70s Classics

[Crinklyfox]

 

 

This one hurts a lot more now than when I first heard it.

 

 

[spacemunky]

In honour of the passing of Ace Frehley:

 

 

[davieG]

This Day In History ·

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On a rainy night in 1977, Mark Knopfler stepped into a nearly empty pub in Deptford, a run-down corner of South London. He wasn't looking for inspiration. He was just looking for a couple of pints and somewhere to get out of the weather.

In the corner of the pub, a small Dixieland jazz band was setting up. They were older men, dressed modestly, their instruments showing years of use. As Knopfler settled in with his drink, they began to play.

The music was unremarkable. The band was what Knopfler would later describe as "a very average little Dixieland jazz band." Around them, the pub's sparse clientele—perhaps three or four people total—paid them almost no attention. A couple of young men in brown baggies and platform shoes played pool at the far end, completely indifferent to the trumpet and drums filling the space.

Knopfler, at least, appreciated that someone was trying. He called out requests—"Creole Love Call," "Muskrat Ramble"—classic jazz numbers that most pub crowds wouldn't recognize. The band members seemed genuinely surprised that anyone in the audience actually knew the music they were playing.

For two hours, the band played their hearts out to a room that didn't care. They gave it everything despite the empty seats, the inattention, the sheer thanklessness of the moment. And then, as the set ended and it was time to pack up, the bandleader stepped forward with what Knopfler would remember as "a mildly enthusiastic" announcement.

"Goodnight and thank you," he said. "We are the Sultans of Swing."

The Sultans of Swing. The name hung in the air like an absurd joke. Here were these aging musicians in this seedy dive, playing to indifference, and they called themselves sultans. The contrast between their grandiose name and the drab reality of their surroundings struck Knopfler as both amusing and oddly moving. You couldn't be less a sultan of anything if you were in that band, on that night, in that pub. Yet they'd played with dedication, for the love of the music itself.

Knopfler left the pub with the seed of an idea.

He returned to the Deptford council flat he shared with his younger brother David and bassist John Illsley. The three of them had just formed a new band, and they were living on next to nothing—barely able to pay the gas bill. They weren't called Dire Straits for nothing.

That night, inspired by what he'd witnessed, Knopfler began writing. He pulled out his National Steel guitar and started composing a song about those musicians—about Harry who had a day job but showed up to play anyway, about Guitar George who knew all the chords but kept strictly to rhythm, about the indifferent crowd in their platform souls who didn't give a damn about any trumpet-playing band because it wasn't what they called rock and roll.

"The first time I heard Mark playing a version of Sultans of Swing was in that flat," Illsley recalled years later, "but the song was completely different."

Even Knopfler thought it lacked spark. The song existed, the lyrics captured that rainy night perfectly, but something was missing. The National Steel guitar in open tuning gave it a certain sound, but it felt dull, incomplete.

Then everything changed.

In 1977, Knopfler scraped together enough money to buy his first Fender Stratocaster—a 1961 model with a rosewood neck. It was a red Strat that would become legendary in its own right, the guitar that would define his sound for years to come.

One day, not long after the purchase, Knopfler approached Illsley with renewed excitement.

"Remember that song I was fiddling about with the other day?" he said. "I've completely redone the chord structure."

He plugged the '61 Strat into Illsley's Fender Vibrolux amp and began to play.

"It just came alive as soon as I played it on that '61 Strat," Knopfler would later explain. "The new chord changes just presented themselves and fell into place."

The transformation was immediate and undeniable. What had been a modest folk-blues composition on the National Steel suddenly became something else entirely—a smoldering blues-rock groove with intricate fingerpicking, rolling rhythms, and a melodic sophistication that sounded like nothing else on the radio. The song now had the spark it needed.

"It sounded pretty good," Illsley remembered. "The whole thing is incredibly simple, it's the playing that makes it intriguing. It's that rolling rhythm on the guitar and a very simple bass and drums approach. Then, of course, it's a story. And let's face it, all good songs have a story."

By July 1977, Dire Straits had honed the song through months of gigging at small venues from Deptford to Covent Garden. They booked time at a tiny eight-track studio called Pathway Studios and recorded a five-song demo tape. "Sultans of Swing" was on it.

They took the demo to Charlie Gillett, presenter of Honky Tonk on BBC Radio London, hoping for advice. Gillett heard something special. He put "Sultans of Swing" into his rotation immediately.

