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Duran Duran is good, I will die on this hill. Support 12tone on Patreon to help us keep making cool videos! / 12tonevideos The '80s were a weird time for rock music, and we're kinda still trying to figure out how to think about it. Was it corny? Was it good? Or was it both? And the thing is, it was definitely both. There's plenty of good examples of incredible rock music that came out in the '80s, but the songs that stood the test of time have mostly done so by avoiding many of the cliches of the era. But what about the songs that are '80s to the core and yet still rule? Well, if you're looking for that, then we're gonna have to talk about Duran Duran.

So, recently, Adam Neely decided to use his platform to weigh in on the debate about whether or not Cb and B are the same note, and surprising no one, he got it wrong. Wait, no, that's not true. He got it pretty much entirely right. But! I feel like there are important aspects of the debate that got left out of his video, and while I don't disagree with any of his arguments I found his conclusion unsatisfying, so now I'm making a really long video about why he's only mostly correct. Enjoy? Or I'm sorry? Whichever feels more appropriate to you.

If you were to write a list of the most historically important rock songs, odds are Smells Like Teen Spirit would be in the top 10. As the vanguard of the grunge revolution, Nirvana's breakthrough hit set the stage for the reinvention of rock music in the '90s, and it remains an iconic example of the sound that shaped my childhood. And it all started with a drunken scribble on Kurt Cobain's bedroom wall.

It's a common misconception that the goal of recorded music is to replicate, as accurately as possible, the experience of hearing that same music live. To an extent, that is often true: A song on a record should sound like the same song when you hear the band play it on tour. But the tools of the studio, and especially the mix, provide incredible opportunities for clever artists and audio engineers to enhance the listener's experience, creating a better, clearer, and richer experience that what could be performed live. A key component of that is vocal placement, or the use of different elements of the mix to create specific personas for the singers, allowing them to more accurately embody the song's story. It's an area that music theorists really haven't looked too closely at, but we're starting to see some really interesting approaches begin to take shape.

I was a teenager when Mr. Brightside came out, and if I'm being honest, most of the music that came out when I was a teenager didn't really have much staying power. Like, I still love a lot of it, but even the biggest hits of the era, at least in rock music, seem to have largely faded from the public consciousness. So why is Mr. Brightside different? How has it managed to so quickly establish itself as a timeless icon when it sounds so thoroughly dated? It's clearly of its era, and yet it's transcended it in a way that few other songs from that movement have. But why?

People ask me a lot of questions about music, but the hardest ones aren't the ones you'd expect. Dealing with complex musical structures can be tricky, sure, but some of the most challenging questions I've ever been posed were ones that pushed me to re-examine things I'd always taken for granted. In a recent episode of my podcast, I had to figure out how to explain major scale to someone with zero pre-existing musical knowledge, and I found the exercise so interesting that I decided to make a whole video about it!

Few songs have had quite the legacy of Rick Astley's debut single. When it was released in 1987, it became a #1 hit in the US, UK, and all around the world, but that initial success was nothing compared to what it would become with the rise of the internet. Over the last 15 years, the meme of Never Gonna Give You Up has refused to die, and at this point its opening tom fill may be the most recognizable drum part ever recorded, but with all that attention, it feels like the song itself has become secondary to the joke. Let's fix that.

Have you ever noticed how every video game winter level sounds kinda the same? Not identical, obviously, but there's definitely a characteristic sound, to the point where you can often tell a piece was written for a winter level without ever actually seeing the level in question. But how does that work, and why?

The Clash's London Calling is one of the most important albums in punk rock history, reimagining what punk was allowed to sound like and pushing the genre forward without losing any of its intensity or spirit. The title track is a scathing critique of contemporary British society, but more than that, it's an anthem for change, putting a voice to issues that have plagued society for generations, and it remains just as relevant today as it was in 1979. It's also a great demonstration of how much skill and craft goes into making an iconic punk song!

In 1969, GC Coleman played some drums on a song not many people would listen to. You'd be excused for assuming that was the end of the story, but over a decade later, his solo would be dug up by an enterprising hip-hop producer. That producer republished the song, sharing Coleman's drum break with the world, and the world went nuts for it, sampling, remixing, and transforming that humble, formerly obscure break into one of the most iconic sounds in music history. Let's talk about it.

About a decade ago, Carly Rae Jepsen's career exploded. She went from being a reasonably successful artist on Canadian radio to an international superstar practically overnight, all thanks to one lucky break. After the lead single for her sophomore album happened to catch the attention of another Canadian pop star, the world immediately fell in love with it, setting her on a journey that would see her local hit become an international sensation. But what makes it so dang catchy?

Rock is full of incredible riffs, but if you had to pick the most iconic, most instantly recognizable riff in the history of the genre... I mean, it's gotta be Smoke On The Water, right? That one four-note blues line established Deep Purple as rock legends, and even as pioneers in the developing world of metal, part of the "Unholy Trinity" with fellow hard rock acts Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. But how did it all happen?

Lyrics are the first thing most listeners notice in a song, and everyone has their own opinions about what you need to do in order to make your lyrics "good". But are those opinions... wrong? Maybe! Well, no, but I think they're often overspecified, and lyrics that are actually really good get overlooked because they seem, on the surface, to be incoherent, so instead of just letting other people have different tastes from me, I decided to invent a whole new category of lyrics in order to justify my own love of cool-sounding nonsense!

What is there to say about Tracy Chapman's devastatingly beautiful debut single? It's a powerful story told with incredible finesse and craft, supported by music that stays out of her way while also building the world of her story. It was a near-instant classic on release, and has remained relevant and beloved for decades since. Let's talk about it.

Music history is littered with great thinkers, bringing a broad range of unique perspectives to the exploration of the art form. But a name you might not expect to see on that list is Sir Isaac Newton, president of the Royal Society and leader of the Scientific Revolution. And for good reason: he pretty much never wrote about music. It wasn't an area particularly that interested him, and he rarely if ever listened to music for fun. But as a part of his well-rounded education, he did learn music *theory*, and a nearly-forgotten notebook from his college years tells us a lot about how he understood the subtle art of sound.

In the pantheon of legendary drum fills, few songs come close to the legacy of Phil Collins' solo debut single. But In The Air Tonight is about more than just a drum fill: The song is a perfectly crafted slow burn, patiently building up an overwhelming atmosphere before finally delivering on the implicit promise made by its slow crescendo. So let's talk about it!

As a metalhead, I've been calling things "heavy" for most of my life, but I never really stopped to think about what I meant. It's such an intuitive label to me, with such a clear meaning that neatly translates to the music I'm describing. But these days, stopping to think about what I mean when I talk about music is pretty much my entire job, so I think it's finally time to ask that question: When a metalhead calls a piece of music heavy, what are they actually saying?

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