The autumn moon lights my way

Of the four seasons, I think autumn elicits the widest range of emotions.  Many people I know proudly claim fall as their favorite. The air gets slightly cooler and crisper, the trees turn into dazzling displays of color, festive sports events (games and tailgate parties) are everywhere, Halloween is looming, and thoughts invariably turn to serene or wistful reflection.

As is so often the case, music has an uncanny way of crystallizing our thoughts, capturing the mood of the moment.  As autumn takes hold, I’d like to take a look at a handful of pretty great songs that explore the many feelings of this multifaceted season.

In my search for songs about autumn, I found the pickings remarkably slim, at least in the rock music genre.  In the ’40s and ’50s, many torch songs about the sadness of autumn were written, and several gems have emerged in more recent years that are worth celebrating.  So I’ve chosen to feature some of them here, even if they don’t strictly adhere to my blog’s usual 1960s-1970s-1980s focus.  I’m bargaining that you won’t mind.

Here’s my diverse list of 20 songs of autumn, with a Spotify playlist at the end for listening along.

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“Autumn Leaves,” Nat King Cole, 1956 

This timeless song from the mid-1940s has been recorded by dozens of pop vocalists and jazz instrumentalists, from Frank Sinatra to Cannonball Adderley, from The Everly Brothers to Barbra Streisand, from Eric Clapton to Rickie Lee Jones. I keep coming back to Nat King Cole’s stunning rendition from 1956, which was so popular that the film in which it was used over the opening credits (The Way We Are”) was actually re-titled “Autumn Leaves” because of it. It’s a quintessentially melancholy song about lost love and how autumn can bring back painful memories: “The falling leaves drift by my window, the autumn leaves of red and gold… Since you went away, the days grow long, and soon I’ll hear old winter’s song, but I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall…”

“September Grass,” James Taylor, 2002

One of the best songwriters of the late 20th Century seemed to be running out of gas when he released “October Road” in 2002, a collection of merely average songs instead of the usual high-quality Taylor tunes. Indeed, one of the standout tracks turned out to be John Shelton’s “September Grass,” the only non-original on the LP. Wonderful lyric, pretty melody, altogether perfect for this “Songs of Autumn” playlist: “Well, the sun’s not so hot in the sky today, and you know I can see summertime slipping on away, a few more geese are gone, a few more leaves turning red, but the grass is as soft as a feather in a feather bed, won’t you lie down here right now in this September grass?…”

“The Chill of an Early Fall,” George Strait, 1991

Country songwriters Green Daniel and Gretchen Peters teamed up to write this heartbreaker about a person whose lover has cheated in the past, and a former lover who has suddenly come around again to upset the balance.  In 1991, George Strait made the song on the title track on his 11th LP, reaching #3 on country charts that year. It might be reasonable to ask, why does this kind of thing always seem to happen in autumn? “Here it comes again, that same old chilly wind will blow like a cold winter squall, and I’ll begin to feel the chill of an early fall, and I’ll be drinking again, and thinking whenever he calls, there’s a storm coming on…”

“Harvest Moon,” Neil Young, 1992

Young has been something of a chameleon in his lengthy musical career, varying wildly from dissonant grunge (“Rockin’ in the Free World”) to gentle acoustic ballads (“After the Gold Rush”). He rarely leans toward the sentimental side of things, but in 1992 — twenty years after releasing his #1 LP “Harvest” — he came up with “Harvest Moon,” perhaps his most marvelous, delicate love song. It’s a perfect choice for a cool autumn evening: “There’s a full moon rising, let’s go dancing in the light, we know where the music’s playing, let’s go out and feel the night, because I’m still in love with you, I want to see you dance again, because I’m still in love with you, on this harvest moon…”

“Leaves That Are Green,” Simon and Garfunkel, 1966

In the early days, Paul Simon’s lyrics were steeped in angst and sadness, painted in isolation (“I Am a Rock”), homesickness (“Homeward Bound”) and quietude (“The Sound of Silence”). And yet, his songs offer achingly beautiful melodies, shimmering harmonies and an undefinable sense of hopefulness.  Witness “Leaves That Are Green,” with lyrics that wistfully remind us how all those gorgeous leaves turn brown and die, but sung to a lilting beat with optimistic bounce.  That takes a rare talent, as we have seen in Simon’s 60+ years of songwriting: “Time hurries on, and the leaves that are green turn to brown, and they wither with the wind, and they crumble in your hand…”

