legacy

In the private home studio left behind by his father, Shane Hawkins is hitting the drums hard. The teenager behind the kit is locked into “Driven to Tears,” the Police’s reggae-charged protest song, channeling its sharp, syncopated beats with controlled fury.

His long blond hair swings across his face as Hawkins loses himself in the moment, tapping into a brisk echo of ’80s rock. He then shifts into the thundering blues of Black Sabbath’s “The Wizard,” driving into the heavier groove while surrounded by the instruments, gear and treasured memorabilia of his late father, Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins, who died in 2022.

Joining him in this rehearsal are bassist Wiley Hodgden and guitarist Brent Woods, who played hard-rocking cover songs in Taylor’s side project Chevy Metal for more than two decades. After Taylor’s death, the Foo Fighters carried on, but Chevy Metal were certain they could not. Shane changed that.

“Wiley and I were in agreement, like, it’s done,” says Woods. “Shane was the one that said, ‘I want to do Chevy.’”

For Taylor’s son, the band was one more thing he didn’t want to let go.

“It was a part of my childhood and it’s like, my dad was gone and these people that I’ve watched my whole childhood, they’re still there,” says Shane, 19. “Why not keep something going? And it’s just honoring my dad, you know?”

Most of the music world first saw Shane behind the drums during Foo Fighters’ performance of “My Hero” at the Taylor Hawkins tribute concert at Wembley Stadium on Sept. 3, 2022. He was 16 and already obsessed with drums, but he says it wasn’t until that moment that he knew he wanted to devote his life making music.

“It was a gnarly time,” Shane recalls. “You had to pull that off. You can’t really f— that up.

“I played for a lot of people, and there’s only one feeling like that — especially playing the drums. Once you do that, you never want to do anything else.”

With Chevy Metal, Shane is in a band committed to playing songs mostly created before he was born, with a typical setlist including songs by Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Queen, the Rolling Stones, Talking Heads, Rush and the Doors. His presence now means leaning more often into classic punk rock. During their live sets, Shane will usually take the mic to growl through the Bad Brains’ speedy “Big Takeover,” pacing the stage and banging his head.

“We’re playing the Germs now,” says Woods. “We’re playing Black Flag, which we never did before.”

Shane Hawkins plays drums with Chevy Metal at the Viper Room.

(Steve Appleford)

Chevy Metal shows routinely feature surprise guests. Dave Grohl and other Foos have frequently appeared. So have Mick Jagger and players from Queen, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guns ‘N Roses and more. Even tennis star John McEnroe once joined the band on guitar at a Malibu gig, alongside his wife, singer Patty Smyth.

One regular guest is Lee Ving, singer for the pioneering L.A. punk band Fear. “Lee is like the elder statesman, and then we got Shane, who is so young,” Hodgden says of the age range. “You never see that unless it’s maybe a church band or something.”

Another regular is Anthrax guitarist Scott Ian, a family friend whose son Revel also plays music with Shane.

“He’s a great dude and he is a monster drummer,” Scott says of Shane. “I sit and I watch him and Revel play together. It’s so great to see, especially in a world where a lot of younger kids don’t pick up instruments anymore. They live, eat, sleep, breathe, bleed, rock music.”

Until this month, the resurrected Chevy Metal could only perform during Shane’s breaks from his boarding school on the East Coast, but he is newly graduated and ready to play. The trio performs Saturday at Alex’s Bar in Long Beach as part of a series of shows that will take the band to the U.K. Shane is also working with other young players on new material.

“He’s already jamming with kids his own age and friends that he’s had for years, and starting his own project,” says Woods. “But this is good for him to learn, just to play in different venues and travel around and get his feet wet playing covers.”

Chevy Metal once served a similar purpose for Taylor, a favorite pastime alongside his Foo Fighters work. Hodgden has been part of the Foo Fighters crew for 24 years, both on the road and at their studio 606, starting as Taylor’s drum tech. Before that, he was a bartender newly arrived from Oklahoma that the drummer befriended.

In 2002, Hodgden and original guitarist Achim “Dange” St. Dangerfield started the band as an acoustic duo doing cover songs. Taylor was a regular, Hodgden says, turning to Shane. “There’d be two drunks at the bar, and then your dad sitting there heckling us,” Hodgden says with a laugh. “We go into ‘Hotel California,’ and he’s like, ‘Oh, great song choice, guys.’”

The Foos drummer soon wanted in.

“Taylor was trying to come up with names and he’s like, ‘How about Chevy Metal?’ And I said, ‘Well, you can’t really name the band. You’re not in it,’” Hodgden adds. “But we jammed all the time up at his house, and then one day we’re playing and it sounded good. And Taylor stood up and said, ‘I’m gonna be your drummer and we’re gonna call it Chevy Metal.’ And I was like, that’s a rad name.”

“He got to be the boss in this band and steer the ship and do whatever he wanted,” says Hodgden. “But also it was low pressure and it was all about fun.”

Taylor filled much of his downtime making more music. Aside from Chevy Metal, he recorded new songs with the Coattail Riders (which included Woods) and, earlier, the Birds of Satan (including Hodgden).

“He never stopped,” Woods recalls. “He would call me at 7 a.m. and go, ‘What are you doin? Get up here!’ He’d go to bed probably at midnight, one o’clock, and he’s up taking the kids to school, he’s mountain biking, and he’s ready to roll. I was still sleeping, but he would be up every day wanting to create and work.”

Woods saw Chevy Metal’s first show with Taylor at Abuelitas in Topanga Canyon in 2002. After Dange moved up north to work as a teacher, Woods eventually became Chevy Metal’s new guitarist. Woods grew up in Burbank and took guitar lessons from Randy Rhoads, best known for his work on Ozzy Osbourne’s early solo albums.

“He was such a great lead player, but he was adamant that if you can’t play rhythm, it doesn’t matter how great of a lead player you are,” Woods says of Rhoads, who emphasized “rhythm and feel.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if it wasn’t for Randy teaching me.”

Growing up initially in Topanga Canyon, the first beat Shane learned to play was the thunderous drum fill from Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” Then came Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” and the Rolling Stones’ “Miss You.” By 13, he was spending hours each day practicing alone in the basement at his boarding school.

“There were no other kids that really played at the school, so I’d just sit down and play,” he says.

Shane grew up watching both Foo Fighters and Chevy Metal shows. “I’d sit behind my dad and watch him play and watch people just go crazy,” says Shane. “And as a kid, you think that’s the coolest thing in the world, because it is. It’s the best feeling.”

