporary company on the
writing side, too. The track list also highlights
two compositions by Dee Washington. We have If
It's the Last Thing I Do, placed early on side
one, and If I Never Get to Heaven, featured on
side two. So you have this remarkably balanced
ecosystem on the vinyl. You have a historical
weight of Mercer and Eckstein, the contemporary
contributions of Washington, and the deeply personal
original statements from Reese herself. It's
bulletproof on paper. It really is a carefully
curated portfolio designed by Lee Magid and Bobby
Bryant to present Della Reese as a comprehensive
blues artist. Someone who can respect the history,
sing the contemporary hits, and write her own
chapters. It is a phenomenal theoretical strategy.
You can just see the logic perfectly laid out
on the manager's whiteboard. But theory has to
survive the reality of the marketplace. And the
critics. Always the critics. When the album was
finally released in February 1966, the reaction
it sparked was intensely polarizing. And it provides
us with a perfect case study in how the immediate
commercial metrics of the music industry often
clash violently with the long -term evaluations
of music historians. Let's dive into the critical
whiplash. The dichotomy between the trade magazines
in 1966 and the retrospective jazz critics is
the most revealing aspect of this entire deep
dive. It shows us exactly exactly what the industry
valued in the moment versus what historians value
in hindsight. Let's start with the immediate
reaction because the contemporary hype was palpable.
The trade magazines, the publications read by
label executives, radio programmers, and record
store owners were entirely on board with this
pivot. They loved it. Cashbox magazine reviewed
the album right at launch in February 1966, and
their assessment was purely focused on momentum.
They noted the backing of Bobby Bryant and the
rhythm section, and they explicitly predicted
that the album could be a strong candidate for
chart honors. Chart honors. That specific phrasing
is the Rosetta Stone for understanding trade
magazines in the 1960s. It sounds so formal now.
It does. But Cashbox is not a literary journal
analyzing the poetic depth of the lyrics. They
are a business publication. Their job is to tell
record stores what is going to move inventory.
When they say chart honors, they are validating
Lee McGidd's entire managerial strategy. They
are saying the pivot worked. They are saying
the pivot is monetizable, they hear the arrangements
Bobby Bryant put together, they hear the power
of Reese's vocal delivery, and they recognize
a product that fits perfectly into the commercial
demands of 1966 radio. And Billboard magazine
was even more enthusiastic and a lot more visceral
in their description. Their review from March
1966 praises her great gospel style. And then
they summarize the record as an exciting package
of both raunchy, hot, funky blues ballads. We
really need to pause and examine the phrase raunchy,
hot, funky. I am obsessed with this detail. It
is clearly a 1966 print typography error. It
has to be. It is painfully obvious that the reviewer
wrote raunchy, endy, funky blues ballads, and
someone at the printing press made a mistake
setting the type immortalizing hod funky into
the historical record forever. It's the charm
of analog media. Exactly. But even looking past
the typo, look at the vocabulary Billboard is
employing. Exciting, raunchy, funky. Think about
those adjectives in contrast to the polished,
pristine pop jazz image of a vocalist who had
a number two Hot 100 hit in 1959. Raunchy and
funky are earthy terms. They imply sweat, They
imply a groove. They imply something slightly
dangerous and heavily commercial. It's a grittier
brand. Yes. Billboard is confirming that the
blues style Majid and Bryant engineered is hitting
the listener on a physical rhythmic level. It's
the ultimate validation for a manager. Majid
takes over as producer, pivots the sound to something
heavier and bluesier, and the two biggest trade
magazines in the country immediately declare
it a funky, exciting candidate for the charts.
In 1966, this album is a success story. But the
verdict of 1966 is not the final verdict. And
this is where the historical perspective radically
alters the narrative. Here comes the whiplash.
When you remove the album from the immediate
commercial pressures of the 1960s charts and
evaluate it purely as an artistic statement within
the jazz and blues continuum, a very different
picture emerges. Enter the retrospective criticism.
We have to look at the assessment of Wilfried
Wald. the author of a biographical guide to the
great jazz and pop singers. He represents the
historian's viewpoint here, and his evaluation
of I like it like that is brutal in its specificity.
He completely rejects the enthusiasm of Billboard
and Cashbox. Completely. Friedwald's critique
is centered on the concept of authenticity, and
his choice of words is devastatingly precise.
He called the album an occasionally overly jukeboxy
attempt to bring out Reese's blues strengths.
Overly jukeboxy. That is such a loaded, weaponized
term in the context of music criticism. Let's
break down why that is an insult coming from
a jazz historian. Well, to a trade magazine,
being suitable for a jukebox is the ultimate
compliment. It means people in bars and diners
are willing to feed quarters into a machine just
to hear your song. It means mass appeal. Right.
It means cash flow. But to a historian like Friedwald,
jukeboxy implies pandering. It implies that the
music was manufactured to trigger a cheap, immediate
response, rather than offering complex, lasting
artistry. It suggests that Lee Magid wasn't trying
to capture De La Rees' soul, he was trying to
capture the loose change of the American public.