“Forever Autumn,” Justin Hayward, 1978

Incredibly, this melody was first written as a jingle for a Legos commercial in 1969.  Jeff Wayne and Gary Osbourne then added lyrics and released it as a single in 1972, which was a hit in Japan but nowhere else.  Wayne tried again in 1978 as he was compiling the soundtrack for his “Musical Version of War of the Worlds,” and his dream was to have “the voice that sang ‘Nights in White Satin’ sing it.”  His wish was granted when Justin Hayward stepped up, and the result was a #5 hit in the UK (although only #47 in the US).  “Through autumn’s golden gown, we used to kick our way, you always loved this time of year, those fallen leaves lie undisturbed now, ’cause you’re not here…”

“Stick Season,” Noah Kahan, 2022

Kahan, who started writing songs at age 8, broke out in 2017 with “Hurt Somebody” at age 20, and has recently graduated to headlining a sold-out tour of stadiums in multiple countries. He’s a pensive singer-songwriter whose songs explore such life transitions as leaving home as a young adult, negotiating a pandemic, and getting help for mental health issues. He grew up on a tree farm in Vermont, the inspiration for his 2022 album and title song “Stick Season.” The phrase refers to a term for autumn in New England, for the period after Halloween before the winter snow begins. Said Khan, “It just means that winter is coming soon, which creates a lot of anxiety because nobody really likes it.” “And I love Vermont, but it’s the season of the sticks, /And I saw your mom, but she forgot that I exist…”

“Heavy Horses,” Jethro Tull, 1978 

In 1976, Tull’s Ian Anderson bought himself a salmon-farming operation in his Scottish homeland, and began spending nearly half of his time settled into a more pastoral, agrarian lifestyle. This new pursuit became an inspiration for songs that showed a more organic bent, beginning with the band’s popular “Songs From the Wood” LP in 1977. Even better is the title track to his 1978 album “Heavy Horses,” a minor masterpiece that runs eight minutes on the album, but a later compilation LP trims it in half for a more concise edit. The lyrics succinctly describe the admirable work of the massive farm horses who have traditionally done the heavy lifting during the toil of harvest time each autumn: “Iron-clad feather feet pounding the dust, an October’s day towards evening… Bring me a wheel of oaken wood, a rein of polished leather, a heavy horse and a tumbling sky, brewing heavy weather…”

“Autumn Town Leaves,” Iron + Wine, 2018

Sam Beam is a 52-year-old filmmaker and professor from South Carolina who, at age 30, took on the stage name Iron + Wine (from a dietary supplement!) and began writing and recording music. Since 2002, he has released seven albums and four EPs of perceptive acoustic music, becoming something of a critics’ darling while building a modest fan base. On his EP “Weed Garden” in 2018, you’ll find the poignant “Autumn Town Leaves,” which merges spiritual and natural imagery: “In this autumn town where the lights can change, some get mercy and some get blamed, /Some get lost when they feel the river flowing, it’s all holy smoke and the flame dies fast…”

“Indian Summer,” Joe Walsh, 1978

You might not expect an exuberant rock star like Walsh to come up with comforting, melodic soft-rock tunes like this one, but if you examine his catalog (from his James Gang days through solo LPs and Eagles tracks), you’ll find quite a few. One of my favorites is this beauty from his 1978 commercially successful LP “But Seriously Folks,” which is better known for its humorous single “Life’s Been Good.” On “Indian Summer,” he focuses on the reflective nature of the months between summer and winter: “I was taken by surprise by the thunder, sat and stared out at the rain, taken back, I was younger in a vacant lot day, and then fall brought an Indian summer, and plenty of places to play…”

“The Autumn Stone,” Small Faces, 1969

Quite popular in their native England in 1965-68 but virtually unknown in the US except for the “Itchycoo Park” single, The Small Faces were led by guitarist/singer Steve Marriott, who eventually chose to hook up with Peter Frampton and form the more successful Humble Pie in 1969. This double album of odds and ends from previous sessions, plus a few live recordings, was released in late 1969 six months after The Small Faces broke up and three months after Humble Pie’s debut. The title song, written and sung by Marriott, had been intended as a single from “1862,” their projected but unrealized fourth album: “I’m looking for an open door where I can sit and play in peace and quiet, /Tomorrow changes fields of green today, /Yesterday is dead, but not my memory…”

