When Pink Floyd bassist-turned-solo artist Roger Waters announced plans to re-imagine the band's iconic Dark Side Of The Moon, puzzled looks rightly ensued.  He even said to Variety, "We all thought I was mad but the more we considered it, the more we thought 'isn't that the whole point?'" Waters, who wrote much of Dark Side and is no stranger to controversy, has offered that Redux's relation to the original is, "Not to supersede it or to replace it, but to remember it, and as an adjunct to it, and to progress the work of the original concept of the original record and all those original songs."  Opener "Speak to Me" now features spoken text that is actually the lyrics from "Free Four," which appears on Pink Floyd's 1972 album Obscured By Clouds: "The memories of a man in his old age, are the deeds of a man in his prime/ You shuffle in the gloom of the sick room and talk to yourself as you die/ For life is a short, warm moment and death is a long, cold rest." "On The Run" is prefaced with "Today, I awoke from a dream/ It was a revelation, almost Patmosian, whatever that means/ But that's evidently another story/ It began with some standard bullshit fight with evil/ In this case, an apparently all-powerful hooded and cloaked figure," which was something Waters wrote down after waking up from a dream in July, 2021.  A number of talented musicians join Waters, among them: Gus Seyffert on bass, guitar, backing vocals; Joey Waronker on drums; Jonathan Wilson on guitars and synth.  In the case of the original single "Money," once an indictment of capitalism, Waters slows the pace, adds cello accents and a menacing piano part, and switches into a whispery Tom Waits-Leonard Cohen conspiratorial growl. The new lyrics are about a heavyweight boxing match, the devil, and a Faustian deal. One of rock's enduring masterpieces has now become the backdrop for a spoken word piece where Waters imparts the perspective he's gained since the album's original release in 1973. © Robert Baird/Qobuz

Legend has it that by the late 1980s Emmylou Harris was growing tired of singing over an electric band, which she'd been doing since the early '70s. She dissolved her crack electric outfit, collectively known as The Hot Band (which initially included the likes of guitarist James Burton and pianist Glen Hardin—both from Elvis Presley's TCB band—and Rodney Crowell), and formed the acoustic backing band the Nash Ramblers (Sam Bush, Jon Randall Stewart, Roy Huskey, Jr., Al Perkins, Larry Atamanuik). In 1991, Harris and her new band recorded At the Ryman, at the historic, original home of the Grand Ole Opry, which hadn't hosted a public performance since 1974. Released in 1992, the live album captured their evolution into a supremely tight and musical unit and also led to the Ryman's much needed renovation. Turns out an even earlier show, at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, was captured, too. Both are well-recorded, with the Ryman set flatter and closer-miked and The Lost Concert incorporating more of the sound of the room. The biggest difference between the two sets—but what also makes them a matched set of sorts—is that while the Ryman show concentrated on material that had not appeared on any Harris studio records, Ramble in Music City: The Lost Concert is a stroll down memory lane for both Harris and longtime fans alike as she digs into familiar repertoire from her time on Reprise and Warner Bros records (1975-1990). She and the Ramblers—who even this early have obviously gelled—run through classic Harris covers like "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues," "Amarillo," "Blue Kentucky Girl," "Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight" and the closer, "Boulder to Birmingham" from her still potent Reprise debut, Pieces of the Sky. A rhythmic, chunka chunk version of Delbert McClinton's "Two More Bottles of Wine" (from her Quarter Moon in a Ten Cent Town album) equals or exceeds the studio version. And Harris again shows her special way with Paul Simon's "The Boxer." Having Jon Randall Stewart and his high tenor on harmony vocals was hugely key to the Nash Ramblers success, along with the fleet string skills of Bush, Randall and the late Roy Huskey, Jr. The group's musical camaraderie is most obvious on a version of "Mystery Train" whose pace is pure rock 'n' roll. The band stretches out on the instrumental jam, "Remington Ride" and benefitting from the lower volumes, Harris gives a particularly tender and feathery version of the Jesse Winchester ballad, "My Songbird." Best of all, the band seem to be enjoying themselves throughout. Superb from start to finish, The Lost Concert is a wonderful surprise from the inestimable James Austin who rediscovered the tapes, unheard for 30 years, of a terrific show by Harris' other hot band. © Robert Baird/Qobuz

