Today, we return to one of the most discussed albums in pop history: The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds.

Nearly 60 years after Brian Wilson assembled its world of harmonies, longing, bass lines, sound effects, and impossible emotional detail, Interscope-Capitol’s Definitive Sound Series is preparing a new mono One Step edition sourced from analog tapes connected to the revered 1972 Brother/Reprise pressing. For collectors and audiophile listeners, that pressing has long held a special place because of its clarity, balance, and unusually vivid presentation of the album’s dense production.

My guest is reissue producer Tom “Grover” Biery, who helped trace, verify, and bring these tapes back into the conversation with the help of Chris Bellman and the archive teams. We talk about why this source matters, what “three-dimensional mono” means, how a single-channel recording can still feel layered and spacious, and why the 1972 pressing may reveal something important about how Pet Sounds came to be understood after its original 1966 release.

We also get into the practical side of making a record like this: tape boxes, archive clues, test pressings, quality control at RTI, the cost of producing a limited One Step edition, and the challenge of honoring a masterpiece without flattening it into mythology.

Here is my conversation with Tom “Grover” Biery on Pet Sounds, the 1972 Brother/Reprise source, and the continuing search for the clearest way to hear one of Brian Wilson’s greatest achievements.

What does it mean for a musician to be free?

Not free as a slogan, or a genre label, but truly free: free to search, free to return, free to follow a sound across a lifetime.

Alan Braufman has been asking that question, in one form or another, for decades. Born in Brooklyn in 1951, Braufman became part of the New York free music community in the 1970s, connected to the downtown loft jazz scene, where music was not only performed, but lived. In 1975, he released Valley of Search, a debut whose title seemed to name something larger than a record: the artist as seeker, moving toward a sound, a feeling, a kind of musical truth.

Now, with Anthem for Peace, Braufman returns with a new studio album produced by his nephew Nabil Ayers and recorded in a single day with Patricia Brennan, Chad Taylor, and Luke Stewart. The music is direct but open, melodic but untamed, rooted in free jazz while still reaching for song, spirit, and forward motion.

His work has often been called optimistic free jazz, and maybe that phrase gets close to the center of it. Freedom can be beautiful, but it is not always easy. Searching can last a lifetime. So today, we ask Alan Braufman what he has been searching for, what he has found, and whether Anthem for Peace brings him closer to the freedom his music has been reaching toward all along.

Jarrod Lawson returns at an interesting moment in his career. With Just Let It, his third studio album, he’s not simply refining the sound that first brought him attention, he’s reshaping it. Long associated with a polished blend of soul, jazz, and R&B, Lawson leans into something more expansive here, pulling in hip-hop textures, contemporary production, and a wide circle of collaborators. The result is a record that resists easy categorization, less concerned with genre than with feel, instinct, and forward motion.

There’s also a personal dimension running underneath the music. Now based in Nashville, and navigating life as a new father while maintaining an international touring schedule, Lawson is working through questions of balance, identity, and creative evolution in real time. That push and pull shows up in the music, but so does a sense of release. The album’s title is not accidental. It reflects a shift toward trusting the process, letting songs reveal themselves rather than forcing them into place, and allowing a broader set of influence - from ’90s R&B to classic soul - to coexist without overthinking it.

What makes this conversation compelling is that Lawson is not looking backward, even as he carries those traditions with him. He’s building something that feels lived-in but not nostalgic, technical but not clinical. This is an artist who understands the lineage, but is more interested in what happens when you loosen your grip and let the music take you where it wants to go.

Mikaela Davis makes music that feels grounded, but never predictable. She has built a singular voice around the harp, and she uses it as a real expressive force, not as an ornament. On her new album Graceland Way, that voice carries the listener into a world shaped by atmosphere, instinct, and reflection.

Made with close collaborators Dan Horne and John Lee Shannon in a hillside home studio in Los Angeles County, the record holds a strong sense of place. But Graceland Way is after more than mood alone. These songs move through heartbreak, longing, beauty, uncertainty, and the uneasy balance between light and shadow. There is warmth in the music, but also tension, and that tension gives the record much of its power.

The album features a number of special guests, though its real center remains Davis herself and the emotional language she builds through the harp, the songs, and the world that surrounds them. What makes this record compelling is not only its sound, but the larger set of questions inside it: how environment shapes creation, how collaboration changes a song, how memory and myth blur together, and how music can alter the way we feel and see.