The band Chevy Metal — bassist Wiley Hodgden, left, drummer Shane Hawkins and guitarist Brent Woods — gestures downstairs at the Viper Room on the Sunset Strip.

(Steve Appleford)

Taylor’s home studio was built in a guest house behind his family’s home in Hidden Hills, a gated community on the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley. Inside, the walls are still covered with his guitars, posters, photographs and other relics from his favorite artists: Aerosmith, Rush, Bowie, Jane’s Addiction and Soundgarden.

The reborn Chevy Metal still rehearses in what Woods describes as Taylor’s “man cave.”

“He put a lot of work into making this room what it is right now,” says Shane. “I remember him precisely making sure every picture was hung up in the exact place. And every banner was hung perfectly and every speaker was placed perfectly for your ear.”

The band recorded a lot of songs here with Taylor, and they hope to release some of that material from the vault. They plan on more recording with his son.

Before Shane graduated high school, the last time Chevy Metal played a hometown show was at the Viper Room on New Year’s Eve. It was also a gathering of rock ’n’ roll families, as second-generation musicians took turns onstage with Chevy Metal, representing the offspring of Guns ‘N Roses, Jane’s Addiction and Anthrax.

During the sound check, the band ran through songs by U2 and Foreigner, and Shane hammered the drums at full volume. Afterward, he was chatting with Scott Ian, who advised him: “You never want to be great at dress rehearsal. You want to be good at dress rehearsal, and then be great at the show.”

Shane nodded, but for now, he says he can only play at one level: loud.

As Shane sat in the dressing room before Chevy Metal’s set, Jane’s Addiction drummer Stephen Perkins walked in, asking, “Where’s the drummer?” Then he spotted Shane, smiled, grabbed his hand and said, “There he is!”

Dorsey High’s 1982 City Section football championship team walked onto the stage with a youthful swagger. Though it has been decades since they celebrated within the halls of the school, it was like they had never left that courtyard.

Alumni and family cheered and danced alongside them at Dorsey’s first full athletics reunion. Soon after, the cheerleaders for the 1976 championship basketball team came out to perform. The up and coming sports teams for the 2026-27 school year came out with their families, as hundreds of people celebrated the legacy and the future of the school.

But Dorsey has undergone a lot of changes since the turn of the century.

In 25 years, it has gone from a well-attended school with a successful athletics program to one that has faded into the background of Los Angeles.

The last football championship came in 2001. The next year, Dorsey enrolled 2,211 students, the most in school history, according to Public School Review. Now, enrollment is hitting a low with 792 students, according to US News, and the athletic teams are trying to find that powerhouse status again.

Enter former football head coach Paul Knox. He had a solution — or at least an idea. Bring together the athletics alumni of Dorsey for a day of celebration, with a look ahead to the future.

On Saturday, hundreds of current and former Dorsey Dons came to the school for the reunion. There were a lot of stories, old photos, laughter and love being passed around from people who haven’t touched the campus in four decades. Alumni from all the way back in the 1950s came. Knox gave tours of the renovations the school has undertaken, and the event also highlighted the soon-to-be football stadium and new basketball gym.

Later in the day, the current teams were introduced to everybody in attendance as was the 1976 City championship basketball team. The chance to showcase both the past and present is what inspired Knox, who hasn’t coached at Dorsey since 2014, to put on this event.

“The atmosphere that is here, the pride that everybody has in the school in general … it’s one of the most passionate alumni that you are going to have,” Knox said.

Dorsey’s enrollment struggles are not unique. Across California, public school enrollment is down. In the Los Angeles Unified School District, enrollment dropped over 16,000 in the past year. Private and charter schools are on the up in both academics and athletics, leaving places such as Dorsey — that dominated for so long — behind.

Dorsey High alum and former major leaguer Don Buford sits under a towering ficus tree on campus Saturday during the school’s all-sports reunion.

(Caleb Otte / For The Times)

Dorsey has a long history of sending athletes to the professional leagues. Former major leaguer Don Buford, who graduated in 1955, was present at the event. He barely had a moment to himself as multiple other alumni wanted to chat and grab photos with him, and Buford was happy to exchange excited, reminiscent anecdotes.

Buford was sitting in front of a massive ficus tree, with roots the size of a 5-year-old child coming up out of the ground. He took a moment to look back when talking to a class of 1958 alumni, noticing the size of the plant.

“When I went here, this was just a little tree,” he said.

Eighty years of students coming through the halls of Dorsey watched the small seedling sprout into a towering, beautiful beast.

Knox, and the administration of the school, are treating this reunion as the initial seed for the rehabilitation of the athletics program and hopefully the entire school.

“The passion is there,” Knox said. “We’re really hoping to inspire the teams now, to show them that there’s depth behind the things they do.”

Beyond the prime directive of the event, it simply served as a way for the Dorsey community to experience joy. So many former players caught up with their coaches. People were introducing themselves to legendary alumni that they hoped to meet. Finding a face without a smile would’ve been a Herculean task.

The day also served as a chance to show the current students at Dorsey what opportunities are out there for them, whether that be from sports or otherwise. Former champions were highlighted alongside what Dorsey hopes are their future champions.

Baseball alumni all wore shirts that said “Legacy of Greatness … Five Rings, One Legacy.” Their most recent championship was in 2014. Little signs like that permeated the day, as did a big one displaying every Dorsey championship.

The idea that the school has a history of success, and they want to get back there, was the cornerstone of the event — without it being explicitly stated.

“Once you go here, you get that feeling,” Knox said.

Even with all the fanfare, the man giving out raffle tickets at the front entrance encapsulated it perfectly.

“It’s a great day to be a Don.”

Hunter Biden has told the BBC he is “the most privileged person there is” after receiving a presidential pardon from his father, former US President Joe Biden, acknowledging it was not a good choice for America or his father’s legacy.

In a wide-ranging interview with the BBC’s Newsnight, Hunter Biden defended the controversial pardon, reflected on his father’s declining health, ruled out seeking elected office and spoke about helping others recover from addiction.

Asked about the 2024 pardon, he said he understood the criticism but noted: “What would you have thought of my dad if he did not do that for me.”

“It’s something that is easily criticised and for good reason,” he added.

“It’s not fair… All I know is that I’m grateful that he did it for me,” he said, acknowledging the pardon was “not good” for the American people, the Constitution – or his father’s legacy.

He argued to the BBC that his father ultimately acted out of concern that he would become a target under Donald Trump’s incoming administration.

“I was the only one in the world that could have gotten what I got from the only person in the world who could give it, my father.”

Hunter Biden also insisted he and his father had never discussed the possibility of a pardon before it was granted.

