Joan Baez: 'My voice is my greatest gift'. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction - 2017

7 April 2017, Barclay's Centre,. Brooklyn, New York, USA

It gives me enormous pleasure to accept this prestigious, and very cool award tonight. Thanks to the Hall of Fame for this somewhat unlikely induction. A special thank you to my manager, Mark Spector, for having kept my career visible, viable, and vibrant.

I'm aware that I'm speaking to many young people, who, without this induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame would have no clue who I am. [Laughter] My granddaughter had no clue who I was until I took her backstage at a Taylor Swift concert, where she got a selfie, an autograph, a T-shirt and a newfound respect for her grandmother. 

Though one can not say I am a rock & roll artist, one cannot overlook the folk music of the Sixties and the immense effect it had on popular music, including rock & roll. Nor can anyone overlook the role I played in that phenomenon. I was lucky enough to have found my voice when coffee shops were the order of the day. My first job in music was on Tuesday nights at Club 47 in Harvard Square where I sang three sets and made fifteen dollars a night, all as I gleefully flunked out of college. I owe my beginnings to the friends and folk artists from whom I picked up the chords, the melodies, the finger picking and a budding repertoire.

"To track Joan Baez's involvement in human rights and social justice is to chart the evolution of our own moral awakening," singer-songwriter says

Again, at the right place and time, I knew and was friends with most of the rock & roll idols of the Sixties and Seventies. Some of those friendships I treasure to this day. Most of us in the community of both folk and rock music share with each other the similarities and the differences of how we got to where we are today. We also share the awareness of the blessed and the bizarre, which accompanies us in our everyday lives, lives which are seldom really private. Once a friend said to me when I was recognized and approached by a fan on the street, "Oh come on, admit it. You really like that." I told her there was nothing to admit. It was a fact. My public is a kind of family.

I am beholden to those rock and rollers who are long gone, and those who live on who have enriched and brightened my life, from vinyl to digital and everything in between - and back to vinyl. [Laughter]

My childhood and teen years were filled with classical, country and western, rhythm and blues, and the Hit Parade. When I was 16 my aunt took me to a Pete Seeger concert. And my mom brought home a Harry Belafonte album. Though Pete was not in any way gorgeous like Harry, he was already committed to making social change. He paid a high price for holding fast to his principles. I learned the meaning of “taking a risk” from Pete. The Cold War was getting a foothold and ushered in a shameful period in this country.

My family was by then Quaker, and socially and politically active. Pete's influence on me took like a good vaccine, and I turned my attention to folk music and political activism.

My voice is my greatest gift. I can speak freely about the uniqueness of it precisely because it is just that: a gift.

The Sixties icon helped invent the idea of the protest singer – more than five decades later, she's still at it

The second greatest gift was the desire to use it the way I have since I was 16 and became a student of and practitioner of nonviolence, both in my personal life and as a way of fighting for social change. What has given my life deep meaning, and unending pleasure, has been to use my voice in the battle against injustice. It has brought me in touch with my own purpose. It has also brought me in touch with people of every background. With open, generous, fun loving, hardworking people, here in this country and around the world. It has brought me in touch with the wealthy, the ones who are stuck in selfishness, and the ones who give generously of their time and resources to benefit the less fortunate, and light the way for others to do the same.

And I've met and tried to walk in the shoes of those who are hungry, thirsty, cold and cast out, people imprisoned for their beliefs, and others who have broken the law, paid the price, and now live in hopelessness and despair. Of exonerated prisoners who have spent decades in solitary confinement, awaiting execution. Of exhausted refugees, immigrants, the excluded and the bullied. Those who have fought for this country, sacrificed, and now live in the shadows of rejection. People of color, the old, the ill, the physically challenged, the LGBTQ community.

And now, in the new political and cultural reality in which we find ourselves, there is much work to be done.

Where empathy is failing and sharing has been usurped by greed and the lust for power, let us double, triple, and quadruple our own efforts to empathize and to give of our resources and our selves. Let us together repeal and replace brutality, and make compassion a priority. Together let us build a great bridge, a beautiful bridge to once again welcome the tired and the poor, and we will pay for that bridge with our commitment. We the people must speak truth to power, and be ready to make sacrifices. We the people are the only one who can create change. I am ready. I hope you are, too. I want my granddaughter to know that I fought against an evil tide, and had the masses by my side.