And Friedwald doesn't stop there. He elaborates
on this jukeboxy attempt by claiming the album
was actively evoking Dinah Washington and Aretha
Franklin. Now on the surface, Being compared
to Aretha Franklin or Dinah Washington sounds
like the highest praise a vocalist could ever
receive. You would think. But in the context
of Friedwald's critique, evoking is a polite
synonym for imitating. Exactly. He is accusing
the album of being derivative. He is looking
at the landscape of 1966. Aretha Franklin and
Dinah Washington were the undisputed titans of
that soulful, blues -driven sound. Friedwald
is essentially arguing that Lee Majed, acting
as the manager producer, looked at what was dominating
the market, looked at his artists and said, we
need you to sound exactly like them. What on
this costume? Precisely. He is criticizing the
album, not for lacking talent. He actually concedes
in his review that her performance on the ballads
is outstanding, but for lacking originality.
He views the up -tempo blues tracks as a calculated
costume rather than a genuine evolution. And
that sentiment seems to be echoed by the broader
retrospective community. If we look at the aggregator
AllMusic, they handed the album a dismal two
out of five stars. Ouch. And perhaps the most
damning part of that rating is that they didn't
even bother to write a review to justify it.
It was just quietly relegated to two -star status.
A silent two -star rating from an archival site
suggests that they view the album as inessential.
a footnote in her broader career rather than
a defining masterpiece. So you have this incredible
tension. A manager produces an album that is
lauded as an exciting raunchy chart contender
in its own era, but is later dismissed as a pandering
jukeboxy imitation by the gatekeepers of jazz
history. It's a fascinating paradox. But regardless
of how history would eventually judge it, in
the spring of 1966, ABC Paramount had a product
to sell. And the mechanics of how they sold it,
the physical rollout of the artifact is just
as fascinating as the music itself. Let's examine
the single strategy. The life cycle of an album
in the 1960s was entirely dependent on the strategic
deployment of singles. You didn't just put the
record on shelves and hope for the best. You
had to actively work the market over a period
of months. And their opening move is very telling.
In February 1966, the exact same month the full
LP hits the market, they release the lead single.
The A -side they choose is Taint nobody's business
if I do. Choosing that specific standard as the
lead single is a highly calculated, relatively
safe choice. It's familiar. It is an established
blues classic. It immediately communicates this
stylistic pivot of the album to radio programmers.
It's recognizable, it's comfortable, and it provides
an easy on -ramp for listeners. But the B -side
is where the real strategy lies. The B -side
to that February single is, I ain't ready for
that. Which, as we discussed earlier, is one
of the tracks credited to Dee Reese. This is
a classic industry Trojan horse. I love that
concept. Let's explore how that actually works.
The label knows that radio stations are going
to play the A side. People are going to buy the
45 RPM record for the classic standard they recognize.
But once that physical piece of vinyl is in the
consumer's home, they are inevitably going to
flip it over. You're going to play the other
side eventually. Exactly. By placing Reese's
original composition on the B side of the lead
single, they are guaranteeing that millions of
people will be exposed to her songwriting. It
is a way of forcing her original artistry into
the market, riding on the coattails of a safe
cover song. It's brilliant. It serves the commercial
need for a hit while simultaneously serving the
artist's need for creative validation. And then
we see the pacing of the rollout. They let the
February single do its work, they let the album
percolate in the culture, and they wait until
June 1966 to strike again with the follow -up
single. That four -month delta is a masterclass
in extending the commercial lifespan of a project.
In June, they release, if it's the last thing
I do, as the A -side. This is one of the tracks
penned by D. Washington. And they back it with
a B -side called A Stranger on Earth. By June,
the initial burst of album sales from the dedicated
fan base has likely subsided. The first single
has peaked and is falling off the radio rotation.
Dropping a second single four months later is
designed to reignite the entire campaign. It
gives the sales team an excuse to call the record
stores again. Exactly. It gives radio a fresh
track for the summer, and it reminds the general
public that the album exists. It proves that
ABC Paramount was fully committed to working
this blues -style pivot for the long haul. And
their commitment wasn't just temporal, it was
technological and geographical. The release formats
alone tell a huge story about the state of the
industry. In February 1966, ABC Paramount issued
the LP in both mono and stereo formats simultaneously.
This was a vital commercial necessity at that
specific moment in time. The transition from
monorail to scariophonic sound was not instantaneous.
I think we often forget that. We assume once
stereo was invented, everyone just switched overnight.
Far from it. Stereo was the premium product.
It offered spatial separation, a richer, more
immersive listening experience for audiophiles
who could afford the new expensive home console
setups. The fancy living room setups. Right.
But mono was still the undisputed king of mass
consumption. AM radio stations, which drove the
majority of single sales, broadcast entirely
in mono. Millions of teenagers and casual listeners
only had inexpensive mono record players. So
if you only release in stereo, you are alienating
a massive percentage of your potential buyers.
