IF I WERE TO WRITE A FULL REVIEW IN ALL CAPS, AT FIRST IT MIGHT CATCH YOUR EYE AS YOU SCROLL THROUGH THE LIST. IT'S A COOL EFFECT, ATTENTION-GRABBING, IMPOSING. BUT THEN AFTER A FEW SENTENCES, IT QUICKLY BECOMES TIRESOME. LIKE I'M SHOUTING AT YOU. THAT'S A BIT WHAT LISTENING TO THE BEASTIE BOYS' VOCALS FEELS LIKE. THEY QUICKLY BECOME REPETITIVE AND IRRITATING, WITH LITTLE NUANCE OR DYNAMIC RANGE. IT'S A GOOD JOB, THEN, THAT "PAUL'S BOUTIQUE" HAS SO MUCH GOING ON BEYOND THAT. THERE'S SOME REALLY INNOVATIVE USE OF SAMPLING GOING ON HERE, WITH THE WHOLE BAND SEEMINGLY MINING THEIR PARENT'S RECORD COLLECTIONS FOR INSPIRATION AND COLLAGING IT ALL TOGETHER. IT'S POSSIBLY THE ONLY HIP-HOP BOOMERS COULD ENJOY, BECAUSE THE BEATLES, ZEPPELIN, HENDRIX AND FLOYD ALL MAKE BRIEF APPEARANCES. "EGG-MAN", "THE SOUNDS OF SCIENCE" AND "HEY LADIES" ARE THE BEST TRACKS IN THIS REGARD, WITH WELL ACCOMPLISHED SAMPLING AND A TRULY DANCEABLE ENERGY. HOWEVER, THE SUITE AT THE END FEELS DISJOINTED AND ROUGH, LIKE IT WAS COBBLED TOGETHER FROM SOME OUTTAKES. OVERALL, I ENJOYED HEARING SUCH A LANDMARK ALBUM IN HIP-HOP. BUT JUST LIKE THESE ALL-CAPS, THERE'S ONLY SO MUCH OF IT I COULD TAKE. A little more chopping down and experimenting with different flows and delivery would have done wonders.

This one's taken a while to gather my thoughts on and a lot of reading through lyrics, commentary and Wikipedia… it's always a good sign to feel so invested in an album, but the result is usually a pseudo-thesis of a review that, let's face it, nobody has the time to read. Anyway, here goes! Before his instant classic "To Pimp A Butterfly", Kendrick Lamar made "good kid, m.A.A.d city": a tighter, leaner piece which begins by looking inward and gradually shifts focus to create a vivid, intense picture of inner-city living in the hood. Broader than Kendrick's own coming-of-age story, it becomes a social commentary on hip-hop, the culture surrounding it, and the pre-conceptions surrounding that. Lamar explores the origins of gang hostility and violence, covering peer pressure, fear, vulnerability and a vacuum left by the absence of state support or role models. Without a doubt, it's the most immersive hip-hop album I've heard and it's all down to Lamar's excellent storytelling. Using a thoughtfully sequenced non-linear narrative, dynamic and expressive vocal performance, and snippets of conversation with his homies and his parents, Lamar weaves a complex narrative together which has transferred to some school syllabuses alongside James Joyce. Thematically, there's real weight thrown into every song and every line. "The Art of Peer Pressure" explores how gang culture escalated Lamar's teenage life towards crime, drugs and violence. "Money Trees" covers the necessity of material pursuits for survival and the cost it might have on morality. Things reach an apex on the epic "Sing About Me/Dying of Thirst", two tracks drawn together into one twelve minute piece which Lamar uses to remember those he knows who have died. The urgency and despair mingling in "Dying of Thirst" is so potent, and Kendrick's mastery of narrative really comes into its own by personifying his deceased friends. Musically, "good kid, m.A.A.d city" isn't as sprawling and diverse as what I've heard of Lamar's later work. It's also, by nature, mellow and insular, with little to jump out as dance music or hit material. The most played tracks - including "Bitch Don't Kill My Vibe" and "Swimming Pools (Drank)"- are as close as it gets, and they're either a thoughtful musing on the state of the music industry or an ironic take on clubbing and partying. Even in these tracks, the music is consistently cerebral, insular. The beats are mostly low-key, muted, often trap-influenced. Samples include, of all people, Beach House lending an ethereal quality to "Money Trees" and Janet Jackson looped into infinity on the sultry slow-jam "Poetic Justice." Some tracks are refreshingly upbeat to signal a new voice or time within the narrative: for example, "Backseat Freestyle" turns classic braggadocio into a flashback, a young K-Dot using his words as a naïve dream and a survival strategy. "m.A.A.d city" and "Compton" bring the classic 90's hip-hop sounds with hard, bombastic beats, pitch-warped synth leads and a feature from Dre himself. They're tributes to Lamar's musical heritage, which tie in with the narrative as a complicated mixture of pride and fear towards his hometown. I could try to go on and on, but really the key to "good kid, m.A.Ad city" is to listen. Although it's far from my usual style of music, one of its key strengths is that none of it is as straightforward as it appears. By packing each track so full of dual-meanings, twists and turns in the storyline and more allusions than you can shake a stick at, Lamar invites listeners to unpack the non-linear story, peel away the layers, discover new ways of hearing each track and piece together the good kid in the mad city. It's not yet at "classic" status for me, but I can see it being a long time before I get bored of this one.

On my first listen, I approached with caution after hearing about The Fall's thorny and abrasive reputation. I enjoyed "Frightened", and then spent the rest of it trying to decipher Mark E Smith's incendiary rants. On my second listen, I started to lose hope that I'd find anything rewarding in "Live at the Witch Trials". It was initially intriguing, but quickly wearisome and seemed more like something to appreciate at arm's length. But then, on my third listen, I was suddenly confronted by the stench of sausage meat, docklands debris, dusty paperbacks and fermented whiskey. I turned round to see the ghost of Mark E Smith, hunched in the doorway and scowling at the books on my shelf. He had absolutely nothing to say to me, but I thought I'd better make conversation. I let him know I was listening to "Live at the Witch Trials" and struggling to enjoy any of it. "Why are you pissing away your time listening to something you haven't the brains or the balls for?" "Well, it's part of this online album generator, it's in the book of 1001 Albums to Hear Before You Die". "I always hated those fucking books. Imagine having to be told what to listen to- does this Robert Dimery bloke tell you how to get dressed or wank yourself off as well? Anyway, who the fuck would bother with all that nonsense? I can tell you now that the whole list will invariably be total shite." I steeled myself and pressed on. Told him I couldn’t really connect with the album's format. It degenerated into repetitive, one-note ranting, was poorly produced, had no display of musical skill, and was hindered rather than helped by its "recorded-in-one-day" slapdash feel. He rolled his ghostly eyes to the back of his ghostly head and said I reminded him of all the bum-boys at NME. After some more staggered back-and-forth, I thought I should try and look for common ground. "Do you want to hear what I have given five stars?" "Not really." "The Smiths- The Queen Is Dead." "Never could stand them. Pseudo-intellectual snivelly pap." "Pavement- Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain." "Those rip-off twats have never had an original fart, never mind a song." "The Beatles- Abbey Road." "What the fuck is this, 'Music To Be Breastfed To'?" I gave up after that. He did a very deep sigh, and reached for a swig of my beer but just poured it onto the carpet ("I'm always doing that", he said). He told me he really didn't care what I - or anyone on this website, for that matter - thought. He told me that we were all insignificant to him, he's a legend and we never will be, that if I didn't get it and would prefer to listen to The Beatles it's my fault, not his. So, all things considered, I don't feel remotely bad giving this two stars. Sometimes infamy and reputation just can't account for personal preference.

As a wide-eyed, prog-worshipping 17 year old who thought fantastical lyrics and complex song-structures were the be-all-and-end-all, "Queen II" went straight to the top of my list when I first heard it, alongside "A Night at the Opera". I'm still sentimental about this album now, even though I appreciate Queen wouldn't peak until a year or so later. Rather than the eclectic range and impressive genre experimentation the band would later display, this album is grounded in hard-rock and proto-metal riffs, some innovative and some derivative. "Father to Son" contains some transparent Zeppelin/Sabbath homages, while Roger Taylor's "The Loser In The End" sticks out like a sore thumb on the first side. He obviously hadn't got the memo of mythical fantasy, and opts for a disappointing blues-rock number. These comments aside, there's a mountain of precocious talent on show here. It's not Queen at their most commercial or recognisable, but the hallmarks of their appeal are here: Freddie Mercury's dazzling, theatrical vocals, Brian May's multi-layered guitar wizardry, the intricate arrangements across the board. "Queen II"'s crowning achievement is something the band would never attempt again: an almost side-long suite of songs, in keeping with the prog-rock of the early 1970s. I adore the sequence beginning with Ogre Battle and ending with "Funny How Love Is..." with "Seven Seas of Rhye" as an encore. It has scope, ambition, rise and fall, light and shade. From the aching ballad "Nevermore" to the camp humour in "Fairy Fellers Master Stroke" to the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink showstopper "March of the Black Queen", it's a perfectly paced run of tracks. As if that weren't enough, "Seven Seas of Rhye" is a giddy glam greatest hit to close proceedings on a high. The iconic piano intro, the opening drum roll, the decisive and commanding lyric, the country-inflected "sister" middle eight, the singalong outro: it all just works. The first half of the album is nowhere near as strong, though I've always had a soft spot for the folksy "Some Day One Day", May's first turn at lead vocals in the band. While the magical lyrics seem a little dated when revisiting them now, musically I was still enthralled by most of the album. Virtuoso talent, distinctive melodies, cohesive storytelling: hearing "Queen II" today made me fall in love with Queen all over again.

Any discourse about the Velvet Underground’s debut is likely to include hyperbole after hyperbole, all of which you’ll have heard before. Saviour of music in the 1960’s, progenitor of punk, progenitor of grunge, progenitor of indie, post-punk before there was punk, God’s favourite album. For as long as I’ve adored “Sgt Pepper” or “Pet Sounds”, I’ve had people try to tell me this is cooler, more daring, all round better. In fifty-six years since its release, it only seems to have grown in stature, never losing its allure as a gateway drug for hipsters and inspiring generations of sixteen year olds to get into music, drugs, art-school, or S&M. My instinct tells me it’s an overrated dud, with nothing here to match most of the other 60’s albums we put on a pedestal. Listening with fresh ears today, I’ve tried to reconcile my bias with “Velevet Underground and Nico”’s undeniable forward-thinking approach and revolutionary legacy. For what it’s worth, I much prefer Velvet Underground’s later work when they leaned further into lush melodies and conventional rock and roll, before Lou Reed peaked in his early solo career. It follows that “Sunday Morning” has always been the track that’s stood out to me most here. Absolutely gorgeous melody, lovely use of celesta, featherweight vocal, somehow weary with the weight of the world… it captures its title perfectly. “Waiting for the Man” is also a classic, somehow managing to draw a compelling song from two chords and insanely simple instrumentation. “Heroin” is a masterclass in well-paced intensity, from its blissed out intro, the funereal toms, through to the primal build up and ensuing chaos at the gates of hell. Nico’s vocals are a really welcome addition as well, giving “I’ll Be Your Mirror” and “Femme Fatale” a lovely elegance. The rest of the tracks tend to veer from vaguely interesting to forgettable or obnoxious. “The Black Angel’s Death Song” doesn’t do a lot for me. “Run Run Run” and “There She Goes Again” are gnawingly ordinary, only edgy on account of their poor recording quality, shaky performance and badly tuned instruments. Finally, “European Son” begins well but ends with a strung-out jam lacking any nuance or skill. “Velvet Underground and Nico” is frustrating, maddening, head-scratching, wilful, bold, out there… and I must admit, highly commendable. Ultimately, most of my instincts telling me not to like this album are an aversion to those snotty hipsters who proclaim this album as the second coming. Listening as freely and objectively as possible today, I must concede that it might not be a favourite, but it is darn good.

Easy 5* - favourite album of all time, and the first record I knew I had to own on vinyl. Harrison's contributions obviously excel here, but all four Beatles are on fine form instrumentally and vocally (did their harmonies and backing vocals ever sound so gorgeous?) The Side 2 "medley" (contrary to Lennon's dismissive comments) is one of my favourite sequences of music by any artist. Fave Track: You Never Give Me Your Money Least Fave Track: At a stretch... Maxwell (but I still love it, sorry Paul)

Another absolute classic which must have been a lightning bolt moment back in '77, perfect marriage of punk sensibilities and aesthetic with the artsy contemporaries like Talking Heads and Roxy Music. 10 minute songs?? Guitar virtuosos?? And from the 70s, but no caped keyboard players or fairytale lyrics in sight?! For me the highlights are all in the first half, in particular Venus and Marquee Moon. The album peaks with that transcendent title track, although the soft and stirring Guiding Light is a highlight from Side 2. A stronger closer would have bumped this to 5* for me but can settle with 4.5* and bottomless admiration.

Great fan of this album- was all set to give it 4* (purely for preferring Teaser and the Firecat) but then listened again and was hit by the emotional depth, the wonderful melodies, the great simplicity of the songwriting and arrangements across the record. Bookends don't come much better than "Where do the Children Play" and "Father and Son" (plus the brilliant title track).

Favourite Tracks: So Much Love, Son of a Preacher Man, Don't Forget About Me, Breakfast in Bed. The backing singers Sweet Inspirations really help to elevate the songs (shout out to Whitney Houston's mum!)

We all know the singles are excellent. Radio play, critics and countless polls have been telling us that for decades. But blimey, there's a lot of dishwater to get through first. For me the album struggles to stay afloat after a really strong opener, flitting through weak AOR tracks with dull instrumentation and toe-curling delivery (\"Mother\"... really?). It picks up again with the brilliant Synchronicity II which kicks off a \"Greatest Hits\" style run of singles- but it seems the album is judged mainly against the strength of these 3-4 tracks. It's an effort to get there!

I loved Tommy the first time I heard it. But then I heard Quadrophenia and realised everything the band did better. Tommy has aged much worse in my book, with a story which hangs together by a thread with an awkward mix of molestation and whimsy. The amount of short \"filler\" tracks wears thin, as does the long \"Underture\" jam to fill out time. I also much prefer the energy that \"Listening to You\" has in concert or in the 1975 film. At its best, Tommy showcases the Who as an ensemble of peerless musicians and must have been powerful live. Christmas, Pinball Wizard, Go to the Mirror... all classics. I have to appreciate the scope and ambition behind it as well, so this gets 3* from me.

This certainly wasn't a good trip, and also wasn't eventful enough to at least be a bad one. Listening to it felt like trying to simulate a trip in a doctor's waiting room. The title track is undeniably gorgeous and I Think I'm In Love is another early highlight with the call and response vocals and repetitive groove... aside from that it dissolved into faux-psych mush. I'm normally a sucker for orchestral, bombastic production, but here it all just felt a little too indistinct, lacking clarity or dynamics. I was finished off by the 17-minute Cop Shoot Cop, which did not seem to earn its long running time at all. I'm intrigued to try further listens in case this moves up, for a first one this is unfortunately getting 2*.

I'd heard this once before and generally enjoyed listening again- though I think the first half of the album is much stronger. Remake/Remodel is an excellent, chaotic, humourous introduction to the band, with a driving, insistent beat and number-plate backing vocals and pop music allusions galore. This seems to pre-empt the spirit of art-punk five years early and carries through to other tracks like Ladytron, If There is Something and parts of Bob Medley. The doo-wop closer is pleasant but a bit lightweight, and other longer tracks like Sea Breezes and Bob Medley end up feeling a bit disjointed rather than adventurous. I'd still like to hear this again though and think it may grow on me.

I was expecting this to be much more dirge-like than it was. The subject matter and story is unrelentingly bleak, and I expected there to be no way I could enjoy hearing it set to music. But Lou's voice is the perfect vessel for the unsettling journey, in equal turns sneering, snide, vulnerable and broken. And musically, there's a lot to enjoy here. Orchestral arrangements! Wild drums! That soaring guitar solo in How Do You Think It Feels! Caroline Says I is actually a catchy-number. Others (Berlin, Lady Day) feel like show-tunes in their instrumentation and delivery. Producer and arranger Bob Ezrin would go on to work on Pink Floyd's The Wall, which this feels a lot like a precursor to (especially the wonderful Sad Song's Comfortably Numb-ish strings). Overall I enjoyed this album a lot, dark and devastating as it was.

Let's get this statement out of the way- "Angels" carries this and gets the album up to 2* almost by itself. It's an undeniably great pop song that deserves its place in the canon. The rest of the album has the air of "pop artist trying to prove his worth as a solo-act by going rock", channeling all sorts of influences from the current scene and beyond to see what would stick. "Let Me Entertain You" is a rip-roaring ride and the Beatles-esque "Clean" is enjoyable if slight. The rest ranges from decent balladry to cookie cutter 90s Britpop. Good for background but doesn't hold up to much scrutiny (especially those lyrics). Also, what on earth was he thinking with Hello Sir? It's laughable.

Approaching this album as a fan whose first exposure to Apple was 2020's wild, unrestrained and cathartic Fetch the Bolt Cutters. It's strange hearing her more "conventional" beginnings, but the seeds of greatness and thematic ties with her later work are here in spades. This is a striking listen and very assured debut. Generally simplistic arrangements allow Apple's strong and soulful vocals and insistent piano playing to take front and centre for most of the album. The lyrics don't immediately jump out, but her delivery is fantastic. "Criminal" and all its brooding intensity is a highlight, as well as the slow build of closer "Carrion" (my favourite here) and the lovely chorus in "Never Is A Promise" when she darts into the upper register for the first time. Knowing what's to come from Apple makes me give this a 7/10 but rounding it up, partly because my attention was held and also because I gave Robbie Williams 3* yesterday and no way am I putting her on the same level as him.

I'd heard about this album when it first came out and a friend recommended it- couldn't get into it then so I'm happy to be giving it another go. On the whole it was a pleasant listen from the driving motorik style opener to the more sun-hazed psychedelics of the last few tracks. The sequencing is done very well and it moves effortlessly through different moods. The middle stretch is superb- "Slow Motion" thru "The Architect" is what will bring me back for more listens. There's a lovely warm, analogue feel to the sound throughout and Weaver's voice glides above the music well. But there's just nothing very outlandish going on. It's not groundbreaking music and feels much more an exercise in atmospherics than songwriting. Not that there's anything wrong with that- today I'm rounding down to a 3*, but on a more generous day this might get a 4*. On paper it's everything I love, so frustrated it didn't hit more.

What would happen if a group of newly signed Welsh lads were let loose in a sonic sweet shop with nothing but some drugs and "A History of Psychedelic Pop and Glam Rock"? Probably something like this. That may appear dismissive, but in fact I had great fun with this album and have been revisiting it since first listen. There's a lot to explore: it's packed to the rafters with vocal effects, varied instrumentation and most importantly, catchy hooks. It zips by with the free-wheeling confidence of a new band revelling in its own ray of light. "God! Show Me Magic" is a few hand-claps short of being a punk-glam standard, "Hometown Unicorn" has a gorgeous singalong chorus, and "Something 4 the Weekend", "Bad Behaviour" and "For Now and Ever" veer just on the right side of being obnoxious. It's all very silly pastiche and doesn't shy away from its influences, but blimey, it's good fun.

Oh boy, I was intimidated going into this one. One of the biggest albums of my lifetime- what more can be said by a hip-hop newbie? What if I hate it? But nope- undoubtedly one of the best hip-hop albums I've heard. Despite being a blockbuster (in everything from maximalist production to roster of A-list guests) it has such a tight focus for most of its runtime as it bounces from one set-piece to another. I surely don't need to heap more praise on the opening rhyme and epic introduction to "Dark Fantasy"- the swaggering bravado of "POWER" and its inspired King Crimson sample- the anthemic wall of sound in "All of the Lights"- THAT Minaj verse in "Monster" which was my highlight of the whole album. This latter track had my favourite lyrics and beats across the board and set the high watermark for the record, so that "So Appalled" and "Devil in a New Dress" paled in comparison by feeling too repetitive and not demanding my attention. It was also around this time that I started to feel the length of the journey. But then came "Runaway": a gorgeous track I hadn't heard before and an absolute stand-out, striking me as the emotional and thematic heart of the set, where all the excess just came together and made perfect sense. It could have been a closer, but then "Lost in the World" and "Who Will Survive" formed a powerful note to go out on. Why not 5*? Needs more listens, but partly the middling songs mentioned above, and also the skin-crawling Chris Rock skit in Blame Game with the "Yeezy taught me" mantra. One of several uncomfortable moments where the arrogance stopped feeling ironic or satirical and just seemed like Kanye being Kanye. For the most part though, this was a roller-coaster and I believed the hype.

This didn't really do anything for me- yes, there were some decent riffs. Yes, the tempo was high and the energy was there and the musicianship was strong. It just left me cold. Rock by the numbers with a bit of white rap awkwardly thrown in (rarely felt the two mix well). The vocals weren't for me at all, either coming off as weedy and nasal or a cringe-inducing metal "roar" against the instrumentals. While the music was catchy enough (including my favourite on offer here, "Falling to Pieces") I didn't feel any emotion from it- none of the lyrics particularly leapt out either. There wasn't much variety across the songs either on first listen- big reverb soaked drums, overdriven trebly bass riffs and chugging guitar under a synth lead with vocals barked or whined out. While we're at it, I've never understood cover songs played note for note with no re-interpretation or imagining. It's such a bland, safe move, and hearing War Pigs just makes me want to seek out Sabbath's original. Won't be going back to this one, sorry boys. If this is the real thing, I'd hate to see the fakers.

I used to hate The Smiths. Without having heard most of their work, I judged it as mopey, self-flagellating posturing from an arrogant bigot. This all changed five years ago, when I was cornered by an aggressively enthusiastic fan in a club toilet to explain exactly what I didn't like. I haplessly explained that, well, as a guitarist, it was impossible not to appreciate Johnny Marr's playing. The rhythm section were tight too. So was it Morrissey? Well, I did like some of his lyrics. He certainly had a way with words. So..... his vocals, then? Actually, vocal imperfections don't bother me too much- it's the heart of the song that matters most to me. So what was my problem?! I went home, listened to this album soon after, and realised I had been a fool for shutting them out on impulse. It quickly became an absolute classic: the surging momentum of the opening track with its hilarious stream-of-consciousness lyric (there is so much more humour here than casual listeners give the Smiths credit for); the magnificent melodic run of upbeat-but-caustic-but-wistful "Cemetry Gates" to "Boy with the Thorn..."; the heartbreakers "I Know It's Over" (my all-time favourite Smiths song) and of course, "There Is A Light...". Morrissey is still an arrogant bigot, but in this case he can take my five stars and shove them up his arse.

I feel a bit guilty about giving this a 3. It's Leonard Cohen! The man's in that upper pantheon of songwriters and is often mentioned in the same breath as some of my all time favourites (Dylan, Waits, Cave...) The 80s production caught me offguard. This is a timeless voice delivering timeless scriptures as songs, but the production slaps a big neon "Made in the 80s" sticker on it. My first thought was that I'd love to hear these songs with different instrumentation (though the backing vocals were lovely). Still, "Everybody Knows", "First We Take Manhattan" and "Tower of Song" were highlights here- "Ain't No Cure For Love" felt relatively cheap and corny and not what I'd expect to hear on a Cohen album. My overall impression might change with time as I get more familiar, but for now it's sitting in the middle.

There is absolutely no question that this album has a great energy. Every song is delivered with fierce passion and gusto, like their lives are on the line. Every rhyme matters, every bar- and they demand you hear it. The songs this came through the most were "Peter Piper", (fab lyrics and that vocal interplay at the very start sets the tone perfectly), "It's Tricky", and "Hit it Run" (sounded like a Looney Tunes character beatboxing). The energy was infectious across all of these tracks and several more. The trouble was, when everything was pitched at the same energy level, I ended up longing for a bit more variety. Everything was at a similar pace and dynamic (mid-tempo, boom-bap drums) with impassioned, shouted vocals convincingly tying rap and rock together. Sampling was all fairly sparse (drums front and centre, occasional touches of electric guitar, scrubbing or horn samples). On first listen it ended up feeling repetitive and the dynamic feel established in the first four/five tracks started to peter out. More variety or better sequencing would have bumped this to an easy 4*- it's also a shame "Dumb Girl" put a misogynistic downer on things.

I really struggled with what to give this one- over two listens it was cartwheeling between two and four stars. Contemporary R&B isn't in my wheelhouse so it was difficult to work out what I was looking for, and if I was enjoying it. One thing that grabbed me straight away was the lush production. Drums are subtle, high-pass filtered, underwater. Layers of ambience (waves, a car unlocking and driving off, vocalisations) never feel overdone. Kelela's vocals shimmer and ripple, layered to stunning effect across many of the songs. On a second listen I started to appreciate all of this much more. There are many brilliant sonic touches to spend more time with, and even before paying attention to the lyrics I blushed at the sensuality of it all like the prudish white boy I am. This is a very subtle album and didn't hit immediately, but there's a lot that hooked and intrigued me, making me very likely to spend more time "taking it apart". For that reason, I'm giving the benefit of foresight with four stars.

Oh, Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno, wacky scientist of 20th century rock- it was fun to hear you having a blast on this album. I'm familiar with a lot of Eno's production work from this period (particularly collaborations with Bowie, Devo and Talking Heads) and it was fascinating to hear the cross-influence of some of it in his own work. It makes the late 70s seem like a constant cycle of the same few musicians picking from each other's plates at an all-you-can-eat buffet. As for the songs: "King's Lead Hat" is an absolute banger which I can't believe I hadn't heard before. "Backwater" has a catchy (if slightly obnoxious) chorus which I couldn't help grinning at. "Kurt's Rejoinder" and "Energy Fools the Magician" have very obvious seeds of "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts"' atmospherics and arrangements. Like Bowie's "Low" of the same year, the second half turns to more weightless instrumentals, but these are much warmer pieces, with strong melodies and more discernible structure. "Spider and I" was a gorgeous closer, even with Eno's simple and modest vocal. It's pretentious and a little unfocused at times, of course, but hard to complain when the highlights are this good. Recommend this to any Eno/Bowie/Byrne fans out there.

Air produced something close to pure bliss with this record, creating a set of songs completely apt for the name of the album. "La femme d'argent" shoots for the moon and dances its way to the surface in a hazy paradise. I could listen to that bassline groove for the whole album, but after what feels like no time at all we're hit with "Sexy Boy"'s distorted synth-bass, the beat crashes in and we hear possibly the most seductive vocal ever delivered through a Leslie speaker. The rest of the album floats delicately between lush ballads, danceable psych-rock, and blatantly ELO-reminiscent strings and vocoder (looking at you "Remember"). All the lyrics are fairly immaterial, forming part of the landscape more than anything to live by or get tattooed on your arm. But that's not an issue here- the beauty of this album brought it close to a 5* listen, showcasing everything a band like Pink Floyd could have been doing in the 90s if they hadn't become plodding, middle-aged Radio 2 kissers. This is a 9/10 for sure- rounding down because I didn't think it finished as well as it started.

This was an enjoyable but not a jaw-dropping listen- it felt like a band caught between Steve Winwood's blue-eyed soul origins and the developing characteristics of progressive rock at the turn of the 1970s (emphasis on jamming, jazz and folk influences creeping in). At times some songs feel like they are pulling for a tighter focus, in the vein of the chart-topping soulful rock Winwood enjoyed with the Spencer Davis Group and would go onto as a solo artist. The verses of the single "Empty Pages" or the brilliant chorus of "Every Mother's Son" are good examples of this, both held together by Winwood's excellent vocals. But overall this album is much more loose, padded out by jams which often work and often don't serve the songs in the best way. "Glad" is the best showcase of the band's instrumental talents, with a great keyboard riff- for me they didn't top this instrumentally across the rest of the album. In general this sounds like it was born out of live performance and improvisation, but the virtuoso talents fall slightly short of other emerging prog outfits like Yes and ELP, and the lyrics lack the tongue-in-cheek quality of the likes of Jethro Tull. Fun to hear but nothing life-changing on first listen.

It was "Debaser" that instantly dragged me in. One of those songs that could wake the dead by introducing in stages its taut, hitting-every-quaver bassline, fizzing lead, frenzied tambourine, searing rhythm guitar, and the deranged vocal with its battle cry of "I am un... CHIEN Andalusia!" Perfection which I've been returning to again and again, until it became my most played song on Spotify in 2020. The rest either hooked me just as quickly (I'm a sucker for strong melodic refrains like "Here Comes Your Man" and "Wave of Mutilation"), took a while for me to warm up to (the long cascading outro of "No 13 Baby", the slow burn of "Hey") or is still something I struggle with (the abrasive screaming all over "Tame", the tuneless chaos of "Dead"). The record strikes a great run in its mid section, filling up most of the second half with great variety, before sadly ending on a fairly shrugging note with "Silver" and "Gouge Away". Honourable mention to the underrated gem "Mr Grieves", one of my favourites for the way it restlessly jumps around in tempo and rhythm. On a first listen this would have been a 3*. It's now pushing 5, but to be fairer on some of the ones I'm hearing for the first time I'm rounding out to a 4.

My dad bought me this about four years ago as a random selection from the book. It endured a couple of non-committal listens and then was relegated to the shelves, to the point where I was only familiar with the first three or four tracks from it now. It still doesn’t particularly grab me- country rock has never appealed too much and I thought this would be a genre-defining work. Simple arrangements of chords, melody and some arpeggiated lead, very clean production, drawled out vocals occasionally in harmony. It all sets up an opportunity for lyrics to shine or for some flourishes, but there’s just not a lot of bite. The music is safe and never lets rip or feels spontaneous, the lyrics never feel like genuine autobiography, withering takedown or actual heartbreak. Because of all this of course, it’s all very listenable and sometimes foot-tapping, making for good background music. “Right on Time” has a good hook, I enjoy the chorus and mandolin in the title track, and the ballad-heavy second half has its moments in the likes of “Still I Long for Your Kiss”, the most impassioned vocal on offer here. There’s nothing offensive on the record, but nothing much fun either. 5/10, rounding up to 3 in case my dad sees this and gets upset.

I've been looking forward to a Waits album showing up and was excited to listen to one I hadn't heard before, but this didn't quite hit as much as I hoped. The Waits I know and love is later than this, where the instrumentation is more eclectic, the mood and style more varied, the songwriting darker and more abstract. This was fun to listen to, but for me it didn't scale the heights of his later work collaborating with Kathleen Brennan. After the first couple of tracks (an ominous, moody opener setting the tone with the repeated proclamation "there ain't no devil, there's just God when he's drunk"), the album settles into alternating lush chamber ballads with menacing, prowling blues. Something that's remained consistent throughout his career, and stood out here, are the strength of the ballads. "On the Nickel" is almost heartachingly beautiful, and "Jersey Girl" - the one I'd heard before- has a strong, daringly sing-along refrain for Waits. In other places, this felt like lounge music from the end of the world, presented by Wait's fried grizzled howl. A lot of the songs felt a shade too long and didn't expand much beyond the first minute or two, and the instrumental "In Shades" was fine but completely inconsequential. Honourable mention to "'Til the Money Runs Out" for making me want to strut through a burning building.

OK so under no pretences, this is a very straightforward rock and roll album. Petty and his band aren't aiming to re-invent the wheel here, but try and escape the positive energy, the enjoyment and enthusiasm that seems to spill over from these songs. One of the records greatest strengths is its pacing- none of it outstays its welcome. The songs are incredibly lean, straight to the point and the whole thing is over in 30 minutes. Finishing with "American Girl" is a masterstroke, because it immediately redeems the record's most forgettable tracks ("Mystery Man", "Luna") which come directly before it. It meant that when the album ended, all it left in its wake was me still tapping along, humming that irresistible refrain, salivating over playing it again. Of course that's the highlight, but I also found a lot to love in the forward propulsion of "Rockin' Around (With You)", those harmonies in "Hometown Blues", and the chugging guitars and chorus melody in "Anything That's Rock n Roll." An immensely enjoyable, tight album.

A rip-roaring tour through the high points of rock and roll: raw, raunchy and demanding to be played loud. Adrenaline courses through the whole performance and the songs really benefit from a live recording, where they aren't stifled by any limitations of the studio at the time. "Good Golly Miss Molly" and "Money" in particular felt like they could raise the dead. Ultimately though, I couldn't escape the feeling that on record, it's all style and not loads of substance (a statement to enrage the guardians of old time rock and roll). Yes, it's a relentless, thrilling performance. Yes, I'm sure it was an amazing night for everyone at the Star Club, and yes, of course I wish I'd been there. But it's all about the electric atmosphere. Once you've heard this riotous take on one or two rock and roll numbers, there isn't much else to be uncovered. Everything is pumped up to 11, the piano is by and large the only instrument to be foregrounded, and every solo on there is a massacre of repeated notes and frenzied glissandos. It's wild, but some more light and shade (beyond "slowing it down" with "Your Cheatin' Heart") would have helped it as a listening experience. Live, this would very likely be a 5* gig. In the right mood, it would be a 4* album for me. It's an undeniably great starting point to unearth the spirit of rock and roll, and glimpse what it must have been like growing up as a teenager in the late 50's/early 60s. Oh, the wild abandon of it all!

