Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On’ Redefines Protest Music and Soulful Storytelling in 1971
When Marvin Gaye released What’s Going On in 1971, he didn’t just deliver another hit—he shifted the emotional and cultural direction of soul music. Moving away from Motown’s polished love songs, Gaye introduced something deeper, driven by pain, reflection, and urgency. The track quickly climbed to No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 and topped the R&B charts, but its real impact went far beyond numbers.
Inspired in part by Renaldo ‘Obie’ Benson after witnessing social unrest, the song became a plea for understanding in a fractured America. Gaye layered his vocals to create a haunting, almost conversational tone, while subtle jazz influences and orchestration added emotional weight. Even Berry Gordy initially resisted its release, fearing controversy—but Gaye refused to back down.
“Mother, mother, there’s too many of you crying.”
That single line transformed the song into something timeless—a question that still echoes across generations.
As the song gained momentum, it opened the door to a new era of “conscious soul,” influencing artists like Stevie Wonder and Curtis Mayfield. It also gave Gaye the creative freedom to craft the full What’s Going On album, now widely considered one of the greatest records ever made.
The song’s emotional core was deeply personal. Still grieving the loss of Tammi Terrell and shaken by the Vietnam War era, Gaye poured his soul into every note. What emerged wasn’t loud protest—it was quiet heartbreak.
This wasn’t a protest that shouted—it was one that wept.
Decades later, its influence continues to ripple through artists like Lauryn Hill and Kendrick Lamar. Though Gaye’s life ended tragically, the song endures as a powerful reminder that sometimes the most important thing we can do is ask the question—and truly listen.
1 minute readB.B. King Ran Back Into a Burning Club for His Guitar — Then He Named It After the Woman Who Started the Fight
On September 16, 1925, Riley B. King was born into a sharecropping family in the Mississippi Delta.
There was little in his childhood to suggest that the boy growing up near Itta Bena would one day become known around the world as the King of the Blues.
His early life was difficult.
His parents separated when he was young.
His mother died while he was still a child.
King spent years working in the fields, picking cotton and driving tractors while growing up in rural Mississippi. Music first entered his life through church, where he sang gospel and became fascinated by the sound of a preacher playing guitar.
Eventually, he bought a guitar of his own.
But Riley King was not yet B.B. King.
That transformation began when he headed toward Memphis.
By the late 1940s, King was performing and working on radio station WDIA.
He was introduced as the “Beale Street Blues Boy.”
The name became “Blues Boy King.”
Then it was shortened again.
B.B. King.
The nickname would eventually become one of the most famous names in blues history.
But there was another name that would become almost as famous as his own.
Lucille.
In 1949, King was performing at a club in Twist, Arkansas.
It was winter, and according to the story King later told, the building was being heated by a container of burning kerosene placed inside the club.
During the evening, two men began fighting.
The container was knocked over.
Fire spread through the building.
Everyone rushed outside.
King escaped with the crowd.
Then he remembered something.
His guitar was still inside.
So he did something extraordinarily dangerous.
He ran back into the burning building.
King managed to rescue the instrument and escape.
Only afterward did he learn why the two men had supposedly been fighting.
A woman.
Her name was Lucille.
King decided to name the guitar after her.
Not as a romantic tribute.
As a warning to himself.
He wanted the name Lucille to remind him never again to fight over a woman — and never again to run into a burning building to save a guitar. From that point forward, generations of B.B. King’s guitars would carry the same name.
Lucille became part of the performance.
King did not play guitar like someone trying to fill every second with notes.
He often did the opposite.
He left space.
He bent a single note and let it cry.
His distinctive vibrato made the guitar seem almost like another voice answering him.
King once explained that when he played Lucille, it could feel almost as though he were hearing words and cries coming from the instrument.
That relationship between voice and guitar became the center of his style.
By the early 1950s, records such as “3 O’Clock Blues” had made him a major figure in R&B.
Then came decades of almost relentless touring.
Night after night, King carried the blues out of clubs and theaters and eventually into concert halls around the world.
One performance in particular became legendary.
In November 1964, King recorded Live at the Regal in Chicago.
The album captured not only his guitar playing but also his extraordinary relationship with an audience.
It later became one of the recordings selected for preservation in the Library of Congress National Recording Registry.
Then, near the end of the 1960s, B.B. King recorded the song that would become most closely associated with him.
“The Thrill Is Gone.”
The song was not originally his composition, but King transformed it with his voice, his guitar and an arrangement that brought the blues to an enormous new audience.
For many listeners who had never bought a traditional blues record, “The Thrill Is Gone” became their introduction to B.B. King.
And his influence spread far beyond blues.
Rock musicians studied his phrasing.
Young guitarists learned that one carefully bent note could say more than a hundred fast ones.
He became a bridge between generations and genres.
The honors eventually followed.
B.B. King was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1987. The Hall describes him as an artist whose influence and collaborations helped carry the blues through a career spanning roughly half a century.
He ultimately received 15 Grammy Awards, alongside honors including a National Heritage Fellowship and the Kennedy Center Honors.
But awards alone do not explain B.B. King.
His legacy lives in a sound.
A voice begins a line.
Then Lucille answers.
Sometimes with only a few notes.
Sometimes with one.
That sound began with a boy born into a sharecropping family in Mississippi on September 16, 1925.
Years later, that boy would tour the world with a guitar carrying the name of a woman he had never intended to make famous.
He survived the fire.
He saved the guitar.
And from then on, wherever B.B. King went, Lucille went with him.
Together, they helped teach the world what the blues could sound like.