Precisely. By absorbing the significant cost
of mastering, pressing, and distributing two
separate versions of the album, ABC Paramount
was ensuring that they captured every single
dollar available in the marketplace. They were
covering all their bases. And they were covering
the globe, too. The distribution network for
this album was immense. It wasn't just a domestic
release on ABC Paramount. The record was also
distributed internationally through labels like
His Master's Voice and Ampar. The involvement
of His Master's Voice HMV is particularly significant.
That label had massive cultural cache and distribution
power in the United Kingdom and across Europe.
Huge reach. Ampar functioned as the international
arm for ABC. This demonstrates that the label
didn't view Delarise's blues pivot as a localized
American experiment. They believed that this
exciting raunchy sound had international viability.
They were exporting the 1966 American blues pop
aesthetic to the rest of the world. Which makes
the final piece of the album's physical legacy
so incredibly satisfying. Because for all the
international distribution and all the contemporary
trade magazine hype, we know that history eventually
marginalized the album. The Jazz Purists won
the historical narrative. Right. The two -star
news and the jukeboxy insults took their toll,
but the album refused to disappear entirely.
For all the vinyl crate diggers and physical
media purists out there listening, this record
actually had a resurrection. It did. The archival
data shows a very specific, very telling reissue.
Soca 1984, an astonishing 18 years after it was
initially released, I like it like that, was
reissued on the Jasmine label. If we connect
this to the bigger picture of musical legacy,
a reissue on a label like Jasmine speaks volumes.
Because they aren't a massive corporate conglomerate
looking for a guaranteed platinum hit. Exactly.
Jasmine was a label that specialized in catering
to highly specific, dedicated niches of jazz
and vocal enthusiasts. The fact that they chose
to license, remaster, and physically press this
specific album in 1984 means that a market still
existed for it. someone still wanted to buy it.
It means that Will Friedwald's assessment, while
valid from a critical standpoint, didn't represent
the entirety of the listening public. It proves
that there were people in the mid -1980s who
didn't care if the album was a calculated manager
-driven attempt to evoke Aretha Franklin. They
just wanted to hear Della Reese belt out Traveling
Light and Every Evening Blues. The sheer power
of her performance outlasted the cynical context
of its creation. It is the ultimate vindication
for the artist. Critics can dissect the intentions
of the producer, they can mock the typographical
errors of the trade magazines, but they cannot
erase the emotional connection a listener makes
with the vinyl. The 1984 reissue proves that
the jukeboxy sound Lee majored chased actually
had enduring undeniable appeal. It really forces
you to reevaluate the entire concept of a commercial
compromise. So we have pulled apart every thread
of this 1966 artifact. We started with an artist
sitting at the absolute peak of the pop tarts
at RCA Victor, and we followed her through a
strategic label jump to ABC Paramount. We debated
the inherent friction of Lee Majors replacing
Bob Thiel. Navigating the treacherous waters
of being both the business manager and the creative
producer. We analyzed the architecture of the
track list from the anchoring weight of to the
strategic deployment of her own original writing.
We experienced the critical whiplash, standing
in the crossfire between the chart honor predictions
of Cashbox and the overly jukeboxy dismissals
of later historians. And finally, we tracked
the physical vinyl itself from its dual mono
stereo launch through its four -month single
strategy, all the way to its quiet resurrection
on the Jasmine label in 1984. So what does this
all mean for you, the listener? Why does dissecting
a forgotten pivot from 1966 matter to how we
understand music today? It matters because the
mechanics of the industry have evolved, but human
nature and corporate strategy have not. The story
of I Like It Like Dat is the definitive blueprint
for understanding how an artist's catalog is
actually built. It is never just a magical, uninterrupted
flow of pure inspiration. It is a grueling series
of calculated risks. It involves label executives
demanding a return on investment, managers trying
to secure relevance in a rapidly changing market,
and artists trying to slip their own authentic
voice into the gaps between the cover songs.
What a critic deems a derivative failure might
just be the exact sound a niche audience will
cherish for decades. This raises an important
question and it is the thought I want to leave
you with today. We have spent this deep dive
dissecting how a 1966 attempt to capture the
popular blues sound was retrospectively attacked
for being too commercial, for trying too hard
to evoke the titans of the era. At what exact
point does adapting to the cultural zeitgeist
stop being viewed as a brilliant strategic move
by a manager and start being condemned as a hollow
artistic compromise? The line between brilliant
pivot and jukeboxy pandering is razor thin. It
is almost invisible. So the next time you are
listening to the reigning pop star of our current
era, the artist currently dominating the streaming
charts, and they suddenly announce a pivot into
a completely new genre, whether it's a country
album, a dance record, or a rock revival, ask
yourself this. When the historians look back
at this moment in 50 years, will they praise
the artist as a fearless, genre -defying visionary?
Or will they look at the producers, look at the
market trends, and dismiss the whole project
as an overly jukeboxy attempt to cash in on the
sound of the moment? History is a harsh critic,
but as we learned today, the music itself always
has the final word. Thank you for joining us
on this incredibly deep dive. Keep questioning
the consensus, keep looking past the reviews,
and keep exploring the history hidden in the
grooves of your favorite records. We will see
you next time.