After reading the lyrics to this album, and coming across Vanian's proclamation that "Noise is for heroes, leave the music to zeroes", I was bracing myself for amateurish, tuneless garbage. I haven't heard any Damned before and was expecting a much more stripped-back, warts-and-all punk album than this, but there's quite a lot going on here. Immediate impression was the absolute work-out the drummer must have been getting: if I knew more about either genre, I'd claim how those 180bpm, 2/4 beats influenced a generation of up-and-coming metal and hardcore bands. Rather than let this heaviness define them completely, The Damned balance it out with humour, some varied instrumentation and genuinely attractive melodies. Once I'd got over the shock of "wait, there's a good hook!" in opener Love Song (rockabilly pirate folk punk?), and "wow, keyboard, handclaps and a lovely ORGAN SOLO!" in the highlight "I Just Can't Be Happy Today", it settled into a bit more of a rhythm. There were just enough interesting chord changes, intricate structures and stylistic influences to keep me guessing where each song would go, always something I appreciate. But despite this, the end result was more admiration of an above-average punk band than a feeling I was hearing a genre-defining work or an album that would become a favourite. Other shout-outs to: the groovy, trippy instrumental break in Anti-Pope, the chorus of "Plan 9 Channel 7", the closing "Smash It Up" manifesto and the moment it kicks in after around 2m.

On first listen, this caught me right and I thought I had a four star album. Second time around I was less engaged- maybe I was already wary of the world-influenced, dub-flavoured, Britpop-foreshadowing cocktail and started to see it more as a composite of influences than something truly original. Or maybe I just realised a lot of it was quite boring. Not to deny a lot of it works: "Visions of You" is an obvious lead single, from the Sinead O'Connor feature to a borderline singalong chorus. "Ungodly Kingdom" has a strong refrain, and the chants work well embedded against the main vocal line. "Erzulie" is hypnotic in the way it builds up and moves through various sections: my other favourite on offer here. There's no way anyone would choose to listen to this on the strength of Wobble's vocals, so it's a good job the guest vocalists and rhythm section are consistently strong across the record. Some of the percussion sounds are dated (for a surreal moment I thought "Relight the Flame" was going straight into Genesis' "Invisible Touch") but it all holds together well enough sonically. The dub bass is consistently up front in the mix- unsurprising as it's Wobble's primary instrument- and there are some groovy lines to hold together the songs. All of this leads me to my main criticism: the music is often great, but the lyrical content is either distractingly bad or not making any effort to match the atmospherics. Attempts at social commentary in the weak spot "Everyman's an Island" were especially eye-roll inducing (hey guys, did you know the word "fun" was invented by marketing executives to sell soft drinks? Nope, me neither.) It's background music and might reward repeated listening, but I don't think I'll be rushing back to it.

I've never heard an album by Ghostface or any of the Wu-Tang clan, so had to have a couple of listens before elements started clicking and coming together. At first it didn't move me at all, but second time round Ghostface's lyrical talents came into focus and I started to pick up on some solid storytelling (see the opening proper, "Shakey Dog"). I definitely appreciated it more by reading the lyrics alongside it- the more I immersed myself, the more I understood why it was praised as a cinematic album. Although the narrative tracks stand out, the repeated braggadocios between Ghostface and often other Wu-Tang members ("9 Milli Bros", "Be Easy", "Clipse of Doom") do nothing for me. "The Champ" is the strongest of these and would have done the running time a lot of favours by standing on its own. As for the skits, I didn't find them too distracting by the end, but there seemed to be quite an overreliance on them at the start which disrupted the momentum. The second half had some hidden gems, from the surreal narrative of "Underwater" to some lovely lush soul samples ("Jellyfish", "Big Girl", "Whip Me With a Strap"... though these did just make me realise I'd rather be listening to soul music). I was torn between whether using a whole Stylistics track in "Big Girl" was an ingenious move or just lazy sampling. Either way, it made for one of my favourites. Finally, props to Ghostface for showing a more positive, nuanced representation of women in tracks like "Jellyfish", "Big Girl", and "Momma" than I've heard in other rap. I'm giving this one two stars for now. Even though there was a lot I liked on second and third listens, I had to really make an effort. It's just not my usual style, and when listening without the lyrics it began to feel really long and dragged quite a lot for me.

I was introduced to the Stranglers as a wide-eyed innocent singing along to "Golden Brown" in primary school. This was my first exposure to their hateful roots, realising why the teachers didn't go with a leery, irritating track like "London Lady" or "Peaches." Semi-competent musicianship, nice scalic basslines, organ a novel addition to the standard punk line up. Very mid-heavy sound across the record, with the guitars crunched up and fuzzed out to a point that they just murk up the production. Nevertheless, a scattering of half-decent instrumental passages, particularly in "Down in the Sewer." What lets it down? They're sexist pricks. "Sometimes" is a diabolical track with skin-crawling sentiment that should have been the first and last we all heard of the band. I can't, in any good conscience, enjoy a record with the opening line "someday I'm going to smack your face", written and delivered for Cornwell's girlfriend without a hint of irony, commentary, persona... It's the dark, regressive underbelly of 1970's Britain, and it's a shame to spotlight it in an appraisal of music's 1001 "greatest" albums. Interestingly, the "1001 Albums..." book addresses the album's misogyny. Its response to including the album despite its ugly violence? "WeLl WhAt DiD yOu ExPeCt FrOm An AlBuM nAmEd AfTeR a RaT?" Probably something better and more enlightened than this. And less dull.

Listened three times to this magnum opus now, and oh, how I wish I was more into jazz. This is packed full of great moments from a technical standpoint. The opening minute with the gong, shimmering cymbals and the ensemble slowly coming to life, before the emergence of that four-note bass refrain. The climactic chants towards the end of "Acknowledgement". The drum and double-bass solos that bookend the unhinged "Pursuance". And then the calming influence of "Psalm" with some of the most expressive, yearning sax playing I've ever heard. It all passes by very quickly and each movement is completely distinct, giving an obvious shape to the record. It's very cohesive and tightly focused... I just don't respond to it emotionally. Hearing albums like this, I switch from "excitable-emotive-listener" into "objective-music-historian" mode. It does make me sad that I might never "enjoy" jazz as much as I do pop or rock, but it's impossible for me not to appreciate its craft and significance, especially on repeated listens. Would I know this was a classic in the genre if not being told by this site and many other sources? Maybe not. Does my awareness of its status affect how I perceive it? Almost definitely. I am giving this 3* because even though jazz isn't really for me (yet), the musicianship is almost definitely the best I've heard on this listening journey so far, and probably will be for a long while. Personal preference has to play a big role here, sorry Mr Coltrane! I'm sure you won't be turning in your grave.

My listening journey arrives at a lake of early 70's treacle. As many have commented here, it's a sickly sweet listen... but who cares? The commitment is sublime. After listening a few times, I found Karen Carpenter's pure, warm velvet vocals- and the skill behind the harmonies and arrangements- were enough to sell the most trite of material that would sink other artists. The maudlin love songs are the most dated on offer here, and "We've Only Just Begun" is the worst of all, with lyrics saccharine enough to induce diabetes. But even here, the harmonies are lush, controlled, even enchanting. ​"Reason to Believe" is an upbeat highlight from the first side, and it's fun hearing their take on Beatles classic "Help." Then, the run of Bacharach tracks started to stretch my patience- "Close to You" feels parodic, cloying, irritating through all the over-exposure the years have given it. But then came Mr Guder. One of the most intriguing songs on offer both harmonically and lyrically, it also has an incredible a-capella section that completely caught me off-guard and knocked me out. From there I was completely sold to go and listen again. It's a shame we don't hear much more original material across the album- potentially because it's early days for the Carpenters and covering standards ensured more commercial appeal. Although "Crescent Noon" is a bit shapeless, the other originals on offer- "Maybe It's You" and closer "Another Song" with its extended instrumental- show great promise. It's by no means perfect and the songs themselves are often questionable, but it's all very well packaged there's certainly much worse out there. Critics of this record have been out too long in the cold- they need to grow into this woolly jumper of an album, spend more time by its fireside glow, and feel the warmth.

A classic, no doubt about it. Simon and Garfunkel's last album before the tension was too much and they went their separate ways, lending an atmosphere of melancholy, hurt and reconciliation (which ultimately wasn't to be) to the lyrics. It makes for therapeutic, cathartic listening, and that's saying nothing of the music itself: some of the most gorgeous songs recorded. The title track fully deserves a place in the pantheon of 20th century pop standards, "The Only Living Boy in New York" sends waves of gorgeous harmonies crashing against the shore, and "The Boxer" would be a career highlight for any folk singer-songwriter: here it's just one of many killer tracks. It's not all melancholy separation music, though: one of my main surprises first hearing this was how S&G continued to develop right to the end, pushing the envelope further from their rule-book in genre and sound. "Keep The Customer Satisfied" is a driving, brass-laden slice of soul-pop that shoots for Motown. "Baby Driver" is the most engaging, carefree Beach Boys homage since "Back in the USSR." There are exercises in Peruvian folk, bossa nova and the giddy joy of "Cecilia." If I had any quibbles, it's that the album threatens to tail off at the end: "Why Don't You Write Me" doesn't come on as strong as the wave of excellency before it, and "Bye Bye Love" is a head-scratching live addition with intrusive crowd noise. However, the plaintive "Song for the Asking" redeems it, giving a tender send-off to the pair's partnership. Above all, this is a winning combination of intricate, wry lyrics, inspired and varied arrangements, and accessible melodies beautifully sung. I'm so glad to have it in my collection.

Band choose After three listens, I still wasn't feeling like any of it had drawn me in, or that I was able to distinguish any key tracks/moments. I expected an album called "The Gilded Palace of Sin" by "The Flying Burrito Brothers" to be daring, bold, eclectic. It may have been all of those things at the time for country fans and rockers, bringing the genres together in a new and radical way at the end of the 60s. But it doesn't feel any more special than the other albums already attempting this: Neil Young's early output, Dylan's Nashville Skyline, the Band, even the Byrds' own "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" before Parsons and Hillman broke away to set up the Burrito Brothers. The album feels very of its time to me, and seems more like they were following a trend than making a bold move against the grain. Some reviews (and Wikipedia) seem to herald the album as an exciting crossover between country and 60's rock/soul/psych, which could have been amazing. But to my ears, country is by far the strongest flavour, from the lap steel guitars to the incessant piano trills, simple two part harmonies, four chord strum-a-longs, and generic lyrics. A couple of soul covers thrown in don't do a great deal to change this. And the songs are... okay. "Christine's Tune" gets things going at a decent pace, the two "Burrito" tracks have decent melodies and chord progressions. None of it is offensive or head-turning... but that's part of the problem, it just doesn't leap out of the speakers. It's also supposedly significant for spurring on 70s country-rock bands like the Eagles... I'm dreading them coming up on here.

Melodramatic? Poppy? Of its time? Unmistakeably 80's? Of course it is... and no more than any number of classic records which capture their era in a snapshot. Not everything has to sound "timeless" to be great. Fortunately for me, I also happen to have a weakness for shameless 80's synth pop, and this record has it by the glittering plastic bucket-load. Fulfilling the hallmarks of the genre, the sound quality is pristine. Trevor Horn (shortcut to creating a classic "80's album") provides suitably bombastic, in-your-face production, with everything compressed, dialed-up, close. Seismic drums, plenty of reverb, hits of brass mingling with synth stabs or arpeggios. Instrumentally, the highlight is the unrelenting basslines, often threatening to eclipse the rest of the track (see "Show Me", "Poison Arrow"). If it all sounds unbearably 80s, just listen and try not to have fun: it's the perfect tempo to strut to, irresistible melodies to mimic (Date Stamp's call-and-response chorus, "Poison Arrow"'s glide into falsetto). The lyrics may not be poetry, but for me they had enough cohesion and clarity to stand up well alongside the music. “The Look of Love" is undoubtedly the apex of it all: obvious single, stylish pop, simple and ornate instrumentation. It's a dramatic, brooding kind of synthpop, cinematic in scope: "4 Ever 2 Gether" is a crashing climax, and the sweeping orchestral flourishes bookending the album seal it in a package of grandeur (though maybe a closing medley would have been nice). True, there isn't a great deal of variety musically - but I can't complain too much about this when there are so many great melodies and musicianship woven in. I may not enjoy it without being in the right mood for it, but today it was a really entertaining listening experience. It's the look (and sound) of love!

What a beguiling, beautiful show-off Jeff Buckley is. Of all the power-house albums designed to showcase one person's skill, this is surely one of the biggest. Vocal acrobatics abound across every track, from the sensual whisper to a yearning croon, to a vibrato-filled wail. It's unrivalled, unquestionable technique, executed with stunning control to dazzling effect. Buckley's own material blends in well against the covers- "Lilac Wine", "Hallelujah", "Corpus Christi Carol"- which are the strongest tracks for me, shining as inspired reworkings of classics. In particular, the hushed, lullaby-like rendition of "Lilac Wine" is my favourite offering here. Coincidence or not, the covers are also the most "stripped back" musically. And even then, I struggled to find some of Buckley's performances as soul-bearing as they're made out to be. Every track, every line, is so stuffed with vocal affectations that- dare I say it- "Grace" occasionally threatens to tip into style over substance. It also doesn't end particularly well, with "Eternal Life" taking a frustrating detour into more standard 90's-style hard rock and "Dream Brother" leaving things feeling incomplete for a record that revels in show-stopping flourishes. On the flip side, "style over substance" is an easy claim to make when a record's emphasis is on musical talent. Buckley's skill as a vocalist is undeniable, and he's a deft guitarist, with some inventive chord shapes and structures thrown in ("So Real" and "Mojo Pin" are highlights for this). If it never feels "authentic" enough, maybe it's because his skill goes beyond anything I can relate to as a listener. This was a difficult one to rate. Although the vocals weren't always to my personal taste, it's no reason to mark it down. Objectively, these are really strong recordings, as well as the document of a supremely talented singer with a life cut tragically short. In the echoing silence after the album finishes, if you listen closely you can hear 25 years worth of male singer-songwriters tuning up their guitars and doggedly reaching for those soaring highs.

About ten years ago, as a sixteen year old, I somehow stumbled upon "Frankie Teardrop" (probably through an arbitrary Google search of "most disturbing songs"). I wasn't ready for it then and I still wasn't today. It's the centrepiece of this dark, disturbing record, where we hear "Suicide" at their most animated: in screams to punctuate the deaths of Frankie's wife and six month old son. It's horrific, grotesque... and genuinely powerful. After blocking the song out of my mind for so long, I was not expecting it to resurface in a list of 1001 albums to hear before you die. The last two minutes, chronicling Frankie's descent into Hell as the background noise builds into a thunderstorm around an insistent pulsing bass drum, is probably what earned "Suicide" a place on the list. Everything up to this song succeeds just fine in creating an eerie, detached atmosphere, but comes off a bit slight in retrospect, knowing where the album peaks. "Ghost Rider"'s cold, bare, electronic fuzz soon becomes repetitive in the next few songs. Further in, "Cheree" takes delight in perverting a three chord pop-song, as "Johnny" does for 50s rockabilly, channelling them into a kind of subdued electro-punk. (I started to hear where Jesus and Mary Chain specifically might have got some ideas). By the time it got to "Che" mining a limited sonic palette that had been exhausted over the last half hour, I was ready for it all to end. "Frankie" is the obvious way to close this album and I'm not sure why they didn't go with it. The best thing I can say about this album is how ahead of its time it feels- I was stunned to read it was from 1977, and can imagine it must have felt otherworldly, at least noteworthy, to punk fans. In 2021, this feels almost quaint. Any bedroom musician with a drum machine and GarageBand could probably create these tracks to cold indifference (a comment on the wealth of tech readily available now as much as the quality of Suicide's music). As atmospheric, experimental and frightening as it may be, and as influential it may have been for noise-rock and industrial music, I don't know what would compel me to listen again. Rating based on very limited everyday appeal... and to save me coming back to this in twenty years after having forgotten "Frankie Teardrop" again.

The aural equivalent of being rolled around in barbecue sauce and left out in a bowl of chicken wings in a faux-Mexican chain restaurant. It's ZZ Top, getting their hands dirty (but mostly following the recipe) with a smoky, sleazy helping of southern bluesy rock. "Tres Hombres" seems at ease with itself, content to evoke blues rock without being completely authentic. I never got the impression they were giving it all they had, that every note mattered. But I did get the impression that they were happy in their lane, which gave the album a slack, devil-may-care appeal. I found the album a lot more enjoyable when approaching it with this frame of mind. The hit, "La Grange", is an intoxicating shuffle that works in its simplicity, but there's also fun energy in "Move Me on Down the Line", and the segue from "Waitin' for the Bus" into "Jesus Just Left Chicago" is very satisfying, making the clean guitar strums of the latter all the sweeter. It's not all just bearded men farting around copying the blues, mind you. There is some strong musicianship at play in many of the songs. Take the deceptively complex guitar playing: at first glance shrugging, non-committal; on further listens deft, melodic, serving and even lifting the songs. The slide solo at the end of "Previous and Grateful" elevates the song above a standard throwaway, and "Sheik" has some solid wah-jamming. This is a cheap-night-out of an album, a comfort-over-style deal from a one-trick band who will never change my life. Did I enjoy it for its conformity, the way I enjoy barbecue chicken wings at that chain restaurant? Sure. Would I be sad if I never heard it again? Let's wait and see...

It was good to hear another side of hip-hop's golden age with this album. It may have seemed repetitive and a bit of a mixed bag at first, but there's a lot I found myself enjoying across the record. DJ Premier and Guru make a strong partnership, allowing each other's contributions to shine with no features. Guru's vocals are mellow, laid-back, setting a warm tone against Premier's even warmer, groove-laden sampling. My impression is that this is easy listening by hip-hop standards- no abrasive production, no aggressive vocals or violent and misogynistic lyrics. A Tribe Called Quest are the closest peer I can draw from my (limited) hip-hop knowledge, but for a relative beginner to the genre, it's ideal. The stage is set from the stand-out title track, and from there the sampling draws from some classic funk and soul, introducing me to some great tracks I hadn't heard before. In particular, the dramatic orchestral sample on "Check the Technique" (Marlena Shaw- "California Soul") and the sunsoaked brass and keyboard riff in "Lovesick" (Delfonics- "Trying to Make a Fool of Me") have pointed me towards songs I enjoyed more than anything on this album. The lyrics seem fairly repetitive- Guru repeatedly casts himself as an intellectual outsider, and laments hip-hop's downfall to commercialisation and violent lifestyles. It's an interesting perspective but feels like it's been covered after three tracks- maybe I just need to hear the lyrics more. It may not show much variation, and isn't always dynamic or upbeat enough to jump around to, but nonetheless I quickly found myself on my third listen, bobbing along to "Who's Gonna Take The Weight." At the very least, this is strong background music and it's also certainly one of the smoothest, most considered hip-hop albums I've heard.

Alanis Morissette gives the post-break-up singer-songwriter confessional album a new and decisively 90's overhaul in a post-grunge, post-riot grrrl world. It's bitter, jaded and cynical pop-rock, meaning that her best lyrics are the most conversational and cutting, the lines which drip with sarcasm. The first moment of genius comes in the second verse of "All I Really Want", when she asks "why are you so petrified of silence- can you handle this?" And then everything cuts to a few seconds of dead silence... before the voice comes back in- "Did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines, or when you think you're gonna die, or did you long for the next distraction?" It's glorious. She sells her anger perfectly and convincingly throughout: "You Oughta Know", "You Learn" and of course "Ironic" glow with a perfect combination of visceral rage, lyrical insight and radio-friendly rock. On the other side of the spectrum are the more optimistic, plaintive "Hand in My Pocket" and "Head Over Feet", sticking out like sore and lovesick thumbs. They might be lyrically trite in comparison, but they still shine with their sweeter, more pop-friendly melodies. My problem lies with the songs that don't quite seem to hit either side well, either sitting awkwardly in the middle or just becoming unpleasant on the ears. "Forgiven" shoots for a "You Oughta Know" style catharsis, but just feels grating and repetitive when the previous tracks have already got there, and "Not the Doctor" suffers coming off the back of "Ironic", dipping the pace to a lolloping growl. "Wake Up" is a weak ending as Morissette mumbles and shrieks her way through, in search of both a strong hook and a definitive sign-off. I didn't really feel either arrived. I find Morissette's vocals very overbearing at times, but Glen Ballard's production is also part of the problem: his de-facto method for going "angry" or "confessional" is by upping the distorted guitars and bringing more searing, wailing vocals up front. Even though Morissette's lyrics and subject matter allows for it, there's not a lot of dynamic range in the sound, or different means of expression. It frustrates me that we don't get more dialled back material on the level of "Perfect" or "Mary Jane", both showcasing Morissette's versatility as a songwriter and a vocalist. I'm intrigued to hear there's an acoustic version of the album recorded ten years later- and will definitely check this out to see if the songs are served any better. Despite all this, I'm feeling generous and can't argue against the strength of a lot of the songwriting. Bearing in mind a lot of the records I have given 3* and like a lot less, it's scraping 4* here. Definitely worth a listen for any songwriters getting in touch with their angry side!

The only Steely Dan album I'd heard in full before this was "Can't Buy a Thrill", and their progression from it here was pronounced (for better and worse). Steely Dan seemed to have developed in many ways by "Pretzel Logic": the compositions are more complex, the jazz-influence is more noticeable, and a broader range of genres creeps in around the edges. Straight away with "Rikki Don't Lose That Number", we hear a hit single with more sophisticated instrumentation, extended chords-a-plenty, and unpredictable modulations. The harmonies are wonderful across the record, and as good a reason as any to come back to it. But for me, it's the simpler stuff that shines the brightest. Sitting in between all the jazz and blues influenced material, the poppy and Beatlesesque "Barrytown" played straight into my hand (even if there were strong echoes of "Tell Me What You See" from "Help"). "East St. Louis Toodle-Oo"'s unexpected diversion into ragtime-style jazz was another highlight, where the eclecticism and playfulness of the record was really shining. "Any Major Dude Will Tell You" has a lovely melody in the verse, calling to mind some early Neil Young, and I had a lot of fun with "Parker's Band". The rest of the record is a little slight. Sometimes jazz-rock switches me off a bit, and this album proved no exception. I didn't pick up on any emotion or humour to much of the album: it's quite a dry, academic exercise in technique and genre. "Pretzel Logic" is a trudging take on the blues, "Charlie Freak" lacks any musical impact to match the storytelling, and "Night by Night" and "Monkey in Your Soul" are technically accomplished but just don't groove. Becker and Fagen's aim to fit everything within a three minute pop-song format suggests that they weren't giving up on commercial appeal, but it all feels a bit laboured. Intentionally or not, they don't capture the breezy melodic sensibilities of their earlier work. Overall it's an uneven listen and not my favourite I've heard from the band, but the technical accomplishment and the record's upbeat, direct mid-section is enough fun to draw me back in for more.

An absolute riot! So much fun to listen to and a surprising amount of range for a band who might be considered a pissed up, one-trick pony. From the moment the accordion refrain kicks in, leading the title track, we're on a wild ride into either glory or oblivion, and feeling like either one is deserved. Together with the frenetic tempo, and MacGowan's vocals, the overall feel is jubilant yet jaded, triumphant but angry... all at once. A fantastic way to open an album, and I can't see anybody listening and not wanting to either dance on the table or sink a thousand pints. If that doesn't do it, the following 1-2 of "Turkish Song of the Damned" (that amazing outro jig) and "Bottle of Smoke" certainly will. It's all brilliantly orchestrated, with rich instrumentation from accordion, tin-whistles, banjo, mandolin and cello to some unexpected brass in "Metropolis" and "Fiesta". MacGowan's voice is not going to be to everyone's taste, but it's often sweetened by unison accordion lines or backing vocals. It also suits the material perfectly: he's magnetic as a drunken storyteller from the bottom of someone's glass, in equal measure revelling in chaos, sharing his history, lamenting his situation. Nestled in amongst the frantic knees-ups are songs that feel like moments of lucidity, featuring either down-and-out deadbeats or Irish heritage. "Thousands are Sailing", "Streets of Sorrow" and "Lullaby of London" are heartfelt and sincere, weaving their narratives and characters perfectly into the music. I haven't even mentioned the most famous offering, "Fairytale of New York": for all its bitterness, it somehow (deservedly) broke through to become embedded in UK culture as a favourite Christmas song of all time. But here, it's just one of many brilliant character portraits. I was tempted to mark this down because "Worms" is such an odd, left-field closer, but there's so much greatness elsewhere on the record that one duff minute at the end can be forgiven.

I went into this expecting to really dislike it. Retroactively billed as a missing link from the hair-metal and hard rock excess of the 80s to the alternative rock and grunge of the early 90s, Jane’s Addiction didn’t do anything for me on paper. Things began predictably enough (though not unlistenable) with sludgy power chords, atomic drums and flashy lead guitar a-plenty on “Up the Beach”. My interest dropped further with “Had a Dad”- mostly built around an uninspired riff that felt flat and tired- and “Ted, Just Admit It…” - a stand-out bass part, but didn’t justify its length with, like, really profound musings on Ted Bundy and society and stuff. (Note to self: Quoting serial killers does not an edgy band make.) What turned me round? Mostly when the band strayed from the formula- there were a couple of things I didn’t expect to hear. “Standing in the Shower… Thinking” had a good hook and showcased a lighter, more tongue-in-cheek side to Jane’s Addiction than I expected, but “Summertime Rolls” was the first real curveball. A dreamy foray into psychedelia mostly paid off, with a lilting heartbeat bassline holding it all together. From there we had horns and funk in “Idiots Rule”, the lounge interlude “Thank You Boys”, and the centrepiece “Jane Says”. Structured around a simple ascending progression on acoustic guitar, this track is the pinnacle of the record and what made me want to hear it again. Poignant lyrics and narrative, emphasis on melody, and there are steel drum sounds in it, for god’s sake! “Pigs in Zen” returned to more standard hard-rock fare, and didn’t feel like anything special to close proceedings. Overall I was surprised by how much of the album I found myself enjoying and appreciated the teasing of different genres, but there’s just as much on there that’s not for me. I’m happy to acknowledge it as a “missing link” but unlikely to ever call it a favourite.

Ah, Nick Cave - one of my all-time favourites. His work from the last couple of decades is peerless, and the two live performances of his I've been to established him firmly in my mind as an elder statesman of rock. Emotive, fierce, quietly devastating... "Skeleton Tree", "Push the Sky Away" and "CARNAGE" are some of my favourite records by any artist. But this? Bloody hard work. The world of "The Birthday Party" is a brutal kind of post-punk where nothing holds together: mangled and torn, the world has turned in on itself and cannibals roam the streets. There is no logic, reason or narrative, just distorted nightmare imagery: one hundred skirts bleeding uptown; a car smash mangling bodies beyond recognition; Jesus driving a trash can; a gold blade in the head of a girl; being kissed black by a dog-like woman who sleeps like a swastika. The lyrics are a deep dive into the warped, violent poeticism that Cave has demonstrated throughout his career, and are the best thing about this album: they present its world in a vivid, intense, horrifying way. I have to give credit to the music for complimenting this and sounding suitably horrific, but for me it was just no fun whatsoever to listen to. There's very limited range in dynamics or delivery in each song to accentuate the lyrics, or to build any sense of momentum. Everything's relentlessly at the same level of demonic howls and apocalyptic crashing. There's no skill in musicianship to appreciate, certainly no guitar tabs to start looking up or vocal lines to sing in the shower. It all gets old very quickly, and by the time we reach "Several Sins", it's a shock to actually hear sung-through vocals, a distinct bass groove and sleazy guitar line. Being able to actually pinpoint and latch onto a tune is about as much as a listener can hope for from this. On the more positive side, "Junkyard" sits firmly outside of the trappings of the 80s and still sounds like it could be made in 2021 by a band pushing against the grain. In the UK today, plenty of up and coming bands like Squid, Shame or IDLES (shared the same producer as this album, incidentally) seem to be reaching for a slice or two of the Birthday Party's cake. My rating is being really skewed here by my respect for Nick Cave as an artist: he certainly committed to a vision here, and I admire The Birthday Party for not pulling any punches. But it was a real challenge to get through, and I like my music a little more palatable. Listening to this album makes me feel like a miserable old man who just doesn't get it. If that's my problem rather than The Birthday Party's, so be it.

Very mixed on this one- I spent the listening time wrestling between getting very little enjoyment out of it and trying to contextualise it within hip-hop, and what it must have meant for the genre in 1992. I'm not going to try and fault Dre's production or sampling- it is, of course, expertly done. The beats are straightforward and swaggering, the mix sounds glorious on headphones, and the choice of samples gives the record a very congruous feel. Parliament-Funkadelic are all over this record, having a strong bearing on the beginning of G-funk's commercial peak. This is perfectly encapsulated in "Nuthin' but a "G" Thang", which showcases a catchy hook throughout and some really nice sampled backing vocals in the outro. It's where the sound of the record first clicked into place for me, and an obvious choice for lead single. "N**** With A Gun" and "Rat-Tat-Tat-Tat" are my other highlights musically- both strong hooks and really crisp, simple bass parts. “The Roach” (almost) ended the album on a high, melodic note with a “P-Funk” sample vamp. So what didn't work for me? Most obviously the lyrics: bar a couple of solid social commentaries, it's track after track of either violent, sexist outbursts or standard diss-tracks against the other members of NWA. The wordplay or rhymes didn't hit me as much of some of the other hip-hop albums I've already heard on this list, and the humour felt weak and outdated. “The Doctor’s Office" skit, complete with simulated sex scene at the end, really made me cringe, and "bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks" hardly felt like a closing statement for the ages. I've found the length to be a bit of a challenge with several hip-hop albums, and this was no exception. Several tracks towards the end (“High Powered”, ”Stranded on Death Row") just felt a bit forgettable- I can't recall them now after a few listens. “The Chronic” and the gangsta-celebrating world it inhabits isn’t for me, however much I appreciate its impact. Still, at the moment I'm more partial to the bombastic sounds of hip-hop’s golden-age or its moodier, jazzier inflections.

It's a go-to "it band" of the 60s, transitioning from their experimental art-college student phase to much sweeter, more conventional fare. Direct, catchy, at times achingly melodic: I'll take it any day over the overhyped, "proto-everything" of their debut. Without John Cale or Andy Warhol at the helm (big influences on the avant-garde side of the band) Lou Reed and the remaining members set about to create something warmer, more optimistic, more immediate: a broad change from their earlier work. For me, it's a progression I can completely get behind: this still carries a weight of melancholy and hurt, but has such tender delivery throughout where the whole band are given the chance to shine. Songcraft is put above improvisation, with a conscious effort to cherish (rather than challenge) the listener. The "European Son"s and "Sister Ray"s are mostly abandoned for the "Sunday Morning"s and "I'll Be Your Mirror"s, and it pays off beautifully: even though the VU's experimentation was noteworthy at the time, it hasn't aged as well for me and often seems to eclipse material like this. Opener "Candy Says" is so delicate and fragile, in instrumentation and vocals, that it feels like it could blow away on the wind. From there, it does take a little while to get going. "What Goes On" feels like a sub-standard attempt at a single, and "Some Kinda Love" falls flat as the dud of the record. But then, the run of songs from "Pale Blue Eyes" onwards is absolutely gorgeous. We're treated to incredibly intimate vocals and oblique heartbreak in "Pale Blue Eyes" and "Jesus", later rejoicing in the swinging breeziness of "That's The Story of My Life", and Reed getting into "Transformer" mode with "Beginning to See the Light", which lives in the credits sequence of one of the greatest indie films yet to be made. While "The Murder Mystery" isn't all my cup of tea, it's much more focused than it could have been and adds a nice touch of the abstract to the album without going overboard. The piano runs in the last couple of minutes more than make up for all the poetry recitation. And "After Hours"? A great move for Moe Tucker to sing it to close things off, and a delightfully ambiguous feel. It's either a very gentle landing back to earth, or moving out of the final reaches of its orbit: whichever way I'd like to feel at the time. On the whole this is my personal peak of Velvet Underground: sweet without being sugar-coated, sincere without being blinkered, experimental without being try-hard.