When all of these things are accompanied by music, music of every genre, the fight for a better world, one brave step at a time, becomes not just bearable, but possible, and beautiful.

Thank you again.

Bruce Springsteen: 'We struggled together, and sometimes, we struggled with one another', E-Street Band Hall of Fame - 2014

4 October 2014, Barclays Center, Brooklyn, New York, USA

Good evening. In the beginning, there was Mad Dog Vini Lopez, standing in front of me, fresh out of jail, his head shaved, in the Mermaid Room of the Upstage Club in Asbury Park. He told me he had a money-making outfit called Speed Limit 25, they were looking for a guitarist and was I interested? I was broke, so I was. So the genesis point of the E Street Band was actually a group that Vini Lopez asked me to join to make a few extra dollars on the weekend.

Shortly thereafter, I met Dan Federici. He was draped in three quarter-length leather, had his red hair slicked back with his wife Flo — she was decked out in the blonde, bouffant wig — and they were straight out of Flemington, NJ.

So Vini, Danny, myself, along with bass player Vinnie Roslin, were shortly woodshedding out of a cottage on the main street of a lobster-fishing town: Highlands, NJ. We first saw Garry Tallent along with Southside Johnny when they dragged two chairs onto an empty dance floor as I plugged my guitar into the upstage wall of sound. I was the new kid in a new town, and these were the guys who owned the place. They sat back and looked at me like, "Come on, come on, punk. Bring it. Let’s see what you got." And I reached back and I burnt their house down.

Garry Tallent’s great bass-playing and Southern gentleman’s presence has anchored my band for 40 years. Thank you, Garry! Thank you, sir.

Then one night, I wandered in the Upstage, and I was dumbstruck by a baby-faced, 16-year-old David Sancious. Davey was very, very unusual: He was a young, black man who — in 1968, Asbury Park, which was not a peaceful place — crossed the tracks in search of musical adventure, and he blessed us with his talent and his love. He was my roomie in the early, two-guys-to-one-six-dollar-motel-room years of the E Street Band. He was good, he kept his socks clean; it was lovely. And he was carrying around a snake around his neck at that time, so I lucked out with Davey as my roommate. [laughs] AND, Davey’s the only member of the group who ever actually lived on E Street!

So I walked in and he was on the club’s organ. And Davey’s reserved now, but at the time, he danced like Sly Stone and he played like Booker T, and he poured out blues and soul and jazz and gospel and rock & roll and he had things in his keyboard that we just never heard before. It was just so full of soul and so beautiful. Davey, we love you, and we still miss you so, you know?

But predating all of this was Steve Van Zandt. Steven: frontman, hitman. I walk into the Middletown Hullabaloo Club; he was the frontman for a band called the Shadows. He had on a tie that went from here down to his feet. All I remember is that he was singing the Turtles’ "Happy Together." During a break at the Hullabaloo Club in New Jersey, he played 55 minutes on and five minutes off, and if there was a fight, he had to rush onstage and start playing again.

So I met Stevie there and he soon became my bass player first, then lead guitarist. My consigliere, my dependable devil’s advocate whenever I need one. The invaluable ears for everything that I create, I always get ahold of him, and fan number one. So he’s my comic foil onstage, my fellow producer/arranger and my blood, blood, blood, blood, blood brother. Let’s keep rolling for as many lives as they’ll give us, alright?

Years and bands went by: Child, Steel Mill, the Bruce Springsteen Band — they were all some combo of the above-mentioned gang. Then I scored a solo recording contract with Columbia Records, and I argued to get to choose my recording "sidemen," which was a misnomer, in this case, if there ever was one.

So, I chose my band and my great friends, and we finally landed on E Street — the rare, rock & roll hybrid of solo artistry and a true rock & roll band.