The response from listeners was overwhelming. Two months later, Dire Straits had multiple record labels competing to sign them. They chose Phonogram Records, who sent them back into the studio—this time to Basing Street Studios—to re-record the song with producer Muff Winwood in February 1978.

"Sultans of Swing" was officially released as a single on May 19, 1978. It made almost no impact in the UK. Radio 1 deemed it too wordy and declined to add it to their playlist—a crushing blow in an era when radio play determined a song's fate.

The self-titled debut album, Dire Straits, came out in October 1978. Sales ticked along very slowly at first. The band seemed destined to remain an underground curiosity.

Then something unexpected happened. The song traveled.

First it caught fire in Holland, where the album quickly went gold. "I got this phone call from the record company saying that we'd sold 25,000 albums," Illsley remembered. The success spread across Europe—Germany, Belgium, New Zealand.

Most improbably of all, American radio stations started playing "Sultans of Swing" obsessively. Warner Records negotiated a US deal, and by early 1979, the single had climbed to number four on the Billboard Hot 100.

In a delicious twist, BBC Radio 1's Paul Gambaccini then played it on his weekly round-up of US Top 40 hits. The "over-wordy" single that Radio 1 had rejected finally made it onto the UK's biggest radio station through the back door of American success.

Re-released in Britain, "Sultans of Swing" shot to number eight on the UK Singles Chart. The debut album became the best-selling UK debut since Led Zeppelin, eventually selling over seven million copies worldwide.

The song's appeal was undeniable. In an era dominated by disco's synthetic shimmer and punk's aggressive nihilism, "Sultans of Swing" offered something different—a blend of rock, blues, and jazz with literary lyrics and Knopfler's extraordinary fingerpicking technique. His guitar solo, improvised and fluid, was instantly recognizable. Guitar World would later rank it the seventh greatest guitar solo of all time; Rolling Stone placed it at number thirty-two.

More than technical brilliance, though, the song had heart. It celebrated musicians who played for love rather than fame, who showed up night after night to nearly empty rooms because the music itself mattered. In singing about those Sultans of Swing—the aging Dixieland band in that Deptford pub—Knopfler had captured something universal about artistic dedication and the dignity of showing up, even when nobody's watching.

"I suppose you could say that Sultans of Swing was the one song that started it all off," Illsley reflected. "It had a huge impact. These are the catalysts that move you onward through life."

Dire Straits would go on to become one of the most successful British bands of the 1980s, selling over 100 million records worldwide. They would produce massive hits like "Money for Nothing" and "Brothers in Arms," dominate MTV, and fill stadiums across the globe.

But it all began with that 1961 Stratocaster that Knopfler bought in 1977, and a song about a band nobody was listening to.

The guitar became so precious to Knopfler that decades later, when he auctioned off much of his legendary collection—including the Gibson Les Paul he used for "Money for Nothing"—he kept the '61 Strat. "You want to hang on to things that are family heirlooms, really," he explained. "It's the same thing for Strat Number One from Sultans, so I am careful about that."

That Stratocaster transformed a dull composition into a masterpiece. It launched a band from Deptford council flats to international stardom. And it all happened because Mark Knopfler walked into a pub on a rainy night in 1977 and paid attention when nobody else would.

The real Sultans of Swing never knew they'd inspired one of rock's most enduring classics. But somewhere in that empty Deptford pub, they played their hearts out anyway, and that was enough.

[Foxdiamond]

6 hours ago, davieG said:

This Day In History ·

Follow

 

On a rainy night in 1977, Mark Knopfler stepped into a nearly empty pub in Deptford, a run-down corner of South London. He wasn't looking for inspiration. He was just looking for a couple of pints and somewhere to get out of the weather.

In the corner of the pub, a small Dixieland jazz band was setting up. They were older men, dressed modestly, their instruments showing years of use. As Knopfler settled in with his drink, they began to play.

The music was unremarkable. The band was what Knopfler would later describe as "a very average little Dixieland jazz band." Around them, the pub's sparse clientele—perhaps three or four people total—paid them almost no attention. A couple of young men in brown baggies and platform shoes played pool at the far end, completely indifferent to the trumpet and drums filling the space.