Ah, the adverts… typically where one might stop watching for a few minutes to re-enter the real world. Get up, walk around, make a cup of tea, use the toilet, anything to pass the time before the next part of something more interesting comes on. A bit like how I felt with this album. It’s not necessarily “bad music”- in 1978 in the UK, it was probably a breath of fresh air alongside its peers- but it felt non-essential, and didn’t seem to offer anything new or innovative. At its strongest, the album feels like a perverse take on the British Invasion era from the disillusioned generation who came afterwards. “Gary Gilmore’s Eyes” (a single not originally on the record) holds this up the most, with an ascending chord progression against a vocal line harmonising in opposite directions. It somehow sounded like an alternative 60s record to me. I enjoyed T.V Smith’s vocals throughout- less shouty, more melodic and precise than the stereotype “punk” voice. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough for me, and the inspiration seemed to run out quite quickly. Chord progressions were reused, lyrics came off as vague variations on the same ideas, the arrangements and rhythms didn’t have much to separate them, and by “Drowning Men” and On Wheels”, even the band sounded like they were flagging. To its credit, it kept proceedings to a half hour listen and they saved one of the best for last, with “The Great British Mistake” having fun sardonic lyrics, several different sections musically, and a really catchy outro. It’s not too surprising to me that The Adverts broke up shortly after this album- listening to it, it’s difficult to work out a direction they might progress in. Lightning in a bottle… and then the bottle smashed.

"Supa Dupa Fly" is the sound of a big step forward for the genre: I was struck by the feeling that in 1997, Missy Elliott developed a brand of hip-hop and R&B still celebrated and explored by women artists in the current scene. Themes of feminism, sex-positivity, body confidence and solidarity between women help to make the album a fresh and engaging listen, although the songs themselves weren't always up to scratch. The first half jumps out immediately, a result of all four singles being placed together at the very start. This isn't to say it's the best material, but it's certainly the most immediate, the most demanding of attention. I enjoyed Elliott's vocals across all of these tracks, as well as the scratchy bass hook in "Hit 'Em Wit da Hee", the brass sample and chorus of "Sock it 2 Me" and the soulful groove of "The Rain". In the second half (appropriately, from "Pass da Blunt" onwards) it all becomes hazier, mellow, more subtle- on first couple of listens, this is where my interest began to wane. Sensual slow jam "Friendly Skies" and the cool detachment of "Why You Hurt Me" both strike good tones but are overlong. "I'm Talking" is another weak link- there are surely stronger, smarter hooks she could have used than "my style of rapping/I'm such a good rapper." But "Izzy Izzy Ahh" and "Gettaway" are good fun and help prop up a weaker second half. A strong array of guest stars (Lil' Kim with a James Joyce reference, Da Brat with a lightning-speed rap, Ann Peebles via sample) add different perspectives to the music and all give distinct voices. And finally, Timbaland's production is bold and innovative throughout, with a lot of layers that are fun to unpack. As well as the sampling and rhythms, some of my favourite arrangements pushed beatboxing (the final minute of "Pass da Joint", the vocal percussion in "They Don't Wanna Fuck Wit Me", and the accompaniment to "Gettaway"). This just scrapes 4* and would have been stronger still if a couple of tracks were shaved off towards the end: it starts brilliantly and Missy Elliott's vocals made a great combination with the guest stars and Timbaland's production.

Stereolab shoot a course for the sun and get at least half the way there by way of trial-and-error, sustained jamming (ignoring the dodgy album art circa Windows 95). Musically, all of the songs are built upon sketches- a couple of bars looped, a drum beat, a bassline- specially selected, extended out, and dressed up with layers of experiments woven in and out. This approach works to Sterolab’s credit for much of the album. “Metronomic Underground” is a hypnotic opener in its simplicity. Two overlapping bass parts and a recurring three word lyric (“crazy- sturdy- torpedo”) take the lead as the song builds in intensity to a dramatic climax. However, the jams were also a weakness as I found myself longing for a tighter focus, less meandering. The organ and guitar combo in “Tomorrow Is Already Here” is used to limited effect in an irritating staccato refrain that never really resolves anywhere. “Monstre Sacre” is some repetitive noir-noodling that didn’t seem to sit right in the pacing of the album. For all the “futuristic” appeal this seemingly had at the time, there are a lot of retro electronics even by 1996 standards. The band celebrate future sounds from the past, making use of analogue sounds like strings, organ, assorted percussion. Even the more electronic based songs tend to call back as much as forward: in “Olv 26”, the drum machine and fuzz bass recalls Suicide’s self-titled album from 20 years earlier, while “Les Yper Sound”‘s motorik beat, stuttering rhythm and waves of synth visits the Krautrock of Neu or Can. Not all the instrumentation worked for me- “Spark Plug”’s jangly rhythm guitar stuck out of place as generic indie rock material- but on the whole it seemed to strike a good balance between futuristic and nostalgic. As far as the other highlights here, there’s some fun with time signatures in some of the grooviest tracks: “Percolator”‘s insistent bass line is a bubbling of quavers over 5:4, and “Motoroller Scalatron” is propelled forward by a seven beat organ refrain. I also want to single out “The Noise of Carpet”, a chaotic desert storm. It utilises all parts to dazzling effect- more live instrumentation, and more passion and urgency applied to the vocal than across the rest of the songs. All in all, there are lots of highlights here but the ones I haven’t mentioned were fairly forgettable on first listen, and served to just add atmospherics rather than stand out as quality compositions or highlights in their own right. I can’t decide if the album is best played driving down an open road under a looming storm, or to add ambience while cooking up a stew. So I’ll suggest both at once for the best effect.

This helping of early West Coast hip-hop painted vivid pictures and brought some funky beats, but felt very uneven- didn't quite hang together in the way I'd hoped. Together, "Pigs" and "How I Could Just Kill a Man" made a formidable intro. The first track calls out police corruption and privilege with a knowing grin and a gristly end, and the second (the album's biggest success) scores with its line "Here is something you can't understand/how I could just kill a man." It feels like a simple, immediate illustration of the gulf in experience, understanding and culture between gangsta rappers and their privileged white listeners. The first two tracks examine the gangsta lifestyle as a product of inequality, systemic exclusion, necessity. It's interesting stuff, but most of the rest of the album seemed to be standard pursuits of the pleasures of smoking and shooting, with a few homophobic lyrics thrown in. It's not all a drag as we get some upbeat sampling and impassioned performances: I had a lot of fun with "The Phuncky Feel One" and its denser, more cacophonous counterpart "The Funky Cypress Hill Shit", and "Light Another" had a good stop-start bassline and intermittent horn samples which helped to sell it as danceable music. My main issue was the feeling of treading water after about six or seven songs. Many of the tracks felt repetitive even at only 3 minutes, with a single loop and little variation in sound, as well as limited exploration from B-Real's vocal lines and rhymes. The interludes didn't really add anything for me and didn't serve the album's flow- "Ultraviolent Dreams" is a semi-trippy throwaway experiment, "Break It Up" a single line looped round to no effect. When "Tres Equis" came around, it was a nice surprise to have explicit encounters rendered in full Spanish. More of this sort of experimentation and playfulness would have been a lot of fun. On the whole it's not the best I've heard, but has a couple of powerful songs in the front half which I can appreciate it stakes its reputation on.

In his debut odyssey, Eminem transports us to the cartoonish, grotesque world of Slim Shady. Enter a parade of classroom violence, perverted teachers, microwaved guinea pigs and murdered women, with an occasional glimpse of a darker reality of mushroom overdoses, extreme poverty, warped role models. For as long as I could stomach it, I went along for the ride. No getting away from the sweary, abusive, homophobic elephant in the room: "The Slim Shady LP"'s obnoxious humour feels tailored toward wired and disillusioned teenagers of the 90s. And yes, the jokes are puerile, shlocky, designed to offend: date-rape of a 15 year old, a young child helping Slim dump her murdered mummy in the docks, nine inch nails through the eyelids.... I could go on. It's like a musical episode of South Park. In fact, what stands out most is how much of this album is played for laughs: songs are laced with sound effects, quotes, adlibs, narration from guest stars (see "Guilty Conscience"'s turn from Mark Avery) and interspersed with juvenile skits. The result is what feels like a novelty album, where Slim Shady's persona and humour is held above the actual music and the songs themselves. On first listen it's all about shock value, subsequently the skill of the wordplay begins to leap out. Which brings me to my main criticism of the lyrical content: just because it's all "ironic" or "fake" or "in character" doesn't always make it funny. The anarchic spirit of the late 90s doesn't seem to hold much sway in 2021, where re-enacting raping a "fat slut" to death in "As The World Turns" just isn't on. That said, the main strength of the album is Eminem's amazing lyrical skill- not a single line, a single word is wasted as piles of rhymes and half-rhymes are crammed into single lines. Some favourites? The graphic imagery of "hung my original self from the top bunk with a belt" and "nailed my foot to the floorboard of my Ford", the pairings of "sick sick bastard" with "picnic basket", "naughty rotten rhymer" with "Marty Shottenheimer", even the aforementioned "fat slut" swallowing Slim's "leg whole like an egg roll." Also huge kudos to "Brain Damage" for rhyming "orange juice" with "storage booth", "door hinge loose", "four-inch screws" and "foreign tools." Musically, I didn't find there was much going on. The lyrics are the centrepiece here, and there's not much shame in this when they're as strong as they are. Nevertheless, I think I would have got the same (if not more) out of this album from reading the words on paper than hearing it performed. The beats are simple and the samples and instrumentation aren't particularly dynamic. Most of it can be pared down to synthetic beats and bass; together with Eminem's nasal, harsh vocals, it's a cold and strident sound. A good tonal fit, but didn't make for a listening experience to draw me back in. "I'm Shady" with its sample of Curtis Mayfield/Ice-T is about as groovy as things get, and elsewhere the slow tempos and lack of variation dragged the album down a little. Still, it was garish, devilish and horrifying, and I couldn't look away through much of it. For lyrical flows, Eminem must have been second to none here- just a shame some of the subjects are too much for me and the music too little.

As "Tears of Rage"'s guitar crows into life and the layers of organ come washing in, the sun goes down on psychedelia and comes up again on roots rock. Dylan, The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Byrds, Clapton and more were heading in the same "back-to-basics" direction around the same time as "Music From Big Pink" in 1968, but this album is heralded as leading the way, a landmark influence on many who followed. In the past, I've thought of The Band as overrated. Their brand of Americana/folk/country/whatever-you-want-to-call-it doesn't do much for me: wispy generalised lyrics, staid and inoffensive music, with the Dylan connection being surely one of the key things going for them. Hearing this album in full helped me to appreciate them more than I have in the past, but they still didn't completely win me over. The first few tracks didn't change my mind: although "Tears of Rage" set a melancholic, late-night tone effectively, "In a Station" (complete with irritating, distracting keyboard line) and "Caledonia Mission" were both lightweight and didn't feel like anything special. Then came the clear standout and enduring classic, "The Weight" - immediate chorus, simple melody and accompaniment, beautiful touches from harmony vocals and flourishes of piano. It deserves to be an anthem for the downtrodden (though just who the lyrics are addressing is anybody's guess). After the album reaches this apex, things do continue at a higher standard. The jaunty "We Can Talk" is as uptempo as things get here, and "Chest Fever" sports a badass organ riff and an irresistible soul vocal: it's a song to strut down a runway to with your shirt off and your hair on fire. While all the members of the band share vocal duties across the album, Manuel is given the lion's share and it's no surprise: soulful, gritty, he's a powerhouse and the standout performer. However, alternating vocalists is still a great way to guarantee variety of sound and add some separate flavours and it pays off here. By comparison with the highlights mentioned above, "Long Black Veil" is a straightforward reading of a country standard, and elsewhere things get a little bogged down in the balladry of "Lonesome Suzie." Even "I Shall Be Released", while lending a tender and stirring touch to a fairly bog-standard Dylan track, comes after a long string of ballads and felt a little fatigued the first couple of times I heard it. All that said, I'm hooked enough to say I'm slowly changing my mind on The Band... will be giving it more listens and no doubt it will improve over time. Until the first few tracks win me over, it's staying at a firm 3* and just missing out on a 4.

Note to anyone listening: use the stereo version. It's night and day: the mono version I found had distortion and clipping all over the place, whereas the stereo version has so much more clarity and gives the arrangements room to breathe. With that in mind... it's still a bang average album. History seems to want to paint a picture that everything released in the mid-60s was limitless, groundbreaking, as psychedelics kicked the doors down and revealed a landscape of possibilities. A lot of it was, of course... but a lot of it was probably also something like this. My impression listening to this was that Donovan was surrounded by talent and inspiration, but could only soak up so much of it. His voice is plain and unadorned, and doesn't do much for the material. The excellent "Season of the Witch" is an exception, where Donovan suddenly sings like his words mean something, with energy and emotion. It's as though the engineers said to him: "This one will be the single and will make or break you, put your back into it for god's sake." I'd have liked to hear more of his signature finger-picked guitar work: instead, texture takes the front seat and more focus is on shaping mythical, mystic songs to float on water. This isn't always a bad thing, as most of my favourite parts of the record were the ripples flowing around Donovan, including some lovely baroque touches. Harpsichords and flutes abound, and the orchestra comes into its own in several tracks. "Legend of A Girl Child Linda" has some really nice orchestration, and "Ferris Wheel" and "Celeste" are the prettiest offerings. "Bert's Blues" and "The Trip" give some musical variation, but nothing that jumps out too much. Donovan's lyrics are too literal for me, not enough of the abstract and too many medieval references thrown in as though its a shortcut to create the mood he's after. Finally, the decision to insert a pregnant pause after every single phrase in "Guinevere" is a terrible one as it puts a frustrating halt on the song every time. There's something very quaint and optimistic about this record: it's more introspective than the psychedelic freak-outs to come, and arguably also less interesting. Everything about it screams 1960s: the trippy, flower-laden cover. Intermittent sitar and tabla to simulate psychedelia. The fact that someone could be called Linda and be a beautiful young woman, rather than a retired secretary with back pain. It's all aged where Donovan's closest peers (Beatles and Dylan) haven't, and this is mainly on account of the musical and lyrical gulf separating them. Listening to this album fifty-five years on exposes just how vast that was: I don't want to hold that against Donovan too much, but comparisons are inevitable if everyone's reaching for the same tune.

It's easy to imagine how impenetrable and male-dominated hip-hop must have been in the late 80s, so Queen Latifah entering the equation with force and persuasion must have been a real game-changer. Even if I found some of it repetitive and overlong, I had the feeling she was rewriting the rule book with this album and laying down a lot of enjoyable tracks to boot. I'm a sucker for brass sampling and this album has it by the sousaphone load, from the opening "Dance for Me" to the excellent, De La Soul-featuring "Mama Gave Birth to the Soul Children" which zips around all over the place. Proceedings begin as infectious, feel-good, sunshine sampling and energetic, affirming, violence and profanity-free rap. As the album unfurls, Latifah balances "foot" and "head" music: social commentary "Evil that Men Do" makes a powerful statement and "Ladies First" is an addictive, career-defining manifesto. On paper, it all sounds excellent: my main issue as I listened was the length. Many of the songs play all their cards within the first couple of minutes and don't leave themselves anywhere to progress: a lot of them come off feeling repetitive. "The Pros" is far too long, and the house-influenced "Come into My House"- with its synthesisers and programmed beats, is an interesting experiment but gets a little monotonous, and has aged more than the rest of the album. "A King and Queen Creation" is another weak link: while I enjoyed 45 King's production in general, I wasn't crazy about his vocals in this one. The sequencing is frustrating as well- "Princess of the Possee" and "Inside Out" are two of my least favourites and end the album on a bit of a nothing note. While there are a few songs that didn't do anything for me personally, this is still a fun listen and brings another perspective on this era of hip-hop, which has remained fresh and vital. Most of my highlights are in the front half: "Ladies First", "...Soul Children" and "Wrath of My Madness" in particular deserve to go down as classics.

Is it the "best album of all time", as rated by Rolling Stone back in 2003? Nope. Is it the best Beatles album? Also no. But is it a masterpiece and milestone of popular music that deserves its place on this list? Oh, go on then. Maybe I'm biased because I grew up with the Beatles and almost every area of music I got into immediately afterwards was influenced by them. I was very harsh on Donovan earlier this week even though he pulled many of the same tricks as The Beatles, in some cases earlier than they did. It begged the question: would I like The Beatles as much if I first heard them now? Trying to listen to this album with fresh ears today (even though personal attachment makes that impossible), I was still floored by how eclectic the material is as the Beatles fire on all cylinders. The vivid imagery. The detail in every arrangement, harmony and melody. It's still dazzling music in technicolour. There's not much more I can add to the multitude of reviews out there, but here's a random selection of some favourite moments: Ringo's carefree drum fills in "With a Little Help from My Friends". Paul's harmony in the chorus of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds". The jagged guitar solo in "Fixing a Hole" as it swings down into the lower register. The deranged collage effect at the end of "...Mr Kite". "Lovely Rita"'s kazoos. "Somebody needs to know the time, glad that I'm here"... and those HORNS! "A Day in the Life". Not a moment, I cheated... but it's my favourite Beatles song and one of my favourite songs of all time. Couldn't not be five stars. As a side note, it might be sacrilege but Giles Martin did an incredible job remixing this album in 2017 (perfect modernised-but-still-classic take blending the stereo and mono versions) and it's become my go-to. Listen to Ringo in Good Morning Good Morning, or the strings as Lennon goes into a dream, and try to disagree.

The sound of a fledgling Brit-rock band shooting for something between stadium fillers and charity appeal videos, chasing a giant sound and often hitting, sometimes missing. It's by no means a bad thing, but all the Coldplay comparisons do seem apt here, along with any number of 2000s British bands (Elbow? Athlete? Keane?). Doves in part embrace and in part dodge the maudlin trappings of the era, yielding mixed results. The lyrics are made everyday and generic enough to appeal to everyone who hears them: "words can never hurt me"; "seize the time 'cause it's now or never, baby"; "satellites ahead, so hold on." Many of these are pitched as colossal, earthshaking epiphanies, bombastic and huge. It's a fine line between empowering and cloying, and at times they just don't hit. "Words" made me cringe as an opener, and I don't think "Caught by the Fear" deserves all the exposure it's had: it's simply too long and doesn't have enough to say (except a really intriguing percussive outro). This leads me to the many positives on offer: Doves play around with style, form and dynamics to stop the treacle getting too thick. Some of the more subtle songs help to shake up the bombast: M62 is a very unexpected interpolation of King Crimson's "Moonchild" that's a fun diversion, and the title track has a beguiling mixture of simple, hypnotic arpeggios and electronic synth textures, with undertones of Radiohead. The extra orchestration is also welcome to prevent sliding into monotony: a hint of glockenspiel on "Words", a gospel choir in "Satellites", a full orchestra in "The Sulphur Man." They're all nice touches to add some texture to the song rather than just cavernous onslaughts of guitar, drums and vocals. And - let it be said - when I really put myself in the mood, ignored my prejudice and allowed the songs to carry me away like a balloon, I could feel them working their magic. I wanted to hate "Satellites" and "Pounding", but in all their simplicity I couldn't help feeling like I was transcending. Even more so in "Caught by the River", the best track of all. It works so well because it builds from a simple acoustic guitar strum-along, earning its cathartic release rather than expecting the listener to jump straight on board bursting into tears. It's a bit uneven- the tracks like "NY" and "Friday's Dust" lost me a bit among the rest of the material- but has so far rewarded me on repeated listens. Going with a 3* for now, but in time it may keep growing to fill the capacity its songs have aimed for.

I first heard this album earlier this year after reading a lot about it as a pinnacle of 2010's indie rock- for the most part, it really hits the mark. "Halcyon Digest" is a very well produced, put together album. On first listen, some of the most striking tracks are the most dreamlike ones, slow and spacey with ambient leanings ("Earthquake", "Helicopter", "Sailing"). These are deliciously atmospheric pieces that send every reverse-delay snare hit, spacious arpeggio and guitar strum floating delicately through the air. They're also the album's only real flaw, representing the moments where "Halcyon Digest" is most at risk of going blind from all the navel gazing. While "Earthquake" is a lovely opener, "Sailing" risks becoming too long, and "Helicopter" comes close to feeling like a recap. Thankfully, the sequencing is fantastic here and these longer pieces are interwoven with short, catchy pop gems. Across the rest of the album, Cox and co. continue to carve rough pop gems out of lo-fi fuzz and a 3-chord songbook: "Fountain Stairs", "Memory Boy" and "Don't Cry" are all accessible melodies dressed in light distortion and plenty of reverb. They have a nostalgic feeling, often bringing to mind 60s baroque-pop in their ornate simplicity. It's not short of more contemporary influences either- I definitely felt some Arcade Fire in "Coronado", but a much more homespun version, bombast free. It all goes to say that these aren't the most original or innovative songs to come out of the last decade, but they are engrossing listens nonetheless. Bradford Cox's vocals are non-committal, shrugging, detached- to a point which could be annoying if the aforementioned melodies didn't feel so effortless. The perfect marriage of the two is "Desire Lines," a behemoth of a song with a guitar solo outro reaching across the ocean, buoyed by a simple, singalong chorus. Finally, my favourite on offering is "He Would Have Laughed", an absolutely gorgeous odyssey to send out the band on a wistful peak. Its first four minutes or so are a gradually building stop-start riff, before it breaks into beautiful washes of synth and a lilting, wistful melody. It feels like the waves breaking, and is a perfect way to close the album.

The earliest album in the 1001 Albums series, heralding from a distant and mysterious place in music. Rock and roll had only just started to hit the charts, the Les Paul guitar had barely been on sale, the British Invaders were putting in the hours at school and most punk rockers hadn't been born. The standards covered by Sinatra here are even older, dating back through the 1930s to 1929 (Cole Porter's "What Is This Thing Called Love"). Almost nobody alive will recall these songs in their infancy, through early performances and Broadway recitals: they have simply endured through the years to become relics of a halcyon era. To many people of my generation, the swelling strings, mellow mood, jazz inflections and signature croon are associated with "grandparent music", "Christmassy fireside tunes", all cigar smoke and black-and-white romance. Years of pop culture association has worked its charm, and I couldn't escape those feelings either: "In The Wee Small Hours" has become an album that feels so distinctly and charmingly old, mature, sentimental. Adding to this association is the emotion and tone of the songs themselves. The album is often labelled as one of the first concept albums: what it lacks in narrative or musical motifs, it certainly makes up for by casting a singular mood and emotion. Every song is bathed in washes of melancholic blue light as if to match the classic image on the cover. This approach works to the album's credit as well as to its detriment: the mood is so lethargic that in the wrong mood it can become a huge drag, each song merging into the other in an indistinguishable mass. The lagging tempo aside, there is some lovely, lush instrumentation here: from the simplicity of the piano led "Glad to Be Unhappy" to the bombastic climax of "Last Night When We Were Young" (the most animated things get). Almost every song is soaked in luscious strings and muted brass, while the celesta has some standout moments. As well as a lovely refrain in "I'll Be Around", I give top marks for its delicate use in the first verse of "I Get Along Without You Very Well", mimicking the raindrops on leaves referenced in the lyrics. On top of all that is the obvious centrepiece, Sinatra's vocal. Eloquent, considered, and dazzling: he mines the depths of heartbreak with such beautiful intonation and feeling. It speaks for itself, so I'm not going to sit around trying to write about why Frank Sinatra has a good voice. All in all, this album is exquisitely performed and arranged. It needs to be heard in full to be "got", and it has to be said that my enjoyment of it would rest on how I was listening. If I can get past the "mood music" prejudice I have, its rating might come to increase by its hundredth birthday. Long may it live.

I haven't been too thrilled about this one. Progressive house from the late 1990s is far outside my wheelhouse and I've never heard many albums in this style, so it will take a lot of getting used to (and I'm not there yet). I'm struggling to distinguish all the tracks after three listens. That said, it probably didn't help that the first time I heard it was while staying with my parents, punctuated by my mum sweeping in and out and lamenting the noise I'm listening to nowadays. Not too surprisingly, the tracks bearing most of a semblance to songs were the ones that stuck with me- these were generally the singles. "Red Alert" and "Bingo Bango" offer strong hooks, memorable vocals and distinctive sampling- if more of the album had been in this vein, I might have enjoyed it more. Instead there were waves of repetitive four-to-the-floor ("Yo-Yo", "Same Old Show") and a few more daring sonic experiments that seemed like they were designed to show off production technique rather than to inspire a listener to move, or to actually feel something ("Always Be There", "Don't Give Up"). Stretch these two characteristics out over 57 minutes and 12 songs and the overall effect was an album washing over me, moving around me rather than through me. As well as the two highlights mentioned above, I'd also single out the interesting use of acoustic guitar sampling in "Rendez-Vu", along with the smooth melody in "Being With U". I also enjoyed the Latin-influenced percussion in places, brightening up the mellow "Stop 4 Love" and more obviously in "Bingo Bango". Barring that, I really don't think I'll be coming back to this one to listen to without jumping around in a club. I appreciate that if this style of music in general was my bag, I might recognise how it pioneered a movement, everything it influenced, how ahead of its time it may be. But in my very limited view of the genre, "Remedy" does nothing to suggest it's reinventing the wheel or presenting a radical step forward in dance music.

I first listened to "Loveless" blaring out of a tiny portable speaker in my shower room while trying to clean the grout in the tiles. The acoustics of the room lent themselves well to the band's cavernous ocean of sound, but I didn't really enjoy most of the album and that mildew didn't go anywhere. My experience probably wasn't what Kevin Shields and co. had in mind when they forked out £250k on this back in 1991. I was pleased to have the opportunity to listen with fresh ears, get lost in the music, drown in the reverb, and finally understand what all the fuss was about. I was still just thinking about bloody Dettol and latex. There are some gems for sure: "Only Shallow" kicks things off with a cacophonous bang, immediately presenting a unique take on guitar-playing with a sirening riff above layer upon layer of feedback and tremolo-bar usage. It's certainly impactful and the distant, dreamlike vocals kicking in for each verse elevate the song to delirious, foggy heights. "Touched" is a brilliant but brief instrumental with a queasy mix of strings and feedback, feeling almost proto-industrial: I would have loved to have heard more of this side of MBV. In the remaining songs, it was half-and-half: "When You Sleep" and "Soon" had some great refrains that sounded like woodwind or synths but were probably sampled vocals or guitars, but lasted longer than I was interested in them. However, tracks like "To Here Knows When" and "Sometimes" just got lost in too much low-end distortion, and by "What You Want" there wasn't much more I felt I could get from "Loveless." The formula of obscured vocals and layers of guitar effects wore thin for me after a while: it's all technically commendable, but I didn't find enough to call it a favourite. Although it may be sacrilege to say so, for me it lacks the memorable tunes for a more seamless blend of noise and pop like "Psychocandy", achieved five years earlier by Jesus and Mary Chain. I'm not rating below a 3 here, as I think there's plenty of room for this to grow on me. I also appreciate the dogged vision of this project (any artist willing to spend years sculpting a specific sound isn't to be trifled with). My tiles still have bad grout.

As a wide-eyed, prog-worshipping 17 year old who thought fantastical lyrics and complex song-structures were the be-all-and-end-all, "Queen II" went straight to the top of my list when I first heard it, alongside "A Night at the Opera". I'm still sentimental about this album now, even though I appreciate Queen wouldn't peak until a year or so later. Rather than the eclectic range and impressive genre experimentation the band would later display, this album is grounded in hard-rock and proto-metal riffs, some innovative and some derivative. "Father to Son" contains some transparent Zeppelin/Sabbath homages, while Roger Taylor's "The Loser In The End" sticks out like a sore thumb on the first side. He obviously hadn't got the memo of mythical fantasy, and opts for a disappointing blues-rock number. These comments aside, there's a mountain of precocious talent on show here. It's not Queen at their most commercial or recognisable, but the hallmarks of their appeal are here: Freddie Mercury's dazzling, theatrical vocals, Brian May's multi-layered guitar wizardry, the intricate arrangements across the board. "Queen II"'s crowning achievement is something the band would never attempt again: an almost side-long suite of songs, in keeping with the prog-rock of the early 1970s. I adore the sequence beginning with Ogre Battle and ending with "Funny How Love Is..." with "Seven Seas of Rhye" as an encore. It has scope, ambition, rise and fall, light and shade. From the aching ballad "Nevermore" to the camp humour in "Fairy Fellers Master Stroke" to the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink showstopper "March of the Black Queen", it's a perfectly paced run of tracks. As if that weren't enough, "Seven Seas of Rhye" is a giddy glam greatest hit to close proceedings on a high. The iconic piano intro, the opening drum roll, the decisive and commanding lyric, the country-inflected "sister" middle eight, the singalong outro: it all just works. The first half of the album is nowhere near as strong, though I've always had a soft spot for the folksy "Some Day One Day", May's first turn at lead vocals in the band. While the magical lyrics seem a little dated when revisiting them now, musically I was still enthralled by most of the album. Virtuoso talent, distinctive melodies, cohesive storytelling: hearing "Queen II" today made me fall in love with Queen all over again.

I didn't know what to expect going into this, but for the most part I was pleasantly surprised by Manu Chao's laid-back delivery, the occasional banger, the the calming repetitions of the songs like ripples on a swimming pool. For all I know, Cao might be singing about heavy and horrific subject matter, but "Clandestino"'s pervading musical mood is mellow, light, hypnotic in its Latin grooves. It often veers into a kind of Euro-reggae, with similar offbeat guitar rhythms crossing each of the numbers. There's a not great deal of musicality on show: the songs are simple and seem at ease with themselves, repeating basic chord progressions and often revisiting each other over the course of the album. Chao's limited vocal range is ideal for this style, often repeating one or two phrases over the course of each song until they almost become a mantra. "Minha Galera" is the prettiest melody, while "Bongo Bong", "Je ne t'aime plus" and "Mama Call" got into my head and carried me all the way to the nearest Spanish bar (several hundred miles). Manu Chao creates a great atmosphere, but at times I wanted him to be a bit more riotous: when the tempo kicks up a gear in "Luna y sol" and "Malegria", it's a real joy, with the frenetic guitar criss-crossing over the horns and poly-rhythms. I would have loved more of this- the party atmosphere is still there, but it's more coy, breezy, detached. Overall though, lots of fun with this album and the ambience of the background recordings was a great immersive touch.

A compelling, energetic and likeable listen from a band who are restlessly throwing everything on the table- even if some of it's a little half-baked. After a more straight-up rock and roll debut in "I Should Coco", Supergrass seem to be going for more of an eclectic feel here, expanding their musical vocabulary slightly. There's more instrumentation, from the brass section in the opener, theremin in propulsive rocker "Richard III", bongo breakdown in "Sun Hits the Sky." Gaz Coombes gives a very assured performance on vocals and the interplay between the three members is terrific- they give the sense that they're firing on all cylinders. Take the title track, an absolutely incredible opener: from the ominous lone organ chord and diminished chord guitar arpeggios to the "We're in it for the money" chant, building up to an explosive riff and vocal which then bridges into an incredible middle-8... it's by far the highlight on the record, and sets the stage for a peerless album. From this point, we're treated to more riff-tastic Britpop, with dialled-up guitars, thick production and embellishments from other instruments. It's all good fun, but I wish Supergrass veered in more directions musically. Their momentum and enthusiasm carries them through the first half, but then things do tail off slightly: "It's Not Me" is a forgettable experiment with balladry that doesn't quite land, "Hollow Little Reign" doesn't offer anything new, and "Sometimes I Make You Sad" is a disappointing closer, with experimentation in vocal percussion and flanging coming off as a gimmick. They had the talent to be much more eclectic than this, and it's a shame we don't see it here. Other songs remain frustratingly uneven, like "Cheapskate", only taking off whenever its chorus kicks in. Even "Late In The Day"'s Beatles-y sing-along refrain (just the right side of irritating) is disrupted by yawning acoustic-driven verses. On the whole though, this album is a lot of fun to listen to and most of the songs remain infectious and energetic. Anecdotal side note: Supergrass were the last band I saw live before the first UK lockdown. Them playing "Sun Hits the Sky" with a guest appearance from Johnny Marr was transcendental, and almost that memory alone brings this album to an easy 4*.

