It is almost impossible to talk about Ramblin' Jack Elliott without mentioning Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan or Pete Seeger. It's true that they were contemporaries of Elliott's, but this album shows that they maybe weren't equals in the creative sense. Guthrie and Seeger are often cited by a wide range of musicians as stylistic influences, while Dylan transcended his genre to become one of the greatest songwriters of the twentieth century. Elliott is different in the sense that he doesn't seem burdened by ambition, nor particularly interested in crafting original compositions, making him quite a throwback, albeit a pleasant one. His introductory musings prefacing certain songs are inoffensive and accessible. However, the songs themselves, although delivered in a slightly tongue-in-cheek manner, just don't have the depth to appeal. Without the drive to create original compositions, the interpretational troubadour has to lend some of himself to the song, which is exactly where this record falls short. Johnny Cash and Elmore James were masters of it, their souls sang other people's lyrics. Elliott merely uses his mouth, admittedly with the authentic scrap of tweed in the corner of it. His adherence to the singing cowboy gimmick is admirable, but he's going through the motions. This is nowhere near a Rory Gallagher roaring out Pistol Slapper Blues, more of a competent and highly likeable folk fan performing Sunday evening open mic. It's nice background music for folk enthusiasts, but falls flat as a record due to shallow material and poor continuity. Not bad, but far from a meaningful endeavour.

The first Beatles album containing only original compositions finds the greatest songwriting duo of all time still honing their craft. They won't get it perfect until Help! one year later, but there's enough on this record to show that this lot are here to be taken seriously as composers, not just mop-haired pop stars. Lennon's wicked tongue launches its two pronged attack on, 'I'll Cry Instead' and, 'You Can't Do That', fueled by insecurity and childhood resentment, which contrasts superbly with McCartney's more refined and palatable, 'Can't Buy Me Love' and, 'If I Fell'. They're on their way.

Superb raw blues with pockets of ambience amidst layers of quality musicianship. Every string reverberates into your soul, and if you close your eyes, you're in that dive bar and can almost taste the bourbon and smell the smoky air. This is awesome.

A playful and incredibly cordial flash of gallic beauty from a true artist. Cale has laundered the Velvet Underground from his system on this record and not so much recorded an album, but painted a musical picture. John Squire once recorded an album based around the paintings of Edward Hopper. It was a bold idea, more miss than hit, but a commendable effort. Paris 1919 seems to achieve Squire's aim almost accidentally. It's short, but any longer and it wouldn't have worked. This isn't something that takes you on a journey - plenty of records do - but instead it takes you out for coffee. If Dark Side Of The Moon, for example, whisks you away into the psychedelic catacombs of your mind, then Paris 1919 treats you to croissants in a delightful little cafe on the banks of the Seine under the romantic stewardship of the Eiffel Tower. C'est merveilleux.

Surprisingly enjoyable. Was expecting Bon Jovi in spandex and got Iron Maiden on ecstasy. Some great melodies, especially on the second half of the album when the finger tapping isn't as prominent.

The first Beatles album containing only original compositions finds the greatest songwriting duo of all time still honing their craft. They won't get it perfect until Help! one year later, but there's enough on this record to show that this lot are here to be taken seriously as composers, not just mop-haired pop stars. Lennon's wicked tongue launches its two pronged attack on, 'I'll Cry Instead' and, 'You Can't Do That', fueled by insecurity and childhood resentment, which contrasts superbly with McCartney's more refined and palatable, 'Can't Buy Me Love' and, 'If I Fell'. They're on their way.

Immensely accomplished musicians at the top of their game. You can hear how they've influenced anyone from Whitney Houston to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. A very easy and enjoyable listen.

This absolute beast of an album opens with, 'Five Years' - an epically cathartic anthem featuring that unmistakable Bowie scream. From that bold opening, it doesn't diminish. The pace is maintained throughout, with classics ('Starman'), bangers ('It Ain't Easy') and all out rock n roll ('Suffragette City'). This record is dripping with fierce guitar hooks and now-legendary riffs ('Ziggy Stardust'); the cry of the Gibson SG heard throughout. Mick Ronson's finest moment. Not a bad one for Dave, either. Wham, bam, thank you mam.

Superb raw blues with pockets of ambience amidst layers of quality musicianship. Every string reverberates into your soul, and if you close your eyes, you're in that dive bar and can almost taste the bourbon and smell the smoky air. This is awesome.