“There is no way that you can have those kinds of discussions that would not become public,” he said.

President Biden granted his son a full and unconditional pardon in December 2024, despite repeatedly saying beforehand that he would not use the powers of the presidency to intervene in his son’s legal cases. In announcing the decision, the former president said his son had been “selectively and unfairly prosecuted”.

The pardon covered his son’s federal gun conviction, a tax case he’d pled guilty to and any federal offences committed between 2014 and 2024.

Some victims of disgraced undertaker Robert Bush have not been refunded for fake funeral plans he sold them, a court has heard.

The 48-year-old defrauded 172 people over 11 years to the tune of £562,000, Hull Crown Court was told.

He previously admitted 67 offences in relation to his business, Legacy Independent Funeral Directors in Hull, including failing to bury and cremate people, theft from 12 charities, fraudulent trading in funeral plans, and fraud.

On the fourth day of his sentencing hearing, one woman said her parents, who paid £2,649 each for funeral plans, were not alive “to see the justice they deserved”. Another said she had not been refunded £5,000 for two policies.

This story contains details some might find distressing.

Wiping her eyes with a tissue, Maxine Hill told Mr Justice Hilliard the bank refused to refund the money fraudulently taken by Bush, whom Hill knew personally.

Bush visited both her parents, Margaret and John, in their own home and issued a handwritten receipt to her mother who paid him in cash.

The bank initially refunded the amount paid by Hill’s father but 90 days later, the bank took the money back saying “there was no evidence that he hadn’t received a product”, the court heard.

Both have since died – Margaret in May 2024 and John in June 2025.

SAN FRANCISCO — Every election produces a campaign strategist whose victory bestows upon them, for at least a little while, the unofficial title of reigning political genius.

James Carville, Karl Rove, David Axelrod and Stephen K. Bannon have all worn the crown.

For many years, and many election cycles, California’s reigning political genius was Clint Reilly.

In an age before the internet, before social media, before the cable-TV chat shows and before Carville and the like, Reilly came as close to celebrity as a political operative possibly could. He was the subject of fear, admiration, contempt, envy and lengthy newspaper and magazine treatments.

His cherry-red Jaguar, Italian suits, designer eyewear and seaside mansion made Reilly an influencer before there even was such a thing. (A connoisseur of the finer things, he served visitors coffee in bone china when they called on his San Francisco office.)

“It used to be that political consultants and political mechanics were something that only a handful of people thought about,” said Eric Jaye, one of generations of campaign strategists who were trained or inspired — directly or indirectly — by Reilly. “Clint was the original star consultant who made news himself and shaped the political discussion.”

Reilly, a working-class product of Oakland who crossed the Bay and scaled the heights of San Francisco business, culture and politics, died earlier this month at age 79.

For someone who never held political office — a 1999 bid for San Francisco mayor was a notable flop — Reilly wielded considerable influence.

A list of the many Democrats he helped elect — among them Nancy Pelosi, Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer — reads like a scroll of modern California history. At one time, the sitting mayors of both San Francisco and Los Angeles were clients of Reilly.

He wasn’t flawless as an election strategist. Like any political operative, he had his share of defeats.

Reilly’s particular genius lay in the methodology — vertical integration — he brought to campaigns. Typically, one consultant would handle television advertising, another direct mail, another polling, another big-picture strategy, and so on.

“Everything was in-house with Clint and, at least in San Francisco, he was the first to do that,” said Jerry Roberts, who was a scruffy reporter for the city’s alt-weekly when he met a shaggy-haired Reilly more than 50 years ago. At the time, campaigns were a sideline for Reilly, who supported himself selling doodads and other salvaged wares in a movable flea market he operated on Fisherman’s Wharf.

“It was a smart business model,” said Roberts, who went on to lead two major California newspapers.

It made Reilly very rich.

In 1988, he managed what, at the time, was the most expensive political campaign in California history, a $64-million effort by the insurance industry to beat back a Ralph Nader-inspired reform initiative. Reilly lost, but his firm cleared at least $6 million on that contest alone — or about $17 million in today’s dollars.

“So that’s where our premiums went,” one guest observed with a low whistle as he arrived at the state-of-the art headquarters Reilly built not long after the Proposition 103 campaign. (Naturally, he threw an open house; for all his affluence, Reilly never did entirely shake the proletariat chip on his shoulder.)

A onetime seminarian — he left three years shy of being ordained a Catholic priest — Reilly was no saint.

He was hot-tempered, profane and egotistical. He embraced the nickname “Satan,” which a former client affixed after Reilly went to work for an archrival, as a reflection of his reputation for intimidation and mastery of the political dark arts.

In one fit of pique, Reilly took the unheard step of firing a client — Feinstein — via faxed press release because, he said, the former San Francisco mayor lacked the requisite fire to run for governor. The two eventually reconciled, though Feinstein stuck with members of the team that replaced Reilly and helped guide her to successive terms in the U.S. Senate.

If Reilly was at times overbearing — and known for being the kind of hellacious boss who gave employees night sweats — he was also generous and a genuine bleeding heart.

Before his career took off, Reilly volunteered for the United Farm Workers and lived an ascetic life, sheltering in church halls, as he ministered to the poor. Once he established his high-end consulting firm, Reilly retained his political staffers at no small expense, even during the lull between campaigns, rather than hiring and firing them as seasonal workers, which was the norm.

After leaving professional campaign consulting in the mid-1990s, and making a substantial fortune in real estate, Reilly gave prolifically to various charities and assorted civic caucuses. He started a charitable foundation of his own, Bay Scholars, which helps poor and underserved youth attend Catholic high schools throughout the area.

In 1987, when Reilly arguably resided at the height of his power and influence, he took on Pelosi as a client.

She was running for a rare open congressional seat in San Francisco and, though well known in political circles as a prodigious Democratic fundraiser and high-level activist, Pelosi was a blank slate to many voters. Reilly came up with a slogan that played on Pelosi’s Washington connections and many important friendships: “A voice that will be heard.”

More than that, he made a key tactical decision in the waning days of the campaign.

Pelosi was one of 14 candidates, several of them well-known Democratic officeholders. Ignoring Pelosi’s objections, Reilly sent out a mail piece to the city’s vastly outnumbered Republicans suggesting that a Democrat was bound to win the congressional seat and arguing that Pelosi was the best — or, at least, not the worst — of the bunch.