The Doors invite us all to "Morrison Hotel", getting down to brass tacks with dirty blues, sleazy rock and roll and some spectacular songwriting. I've been a casual Doors fan for many years, but have never gone far beyond their self-titled debut, a masterclass in pseudo-intellectual psych. As far as this album, I'd only heard "Roadhouse Blues" a couple of times and didn't realise the ride I was in for. The first thing that hit me was how rip-roaringly tight the band are. "Morrison Hotel" showcases The Doors at their most primal, with Morrison's philosophising toned down and the amps dialled up. Robby Krieger's guitar is searing throughout, and there's really strong interplay between the band- it feels leaner, more developed from their Manzarek/organ-dominated early sound. "Roadhouse Blues" is a raunchy, twisted take on a familiar blues, with the doors blown off and a smoke bomb thrown in. Straight afterwards, "Waiting for the Sun" treats us to a psychedelic assault of fuzzed out bass, with a thick and crunchy sound and a powerful climactic bridge. "Ship of Fools" is the most riotous, swinging apocalypse I could ever hope to be part of, but "Peace Frog" is the real standout for me: boasting a palpable crossover funk flavour, with a classic bit of Jim Morrison poetry seeping in the middle. It had a stronger groove than any other Doors track I've heard, and a killer bassline carrying it for an exhilarating three minutes. Crucially, it's not all rockers here: the band's sensitive side comes out in the understated, plaintive "Blue Sunday". Meanwhile, "Indian Summer" is a gorgeous exercise in restraint, structured almost entirely around one chord until it shifts towards mantra territory. Some may argue this album isn't as innovative or groundbreaking as the band's earlier material: there are no 11 minute odysseys, no Oedipal howls, no spoken word poetry recitals. But in the same way those trademarks can feel stagey and hokey, here the Doors are more grounded, tied to the physical. It's not as though the lyrics are lacking: the doom-laden content of "Peace Frog" and "Ship of Fools" show the band haven't abandoned Morrison's knack for poetry or voicing some of the anxieties of his generation. Altogether, it makes for a dynamic listen which - at its best - is The Doors firing on all cylinders. It lags at times: "The Spy" is a meandering and "Maggie M'Gill" is a poor way to end, but there are so many great songs here and I was surprised by the quality of the material across the rest of the record. Definitely worth a listen for anyone getting into The Doors!

All together now... DUN! DA-DA-DUN! DA-DA-DUN! Nanana-NOWWW-na-na DUN! It's rock's native language: an instantly recognisable riff, destined to be mimicked by guitarists of all levels everywhere. For better and worse, "Back in Black" paints an instant picture of where rock was at in 1980: filling arenas, bred on excess, bridging into metal, dripping with sex and posturing. In amongst the dozen or so rehashings of the same riffs that have defined AC/DC's career, there are some stunning musical moments and instant classics. The slow build that kicks the album off is genuinely powerful, gradually shifting from a single tolling bell into the ominous riff and steady beat leading "Hells Bells." On the more immediate end of the scale, "Shoot to Thrill" is an adrenaline thrill ride, boasting an addictive chorus and an excellent coda. The same goes for the stand-out "You Shook Me All Night Long", with a ready-made floor filler chorus sounding like a throwback to early 70s glam-rock. I was fascinated (but not all that surprised) to read that the band initially approached Slade's Noddy Holder in the wake of Bon Scott's death- a bizarre alternate reality, but one where he would have certainly risen to the occasion for this track. Brian Johnson fits straight into the band like a glove, perfectly selling their with a voice that manages to be gruff, strangled, screamy... and still find a way to the "melodies" in the songs. But his vocals and the constant bludgeoning of heavy riffs from a Rockschool guitar grade book won't be to everyone's taste, and they aren't completely to mine. Singles aside, many of these songs are distinctly mediocre, deploying the same chugging, mid-tempo, three chord rhythms and tired sexual metaphors. "Givin' the Dog a Bone", "Let Me Put My Love Into You", "Have a Drink on Me"... they're the most tedious kinds of rockstar hedonism. It's plain to see the kind of material Spinal Tap would later lampoon, and even they had a little more nuance than this. Rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young often stated that AC/DC's lyrics are not meant for scrutiny: they were never thought about too much, because they were destined to play second fiddle to the power of the music. This statement is fine in itself and could excuse some of the record's more banal songwriting, but the implication of the music being of great thought and complexity goes against the spirit of this whole record. "Back in Black" is chock-full of three-chord songs, sledgehammer riffs and a pocketful of power-chords. It's as if they learnt a few chords and ran with it, and it's precisely this simplicity that helps it to stick. AC/DC have never strayed from this formula, and of course, Angus Young's lead guitar is accomplished and impressive, their showmanship undeniable. It all comes down to opinion on what makes great songwriting: is AC/DC's unadorned approach lazy or liberating? Doing a lot with a little or just being a lot of a little? For the title track and many of the other songs here, its their simplicity that makes them work so well. They jam themselves into the most prudish of minds, refusing to let go. It's bread and butter hard rock and one generations of rockers will keep going back to. I can appreciate that, even if not all of it is to my taste. As great as a handful of these songs are, personal preference puts this just below a 4* listen: the gulf between the singles and album tracks is not surpassable. Nevertheless, it's made me want to pick up a guitar, crank up the distortion and- just like that- become a rockstar.

For me, the importance of multiple listens really came through with this 00s EDM album. First listen: "Another dull dance album I'll never dance to. Hate that fuzzing distortion! Hate the production! None of it is grabbing me! Stress is a nightmare and I hate it!" Second listen: "Actually, I was being a bit harsh. There are some really cool grooves hidden under all of that cut-and-paste sampling and FX mayhem, and some interesting musical moments." Third listen: "DEE VEE EN OHHH- FOUR CAPITAL LETTERS! Stress is a nightmare and I LOVE it!" I've never been into house or electro, so wasn't expecting to like this album and it took me a while to get on board with it. But "Cross" has, above all, a really symphonic feel which I didn't pick up on so much the first time around (I was too busy trying to process all the different production elements and search for the melodies). Right from the opener, "Genesis", we have brassy samples and timpani declaring a dramatic theme. Until the beat kicks in, it could almost be Mussorgsky. The journey that follows is very well sequenced, with a proper feeling of rise and fall to it. Unlike Basement Jaxx's "Remedy" album I had a couple of weeks back, I really had the sense of a musical journey here, with much more scope and direction behind it. D.A.N.C.E, for all its ramshackle children's choir vocals, is an endearing song and a welcome flash of all-out positivity. "Newjack" is a disarmingly glitchy number that threatens to fall apart at any moment- its main hook seems to be composed of about fifteen different samples. But then things really pick up from around the half-way mark, with some intriguing choices with decidedly retro leanings. Justice's description of the album as their attempt at "disco-opera" feels very apt during "Phantom Pt. II", a real disco track held together by a tight bassline and sharp strings running all the way through it. "The Party" is loaded with analogue sounding synths and a memorable chord progression, while DVNO is my absolute favourite: lovingly styled after disco and 70s/80s, it's the new-wave funk hit that never was. Really enjoyed getting to know this album and I think it's only going to keep growing on me in future.

My mum bought me this album a few years back as a random selection from the book, probably hoping I'd like it much more than I do. In reality, it's a half-decent selection of songs- well performed, but a lot of material that's just never made much of an impact on me. "Once I Was" is the most beautiful song here- easily the one I've kept on regular rotation ever since first hearing it and achieving the 3* rating almost on its own. Between an achingly wistful harmonica lead and Buckley's really impassioned vocal, it forms a break-up song for the ages. As for the rest of it, it ranges from intriguing to very dull. Some tracks are carried by Buckley's soaring vocals ("Pleasant Street", in particular, is where his voice is at its best) and others are marred by overbaked lyrics and poor pacing (the title track meanders through a cringeworthy 8 minutes). At its worst, "Goodbye and Hello" is bland and forgettable: "No Man Can Find the War"'s bleak and scorching lyrics just don't get the execution they deserve, and I still don't feel like I know "Hallucinations" or "Phantasmagoria in Two". It's the kind of subliminal psychedelia that drifts into the background, passing by on a wisp of fog, not leaving much of an impression in its wake. Reviewing Blueprint #101: "Goodbye and Hello" - Drop the trivia BOMB that Tim is Jeff Buckley Sr: reach the inevitable conclusion that his voice isn't quite as good. - Also compare it (probably unfavourably) to Sgt. Pepper, 'cos it's 1967. - Slag off the corny medieval themed lyrics and how badly they've aged - Try (and fail) to sum up one memorable thing about half of these songs.

Nearly 70 albums in and I've managed to get by without any metal... until now. It was never going to be a big hit with me, and I can generally appreciate the influence these albums have had, but it didn't make this one any easier to get through. Everything about Venom's "Black Metal" is sloppy, from the hackneyed lyrics to the performance and production. There's absolutely no range to it, it's sludgy riffs caked in distortion, thrashy drums and endlessly bellowed vocals. It's hard to tell if this is Venom's intention, or they're taking their satanism and musicianship very seriously and just not landing it. It might feel spontaneous and on the fly, but so does a plane crash. The lyrics are unbelievably trite, "let's be edgy because we're a metal band" sort of material that ends up feeling eye-rollingly try-hard. Satan worshipping? Virgins bleeding? Ooh, you're hard. And then, in the middle of devil worshipping and the re-animated undead, comes "Teacher's Pet": a juvenile, graphic sexual fantasy that feels out of place even here. I cringed throughout the whole thing. "Bathory" and "Raise the Dead" were the only ones I could tolerate, and they're the best of a bad bunch. The last track, "At War with Satan", is a two minute preview of what would become a side-long epic on their next album, a bit like a post-credits tease. It's either a tantalising marketing move or just a lazy way to fill up space. Either way, it feels odd and closes things on a duff note with an abrupt fade-out. I'm not into metal in general, but I'm still glad I heard this effort from a band who were on the edge of the NWOBHM (an acronym I didn't know meant New Wave of British Heavy Metal until today- that's how little experience I have with the genre). This might have made it to 2* if it hadn't come up on a day I'm feeling lousy and hungover, as possibly the worst album I could have drawn. While I can appreciate its significance, it's almost certain I'll never seek out "Black Metal" again.

Another electronic dance album from the late 90s- this time with its feet planted firmly in blues and roots music. Most of the samples here come from blues tracks, often focusing on singular moments- a distinct hook, a drum pattern, a titular phrase- and building a collage of electronic textures around them. In putting this album together, Moby frontloaded all the accessible tracks (selected for singles) and put a lot of his personal favourites (the more soundscapey, experimental material) in the second half. He did this assuming very few people would ever hear "Play", and even fewer would make it to the end. Embarrassing for him. It made it to the "1001 Albums" list, meaning so many completists are now forced to sit through it, and the whole world can see that he didn't even bother to give a track like "Guitar String and Flute" a more exciting name. He must be furious. Because it's more accessible, the first half definitely contains more material (and excellent live guitar work) that immediately caught my attention. Aside from the ear-grabbing 1-2 hit of "Honey" and "Find My Baby" (they both ring in the ear for the remaining 55 minutes of the rest of the album) "Porcelain" and "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad" are two back-to-back wonderful exercises in melancholy. I saw a review had likened "Porcelain" to a Magnetic Fields song, which made me like it that much more. Both these tracks are so richly textured, brilliantly evocative, and deserve their places in the soundtracks of any film that can match them. On the other end of the scale, there's the occasional breakthrough into something more upbeat, with mixed results. "South Side" surprised me in how instant it was: how linear, memorable, "song-like". There's an actual verse-chorus structure to it, and a distinctive hook: it was also apparently Moby's breakthrough in the US, which makes a lot of sense if it had to be any of these. On the other hand, "Bodyrock" and "Machete", the two heaviest electronic pieces, don't quite work. They feel more intrusive, further out of place from the much mellower mood of the rest of the album. A downfall of "Play" is that it can start to feel repetitive: I was sometimes wishing that the samples would go a bit beyond one lyric or loop. In some cases, the tracks reach a threshold of being irritating: some of them are then able to cross that threshold and transcend into becoming hypnotic. "Honey" and "Find My Baby" are two examples of this: in both, the one phrase becomes intoxicating, allowing all the instrumental developments and changes to stand out much more as they're woven in. However, elsewhere it doesn't quite land for me: "Natural Blues", "Run On" being two examples. "Play" is also overlong ("Inside", "Guitar Flute and String", and "Everloving" are pretty but all variations on the same mood- I felt on first listen that not all of them were necessary.) Despite this, I enjoyed the haze the album dissolved into at the end and thought overall, it was structured well. It's certainly rich enough to invite further listens, and will lend itself well to an immersive listen as much as a background "wallpaper" listen.

A vital piece of rock history, which I dismissed when I first heard it as a teenager and enjoyed it a lot more coming back to it now. Deep Purple go hard and foreshadow heavy metal blues, all the way from 1970. Across seven tracks, they brew up a storm with extended jams, heavy riffs and truly hair-raising vocals from the wonderful Ian Gillan. There's great technical proficiency on show from the whole band, but for me, the key ingredient elevating Deep Purple above some of the other hard rock I've heard on this list is Jon Lord's amazing organ playing. It's a major contributor to the sound of the album, and it's hard to imagine many of these songs without it. It's only three minutes in when we're treated to the first interplay between Lord and Blackmore, alternating lead solos on "Speed King". Lord gives the organ the flashy showmanship of lead guitar, while Blackmore electrifies the blues with power and precision. It's the first of many great instrumental moments on "...In Rock", later displayed through multiple solos in "Child in Time", whammy bar galore in "Hard Lovin' Man", Ian Paice's drumming at the end of "Flight of the Rat", and much more besides. In the centre of the album is the magnificent "Child in Time", perhaps Lord's (and the band's) greatest showcase. It's a perfectly paced ten minutes, from the delicate, spacious organ intro to the verse's foreboding, haunting melody, into Gillan's wordless vocals slowly ascending up the register to spine-chilling heights, before the swung rhythm kicks in and Blackmore lets rip. Eventually it settles back down and we're treated to the same build up all over again. It towers above everything else on the album, deservedly so. Inevitably, in between the highlights of "Speed King", "Child in Time" and "Flight of the Rat", there are some more forgettable tracks. "Bloodsucker" and "Living Wreck" aren't short of energy and strong riffs, but for me they're both quite run of the mill in comparison to the peaks reached elsewhere. However, this is powerful heavy rock, brilliantly performed, with just the right level of spontaneity to imagine how visceral the band must have been live in this era. Feeling generous in the afterglow of all those ear-splitting solos and going with a 4!

Joni Mitchell wrote the songs for "Hejira" all over America in the mid 1970s, travelling partly toward another show and partly in pursuit of pleasure. It's her "road" album, and the context of rambling travel perfectly suits both her writing style and the lyrical themes. Snapshots of old towns, lost lovers, fleeting moments and passing thoughts all slip in and out of view, relayed in startling detail and breathtaking lyricism. Mitchell also uses her restless travelling as an opportunity for self-evaluation, using the magnificent epic "Song for Sharon" to ask exactly where she's headed. Some favourite lyrics? Where to begin... "A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway"... what a way to subvert the cliché of the "open road". Later, aeroplane vapour trails- images of escape and freedom- are compared to a hexagram of the heavens, strings on a guitar, and finally false alarms. "We're only particles of change I know, I know Orbiting around the sun But how can I have that point of view When I'm always bound and tied to someone" And the whole last verse of Refuge on the Roads- just listen to it. What an artist. They're such beautiful words, and I'm so glad I gave this multiple listens because it took a while for them to start standing out. This is even more the case with the music: sophisticated, dense, jazz-influenced... it's certainly beyond "Blue". The beauty of each song has been slowly revealing itself over the last few days, unravelling delicately on each repeated listen. The vibraphone and sustained guitar in the gorgeous "Amelia", "Hejira"'s "strains of Benny Goodman" being evoked by a distant clarinet; the fretless bass work throughout. There's so much to get lost in and I'm still in the process of doing so after listening six or seven times over the last two days. For now, all I can say is that it sounds like a restless spirit at the height of her powers, carving timeless words into the roads of America.

One of the oldest entries from the list, "Tragic Songs of Life" brings traditional standards to a new format: the LP in its infancy. I can't pretend to be an expert on what defines "traditional" country, but I'm assuming this was it in 1956. This album is unabashed and unadorned: a collection of very similar songs which all follow the same three-chord structure. Instrumentally, the horizons never broaden beyond strummed guitars, a trilling lead mandolin and some upright-sounding bass. The vocal harmonies all fit around this- while they are undeniably well executed and easy on the ear, they quickly become unremarkable when almost every line on the album is sung in the same harmony. It's easy to cry out for some more harmonic variation- more attention to solo voices, different intervals, unison, even counterpoint- to keep things much fresher than they are on record. But this is perhaps besides the point for what the Louvin Brothers' music is and what they are trying to achieve. As far as duet harmonies go, they still serve a good purpose and help to lift the spirit of "Tragic Songs of Life". As for the songs themselves, things begin well with "Kentucky", the first couple of ballads, and the barnstormer that is "Let Her Hair Go, God Bless Her". After that, many of the tracks lose distinction from one another. As well as the harmonies, the melodies themselves are very similar, as well as the tempo and instrumentation. Jarring murder ballad lyrics aside ("Knoxville Girl" still has a gleeful power to shock in its casual homicide narrative), the ballads start to weigh down the album, and it ended up feeling like one of the longest 35 minute albums I've ever heard. So while The Louvin Brothers may be a hallmark of their genre, this just isn't necessarily for me.

Talking Heads are one of my favourite bands and David Byrne is an all-out icon for me, but I'm actually not as familiar with their jagged art-punky roots as I am with their later work (in all its Eno collaborating, stage-show pioneering, groove-busting, big-suit wearing genius). Standing on its own merit, "77" is an arresting listen and a solid debut. Even if the band are paving the way for more ambitious projects to come, the distinct characteristics that make them brilliant are still recognisable across the 11 tracks. "Uh, Oh, Love Comes To Town" is a delicious introduction, buoyed by a bouncy riff and a unpredictable melody that crescendos towards its chorus. Logical sense is under threat from a primal, intangible feeling: love. While love is typically expressed in the simplest form in song and verse ("easy as 1-2-3"), to Byrne it's a source of fear, confusion, paranoia: more comparable to a "stock-broker making a bad investment". Byrne seems to walk variations on this line all through his career and across much of the rest of the album: trust nothing, dissect every feeling, consider every angle. Across the rest of "77", there's a heady range of this sentiment and sharp, catchy tunes. "Psycho Killer" is, of course, an all-time classic for the band, exemplifying Byrne's frantic, neurotic vocals, Weymouth's ability to craft a simple and stand-out bassline, and the band's tight, insular musicianship. "Pulled Up" has long been one of my favourites from their early period. It's a perfect catharsis from "77"'s pent-up frustrations and neurosis, where the band just seem to let go. Filled with infectious energy, breathless enthusiasm, and unhinged vocalisations, executed utterly convincingly and freely. While the instrumentation generally affirms the band's line-up as a no-frills art-punk outfit, it's good to hear some embellishments creeping in (steel pan in "Uh Oh, Love Comes to Town", saxophone in "First Week / Last Week....Carefree", keyboards across many of the different tracks), just tastefully enough to complement the material without detracting. "77" is a brilliant gateway into the oddball musings of Talking Heads: although the best would be yet to come, it's hard not to be swept along by its charm.

Today I learned about outlaw country: a sub-genre in country music belonging to a group of artists like Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson who eschewed the conservative, commercial leanings of the "Nashville Sound" and forged their own trail. Smoking dope, bringing hope, scratching off the sheen they felt was stagnating country music at the time. I got a kick out of reading it, and felt more on Jennings' side on account of him not being a total puritanical bible-basher (as is the 1970's country music stereotype). There are some good melodies in here, and musically it's pleasingly rough-around-the-edges. The switch that turns "Honky Tonk Heroes" from lilting acoustic swing to a driving country-rock number is a great moment. Elsewhere, "Omaha" is a proper sing-along, while "You Ask Me To" and "Black Rose" are other highlights- it was the up-tempo material which stood out to me the most. However, reading the backstory of outlaw country did lead me to expect something a bit more... exciting? "We Had It All" is lovely but still feels about as syrupy a country ballad as can be- the cloying strings don't help. A lot of the lyrics don't feel particularly inspired either, retreading over the same themes over the track list. Nonetheless, I appreciate Jennings for getting everything off his chest and closing the album after a brisk 27 minutes to prevent things becoming too repetitive. It may not be enough to make me a total convert, but is it the best country album I've had on the list so far? Too darn right.

One of the landmark statements in 1980s pop, "Like A Prayer" holds up in places, but is remarkably inconsistent. While the highs are often dazzling, the lows really drag it down. "Like A Prayer" is a great song, from the tension built up in the intro and verses through to the explosion of light in the chorus. It's an effective exercise in build-and-release, with a tight arrangement, and the backing vocalists are the icing on the cake. "Express Yourself" and "Cherish" are also two very enjoyable slices of pop: they take different approaches to being hit singles (one anthemic swagger, the other cutesy doo-wop), but both share a lovingly retro style and ooze the kind of self-assurance at a pop artist at her peak. "Dear Jessie" is the album's surprise gem, a gentle foray into psychedelia that calls to mind Prince's "Around the World in a Day" period. Elsewhere though, the album didn't hit the way I'd expect a multi-platinum to. "Love Song" disappointed me- a duet between Madonna and Prince could have been brilliant, but it feels limp and shapeless, with all the purpose of a demo recording. Then there are the rest of the ballads, weighing down the second side in particular. Madonna certainly isn't the strongest of vocalists, which doesn't bother me for most of the run-time. It becomes more of an issue when "Like a Prayer" leans into stripped back power ballads, songs that seem to rely on vocals more than energy. It's the reason why "Promise to Try" doesn't quite land- for many singers, it could be a perfect showcase, but Madonna is restricted to limited range and expression and it never quite takes off. The other ballads have a similar issue, as well as just dragging the energy of the album down: both "Oh Father" and "Pray for Spanish Eyes" have decent lyrics and sentiment, but they feel bloated and heavy-handed. So while I really enjoyed parts of this album, on balance it's just too inconsistent (frustratingly so) for me to give it anything above a 3*. Those singles still mostly rock though.

As Aphex Twin, Richard D. James lives on a diet of electronic pulses and seeds of inspiration. "Selected Ambient Works 85-92" is an odyssey of experiments in sound, some immediately lush and beautiful, others subtle and vague- all fully realised. It's hard to believe some of these tracks were first sketched out as early as 1985, when ambient music had barely taken off from the airport with Brian Eno. By the time "SAW" was released in 1992, electronic dance music had exploded onto the scene, in a kaleidoscope of rave, house and techno. In the meantime, James had built up a cohesive catalogue of work to cherry-pick from, and still ended up with a 74 minute album of very long tracks. A bit of self-editing here might have been to the album's benefit and made it more accessible still, but defining a whole sub-genre isn't bad going. In "Selected Ambient Works", Aphex Twin offers a more mellow side of electronic dance music, blending steely processed drum sounds with washes of synth to give voice to an emergent sub-genre of "ambient techno." The term seems much more apt than "intelligent dance music", an elitist label that James was right to reject. Instead, the "I" might be replaced with "introspective": this album is subtle, shape-shifting, moving through its tracks almost unnoticed. It's been on while I've been writing this and I've got completely lost in it. The more beat-driven material appeals to me a lot, even if the sounds are minimal and low-key. "Xtal" is a strong opening to set up stall, with a propulsive hi-hat cutting through calming washes of pads, with some gorgeous wordless vocals hovering faintly in the background. It's soothing, calming, yet restless and urgent. "Pulsewidth", "Ptolemy" and "Heliosphan" are similar, allowing the percussion to give a sense of dynamism and occasionally letting it cut out completely, for everything else to wash over. It's difficult to go much more in depth with the other individual tracks as I was very happy to surrender to them and let them soundtrack my day, giving a stronger aesthetic to work, relaxation and walking. It's easy to imagine how the album might have seeped into its fans' daily lives in the same way, becoming part of their landscape. It makes the early 90s seem like a utopia of listeners, riding the wave of fancy new portable music players and headphones, allowing James' "Ambient Works" to soundtrack their travels, their towns and cities, their late nights alone.

An undisputed essential in rock history. In many ways, this is not only Hendrix at his best, but 60s rock at its most far out, psychedelia at its peak, the electric guitar at its most expressive. It's blues, soul, R&B, psychedelia and pop all crammed into a 40 minute package, and I had so much fun hearing it again for the first time in years. I've gone between the different track listings of the UK and US versions when listening to this album (US adds three singles, including the iconic "Purple Haze", but removes "Remember", "Can You See Me" and "Red House"). For me, the US version wins out on a song-by-song basis, but the UK is structured more comfortably as an album, with more ebb and flow between the hard-edged rock and the lush ballads. As far as individual tracks, they're all winners, though I'd single out the instrumental "Third Stone From The Sun" as a blissful freak-out, full of guitar effects, feedback and intricate drum patterns, held together by a hypnotic three note bassline. The main guitar riff in this track, vibrato and all, is one of my favourite Hendrix moments on the record. "Are You Experienced" is another classic, all hinged around one chord, intoxicating marching snare beat and the insistent one-note piano refrain solidifies the band as a force to go down in history. "Red House" is the most forgettable track for me, leaning too far into a standard mid-tempo blues than the other songs on offer. There's little else I can add to the heaps of praise already given to this album, other than: Hendrix's voice suits the songs beautifully- it's bluesy husk is perfect and underrated. Noel Redding's bassline in "Fire" is exceptional. The ballads on offer are sublime and deserve as much credit as the rockers: "The Wind Cries Mary", "Remember" and "May This Be Love" all have beautiful melodies that cascade around the guitar lines. So it's a real classic and essential listening for rock music fans. Some of the techniques used might be dated now (trippy stereo panning, backmasking, wah pedals) but they only serve to capture the Jimi Hendrix Experience as true pioneers in 1967, riding the wave that would ultimately be too large even for them.

For a few years now, I've been a big fan of Dexy's Midnight Runners' "Too Rye Ay" album (looking forward to that coming up on this list later), where they cemented their unique blend of "celtic soul" and punk. Here, it all feels a bit embryonic by comparison, but there are signs of great things to come. While there isn't much range to what the horn section do, and their arrangements are quite basic, they still take these songs a long way, and really help to set Dexy's apart from many other punk bands of the early 1980s. The album's best known track, "Geno", is my favourite- a distinctive horn riff, drunken singalong and rowdy atmosphere pervades the whole song to the point where even the most cynical of listeners would have to at least nod along. Coming hot on its heels is "Seven Days Too Long", an energetic Northern soul cover where the band play with vigour and excitement, and Kevin Rowland's yelping, shout-along vocals feel most at home. It's the most powerful 1-2 hit of the album, and arguably the peak of Dexy's early career. Sadly, the rest of the album doesn't quite live up to these two highlights. Dexy's are much more suited to the energetic up-tempo material here ("There There My Dear" and "Thankfully Not Living in Yorkshire..." are two other strong selections), while their ballads flounder in mediocrity. The instrumental "Teams That Meet in Caffs" feels distinctly like filler, with little to reward repeat listens. "Just Looking" is a bit of a dirge that even sharp hits of brass and swirling organ can't save, and "I Couldn't Help It If I Tried" limps the album into its second half, badly damaging the pace. On the whole, Dexys Midnight Runners certainly forge a unique sound here and there are enough tracks to make it a fun, engaging listen- just disappointing that it doesn't reach the heights of what they would go on to.

I enjoyed this early touchstone in gothic rock more than I thought I would, and grateful it's not anything above 35 minutes, but I won't be particularly excited to hear it again. Bassist David J is like someone in fancy dress at a funeral: he's having a great time and keeping things entertaining where nobody else is. His accomplished basslines are the reason to hear (and revisit) the songs "Dancing", "Kick in the Eye" and "In Fear of Fear". Peter Murphy's vocals are very low in the mix and occasionally cut through ("Dancing"). They have next-to-no finesse or technique, but serve the songs and add to the gloomy atmosphere very well. Drums are primal and tight, ranging from tom-based patterns on the opening track to a bona-fide disco beat in "Kick in the Eye." There are some other highlights here: "Of Lilies and Remains" is a bleakly engaging spoken-word narrative with an interesting concept and lyrics. "Hollow Hills" is dark, brooding, formless- gothic rock at its most indulgent. It's the upbeat material that appeals most to me here, mainly on account of the bass-playing. The songs and the mood are solid, but it's one I'll have to be under a certain cloud to revisit.

It's easy to be cynical about Christmas music. Some music fans, with a wave of the hand, may claim it is pumped down our ears every year by retailers to sell products, or mined by the film and TV industry as a lazy shortcut to elicit emotion. It's also a well-known truth that Michael Buble is leading a fascist regime to placate the masses and brainwash us all with his colourless, dishwater festivities. But this album? For me, it's THE essential Christmas record, the one I'll happily make a tradition out of every December. All the vocalists here are at their peak and deliver exceptional renditions, but Darlene Love is the star at the top of the tree. Hearing "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" in its home setting, a lone original in a sea of reworked standards, is electrifying: E even amongst some of the most famous pre-1960 Christmas standards of all time, it still shines as a powerhouse number. Bob B Soxx and the Blue Jeans have perhaps the least to offer of all the artists featured, but the production and festivities help to tie it all together and the roster of artists participating keep it fresh. Spector's wall-of-sound arrangements are undeniably world-class. Every detail is immaculately constructed and presented. Some highlights: the Ronettes doing a "Be My Baby" on "Frosty the Snowman"; the irresistible backing vocals in "Sleigh Ride; chimes and bells EVERYWHERE; the glockenspiel in "Marshmallow World"... so much more besides. We're left with an album that, in little over half an hour, seems to perfectly capture the spirit and excitement of Christmas- even the clear commercial and corporate appeal shouldn't sully the huge talent on show. As delightfully jolly as it all is, I'm going to round down from a 4.5 to a 4. Why? Because it's not appropriate for at least 50 weeks of the year and it's also the brainchild of a murdering maniac. But damn... arrangements from a killer's head never sounded so... Christmassy.

"Hello Hooray" is a delightfully eccentric, theatrical introduction to this album by the godfather of shock rock. A Judy Collins cover that is given the full glam treatment, it chugs along with great bombast and excitement, and serves as an effective springboard for the album proper. The hooks are rife across this album, even if Cooper and the band rely on simple riffs. Often some unusual orchestration or an intriguing change is introduced in the coda of a song and it would be good to hear this experimentation taken further- 80% of the album is pretty straight rock and roll. "Unfinished Sweet" wastes far too much time on a misguided Bond homage, and "Sick Things" is an underwhelming lull in side 2, but "Raped and Freezin", "Elected", "No More Mr Nice Guy" and "I Love the Dead" all leave a strong impression. Definitely one I'll be listening to again, even if it didn't hit completely on first listen.

Interesting to hear this one so close to Lou Reed's "Transformer": two former Velvets a few years on, taking the reins of their solo careers and moving in very different directions. Where Reed chased Bowie's glam-rock sounds, Cale (VU's "lunatic" according to drummer Maureen Tucker) also went commercial with a lush, sophisticated half-hour of orchestral pop. "Paris 1919" is a regal, stately album: full of bombast, intricate orchestral arrangements, classical influence and overt allusions to writers from Dylan Thomas to Shakespeare to Graham Greene. It puts its cards immediately on the table and rarely lets go of its dense arrangements and orchestra, used to greatest effect in the stunning title track. The biggest shock is perhaps the most conventional song, rocker "Macbeth". Upbeat, riotous and bringing drums and electric guitar to the fore, it sounds like it belongs on a different album... in the end, it's just another mesmerising trick in Cale's box. "Macbeth" and "Paris 1919" both add to my main take-away of this album: underneath all the sonic ambition, there are some real pop gems here. My favourites boast truly aching melodies: "Andalucia" is a straightforward three-chord folk song that could work as a stripped back, acoustic-guitar-only ballad. "Half Past France" is another winner, its wistful melody surrendering to floods of organ and reverb. Things end on an oblique, mysterious note with "Antarctica Starts Here". If anything lets the album down, it's "Hanky Panky Nohow" and "Endless Plain of Fortune", which don't reach the same heights of the other ballads here- maybe on account of feeling overbaked, over-orchestrated? It's a tricky line to walk. This is nitpicking though- on the whole, this is definitely one of my favourite new albums I've been introduced to on the list and will be added to regular rotation.

This is the first original album by Bob Marley and the Wailers I've heard (aside from "Legend".) While the band don't stray from their formula musically, there's some really strong material here with a broad range of emotion behind it. "Concrete Jungle" shuffles forward, with the clavichord effectively adding to a sleazy atmosphere and searing lead guitar rounding off the mix. Alluding to the slave trade and racism, the lyrical material is much more politically charged than the side of Marley's work I'd heard before. But throughout, the Wailers prioritise a laid back, mellow feel, with Marley's vocal never rising into a rasp, howl or bellow. They allow the strong social conscience of each song to play itself out, coming to the fore with lyrics like "No chains around my feet but I'm not free" and "today they say that we are free; only to be chained in poverty." It's powerful content and sadly hasn't aged a day. In contrast, the middle of the album shows the band at their most romantic: while "Baby We've Got A Date" presents the carefree joy of being in love, "Stir It Up" is the real classic. One of the band's best known songs, it is sublime: a slow burning, slow dancing beauty. Following "Stir It Up", none of the songs really lived up to those in the first half of the album, though I'm prepared to give them more time. It's an enjoyable album, particularly for a certain mood, and has made me keen to explore more of the Wailers' work.

