1001 Albums Summary

Afro-Brazilian-Samba record. Released in 1976. Joyful, no doubt. Probably means more if you were there in the first place.

A dumb thing done in an interesting way can still be a dumb thing.

Welsh poli-punks hate Reagan and Thatcher as much as me, but they don’t share my fondness for melody or hooks.

Melodically muted, rhythmically stunted. They’re a guitar band, I get it. But then why aren’t the guitars more interesting?

Released a few months after Ian Curtis hung himself. Impossible not to hear as a suicide note, although the grooves eventually worm their way to the surface.

Brazilian heavy metal. Loud, aggressive, precise, definitely virtuosic. But despite all their rage, I just don’t feel the music.

Jazz fusion as elevator music. Next.

Nu metal and/or prog band from an era when the dumbest rock groups hit pay dirt. These guys aren’t dumb. But Brandon Boyd is pretty pretentious — more ego than melody. Which is why “Drive” is such a welcome relief from their post-grunge squal

Blues icon at 66 with nothing left to prove makes an album full of shit-hot riffs and ebullient charisma.

Brit-pop group loves The Beatles, but only “Revolver” era Beatles. Which ain’t bad, but they can’t even write a song as good as “Taxman.”

It's records like this that make me wish this list wasn't curated by a bunch of Brits.

I mean, it’s one of the better Aerosmith records. But I’m dubious as to whether it merits a spot on this list. Here’s hoping it’s for the song about a young woman killing her abuser and not the one about Steven Tyler getting his dick sucked in an elevator.

A transcendent soul record that doubles as one of the best pop albums of the twentieth century. The crowning achievement of Otis Redding’s all-too-brief lifetime. I can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness when I listen to these songs. I’m ever thankful for the music he made, but devastated at the thought of the possible music we were robbed of.

Listening with the proper historical context, it’s easy to understand why this record deserves attention. I’m sure it was one of the heaviest, ball-busting albums of its era. To these millennial ears, however, it sounds like the proto-punk record it is — big on sound and energy, less so on songs.

Third album from London rapper born of Nigerian immigrants. 10 songs in 35 minutes. Her dense flow makes her individualism known. Consider her a winner. Ditto producer Inflo's eclectic, sample-heavy beats.

The last worthwhile record Polly Jean mustered. A melancholy rumination on the Great War and its long-term effect on her English homeland. The best songs focus on the human cost of violence.

Feels like a quintessential Police record: one great song, some notable runner-ups, some filler masked as art-pop. In short, it only solidifies their status as a singles band -- which I don't mean as a pejorative. Stewart Copeland is a terrific drummer. I wish he had more to work with than Sting's pretentions.

10 minutes of drugged-out guitar tricks followed by 26 minutes of the funk. Feeling counts for more here than formal song structure, but when the bass is this meaty and the groove is this unrelenting, let the good times roll.

Every piece of art is a product of its era, but these chiming folk-pop ditties are straight out of a time capsule. They may have been useful in 1965, but history has rendered them a mere musical artifact.

Debut album from one of the quintessential garage-rock revivalist bands that bombarded MTV and alternative rock radio stations during the early '00s. This record means more for what it signifies as opposed to how the songs work (the lone exception being "Last Night"). I suspect this record receives a disproportionate amount of praise because it's their first one. But whenever I want to listen to a Strokes record, I play their much better follow-up, "Room on Fire."

The performances are so cheerful and festive you'd swear Spector was holding everone at gunpoint in order to get the perfect take.

Not as sweaty or as horny as D’Angelo, not as articulate or manly as Babyface. At least he didn’t commit crimes like R. Kelly, or Michael Jackson for that matter. Nice guy finishes third.

“Oi. It’s Chewsday, innit?”

Their musicianship is through the roof, no doubt. But not for all the smoke on the proverbial water would I listen to this exhausting prog marathon again.