“September Song,” Willie Nelson, 1978

Columbia Records execs were skeptical in 1978 when Nelson, who had carved out a reputation in the outlaw country genre, expressed an interest in doing an album of American pop standards. To everyone’s surprise, the album reached #30 on US pop charts and #1 on country charts, receiving universal acclaim. Along with such well-known tunes as “Stardust,” “Moonlight in Vermont,” “Georgia On My Mind” and “Someone to Watch Over Me” was the Kurt Weill/Maxwell Anderson classic “September Song,” written for the 1938 musical “Knickerbocker Holiday.” The narrator rues the time he wasted in his younger years but is looking forward to spending the precious days he has left with his loved one: “Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December, /But the days grow short when you reach September, when the Autumn weather turns the leaves to flame…”

“Autumn in New York,” Billie Holiday, 1952

Composer Vernon Duke wrote this jazz standard way back in 1934 without a commission or for a specific show, and although it ended up being used in the Broadway musical “Thumbs Up!”, it wasn’t published until 1949 when Frank Sinatra recorded it and took it to #27 on US pop charts. It has been recorded by dozens of artists like Charlie Parker, Stan Kenton, Sarah Vaughan, Diana Krall and Harry Connick Jr., but the definitive rendition, to my ears, is the one Billie Holiday recorded in 1952. It conjures up a one-act play of two people who pass each other in Central Park one fine fall day, each wrapped up in their own trials and tribulations and failing to make that chance encounter that would change the course of their lives: “It’s autumn in New York that brings the promise of new love, /Autumn in New York is often mingled with pain, /Dreamers with empty hands, they sigh for exotic lands, /It’s autumn in New York, it’s good to live it again…”

“Wake Me Up When September Ends,” Green Day, 2004

After a splashy debut in the early ’90s, punk/pop band Green Day hit the jackpot with 2004’s “American Idiot,” an album described as “a punk rock opera” that followed the story of an antihero known as Jesus of Suburbia. Steeped in political disillusionment, the LP struck a chord with the generation coming of age. It reached #1 and spawned five hit singles, notably “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” (a Record of the Year Grammy winner) and “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” on which frontman Bille Joe Armstrong ties together the grief of losing his father in September 1982 with the national mourning of September 11, 2001: “Here comes the rain again, falling from the stars, /Drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are, /As my memory rests, but never forgets what I lost, Wake me up when September ends…”

“Ramble On,” Led Zeppelin, 1969

Even a hard blues rock band like Led Zeppelin had something poignant to say about fall. In the opening verse of “Ramble On” from the band’s iconic “Led Zeppelin II” LP, in 1969, vocalist Robert Plant came up with perfect lyrics about moving on before the weather turns bitter. The music Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones put together for this track offers the fine balance they were going for between heavy and light (lead and zeppelin). The rest of the lyrics delve into imagery and characters from “Lord of the Rings,” but those opening lines have always made me think of autumn: “Leaves are falling all around, time I was on my way, thanks to you, I’m much obliged, such a pleasant stay, but now it’s time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way…”

“Time Of No Reply,” Nick Drake, 1968/1987

A sensitive British singer/songwriter tortured by clinical depression, Drake died at only 26 from an overdose of antidepressants. He released three albums between 1969 and 1974 which were all praised by critics, but his aversion to performing kept him from developing any career momentum. Years later, a posthumous collection released in 1987 included a beautiful track called “Time of No Reply,” written in 1968 but left off his debut album. It explores the passing of summer and the onset of the season “when we listen more and speak less,” as he put it: “Summer was gone and the heat died down, and Autumn reached for her golden crown, /I looked behind as I heard a sigh, but this was the time of no reply…”