On election day, Pelosi lost the Democratic vote to Harry Britt, who succeeded Harvey Milk on the Board of Supervisors after Milk’s assassination. Still, Pelosi prevailed, by less than 4,000 votes out of nearly 108,000 cast. The winning margin was her Republican support.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Chadwick Boseman’s brothers, Derrick Boseman and Kevin Boseman, are taking the actor’s widow to court over her handling of his multimillion-dollar estate.

The pair filed a petition with a Los Angeles court to remove control of the “Black Panther” actor’s estate from his widow, Taylor Simone Ledward. They claim Ledward has mishandled distribution of the funds and “cannot be trusted with the continued administration of the estate.”

According to court documents reviewed by The Times, the brothers filed the petition last week on behalf of their parents, Leroy and Carolyn Boseman, whom they say each inherited 25% of their son’s “sizeable” estate while Ledward inherited 50%. The petition states that the estate included residuals and royalties, rights to his image and intellectual property, investments, insurance policies, personal property and multiple bank accounts. Because the actor did not leave a will, the estate was passed to his parents and Ledward.

Ledward, the petition claims, “was also appointed as administrator” but never “fully distributed [Boseman’s] estate. … Instead, she continues to exercise complete control over his estate without input from Leroy and Carolyn.” The filing asks the court to have Ledward distribute the remaining estate assets, make a case for why she shouldn’t be “held in contempt for disobeying the court’s order,” and provide a “full accounting with receipts for her time as administrator.” It also asks that the court remove her as administrator.

The brothers asked the court to pass Ledward’s role as administrator to a private fiduciary and forensic accountant, who they claim will be essential in investigating Ledward’s alleged “mismanagement of the estate and marshaling any unaccounted-for assets.”

Reps for Ledward did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.

The actor’s brothers allege that, because of their lack of access to Boseman’s estate, they are “blocked from pursuing lucrative business opportunities” that might benefit their “elderly parents.”

“For years, our parents have sought clarity regarding matters connected to the estate of our brother, Chadwick Boseman, including his intellectual property and legacy,” the brothers said in an emailed statement shared by their representative. “On behalf of our parents, we are committed to ensuring that transparency, accountability, and respect guide the resolution of these matters. Our hope is that this process brings clarity, honors the Court’s orders, and ensures the responsible stewardship of Chadwick’s legacy.

“We love our brother, and we remain committed to preserving his legacy with dignity, integrity, and respect.”

The Oscar nominee died in 2020 at 43 years old after privately battling colon cancer for four years. He was diagnosed with Stage 3 colon cancer in 2016, the same year he made his debut as comics superhero T’Challa, a.k.a. the Black Panther, in “Captain America: Civil War.” The acclaimed actor also portrayed real-life icons Jackie Robinson in “42,” James Brown in “Get on Up” and Thurgood Marshall in “Marshall.”

Boseman and Ledward, an R&B artist who uses the stage name sahn, started dating in 2015 and quietly wed in 2020 before the actor’s death. In a December 2020 interview with “CBS Sunday Morning,” Boseman’s friend and the producer of the Netflix movie “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom,” Denzel Washington, said that while on the set of the film he watched Ledward care for the actor in the midst of his cancer battle and told him to “put a ring on that finger.”

In recent years, Ledward has advocated for colon cancer awareness and spoken at multiple events. In 2024, she spoke at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, saying, “Colorectal cancer is killing young people across the country, and most are vastly underestimating their risk. I’ve seen how this disease moves, and I know now how treatable it is when it’s detected early,” she said, per NBC Boston.

“My personal advocacy stems from this understanding, and from the disappointment I feel in the lack of awareness in my community,” she said. “We who have this knowledge have an obligation to inform our fellow man. Spreading awareness will save lives.”

IT was 15 years ago today that the shocking news broke that Amy Winehouse had died, aged just 27.

She had released just two albums during her eight-year career, but her massive success and larger-than-life character meant her death sent shockwaves around the world — and today her impact on culture is more apparent than ever.

In music, fashion and art, she has inspired an entire generation of artists. British music is being dominated by women whose sound, style and brand is packed with references to the late superstar.

In recent weeks rapper Cardi B and actress Zendaya have been spotted dressed like Amy, with her trademark beehive hairdo.

And one artist who is frequently compared with Amy is Raye, who, much like the late singer, has become a celebrated industry darling, thanks to her brassy Motown influences and brutally truthful lyrics.

But Raye feels the weight of comparison more than most, and said: “I’m aware that what she did is irreplaceable and inimitable.

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“Amy did it so well that no one can ever do what she did. And, God rest her soul, she gave her whole life for us to enjoy the music that she left behind.”

Like Amy, Raye went to South London creative arts academy The Brit School, whose starry former pupils also include Adele and Olivia Dean.

Raye recalled her years at the school, and how she would walk down the corridors and see photos on the wall of alumni such as Amy and say: “That’s gonna be me one day.”

Amy’s star certainly burned brightly, but all too briefly. Her body was discovered at her home in Camden, North London on July 23, 2011, by her security guard Andrew Morris.

Toxicology reports later revealed her blood alcohol content was five times the legal drink-drive limit, and the coroner’s report stated her “sudden and unexpected” death was caused by misadventure due to alcohol poisoning.

Amy had battled drug addiction for years, inspiring her 2006 single Rehab, but she had got clean from illegal substances before she died.

As a fiercely unapologetic woman in the music world, she blazed a trail for a new way to be an artist — and for future star Lola Young, who was just ten years old when Amy died, she was an inspiration.

The One Thing singer carries a gritty London identity similar to Amy’s and produces familiarly confessional lyrics.

She is even managed by Nick Shymansky, the same industry executive who guided Amy’s career during her breakout success.

After Amy, he swore he would never manage another artist, but was so won over by Lola’s talent — and subtle similarities to Amy — that he decided to take her on, and she has since sold millions of records.

When Amy found fame in the Noughties the music landscape was dominated by indie and processed pop, but she forged a new path with her neo-soul, Sixties pop and jazz sound — and now that sound is everywhere.

Olivia Dean’s easy-listening collection The Art Of Loving is on course to be the biggest-selling album in the UK this year, despite the fact it was released last September.

And even more recently, British newcomer Sienna Spiro has followed Amy with her vintage aesthetic and her breakout single Back To Blonde — mirroring Amy’s 2006 album and single Back To Black.

It is paying off, as last week Sienna shot to No2 in the charts with her debut album Visitor.

The impact of Back To Black, Amy’s second album, was felt worldwide. With classic songs such as Rehab and Tears Dry On Their Own, it became the fifth best-selling album of the 21st century so far, shifting 20million copies.

Amy sang about toxic co-dependency, addiction, dating disasters and her flaws, all in graphic detail, then wrapped them up in palatable and catchy songs.

