Alex Ligertwood, Santana Vocalist and Rock Journeyman, Dies at 79

Born on December 18, 1949, in Glasgow, Scotland, Alex Ligertwood, the singer whose voice powered a key era of Santana, died on May 2, 2026. He was 79.

Best known for his work with Carlos Santana’s band during the late ’70s and ’80s, Ligertwood brought a soulful, commanding presence to a period when Santana fused Latin rock with a more polished, radio-ready sound. His vocals are front and center on hits like “Winning” and “Hold On,” songs that helped carry the band back onto mainstream charts and into a new generation of listeners.

Ligertwood began his career in the British rock circuit, fronting bands including Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express, where his powerful voice and blues instincts first gained wider attention. By the time he joined Santana in 1979, he had already built a reputation as a versatile performer capable of bridging rock, funk, and soul.

Ligertwood remained with Santana through much of the 1980s, appearing on albums such as Marathon, Zebop! and Shango. His tenure coincided with one of the band’s most commercially successful stretches, anchored by tight songwriting and a sound that balanced Santana’s signature guitar work with strong melodic hooks.

Beyond Santana, Ligertwood’s career reflected a deep commitment to craft over flash. He collaborated with a wide range of artists, including Jeff Beck and Rod Stewart, and remained active in music well into later years, often revisiting the songs that defined his career while continuing to explore new material.

Alex Ligertwood leaves behind a body of work that speaks clearly: a singer who knew how to serve the song, and in doing so, helped shape one of rock’s most enduring catalogs.

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David Allan Coe, Defiant Voice of Country’s Outlaw Era, Dies at 85

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David Allan Coe, the fiercely independent country singer-songwriter whose raw storytelling and outlaw persona set him apart from Nashville’s mainstream, has died at 85.

Coe’s career was defined by contradictions. He could write a song as tender and reflective as “You Never Even Called Me by My Name,” then turn around and deliver something as unvarnished as “The Ride,” his haunted conversation with the ghost of Hank Williams. That push and pull between humor, darkness, and hard-earned wisdom became his signature.

Born in Akron, Ohio, on September 6, 1939, Coe’s early life was turbulent, marked by time spent in reform schools and prison. He often drew from those experiences in his music, shaping a catalog that felt real without ever asking for sympathy. After relocating to Nashville in the late ’60s, he found his footing as a songwriter, with artists like Tanya Tucker and Johnny Paycheck recording his material before he broke through on his own.

By the mid-’70s, Coe had carved out a place within the outlaw country movement alongside figures like Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. Even within that rebellious circle, Coe stood apart. His albums, The Mysterious Rhinestone Cowboy, Once Upon a Rhyme, and Longhaired Redneck, blended honky-tonk, country rock, and narrative songwriting that did not shy away from life’s rough edges.

He scored his biggest commercial success as a songwriter with Paycheck’s No. 1 hit Take This Job and Shove It,” a working-class anthem that crossed into the broader culture. As a performer, Coe built a devoted following through relentless touring and a reputation for unpredictable, often riveting live shows.

Coe’s career was not without controversy. Some of his later recordings and statements drew criticism and, at times, overshadowed his contributions to country music. His influence remains undeniable, particularly among artists drawn to country’s grittier, less polished traditions.

Over decades, Coe stayed committed to his own path, resisting trends and industry expectations. Whether playing biker rallies, small clubs, or larger stages, he carried the same defiant spirit that defined his earliest recordings.

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Beverley Martyn, Gifted British Folk Singer, Dies at 79

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Beverley Martyn, the British folk singer whose voice carried equal parts intimacy and quiet defiance, died on April 27, 2026 at the age of 76.

Born Beverley Kutner on January 24, 1949, in London, she came of age during a fertile period for UK folk, when tradition and experimentation were beginning to blur. She was still a teenager when she began performing in clubs around the city, quickly earning a reputation for a voice that could sound both fragile and unshakable.

Martyn’s early career included recording under her maiden name, with the 1966 album Stormbringer! capturing a young artist already stretching beyond straightforward folk revivalism. Around that time, she crossed paths with a rising singer-songwriter, John Martyn. The two married in 1970 and became one of the more intriguing creative partnerships of the era.

Their most enduring collaboration arrived with 1970’s The Road to Ruin, a record that stood apart from the more polished folk releases of the time. Spare, emotionally direct, and occasionally uneasy, it reflected both a musical kinship and the complicated personal dynamic behind it. Beverley Martyn’s presence on the album grounded its restless edges, her vocals offering a clarity that cut through the haze of experimentation.

