Imagine finding a diary entry you wrote years
ago. Right, like back when you were a teenager
or something. Exactly. Written in like blue ink
on crinkled paper. And it's just full of this
heavy, dramatic, top of your lungs angst. We
all have those. Yeah, we really do. But now imagine
taking that exact same memory, those exact same
words, and deciding to rewrite it today. Wow.
but rewriting it as this laid back reflective
digital blog post while a reggae band plays softly
in the background. That is quite the visual.
Right. It's the exact same core memory, but it's
being translated through decades of lived experience.
And that bizarre, fascinating translation is
exactly what we're going to explore today. Welcome
to the deep dive, by the way. Glad to be here.
And it really challenges this assumption we all
have about permanence. What do you mean by that?
Well, usually when we talk about building something
a house, for instance, we expect it to stay put.
Right, sure. You pour the concrete, you put up
the drywall, you paint it, and the project is
just finished. We like to believe that once a
creative project is out in the world, its identity
is locked in. Locked in stone. But then you look
at the world of music, and specifically the way
some artists relate to their own past work, and
suddenly that concrete foundation looks a lot
more like wet clay. Definitely. Today's deep
dive is based on a really fascinating single
source. We're looking at a Wikipedia article
detailing the history of the song Wings by Ringo
Starr. A great topic. It is. Our mission today
is to explore the anatomy of this one specific
track, because it essentially lived two completely
different lives, released 35 years apart. 35
years is a long time to sit with a song. Yeah,
it really is. We are going to unpack how an artist
revisits, reinvents, and reinterprets their own
past, and what the drastically different critical
receptions tell us about art, time, and how our
environment shapes what we create. It is the
perfect case study for this, honestly. Looking
at this song's evolution from its original release
in 1977 to its total reinvention in 2012, it
offers a truly unique lens. It really strips
away the illusion that a piece of recorded music
is just some fixed artifact in a museum. Exactly.
It's a living thing. So whether you're a music
history buff or someone catching up on pop culture,
you're just, you know... insanely curious about
the creative process. This story perfectly captures
that eternal tension between an artist's internal
vision and the public's perception. So what does
this all mean? To understand why a song needs
a massive reinvention in the first place, we
have to go back to its birth. Which takes us
to the absolute peak of the analog studio era.
Oh yeah. August 26, 1977. When an album meant
vinyl. Precisely. This is when the original version
of Wings was released in the U .S. It was a single
via Atlantic Records, featured on the album Ringo
the 4th, and it was backed with a non -album
track called Just a Dream on the B -side. The
classic B -side. Right. And the production details
of this original 1977 release are incredibly
telling. Okay, let's unpack this, because you
can't just talk about a late 70s track without
talking about the sheer scale of how they made
music back then. Absolutely. The 1977 version
was produced by Arief Marden, who was, I mean,
he was an absolute titan in the recording industry.
The legend. Marden was known for putting together
these lush, highly orchestrated, densely populated
arrangements, and the personnel he assembled
for this track reflects that philosophy completely.
It was an army of top -tier talent. It really
reads like a fantasy draft of 1970s studio musicians.
It does. You have Ringo Starr on lead vocals
and drums. Naturally. Naturally. But then you
also have David Spinoza on lead guitar, Tony
Levin on bass, Don Grolnik on keyboards, and
either Jeff Marinov or John Tropea playing additional
guitars. That's already a massive lineup. Oh,
but wait. On top of all of that, you have the
legendary Steve Gad also playing drums. Wait,
I need to stop right there. Two drummers on one
track. Two drummers? Ringo Starr and Steve Gad
playing simultaneously. I have to ask, physically,
what does that actually do to the sound of a
record? It's massive. Right, because having that
kind of lineup feels like you are building this
heavy rock foundation. Yeah. How did that match
up with how this song was actually received?
Well, it matched up perfectly with the expectations
of the era, really. It created a very specific
sonic weight. When you have two drummers playing
in an analog setup, you are moving a massive
amount of literal air in the recording room.
Wow. Yeah, just the physics of it. Right. In
1977, musicians played together in the same physical
space. So the sound of Steve Gad's snare drum
is bleeding into the microphones that are picking
up David Spinoza's guitar. Oh, so you can't just
isolate them. You can't separate them at all.