“Indian Summer,” Audience, 1971

The art-rock subgenre was big in England in the late ’60s/early ’70s, and one of its more talented practitioners was Audience, led by singer/acoustic guitarist Howard Werth and sax/flute/clarinet man Keith Gemmell. British critics liked their first two LPs, and they won enough recognition to warm up for Led Zeppelin on a couple of tours in 1970. Their third album, 1971’s “House on the Hill,” was the first released in the US, and is considered a minor classic in some circles, although it never charted. But the single “Indian Summer” managed to reach #74 on US pop charts, and its unique, melodic sound will grab you. Lyrically, it’s a short pastiche about a brief autumn encounter: “Sat where it’s cool and shady, could age take the taste away? /I met a widow lady, couldn’t waste a day, /That was my Indian summer…”

“Autumn is Your Last Chance,” Robyn Hitchcock, 1984

After leading the British rock band The Soft Boys in the late ’70s, Robyn Hitchcock embarked on a solo career that’s still going. He writes sardonic lyrics and specializes in music that has been alternately described as alternative rock and psychedelic folk, and bands like R.E.M. and The Replacements have mentioned Hitchcock as an inspiration. Most of his success has come in the UK, but some of his albums have been praised in the US rock press, notably his 1984 LP “I Often Dream of Trains,” which includes the enigmatic “Autumn is Your Last Chance”: “I walk through the heather underneath the sky, /The leaves have never looked as good as now they’re going to die, but I know why…”

“September Morn,” Neil Diamond, 1979

We all know Diamond was a mainstay on the US pop charts from the late ’60s onward, but it’s amazing to learn that “September Morn,” which reached #17 in 1979, was his 30th Top 40 hit, and it peaked at #2 on the adult contemporary chart, where his music always fared much better than the mainstream chart. Diamond had become the king of the romantic ballad by the late ’70s, reaching #1 with his duet with Barbra Streisand, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” He collaborated with French singer Gilbert Becaud to write “September Morn,” with lyrics that focused more on love than the fall season: “September morn, do you remember how we danced that night away? /Two lovers playing scenes from some romantic play, /September morning still can make me feel that way…”

“Autumn Song,” Van Morrison, 1973

Following the run of excellent LPs Morrison released in the early ’70s (“Moondance,” “His Band and the Street Choir,” “Tupelo Honey” and “Saint Dominic’s Preview”), critics found his 1973 album “Hard Nose the Highway” something of a letdown. Out of the 30+ songs he recorded in the sessions, most of which remained unreleased until the late ’90s, he chose only eight, including “Warm Love,” the well-received single, and notably, “Autumn Song,” a 10-minute excursion celebrating the simple joys of autumnal life. Morrison’s always-engaging vocals are complemented by piano trills and guitar fills as the lyrical imagery dances with the lilting melody: “Leaves of brown, they fall to the ground, and it’s here, over there, leaves around… /Pitter patter, the rain falling down, a little glamour, sun coming round, /Take a walk when autumn comes to town…”

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What should we call ourselves?

In its infancy in the ’50s, rock music was played by bands and artists with simple, straightforward names that tended to fall into two general categories:

Somebody and The Somethings:  Many dozens of bands used this linguistic structure, from Bill Haley and His Comets to Little Anthony and The Imperials, from Freddie and the Dreamers to Paul Revere and The Raiders.  Among other things, this allowed the record companies to eventually spin off the leader as a solo act, like Tommy James (without The Shondells) and Diana Ross (without The Supremes).

The Numbers:  The charts were full of groups whose names identified the number of members:  The Four Seasons, The Four Freshmen, The Kingston Trio, The Dave Clark Five, Sir Douglas Quintet.

Beginning in the mid-’60s, bands started branching out by inventing more and more outlandish, quirky names.  California bands in particular popularized this trend, using sometimes unrelated words picked seemingly at random:  Ultimate Spinach, Iron Butterfly, Moby Grape, Strawberry Alarm Clock, the Flying Burrito Brothers.  Conversely, some groups chose to use all their names as the band’s name:  Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; Hall and Oates; Beck, Bogert and Appice.  Or they took the last name of one or two band members:  Santana, Van Halen, Fleetwood Mac.