If you've stumbled upon my review of "Kind of Blue" while scrolling through, you don't need me to explain it's a classic. A quick look at this album on any corner of the Internet reveals a unanimous outpouring of praise: it cemented modal jazz as a definitive form of improvisation, influenced generations of jazz and rock musicians alike, and stands outside of its genre as one of the best albums ever made. Its place as an all time classic in musical history is safe, and objectively it's without doubt a 5*. That said, I'm trying to be as subjective as possible in these rankings, and jazz has never been my favourite genre. In the past I've struggled to stay engaged, to give the music my full attention, to appreciate the depth of feeling and talent on show. With "Kind of Blue", this hasn't been the case: the virtuosic talent and unbeatable expression of the soloists is inescapable. Their lines are often dazzling, frequently captivating: it's definitely the best jazz I've heard. "So What" is the album highlight. Just listen to that iconic piano and double bass conversation that kicks things off: anticipation slowly builds via subtle modulations and variations on one figure, before the trumpet solo bursts in as the cymbal crashes in and the bass starts a-walking. We then cycle through the soloists of the album (including John Coltrane on tenor sax) and all of them lend their own distinct flavour to the proceedings. In particular, Davis gives the trumpet more street cred than I ever thought possible. The other songs progress in the same way: alternating solos, instruments wrapped in dialogue with one another, variations in dynamics and accompaniment to keep things fresh. "All Blues" and "Freddie Freeloader", being more tied to blues structures, feel more familiar and less groundbreaking: to me, they come off as the most repetitive, even if the musicianship remains excellent. The two ballads are notable for their sparsity, as well as their beautiful melodic lines. In "Flamenco Sketches", I stopped trying to analyse and just let the mood sweep me away to some distant horizon: a perfect way to close. Because I still need to go further to "get" jazz, I'm keeping this at a 4 for now, but the work required is all mine: one day I hope I can fully appreciate the beauty Davis and co. have to offer.

Some incoming personal bias here... I've long been a fan of "Transformer", which sees Lou Reed getting his act together for the first time since leaving Velvet Underground and channelling Bowie's Ziggy-era glam rock (with Bowie and his guitarist Mick Ronson handling production duties). Bowie and Ronson's production is married perfectly to Reed's laconic delivery, to the point where I find myself singing along to a string, piano or guitar part just as often as Reed's vocal. Listen to the acoustic demos (Perfect Day and Hanging Round) and you can hear the impact Bowie and Ronson had on Reed's songs. Without the full production, the songs lack finesse, accentuation- but fully arranged, they are exquisite and often beautiful. The end result is Lou Reed at his most accessible, whether through the out-and-out glam rock of "Hangin' Round", "I'm So Free" and "Wagon Wheel", the effortlessly cool "Walk on the Wild Side" and "Andy's Chest", or the heart-aching ballads of "Perfect Day" and "Satellite of Love". The latter, one of the most plaintive and sweet songs Reed ever wrote, is my highlight on this record: its outro is sheer magic. "Make Up" and "New York Telephone Conversation" are the experiments that don't quite land, but I can't fault Reed for trying something different: at least they stretch the album's sonic mould in an unexpected way with tuba and music-hall piano. "Goodnight Ladies" is a delicious ending track, using the above to full effect for a lounging curtain call off-Broadway. The songs zip by and the whole ride is so enjoyable, so effortless, that it's hard for me to put this anywhere below "classic".

The first Bob Dylan album I've drawn on this list, and it runs right back to the blooming of his career, with a set of razor-sharp songs that cut to the bone. At once concise and sprawling, playful and venomous, "Freewheelin'" is magic. Young Bob must have shaken the folk scene inside out here, creating a book of new standards with a set of originals (some arrangements lifted from existing folk songs). It's incredible to think that "Blowin' In The Wind", "Don't Think Twice...", "Masters of War" and "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" all bloomed from the same album, and for most of the world it was the first they'd heard of this promising young enigma. All four are amazing songs with no case to argue, so I don't feel much need to eulogise about them further... except to say that for me, "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" is the clear standout- dense, dramatic, foreboding and still rendered somewhat ambiguous by its major-key singalong quality. Is that rising chorus doom-laden, cathartic, triumphant? No idea, but it's fun as hell to join in. There are some other great concise works on here worthy of mention: "Oxford Town" zips by in protest and muted anger, while serving as one of the record's catchiest songs. "Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance" demonstrates a yo-yoing, flexing vocal and some energetic guitar work, even if it doesn't showcase the record's typical lyrical depth. Some of the lesser material appears throwaway by comparison: "Bob Dylan's Dream", "Bob Dylan Blues" and "I Shall Be Free" paint a picture of a freewheelin' artist having a lot of fun, but don't capture the intensity of the other work, only hinting at the surreal stream of consciousness masterworks that would be yet to come. "Talkin' World War III Blues" does the talkin' blues style best and renders these other tracks obsolete by comparison. The few duds aside, "Freewheelin'" is a stunning portrait of Dylan the folk artist: he really did have the world at his fingertips here, armed with no more than his lyrics, an acoustic guitar and some harmonica. For a moment listening to this album, I can sympathise slightly with the outraged "Judas" crying folkies in '65. Even when the drums and bass enter the mix on "Corrina, Corrina", it feels slightly jarring: was it strictly needed here? There's no doubt that this is a masterpiece in folk music and deserves to be remembered as such. While it's a clear 9/10 for me personally, I also much prefer the work Dylan would go onto just two years later, so I'll keep this one at a four.

Easy listening standards performed by an icon in outlaw country. It was nothing to change my life, but I can't fault the execution. I knew of most of these songs without really knowing them, so I can't comment on how Nelson has/hasn't re-imagined them. But I can say I'm a big fan of Nelson's vocals throughout: simple and unadorned, but often gliding into a smooth croon that seems to perfectly suit the material. He seems to get to the "truth" of every song on here, emphasising the lyrics at their heart. Instrumentation is very pretty, particularly the harmonica at times- corny as it may be, it added some lovely melodic touches. "Georgia On My Mind", "All Of Me" and "Unchained Melody" are my highlights and the ones I'll be most likely to revisit. There's a yearning quality in the latter that Nelson achieves through his delicate phrasing and delivery. It was hardly an exciting listen, but none of it offended me, so I'm going to stick it bang-slap in the middle of the road.

I first bought this album just before moving to Manchester. Hearing it sends me straight back into a bare white flat, owning almost nothing but a battered old CD and cassette player, and hearing this echo around the empty room. In "Psychocandy", the Reid brothers take both "noise" and "pop" to the extreme, in a way which is hard to appreciate initially. After a few listens though, the warm and welcoming hearts of tracks like "Just Like Honey" and "Cut Dead" start to emerge. The distortion and noise here are really going to turn a lot of people off, and the band are obnoxious enough to let you know they really don't care. For me, "Taste The Floor" and "In a Hole" are the most challenging sonically, where the fuzzed out, buzzsaw guitars are highest in the mix: it's not so much a production style as actively intruding on the songs by that point, and simply getting through is the hardest thing that I could do. Packed into the rest of the album are the sugariest of pop melodies and most simplistic of chord progressions. However distorted they are, tracks like "The Hardest Walk", "My Little Underground" and "You Trip Me Up" are bubblegum tunes at heart, and the noise becomes a device to make them noteworthy, more interesting. There are some more highlights, but ultimately there's little range to The Jesus and Mary Chain. Not only do they make the ballsy move of reusing "Just Like Honey" nine tracks later ("Sowing Seeds") but they would also later re-use "Something's Wrong"'s main riff in their follow-up album Darklands. Repetition is hardly a crime in rock - many rock-n-roll artists did the same with the 12 bar blues, and AC/DC and the Ramones had basically one song - but when it's this noisy, it's quite hard to stomach. I enjoy a lot of the songs in "Psychocandy", but it's one of those albums best saved for a certain mood.

This is the proudest I've been to be from Sheffield, apart from when "The Full Monty" was screened on a flight I was on and I ran up and down the plane singing "You Can Leave Your Hat On" with nothing but a sick bag over my jaffas, all the way to Bangkok. "Seconds" is the best song about an assassin since Peter Gabriel's the year before.

Feeling a tad sheepish putting such an acclaimed album from such a beloved artist so low, but this really isn't my thing and I was actively willing it to be over by the end. I might have missed out by listening at my desk, but even if I'd been in a club, I would have probably sunk the nearest jello shot and got out of there. The singularly most exciting moment for me was when the beat kicked in over the spoken loop in "Daftendirekt" and caught me off guard. It's a shame that it was about one minute into this 74 minute album. Across the rest of it, there's a near-total absence of melody, progression and narrative to these pieces: instead, the album revolves around standard 4/4 disco-house beats with looped instrumentation and electronics fizzing in and out, with most tracks averaging 6-7 minutes in length. I just don't know why there wasn't any more regulation, or editing going on. There might have been some interesting production techniques every now and again, but it was only enough to get a passing nod before it's then recycled again... and again... and again. Yes, this is all in the nature of house music, and Daft Punk's enduring legacy has solidified "Homework" as a milestone in the genre. Personally, I just didn't get it. Listening to it felt like being a test subject in a 90s laboratory for about six months, with these daft punks trying to get me to mate with a rat. It's not going to happen guys, ALRIGHT? Jesus!

I reviewed this album a few months back under a different user profile. My general feeling then was that "A Rush of Blood to the Head" was a 3* album, a bit overstuffed in pursuit of the perfect "anthem" but much better than Coldplay are given credit for. It's true the band seem to be an easy target for music lovers, and if you dig to the root of most criticism, it comes down to them being overplayed or ubiquitous for the better part of two decades. Hardly their fault- even if their stadium-filling success seems undeserved, it's worth listening to an album like this with fresh ears. Their approach is often heavy handed, unsubtle, over-simplistic. Sometimes this works beautifully: "The Scientist" still plays as a great song and Martin's falsetto isn't too grating. It's true that sometimes, songs are dragged down by facile piano refrains ("Clocks") or clunky riffs constantly hammering every quaver ("Politik"). On these occasions, it feels like being bludgeoned repeatedly with a sentimentality hammer. However, some of the more unassuming tracks here are winners. "Green Eyes" is a lovely diversion from the Coldplay "sound", and "Amsterdam" is intoxicating through its slow build and "fairly-standard-but-not-quite-insipid" chord progression. It's a gem tucked away at the end of this record, and worth getting through everything else for.

What an opening "Zero" is- melodically strong, a perfectly based build to a crescendo of angular, fuzzed-out guitar figures. Its only downfall is the ridiculous amount of compression added towards the end "Heads Will Roll" is another winner and sounded out from the back of my mind as something I'd heard before, installed in my consciousness without ever knocking at the door. Its greatest strength is its simplicity, repeating one or two refrains over a single progression, driving forward to consume all in its path... including a lot of the rest of the album. From this point onward, "It's Blitz!" sounds a bit like a festival in the middle of the afternoon: before a lot of the more exciting stuff has kicked off, but an absolute pleasure to spend time with. The gentler, softer numbers succeed more for me: "Skeletons", "Hysteric" and "Little Shadow" are all gorgeous and jostle for a place at the top tier of this album. The other up-tempo tracks, "Dull Life", "Shame and Fortune" and "Dragon Queen", still carry off an intriguing alchemy of disco, punk and late '00s art-rock, but don't quite rock to the same effect as the first two tracks. Vocalist Karen O is a great fit for the material, sounding at-ease and on-edge, owning the songs with every sneer, yelp and occasional burst of sincerity. The synth-driven arrangements are right in time with the boom of the late noughties, without having particularly aged since- there remains a nice amount of guitar in the mix for anyone ready to argue the Yeah Yeah Yeahs "sold out" here. Producer Nick Launay is well known for his work on most of Nick Cave's albums dating back to "Junkyard": what a different experience this one was. "It's Blitz" is to the point, straightforward and fun to a point that may alienate some self-professed music critics, but for me its immediacy wins out.

New wave surf-rock that revels in its own silliness- I careered between being immensely on board and feeling incredibly irritated by every note. Between them, the band carve out a very niche, idiosyncratic sound that seems to take the oddball "art-punk" scene of the late 70s to its extreme. Did any other band take it this far and enjoy the same level of commercial success and critical acclaim hand-in-hand? It's hard to imagine who else might have pulled it off. "Planet Claire" beams the band into the galaxy with a "retro-futuristic" feel even for 1978: a clean and trebly guitar riff twangs around a searing chromatic organ sequence in one of the strongest instrumental moments on the record. "Dance This Mess Around" climaxes in an addictive insistent refrain, and "6060-842" is catchy if a bit repetitive. There's a lot of fun to be had if I'm in the right frame of mind, but the chief flaw is that in several places, the inherent novelty factor becomes too pronounced, and "B-52's" becomes obnoxious for the sake of it. The main offenders are Fred Schneider's constipated vocals (thank god they have multiple vocalists) and the relentlessy kitschy lyrics- "There's a Moon in the Sky (Called the Moon)" springs to mind. Both factors come to a head with the best known track "Rock Lobster", which I had no idea was 7 minutes long on the album version... it wasn't a welcome discovery. The musicianship and the songwriting is all quite simplistic, to striking effect on the album's best tracks but failing to redeem the inherent novelty value of the worst. "B-52's" can be quite a party, but if you're not on their wavelength, you'll be looking for the nearest open window to jump out of.

I was singing along before I even pressed play- surely one of the best known songs of the twentieth century, and it was great to hear it in the context of its original album. It still holds up, rolling down its eight and a half minutes like an avalanche, laying waste to the musical landscape, an exhausted pop culture, a broken nation and all the broken hearts within it. Stunning, and well deserving of every drunken singalong and rowdy karaoke session it still gets (my first was at seven years old, when I mispronounced "sacred store" as "sackred store"- I'll always have McLean to thank for teaching me a new word back in the day). I really hoped "American Pie" would be one of those albums I'd never thought about, but would in fact be masking a treasure trove of hidden gems behind its titanic title track. In actual fact, it seems the titular career-benchmark, era-defining, eulogy to rock- whatever you want to call it- consumed just about all the energy and creativity McLean had in him at the time. The rest of the album is a notably different affair, more subdued and requiring a closer listen. "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)" is the other famous one here which I'd heard before, and carries the most emotional weight- a heartaching tribute to the tortured artist with a lovely melody and not-too-intrusive strings. Elsewhere, nothing quite hits the same: "Crossroads" is a banal tune of piano and vocals; "Empty Chairs" is heavy handed melancholy; "Sister Fatima" is eerie but meandering. "Everybody Loves Me" is a much-needed bit of levity and movement in the album's second half. Fun, bombastic, silly- it's also one of the most blatant Bob Dylan impersonations I've ever heard. It's not all bad across the rest of the album- McLean's guitar work carries many of the remaining songs and produces some enchanting textures and accompaniments. It's just a shame the songs at its heart become so unanimously maudlin and beige. "Babylon" is an intriguing end with multi-layered vocals, but is almost over too soon.

45 years on, the general consensus seems to be that the Ramones were the OG punks in their surliness, image, attitude and adolescent frustration. While many others paved the way for them, something about that cover photo and the opening bars of "Blitzkrieg Bop" just seems to usher in a new movement. By virtue of arriving on the scene slightly before many of their contemporaries, it makes sense that The Ramones could be painted as the missing link between the noisier, edgier punk that followed them and the rock and roll that the movement was returning to (there's something very 50's about these songs in their simplicity and brevity). "Blitzkrieg Bop" is irresistible- wherever you are in the world, shout out the words "Ay! Oh!" and the likelihood is you'll get a "LET'S GO!", all thanks to the high-octane opening here. It moves into the giddily violent "Beat on the Brat" and then to the morbid yet celebratory "Judy is a Punk", and doesn't even stop to pause for breath over the next half hour. On first hearing this album some years ago, my main criticism was how homogenised the songs are: the same churning riffs and power chords re-used in 90 second bursts. In almost every track, the bass sticks to root notes, following the same rhythm as the guitar's distorted power chords. The tempo rarely deviates from around 175 BPM, lyrics are often made up of two repeated lines, and most songs have no more than three chords. It's an easy criticism and still feels valid, but after repeated listens, the individual personalities and nuances of each song begin to stand out slightly. There's a 6/4 instrumental riff in "Havana Affair", for god's sake! There's a chain saw sound effect, there are handclaps here and extra chords thrown in there. Elsewhere (even though the band may have balked at the thought of selling out) there's bona-fide pop: "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" is straight-up bubblegum, with a bit of jangle under all that distortion. "53rd and 3rd" has a chorus in harmony which belies its the homophobic lyrical content. Across the whole album, there are some very sweet wordless backing vocals deployed to add some much needed textural variation from the guitars and bass. The melodies here are all catchy, memorable, made to appear effortless. There's a huge amount of skill involved to create an album so cohesive and relentlessly upbeat. Lyrically, though, the waters are a little murky: we range from what appear to be simple love songs to glue-sniffing, chainsaws, homophobia and misogyny, to an absurd turn into Nazism in the last track that somehow doesn't completely tarnish the record. At times it feels a little too laboured for shock value, to sell and to gather rebellious followers. The bottom line is, execute it in a bouncy and catchy way and package it in a breathless set of songs and most people will be swept along for the ride, unsure if everything they heard is "right" but certain that it was fun. For all its simplicity and recklessness, "Ramones" remains a high watermark in teenage abandon, oozing attitude from every pore. As punk goes, it's one of the real essentials.

It's finally happening, 97 albums in... an album I'd never heard in full before is getting an instant 5 stars. I've left it a good few weeks before committing to a review because I wanted to know if it would stick… but from start to finish, it absolutely has. Paul Westerberg and the rest of The Replacements were in their mid 20s when "Let It Be" was released, with the exception of 18 year old bassist Tommy Stinson. It was their effort to hone their sound and produce something a little more sophisticated than the raw heavy rock of their earlier work, while retaining the angst and grit which gives them their charm. They deliver in spades, with the band turning in committed, energetic and emotive performances. As powerful as Westerberg's raspy, impassioned vocals are, often it's the instrumental accompaniments which steal the show. The album begins at a blistering pace with its only single, "I Will Dare", comprised mostly of polished jangly guitars over a crisp, swung beat. "Favorite Thing" has an even more melodic guitar line than its vocal, with a riff throughout the verses forming one of the catchiest moments on the album. When "We're Comin' Out" threatens to torpedo the quality with some thrashing hardcore, it's suddenly stripped back to gradually accelerating piano and handclaps in the last minute. Later, "Seen Your Video" allows the instrumentals to reign supreme, not bringing in vocals until the last forty-five seconds. Halfway through this tight set of defiant post-punk, there's an unexpected KISS cover ("Black Diamond") which manages to be a vast improvement on the original. It's one in a long line of transgressions The Replacements seem to revel in across the album, along with giving their album the same name as a Beatles release and incorporating titles like "Gary's Got a Boner". At first, I thought any album devoting a song to an erection could only be crass, childish, irritating… but actually it's just one part of a wonderfully scattered, skewed portrait of a band throwing out the rules and, almost accidentally, creating a warts-and-all paean to adolescence. Every one of these songs is torn up with the anxiety of youth, with growing up and seeking satisfaction, identity and love. Songs like "Gary's Got A Boner" and "Tommy Gets His Tonsils Out" respectively contribute the struggle of being a teenager and the terror of being a child: no nuance or understanding, all confusion and mixed emotions. Completing the picture, "Androgynous" and "Unsatisfied" (perhaps my two favourite songs on here) reveal the substance behind the band's style. They're honest, direct and heartaching pleas for a more straightforward life, while the finale, "Answering Machine" becomes a wider call into the void for any kind of answer. The fade-out gives an impression that none is coming, but the Replacements will keep asking the questions. There's so much going on in "Let It Be"'s lean 33 minutes: it's perfectly paced and structured so that not a second is wasted, and it is never boring. The last few weeks, as I've listened track by track and discovered the hidden joys of each song, have been wonderful. "Let It Be" has reminded me how energising it can be to discover a new favourite, and fall in love with music in all its messy ways.

Southern rock has never been my passion, but I'm sure few would argue with Lynyrd Skynyrd's inclusion on this list. I can't fault the just-on-the-right-side-of-gimmicky guitar line-up at the core of their sound: two, sometimes three lead guitars working in harmony. Powerful as it must have been to experience live, it's also used to most dazzling effect in "Free Bird", which wipes the floor with every track before it on this record. Along with "Simple Man", "Free Bird" is, of course, a classic of its genre, and the track here I was most familiar with. I had to wrestle with the feeling that in 2022, it comes over as a little hammy, almost corny: maybe it's down to overuse, or pop culture's obsession with irony and mining sincerity for memes. "Free Bird" and "Simple Man" may be ripe for parody, but they form the melodic backbone of the album, standing as its most enduring songs. One lick of the five minute guitar coda is enough to stop me even trying to critique it and just enjoy the ride. It may be bias after being so familiar with the big hits, but across the rest of the album, there's little else jumping out at me that elevates Lynyrd Skynyrd against any number of early 70's American rock bands. A couple of light cuts smell suspiciously of throwaways: "Mississippi Kid" feels like Skynyrd going acoustic for the sake of it without having a particularly good song to back it up, and "Poison Whiskey" stumbles over one too many re-treads of a quickly tiring riff. Earlier, there's some great musicianship but the songs themselves feel lacking, rooted in bluesy and swampy riffs without really progressing beyond them. The sound quality doesn't help. "Gimme Three Steps" has a fun riff and injects some energy into proceedings, but the production is awful: everything seems to be pushed to the limit to the point that even the cymbal crashes are riddled with distortion. Because of "Simple Man", "Free Bird" and "Tuesday's Gone" (another epic ballad with the band's lead instrumentalists taking it turn to showcase their skill), this gets an automatic three stars. While there's nothing outright offensive across the album, there's nothing else here to lift it above those three tracks, so this one just misses out on a 4.

I've never heard anything by Alice In Chains, all big hits and deep cuts included. I've just been aware of them as key players in grunge and metal of the 90s, so was interested to see what "Dirt" had in store. It's definitely a guitar album: Jerry Cantrell is a colossal presence, unleashing sludged out riffs, chromatic runs and furious leads all over the record. But an album can rarely hold complete attention with guitar wizardry alone: the songs themselves need to stand up too. Opener "Them Bones" is energetic but hardly inspiring: a cutthroat riff, howling vocals and lyrics soaked in apocalyptic self-pity. The rest of the album veers between up-tempo palm-muted metal riffs and cloying, doom-laden refrains (within the same song, a little awkwardly, in "Sickman"). One of my main takeaways, though, is that "Dirt" is more melodic than I expected. The chorus of "Rain When I Die" is soaring and titanic, punctuated by long sustained notes and manages to stand out from the rest of the album. The album also features unabashed harmonies that I didn't expect, whether in the vocals or lead guitar ("Hate To Feel", intro of the strong ballad "Down In A Hole"). Overall, the sonic texture we are left with is heavy, weighty and dark, but there's more to it than grunge's reputation had me believe. It's produced like arena-rock in technicolour: vast, expansive, like the desert landscape depicted on the cover. "Rooster" is the emotional peak, showcasing both sides of the band without being too heavy-handed: it builds very well through a falsetto harmony intro and first verse before the wall of guitars crashes in after the two minute mark. While it was nice to find myself enjoying elements of many of the songs, it wasn't enough to redeem the album for me completely. "Dirt" is much too long, and several of the tracks start to merge together after a while. There were very few stand-outs by the second half: instead, each riff growled into the next like a huge cloud of dirt. I can appreciate why fans of the grunge genre may enjoy this, but it isn't for me. With a lot of editing and a little less self-seriousness, this could have reached up to 3 stars- it's unlikely I'll be seeking it out again.

"Everything goes around, bringing us back again;" sings Alison Goldfrapp, with appropriate naivety for such a bland closing lyric- "here is where we start and where we end." It figures: on their fourth album, the duo step back towards their downtempo roots of lush electronica, moving away from striking nu-glam and sitting contentedly mid-stream. "Seventh Tree" is a strange inclusion on this list: perhaps it was added to an early edition just after release (when Goldfrapp had reputations as critics' darlings) and swiftly replaced by greater works as the editions rolled on. Regardless, this is a solid album that satisfies without stretching. Its tone is pastoral, optimistic, nostalgic. "Clowns" opens with washes of reverb and acoustic guitar arpeggios, a distant whispered vocal recalling Cocteau Twins and some gentle strings to carry us through the last minute. Atmospherically, it's a perfect fit, sitting alongside other album tracks like "Some People" and "Cologne Cerrone Houdini" as Goldfrapp at their mystifying, seductive peak. What caught me off-guard was the album's more upbeat side. "Caravan Girl" and "Happiness" are straight up bangers with clear choruses, prominent percussion and driving rhythms, while "A&E" is very strong single material. There's a good range to "Seventh Tree" which keeps it fresh, although if we're being honest, none of it really has the feeling of innovation or excitement. Often, the music's strength is let down a bit by generic lyrics- even titles like "Road to Somewhere" and "Monster Love" feel lacking, vague and uninspired. Most of it comes off as just "nice" by the end, which I'd still take over "dull". There are certainly some gems in here and I'm glad I got to hear it.

Before listening to this, I read that with "Mellon Collie...", Billy Corgan and co. set out to produce "The Wall" for the 90s post-grunge generation. How to feel about that... should it have made me wince with dread or buckle down for an all-time classic? Firstly, it isn't really accurate: "Mellon Collie" has no discernible narrative, it's just 28 tracks over two hours tied together by teenage angst and a loose day/night theme. And after a couple of listens and time to start digesting it all, I found myself really torn on it. First time round, I spent most of Part I with my head in my hands at its HEAVINESS, occasionally taking notice when a strong hook, pretty melody or anything else outside the heavy-rock formula broke through. Part II really took me by surprise towards the end, with a run of tracks totally different from the rest of the album. From "We Only Come Out At Night" onwards, things suddenly seem to take an indie/folky/art-rock direction with shades of Britpop. I was reminded of the likes of Super Furry Animals and Supergrass and loved every minute. The closer "Farewell and Goodnight", with every band member sharing lead vocals, is a nice touch and lovely low-key ending. I've always preferred tender ballads to heavy rock numbers, so it's no surprise that "Stumbleine", "Galapogos" and "Cupid de Locke" are some of my other favourites on offer here. I get the feeling that by liking these tracks more, I'm not really a fan of "Smashing Pumpkins doing Smashing Pumpkins". To me, the metal numbers don't feel particularly exciting, although a few of them stood out: "Jellybelly" has a strong hook, and "Muzzle" and "Here Is No Why" focus on being actual songs rather than fat riffs or strangled nasally rants. On the other hand, "Love", "Bodies", "Tales of a Scorched Earth" and "X.Y.U" are all a chore to get through. The guitars, tuned down a half-step on almost every track, lack definition, getting lost in murky low-end and raging distortion. Some more clarity in the mix might have helped, but I suppose it's not the vibe they were going for. While the really heavy tracks weren't to my taste, they do help the ballads to stand out and stop them dragging each other down. There are other songs worth singling out: two of the longest tracks triumph by placing tender melodic sections back to back with the band's heavier edge. "Porcelina..." and "Thru the Eyes of Ruby" are both excellent and earn their long running time. Finally, "1979" is the most popular of all for a reason. Simple, direct and tuneful, it radiates its wistful energy today with all the same impact it must have had in 1995. A review of this album wouldn't be complete without singling out some of the infamous "teenage angst" lyrics: "God is empty just like me"... boo-hoo; "Love is suicide" - repeated ad nauseam; and one of the most famous phrases on the album- "Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage"... gimme a break. So while the lyrics were often cringeworthy and some of the songs weren't to my taste at all, in the end I have to celebrate the sheer scope of this album. Yes, 2 hours is problematic if the poor material starts to get in the way, but after a couple of listens I was able to get through "Mellon Collie" on the strength of its best cuts. It's incredibly impressive that the Pumpkins carved out this mass of music, a towering testament to the alternative rock movement in 1995 as it swung on a pendulum between grunge, metal and everything beyond. It's greater than the sum of its parts and its ambition helps to solidify its icon status. In the hope that I'll come back to it and start to appreciate this even more, bumping it up to a 4*.

I never realised how far "American Idiot" was into Green Day's career. They'd been in a lull since 2000, becoming gradually galvanised into making a political statement against the Bush administration, the war in Iraq, the toxic hold of mass media. Their frustration at the world, at those in charge, and perhaps nostalgia for their youth, pulled into focus this "punk rock opera", which catapulted them back to stardom and critical acclaim and has become their legacy. It's a testament to the power of ambition in songwriting, and also its divisiveness: music fans today seem to laud and loathe this album in equal measure. I was fully prepared to get all snobby about “American Idiot”, because Green Day were THE band every musician at my high school wanted to be in. With their blend of simple musical structures, endlessly pithy tunes, and teenage ideals of rebellion and being outcasts against the establishment, they reached my pre-teen generation and more besides. I never paid them any attention, and by the time I was sixteen and discovering all of their influences like "Quadrophenia" and "The Wall", Green Day felt juvenile and sterile. Hearing the ultra-polished opening of "American Idiot", with its seismic drums, glistening punk vocal from Billie Joe Armstrong, it's easy to stay cynical. But by the second chorus, I was having too much fun to stay prejudiced: bottom line, this is a very well-crafted album. Individual song highlights include the singles “Holiday” and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” and the irresistibly angsty “Letterbomb”. There are lots of embellishments too which help: between the layers of chorus vocals in the anthemic “Are We The Waiting”, the slide guitars in “Give Me Novocaine”, the tasty backing vocals in "St. Jimmy", there’s a lot to love. For me, the biggest surprises were the two 9 minute epics, "Jesus of Suburbia" and "Homecoming". Both moving through various sections with expanded instrumental palettes (acoustic guitar and glockenspiel was a shock) At times they feel like the band are striving for credibility by stringing disparate sections into mini-suites (does “Rock N Roll Girlfriend” really belong in “Homecoming”?) but at least they’re ambitious, considered and technically accomplished. If I have any faults on the music, it’s that "American Idiot" is pointedly commercial and relentlessly accessible. For an album I hoped would dabble around in genre a lot, it's very uniform, sticking to conventional chords, refrains and arrangements. I can't deny it’s cohesive and easy to enjoy, but would have been nice to hear a little more range in the songwriting. It’s also not without fault as a “punk rock opera”. The narrative evaporates into a fairly mushy "nobody respects me, the country's screwed, I miss my girl" climax, with no sense of a journey or any beats in the story. Musically, though, it's all very well done, and carefully sequenced to keep the momentum up. I’m glad I had the chance to listen to this and appreciate how much of a snob I used to be. It’s still not getting a five though- I’ll save that for the proper stuff.

Random fact completely irrelevant to the rest of the review: today I learned "Raw Like Sushi" was released in June 1989, on the very same day as Beijing's Tiananmen Square protests. Tank Man nailed that buffalo stance. This album seems to scream of possibility, a last gasp for the 80s and a hint of what would immediately follow. There's a competent fusion between mainstream pop and emergent hip-hop with dance styles that would become more defined in the years to come. Neneh Cherry worked with various members of Massive Attack on the recording, and would later lend her vocals to some of "Blue Lines" in return- it's interesting to trace a through-line beginning here. Drawing as it does from these styles, "Raw Like Sushi" is very clearly date-stamped, from the opening cry of "DJ!" to the pervasive scratch sound effects and the hollow, atomic drum machine beats. But when it works, it really works. The album begins brilliantly- "Buffalo Stance" glows with confidence and boasts a simple yet instantly memorable synth and vocal line. Cherry quickly establishes herself as a very dynamic, likeable presence (from introducing the percussion in stages to the goofy "WOT is he LOYKE?" interlude). "Kisses on the Wind" is another upbeat gem where the litany of "Like a Prayer" comparisons feel most appropriate: all uptempo grooves, twinkling synths and reedy vocals, it feels like it would have been at home in the charts upon release. Unfortunately, the exuberance is short lived. After fourth track highlight "Inner City Mamma" (with another groovy chorus line) proceedings become disappointingly staid. The melodies seem to dry up, arrangements don't stray from the late 80's programmed framework, and the energy becomes a little more reserved. It's an anticlimactic case of a top-loaded album, where the inspiration evaporates after the first half. Cherry is still a great vocalist throughout, glimmering with promise and carrying the weight of the material. Occasionally her raps become tiring and outweigh the strength of the sung vocals, but on the whole she just about sells the songs. The material overall is well worthy of a three stars, if only for the lead single (which will remain in your head long after the rest of it has faded).