But one big thing was missing ... It was a dark and stormy night, a Nor’easter rattled the street lamps on Kingsley Blvd. and in walked Clarence Clemons. I’d been enthralled by the sax sounds of King Curtis and I searched for years for a great rock & roll saxophonist. And that night Clarence walked in, walked towards the stage and he rose, towering to my right on the Prince’s tiny stage, about the size of this podium, and then he unleashed the force of nature that was the sound and the soul of the Big Man. In that moment, I knew that my life had changed. Miss you, love you Big Man. Wish that he was with us tonight. This would mean a great, great deal to Clarence.

An honorable mention and shout-out to Ernie "Boom" Carter. The drummer who played on one song only: "Born to Run." He picked a good one. So here’s to you, Ernie. Thank you, thank you.

Thanks, of course, Max Weinberg and Roy Bittan, who answered an ad in the Village Voice. And they beat out 60 other drummers and keyboardists for the job. It was the indefatigable, almost dangerously dedicated Mighty Max Weinberg and the fabulous five finger of Professor Roy Bittan. They refined and they defined the sounds of the E Street Band that remains our calling card around the world to this day. Thank you, Roy. Thank you, Max. They are my professional hitmen. I love them both.

Then, 10 years later, Nils Lofgren and Patti Scialfa joined just in time to assist us in the rebirth of Born in the U.S.A. Nils, one of the world’s great, great rock guitarists, with a choir boy’s voice, has given me everything he’s had for the past 30 years. Thank you, Nils. So much love.

And Patti Scialfa — a Jersey Girl — who came down one weekend from New York City and sat in with a local band, Cats on a Smooth Surface and Bobby Bandiera at the Stone Pony, where she sang a killer version of the Exciters’ "Tell 'Em." She had a voice that was full of a little Ronnie Spector, a little Dusty Springfield and a lot of something that was her very, very own. After she was done, I walked up, I introduced myself at the back bar, we grabbed a couple of stools and we sat there for the next hour or thirty years or so — talking about music and everything else. So we added my lovely red-headed woman and she broke the boy’s club!

Now, I wanted our band to mirror our audience, and by 1984, that band had grown men and grown women. But, her entrance freaked us out so much that opening night of the Born in the U.S.A. tour, I asked her to come into my dressing room and see what she was gonna wear! So she had on kind of a slightly feminine T-shirt and I stood there, sort of sweating. At my feet, I had a little Samsonite luggage bag that I carried with me, and I kicked it over. It was full of all my smelly, sweaty T-shirts and I said, "Just pick one of these, it’ll be fine." She’s not wearing one tonight. But Patti, I love you, thank you for your beautiful voice, you changed my band and my life. Thank you for our beautiful children.

So, real bands — real bands are made primarily from the neighborhood. From a real time and real place that exists for a little while, then changes and is gone forever. They’re made from the same circumstances, the same needs, the same hungers, culture. They’re forged in the search of something more promising than what you were born into. These are the elements, the tools, and these are the people who built the place called E Street.

Now, E Street was a dance; was an idea; was a wish; was a refuge; was a home; was a destination; was a gutter dream; and finally, it was a band. We struggled together, and sometimes, we struggled with one another. We bathed in the glory, and often, the heartbreaking confusion of our rewards together. We’ve enjoyed health, and we’ve suffered illness and aging and death together. We took care of one another when trouble knocked, and we hurt one another in big and small ways.

But in the end, we kept faith in each other. And one thing is for certain: As I said before in reference to Clarence Clemons — I told a story with the E Street Band that was, and is, bigger than I ever could have told on my own. And I believe that settles that question.

But that is the hallmark of a rock and roll band — the narrative you tell together is bigger than anyone could have told on your own. That’s the Rolling Stones; the Sex Pistols; that’s Bob Marley and the Wailers. That’s James Brown and His Famous Flames. That’s Neil Young and Crazy Horse.

So, I thank you my beautiful men and women of E Street. You made me dream and love bigger than I could have ever without you. And tonight I stand here with just one regret: that Danny and Clarence couldn’t be with us here tonight.