Today, we’re talking with Mikaela Davis about Graceland Way, about songwriting, duality, and creative partnership, and about making a record that feels both intimate and transportive.

There’s a version of Spin Magazine that most people remember. The 1990s disruptor. Irreverent, artist-driven, willing to challenge the norms of mainstream music coverage while helping define the alternative music conversation in real time. For me, it was essential reading. At a moment when many magazines felt increasingly commercial, Spin made space for something weirder, without losing its grip on the broader culture.

But that version doesn’t quite explain what Spin is now.

Under CEO Jimmy Hutcheson, the brand has been rebuilt with a dual mandate. Honor the legacy, but don’t get trapped in it. That means a quarterly print magazine that leans into curation and permanence, alongside a daily digital operation pushing out a steady stream of coverage. It also means thinking beyond publishing: record labels, film and TV partnerships, live events, even a foothold in music tech.

What does editorial authority look like in an era where artists can bypass media entirely, where algorithms shape discovery?

Jimmy Hutcheson joins me to talk about rebuilding Spin, the value of holding some paper in your hand, reaching a new generation without losing the old one, and the ways in which a legacy music publication fits in a landscape that barely resembles the one it came from.

There’s a version of Frank Hannon most listeners think they know. As co-founder and lead guitarist of Tesla, his playing helped define a more grounded, blues-informed alternative to the excess of late ’80s hard rock. Melody over flash. Feel over spectacle.

But my entry point wasn’t the studio records. It was Five Man Acoustical Jam. I wore that CD out as a kid. It reshaped what a rock band could sound like. I never owned it on vinyl, but always have my eyes peeled for a copy.

That tension, between structure and looseness, runs through Hannon’s career. Alongside the arena legacy is a deeper Bay Area lineage. Improvisation, atmosphere, and the influence of players like Dickey Betts.

It comes into focus on his new album, Reflections, and especially on “San Francisco,” an open-ended, first-take piece that leans into that psychedelic tradition, visually and musically, tracing back to the Summer of Love.

So what happens when a player known for precision follows instinct instead?

Frank Hannon joins me to talk about that side of his work, the road to Reflections, and of course, Tesla.

Welcome to The Sharp Notes Podcast. I’m Evan Toth, and this episode was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store inside the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey.

My guest is author, journalist, and vinyl-world lifer Larry Jaffee, a guy whose career has basically been one long field recording of the music business, from punk chaos to pressing plant logistics. Larry wrote Record Store Day: The Most Improbable Comeback of the 21st Century, the inside story of how a scrappy idea turned into the biggest annual holiday on the record collector calendar, and why independent shops went from “endangered species” to cultural town squares again.

But Larry’s not just chronicling the vinyl revival. He’s trying to rewire it. This interview was recorded just days before he moved to Iceland to co-found Thermal Beets Records, a geothermal-powered pressing plant concept aiming at making plant-based records from sugar beets instead of traditional PVC.

So yes, we go from limited edition RSD lore to the question lurking behind every new release: what does it cost, environmentally, and otherwise, to keep this format alive and thriving?

We welcome back a familiar and always thoughtful voice in music criticism and biography, Jude Warne. With the recent paperback release of her acclaimed authorized biography America: The Band, and the arrival of her deep-dive study Lowdown: The Music of Boz Scaggs, Jude joins us at a moment when her work continues to expand its reach and sharpen its focus. We have spoken together a few times now, but the road never seems to double back. Each visit opens a new corridor into the music. She also happens to be the author of one of the most perceptive pieces written about my own record, The Show.

Warne has built a reputation for listening carefully and writing even closer, tracing the emotional and sonic contours of artists with the kind of patience that modern music coverage rarely affords. Whether she is unpacking the layered harmonies of America or the cool, shifting grooves of Boz Scaggs, her work reminds us that great music writing is not just about facts and timelines. It is about translating sound into story and helping us hear familiar records with fresh ears.

This conversation was recorded live in front of an audience at The Sharp Notes record store in the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, New Jersey. As you will hear, when thoughtful music writing meets a room full of serious listeners, the result is exactly what you hope for: curiosity, discovery, and a few moments that might send you back to your turntable.