As a delicate young man who spent puberty straining to achieve a moustache, I can find nothing to simulate sweat, hair, muscle and all-round machismo more than Metallica. Their self-titled finds them at their commercial and critical zenith, surrendering the thrashy inclinations of their early work for something slicker, more considered, more polished. Against this framework- and indeed the alternative rock and grunge that was blowing up at the time- it sounds crisp, bright, all glossy guitars and HD drums. Although it sounds like fans of the band lamented Metallica as sell-outs in 1991, 30 years on this album seems to be associated with "pure rock", authenticity, a landmark in metal. After sitting through it a couple of times, I just can't get on board. Instrumentally, the band do a fine job. Lars Ulrich's drums sound fantastic, Kirk Hammett's solo in "Holier than Thou" is compelling listening, and even Jason Newsted gets a couple of moments in the sun. It's easy to imagine these songs going down a storm live, with opener "Enter Sandman" practically imploring any listener to bellow along at the top of their lungs. The opening is a tempest, with the syncopated riff slinking in around the hi-hat, slowly erupting into volcanic sound with a power-house guitar line and signature chorus. For a moment it's enjoyable, electrifying, exhilarating... but then the next song shoots for the same thrill. And the next. And so on for just over an hour. My issue with this album- and other metal albums I've heard on the list so far- is that I just can't connect emotionally. Regardless of the depth of feeling that would have been put into this, I don't get any catharsis on listening: no sense of release, no fury or rage. I just hear Hetfield and Hammett shitting fat riffs for the sake of fat riffs, ranking the work on the strength of the headbanging it could produce. "Nothing Else Matters" at least has some semblance of a stronger emotion: regret, loss, love, it is stripped right back to an opening riff on open strings before an orchestral arrangement kicks in. It's the most ambitious the album gets and its all the better for it. "The Unforgiven" was another favourite, because it actually breaks the sonic mould a little: there's an acoustic solo, some more minimal keyboard work, a nice change of pace and a fun "Western" theme. It's atmospheric and foreboding without having to launch straight into an obligatory grinding riff or howling vocal. It's a shame we don't hear Metallica pushing the envelope in this way again for the rest of the album: instead, all melodies and nuance are abandoned for the sake of "heaviness" and bravado. The songs feel designed to be churned out in a stadium to mosh-pits and beer-bellied baldies. The lyrics are turgid, awkward nonsense: "And the road becomes my bride; I have stripped of all but pride; So in her I do confide". It's forced, generic and trying so hard to be dark and tormented that thank god most listeners won't be paying attention to them. Bar the singles where things briefly get interesting, I can find very little to enjoy in "Metallica" and I won't be hurrying to hear it again.

To me, "The Seldom Seen Kid" is the crest of the wave: UK indie's commercial peak during the late '00s. After Elbow released their first album in 2001, they spent the next seven years slowly bubbling up from the underground to the surface. Suddenly, the stately "One Day Like This" burst onto the scene, the 21st century's answer to "Hey Jude" and all the Britpop singalongs it inspired, and eclipsed anything they did before or since. 50 years from now, anybody who doesn't know who Elbow were will just have to stick the TV on, switch over to a major sporting event or charity video and realise it's the guys who did the 'throw those curtains wide' song. Majestic as that song is, it isn't necessarily representative of the rest of "The Seldom Seen Kid". We get more orchestration, but more as embellishments than backbones. The album is propped up by ruminative piano lines, occasional bass synth, delicate drums (rim-shots a-plenty), and Guy Garvey's oh-so Mancunian vocals. It hinges on abrupt changes with dynamics: quiet to loud, gentle to titanic, vague to purposeful. The opening track "Starlings" exemplifies this by lulling the listener with some looped percussive synth, hushed wordless vocals and pensive piano... before a sharp burst of brass becomes a wake-up call into the album proper. It's a disarming effect and ensures everyone will be paying attention (annoyed or not). While some more of the anthemic cuts really work (the climax of "Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver", for example), on the whole the tone of "Seldom Seen Kid" is over-reflective, bordering dangerously on navel gazing. "Weather to Fly" is a gorgeous exception, but elsewhere some heavy editing wouldn't have gone amiss. "Mirrorball" and "Some Riot" are too fluffy, getting lost in their own delicate haze. While bolstered with heavier instrumentation, "The Bones of You" is too plodding to ever really take off. As cliched as it may be to say so, the popular ones here are the best for me. "Grounds for Divorce" is so unlike anything else on the record that it stands out be default: upbeat, pithy, killer riff... it's single-ready. And "One Day Like This", while ubiquitous for the best part of five years on British TV, is a modern classic: an anthem that is swept away by its own simplicity, those glorious octave strings. It's such a crowning achievement that it feels bizarre not to close the whole album: "Friend of Ours" is so lacklustre and stuck in its predecessor's shadow that I had to check it wasn't a bonus track. I enjoyed a lot of the material here and it may improve on further listens, but it's just too uneven to put any higher. A bit more focus and less haze- or maybe just a different state of mind- would help me enjoy it much more.

Name the last time divorcees-posing-as-siblings sounded so formidable. I'll immediately shout over you with the "Seven Nation Army" riff until my throat is raw and the earth is scorched beneath my feet. "Elephant" is that kind of album. Hearing it one week after Green Day's pristine, sugar-coated "American Idiot" (from one year later) makes its strength all the more pronounced: approaching early noughties rock from a different side of the same coin, "Elephant" is primal, savage, rough-around-the-edges... and it's brilliant. Nearly 20 years after release, almost every track on here doesn't feel like it has aged much at all. This is testament in part to "Elephant"'s raw, lean format: there are no production effects pigeon-holing it, no fanciful concepts or noodling instrumentation. But the album's true power comes from the sheer musical talent on show- mostly from a guitarist's standpoint. Jack White's exceptional performance is rooted in blues licks and scales, but every note is mined for sonic possibilities, whether using pitch-shift pedals or distinctive tone and expression. Listen to his blistering turn towards the end of "Black Math", the fills in "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine", the entirety of "Ball and Biscuit". It's frenzied and chaotic without being over-flashy, precise while still coming over spontaneous... in short, it's uniquely expressive playing. Guitar playing aside, the songs forming the bones of this album are excellent. "There's No Home For You Here"'s stop-start riff and layered vocals scream Led Zeppelin. "I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself" is an inspired cover that seems to reinvent the original while retaining its essence. "Hypnotize", "The Air Near My Fingers" and "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine" form a stunning run of high-octane, catchy songs, driven by their simplicity. The slower acoustic numbers ("You've Got Her In Your Pocket", "Well It's True That We Love One Another") add a nice bit of variation to the album, if being rather lacklustre in isolation. Because it doesn't quite end as emphatically as I'd hoped, and for the occasional dips in pace and impact, I'm being harsh and giving this a 4*- but could easily see it growing in future. To hear "Elephant" is to experience the guitar becoming rough, raw and sexual again.

By 1977, rock's ballooning excess had been well and truly pierced by the tight and gritty authenticity of punk. For some, ELO represented all that had gone too far in rock, from their orchestra section to their live shows beginning with the band emerging from a spaceship. Yet despite all the criticism, there is something very direct and unfussy about Jeff Lynne's songwriting. It's absolutely unadulterated pop, taking obvious influence from The Beatles and other pre 70's popular music while picking up other cues from disco. I've always been a huge fan of ELO and all they stand for: bombastic arrangements, sugary sweet melodies, beautiful harmonies and falsetto, and an unashamed love of pop music. "Out of the Blue" has this in spades: beginning with the propulsive energy of "Turn to Stone", and mingling sunshine pop with aching ballads, it's one irresistible melody after another in a perfect fusion of synths and strings. Most of the songs in the album's first half are very good and then have one little touch- a middle eight or instrumental hook- to elevate them into "great". The rapid fire vocal section in "Turn to Stone". The "doo-doo" backing vocals in "Sweet Talkin' Woman". The blast of horns in "Across the Border". The fake-out coda in "Stepping Out". And then just when the album might be running out of steam, we're treated to side 3's "Concerto for a Rainy Day." This sequence of songs is pure magic and much greater than the sum of its parts. "Big Wheels" is underwhelming on its own, but the tracks around it lift it into the top tier. "Summer and Lightning" and, of course, "Mr Blue Sky" are blissful and need no further explanation. I hope they'll stay with me for the rest of my life. However, no matter how effusive I can be about this album at its best, the fact remains that it's 70 minutes and doesn't quite stick the landing. Everything about rock's excess can be held against it, and it starts to feel its runtime by the home stretch. "Birmingham Blues" is a hokey throwaway. "The Whale" is too unfocused, the closest the album comes to muzak. Even "Starlight", earlier on, is plodding and unessential. I hate to mark it down because there's so much I love about "Out of he Blue", but it has to be said that there's clearly a five star album nestled within it. The decision to set it as a double album in Lynne's burst of inspiration is admirable, but ultimately brings the quality down. Had some of the lesser tracks been dispensed of, it would be an all-time classic. Instead, I'll settle for "A New World Record", which is tighter and even more fun than this one. Oh, by the way, "Jungle" has never not made me smile. One of the most delightful recordings ever produced.

In her "Debut" proper, Bjork's unique world-view and idiosyncratic phrasing is channelled through a zany post-punk outfit. It's bizarre hearing her with a conventional- nay, danceable- guitar-bass-drum line up, performing music that still has an edge to it but not quite a cutting one (this sounds like it would have been way more at home in the early 80s). Bjork is mostly front and centre here, as there's no getting away from her vocal acrobatics or the stories they inhabit. Some of these are glorious: the morbid and perverse fantasies of "Motorcrash" and "Fucking in Rhythm and Sorrow", "Blue Eyed Pop"'s delirious declaration that "Everyone is so close to laughing; this kind of joy won't last". Others are more on the surreal end to the point of becoming distracting (the is-it-or-isn't-it inappropriate of "Birthday": "she's five years old; threads worms on a string... he sews a bird in her knickers". OK then.) Occasionally, the lyrics feel overwritten, the kooky sense of playfulness a bit too forced. "Deus" relies a little too much on repetitive vocals and "Sick For Toys" is laughable, approaching the novelty kitsch level of B-52's with its strangled male vocals overshadowing any musical content. However, the music itself here is what saves the album, separating it from the obnoxious surf pastiche the B-52s revelled in. The band are tight throughout- opener "Traitor" sports a spiralling drum pattern from Sigtryggur Baldursson that is all fills and rarely locking into a groove, dancing round a churning, razor-sharp rhythm guitar. The band then lock into some solid grooves in the second half: "Coldsweat" and "Blue Eyed Pop" are great showcases for the whole band, with a very tight rhythm section and fluid basslines from Bragi Ólafsson. "Fucking in Rhythm and Sorrow" is surprising in its familiarity: despite the off-piste subject matter, it's essentially three-chord rockabilly with a blues progression. The immediacy of it all- the poppy basslines, the crunch in the rhythm guitar, the simple chord structures- is enough to ground and counter Bjork's often dark, often hilarious stream of consciousness. Of course, it would be wrong to discount Bjork as anything other than the key player. Although she was perhaps finding in her feet in her lyrics and style, her voice pounces fully formed out of the speakers, ready to bring down mountains and take on the world. The best moment from her on this album is totally wordless: the main hook of subversive single "Birthday", a growl that turns into a throaty yell that glides up into a transcendent falsetto... and yo-yos back again. It's all we need to understand that Bjork has arrived. Finally, I was grateful to draw perhaps the most bizarre hit single with "Birthday" in the name on my birthday. Celebrating in style.

I rated "Loveless" a 3 a couple of months back, so while seeing the next My Bloody Valentine album appear didn't quite make me throw my headphones out of the window, I wasn't especially excited to hear it. Much like Aardman's upcoming "Chicken Run 2: Dawn of the Nugget" (get hyped) "m b v" is a sequel 22 years in the making. Shoegaze's answer to "Smile", it sat in stilted development for many years, with a notorious perfectionist at the helm, anticipation building with every passing year. Now he knew that that all the time he spent on "Loveless" paid off, what the hell would Kevin Shields do next? The very act of its release must have been a landmark moment: Shields' affirmation that it was perfect, and anybody who didn't get it just wasn't ready. It was lapped up by a succession of nostalgic critics who most likely grew up with the original. So it seems the album's success is a product of its mythology. The songs themselves? There's a lot to like, but it is very hit and miss. Three tracks in, as I was pounded by onslaught after onslaught of walls of guitar, whirling tremolo and indecipherable vocals, I was convinced I was sitting through "Loveless" lite. As the album unfolded, I was struck by its greater penchant for variety, its tendency to explore outside of the band's long established sound. Sometimes it works: "is this and yes" is a lush, organ ballad that drifts by delicately and graciously. There are no guitars, and just a funereal tom beat: it's all dream and all pop, sitting right at home alongside new blood like Beach House. ​"new you" is catchy and accessible, with bouncy fuzz bass, light tremolo effects, and even some wordless "doo doo" vocals. I hate to throw genre names around, but is this My Bloody Valentine leaning into chillwave? Elsewhere, the experimentation doesn't land with me. "nothing is" is just horrendous, a three minute looped drum-fill and one-note riff that made me feel like I'd been eaten by a broken printer. By the end of the album, "wonder 2", the cacophonous buzzing and droning has taken the form of a jet plane engine: together with the frenzied drum and bass influenced beat, it gives the impression that rather than coming in to land, My Bloody Valentine are taking off. They weren't resting on their laurels with this album, and that's surely worth commending. On the whole though, "m b v" is no better than Loveless- perhaps more interesting highs, but also much more challenging lows. By far and away, the middle three songs are my favourite stretch of the album and really hint at another side of the band: mellow, subdued, content. Altogether, the set leaves us wondering where My Bloody Valentine could go next and which direction they might push. We probably only have until 2035 to wait.

"The Madcap Laughs" is an inconsistent, often problematic, sometimes frustrating and occasionally dazzling insight into Syd Barrett's career after Pink Floyd. One year after his departure from the band- an event that fifty years of retrospective documentaries, press and interviews seem to have shrouded in mythos and poeticism- he was presumably in a fragile place and continuing to display concerning behaviour. This album is one of two solo records before he retired from music: in truth, we know much more of him as the "Crazy Diamond" or the man "behind the wall" than the singer-songwriter airing his fragmented solo material here. Intentional or not, it follows that many of the album's songs are distracted, free-roaming takes often with just Barrett's guitar and vocal. The melodies stumble around in search of something to ground them, often passing by unnoticed and sometimes making it through the fog to latch into memory. When Barrett's approach blossoms into something structured, like "Octopus" or "Here I Go", it's a heartening display of fully-formed music. The full band approach helps flesh them out: while they may not be as accomplished as his material with Pink Floyd, they sound relaxed, almost at ease with themselves. "Octopus" is full on psychedelic and "Here I Go" is grounded in a parallel reality, but both are compelling and well executed. Two more of the album's best cuts are its bookends, which strike a good balance between order and chaos: "Terrapin", a languid love song and "Late Night", which was mostly recorded before Pink Floyd's release of "Saucerful of Secrets" and would have fit in it quite nicely with its chorus of slide guitars. On the other end of the scale, "Dark Globe" is harrowing account of a man alone and afraid, punctuated by a wandering tempo and a pointed, anguished refrain of "wouldn't you miss me at all". Just as compelling, but much more raw and painful. It brings us to the chief dilemma at the heart of this album, around Barrett's former bandmates Roger Waters and David Gilmour handling most of the production duties. It becomes apparent they have control of the narrative, perpetuating the idea of Syd as a washed up, crazy diamond. The false intro to "If It's In You"- and the garbled timing errors going into a couple of different lines- are difficult to sit through knowing another take could have easily been chosen, that Barrett wasn't necessarily in favour of this rendition appearing on the album. Ultimately, "The Madcap Laughs" relies on the listener's morbid fascination with the myth of Syd Barrett, their investment in his story and his tragic downfall. And in truth, part of the album's appeal is this sense of unravelling, its unflinching intimacy. It's not always easy to listen to, and morally it's a can of worms to explore whether Waters and Gilmour were right to focus on producing this over ensuring Barrett had the help and support he needed. But while the album is distracted, fragmented, sometimes broken, there are glimmers of genius from a mind nobody can truly claim to understand fifty-five years on.

It's fair to say disco gets a bad rap: in the blossoming punk scene of the late 70's, was it not authentic enough? Too slick, too commercial? Genuinely vapid, or just denounced by rockers or racists? Either way, most people seem to have got over it by now and its influence looms large in popular music today. As for Chic, they remain in the shadow of their guitarist and producer, the titanic Nile Rodgers. A man who has worked with all manner of artists from Bowie to Madonna to Daft Punk, but his career really started here, with Chic in the late 1970s. Rodgers' guitar is exemplary, carrying the instrumental "Saviour Faire" on its own with a beautiful tone, brittle and bright and warm and full in equal measure. It's a wonderful solo displaying exceptional skill. His rhythm guitar is equally robust, becoming as catchy as the vocal melodies in "Chic Cheer" and "Le Freak". The strong musicianship extends to the rest of the band, and it's a stacked line-up including multiple vocalists and full horn and string sections. It works together very well, but special mentions should go to the basslines and drum parts: perfectly arranged, knowing exactly where to go to fit around the rhythm guitar. Simplicity is key, as is repetition. "C'est Chic"'s downfall is that sometimes, this repetition is pushed too far: seven repetitions are enough in "At Last I Am Free", but it's pushed further and further until the song unravels a bit and there doesn't seem to be any hook, any power. It just dissolves. The last couple of tracks are a bit duff as well, though "Happy Man" is a great hit I hadn't heard before and "I Want Your Love" is nicely embellished with strings and tubular bells. Overall, "C'est Chic" is a worthy addition to the list and a perfect representative for disco, if not an all-round mirrorball of success.

Black Sabbath are surely cited more than any other band as the original heavy metal rockers. Together, they prove that heavy metal isn't just a sound or a way of playing: its a whole outlook, from morbid fascination with the occult to the urge to unsettle and provoke. Today, Sabbath seem to be as much associated with this dark, gothic image as their actual music- it's a shame, because I'd forgotten how brilliantly the players in the band gel. Doom-laden as it is, their debut album is stacked with musicianship that has aged much better than their image. "Black Sabbath", on "Black Sabbath", by Black Sabbath, is a grinding, deliciously ominous introduction to the band: slowly emerging from a raging storm and a tolling bell, Iommi's iconic guitar seeps through until the song is brimming with a deadly atmosphere. Yes, it may seem a little quaint now (was the tritone interval really the mark of the devil, or was that just a myth started by middle-grade music teachers?). But it's a stunning build-up, even with Ozzy Osbourne's hammer horror performance over the top (climaxing with a laughable, "Oh God, no!"). Although he was undoubtedly a magnetic presence in live performance, Ozzy Osbourne actually comes across as the weakest link for me on record. The interplay between Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward is worth the price of admission alone as they tear up some blistering riffs, constantly shifting grooves and accomplished basslines. "The Wizard"'s riff is the best one on the album, punctuated by splendid use of harmonica. The band aren't afraid to switch up to keep things fresh, and there's a lot more musical innovation and variation going on here than I'd expected. The drums cycle between different grooves with glee- the moment we suddenly launch into a swung beat in the last minute of "Black Sabbath"! The veering between a lilting 3/4 in "Behind the Wall of Sleep"! The band even turn "Sleeping Village"- the album's only instrumental - into one of its highlights. Despite taking a lot of twists and turns, this track remains interesting, even captivating. And crucially, when it counts, the guitar, bass and vocal line all lock into unison to underscore the menace behind a song's central riff (see the propulsive power of "NIB"). Things take a disappointing turn away from their unique (by 1970's standards) doom metal in the second half of the album. Aside from the excellent "Sleeping Village", the album's second half offers up the straight-lace, a-bit-too-ordinary-blues-rock "Evil Woman", and the meandering "Warning". The ten minute track has its moments, but feels much more like a live piece given full indulgence in the studio without being clipped down. Again though, they are saved by the instrumental performances. I enjoyed this one much more than I thought, on account of the power of the instrumental performances and appreciating how bracingly out-of-step Sabbath were with the rest of the music scene in 1970. They have stood the test of time by practically launching a new genre, and for me still stand as one of the very best examples of it being done well.

Steve Winwood manages to cling on to relevancy into the 1980s, mining the dominant sounds of synth-pop and channelling his songwriting down an easy-listening, distinctly bland avenue. After spending time as the leader of the Spencer Davis Group, multi-instrumentalist of Traffic and Blind Faith, Winwood had his solo breakthrough with "Arc of a Diver", after several years in obscurity. Perhaps in an effort to be popular and current again, he covered the album in an unmistakeable 80's sheen, occasionally pulling it off. The most enjoyable groove is "Night Train" with its rock-solid beat, popping percussive synth sounds, fretless bass vamps and tight rhythm guitar. Despite being the longest track on the album, it justifies its length and allows each instrument room to breathe. "Second Hand Woman" boasts about the catchiest chorus on the record- I'd even go as far to call it soaring. But that's most of the praise I can afford this album. Across the rest of it, there are glimmers of greatness- a lick here, a synth line there- but in truth, these are few and far between. They're all played well, but it's just relentlessly bland: locked into formula, with no edge to any of it whatsoever. This might be forgivable if the songs were at least catchy, or had something worth remembering about them: but most do not. This is adult contemporary to relax to, to be wistful and reminisce about the older days, to soundtrack your divorce or mid-life crisis... you name it. Yes, Winwood played all the instruments on his own and deserves some credit for that. But while that's a nice bit of trivia, it doesn't help to improve the actual songs. Winwood's vocal, once a powerhouse of 60s rock, is by now a well-worn jumper: still reliable and polished, but lacking edge. The instrumentals are dominated by obnoxious synths: it would have been nice to hear more guitars, or acoustic instruments. The synths here are too brash, too in-your-face, with some harsh tones and cheap, dated sounding leads. Take "If You See A Chance", the lead single here and the one that was apparently a hit. After being plastered with a tacky synth lead for its main riff, it then bridges into a meandering verse and a chorus like a limp handshake. Knowing that Winwood played the drums on it as well as the guitar and that talky-fizzy synth sound doesn't help me enjoy it any more. After crawling through a set of similar experiences toward the finish line, we're given "Dust": a cloying ending with characteristically insipid lyrics ("A feather duster's no substitute for the real thing; and the dust you left behind is settling still"). Whatever the "real thing" might be in music, Winwood definitely seems like a feather duster here.

Fresh, bold, daring, expansive... and never dull. "Neu! 75" cements Michael Rother and Klaus Dinger as two of the coolest, most forward-thinkers in rock. There are just six tracks here, and each one of them is a fully realised sonic world, offering a unique view of this extraordinary band. It's a cross-roads of different styles at the midpoint of the 1970s, indicating the different routes popular music was about to split off into. We begin with "Isi" and "Seeland", two instrumentals that are calm in tone, with very simple repeated melodic figures on synth, piano and guitar. They're psychedelic leaning, with hints of early 70's space-rock, but nothing ever falls apart or loses control. The air is cool, detached, and utterly captivating: simplicity is key, a firm tonal centre is key, and a steady tempo is key. While these tracks still offer strong melodic hooks, they're perfect exercises in restraint. In fact, vocals don't enter the mix at all until some semi-spoken word declarations in "Leb' Wohl". This piece is so beautiful, so stirring in its two piano chords and the space it affords, that its nine minute length is not an issue. It's meditative and contemplative, and it feels like an early foray into ambient that Brian Eno would later capitalise upon. The second half is driven by more energy, heightened aggression. Klaus Dinger takes the lead. We get the jagged edges of punk (and even post-punk prior to punk) with its bellowed vocals and abrasive instrumentation. Really though, it's just a warm-up to the sublime proto-industrial "E-Musik", with its liberal use of flange and its propulsive, motorik beat so relentless it feels like it could be a drum machine, and finally the blistering hard-rock of "After Eight". By the time this closer hits (by Neu's standards, out-and-out anthemic punk) it feels like a full-blown catharsis. It's the moment everything comes together. There are so many highlights across the record, but my favourites per side are "Leb' Wohl" and "After Eight" (honorable mentions to "Isi" and "E. Musik") This album is just missing out on 5* owing to "Hero" and "Seeland" not being quite up to the same standards as the other tracks, but it's a 9/10 for sure. Very grateful to have been introduced to this album and it's absolutely one I'll be spending a lot of time with.

I'd never heard a full album by Pet Shop Boys and was feeling optimistic going into this one- I thought they were notorious for infectious dance-pop, a late 80's take on disco classics, and a camp sense of humour. "Behaviour" felt different. By all accounts, it's their "time to grow up" album with a more mature attempt at their sound. As a first listen with no investment in their evolution, it just seemed to fall flat. Right from the get go, "Being Boring" takes as its subject the idea of looking back, growing up and reflecting. It's a universal theme with undeniable personal weight for Tennant, but it's very introspective, bordering on self-important. Together with the maudlin "This Must Be the Place I Waited Years to Leave" and "To Face the Truth", one can hear the songs dragging themselves down with their own weight. It's fine to place more focus on the subject matter, but the lyrics here are patchy. Over-baked, in the case of "This Must Be The Place..."'s forced rhymes, and under-baked in the case of "To Face the Truth" ("If you don't believe what I have said; take a look, my eyes are red"). Tennant's vocals are delivered in a soft, hushed tone, occasionally double-tracked in octaves (frustratingly, never in harmony). They're fine, but they're not showstopping by any means. Together, lyrics and vocals are not enough to carry the material, and focus has to turn to the instrumentals. It's interesting listening to this album and distinguishing between synth sounds enjoying a current revival, those which are forgivably of their time, and those which are so dated as to damage the listening experience. In the top group, we have a lot of the drum sounds here. Perhaps often sampled in the years since, they feel like they still would have a place in lo-fi or retro- leaning dance pop. The ethereal pads are timeless and have been a mainstay of electronic music, often used here to add another subtle layer of atmosphere. In the middle are most of the bass sounds: spluttering, bouncing, bubbling... they're determinedly 80's, but often the most addictive part of the track (see "Being Boring"). On the lowest end are the terribly naff orchestra hits which plague and drag down the already interminable "Only the Wind". They're also used in "So Hard" along with an equally dated choir effect, but because the same song holds the album's best chorus, I can get past it. Incidentally, "So Hard" was the lead single and I wasn't surprised to hear it: there's a clear hook, sense of drama and magnitude to it. There's an occasional exception from the synths: the acoustic string section in "My October Symphony" is a pleasant addition to the mix, but it doesn't salvage the song's bland hook. "Jealousy" is a gentle ballad to take us out, with simulated wave effects, and some brass patches coming in for the outro. The song itself is just as po-faced as the rest of the album and doesn't allow itself to be emotional or danceable. "Behaviour" is a deeply flawed effort with little to make me want to revisit it. It doesn't seem to fulfil Pet Shop Boy's reputation for making floor-fillers, but the emotion within it feels detached, and the lyrical quality renders any claim these songs can stake as being mature and cerebral rather flawed.

My first listen from this debut album from one of the first big supergroups in rock. Sitting very comfortably amongst the mass exodus of late 60s artists returning to acoustic and folksy roots, "Crosby Stills & Nash" stands as one of the giants of its day. Much of it has stood the test of time, while some of it didn't grab me so much. The main draw has to come first: from beginning to end, the three part harmonies are the defining asset of this album (and the whole band). It's where the obvious comparisons to Simon and Garfunkel stem from in everything from the harmonic structure to the timbres of the vocals: however, the songwriting on this album rarely scales the same heights. "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" is the clear standout, documenting the end of a relationship with simple and unflinching honesty. Even the bizarre transition into its last movement with Spanish vocals can be forgiven on the strength of its earlier movements, and the ambition involved stitching all of it together. It may be greater than the sum of its parts, but it's an accomplished feat of songwriting with great impassioned vocals and guitar work. Despite being a great fan of Crosby's work with the Byrds, for me it's Stephen Stills who is the MVP here. As well as contributing "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes", he turns in the single-ready "You Don't Have to Cry", another favourite for harmonies "Helplessly Hoping", and the lively, time-signature shifting closure "49 Bye Byes". These songs seem to encapsulate the best side of the band, feeling like a most complete vision of who they are: impeccable, close harmonies, ornamental trills and fills on acoustic guitar, soft brushed grooves. The bass is surprisingly melodic, too: worth a listen in several of the tracks to unpack. The other material here isn't quite at the same level, hop-scotching between light froth and mystic ballads. Graham Nash has fun with the inessential but catchy "Marrakesh Express" and also contributes some experimental reverse guitar in "Pre-Road Downs", sounding like he's coming from a different part of the 60s. Other than "Helplessly Hoping", the ballads here aren't my favourite. As much as I respect "Guinevere", it drags the pace down a little too much. "Lady of the Island" is even worse in all its saccharine declarations of love. It would have been nice to hear the band rock out and loosen up a little more, as in "Judy" and the decent "Wooden Ships", but at least they strike a good range of material that covers the leanings of each of the three members. On the whole this is a fun, light and breezy album by a promising group with nothing to prove. It could have benefited from being even breezier if some of the heavier ballads were cut back, and nothing else matches "Judy" for poignancy and musical expression. Looking forward to hearing more from them.

Ten years or so ago, it was impossible to watch TV, browse a supermarket, go deep-sea diving or fly to Mars without hearing one of Adele’s new standards from this stunning sophomore effort. One of the biggest albums of the 2010s, glaringly omitted from the book in more recent editions, “21” sees Adele asserting dominance over the charts and our hearts with a seamless set of love songs. Because of its towering reputation, I tried to approach “21” with fresh ears here (even though I hadn’t heard many of the “deep cuts”). I was immediately hit by its power. For me, the very best side of Adele’s music is the vengeful, soulful blues kicking off the album with its two best songs: “Rolling in the Deep” is an absolute powerhouse, such an instant classic that even Aretha Franklin covered it shortly after release. And then we get the sublime “Rumour Has It”. As well as a transfixing performance from Adele, the track employs a spectacular range of sound, with an addictive three note bass groove, swirling looped backing vocals and a heavy emphasis on percussive stomps, handclaps and swampy reverb. It’s my ultimate highlight on the album, sounding like a new junkyard blues standard for the 2010s. It’s worth noting the arrangements here are top-notch and there are some great touches in production. The thudding kick drum driving the momentum of “Rolling in the Deep” into its soaring chorus; the cinematic strings accentuating the elegant “Turning Tables”; the choir cutting through the sparsity of “Take It All”… it all signals to the lfact that “21” takes inspiration from more styles than Adele seems to be given credit for. While there are a lot of the soulful piano ballads she made her name with, there’s also brassy Motown in “I’ll Be Waiting”, shades of R&B in the “He Won’t Go”, and all-out gospel in “One and Only”. Some of these work better than others, but it’s refreshing to hear them all together, and every one of them is listenable. The only fault is an occasional sag in momentum: perhaps one too many ballads in the second half, with “One and Only” not really taking off until its gospel bridge towards the end. The bizarrely Latin-influenced cover of The Cure’s “Lovesong” is possibly the strangest inclusion here: it feels jarring and a little unnecessary to switch to a cover so late in the album given the strength of the original material. The track itself is insubstantial, perhaps better suited to a B-side or deluxe release. This is nitpicking, though: when “Someone Like You” rolls along to have the last word, it renders most of these issues moot and blows every other ballad on the album away. A review of “21” would not be complete without mentioning Adele’s main selling point: her voice. As well as the mind blowing technique possessed by an artist as young as Adele was here, the anguish and emotion within her voice gives it universal appeal. The ubiquity of these songs on release perhaps numbed everyone to this with time, as Adele’s voice became a fixture in pop’s landscape. But listen again to the way she rasps and belts through “Someone Like You”, mastering its build with wonderful control. The way she cracks slightly in the final chorus seals the song as a classic: authentic, genuine, brilliant. While it’s not wall-to-wall perfect, “21” does feel timeless. By mining from various genres and styles (albeit subtly) and using the sheer power of her voice, Adele avoids the contemporary trappings of her day. Time will tell if “21” will still be acclaimed as much in forty years time, but for now it deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as “Blue”, “Blood on the Tracks” and “Jagged Little Pill” in the pantheon of great break-up albums.