It forces everyone to lock in and feed off each
other's physical energy in the room. So it's
less like assembling a puzzle and more like,
I don't know, watching a live Broadway ensemble.
That's a great way to put it. Everyone has to
hit their mark at the exact same time, and that
shared adrenaline basically becomes part of the
recording. Exactly, and the critics recognized
that energy at the time. If we look at a review
from Cashbox magazine, this is dated September
3, 1977, they praised the track specifically
for that dense... collaborative sound. What did
they say? They wrote that the haunting melody
is carried by a closely knit ensemble of vocalists.
And they specifically highlighted that the track
was supported by a richly textured horn section
and stabbing guitars. Stabbing guitars. That
is such a visceral phrase. It implies like urgency,
aggression, something very forward leaning. It
really does. And it perfectly contextualizes
where this song sat in Ringo's career at the
time. Chronologically, the single was sandwiched
right between his releases of and drowning in
the sea of love. This was an era of big dramatic
statements. The wall of sound was the goal. I
have to admit, looking at the success of that
77 track, revisiting it 35 years later feels
incredibly risky. It is risky. Usually when legacy
artists decide to go back and touch their classic
richly textured hits, it ends up feeling like...
a cash grab or just a desperate attempt to stay
relevant. Yeah, fans can be very protective.
Exactly. If the original had these stabbing guitars
and this haunting melody that critics loved,
why not just let it live in the pantheon of 1970s
rock? Was Ringo just bored? That's the natural
assumption, right? Yeah. But the reality is much
more about the unavoidable shifting of an artist's
internal landscape. 35 years is a long time to
live with a piece of your own art. It is a lifetime.
So we jump forward to January 10th, 2012. Ringo
Starr releases the album Ringo 2012 via Hippo
Records. And right there on the crack list is
Wings. But something is completely different.
The genre has shifted entirely. We have gone
from a heavily layered, urgent 1970s rock epic
to reggae rock. Which feels less like a simple
remix and more like a complete teardown of the
house. Rock to reggae is a massive pivot. What's
fascinating here is how Ringo explained the shift.
He was very open about his motivation. He said,
this is a song I first recorded on Ringo the
4th back when an album meant vinyl. These are
different days. And it's one of those songs I
always wanted to revisit. I love that phrase,
when an album meant vinyl. It's so evocative.
It really acknowledges that the medium itself
dictated the art. Right. And he has a really
charming detail about his co -writer on the track,
Vinny Poncia. Ringo said, I wrote Wings with
Vinny Pancia in New York, and he doesn't know
I've done this yet. I'm going to surprise Vinny
and send it to him. The idea of surprising your
co -writer with a fundamentally different version
of your shared work decades later is just wild
to me. A fun little surprise in the mail. It
takes a lot of confidence. But the justification
he gives for the genre shift is what really caught
my eye. He says, for the last two years, I've
been listening to a lot of reggae. So this album
has a reggae feel to it. What can I tell you?
I'm a product of my environment. I always loved
the sentiment of this song and I'm glad we finally
got it right. Finally got it right. That is a
loaded statement from the original creator. It
really is and I want to challenge that premise
a bit. Go for it. Ringo says he always loved
the sentiment of the song. But this changing
the genre... Completely from a rock track driven
by two drummers and stabbing guitars to a laid
-back reggae groove, does that fundamentally
alter the original sentiment? Fair question.
It just seems impossible to change the musical
skeleton that drastically without changing the
emotional meaning of the lyrics. It absolutely
alters the delivery of the sentiment and we can
see exactly how by looking at the mechanics of
reggae versus rock. Break that down for me. Well,
in rock music, especially the 1977 style we discussed,
the rhythm section is driving forward, heavily
accenting the downbeats. It creates that urgent
stabbing feeling. Right. Reggae does the exact
opposite. Reggae is built on the offbeat, the
syncopation. The emphasis is on the spaces between
the beats. Oh, I see. So it physically forces
the singer to lay back. You can't shout a rock
lyric over a reggae offbeat. You have to stretch
the words out. You have to let them breathe.