Objectivity is usually the name of the game with these things, but then personal tastes often dictate otherwise, and the shark fin of subjectivity approaches the beach of impartiality ready for a partisan ambush. That's where I am with this record. Jeff Buckley's Grace is, simply, one of my favourite albums of all time. I don't even need to listen to it today to familiarise myself with anything. But I will, because, attempting to cast aside any bias, it really is amazing. The first time I heard this record, it was lent to me by my musically accomplished Uncle, who not so much lent me the album but implored me to listen to it. As a headstrong 14 year old with a penchant for loud guitars, I was ready to dismiss this record as middle aged dinner party music. As soon as the opening jangling of 'Mojo Pin' crept in, it was evident that I had to rethink. In fact, this was the record that made me really think about music, rather than just enjoy it. I suppose it sparked the artist in me. Other records would too - Kid A and the arrival of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club made me think like a musician - but none of this would have been possible without Grace. That's the reason for the bias, but thus doesn't have to be based on nepotism. Regardless of what I might say, this really is a great record. Every song is like a beautiful chapter in a transcendental bible, every composition as unique and esoteric as the last, delivered with soulful indulgence, triumph, sorrow, panache, and, grace itself. People will, quite rightly, talk about the voice, but the guitar playing from both Jeff and Michael Tighe is absolutely dialled in. These are songs crafted and delivered with pinpoint artisanship; 'Last Goodbye' runs the gauntlet of human emotions, 'Grace' invites - no, drags - you into a chaotic dream where you dodge raindrops the size of guitar strings, culminating in that iconic high note from the pit of Buckley's soul, his cover of 'Lilac Wine' haunts your psyche, 'So Real' takes you back into the dream you thought you escaped. By the time he's put his own inimitable stamp on Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' (the crown jewel of the album), the opening organ of 'Lover You Should've Come Over' is a welcome respite until that, too, leads you into a cascading crescendo. Just when you think you've got away with it through a delightful rendition of 'Corpus Christi Carol', he plays his live ace in the hole - 'Eternal Life' blows you away with a sonic explosion. An album as beautiful as this can't end on a rollicking firecracker like this, so he soothes you and sends you home happy with 'Dream Brother'. But, like all great experiences, it leaves you savouring what you've just witnessed and wanting more of the same. Jeff Buckley died in 1997 after being swept away by a Mississippi current in a swimming accident, leaving behind the bare bones of a second album. That, too, is very good. However, if a man leaves behind a legacy of just one album, then that man can do a lot worse - and not much better - than Jeff Buckley's Grace.

It is almost impossible to talk about Ramblin' Jack Elliott without mentioning Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan or Pete Seeger. It's true that they were contemporaries of Elliott's, but this album shows that they maybe weren't equals in the creative sense. Guthrie and Seeger are often cited by a wide range of musicians as stylistic influences, while Dylan transcended his genre to become one of the greatest songwriters of the twentieth century. Elliott is different in the sense that he doesn't seem burdened by ambition, nor particularly interested in crafting original compositions, making him quite a throwback, albeit a pleasant one. His introductory musings prefacing certain songs are inoffensive and accessible. However, the songs themselves, although delivered in a slightly tongue-in-cheek manner, just don't have the depth to appeal. Without the drive to create original compositions, the interpretational troubadour has to lend some of himself to the song, which is exactly where this record falls short. Johnny Cash and Elmore James were masters of it, their souls sang other people's lyrics. Elliott merely uses his mouth, admittedly with the authentic scrap of tweed in the corner of it. His adherence to the singing cowboy gimmick is admirable, but he's going through the motions. This is nowhere near a Rory Gallagher roaring out Pistol Slapper Blues, more of a competent and highly likeable folk fan performing Sunday evening open mic. It's nice background music for folk enthusiasts, but falls flat as a record due to shallow material and poor continuity. Not bad, but far from a meaningful endeavour.

A playful and incredibly cordial flash of gallic beauty from a true artist. Cale has laundered the Velvet Underground from his system on this record and not so much recorded an album, but painted a musical picture. John Squire once recorded an album based around the paintings of Edward Hopper. It was a bold idea, more miss than hit, but a commendable effort. Paris 1919 seems to achieve Squire's aim almost accidentally. It's short, but any longer and it wouldn't have worked. This isn't something that takes you on a journey - plenty of records do - but instead it takes you out for coffee. If Dark Side Of The Moon, for example, whisks you away into the psychedelic catacombs of your mind, then Paris 1919 treats you to croissants in a delightful little cafe on the banks of the Seine under the romantic stewardship of the Eiffel Tower. C'est merveilleux.