It was all the more interesting for listeners, as her tumultuous personal life, including a rollercoaster relationship with her boyfriend and then husband Blake Fielder-Civil, and her drug use, became front-page news.

The saga taught lessons to youngsters such as future superstar Billie Eilish, who saw the tragedy unfold as she was growing up in California.

She said: “The things that inspire me about Amy are also the kind of things that are sad about it.

“You knew she wasn’t doing anything that she did for attention or in a weird, fake way because from what I gather, she didn’t really want that s**t, you know.

“It showed me that she was kind of raw for what she was creating, and she wasn’t trying to be anything she wasn’t, because she didn’t even want to be that.

“She changed a whole generation of music. Everyone, when listing off the people that inspired them, Amy Winehouse is always in that list.

“Everything about her, she just mixed a whole bunch of stuff together, and created the most beautiful things.”

And it’s not just female fellow stars who are Amy’s admirers.

Mark Ronson, who produced her Back To Black album and co-wrote the song of the same name, has credited Amy with his entire career.

Accepting the Outstanding Contribution to Music prize at February’s Brit Awards, he said his multiple chart-topping collaborations with other artists would never have happened if it wasn’t for her.

He said: “I realised on the way here that on Thursday, March 6, it’ll be 20 years to the day that Amy Winehouse came up to my studio in New York City. We went upstairs and talked for four hours and that night we wrote Back To Black, and that day changed my life for ever.”

Mark has since gone on to sell millions of records by working with superstars such as Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars and Miley Cyrus.

But he added: “I know the music I made with Amy is the reason any of them know who I am anyway. That’s why I’ll always treasure her voice, her talent, our bond, all of it.” And this month The Rolling Stones have celebrated Amy’s legacy by covering her song You Know I’m No Good on new album Foreign Tongues.

Guitarist Keith Richards said: “Loved the song. Always thought that Amy was a sad story in many ways, but she was one of the best to come out of England, and probably had so much more potential.”

Such was her star power, she shared the stage with the Stones at the 2007 Isle of Wight Festival, covering the Temptations’ Ain’t Too Proud To Beg, just four years after releasing her debut album Frank.

Street artist Pegasus was a close friend of Amy’s and launched his career on the day she died.

He has since become famous for his stencilled portraits of the singer, such as his “Fallen Angel” mural near Camden Lock, close to where they used to hang out.

Pegasus, whose real name is Chris Turner, told The Sun: “Amy was one of those people who come along every so often, makes a massive impact, unfortunately isn’t around for long but leaves a lasting legacy.

Her light will always shine bright. Her unique style, her love for the greats, like Etta James, Billie Holiday and Nina Simone, introduced and inspired a generation of artists that came after her.

“I am always seeing bits of Amy everywhere and it makes me so proud.”

The death of United States Senator Lindsey Graham has created fresh uncertainty over the future of Washington’s support for Ukraine at a critical stage in the war with Russia. Graham was one of Kyiv’s strongest advocates in Congress and one of the few Republican lawmakers with direct access to President Donald Trump, allowing him to influence White House policy on sanctions, military aid, and strategic cooperation.

While many lawmakers have pledged to continue Graham’s initiatives, analysts say replacing his unique political influence will be difficult. His death comes as Ukraine faces intensified Russian attacks, renewed debates over military assistance, and uncertainty over whether Congress will approve tougher sanctions on Moscow.

Who Was Lindsey Graham for Ukraine?

For more than two decades, Lindsey Graham was one of the Republican Party’s leading foreign policy voices. Since Russia’s full scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, he emerged as one of Kyiv’s most consistent supporters in Washington.

Unlike many lawmakers, Graham maintained a close personal relationship with both President Donald Trump and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskiy.

He visited Ukraine 10 times during the war, regularly met Ukrainian officials, and publicly argued that continued United States support was essential for European security and for deterring authoritarian powers worldwide.

His greatest political advantage was his ability to communicate directly with Trump at times when many other Republican supporters of Ukraine struggled to influence the president.

The Russia Sanctions Bill

One of Graham’s most important priorities was the Sanctioning Russia Act, legislation designed to significantly increase economic pressure on Moscow.

The bill seeks to punish countries that continue purchasing Russian:

Its objective is to reduce Russia’s energy revenues, which remain a key source of funding for its military campaign.

Although the legislation gained 85 bipartisan co sponsors in the Senate, it remained stalled because of resistance from the White House.

Just one day before his death, Graham announced that he had finally secured an agreement with the Trump administration to move the legislation forward.

Many senators now hope Congress will pass the bill both as a strategic measure against Russia and as a tribute to Graham’s legacy.

Military Aid Could Face Greater Challenges

Beyond sanctions, Graham consistently advocated stronger military assistance for Ukraine.

He supported:

• Patriot air defense systems
• Missile production cooperation
• Expanded weapons transfers
• Long term security commitments
• Intelligence cooperation

His lobbying helped improve relations between Kyiv and Trump during periods of political tension.

Last year he also played a central role in negotiating a critical minerals agreement that gave the United States preferential access to future Ukrainian mineral projects in exchange for investment.

More recently, Trump announced that Ukraine would receive licenses to manufacture Patriot interceptor missiles domestically, an initiative Graham strongly supported.

However, Ukraine continues to emphasize that immediate deliveries of defensive weapons remain more urgent than future production capacity.

Why Graham Was Difficult to Replace

Analysts argue that Graham’s influence extended far beyond committee hearings or public speeches.

He served as an informal bridge between:

• Congress and the White House.
• Republicans and Democrats.
• Kyiv and the Trump administration.

Few Republican lawmakers enjoyed comparable access to Trump.

His ability to persuade the president privately often proved more valuable than public congressional debates.

This influence became especially important as many Republicans adopted a more cautious approach toward supporting Ukraine after Trump’s return to office in January 2025.

Several other senior Republican supporters of Ukraine, including former Senate leader Mitch McConnell, are also preparing to leave Congress, further reducing Kyiv’s network of experienced allies.

Will United States Policy Change?

Despite concerns, Graham’s death does not automatically mean a reversal of United States policy toward Ukraine.

Several factors suggest continued support:

Strong bipartisan backing

The Russia sanctions legislation already enjoys overwhelming bipartisan support in the Senate.

Institutional momentum

Military cooperation between Washington and Kyiv now involves long term industrial partnerships, intelligence sharing, and defense production agreements that extend beyond any single politician.

Trump’s recent policy shift

In recent weeks Trump has adopted a noticeably more supportive tone toward Ukraine.

