To Hell With Touring! Why The Beatles Got It Right, The Grateful Dead Were Geniuses, and Kiss Stole Your Soul with This Dirty Trick…

It was 1966. Exhausted and feeling that the frenzied adoration of their fans overshadowed their art, The Beatles made a radical decision: no more touring! It sounded insane, but for them, the frenzy of massive stages had become a barren field for musical innovation. They wanted to go beyond the screams and fainting fits; they longed for their increasingly complex and experimental music to be appreciated in all its glory, just as they conceived it within the intimacy of the studio.

Albums like Rubber Soul and Revolver, and future masterpieces were born from this determination: Sgt. Pepper’s, the enigmatic White Album, and the iconic Abbey Road. These weren’t mere recordings; they were artistic statements, packed with deep lyrics, sublime orchestrations, and such groundbreaking studio techniques that recreating them live was, quite simply, a fantasy. For the Fab Four, the true musical experience—the profound connection to the work—was found in the record itself. And personally, I couldn’t agree more.

I’m one of those who believe the masterpiece lives in the studio. I admit I often feel a twinge of disappointment when I hear live versions of my favorite tracks. It’s as if part of the magic evaporates outside the sacred bubble of the recording. I share the Beatles’ bold vision: for me, the experience of a culminating musical work is, largely, an intimate journey with the record. But of course, in this fascinating sonic universe, there’s always another side to the coin…

This is where the Grateful Dead come in, one of my dearest bands. Their magic, unlike the Beatles, didn’t lie in studio perfectionism but in the uncontrollable fire of the live show. For them, records were barely a pretext, a mere roadmap for the cosmic improvisations unleashed at every concert. A five-minute track on the album? Live, it could mutate into an hour-long odyssey, a jam that transported you to another dimension.

The influence of jazz giants like John Coltrane and Miles Davis was palpable. The Dead didn’t just play; they created new music spontaneously every night, using their studio tracks as nothing more than foundations. Imagine their frustration in the late '60s: it was impossible to bottle that overwhelming live energy in the studio! Their 1968 album, Anthem of the Sun, was an admirable attempt. The result? Something unheard of: chaotic, yes, maybe “failed” to some, but undeniably fascinating. They fused live recordings with studio takes, creating a sonic experience as strange as it was unexpected.

With the Grateful Dead, no two nights were alike. Fans knew it, which is why they recorded concerts and shared them. That’s how those legendary live versions came to be—recordings that turned into treasures. They say there are so many live Grateful Dead recordings they’ll be the last band on Earth left to be heard… ironically, on a recording! The pinnacle of their live mastery, Grateful Dead, Europe 1972, is essential listening.

But my favorite live album—and I’ve said this many times—is Kiss Alive! from 1975. And no, it’s not your “typical” live album. Partly inspired by the Grateful Dead, Kiss Alive! was a clever blend of concert recordings mixed with studio takes, supercharged by the brilliance of engineer Eddie Kramer. The result was an album that sounded a thousand times bigger than the sum of its parts. A masterstroke: opportunistic and strategic, designed to position Kiss as the fiercest band of the moment in a Detroit thirsty for hard rock, right as MC5, The Stooges, New York Dolls, and Alice Cooper were starting to fade.

This technique of fusing live recordings with studio overdubs wasn’t exclusive to Kiss. Unleashed in the East by Judas Priest, the great live metal album of the late '70s, was, half-jokingly, nicknamed “Unleashed in the Studio".

Then there’s The Who’s Live at Leeds (1970), considered by many to be the greatest live rock album ever. Rarely have I heard The Who play with such raw power. It’s undeniable that punk and heavy metal have roots in that explosive album. I don’t know if The Who always sounded this brutal live, but Live at Leeds is a milestone—a brilliance that stands on its own. A band that definitely reached stratospheric heights on stage, and also a clear move away from the “rock opera” concept they had developed on previous albums like the legendary Tommy.

Personally, I’m fascinated by Afrobeat master Fela Kuti’s philosophy on live music and studio recordings. In the '70s, Fela and his band, Africa 70, would play preliminary live versions of their songs—30- to 40-minute renditions extended with improvised solos and Fela’s interaction with the audience. Masters of improvisation, they’d tweak songs based on crowd reaction, cutting what didn’t work and amplifying what did. This process could take months until they reached the definitive version.

At that point, Fela and his band would enter the studio, aiming only to capture the “perfect” version in a single take. Once recorded, according to Fela, that track was never played live again. Why? Because the process was complete. Fela rejected endlessly repeating already-recorded songs; he sought to avoid mechanical routine stealing their soul. For him, it was about creating an impeccable musical statement, not just a product.

Live albums are undeniably a category of their own. Sometimes successful attempts to capture a band’s untamed energy on stage. Although, as we’ve seen, they often become fascinating hybrids between the live moment and studio craftsmanship. Despite that, I remain a staunch admirer of studio versions. It’s hard—very hard—for me to fully enjoy a live version of my favorite tracks at a concert. I firmly believe that once the perfect piece has been crafted in the studio, hearing it recreated live… well, it isn’t always the best experience.