I have to reveal my ignorance here: I'd never heard of Jorge Ben before and didn't know any of his music. Of course, I immediately knew I could get behind anyone who inspired David Byrne. But I can't judge "Africa Brasil" against many other Brazilian albums, much less try to contextualise the album's fusion of samba with Afrobeat, rock and African-American funk. And of course, the lyrics are lost on me. All I really had to go on was impulsive response to the beat... the melody... the rhythms... the feel. As an introduction to this genre, this particular blend of sounds and Brazil's culture in the 1970s, "Africa Brasil" is an exhilarating listen. Whether Ben Jor is revelling in samba roots ("Meus Filhos, Meu Tesouro"), foreshadowing disco ("Taj Mahal") or going for straight-up funk ("Hermes Trismegisto Escreveu"), he's having a whale of a time across the album. One of my main takeaways from it was the obvious Western cross-over appeal here, more than I expected there to be (which is perhaps how it made the list). Right from the off, the album's first sound is a swampy electric guitar riff tantamount to southern rock. Later, "O Filosofo" and "O Plebeu", two of the album's gorgeous softer numbers, are structured around simple three chord progressions commonly found in the major scale of Western pop. There's also a heavy presence from funky, skittering electric guitars throughout, and synthesisers underscoring vocal hooks (to great effect in "O Plebeu") The rest of the instrumentation- more traditional to South American or African music- is arranged and mixed to finish off the album's party atmosphere, particularly the layers of syncopated percussion throughout each song (often dominated by the squeaky friction drums known as cuicas). The backing vocalists are exceptional and often add some of the best dimensions to the album: take the call-and-response vocals in the opener, or the glorious refrain of "Taj Mahal". While I found the album's first half exceptional, some its second seemed to be trying the same ideas to slightly diminished effect. "Camisa 10 Da Gavea" has a great counter melody on flute, but doesn't have the same drive or rhythmic intensity as some of the earlier tracks. The last last two tracks redeem things slightly, with "Cavaleiro de Cavalo Imaculado" returning propulsion and the finale closing proceedings on a note of anthemic passion with its chorus of layered vocals. I had a great time with "Africa Brasil" album and feel keen to go into more of Ben Jor's work as well as that of his contemporaries. My only other slight gripe is that whenever I have it stuck in my head in future, I'll need to clarify to everyone that I am singing "Taj Mahal" and not "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy".

This morning, I felt bad reading some of the harsher one star reviews for "Timeless": jungle and drum'n'bass are fairly niche genres, so it's understandable that a listener dipping into it on a merry-go-round of 1001 albums may not get a lot from it. But then I listened to it, and now I'm becoming one of those people. It's all on account of my vanilla preferences, but I guess I'm going to have to join that slew of one star reviews. I've never heard any Goldie before, and I must admit my knowledge of drum'n'bass or jungle goes about as far as "that stuff David Bowie tried in 1997". So I approached this as a cautious outsider to the genre, putting it on whilst working and unsure how much it would stick. The first hint that "Timeless" doesn't live up to its name is given by its garish album cover. The absolute confirmation comes about three minutes in to its opening 21 minute track, when it becomes clear the piece isn't going to develop much further than intermittent breakbeats and some ethereal pads and vocals. It may be a landmark album in drum'n'bass, but it's just a genre I don't care for too much personally and having to sit through ~2 hours of it is tooth-pulling. I don't want to dismiss it all completely: there were a few moments that were enough to make me sit up and pay a bit of attention. In truth, it's more melodic than I expected: there's a nice focus on atmosphere and more dynamic shifts than I thought there would be. I enjoyed the female vocals on many of these tracks, adding a touch of soul and warmth that it's hard to achieve with electronic drum samples. "State of Mind", for example, has verses, a solid refrain, and a sense of rise and fall. It's garnished with tinkling piano lines, a fretless bass hook and washes of cinematic synth strings. It's the clear high point of an album like this, and gave me slightly more respect for it. Unfortunately, most of that was then undone by the follow-up, "This Is A Bad", which was back to the formulaic loops and electronics- didn't do anything for me. Tracks like "This Is A Bad", "Saint Angel" and numerous others I won't go through in detail are much more similar to what I expected the album to be. They rarely let up from their breakbeat loops for about ten minutes, and don't go to anywhere near enough places to deserve being listened to for so long. If this had been about a third of its length (a whopping 105 minutes) then it could have boosted my star rating to at least a 3. But as it is, I'm going to stick with one star just because I don't even have the energy to listen again and articulate my thoughts on the rest of it.

“School’s Out” is the second Alice Cooper album I’ve had here in a couple of months (the other being “Billion Dollar Babies”, released the following year). By comparison, “School’s Out” is looser, more varied, more ambitious… and much better. It’s the title track that has become “School’s Out”s stratospheric, enduring legacy (check the Spotify plays of each song for proof). The euphoric, anarchic and somehow slightly menacing chorus call of “school’s out for summer” introduced the Alice Cooper band to the world as a heavier offshoot from glam rock, retaining theatrics and flirting with camp shock value: a pantomime Iggy Pop. It’s an all time classic track and the one most closely associated with Alice Cooper, but there’s much more lurking in the background. “Gutter Cat vs. The Jets” branches from a bass masterclass from Dennis Dunaway into a full-blown West Side Story cover of “Jet Song”. The sleazy “Blue Turk” features a squalling brass section, threatening total collapse but still managing to cling on to a catchy chorus. Alma Mater has a much more interesting chord progression than I expected to hear in an Alice Cooper album, taking cues from Paul McCartney as much as anyone else. It’s easy to see how producer Bob Ezrin (referred to by Cooper as their George Martin) brought out the best in the band and enabled them to work with grander concepts and visions, injecting orchestral arrangements into tracks like “Luney Tune” and the gloriously overblown “Grande Finale”. Also, incidentally, the success of “School’s Out” is perhaps also the start of Ezrin’s strange tendency to use children’s voices in his work (he would go on to include a children’s choir in “Another Brick in the Wall: Part Two” and plaster screaming children all over Lou Reed’s “The Kids”). So it’s sprawling, far-reaching stuff… but at heart, of course, “School’s Out” is still a glam record. It cycles through styles like stunts in a circus routine with unabashed theatricality. Aside from the title track, “Public Animal #9” is the most thrilling rock track on the album and also the most straightforward: it is enough proof that there’s still meat on the band’s bones, substance to their style. This album isn’t perfect- “My Stars” in particular feels like a bit of a misfire, and none of the other tracks strike with the same immediacy as “School’s Out”- but it’s still damn good fun, successfully instilling a giddy teenage wonder at the concepts of rebellion and coming of age.

“Cosmo’s Factory” is one of a streak of four universally lauded albums by Creedence Clearwater Revival, released just a couple of years apart in a frenzy of creativity that was too fast paced for even half the band to keep up with. Frontman and songwriter John Fogerty's intense work ethic drove the band to churn out as many singles as possible, ensuring the B-side was of equal quality to the A-side. It's understandable that it drove a spike of tension through the band, but for the listener it's fantastic: “Cosmo’s Factory” alone has a very high concentration of single-ready songs (about two thirds of its tracks can be found on any CCR greatest hits album). For the most part, "Cosmo's Factory" is a bright and breezy showcase of a band firing on all cylinders. In particular, the run in the middle of the album boasts the stellar up-tempo blues of "Travelling Man", the sun-soaked country rock of "Lookin' Out My Back Door", and the sing-a-long, clap-a-long anthem "Up Around the Bend". These wonderful tracks are interspersed with the more weighty "Run Through the Jungle" and "Who'll Stop the Rain", taking a damning view of the Vietnam war without getting too bogged down in heavy-handed commentary. All five are excellent, and all were released as singles. Elsewhere on the record, "Ooby Dooby" is a little more lightweight by comparison and a clear answer to "Tutti Frutti", but still carries an infectious energy. For me, the two weakest here are the covers of two 50’s blues standards: Bo Diddley’s “Before You Accuse Me” and Arthur Crudup’s “My Baby Left Me”. They’re both fine and the band turn in committed performances as always, but they’re hardly electrifying in comparison with the album’s peaks. We then get to the matter of "Cosmo's Factory"'s two longest tracks: an 11 minute jam of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and the sprawling opener "Ramble Tamble" with it's psychedelic-leaning instrumental middle. It's a puzzling decision to use these tracks to take up half the album where the rest of it is very brisk, catchy and concise: perhaps a result of the lightning-speed the band were working at, and an easy way to fill in the running time along with some covers. What the songs are good for, though, is allowing the band some crucial time to step out of the shadow of John Fogerty's awesome grizzled vocals... and into the shadow of his almost-as-awesome lead guitar. While the rhythm section lock together beautifully in both these songs, with simple and effective repetition, Fogerty is the clear star throughout. He even turns in keyboard and saxophone on the wistful closer "Long As I Can See The Light". All in all, this album is two-thirds five stars and only slightly let down by some weaker covers material and indulgent jamming. That said, it's still probably the highest four star I've given so far and has set me off on a kick of CCR's golden era.

“The Virgin Suicides” arrived in 1999 as Air’s accompaniment to the deeply troubling film of the same name by Sofia Coppola (I read the plot summary on Wikipedia so you don’t have to). In my review of the sublime “Moon Safari”, I praised Air as the direction Pink Floyd could have taken their sound in the 90’s. If “Moon Safari” was Air’s “Meddle” in its style and serenity, this is perhaps their “More” or “Obscured by Clouds”: a mostly instrumental set somewhat diminished by nature of serving as a soundtrack, but a very listenable run of tracks nonetheless. The music itself is mellow, haunting and sometimes beautiful. Straight away in “Playground Love”, we get a wistful, entrancing vocal melody (sadly the only one here) that snakes its way round a complex chord progression. The rest of the tracks follow suit: all gentle and lilting with a heavy reliance on analogue synthesisers, and a few choice aggressive movements that stick out like sore thumbs: the astonishing climax of “The Word Hurricane”, or the frantic, one-note, piano-drum combo in “Dead Bodies”. As it all unfolds, there’s a palpable influence of more than Floyd here: the album’s sound seems indebted to concept pieces and prog bands of the 70’s. “Afternoon Sister” sounds like something straight out of Camel’s “The Snow Goose”, while there’s King Crimson-esque Mellotron galore right from the opening seconds of “Playground Love”. Other hallmarks include rich, sustained lead guitar, and simplistic interplay between the bass and drums recalling… actually, Pink Floyd again. Similarly, much like any other soundtrack or concept album, themes are revisited and revised. “Playground Love” is given a sparse piano-led reworking in “Highschool Lover”… the funereal organ refrain introduced in “Bathroom Girl” shows up again in “Cemetary Party”* and “Afternoon Sister”… “Ghost Song” is the eerie younger sibling of “Dirty Trip”‘s freewheeling jam. It gives a nice cohesive feel, though it’s a shame most of the tracks here are under three minutes (also perhaps a result of their purpose as a soundtrack). While this helps keep the pace moving, it also doesn’t allow many of them to settle in or develop past a single motif (“Dark Messages” and “Ghost Song” don’t really feel like they get going). When the longer jams come along (“Dirty Trip” and “Suicide Underground”, with its cringey low-pitched monologue launching into another sentence every time you think it’s over) it feels satisfying to have more breathing room to allow the spacious instrumentals to truly expand. On the whole, the album is an accomplished effort and dreamy half hour of music, if not as accomplished or diverse as Air’s other work. *Interesting note of trivia: this is the second album I’ve had of 125 to misspell “Cemetery” in the track listing (after “The Queen Is Dead”- both done in different ways). GET IT TOGETHER GUYS!

"Rhythm Nation 1814" is the sound of Janet Jackson reigning supreme at the close of the 80s, harnessing her momentum to become unimpeachable for the next five years. Load a follow-up to your commercial breakthrough with emergent hip-hop and industrial influences to make a smash-hit? Why not! Throw in an arena-ready hard-rock number and release it as a single? Let's go for it. Go full-on social commentary, and solve all the world's problems by singing about them? Sure, we can at least try. I'd never heard this album in full until now, but it's undoubtedly a blockbuster. Framed by a tolling bell and spoken word pledges on the state of humanity, it's also interspersed with 5-10 second transitions from the sound of a TV switching channels (Roger Waters eat your heart out) to pointed commentary ("Get the point? Good, let's dance"). "Rhythm Nation" itself is a killer opening, giving rise to new-jack swing and driven by seismic, steely industrial beats and slapped bass. It also signified a new dance phenomenon for the MTV generation, immortalised in its imperial music video. All that aside, it's simply a great track: powerful beats, towering confidence from Jackson, and an addictive, rapid hook answered by a unison of voices declaring their part in the Rhythm Nation. None of the rest of it scales the same heights, but the singles "Miss You Much" and "Escapade" play well as affectionate tributes to Prince in his mid-80s prime: Jackson pulls them off with every bit as much pomp, grace and accessibility. "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" hangs itself on an atomic mid-tempo beat before breaking into an amazing second-half, where layers of vocals expressing the title as a chant, a melodic plea, an affirmation. And "Black Cat" is a total surprise that completely works, with the smooth reverb-filled distorted riffs found in arenas the world over in the late 1980s. Where many hair-metal bands would hinge their career on recreating the same sound again and again, for Jackson it's just one more string to her bow. There are quite a few comments on this page- and made by critics at the time- that "Rhythm Nation 1814" lacked subtlety, that the preachy messages were misguided and out-of-touch from a celebrity who had been rich all her life. Jackson herself laudably acknowledged this years later, in her 2015 album "Unbreakable". In truth, "State of the World" and "Livin' In A World (They Didn't Make)" may not be the most eye-popping songs on the record, and could have been made more eloquent. Many of the lyrics aren't exactly ground-breaking ("The Knowledge" is the most throwaway, with its break of "Prejudice: No. Ignorance: No. Bigotry: No."). But, at least Jackson stood up to her label by insisting on including songs which addressed universal matters of prejudice and poverty. She chose to use her platform to discuss more than her millionaire lifestyle, and who knows how many philanthropists and world-changers she might have inspired in doing so? For me, it's actually the move away from the industrial beats and high-energy that sinks the Rhythm Nation torpedo in its final act. Instead, the last three numbers see it move in a warmer, silkier direction. Perhaps it was an intentional sequencing move, or maybe the record was just front-loaded with the strongest hits. For me the closing three ballads just aren't as bold as the songs earlier in the record (bar some gorgeous nu-soul harmonies in "Come Back To Me"). "Lonely" and "Someday Is Tonight" are just a little too long and aimless, however well produced and sung they are. They don't quite have the same edge I enjoyed in the rest of the album, at least on the first couple of listens. As with so many of the other albums I've marked down on this site, "Rhythm Nation 1814"'s main fault for me is its length. It's easy to see how it could have improved if a couple of tracks were shaved off here, a couple of choruses removed there. But in its prime, running through that middle stretch of tracks, it's unstoppable, and one can only surrender to the Rhythm Nation.

It begins with the voice. Before any other instruments join in, Makeba's vocal rings out like a flare shooting into a pitch black night. It's a rich, full-bodied, sustained sound, soaring over a rolling drum to announce the arrival of surely some of the most esoteric material on this list. Over the next thirty five minutes, Miriam Makeba belts, croons, yelps and swoons her way through some easy-listening world music with leanings into Western pop and jazz. She also breaks the language barrier completely: I stopped noticing which songs were in English and which were not, because her voice is such an expressive instrument. The range of material here is simple and unchallenging for a first listen, compiled with the aim of great commercial success. It was Makeba's first album after moving from Johannesberg to New York City, resulting in an interesting blend of styles, sensibilities and cultures. For Western listeners, it's fascinating to hear how this would have fit in with the scene at the time, and still has a stronghold over popular music. Makeba's version of "House of the Rising Sun" dials up the lament of the lyrics and wallows in regret, drawing out each phrase to wring out just the right amount of woe. It's a spellbinding interpretation made some years before the song was seared into public consciousness by The Animals. On similar grounds, "Mbube" is an African standard that was eventually reworked in English as "The Lion Sleeps Tonight". Its hit-making potential shines through here, as the players up the energy and give way to pure joy through layers of "whim-a-wey"ing vocals and shrill whoops and hollers. It's very hard to listen without a smile. Elsewhere, there are some dreamlike, understated forays into jazz, with "Lakutshon' Ilanga" and "Where Does It Lead" filled with languid, embellished guitar chords. There's a rich harmonic structure to these pieces that's easy to get lost in, before we're brought back to earth by a surprising (but somehow still charming) novelty number like "The Naughty Little Flea" or the giggly "One More Dance". The main strength of the range of material is how it succeeds in showcasing each asset of Makeba's vocal range, endearing her to the listener as a personality as well as a performer. She is playful ("The Naughty Little Flea", "The Click Song" with its essential spoken context in the opening, "One More Dance"); passionate ("The Retreat Song", "Umhome", "Iya Guduza"); and soothing ("Suliram", "Holili"). The latter two pieces are gorgeous slow lullabies, elevated by the Belafonte Folk Singers, who produce an astonishing depth of vocalisation across the record. For 1960, it all feels huge: an African woman becoming a big hit in New York City, eventually gaining the mighty title of "Mama Africa" for being one of the very first of many to bring world music to Western pop. Two years later, Makeba would be forbidden to return home due to apartheid, and use her status to campaign against the regime long before the UN caught on. She's a towering figure in her own right, but judging by the many people only giving this album a first listen by seeing it here (myself included) she deserves to be talked about much more. Beautiful.

This one's taken a while to gather my thoughts on and a lot of reading through lyrics, commentary and Wikipedia… it's always a good sign to feel so invested in an album, but the result is usually a pseudo-thesis of a review that, let's face it, nobody has the time to read. Anyway, here goes! Before his instant classic "To Pimp A Butterfly", Kendrick Lamar made "good kid, m.A.A.d city": a tighter, leaner piece which begins by looking inward and gradually shifts focus to create a vivid, intense picture of inner-city living in the hood. Broader than Kendrick's own coming-of-age story, it becomes a social commentary on hip-hop, the culture surrounding it, and the pre-conceptions surrounding that. Lamar explores the origins of gang hostility and violence, covering peer pressure, fear, vulnerability and a vacuum left by the absence of state support or role models. Without a doubt, it's the most immersive hip-hop album I've heard and it's all down to Lamar's excellent storytelling. Using a thoughtfully sequenced non-linear narrative, dynamic and expressive vocal performance, and snippets of conversation with his homies and his parents, Lamar weaves a complex narrative together which has transferred to some school syllabuses alongside James Joyce. Thematically, there's real weight thrown into every song and every line. "The Art of Peer Pressure" explores how gang culture escalated Lamar's teenage life towards crime, drugs and violence. "Money Trees" covers the necessity of material pursuits for survival and the cost it might have on morality. Things reach an apex on the epic "Sing About Me/Dying of Thirst", two tracks drawn together into one twelve minute piece which Lamar uses to remember those he knows who have died. The urgency and despair mingling in "Dying of Thirst" is so potent, and Kendrick's mastery of narrative really comes into its own by personifying his deceased friends. Musically, "good kid, m.A.A.d city" isn't as sprawling and diverse as what I've heard of Lamar's later work. It's also, by nature, mellow and insular, with little to jump out as dance music or hit material. The most played tracks - including "Bitch Don't Kill My Vibe" and "Swimming Pools (Drank)"- are as close as it gets, and they're either a thoughtful musing on the state of the music industry or an ironic take on clubbing and partying. Even in these tracks, the music is consistently cerebral, insular. The beats are mostly low-key, muted, often trap-influenced. Samples include, of all people, Beach House lending an ethereal quality to "Money Trees" and Janet Jackson looped into infinity on the sultry slow-jam "Poetic Justice." Some tracks are refreshingly upbeat to signal a new voice or time within the narrative: for example, "Backseat Freestyle" turns classic braggadocio into a flashback, a young K-Dot using his words as a naïve dream and a survival strategy. "m.A.A.d city" and "Compton" bring the classic 90's hip-hop sounds with hard, bombastic beats, pitch-warped synth leads and a feature from Dre himself. They're tributes to Lamar's musical heritage, which tie in with the narrative as a complicated mixture of pride and fear towards his hometown. I could try to go on and on, but really the key to "good kid, m.A.Ad city" is to listen. Although it's far from my usual style of music, one of its key strengths is that none of it is as straightforward as it appears. By packing each track so full of dual-meanings, twists and turns in the storyline and more allusions than you can shake a stick at, Lamar invites listeners to unpack the non-linear story, peel away the layers, discover new ways of hearing each track and piece together the good kid in the mad city. It's not yet at "classic" status for me, but I can see it being a long time before I get bored of this one.

Any review of "Horses" must cover at least the following: - Patti Smith invented punk, new-wave, and probably poetry as well. - "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine" is bigger than Jesus. - And it's even more impressive because she's a woman as well, you know. Much of the above is overstated, but still rings true in a sense... so I won't bore you all with it again here. But it must be said that listening to "Horses" as part of a series of 1001 albums to hear before dying, it stands out as a masterstroke. It was 1975! The 1970s had only just settled in, prog was about to die off, and Smith is here channelling the wild abandon of punk, the cool detachment of new wave, and sheer poetic beauty of the avant-garde. "Gloria" is the album in a nutshell, the track everyone should hear as a bare minimum. The solemnity of its piano intro (and yes, that opening line), the slow build of the guitars and the moment where the beat shifts from lilting swing to a sudden, propulsive straight rhythm. Eventually, after Smith yelps and howls her way through the verses, there's the catharsis of the chorus, a transformed beast from the Them's 60s hit. It's a perfect introduction to an icon of rock. It's true that there is some indulgence in the two nine-minute tracks ("Birdland" and "Land"), but it's played so damn well. The vocals are astonishing throughout both of these long pieces, moving from plaintive and held back ("it was as if someone had spread butter on the stars they started to slip") to a frothy-mouthed frenzy of machine gun rhymes. The band move perfectly to support her, even without relying on drums in the stunning "Birdland": they allow a listener to get completely lost in the momentum, and match Smith's intensity expertly. In between the three epics, the other songs worthy of praise are "Kimberley", where Smith displays a much needed softer, commercial leaning side, and the frenetic "Free Money", with a glorious snare breakdown and a slow build almost as electrifying as "Gloria". For an artist praised as looking ahead and signalling a hundred new movements at once, Smith is still lovingly indebted to rock which has come before. The closing "Elegie", for Jimi Hendrix (and lifting a couple of his lyrics) is Smith at her most sincere. Elsewhere, she takes delight in bastardising tradition, shaping pop standards to keep up with her restless vision and rapid vocalisation. "Gloria" and "Land of a Thousand Dances" are two such examples, and delivered with such originality that could only be admired. Most of this commentary is what any review could tell you. "Horses" is universally loved as an alternative album and will still be thought of as such 100 years from now. Objectively, it is of course a 10/10: but I'm going to have to dock slightly based on some personal preference. "Break It Up" is a collaboration with Smith's sometime partner and fellow CBGB's star Tom Verlaine- other than his signature guitar and an impassioned vocal performance in the chorus, it's fairly unremarkable and possesses the album's most mediocre hook. "Redondo Beach" is lightweight reggae coming in between the incredibly intense high watermarks of "Gloria" and "Birdland": as a result it almost feels too insubstantial, not enough substance. It also hasn't particularly aged well and is the most in-step with the 1970s of all the songs here. Even though "Land" is generally phenomenal and one of the most intense, vivid flights of fancy through abuse, penknives, wordplay, escape, dance and horses, it loses a point for its jam session which is the exact same chords, tempo and rhythm as "Gloria". As a bottom line, though, maybe I still haven't caught up yet. Giving "Horses" a 4 doesn't change my mind on its classic status, and it shouldn't change yours.

Released at the mid-point of the 1980s, "Brothers in Arms" is one in a long line of albums which saw talented musicians taking smooth-edged soft-rock to the max, shooting for commercial gain they might never have anticipated but yielding decidedly mixed results in the long-term. Alongside Mark Knopfler's instantly recognisable, brittle Strat playing (all finger-work and no plectrum, still deserving to be the focus here) and semi-spoken vocal delivery, the sound is finished off by synth pads that float over the top of every damn song, ultra-polished, plodding drums, lounging jazz keyboards and the occasional intricate lead melody (woodwind synth or saxophone). If it sounds pleasant, it is. If it sounds boring, it also is. Knopfler is not a striking lyricist in this case, and the music stays mainly on the side of brooding atmospherics in HD. It's not always a bad thing and in the right mood, I can let it sweep me away. But it's quite frustrating knowing that Knopfler is capable of playing exquisite guitar (seen in glimpses across many of these instrumental passages) or writing a pop hit. At least two of these three stars belong to "Walk of Life", the standout single, for cutting through the introspection and succeeding in being effortlessly bright, breezy and catchy. Knopfler's vocal style really works here, as do the increased presence of synthesisers in Dire Straits' sound as they add the classic keyboard riff. "Money for Nothing" is another winner, contributing the only riff with any backbone. It even manages to earn its length, paying off the iconic long introduction with a cynical lyric and delivery (including a badly judged slur... if you're reading this, you know what it is) and its major key chorus, breaking through like an occasional ray of sunshine. While I'm on the subject of "Money for Nothing", one of the record's three great songs, it is NONSENSE that the band chose not to open "Brothers in Arms" with it. It is known for having one of the most majestic introductions of all time, beloved by audiophiles testing out new hi-fis the world over... but instead we begin with "So Far Away", a completely by-the-numbers soft rock opening with its oh-so-inspiring central lyric "you're so far away from me; so far I just can't see". It sums up my main gripe with "Brothers in Arms": it has occasional greatness which is casually tossed out hand-in-hand with dross. "Your Latest Trick" constitutes the doldrums of easy-listening, saxophone and all. "Why Worry" has a nursery rhyme melody and a hackneyed-but-nice sentiment poorly expressed, before breaking into a four minute noodly coda which adds nothing. "One World" tries to inject a shot of adrenaline in the album's home stretch with some nice lead guitar and slapped bass in a Tony Levin cameo, but there's not much going on beyond it. That said, it's worth finishing my review as the album goes out, with the lovely "Brothers In Arms." It's the main ballad here which works: a heartfelt message delivered alongside a winning melody, it sits in the right place at the end of the record and serves a final reminder that the band can deliver their songs with pathos and immediacy. Along with "Walk of Life" and "Money for Nothing", it proves that this album still deserves its place on this list, even if it is greater than the sum of its parts.

Perfectly pitched retro-futuristic noir from electronic duo Goldfrapp, signalling all the alien uncertainty of a new millennium. "Felt Mountain" introduced Alison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory's project to the world as the work of two dark and brooding wizards of atmosphere. The songs often sound like soundtracks to Bond gone arthouse, and what a shame we don't live in that world. There's not the sharp focus, glam-tinged camp, or homely folktronica that showed up in Goldfrapp's later work: instead, "Felt Mountain" is a subtle, tasteful and very classy work of haunting solemnity. There's a compelling sense of drama to it, and a real otherworldliness. "Lovely Head" opens with a gentle brushed percussion line, low sustained strings and a whistled melody over a progression of unrelated chords. Although it leans into trip-hop with a lot of synths throughout, it's worth noting the production has a great deal of warmth. There's a pleasing amount of orchestral instruments being used as well, with string sections regularly padding out the sound and brass showing up to drive the sublime Latin-esque jam "Human". As well as unassuming, casually ethereal vocals, Alison Goldfrapp contributes some deliciously surreal lyrics ("when you laugh, I'm inside your mouth"; "are you human, or do you make it up?"; "my dog needs new ears, make his eyes see forever, make him live like me, again and again") The album really excels with these off-kilter musings set to music and it feels as though Goldfrapp have carved out a distinct corner of space to inhabit undisturbed. The rest of "Felt Mountain" floats in some ethereal space, never quite touching down and gliding happily above the Earth. "Pilots" and "Utopia" are two rare anthemic, triumphant cuts that feel like obvious single efforts. Neither of them are as subtle as some of the other tracks, with the latter actually getting an electric drumbeat and a brass-like fanfare countermelody. But they're the most tangible offerings, providing rare clear hooks to latch onto and sing along with. At its worst, "Felt Mountain" becomes a little too sparse and it comes over a bit like elevator music in space. "Deer Stop", with its intermittent marimba, filtered vocals and glacial pace, is barely conscious, while the title track relies on "dee dee"'s for lyrics and "Oompah Radar" is a disarming instrumental that is nowhere near as exciting as "trippy cabaret" might make it sound. If it's the kind of thing you're happy to have wash over you, then it's great, and it often works. But by the time "Horse Tears" comes along, there's the sense of having been on a cosmic journey without ever quite arriving anywhere. "Felt Mountain" possesses such a specific sound that it relies on its listeners being in a certain mood to get anything out of it. Today, I'm feeling generous and enjoyed the ride to nowhere, so it's getting a 4.

Supposedly as a reaction to 90’s R&B’s obsession with violence, casual sex and drugs, Maxwell became a pioneer of neo-soul with his “Urban Hang Suite”, a concept piece about all the twists and turns of a relationship. Considering this album was released in 1996, there’s a concerted effort to diverge from the prevalent sounds of the genre, both lyrically and musically. The songs here are all profanity free, built around declarations of sensual love and commitment. It’s refreshing on the one hand, but on the other they lack any of the wit or wordplay that often makes R&B and hip-hop tick: instead, they’re formed on vague generalities like “you’re still welcome, any time you want some; make yourself at home, ‘cause you’re welcome.” Poetry. In musical terms, there’s a real retro-soul feel to this album which places it in the mid 70’s. The production is lush and warm, with low, lithe bass grooves and soft, airy vocals (often faintly multi-tracked in harmonies or octaves). Take single “Til the Cops Come Knockin’”: electric Rhodes piano and some subtle wah-guitar wash around the main hook, which is gentle and soothing right up until the point it becomes… well, boring. There are flashes of good moments peppered across the record. “Ascension” is a strong track with a fantastic bass groove. There’s a fun breakdown in highlight “Dancewitme”, announced by a bass solo before some brittle rhythm guitar kicks in. There’s a rare grittiness to Maxwell’s voice in “Suitelady (The Proposal Jam)”, one of many tributes to monogamy. They’re sharp moments in a hazy record, which generally is concerned with a lighter touch. There’s a tendency for the jams to repeat themselves ad-nauseam, often letting a groove peter out. And from around the album’s halfway point, they’re scarcely present at all. So while "Maxwell's Urban Hang Suite" is always pleasant, sometimes the silky-smooth production is just a little too smooth. As we’re promised a concept piece chronicling the arc of a relationship, it would have been nice to hear a bit more range in Maxwell’s delivery… to get a sense of rise and fall in the music, peaks in intensity and drama. But instead, it’s unarguably and unambiguously make-out music… for a whole 58 minutes! I have neither the time nor the stamina to manage that.

Moving on from the mixed response to their early work and still under the shadow of their bandmates' earlier incarnation as the Small Faces, Rod Stewart and Ronnie Wood penned this nine track album together. It seems to have been carried by the momentum of its hit single, "Stay With Me": most of the rest is solid, if unremarkable, 70s rock. The line-up and musicianship here is fairly rudimentary with a few chances for each member to shine: there's a heavy blues inflection to most of the songs (including some harmonica), no shortage of distinctive guitar licks from Rolling Stone-to-be Wood, and welcome interjections from Ian McLagan's distorted electric piano and organ. Drummer Kenney Jones is reasonably restrained, playing in locked beats but often letting loose towards the end of some songs. When he leads the band in letting rip slightly more (the accelerandos towards the end of "Miss Judy's Farm" and "Memphis") it's a good time, but not transcendent. "Stay With Me" is of course the high watermark here: the band's biggest hit and no doubt the reason this album is on the list. It boasts a riff dripping with bravado, a concise chord progression, and Stewart's trademark rasp in full singalong mode. The rest of the strongest moments are in the album's second half: "Too Bad" is the biggest rocker on the record, with a big Stones vibe in the trebly rhythm guitar. The closer "That's All You Need" is the closest the band get to matching Zeppelin, with its Delta-blues style slide riff. It then kicks off into a rollicking rock number, shooting for "You Can't Always Get What You Want" style epiphany with a bit of an underwhelming steel-drum coda. While it's perfectly enjoyable and often great rock music, the main problem I've had with this album is that with every passing track, it becomes impossible not to compare Faces with their litany of contemporaries who have stood the test of time and attained "legend" status. The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Who, T. Rex, Deep Purple… the list goes on. Comparison is often an unfair beast, but it's hard to avoid when the curators of this list insist on piling in so many early 70s rock bands (many of whom also worked with producer Glyn Johns and produced much better results). Up against the towering work of their peers, Faces come across as ready-salted, meat and potatoes, vanilla rock. "Love Lives Here" is a run-of-the-mill ballad, "Last Orders Please" is a hokey blues shuffle and "You're So Rude" is so plodding it almost runs itself into the ground. It also has to be said that the songs with Ronnie Lane on lead vocals suffer for a lack of Rod Stewart (and I never thought I'd write that). It's good unabashed rock, sure, but I'm not going to die grateful to have heard it.