By the ’80s and beyond, the rock music world was awash in creative names — some clever, some nonsensical, some silly, some blatantly offensive:  Men Without Hats.  Death Cab For Cutie.  Bare Naked Ladies.  Tears for Fears.  Garbage.  Hootie and the Blowfish.  Nine Inch Nails.  10,000 Maniacs.  Toad the Wet Sprocket.  The Psychedelic Furs.  Right Said Fred.  The Dead Kennedys.  Jimmy Eat World.  A Flock of Seagulls.  The Jesus and Mary Chain.  My Chemical Romance.  Alice in Chains.  The Butthole Surfers.  The Goo Goo Dolls.  Rage Against the Machine.  Dashboard Confessional.  Today, there are even websites that use algorithms to help aspiring artists come up with memorable names.

So where do these monikers come from?  Sometimes it’s obvious — Cream was comprised of three superb musicians generally regarded as the best (the “cream”) of British instrumentalists of their day.  Dire Straits was in bleak financial condition at the time they started out. But many are more cryptic in nature, conceived as a startling label that would attract attention.  

I’ve picked 30 classic rock bands with intriguing names that have some pretty interesting back stories behind them.

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The Who

Pete Townshend and his band had called themselves The Detours and The High Numbers for a spell in their early days.  At the time, Townshend’s hard-of-hearing grandmother was living in the Townshend household, and Pete recalls that whenever he was heading out the door to attend a concert, he’d mention the name of the band.  His grandmother would sometimes reply, “You’re going to see the who??”  It didn’t take long for Townshend to decide that The Who would be a great name.

Lynyrd Skynyrd

Three founding members of this Southern rock band attended the same high school in Jacksonville, Florida, where the hard-nosed gym teacher, a man who strictly enforced the rules regarding hair length, was a guy named Leonard Skinner.  The fledging group had called themselves The Noble Five and then One Percent but, in a sort of mock tribute to the teacher they despised, they eventually chose to rename themselves Lynyrd Skynyrd, changing the spelling in case he objected.  To the band’s surprise, Skinner was flattered by the gesture, and ultimately, he even appeared on stage to introduce the band at a Jacksonville concert appearance years later.

The Beatles

John Lennon’s first group was known as the Quarrymen (they went to Quarry Bank School) and then Johnny and the Moondogs, but once Paul McCartney joined, he suggested they emulate his idol Buddy Holly, whose band was called The Crickets.  They picked beetles as their insect, but then changed the spelling to reflect the “beat music” they favored, and Beatles they stayed.  (A side note:  When they stopped touring and became a studio band in 1966-67, McCartney thought it would be fun if The Beatles  pretended to be someone else with a long silly name, like the bands coming out of San Francisco at the time, like Quicksilver Messenger Service, Big Brother and The Holding Company, and The Peanut Butter Conspiracy.  The result?  Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.)

Grateful Dead

Rising from the ashes of two groups — Mother McCree’s Jug Champions and The Warlocks — came San Francisco’s most celebrated band, The Grateful Dead.  There are conflicting stories about the derivation of the name.  Bass player Phil Lesh says leader Jerry Garcia randomly opened a book and saw the word “grateful” in the text of the left-hand page, and the word “dead” lined up next to it in the text of the right-hand page.  Others maintain it was a phrase from 19th Century literature, referring to “the soul of a deceased person showing gratitude to someone who, in an act of charity, arranged their funeral.”

Jethro Tull

Flautist/singer Ian Anderson and his ragged band were still learning their chops in 1968 when their manager got them booked in clubs in and around London.  Sometimes the club owners didn’t like their act and refused to invite them back, so the manager simply changed their name and got them re-booked under the new name, much to the club owners’ chagrin when the same musicians showed up.  One week, the manager’s assistant, a history buff, suggested they call themselves Jethro Tull, who was an 18th Century British agriculturalist and inventor of the seed drill, a device which vastly improved efficiency in farming.  This time, as it happened, the club owners liked the act and gave them a regular gig, and the name stuck.  Through the years, many fans were under the mistaken impression that leader Anderson’s name WAS Jethro Tull…

Led Zeppelin

In 1966, a recording session took place involving drummer Keith Moon of The Who, keyboard session man John Paul Jones, and Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page, then sharing guitar duties in The Yardbirds.  They recorded “Beck’s Bolero,” among other blues tracks, and someone suggested they ought to form a band.  Moon dismissed the idea, saying he thought they wouldn’t be well received.  “We’d go over like a lead balloon,” he said.  “Hey, we could call ourselves Lead Balloon.”  Two years later, when Page had formed a new group from the ashes of The Yardbirds, he remembered Moon’s comment and decided on Lead Zeppelin, “the perfect combination of heavy and light, combustibility and grace.”  Manager Peter Grant encouraged Page to make it “Led” instead of “Lead” so people wouldn’t mispronounce it (as in “I’ll lead the way”).