Knopfler, at least, appreciated that someone was trying. He called out requests—"Creole Love Call," "Muskrat Ramble"—classic jazz numbers that most pub crowds wouldn't recognize. The band members seemed genuinely surprised that anyone in the audience actually knew the music they were playing.

For two hours, the band played their hearts out to a room that didn't care. They gave it everything despite the empty seats, the inattention, the sheer thanklessness of the moment. And then, as the set ended and it was time to pack up, the bandleader stepped forward with what Knopfler would remember as "a mildly enthusiastic" announcement.

"Goodnight and thank you," he said. "We are the Sultans of Swing."

The Sultans of Swing. The name hung in the air like an absurd joke. Here were these aging musicians in this seedy dive, playing to indifference, and they called themselves sultans. The contrast between their grandiose name and the drab reality of their surroundings struck Knopfler as both amusing and oddly moving. You couldn't be less a sultan of anything if you were in that band, on that night, in that pub. Yet they'd played with dedication, for the love of the music itself.

Knopfler left the pub with the seed of an idea.

He returned to the Deptford council flat he shared with his younger brother David and bassist John Illsley. The three of them had just formed a new band, and they were living on next to nothing—barely able to pay the gas bill. They weren't called Dire Straits for nothing.

That night, inspired by what he'd witnessed, Knopfler began writing. He pulled out his National Steel guitar and started composing a song about those musicians—about Harry who had a day job but showed up to play anyway, about Guitar George who knew all the chords but kept strictly to rhythm, about the indifferent crowd in their platform souls who didn't give a damn about any trumpet-playing band because it wasn't what they called rock and roll.

"The first time I heard Mark playing a version of Sultans of Swing was in that flat," Illsley recalled years later, "but the song was completely different."

Even Knopfler thought it lacked spark. The song existed, the lyrics captured that rainy night perfectly, but something was missing. The National Steel guitar in open tuning gave it a certain sound, but it felt dull, incomplete.

Then everything changed.

In 1977, Knopfler scraped together enough money to buy his first Fender Stratocaster—a 1961 model with a rosewood neck. It was a red Strat that would become legendary in its own right, the guitar that would define his sound for years to come.

One day, not long after the purchase, Knopfler approached Illsley with renewed excitement.

"Remember that song I was fiddling about with the other day?" he said. "I've completely redone the chord structure."

He plugged the '61 Strat into Illsley's Fender Vibrolux amp and began to play.

"It just came alive as soon as I played it on that '61 Strat," Knopfler would later explain. "The new chord changes just presented themselves and fell into place."

The transformation was immediate and undeniable. What had been a modest folk-blues composition on the National Steel suddenly became something else entirely—a smoldering blues-rock groove with intricate fingerpicking, rolling rhythms, and a melodic sophistication that sounded like nothing else on the radio. The song now had the spark it needed.

"It sounded pretty good," Illsley remembered. "The whole thing is incredibly simple, it's the playing that makes it intriguing. It's that rolling rhythm on the guitar and a very simple bass and drums approach. Then, of course, it's a story. And let's face it, all good songs have a story."

By July 1977, Dire Straits had honed the song through months of gigging at small venues from Deptford to Covent Garden. They booked time at a tiny eight-track studio called Pathway Studios and recorded a five-song demo tape. "Sultans of Swing" was on it.

They took the demo to Charlie Gillett, presenter of Honky Tonk on BBC Radio London, hoping for advice. Gillett heard something special. He put "Sultans of Swing" into his rotation immediately.

The response from listeners was overwhelming. Two months later, Dire Straits had multiple record labels competing to sign them. They chose Phonogram Records, who sent them back into the studio—this time to Basing Street Studios—to re-record the song with producer Muff Winwood in February 1978.

"Sultans of Swing" was officially released as a single on May 19, 1978. It made almost no impact in the UK. Radio 1 deemed it too wordy and declined to add it to their playlist—a crushing blow in an era when radio play determined a song's fate.

The self-titled debut album, Dire Straits, came out in October 1978. Sales ticked along very slowly at first. The band seemed destined to remain an underground curiosity.

Then something unexpected happened. The song traveled.

First it caught fire in Holland, where the album quickly went gold. "I got this phone call from the record company saying that we'd sold 25,000 albums," Illsley remembered. The success spread across Europe—Germany, Belgium, New Zealand.