Precisely. The words take on a more reflective,
perhaps more mature weight rather than an urgent,
angsty one. And this shift in genre is mirrored
perfectly by the shift in how the 2012 version
was actually produced. Because he didn't bring
Aerith Martin's army back into the studio. Oh,
no, he definitely didn't. The 2012 version represents
a completely different philosophy of creation.
It was produced by Ringo himself, along with
Bruce Sugar. So much smaller team. It is a much
more intimate, enclosed process. In 2012, Ringo
is doing the heavy lifting across the board.
The credits list him on drums, percussion. vocals,
keyboards, and backing vocals. Wow, that is the
complete opposite of the Broadway ensemble. Completely.
If the 1977 version is a bunch of people bleeding
into each other's microphones in a massive room,
this 2012 version sounds like a stop motion film.
That's a really good comparison. Yeah, like Ringo
is in a digital studio laying down the drums
alone, then he goes back and meticulously layers
the keyboards over it. He is in total control
of every micro movement. That is a perfect analogy.
The digital audio workstation replaced the massive
analog In its place, you have a much smaller,
trusted circle. You've got Joe Walsh on guitar,
Ben Montenegro on organ, and Bruce Sugar handling
the piano and horn arrangements. You also have
Amy Keys and Kelly Moneymaker providing the backing
vocals. It's an isolated, controlled environment.
So when Ringo says, I'm a product of my environment,
he means it both musically and technologically.
Absolutely. In 1977, his environment was a massive
room with a dozen musicians trying to create
a vinyl hit. In 2012, his environment was a digital
studio, having the tools to layer most of the
track himself asynchronously while being heavily
influenced by two years of just listening to
reggae. And that shift in environment stripped
away the externalized rock performance and replaced
it with a very personalized, grew -driven digital
project. Ringo felt this new environment allowed
him to finally get the core sentiment of the
song correct. Which is a beautiful realization
for an artist to have. But here's where it gets
really interesting. Because while Ringo Starr,
the creator of the intellectual property, felt
he had finally achieved his true vision, the
audience reaction was an entirely different story.
The critical reception was undeniably fractured.
That is putting it mildly. Let's look at the
review from Billy Dukes. He was writing for Ultimate
Classic Rock in January 2012. Oh, this one is
tough. Dukes absolutely slammed the reggae remake.
He compared it directly to the 1977 original
and called the new version a less passionate
borderline lifeless vocal performance. Lifeless
is a very strong critique for an artist who felt
he had just breathed new life into an old idea.
It's brutal. But it makes me wonder if Dukes
is simply misunderstanding the mechanics of the
genre shift we just talked about. How so? I mean
if you were sitting there with headphones on,
specifically waiting for the urgency of stabbing
guitars and the dramatic haunting ensemble vocals
of a 1977 rock epic, then of course a digitally
produced laid -back reggae track is going to
sound lifeless in comparison. It's a totally
different frequency. Exactly. It's operating
on a completely different emotional frequency.
You're expecting a sprint and the artist is inviting
you for a slow walk. This raises an important
question about the role of nostalgia and how
art is consumed and evaluated. Oh, totally. The
critic, Billy Dukes, is reviewing the 2012 track,
but he isn't really listening to it in a vacuum.
He is listening to it through the heavy ghost
of the 1977 track. Right, he can't unhear the
original. Exactly. Ringo's identity as a musician
has evolved over 35 years, but the critic's baseline
is anchored firmly in the past. So Ringo is essentially
saying, this is who I am today. I feel the song
today and the critic is saying, but I liked who
you were yesterday better. Pretty much. Who gets
to decide when a song is actually right? Is it
the artist who wrote it and feels it finally
matches their internal rhythm or is it the critic
who is comparing it to a 35 year old memory?
It's the eternal struggle of the legacy artist.
But what is truly brilliant about this story
is how Ringo Starr seemed entirely unfazed by
that critical friction. He just kept going. He
really did because the 2012 version of Wings
didn't just stop it being a debated studio recording.
It continued to evolve and it found these totally
unexpected afterlives that distanced it even
further from the 1977 original. which brings
us to the music video, which is such a fascinating
pivot in how artists interacted with the internet
around that time. It really was. Rather than
going the traditional industry route of hiring
a big -mudget director to shoot a glossy, tightly
-controlled promotional video, Ringo fully embraced
the collaborative potential of the digital era.