Buffalo Springfield

One of the leading manufacturers of heavy equipment — earth movers, steamrollers, back hoes — was a company called Buffalo Springfield, named after the two cities where their manufacturing plants were located.  Guitarists Stephen Stills and Neil Young had just formed a group and happened to walk by a construction site in Los Angeles, where several Buffalo Springfield vehicles were in use.  They loved the sound of the two words and instantly settled on it as their new band’s name.

The Doors

Jim Morrison was a film student at UCLA who loved esoteric poetry and challenging literary works.  He and his band members were denizens of Venice Beach, where psychedelic drug use was rampant, so it’s not surprising Morrison became obsessed with a book by celebrated British author Aldous Huxley called “The Doors of Perception.”  It explores how users of psychotropic substances describe their trips as moving from one consciousness to another, passing through doorways like Alice in Wonderland stepping through the looking glass.  The band loved that image and chose the book title as their name after shortening it to simply The Doors.

Pink Floyd

Two Piedmont bluesmen from the Carolinas — Floyd Council and Pinkney “Pink” Anderson — were among the blues artists in Syd Barrett’s record collection.  He and his Cambridge-based band had been known as The Tea Set for a year or two, but when they tried to book a gig in London and learned that another band called Tea Set regularly played there, they had to come up with a new name in a hurry.  Barrett combined the first names of the two blues musicians he admired, and the band became Pink Floyd.

Steely Dan

In 1959, counterculture author William Burroughs wrote a bizarre book called “Naked Lunch,” which included a reference to a Japanese sex toy which went by the brand name “The Steely Dan II.”  Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, songwriters whose lyrics touched on the macabre and deviant, were looking to form a band, since no one else wanted to record their songs.  They had read Burroughs’ book and decided the name Steely Dan would fit them perfectly, and they often chuckled subversively that they went on to become hugely popular despite the fact they were named after an Asian dildo.

The Rolling Stones

Originally steeped in the blues, the band featuring Mick Jagger, Brian Jones and Keith Richards was first called The Blue Boys.  When they signed a record deal with Decca Records, the management didn’t care for their name and, in a phone call with Jones, asked them to change it.  Jones looked around his flat and his eyes fell on an old Muddy Waters album that included a favorite blues track called “Rollin’ Stone.”  He immediately said, “Right, then, we’ll be The Rollin’ Stones.”  They put the “g” back on “rollin’” and have gathered no moss ever since.  (According to publisher Jann Wenner, Rolling Stone magazine was named after both the song and the band.)

Duran Duran

Fans of the late ’60s science fiction cult film “Barbarella” will instantly recognize Duran Duran as a derivation of the film’s character Dr. Durand-Durand, who invented the positronic ray, which could supposedly end humanity if it fell into the wrong hands.   When John Taylor and Nick Rhodes were first forming a group, they used to play in a popular London club called Barbarella’s.  Once they watched the movie, they agreed they should name their band after the key figure in the film.

Earth Wind & Fire

I don’t follow astrology much, but Chess Records session drummer Maurice White was a big devotee.  His first band, a Chicago-based group called The Salty Peppers, broke up in 1970, and he moved to L.A. to start over.  White’s astrological sign was Sagittarius, which apparently has the “primary element” of Earth and the “seasonal elements” of Air and Fire.  So when he established his new group, he settled on Earth, Wind (Air) & Fire, and the lyrics of many of the songs in EW&F’s catalog reflect his interest in the environment and world peace.

