As I’ve mentioned previously, Uncle Donnie’s been writing these things for years—decades, even. Lev brings over another box of them every once in a while. This one dates back to 1974, and is notable for the absence of Donnie’s can’t-miss bit of advice about faking one’s demise. It wouldn’t have made sense in this context; the band he’s writing to was pretty well unknown at the time. Enjoy. – RS
TO: The Ramones
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career Advice
I’ve got to say, you guys are amazing. I mean, really amazing. You blew my mind at Seymour Stein’s birthday party at Max’s last weekend. I’ve never seen Sy look happier. Joey, you’re so tall. And your set was so … concise! Yes, concise! Thirty-one songs in 17 minutes? I mean, I haven’t been this blown away since I saw the Dead at Golden Gate Park three years ago—a show in which they played for 12 hours (pretty much the opposite of concise), including a two-hour “Turn on Your Love Light!” Do you guys like the Dead? I can get you a tape of the show, if you want one.
You’re right on the verge of something special—I can tell that. It’s my business to be able to tell that. And Sy is very big on you; I wouldn’t be surprised to see you make a record for Sire
Introducing an occasional series wherein we take a look at some of the most massive-sounding songs in pop history. A funny thing happened around 1971, or maybe 1972 — it depends on who you talk to. Progressive rock had been a part of the 1960s music scene, but was most commonly lumped in with psychedelic music and drug rock and was seldom considered an entity unto itself. Then, at the dawn of the Watergate decade, prog escaped into the wide open fields of seven-minute solos, half-hour compositions and mountains coming out of the sky and standing there. The aim was clear — to make a popular form of rock that was as ambitious, orchestral and big as classical music.
Let us begin with the Brothers, Righteous and Walker. The similarities are immediate, starting with the fact that none of the five among the bands were actually brothers. The Righteous Brothers were, famously, Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield, and their sound was built on a foundation of boomy, wall-of-reverb ambiance, slowly building orchestration from just simple strings to full, rich sections and backup singers that oooh-ed and aaaah-ed like a choir. It would not be strange to call the Righteous Brothers a blue-eyed gospel group under these conditions, especially in Medley and Hatfield’s emphatically roaring delivery. Key examples come in the ripping bridge of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” where their singing is closer to testifyin’ than harmonizing, and on “Unchained Melody,” where Hatfield moves from understated arrangement to nothing less than heaven appearing from the parting clouds. 