He has endorsed licensed production of Patriot interceptors and appears increasingly willing to allow Congress to vote on tougher sanctions against Russia.

Nevertheless, uncertainty remains.

Without Graham acting as an intermediary, disagreements between Congress and the White House could become more difficult to resolve.

Political Reactions

President Volodymyr Zelenskiy described Graham’s death as a personal loss, noting they had remained in constant contact and met twice during the senator’s final visit to Ukraine.

Democratic Senator Jeanne Shaheen and several Republican lawmakers have proposed passing the Russia sanctions bill as Graham’s legacy, with some suggesting it should even bear his name.

Senate Majority Leader John Thune also called passage of the legislation an appropriate tribute to Graham’s decades of public service.

Why This Matters

Lindsey Graham represented something increasingly rare in Washington’s polarized political environment: a Republican with both strong pro Ukraine views and significant influence over President Trump.

His death removes one of Kyiv’s most effective advocates at a time when the war is entering another difficult phase. While institutional support for Ukraine remains substantial, personal relationships often play an outsized role in shaping United States foreign policy, particularly under the Trump administration.

Whether Congress can maintain bipartisan momentum without Graham may influence not only future sanctions but also military assistance and broader diplomatic engagement with Ukraine.

Analysis

Graham’s passing is unlikely to produce an immediate shift in United States policy, but it could gradually reshape the political dynamics surrounding Ukraine. His influence was rooted less in his legislative position than in his personal relationship with President Trump, allowing him to bridge the gap between a White House that has often been skeptical of deeper involvement in Ukraine and a bipartisan coalition in Congress seeking stronger action against Russia.

The sanctions bill may still pass because of its broad bipartisan support and the symbolic significance it has acquired following Graham’s death. However, future military assistance could face greater political hurdles. Weapons transfers and funding packages require sustained presidential backing, and without Graham serving as an intermediary, advocates for Ukraine may find it harder to persuade Trump during moments of disagreement.

At the same time, the institutional relationship between Washington and Kyiv is now far more developed than it was in the early years of the war. Joint defense production, intelligence cooperation, and long term industrial partnerships have created strategic ties that extend beyond the influence of any individual lawmaker. These structures provide a degree of continuity even as political leadership changes.

Looking ahead, the direction of United States policy will depend less on finding a direct replacement for Graham and more on whether other Republican leaders choose to embrace his internationalist approach or align more closely with voices advocating reduced American involvement overseas. The outcome will shape not only Ukraine’s military position but also the credibility of Western efforts to sustain long term pressure on Russia.

With information from Reuters.

Rarely would Sam Neill, who died Monday, carry a film on his own, but what he did in several of them, modestly and dependably, was equally as important. His nuanced supporting work allowed some of the greatest actresses of their moment attain their first fireworks. And even though he starred in one of Hollywood’s hugest blockbusters, it takes a certain kind of confidence to share the spotlight with a dinosaur. Here are Neill’s highlights, all worth rewatching for the sake of better appreciating a sophisticated presence often on the sidelines.

‘My Brilliant Career’ (1979)

Sam Neill and Judy Davis in the movie “My Brilliant Career.”

(Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images)

Gillian Armstrong’s first feature is a landmark of the Australian New Wave and feminist cinema, signaling the arrival of the great Judy Davis and containing the most erotically charged (and quite possibly the longest) pillow fight in movie history. It works splendidly for countless reasons, not the least of which is Neill’s presence as the charming suitor of Davis’ headstrong heroine. Set in 1897 in rural Australia, the film follows Davis’ Sybylla, who dreams of becoming a writer, an unconventional aspiration given her family’s poverty and societal norms. Then she meets a wealthy charmer, played by Neill, and he proposes. It should be an easy decision, particularly since Sybylla loves him and Neill makes him so irresistible. That Sybylla does, in fact, resist, choosing independence over love and the possibility of perennial pillow fights, makes “My Brilliant Career” so daring and thrilling. — Glenn Whipp

‘Possession’ (1981)

Isabelle Adjani and Sam Neill in the movie “Possession.”

(Metrograph Pictures)

It’s being remade with Margaret Qualley and the main reason for the movie’s notoriety remains Isabelle Adjani’s unhinged, incantatory performance, a collection of freak-outs that’s still unmatched. But one can argue that Adjani couldn’t have gotten there without the slightly milquetoast banality of her character’s husband, played by Neill as one of the least exciting on-screen spies of the 1980s. (She’s already cheating on him when the movie begins.) He doesn’t seem cut out to be a family man either, but Neill’s cuckolded complaining, hard to pull off this confidently, may be what’s driving her to self-harm in the first place. — Joshua Rothkopf

‘The Final Conflict’ (1981)

More than a decade before his “Jurassic Park” role, Neill delivered a chilling turn as the Antichrist in “The Final Conflict,” better known as the third film in “The Omen” franchise, about a couple that unwittingly adopts the son of Satan. In this second sequel, Neill plays an adult Damien Thorn, now a U.S ambassador to the United Kingdom who is determined to stop the second coming of Christ. With sinister smiles and steely glares, Neill makes Damien his own, waging a murderous campaign against a group of priests, his voice dripping with contempt as he vows to slay “the Nazarene” when he is born. — Greg Braxton

‘Dead Calm’ (1989)

Sam Neill and Nicole Kidman on the set of the movie “Dead Calm.”

(Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images)

We remember Philip Noyce’s claustrophobic cat-and-mouse thriller primarily as Nicole Kidman’s big-screen breakthrough. But, and you may be noticing a theme here, the movie would not work without Neill, who had a gift for playing opposite strong-minded women. Kidman and Neill are a married couple embarking on an ocean adventure to work through the loss of their child. They happen upon a crazy-eyed stranger (Billy Zane) on a sinking schooner, take him aboard and things go south from there. Part Cary Grant, part MacGyver, Neill gives a great physical performance, which he parlayed into well-paying Hollywood action roles for the rest of his career. None came close, though, to his flare-gun theatrics here. — Glenn Whipp

‘Jurassic Park’ (1993)

You go for the dinosaurs and there’s no shame in that. But credit Neill for both understanding the assignment and not quite settling for those awed stares of Spielbergian wonder. His Alan Grant is distinct enough to register as prickly and a little inside himself. He absolutely hates children, even as the whole plot, somewhat obviously, steers him in the opposite direction. He’s not Jeff Goldblum-level rascally, but he’s confident enough to go his own way and make a killer joke at a high-voltage fence. Acting-wise, Neill has already held his own opposite several forces of nature (see above). Raptors were nothing. — Joshua Rothkopf

‘The Piano’ (1993)

Sam Neill in the move “The Piano.”