Badfinger

When the Beatles were writing and first recording “With a Little Help From My Friends,” its working title was “Bad Finger Boogie,” because Lennon had injured his hand and was playing piano with only one finger at the time.  When the time came to rename The Iveys, one of the first groups signed to The Beatles’ Apple Records label, Badfinger was suggested, based on that previous working song title.  (George Harrison later said he thought the band had been named after a stripper they had admired in Hamburg named Helga Fabdinger…)

The Kinks

The London-based group that started as the Bo-Weevils and the Ravens eventually became The Kinks, but there are conflicting views about that.  One version says the band liked the idea of a name that brought them “fame though outrage, something newsy and naughty, on the borderline of acceptability.”  Others said, “The way you look, the clothes you wear, you ought be called The Kinks.”  Either way, singer/leader Ray Davies has said he never really liked the name much but went along with it.

U2

In 1978, Steve Averill, a punk rocker with The Radiators and a friend of bass player Adam Clayton, offered up six suggestions for the name of the new group Clayton had formed with drummer Larry Mullen Jr., guitarist David “The Edge” Evans and Paul “Bono” Hewson.  The band members settled on U2 “because we disliked it the least of the six names offered,” said Clayton.  “It’s ambiguous and wide open to interpretation, which appealed to us.”

Grand Funk Railroad

Mark Farmer and Don Brewer spent time with a ’60s Michigan regional band called Terry Knight & the Pack, and Pack ended up managing Farner, Brewer and Mel Schacher in a new power trio in early 1969.  The Grand TRUNK Railroad Line, a subsidiary of a Canadian railroad that had been a crucial link since the late 1800s between Ontario and Chicago, ran right through Flint, where the group was based.  Pack thought, “Hey, how about you call yourselves Grand FUNK Railroad?”  They loved it, and eventually shortened it to just Grand Funk.

Supertramp

“The Autobiography of a Supertramp” was a well-regarded book by Welsh poet/writer W. H. Davies, who had lived a vagabond existence in England, Canada and the U.S. in the late 1800s and wrote about his curious life.  Some fifty years later, a British progressive rock band that had been known as Daddy needed to make a change because of a similarly named group, Daddy Longlegs.  Composers Roger Hodgson and Rick Davies both liked the tattered but noble image of a “supertramp” from the book, and Supertramp they became.

Talking Heads

When TV news producers edit together the various clips they need to tell their on-air stories, they have a term they use to refer to ‘head-and-shoulders” shots of people talking but not doing anything:  “talking heads.”  Bass player Tina Weymouth recalls sitting around skimming through an article in TV Guide in 1976 that explored the TV producer’s job.  “I saw that ‘talking head’ basically means, ‘all content, no action,’ and we thought that described us perfectly.  It just fit, so we went with that.”

Simply Red

Lead singer and front man Mick Hucknall sported a head of long, unkempt red hair, which made him the undisputed visual focal point of his group.  Originally a Manchester punk band known as The Frantic Elevators, they disbanded in 1984, and Hucknall started anew with a fresh lineup, performing British soul music.  They adopted the name Red (Hucknall’s nickname, of course), but one night, when a club promoter asked them their name, Hucknall responded, “Red.  Simply Red.”  They were then promoted and announced on stage as “Simply Red.”  They liked the error and kept it.

KISS

In 1972, Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley were in a New York City-based band called Wicked Lester which was going nowhere.  They heard a club band called Lips whose drummer, Peter Criss, was also a pretty decent singer, so they recruited him for their as-yet-unnamed group, focusing on a harder rock sound.  Once lead guitarist Ace Frehley joined, they started experimenting with costumes and makeup for their stage act.  Criss said, “Hey, Lips was a pretty good name, but how about Kiss instead?”  They chose to use all capital letters, which prompted some to speculate that it was an acronym for devil worship (perhaps for Kids In Satan’s Service)…

Foreigner

In 1976 in New York City, three British musicians — guitarist/songwriter Mick Jones, multi-instrumentalist Ian McDonald and drummer Dennis Elliott — combined forces with three Americans — singer Lou Gramm, keyboardist Al Greenwood and bassist Ed Gagliardi.  They called themselves Trigger until they discovered another band with the same name.  Eventually, Jones came to the realization that “no matter what country we play in, we’re foreigners,” so the band adopted the name Foreigner.

R.E.M.