He decided to crowdsource the official music
video for the 2012 version. Crowdsourcing a music
video in 2012 is such a specific cultural moment.
You are basically handing over the visual identity
of your song to the internet. Exactly. He used
a platform called genero .tv, which allowed independent
filmmakers from all over the world to pitch their
own visual interpretations of the track. That's
so cool. Ultimately, a Vancouver -based filmmaker
won the contest. Ringo personally reviewed the
submissions, chose the winning entry, and publicly
praised it, calling it a great little video.
Just think about the trajectory of that. It's
a journey. A song that started in a sweaty analog
studio in 1977 with an army of musicians has
now morphed into a digital reggae track that
gets its visual identity from a fan -sourced
filmmaker on the other side of the globe. It
really is wild. It's like the song is just collecting
different environments as it travels through
time. And its journey still isn't over. Because
the ultimate test of any song's durability, regardless
of its genre or the era it was recorded in, is
how it lives outside the studio in front of a
live audience. Right, the live test. Ringo took
this new reggae arrangement on the road. A live
version was recorded in Atlanta by Ringo Starr
and his All -Star Band. So he brings it back
into a live ensemble setting, but with the new
DNA of the 2012 reggae version. Precisely. And
that specific live recording in Atlanta ended
up serving a purpose far beyond just entertaining
a crowd. Oh really? Yeah. If we connect this
to the bigger picture, that live recording was
utilized for a much greater cause. It was officially
released on a charity compilation album titled
Songs After Sandy, Friends Red Hook for Sandy
Relief, which was put together specifically to
help the victims of Hurricane Sandy. That completely
recontextualizes the song again. It does. It
shows the profound, unpredictable journey of
a single piece of intellectual property. It begins
as an urgent vinyl rock track in the 1970s. It
transforms into a reflective digital reggae experiment
in the 2010s. It becomes a crowd -sourced canvas
for an independent filmmaker in Canada. And finally,
it serves as a live communal vehicle to raise
money for hurricane relief on the East Coast.
It proves that a song or really any piece of
art isn't just a fixed artifact. It's a living,
breathing entity that constantly adapts to the
era, the technology, and the specific needs of
the moment. Which brings us right back to you
listening to this deep dive right now. The application
of this goes far beyond music history. Exactly.
Because what is the major takeaway from this
incredibly weird winding journey of a single
Ringo Starr song? I think it is the realization
that nothing you create is ever truly locked
in stone. The concrete is actually wet clay.
The concrete is wet clay. Just like Ringo Starr
looking back at a 1977 track and deciding to
inject it with the reggae he'd been listening
to for two years, you too... are a product of
your environment. Definitely. The tools you have
today, the media you are consuming right now,
the life experiences you've gathered, they fundamentally
change how you see your own past work. And they
should. Growth requires revision. So don't be
afraid to revisit an old project, a dusty notebook,
a discarded idea, or an old presentation with
fresh eyes. Don't be afraid to rewrite it to
entirely change its genre, so to speak. Yeah,
take a risk. Take your own stabbing guitars and
turn them into a reggae groove, if that's what
makes sense to you today. Even if the critics
or worse, your own harsh inner critic, try to
compare it to the original until you was better
the first time around. Ignore them. Sometimes
you just have to tear down the walls and let
your new environment shape the output so you
can finally get it right. And that leaves us
with one last philosophical puzzle to mull over.
We've seen an artist fundamentally alter the
genre, the instrumentation, and the entire emotional
delivery of his own creation 35 years later.
Yeah. If that is possible, at what point is a
piece of art ever truly finished? Are the things
we create today just living drafts, waiting for
a new environment decades from now to rewrite
them? Are they just foundations waiting for a
new house to be built on top of them? Yeah. I
love that. That is definitely something to chew
on. Thank you so much for joining us on this
deep dive today. We love exploring these weird,
wonderful corners of history with you and celebrating
that curiosity. We'll be back with more fascinating
explorations next time. Until then keep looking
at your old drafts with new eyes.