(The Criterion Collection)

So many of Neill’s most memorable movies feature him supporting the singular vision of great directors, as is the case with Jane Campion’s 1993 landmark. Neill plays the awkward, ignorant Scottish farmer who arranges for a mail-order marriage with Holly Hunter’s mute pianist and then becomes possessive and driven to jealous despair. We hate him. Which was fine by Neill, as he wrote in his 2023 memoir: “There is honour to be found in the second fiddle. Or fourth. No one notices you much, you don’t get nominated for things. But you served. I was there in an important feminist film. It’s a work of art. And look, that tiny little figure in the fabric — see down there on the right — that’s me. It’s a film that will always have a place in cinema history. And I served in it.” — Glenn Whipp

‘In the Mouth of Madness’ (1994)

Finally, a leading role. Granted it’s one in which Neill, strapped in a straitjacket, screams things like “I’m not insane!” But if you’re a fan of his brand of slightly unconvinced heroism, John Carpenter’s horror movie — about an insurance investigator on the hunt for a missing Stephen King-like author — is an enjoyable watch. Carpenter was never one to overexplain things to his actors (it’s why you find so many rich, self-directed performances in his movies) and Neill’s snoop definitely goes through the looking glass, from disbelieving cynic to true believer. Genre movies thrive on his kind of total commitment. — Joshua Rothkopf

Photo: Juan Barreto / AFP

In 1999, Hugo Chávez coined the ‘civic-military union’ as a founding concept for the Bolivarian Revolution. At its core, he sought to blur the line between soldier and militant: the armed forces would no longer be subordinate to the civilian authorities, but become active political actors, essential not only to build and sustain the Bolivarian project, but to merge with the rest of society in conducting the nation. The old fuerzas armadas, FFAA, formed by the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the National Guard, were transformed into a single Fuerza Armada Nacional Bolivariana, FANB. Soldiers were granted the right to vote. Officers flooded the bureaucracy and started to give orders to civilians. They were, in practice, sworn to a movement rather than a constitution.   

In its later years, chavismo stretched the phrase to unión cívico-militar-popular, supposedly integrating the whole of el pueblo into the martial body of the revolution. In 2008, Chávez created the Bolivarian Militia to provide military training to millions of civilians, and turned it into a branch of the armed forces in 2020, when it started to operate more as a propaganda and clientelism resource rather than a defensive corps. 

How, then, were Venezuela’s armed forces made “useful”?

A government and an armed forces that claim to be in union with its people were caught outside of the massive, spontaneous popular mobilization Venezuelans pulled off…

In the Maduro years, soldiers guarded the ration lines of CLAP boxes and the gasoline pumps of the country with the largest oil reserves in the world. Others were stationed in the southeast of the country to run the Orinoco Mining Arc, formally assigned to FANB, in tandem with non-state armed groups—some pocketing up to $800,000 a month in gold as bribes. The luckier or best-positioned of the bunch got handed high-ranking positions in public companies and ministries. The “popular” leg, then, was never el pueblo but its keepers, united to protect the Bolivarian Revolution and themselves over their fellow countrymen.

In the morning of June 24th, the Financial Times revealed that Caracas would acknowledge a debt of roughly 240 billion dollars and prepare for the largest restructuring on record. Hours later, two M7.2 and M7.5 earthquakes changed the landscape of the country. As the news broke, Venezuelan civilians quickly organized to save relatives, friends, and strangers. For the first forty-eight hours, a somewhat coordinated response from FANB was nowhere to be seen, even after Delcy Rodríguez said a joint staff led by a National Guard general was managing the emergency response. It was as if Venezuela didn’t have soldiers.

What the State guarded most jealously was not the living, but keeping the credit. A government and an armed forces that claim to be in union with its people were caught outside of the massive, spontaneous popular mobilization Venezuelans pulled off after the earthquake. When civilians pulled strangers from the rubble with their bare hands without waiting for an order, they proved that el pueblo is perfectly capable of being a body on its own, and most notably, that the State is not the vital organ that Chávez envisioned, but a dead weight.

So the aid had to be captured, rerouted, or rebranded. On June 27, Delcy Rodríguez ordered the militarization of roads and access points to devastated areas like La Guaira, slowing down the flow of ordinary citizens delivering supplies for survivors and machinery for those trying to find more of them. Just a day after the quake, opposition party Vente Venezuela reported that police had stopped a truck of supplies in Altamira and would let it move only if the cargo were transferred into the officials’ own vehicles, and the UCV student movement denounced that seven trucks of supplies en route from Bolívar to Caracas were seized by state agents before they could arrive.

“When you are [repressing] on the Francisco Fajardo highway, you are badasses. Show me you’re a badass here, then. Show me with a pickaxe and shovel.”

Organizers from a donation center at Escuela Francisco Pimentel were informed that CONAS, a joint unit of police commandos and National Guards, would be taking over the site and its supplies. Would they have done the same if a PSUV banner hung next to the supplies? A video shows the truck carrying the donations away belongs to SENIAT, the tax authority commanded by Diosdado Cabello’s brother for 18 years until yesterday. Even digital efforts were policed: a network matching volunteer interpreters to foreign rescue teams shut down and wiped its database after participants were allegedly harassed by DGCIM and SEBIN officers.

When the authorities did appear where they could help, soldiers and policemen scrolled on their phones, posed in front of the rubble and left before their uniforms got dirty. They were the last responders. Why so late, then so heavy? Incompetence covers part of it, but watch what the greens reached for in the most critical moments of this crisis and the reason why the ‘union’ has propped up chavismo for decades becomes clearer. 

DGCIM agents diverted an active rescue to recover an official’s rifles from a penthouse while people were still alive below. Neighbors stopped four CICPC policemen in Catia La Mar from trying to take cash found in the rubble, tearing the bills apart so they couldn’t. Chilean rescuer Francisco Lermanda says a soldier seized a colleague’s phone over suspicions of espionage after the crew videocalled their doctors to guide a rescue. At the Residencia Gradisca in La Guaira, where Mexican Topos had marked three points with signs of life, a Corpoelec crew sealed the site on a general’s order because a body, “por orden de arriba”, had to be recovered first. Our ‘protectors’ were filmed carrying off televisions and refrigerators, drinking the liquor they had found, lying on piles of donated clothes while giggling away.