Beyond her work with John Martyn, she moved within a circle of influential musicians who were reshaping British folk and its boundaries. She recorded and collaborated with artists including Jimmy Page, Nick Drake, Simon & Garfunkel, Bert Jansch, and John Renbourn, and was part of sessions that connected her to the wider Fairport Convention orbit. Those associations placed her in the middle of a creative community where folk, jazz, and blues were constantly intersecting, even if her own contributions were not always fully credited at the time.

After stepping away from the spotlight for a period, Martyn returned to recording decades later, reclaiming her own narrative with a series of solo releases that reintroduced her as more than a footnote to a celebrated partnership. Albums like The Phoenix and the Turtle and No Frills showcased an artist still committed to emotional honesty, her voice weathered but expressive, shaped by time without losing its core character.

In later interviews and performances, she spoke openly about her life and career, offering a candid perspective on the challenges she faced both within the music industry and in her personal life. That openness resonated with a new generation of listeners, many of whom discovered her work long after her earliest recordings had faded from view.

Beverley Martyn’s legacy rests not on chart success or commercial milestones, but on the enduring pull of her voice and the emotional precision of her performances. Whether in the stark intimacy of her early recordings or the reflective tone of her later work, she remained an artist who valued truth over polish.

Jon Dee Graham, Influential Austin Singer-Songwriter, Dies at 67

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Jon Dee Graham, the fiercely independent Austin singer-songwriter and guitarist whose raw, deeply personal songs made him one of the city’s most respected musical voices, died March 27 at the age of 67.

Born February 28, 1959, Graham first made his mark in Austin’s punk and roots-rock underground as a member of the Skunks before joining the True Believers, the influential band he helped form with Alejandro Escovedo. Though that chapter established him as a key figure in the Austin, Texas community, it was his solo work that revealed the full depth of his songwriting.

Beginning with Escape From Monster Island in 1997, Graham built a body of work defined by emotional weight, hard truth, and a refusal to smooth over life’s damage. His songs often dealt with pain, addiction, endurance, love, and survival, carried by a voice that sounded weathered because it had earned every crack in it. Albums including Summerland, Full, and Knoxville Skyline strengthened his standing as a songwriter revered by fellow musicians and devoted fans alike.

There was nothing polished about Graham’s appeal, and that was the point. His performances hit with force, whether he was delivering a bruised ballad or a jagged rocker. What came through in every phase of his career was honesty. He wrote and sang like someone who understood how fragile things are and how much music can still hold.

Beyond his records, Graham remained a fixture of the Austin community, admired not only for his talent but for his presence, his resilience, and his willingness to keep showing up. His influence stretched well beyond his own catalog, reaching into generations of songwriters and performers who saw in him a model for how to make music without compromise.

Chip Taylor, Acclaimed Songwriter and Americana Artist, Dies at 85

L-R: This author, Carrie Rodriguez, Chip Taylor at SXSW 2013

Chip Taylor, the songwriter behind some of the most enduring tracks of the 1960s, died on March 23, closing the book on a career that moved easily between chart success, cult rediscovery, and late-life reinvention.

Born James Wesley Voight on March 21, 1940, Taylor built his reputation not as a frontman, but as a writer with a knack for songs that traveled. His most famous composition, “Wild Thing,” became a defining hit for the Troggs in 1966, its raw simplicity helping to shape garage rock. That same year, he wrote “Angel of the Morning,” later recorded by Merrilee Rush and revived decades later by artists across genres, from country to pop.

Taylor’s songs had a way of finding new life. “Wild Thing” would be reinterpreted by Jimi Hendrix in a now-legendary performance at Monterey, while “Angel of the Morning” became a standard that never quite left the radio, most famously by Juice Newton. His writing carried a directness that made it adaptable, whether filtered through rock grit or polished pop.

Though he found success early, Taylor stepped away from the music business in the 1970s, turning instead to professional gambling. It was an unexpected pivot, but one that mirrored his restless nature. When he returned to music decades later, it was on his own terms, leaning into a more reflective, roots-oriented sound that aligned with the Americana movement.

In his later years, Taylor recorded a steady run of albums, often collaborating with Carrie Rodriguez. The work didn’t chase past glories. Instead, it felt lived-in, grounded in storytelling and a quieter sense of purpose, the kind of second act few songwriters manage to pull off.

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