Sixteen years ago, a few days before my own induction, I stood in my darkened kitchen along with Steve Van Zandt. Steve was just returning to the band after a 15-year hiatus and he was petitioning me to push the Hall of Fame to induct all of us together. I listened, and the Hall of Fame had its rules, and I was proud of my independence. We hadn’t played together in 10 years, we were somewhat estranged, we were just taking the first small steps over reforming. We didn’t know what the future would bring. And perhaps the shadows of some of the old grudges held some sway.

It was a conundrum, as we’ve never quite been fish nor fowl. And Steve was quiet, but persistent. And at the end of our conversation, he just said, "Yeah, I understand. But Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band — that’s the legend."

So I’m proud to induct, into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, booty-shaking, love-making, earth-quaking, Viagra-taking, justifying, death-defying, legendary E Street Band.

Steve Kilbey: 'It put me off awards until tonight -- this is the first award ceremony I've been at', ARIA Hall of Fame - 2010

7 November 2010, Sydney Opera House, Sydney, Australia

Steve Kilbey is the lead singer-songwriter and bass guitarist in The Church.

Wow. George Negus. Next time I appear in Waverley Court, will you come and be a character witness for me, please? That's gotta carry some weight, right?

Oh, look. You know what, you know in rock n roll we procrastinate a lot, and I said, I was saying to these guys (who were saying) are you gonna have a speech? No no speech, no speech, and then I haven't got a speech. I could have had a speech going on the thing down there [autoprompt] like Chuggy did.

I haven't got a speech. The truth is, as I was sitting here, I realised something that I've always thought -- I think people in Australia, I've felt sorry for people in England. When I first met Marty, he didn't know about all the amazing music we had in Australia. And I spent all this time, we were playing him The Real Thing and The Masters Apprentices, and I grew up in Canberra and to me Australian music, there was no question about whether it was as good as the other stuff –- it was.

There was the American stuff, there was the English stuff, and there was the Australian stuff. And the first thing that I ever saw was a package tour with Normie Rowe, and the Easybeats, and MPD Ltd, and Bobby & Laurie – you know they did the 'When I hear a love call', everyone was stamping on the floor and it was amazing. And then all the bands that came up , bands we don't think of a lot now, like the Dave Miller Set, do you remember that song? 'He's Got His Love To Keep Him Warm'?

It was amazing stuff. People overseas never got to hear it.

Peter and I went and saw Hush at the Canberra Theatre -- we thought they were amazing! When Les Gock did this... we were going wow, this is great! Get Rocked! And then we did a gig, and we turned up and Skyhooks were playing. I couldn't believe how amazing Skyhooks were, not just 'cos they were funny and stuff, but there was the dual guitar thing that they had going on.

Years later, The Church were supporting The Sunnyboys at a festival, and we decided to be late, 'cos we weren't going on before The Sunnyboys, and we were standing there and we had explained it quite adequately why we were legitimately late, and Red Symons came in and said 'I know you meant to do it, it's all part of the game, you meant to be late, you didn't want to go on before them', and he kind of re-opened the whole thing up again.

It was great to be busted by Red Symons. So many amazing, amazing Australian bands. The people we have been inducted with - I almost said induced - the people we have been inducted with tonight are amazing. The Models, an amazing band, I read a review of myself that said I was weird and angular. I went and saw The Models play and when I saw Sean Kelly, I felt like Doug Parkinson, he was so much weirder and more angular than me.

A year later, I went to a party in a house in Melbourne, and I chatted up a girl with red hair, and it turned out to be Sean's girlfriend. And when we received our awards from 3XY for The Most Promising Bands of 1981, they said go and shake hands with your award, and Sean lent in and said 'Steve you're a …' And it put me off awards until tonight -- this is the first award ceremony I've been at.

The Models -- a really truly amazing band.

Ok, The Loved Ones, I agree with Chuggy, The Loved Ones insinuated so much raw dirty sexuality, much more than Mick Jagger, much more than anyone else, when you heard them you knew, even though I was twelve, I knew there was something very rude going on in the world of the adults. An Amazing amazing -- the way he sang was just like that (flips the bird) to authority, but not with the sort of blatant stuff you have nowadays of axing school teachers, and strippers, it was just implied, and that's why it was so much better. And I still don't know -- was Gerry Humphrys Barry Humphries' brother, or not? He wasn't?