Four struggling musicians met in 1980 in Athens, Georgia, home to the University of Georgia.  Singer Michael Stipe met guitarist Peter Buck in a record store and discovered they shared an interest in punk and proto-punk artists like Patti Smith and The Velvet Underground.  They formed a band with two other UGA students but remained nameless until after their first gig, after which they kicked around repugnant names like “Cans of Piss” and “Negro Wives” before settling on R.E.M. (which stands for Rapid Eye Movement), a random phrase Stipe saw in the newspaper that particular day.

Three Dog Night

One day in 1968, singer Danny Hutton’s girlfriend was reading an article about the Australian outback, and how aborigines there would hunker down in a hole in the ground on cold nights, cuddling up with their dogs for warmth.  Most times, one dog, or maybe two, would be sufficient, but on rare occasions, they would suffer through a brutally cold evening, which was referred to as a “three-dog night.”  The pop group, which featured three lead vocalists, decided it was a great name for their lineup.

The Velvet Underground

Lou Reed and John Cale met in New York in 1964 and formed The Primitives, which evolved into The Warlocks, and then The Falling Spikes.  Around that time, Reed read the controversial counterculture classic “The Velvet Underground,” by Michael Leigh, about the secret sexual subculture of the Sixties, and concluded it was exactly the name they needed for their fledgling band of societal misfits.

The Doobie Brothers

Nothing mysterious here:  This bar band from San Jose, California, played to some rough biker crowds who were partial to marijuana, and the band enjoyed it as well, so why not name themselves after the slang term for a cannabis cigarette?  It’s amusing to note that many otherwise conservative folks who enjoyed The Doobies’ music over the years probably didn’t realize what “doobie” meant.

Electric Light Orchestra

A “light orchestra,” popular in classical music circles in England in the ’60s, was a scaled down symphony orchestra, limited to as few as 10-12 instruments (mostly violins, cellos and woodwinds).  Roy Wood, leader of The Move, wanted to merge classical instruments with rock and roll, “picking up where The Beatles left off.”  New recruit Jeff Lynne, who shared Wood’s interest in the potential of a classical/rock merger, helped create an electrified “light orchestra” sound, ultimately realizing that that was the most appropriate name for the group (although it was often abbreviated as ELO).

Blondie

Guitarist Chris Stein and blonde-haired singer Debbie Harry formed a band in 1974 with drummer Billy O’Connor and bassist Fred Smith, at first known as Angel and The Snake.  When Harry was walking by a construction site in Manhattan one afternoon, several hardhats taunted her with whistles and catcalls, and one guy yelled out, “Hey Blondie!”  When a passing truck driver yelled the same thing a few days later, the group decided it was the right name for their band.

The E Street Band

Bruce Springsteen had played with several groups during his formative years in New Jersey clubs:  Earth, Steel Mill, Dr. Zoom and the Sonic Boom.  When he was signed in 1972 to a recording deal with Columbia, Springsteen was expected to make an acoustic album, but instead he brought some of his musician friends with him to the sessions:  Garry Tallent on bass, Danny Federici on organ, Clarence Clemons on sax, David Sancious on piano, and Vini Lopez on drums.  This motley crew often practiced in the garage at Sancious’s mother’s house, located on E Street in Belmar, NJ.  Springsteen’s second LP and leadoff single were entitled “The E Street Shuffle,” thus immortalizing the name for decades to come, even as membership in the E Street Band changed along the way.

Creedence Clearwater Revival

The Blue Velvets were a Bay Area band playing rock ‘n roll covers in 1964-65.  Once they signed to Fantasy Records, the owner insisted they call themselves The Golliwogs, after a controversial fictional character with unfortunate racial overtones.  Draft notices issued to John Fogerty and Stu Cook put the band’s dreams on hiatus for a year or so, and when they reunited in 1968, the label’s new owner wanted another name change.   Everyone came up with multiple ideas but settled on Fogerty’s suggestion that combined three words:  Creedence (from Tom Fogerty’s friend Credence Newball), Clearwater (from the slogan for Olympia Beer, whose promotion proclaimed “It’s the water”), and Revival (for the band’s renewed commitment after the dormant period).  “It was a weirder name than Jefferson Airplane or Buffalo Springfield, that’s for sure,” said Cook.

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The Spotify playlist I’ve compiled to accompany this blog entry focuses on the very earliest songs each band recorded, which is when they were still deciding what to call themselves…