When push came to shove, the union was not incompetent to protect the regime’s weapons, the regime’s secrets, the regime’s chain of command. The FANB did not forget how to save people during the earthquake. It never learned because saving people was not supposed to be part of the job. Faced with people to rescue instead of people to subdue, they stood guard over the dying. A man looking for his family among the collapsed buildings of Tanaguarena dared soldiers to be as brave as when they face dissidence: “When you are [repressing] on the Francisco Fajardo highway, you are badasses. Show me you’re a badass here, then. Show me with a pickaxe and shovel.”

The Potomac isn’t just the name of a river, it’s part of a much older story. Al Jazeera’s Emma Withrow explains, from Alabama to Yosemite, our latest online interactive explores the Native American origins of 50 names across the United States, what they mean, and how they were originally pronounced by Indigenous speakers.

Walk into the Grammy Museum in downtown L.A., and you’ll see Clive Davis’ legacy everywhere.

The museum’s intimate performance space is named for the late record executive, and his visage greets guests at the front door. (Davis was the first million-dollar donor to the nascent Recording Academy archive and exhibition space.) His sprawling roster of acts — Bruce Springsteen, Miles Davis, Whitney Houston, Alicia Keys, Earth, Wind & Fire — defined an entire art form and business model as preserved in the Grammy Museum. Davis’ pre-Grammy gala was the most coveted invitation in music every awards season.

Davis’ death at 94 is “devastating,” said Michael Sticka, chief executive and president of the Grammy Museum. “Clive was always a north star of music and talent and artistry. We’re all lucky to have his legacy to look up to.”

Davis’ death marks the end of perhaps the most important and enduring career in the record industry. Sticka spoke to The Times about Davis’ remarkable longevity, creative vision and how a career like his will likely never be possible again.

Clive was a giant of the record business. How did his career shape the modern record industry?

His career was iconic. He really had a unique ability to not just bring an artist to their fullest potential artistically, but commercially. From attending Monterey Pop and first seeing Janis Joplin to Whitney Houston and Alicia Keys, I don’t think anybody had that ear in them the way that he did.

With Clive, what you got was not just hearing commercial viability, but an understanding of what was going on in the zeitgeist. That’s what propelled his career and legacy beyond most record executives.

His name’s on the building at Grammy Museum’s theater. What did he mean to the institution — not just for fundraising but as a living connection to music history?

He didn’t just donate to the museum. He donated his time, his historical knowledge of music, his firsthand perspective. He always kept tabs on what was happening in music. I always say the Clive Davis Theater is the toughest ticket in town for its intimacy and the level of programming we do. But he did an annual program at the museum where people could come hear stories directly from him. Once he decided he was in, he was all in.

His gala was the place to be every Grammy season too.

I don’t think anybody could gather a roomful of luminaries like that from entertainment, tech and politics in the way that Clive did. We were lucky to be a part of that. Even with the stature he had, he was still a physical presence there, he was approachable. He was always looked at as this living legend, but his legacy was continuously being built.

That’s true over the arc of his career, which saw him lead Columbia, Arista, J Records and more. He had a lot of resurrections as well as successes.

He had this ability to resurrect. Look at Santana and “Supernatural,” he was a producer on that album that was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame just last year. So many of us would just give up, but he just had this resolve to continue, and thank God he did.

The record industry is so different now than when he began his career. Artists find audiences on social media rather than being discovered by label executives. Is a career like his — a famous executive driven by their own taste and individual savvy — even possible today?

That’s true, artists break on social media before they’re even on record executives’ radars now. I don’t know if we’ll see that kind of career arc again. Clive had a rare combination of gravitas and being recognized so publicly. The man and his legacy are not going to be replicated.

Beyond the name on the theater, how do you hope the Grammy Museum will honor him with its programming in time to come?

I don’t know yet. We weren’t really prepared for this. We’re gonna have to sit down and think how to pay tribute to such a legacy. I think that the impact the Clive Davis Theater has, bringing in 120 artists a year — I couldn’t think of a more apropos name on the door.

Football came to Armstrong, via a television set, in suburbia.

His family moved from the Southeast part of Washington DC when Armstrong was young and later settled in a largely white neighbourhood in Maryland, where he befriended a soccer coach’s son. One afternoon, the coach called Armstrong over to the television.

He was pointing to a Brazilian in a New York Cosmos jersey.

“It was Pele,” says Armstrong.

“His movement reminded me of a lot of the point guards that played basketball, but he was doing it with a ball at his feet.

“He was one of the few black players on the team, so that connected me.”

While Pele was popularising a game he’d learned barefoot on the streets of Brazil, much of the American grassroots version was being built on privilege.

Unlike the developing youth academies of Europe and South America, where clubs like Ajax and Barcelona were putting money into young talent, development in the US has long run on a pay-to-play model.

Families must meet significant costs or seek sponsorship to give their children a shot at advancing – creating a system that has seldom favoured those from less affluent households.

“It’s kind of antithetical to what this game’s all about,” says Frank Dell’Apa, who has spent 40 years as the Boston Globe’s football columnist, covering the game since the days of the original North American Soccer League (NASL).

“This is the simplest game with the easiest access. Everybody plays it around the world with no money, no soccer balls, no shoes. And here, we had just the opposite thing going on.”

Armstrong knows just how easily his story could have been different.

“If my folks didn’t move into the suburbs, then hands down I’m not playing soccer,” he says.

Socioeconomics was not the only hurdle.

The NASL going under in 1985 during Armstrong’s time as a college player limited professional pathways for him and his peers before their careers had even begun.

“For me, personally, that was crushing,” Armstrong says.

He turned to the Major Indoor Soccer League to play professionally, where his performances earned him a US men’s national team debut in 1987, followed by a spot at the 1988 Seoul Olympics.

“I remember being on the field, hearing the national anthem and just thinking ‘this is where I’m supposed to be’,” he says.

That same year, world football’s governing body Fifa had selected the USA to host the 1994 World Cup finals – the first time the tournament had gone to a country outside Europe or Latin America.

They would be under the global spotlight.

“The US was not a factor in world soccer at all,” says Dell’Apa.

“I remember Des playing a lot of games on artificial turf. It was hard for those guys. They had to fight to get into line-ups, to get a playing field, to get a stadium.”

With no elite outdoor professional league in the country, the player pool was a fragmented mix largely consisting of college, semi-pro and indoor players like Armstrong.

The federation looked to work around this by securing a core group of them on full-time contracts, essentially turning the national team into the country’s professional set-up. It was an unorthodox approach, not unlike something from the Eastern Bloc playbook.

They appointed a German-Hungarian head coach named Bob Gansler. Armstrong was now among a group of young players who were handed a near impossible task: qualify for the 1990 World Cup in Italy.