Ok, Ok. He what? Oh, he encouraged the rumour.

Wow, The Loved Ones, 'Magic Box', I remember in the '80s we were still raving about Magic Box all the time. Listen to Magic Box, a fantastic record.

John Williamson, look I'm not a huge ... I don't know a real lot about Country, but I've had five daughters and all of them at some stage, I've amused with that 'you silly gallah, I'm better by far than a white cockatoo, or a budgerigar, they squeak and squawk and try and talk, why me and them's like cheese and chalk'.

Poetry, man.

Johnny Young, I remember I used to do an imitation of you at school, 'Car-olyn' (*clapping*), you used to clap, with your hands straight out when you clapped. Where is he? You did didn't you.  Your records were on Clarion label, Normie Rowe's records were on Sunshine, and Ray Brown's were on Leedon. But they all kind of looked the same, they were all Festival. I seriously, I reckon Smiley, I reckon The Star, which is an amazing song, the bit, the 'step aside', and 'The Real Thing', I had the pleasure of playing bass for Russell when he was induced -- inducted -- a couple of years ago. I was so overcome that I completely fucked up most of the bass line in it, and our Mellotron blew up, but still, what an amazing...

I was living in Canberra at the time. 'The Real Thing' was number one for about sixteen weeks. It was number one, it didn't go away, it was just, like, omnipresent. I hadn't had any LSD by that stage, but I knew what it was going to be like when I finally had it. Amazing. And the wonderful Irony that you're Mr Clean, and you wrote these songs!

He wasn't Mr Clean? Wow.

And then of course with that whole thing with Molly had the coaxial cables with the two 8-tracks in Melbourne, it's just an amazing legendary record. People overseas are just crazy to have missed out on that, why weren't all those songs hits in England and America? I don't know either.

Who else was there? Was that everybody that was on with us? We had some amazing adventures in the old days with Chuggy. Back in 1981, Chuggy was our manager, he was fantastic.

[Continued clip 2]

Chuggy, we had some amazing adventures, I remember the night when you signed us up, I was sitting there, and I was scared to say 'no', and your henchman, instead of putting a cigar in my mouth, he put a joint in my mouth, and I sat there and he said, 'so that's it then, ' and was like 'Yes!'.

And then in 1981 Chuggy organised our first tour of Tasmania, and aviation was a little different in those days. It was an old World War I, World War II – sorry Chuggy – it was an old World War II aeroplane, and the gear, in those days bands carried these colossal Pas with them, and it was all strapped down one side and the band was down the other side, and when we took off, the door opened. And we're looking at Melbourne through an open door, and the gear broke free and was running around, I had a four-way bin rolling towards me. And Chuggy, you know what you said? You said, 'Michael Chugg, killed in airplane crash. The Church were there, too'.

(From the audience, Chuggy yells, 'I have no memory of that at all!')

No, I bet you don't.

On the same tour, we played a gig in Launceston, and as we exited the venue, a young Taswegian lady was standing there with her bosoms bare, and she said, 'look, you mainlanders. Genuine Tassie tits!' and Marty walked over and went over and went, 'Cheers'. She would be a grandmother now, that woman.

On the same tour, our front of house man, punched an overzealous reporter in the eye and gave him a big black eye. And he stood right in front of me all night, crying. That was very daunting.

We've had loads of marvellous adventures in the music business, and I should have some poignant memory for each and all of you, like sailing in yachts in the Mediterranean with Michael Gudinski and stuff like that. But, my mother's here, so all of those anecdotes are no longer applicable.

I'm still amazed by Richard Wilkins' hair! I am. I'm sitting, I'm looking at it from behind, and I'm thinking he looks like a schoolboy from behind. It's so thick and fluffy and blond. It's amazing. And I can remember when you were Richard Wild. Was it like, Wild, or were you like Oscar Wilde?

Anyway, look, we've been kicked off the best record companies in Australia, we've been kicked off all the best publishing companies, and look, this is a great honour and I hope our foot is still in and out of the, in and out of -- what is it? In and out of the grave. 

And thank you very much for this great honour. I know some of my friends here want to thank some people, so thank you very much.