Most improbably of all, American radio stations started playing "Sultans of Swing" obsessively. Warner Records negotiated a US deal, and by early 1979, the single had climbed to number four on the Billboard Hot 100.

In a delicious twist, BBC Radio 1's Paul Gambaccini then played it on his weekly round-up of US Top 40 hits. The "over-wordy" single that Radio 1 had rejected finally made it onto the UK's biggest radio station through the back door of American success.

Re-released in Britain, "Sultans of Swing" shot to number eight on the UK Singles Chart. The debut album became the best-selling UK debut since Led Zeppelin, eventually selling over seven million copies worldwide.

The song's appeal was undeniable. In an era dominated by disco's synthetic shimmer and punk's aggressive nihilism, "Sultans of Swing" offered something different—a blend of rock, blues, and jazz with literary lyrics and Knopfler's extraordinary fingerpicking technique. His guitar solo, improvised and fluid, was instantly recognizable. Guitar World would later rank it the seventh greatest guitar solo of all time; Rolling Stone placed it at number thirty-two.

More than technical brilliance, though, the song had heart. It celebrated musicians who played for love rather than fame, who showed up night after night to nearly empty rooms because the music itself mattered. In singing about those Sultans of Swing—the aging Dixieland band in that Deptford pub—Knopfler had captured something universal about artistic dedication and the dignity of showing up, even when nobody's watching.

"I suppose you could say that Sultans of Swing was the one song that started it all off," Illsley reflected. "It had a huge impact. These are the catalysts that move you onward through life."

Dire Straits would go on to become one of the most successful British bands of the 1980s, selling over 100 million records worldwide. They would produce massive hits like "Money for Nothing" and "Brothers in Arms," dominate MTV, and fill stadiums across the globe.

But it all began with that 1961 Stratocaster that Knopfler bought in 1977, and a song about a band nobody was listening to.

The guitar became so precious to Knopfler that decades later, when he auctioned off much of his legendary collection—including the Gibson Les Paul he used for "Money for Nothing"—he kept the '61 Strat. "You want to hang on to things that are family heirlooms, really," he explained. "It's the same thing for Strat Number One from Sultans, so I am careful about that."

That Stratocaster transformed a dull composition into a masterpiece. It launched a band from Deptford council flats to international stardom. And it all happened because Mark Knopfler walked into a pub on a rainy night in 1977 and paid attention when nobody else would.

The real Sultans of Swing never knew they'd inspired one of rock's most enduring classics. But somewhere in that empty Deptford pub, they played their hearts out anyway, and that was enough.

Great story. Great song too

[Paninistickers]

Heard this by chance on radio 2 today and it was just one of those moments when hearing something you've heard occasionally over the years and, like, wow. What extraordinary chord changes, musicianship, harmonies and singing 

 

A masterpiece. 

 

 

[Foxdiamond]

27 minutes ago, Paninistickers said:

Heard this by chance on radio 2 today and it was just one of those moments when hearing something you've heard occasionally over the years and, like, wow. What extraordinary chord changes, musicianship, harmonies and singing 

 

A masterpiece. 

 

 

Shout out to Bob Gaudio

[Dr Marco]

 

[Tinman]

 

[woollett the bullet]

 

[MC Prussian]

 

[Tinman]

 

[Spudulike]

On 28/12/2025 at 19:21, Tinman said:

 

My second favourite Clash song. Saw them do this live (twice!).

[Paninistickers]

Bit of end of 2025 NYE mixed emotions and I land on this from genesis - what a classic piece to sum up the mood 

 

 

[Dr Marco]

 

[spacemunky]

29 minutes ago, Dr Marco said:

 

I'm a bit confused on this. Started off as a concert, but the rest was in a studio.

 

Like the Molotovs version of 'Rebel Rebel' because they did their own thing and it works.

 

A bit hit and miss with the rest though.

 

Bowie is one of those artists that's tough to cover.

[Dr Marco]

 

[woollett the bullet]

Leicesters very own .  .  .

[Dr Marco]

 

[l444ry]

 

[Dr Marco]

 

[l444ry]

Alan Hull = Genius

[1972 Fox]

 

[1972 Fox]

 

[Crinklyfox]

 

[Paninistickers]

Just popped on radio 6 and, every now and then, you just hear something which you think,.wow. 1972 this FFS.

 

What a groove. Staggering it's 55 years old