There's a neat trick that Brooklyn's Beach Fossils pulls off on the band's fourth album, Bunny, in which time seems suspended. For nearly 40 minutes, no matter where you are, the setting morphs into a lazy summer afternoon where nothing else needs to be done. Dustin Payseur's songs bounce like paper boats on water ("Tough Love"; "Dare Me" and it lyrical sighs like "Spinning your wheels/ To the edge of this town/ She said, 'LA's so small/ When you're looking straight down'"), jangle and beam with bright rays of guitars ("Anything is Anything"), and find the rhyme in "easy-going" and "melatonin" ("(Just Like the) Setting Sun"). There are shades of Ride's hazy shoegaze—especially within the humidity-thick layers of "Feel So High," which lives up to its title—and The Cure's sunny guitar tones across the board, but especially on cuts like "Sleeping On My Own." "Run to the Moon" features a great relaxed-fit bassline and a crisp hit of cello and viola to cut through the daydream mist. "Living in New York, it can grind you down," Payseur sings, world weary as ever. "I tell you it will grind you down." With Payseur as the only remaining member of the project he began in 2009, there's a clear thread of melancholy—and being fine with it—through the band's discography. "Don't Fade Away," he has said, is about "missing old friends, being on tour, self-medicating, longing, anxiety, love, being an idiot, having fun, embracing your mistakes and keeping your spark." "Out on tour/ I just finished/ This pack of cigarettes/ And I don't even smoke," he sings on that track, killing time before arriving at the catchy chorus: "She's novocaine/ It's all I need/ To ease the pain." © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

After the tepid reaction to the subdued, over-produced Secret Samadhi, Live took some time off to rethink their direction. For their fourth full-length studio album The Distance to Here, the band called on producer Jerry Harrison to recapture the raw energy and emotion that fueled Mental Jewelry and Throwing Copper. A self-conscious response to Secret Samadhi with plenty of guitar riffs, thunderous tempos and a mystical aura, The Distance to Here emerges from their last album's swirling, numbing stupor and regains some of Throwing Copper's aggressive intensity. But Live doesn't just meld their last two albums for this release; it's a livelier, lighter collection. Though the group is slowly evolving their sound -- Ed Kowalczyk's vulnerable-turned-angry vocals have become freer, more confident and more expressive, while Chad Taylor's background vocals add needed depth and harmony - they're retracing their steps before making any major changes. Live made its name by combining brutally honest, searching lyrics with equally intense and emotive music, but the fine line between genuine soul-searching and heavy-handed preaching is in the eye of the beholder. With The Distance, this line sways on individual songs: "Feel the Quiet River Rage," "Sparkle," "Meltdown," "Sun," and the title track -- reflect Live's evolution, but the lumbering "Face and Ghost (The Children's Song)" and the gushy "Dance With Me," aim too high for their own good. This doesn't make for a failed or bad album, just an uneven one. Overall, Live continues to plunge into dramatic, emotional, and spiritual realms, but the band needs to be more adventurous musically to complement its ongoing spiritual journey.© Gina Boldman /TiVo

The debut album from the foursome from Pennsylvania. It featured the ferocious single "Play That Funky Music." Robert Parissi's animated vocals were complemented by the soulful chimes of the guitar, a smokin' bassline, and some hyped backing vocals. It peaked on the Billboard R&B and pop charts at number one. They received rave reviews considering that the band was all white conveying such a funky message. (The arrangement and lyrical phrasing are very similar to that of Stevie Wonder's "You Haven't Done Nothing" found on his Fulfillingness' First Finale album that was released two years prior.) No other singles came from this album. However, there were funk jams and smokin' numbers including remakes of "No Where to Run" and "99 1/2." Still, nothing compares to the featured single.© Craig Lytle /TiVo

If you've never heard Blind Willie Johnson, you are in for one of the great, bone-chilling treats in music. Johnson played slide guitar and sang in a rasping, false bass that could freeze the blood. But no bluesman was he; this was gospel music of the highest order, full of emotion and heartfelt commitment. Of all the guitar-playing evangelists, Blind Willie Johnson may have been the very best. Though not related by bloodlines to Robert Johnson, comparisons in the emotional commitment of both men cannot be helped. This two-CD anthology collects everything known to exist, and that's a lot of stark, harrowing, emotional commitment no matter how you slice it. Not for the faint of heart, but hey, the good stuff never is.© Cub Koda /TiVo