By 2011, PJ Harvey had been on the scene for long enough to become one of the old guard: a figure of the establishment in alternative rock. "Let England Shake" is has a gravitas and elegance to it which befits this reputation, but still takes plenty of bold risks along the way. It won Harvey her second Mercury Prize, made her even more of a critics' darling and left me feeling a bit cold on it initially- as though she could do no wrong. However, after listening to it, I have to agree with the consensus that this is a dark and gripping piece of work. I've only heard bits and bobs of PJ Harvey's other albums, but I'm fairly certain that none of them sound much like this. "Let England Shake" already feels both timely and timeless: drawing on generation after generation of pastoral folk, hymnal music, protest songs and wartime poetry. In doing so, Harvey asks what it means to be English, how any sense of pride is distorted and perverted by prejudice and hate. It's very literary, inherently musical, and it’s a rare concept album that really WORKS without getting too bogged down. The relentless focus on war, conflict and violence only intensifies the impact of each successive song. As fun as it is to hear Harvey expanding her musical reach (she plays the saxophone for the first time! Her vocal range is expanding way beyond what she's done before! And so much autoharp!) the lyrics are understandably the focus. Once I'd started reading them alongside the music, it was hard to tear myself away. Some choice turns of phrase: "Let me walk through the stinking allies, to the music of drunken beatings"… "I've seen flies swarming everyone… soldiers fell like lumps of meat"… "Some dove in the river and tried to swim away… through tons of sewage, fate written on their foreheads" Such powerful, visceral imagery. There are many other highlights worth singling out in the music. The waiflike banshee howl of the vocals in "On Battleship Hill". The tribal urgency pounding its way through "Bitter Branches." And "Written on the Forehead"- one of my personal favourites - making use of an intriguing sample of Niney's reggae hit "Blood and Fire". There aren't many flaws at all here: "Let England Shake" is clearly a well-thought-out, fully realised work of art. Though "The Colour of the Earth" is a strange closing track, with a sudden appearance from duet partner Mick Harvey (The Bad Seeds). It doesn't quite end on the desolate, wartorn note I was expecting. Still, I really enjoyed getting to know this album and it's absolutely deserving of most of the praise heaped on it.

"Sheer Heart Attack" is a crossroads of Queen at their most theatrical, their most rip-roaring, and their most heart-achingly sweet. To some that may sound like a nightmare, but for every snooty critic who hates "Radio Gaga", there's a die-hard "Sheer Heart Attack" fan ready to champion a bucketload of songs the detractors have never heard. "Killer Queen" is of course the most recognisable name here and is wonderfully weird for a hit single. It's a bells-and-whistles number moving effortlessly through numerous modulations and vocal flourishes with such conviction and panache. It showcases a playful side that the band never quite lost, for better or worse, but when it's paired with such great musicianship and a strong ear for melody it's hard to complain. "Bring Back That Leroy Brown" is another novelty track which has always been a favourite for just how much is going on from one line to the next: Brian May even brings in a banjolele, for god's sake! On the more solemn side, "Lily of the Valley" and "Dear Friends" are miniature masterpieces: perfectly formed ballads. Despite each being well under two minutes, they're absolutely gorgeous and do more with their time than many full songs manage (including a lot of Queen's own). And when they want to go all-out blistering rock, they really do: "Stone Cold Crazy" and "Now I'm Here" should forever be used as counter-arguments for those who say Queen were just soft poppy sell-outs. All four members contributed sublime material throughout Queen's run, but John Deacon and Roger Taylor are still warming up as writers here: "Tenement Funster" and "Misfire" are the weakest offerings, lacking the punch or the drama of May and Mercury's material. As instrumentalists, though, all of the band are on great form throughout. "Brighton Rock" kicks things off with a virtuoso showcase from May's instantly distinctive guitar style, all boxy Vox and tape delay. The vocal harmonies are also reliably exquisite. From the first taste of stadium singalong in the stunning "Lap of the Gods… Revisited", to the choral backing in "Dear Friends", to Taylor's impossibly high falsetto in "Lap of the Gods", the band's multi-tracked vocals really come into their own on this album, elevating already great songs to something really special. The only reason this one doesn't get the full five stars is that I prefer the two albums either side of it, "Queen II" and "A Night at the Opera". "Sheer Heart Attack" presents Queen in transition from their heavy rock roots to the perfect blend of theatrics, eclecticism and theatri-pop of their next album.

"One Nation Under A Groove" is tirelessly energetic, relentlessly funky and has to be one of the best parties of the 1970s. It radiates positivity, optimism and fun for most of its running time, at the hands of George Clinton and the vast roster of incredible musicians. The album was released originally as a 40 minute set before a bonus EP was added with a great live edition of "Maggot Brain": I've focused just on the original LP here. For its entire seven and a half minutes, the title track never lets up. From its bouncy bassline to the various vocal hooks rippling through it, it's infinitely danceable and impossible to resist. Next, the sprightly "Groovallegiance" brings some levity (Bernie Worrell knocking it out of the park with an uncomplicated keyboard solo, and Clinton with some beautiful falsetto in the verses). "Who Says A Funk Band Can't Play Rock" is another prime cut: a Hendrix-esque riff transforming into a celebration of musical inclusivity and genre diversity. The band pull off the amazing feat of stuffing the arrangements to the rafters with overlapping lead parts, flourishes and production tricks, but leave room for spontaneity in the energetic performances. As an ensemble, they lock together perfectly and keep the songs feeling fresh throughout, despite the length of many of them. There's also a great sense of humour and playfulness running throughout the whole record, but the scales only tip slightly too far with "Promentalshitbackwashpsychosis", the only place the record loses some credibility for me. This jam is long and unfocused by comparison, in an awkward jumble of spoken word prayer with the makings of a lovely soul ballad in the background. I'm too prudish to enjoy hearing about a musical bowel movement to clear my mental diarrhoea. Whether they thought of it as a novel metaphor, a parody of evangelism or just a joke, it just brings down the impact for me. Despite this, though, as a whole it's a sheer delight. The power of Funkadelic is such that they're enough to make you believe fried ice cream really could be a reality.

As much as I love "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and much of "Bookends", my knowledge of Simon and Garfunkel's music outside of that is limited to the Greatest Hits album, which I have played many times. Imagine my surprise when both "Homeward Bound" and "59th Bridge Street Song (Feeling Groovy)" came crashing in with uptempo drums and extra instrumentation. It removed the intimacy I'm used to from these songs and rushed them along a bit too much. Maybe it's just because I'm used to the acoustic-only versions, but it got me thinking about some of the other songs on the album and wondering if they'd have benefited from being more stripped back. Sometimes it felt they hadn't got the arrangements quite right, as they intruded on Simon's excellent songwriting and the duo's peerless harmonies. The overblown strings in "The Dangling Conversation" and the incessant bongos in "Patterns" are two examples: both sound much better in live versions or solo renditions by Simon. Sometimes, though, it's gorgeous and tastefully done: the harpsichord in "Scarborough Fair/Canticle", or the celesta in "Cloudy". There's a lot of beauty across the record for sure, but most of it comes from the duo themselves. The real thing that matters here is, of course, the actual songs. "Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall" is a lovely, breezy song and one of Simon's simplest, catchiest tunes. "A Simple Desultory Philippic" is a wryly amusing Dylan send-up and "7 O'Clock News/Silent Night" is... exactly what it sounds like, but prettier. And yes, despite its arrangement here, "Homeward Bound" is still an absolute classic. It goes without saying that Garfunkel's vocals are sublime throughout, but the best showcase of them is the amazing "For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her": he gives a tender, yearning performance that swells imperceptibly into overflowing emotion. Simon is an underrated guitar player too and accompanies each song beautifully (as two examples, listen to the fingerpicking in "Feeling Groovy" and the trills in "Cloudy"). It might not scale the heights of the duo's later work, but there's still a brilliant set of songs here.

"At Mister Kelly's" is the first time I've heard any Sarah Vaughan, and her voice is instantly captivating. This album, a 75 minute live set of Vaughan in a live setting with a backing trio, is the perfect showcase for it. Right from the introduction, in which the compere informs the audience they're all about to become Mercury recording artists, there's such an intimate and cozy feel to this recording. Tender ballads like "Willow Weep for Me", "Stairway to the Stars" and "Embraceable You" are delivered with care and precision, alongside upbeat tracks like "Lucky in Love", "If This Isn't Love", "Just One Of Those Things" and many more. The backing trio are made up of Jimmy Jones on piano, Richard Davis on double-bass (who would later play on Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks"), and Roy Haynes on drums. They display some fantastic ability, but really it's Vaughan's show, so the playing is restrained and minimal, leaving a lot of room around her vocals. While it works for the overall atmosphere coming across here, I'd be excited to hear Vaughan with the power of a full band behind her. Although the performances are beautiful, the song selections themselves (all jazz/trad-pop standards or showtunes) are much of a muchness and start blending together late in the set owing to the same stripped back arrangements. Every now and then, something breaks through: "How High The Moon", with its improvised scat singing proclaimed to be in the style of Ellie Fitzgerald, is both a hoot and one of the most stunning displays of Vaughan's range and technique. "It Has To Be Love" is another fun track, with an effortless vocal and Jones clearly having fun with some piano glissandos. All in all, I'm glad I heard this and it introduced me to some new standards as well as Sarah Vaughan's magnificent voice, but smooth vocal jazz still feels best suited to background music for me.

"I'm just a symptom of the moral decay that's gnawing at the heart of the country." It absolutely should not be a catchy line to sing along with... but it is. It forms the heart of "The Sinking Feeling", a typically nihilistic song by Matt Johnson. The The's debut album scorches through its runtime with a mixture of bitter irony and honest despair. While lyrically dark and dense, the music is upbeat, catchy and even euphoric. "This Is The Day" is a world-class song: it's a work of soaring cynicism that wields a bright and cheerful accordion hook like a plastic umbrella in a cocktail of bourbon and broken glass. Elsewhere, "Waiting for Tomorrow (All of My Life)" summarises the mid 20's angst at the heart of the record's philosophy, with a glorious bassline to boot. "Uncertain Smile" treated the world to a virtuosic three minute Jools Holland piano solo, while everyone was still lucky enough not to know what a Hootenanny was. While "Soul Mining" and "The Twilight Hour" bring the pace down slightly too far into maudlin navel-gazing, "Giant" more than makes up for it. Nine and a half minutes with just four chords and limited words, but its a masterclass in pacing. Its lengthy outro presents a repeeated "yeah yeah yeah" chant and an elephantine wall of percussion, which lead the way in a reprisal of each layer of sound. It's "Hey Jude" for the twisted post-punk generation... and its wonderful.

Getting this the day after The The’s “Soul Mining” is a great 1-2 hit of British post punk from the generator. “Entertainment” is one of those universally lauded albums of its genre I’ve never made the time for, so it’s been quite a journey getting to know it. It’s a frenetic, disarming listen where the energy never lets go. It’s almost a cliche to say “wow it was only 1979, jeez they were ahead of their time”… but it’s impossible to shake the feeling that “Entertainment” could be released in 2022 and fit right into the post-punk landscape today. A lot of this is down to the talents of the band themselves: Andy Gill’s guitar hooks are jagged, abrasive, angular. All rhythm, no lead (just occasional howling feedback where any other band may throw in a glossy solo). Riffs and rhythm parts are frequently start-stop and staccato, and vocals are barked out in a manner that perfectly suits the backing. Very few notes are left to ring out, perfectly serving the spiky, punchy feel. Hugo Burnham’s drums help to drive the songs home- listen for the hi-hat and cymbals in tracks like “Natural’s Not In It” or “Love Like Anthrax” to hear they’re used sparingly, adding to the cold starkness of the production. Above all though, Dave Allen’s bass is the hero of “Entertainment”. It introduces the world to the band’s sound on “Ether” and remains in the foreground throughout: all the bass lines are good but “Contract” and “Damaged Goods” in particular deserve special mentions. The songs themselves veer between oblique despair of the state of the world (pitched perfectly in “Not Great Men” and “Guns Before Butter”) and total high-octane mania (“Natural’s Not In It”, “Damaged Goods”, “I Found That Essence Rare”… all triumphs of manic energy). Very occasionally, it’s a little much to stomach, and it would have been nice to either get a change of pace or more of the accessible end showcased so well in “Damaged Goods”. But really, that’s my own preference: the more time I’ve spent with this album, the more it’s won me over and it could very easily become a 5 star once it settles in. And gee whizz, 1979…

I don't feel totally comfortable attempting a critical assessment of "Call of the Valley". Even for an album designed to make Hindustani classical music appeal to Western audiences, it's so far outside of anything my tiny ears have heard before that I'll only embarrass myself trying to appraise it. What I know is that Shivkumar Sharma, Hariprasad Chaurasia and Brij Bhushan Kabra succeeded in creating an accomplished and serene instrumental album. From reading about "Call of the Valley" online, I've learned it was framed around the idea of a single day in the life of a shepherd, told through different variations of raga. Shivkumar Sharma plays the santoor (an Asian dulcimer-like instrument) with accompaniment from slide-guitar (hence the Western crossover aspect) bansuri (an Indian flute) and tabla. Every now and then songs rise in intensity, marked by rapid tabla rhythms rising in volume: see the end of "Rag Piloo", or much of "Nat Bhairav". Generally though, this album is one of a singular mood. The second half in particular is much more mellow and relaxed, with fewer interjections from the santoor and more sparse instrumentation in general. It guides us gently to a calming end (presumably to coincide with the sun going down and the end of the shepherd's day's work in Kashmir). I really enjoyed having the chance to listen to a Hindustani album, even if it were designed for Western appeal. The instrumentalists are all clearly skilled and create a sonic palette to get lost in and drift away to. Even if I can't pick out any more specific highlights and won't necessarily listen again, I can't fault the quality.

I saw Echo and the Bunnymen play a fairly weedy set at a festival in 2019, almost forty years after their debut album "Crocodiles". Ian McCulloch was planted in the middle of the stage, looking distinctly pissed off, and said about two words in between songs. In fact, he looked a bit like how I felt listening to much of this album. Echo and the Bunnymen are a band I've never quite liked as much as I thought I would, and this was no exception. In their debut, they haven't quite carved out the niche they'd fit comfortably into by "Ocean Rain", of a band executing polished symphonic pop-rock with gothic undertones. Here, things are less defined and a little shapeless. It's a slow start, quite clearly aligned with the gloom-laden atmospherics of early Cure but without the melodic sensibilities. Things do pick up though, only really kicking in on the second side with the back-to-back hits of "Rescue" and "Villiers Terrace" (by far the best tracks here). Even if the songs aren't always up to scratch, there's no denying that the band are in spirited form, with chiming guitar lines and McCulloch's voice warming into its role as the front and centre. There's the promise of greater things to come from them… and I'm sure that having more to prove, they would have put on a better show here than they are doing nowadays.

I've never been a big fan of Eric Clapton outside of about 1966-71, and while this album is an easy listen and breezes by smoothly enough, it didn't change my mind. The greatest hits compilation "Timepieces", which I've known for some years, had warded me off this album slightly as it features multiple cuts from "461" which I've never really cared for. I mean, nobody really needs to hear Clapton covering Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff" (particularly, of course, when he would endorse Enoch Powell's racist policies on stage a couple of years later). "Willie And The Hand Jive" is fine, but just crawlingly insubstantial. "Let It Grow" (one of only two songs here Clapton wrote alone) might have a lovely melody, but it's always struck me as a knock-off "Stairway to Heaven", with corny lyrics plucked from a dying greetings card. As an opening track, then, "Motherless Children" caught me off-guard. A cover of Blind Willie Johnson's blues standard, it's lively, has some bite to it and showcases Clapton's brand of brittle, bluesy guitar-playing at its best. Clapton has nothing to prove as a guitarist by this point, which is maybe why there's surprisingly little blistering solo work. Instead, his playing takes a bit of a backseat in favour of the easy breezy vocals and songwriting. Normally that would be a great thing, but the issue is that these songs (or rather, Clapton's take on them) isn't particularly interesting. "Give Me Strength" and "I Can't Hold Out" are both plodding, staid blues numbers, complete with hammy organ. "Mainline Florida" is the very essence of washed-out, blue jeans dad rock. I do have to admit a liking to "Please Be With Me": it has a nice stripped back arrangement, foregrounding acoustic guitar and a lovely chorus of backing singers harmonising with Clapton's simple, unaffected vocal. "461 Ocean Boulevard" is a fine listen, but it's very tame. Clapton is in conservative mode here: he already sounds like an assured elder statesman of rock in the slow lane, even though it's 1974 and the glory days of Cream were just 4 years behind him. "Slowhand" would cement this reputation, but it's creeping in here. It says a lot when the heaviest, most head-bopping track has a name like "Steady Rollin' Man"... steady indeed.

I like to take a tiered approach when summarising the songs on "Let it Bleed", much like the cake/bizarre sculpture on the cover. The icing (and little Stones-alike figurines): Merry Clayton's searing performance in "Gimme Shelter" (what a great decision to include her) and the fantastic choir in "You Can't Always Get What You Want", their rising vocals at the end sending the coda into sheer euphoria. The top tier (Delia Smith's cake): The unbelievable songs that bookend the album, both referenced above: thoroughly deserving of their renown as two of the band's best songs. "Gimme Shelter" is a dark, menacing, apocalyptic opening and "You Can't Always Get What You Want" surpasses "Hey Jude" as a late 60's anthem, a perfect blend of earnest and cynical. It will always be my all-time favourite Rolling Stones song. Second tier (bicycle tyre): "Midnight Rambler", coming straight in with a cracking riff from Richards and a classic Stones-y shuffling swagger. "Monkey Man" is a masterclass in sleaze by Jagger and holds a wonderful slide instrumental (does anyone else see a helicopter?) "Let It Bleed" is one of the more country flavoured songs on here, but it's pulled off with aplomb and has an irresistible sing-along refrain. Third tier (pizza): "Live With Me" is pretty basic but gives some much needed straight-rock to proceedings in the first half (the Bill Wyman bassline steals it). "You Got The Silver" is Keith Richards' first vocal performance- he turns in a fine performance if obviously not as spirited as Jagger. It's light, but fun. Bottom tier (clock, film canister and whatever the hell else): "Country Honk". For me it's just pushing over into a "let's go country" gimmick with incessant fiddle running all the way through, and I much prefer the single version. "Love in Vain" is a very sparse ballad that feels a bit uninspired to me, up against the rest of the material. So it's uneven, sure, and there are at least three Rolling Stones albums I'd put above this one (all included in the 1001 list) but hey, sometimes if you want to enjoy an iced cake masterpiece you've got to chew through the face of a clock.

Now synonymous with the birth of glam-rock, "Electric Warrior" was derided by fans of the band at the time of release. Bolan had sold out! He'd gone pop! There was no substance to this! And he was DANCING! People could (and can) say whatever they like, but the bottom line is that this has always been an immediate, hooky album: I can't imagine listening without bopping along. Sometimes, a sell-out can still be fun and it might even be ludicrously influential on generations of musicians. Lyrically, Bolan has not lost his whimsical edge from "A Beard of Stars" and beyond: there are allusions to the universe in someone's hair, planets and stars, shadowless horses, alligator rain... it's all still there. It's the sheen of slick, electric guitar parts, conventional chord progressions and poppy hooks which marks the biggest departure from Bolan's earlier work, but it all pays off in a wonderful package of glam rock. "Bang a Gong (Get it On)" is of course the big hitter here, and it's wonderful, a glam piece-de-resistance. Fifty years on, it's still one of the sexiest songs around (certainly that Rick Wakeman ever added his keys to). "Jeepster" and "Mambo Sun" are also highlights. My only fault with this album- and blocking it from the full five stars- is its slightly repetitive nature, as though there were four or so tracks that fit the band's glam mould and they were essentially rehashed. "The Motivator" is a wholesale remake of "Bang a Gong", and "Planet Queen" is very close to "Mambo Sun". I adore both "Girl" and "Life's a Gas", but there's no denying they're very similar in arrangement and tone. More material like "Rip Off"- the most idiosyncratic track here with its shouted verses and rising sung-through bridge- would have helped elevate the album even further. Final personal note that will always leave a special place in my heart for "Electric Warrior": when I left home for the last time, my dad drove me to my first flat with this album playing. "Cosmic Dancer" playing as we went through the mountains at sunset will be forever etched in my memory.

Everyone deserves the privilege of hearing Aretha Franklin’s vocals at least once in their life. And this album (her twelfth, unbelievably) sees her on spellbinding form. There’s music for the head and music for the soul, and sometimes you can be so immersed in the groove or struck by such depth of feeling before even realising what you’ve been listening to. At its best, “Lady Soul” is one of those albums. Here are 28 words to summarise my thought process listening to its rapid 28 minutes: “I think Aretha’s quite overra- wha? whaaa? How does she do that?! Wow. She’s going… it went higher! Christ. All that GRIT! And she’s ROCKING! She’s a storm! She’s an icon! Holy shit.” The album is a lot more upbeat than I expected, though two of its strongest cuts are showstopping ballads (“People Get Ready” and, of course, “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman”). Across the board, Aretha, the band and the backing vocalists (Sweet Inspirations, who last blew me away in “Dusty in Memphis) give performances overflowing with passion and power. There’s four-to-the-floor rock, brassy Motown, lush soul ballads and smoky blues. On first listen, I was ready to nitpick and say it wasn’t flawless (the meandering blues of “Good To Me As I Am To You” lost me a bit). But sometimes, I should stop trying to dissect everything and write ten paragraphs per album, and just let myself be swept away. “Lady Soul” is one of those albums, and they don’t come around very often. What a thrill to spend half an hour with talent like this.

This esoteric, sometimes challenging record from Talk Talk bears a lot of rewards worth reaping, as it marked their divergence from straight-lace new wave into something a little more sprawling. I should start by saying how much I adore “Life’s What You Make It”. An absolute killer groove, constructed by drum machines (I think?), a live kit (possibly?) and shakers (definitely). That glorious four-note piano bass figure (you know the one)! The keyboards and soaring guitar lines layering over it are transcendental, and the lyrics (even if a bit Hallmark) are given such significance and weight by the power of the arrangement. It’s the all time great track on here and has long been a favourite of mine, earning at least two and a half of these stars on its own. Nothing else can quite match up to its power, but then it seems apparent that the band weren’t aiming for chart appeal on the same level for most of these songs. “April 5th” and “Chameleon Day” are both very sparse and take time to unfold over subtly shifting chord progressions, very tasteful woodwind or acoustic guitar ornamentations and drip-fed vocals. They’re soothing but don’t always hit me in the right place. More reliable is the gentle closer “Time It’s Time” and the urgent propulsion of “Living In Another World”, both suitably epic and dense in their scope and arrangements. While the rest of the songs aren’t constantly gripping, they’re at least flavoured by intriguing elements: “Happiness is Easy” with its jazz chords and a children’s choir backing the chorus, and “I Don’t Believe In You” for its sublime guitar solo in the second half. This has the feel of assured, intelligent and ambitious musicianship. It’s a bit lofty, at times even suggesting a new flavour of prog-rock excess in the mid 80s, but much more palatable than Talk Talk’s later work (which has yet to work its magic on me completely). Give me that opening of “Life’s What You Make It”, any day.

"GI" is a spurt of adrenaline that feels like being kicked repeatedly in the head by a group of spotty, sweaty boys. Germs' only album, it seems to capture a band in a frenzied state of adolescence before Darby Crash's tragic and untimely end. I can't fault the energy, or the passion: "Lexicon Devil" and "Richie Dagger's Crime" are two of the catchiest songs here, both coming relatively early in the proceedings. Unfortunately, after this point, things derail somewhat into noise. Everything is very one-note, with thrashy guitars and drums, simple basslines and (the biggest flaw) totally indecipherable vocals. It's a shame because Darby Crash was clearly a talented lyricist- the words here are at least eloquent and interesting, employing a number of different perspectives, images and ideas. At least, they're worth more than being spat out and thrown away. The pacing is also all off: 15 songs of 1-3 minutes followed by a ten minute jam centred around the same riff. It's a lot to stomach, but really each minute of the whole album ends up feeling indistinguishable from the last. A couple of interesting connections I learned are that Joan Jett produced this album (either she didn't try very hard or she captured the band's blinkered, nihilistic vision perfectly- most likely the latter). And Belinda Carlisle was briefly a member of the band before they recorded this, but never played a show with them due to illness. It's crazy to consider the trajectory she ended up going on in comparison with Darby Crash.

In their two years together, Cream attained legendary status and secured a legacy as one of the greatest supergroups in popular music. “Disraeli Gears” is one of their potent blends of psychedelia, hard rock and blues which would influence so many bands of the 70s and beyond (“Sunshine of Your Love”, in turn inspired by Hendrix, was one of the first songs I learnt on guitar about 40 years after its release). There's so much to say about the band and their songs, but one of the key elements here is the production. From the rumbling thunder of Baker’s toms to the fuzz tone of Clapton’s guitar, everything is centred on the low-end for a cloudy, hazy feel. Bruce’s vocals- surprisingly wispy and delicate- cut through the mix well, employing an ethereal falsetto in tracks like “World of Pain”. It's a startling atmosphere, but for such a legendary band with such a short tenure and so few albums, there’s a surprising amount of mediocre (or at least filler) material here. “Blue Condition”, “Outside Woman Blues” and “Take It Back” both have the feel of average blues tracks without much bite or vision. The musicianship is great, but it’s only in service of (by any other standard) average songs. To cap things off, “Mother’s Lament” is a strange diversion into music hall for the album’s finale: it is jarringly out of place, but credit to them for trying something different. The forays into psychedelia (like “Sunshine of Your Love” and “Tales of Brave Ulysses”) are my favourites here, and when “Strange Brew” combines a standard blues progression with an instantly hooky melody and intangible lyrics, it's a real winner. So it's patchy and uneven, sure... but what a trio Cream were. Ginger Baker’s rippling, elaborate drum parts betraying a lifelong interest in jazz, Bruce's basslines forming the anchor, and Clapton’s guitar playing in its bluesy prime. They paved the way for a new wave of hard rock bands reaching beyond the blues, and that can't be understated.

The last hip-hop album I drew on the list was Kendrick Lamar's "good kid, m.A.A.d city", lauded as the "Illmatic" of its generation. It's been interesting comparing the two as coming-of-age records, two individuals dealing with the gangster lifestyle and their surroundings. Nas doesn't quite show the same nuance as Lamar did twenty years later, and the music isn't as ambitious in scope, but it wouldn't be fair to spend the whole review comparing "Illmatic" to another album. By all accounts it's still a landmark in hip-hop, a game-changing record rich and vivid in its autobiographical detail. Like a lot of the hip-hop I've encountered on the list, I'm going to need to put some more hours in listening before "Illmatic" reveals its treasures to me. On first listen, some of the music seemed a little thin on the ground ("N.Y State of Mind"'s stark bass-piano figure and drum beat, the mellow and downbeat "The World Is Yours", the repetitive "One Love"). That said, there are some notable features from artists I admire (Q-Tip, DJ Premier, and a particularly scene-stealing turn from AZ in my personal highlight "Life's a Bitch"). There's no denying that Nas's verses are very well written and performed, with lyrics just as suited to poring over on genius.com as they are marvelling at in real time as Nas effortlessly rolls them off the tongue. His lyrics revel in gritty detail, self-evaluation and a queasy mixture of pride and abandonment ("Represent" is a killer example, with its musical arrangement providing the urgency it deserves). It may not have held my attention throughout (by not conforming to my rockist, melody-over-lyrics sensibilities), but "Illmatic" is clearly an accomplished album and one I'm going to have to come back to in time to appreciate its full magnitude.

When I first heard "Crooked Rain Crooked Rain", I fell in love at precisely 0:40 into "Elevate Me Later". A chaotic drum fill leads into the chorus, another layer of squalling lead guitar joins and then the falsetto backing vocals drift in over the top. It's everything that makes Pavement great: sloppily precise, casually catchy and effortlessly cool. "Crooked Rain Crooked Rain"- Pavement's second of five albums that shaped the face of 90's alt-rock and "slacker culture"- is by far my favourite of theirs, condensing most of their hits into one tight yet oh-so-loose package. The uncharacteristic commercial success of "Cut Your Hair", the laid back country-fied daze of "Range Life", and one of my all-time favourite songs "Gold Soundz" are all here in their jangly beauty. Listen to any number of songs and it's as though the band- and Stephen Malkmus with his laconic vocals- are sleepwalking around, happening upon beautiful melodies like they're stumbling through dreams. It amounts to a desire for simplicity, a yearning for an easier and looser way of life. The lyrics express this too: they spill out over the songs like jottings from a frustrated poetry book, held together by a consistent desire to make sense: "stop breathing, breathe in for me now…" "go back to those gold sounds"… "if I could settle down, then I would settle down." It all finally culminates in the repeated insistence of "I need to sleep" in the transcendent closer "Fillmore Jive". The only duds are "Newark Wilder" and "Hit the Plane Down", for either feeling too nebulous or out-of-kilter with the rest of the album's flow. Still, they're not offensive enough to drop the album below five stars. It's an absolutely sensational, deliciously skewed take on the 90s' return to guitar rock.

The last Pet Shop Boys album I drew, “Behaviour”, marked Pet Shop Boys’ move into more introspective, “cerebral” music. It did very little for me, so I was intrigued to hear their earlier, peppier side. On paper, 80s electronica and dance with a touch of campy theatrics and offbeat vocal stylings should be something I’d really enjoy, but “Actually” still hasn’t quite clicked for me. From the off, it’s at least a more upbeat and enjoyable record than “Behaviour”- the opener “One More Chance” is percussion-driven for the first couple of minutes until the keyboards snake in layer-by-layer, culminating in a borderline symphonic refrain. “What Have I Done To Deserve This” has an unexpected turn from Dusty Springfield, who does a sterling job and adds some variations to Neil Tennant’s fairly by-the-numbers vocals (some songs build towards a euphoric melodic chorus, then crash and burn with his deadpan spoken refrains). A Pet Shop Boys hosted-album with a roster of guest vocalists could have been an interesting idea. But it didn’t happen, and we get this. The highlights aside (the two openers, “Hit Music” and of course, “It’s a Sin”), the album begins to feel weighed down by all the mechanical electronics. It comes across a little cold without wit, bite or quirks. And the ballads (“It Couldn’t Happen Here”, “Rent” ) are downright dirges. Still, I think it has capacity to grow on me and I wouldn’t bludgeon anyone for putting it on- just didn’t feel like an instant classic. Yet.

Blue me away. I'll keep this one brief (for me) as there's not much to be said that hasn't been covered a thousand times, but what a gem of an album and what a songwriting talent. These are delicate and searingly personal songs, "like tattoos" as Mitchell so eloquently puts it in the title track. Over its forty minute running time, "Blue" is wryly comic, frankly confessional and mostly achingly beautiful. Music rarely moves me to tears unless I selfishly relate it to my personal life, but three of the songs here have done that all on their own. Try not to be moved by "Little Green", about Mitchell giving up her adopted daughter, or the heartbreak and desolation filling up "River". Elsewhere, "My Old Man" and "The Last Time I Saw Richard" showcase her storytelling at the height of its powers, and "Blue" and "A Case of You" paint such dazzling imagery with a deft soprano vocal. Amongst all her other talents, Mitchell is a deft guitarist, and her frequent use of open tunings serves the album's distinctive sound really well. Alongside all the other moods on display here, she weaves in perfectly accessible slices of pop-folk. "Carey" and "California" retain the same elegant sense of lyricism and gorgeous, soaring vocal lines, but set them to carefree (even jaunty) guitar accompaniments. "This Flight Tonight" was even enough to attract the attention of hard rock band Nazareth who reworked it a couple of years later. All of this album is stellar, but the second half especially is just a perfect run of songs. If you're thinking of giving it between 2-3 stars (or even 4) listen to it again, read the lyrics and reconsider. If 1, then you're a lost cause, mate.

In my first year after graduating, I arrived at an aimless place in life where everything I’d thought mattered suddenly didn’t. I discovered Belle and Sebastian’s music, and it immediately struck several chords. Their music is brimming with intricate and heartfelt storylines of disaffected youths, either washed up rebels or sensitive would-be- intellectuals gingerly looking for their real place in the world. “If You’re Feeling Sinister” captures this mixture of lethargy and pain in a seamless set of snapshots. Outsiders who endlessly travel on busses, fumble around with a string of lovers, are obsessed with S&M and bible-studies, and dream of horses. Lyrically, it’s photorealistic to the point you can hear Glasgow’s rain and fog spreading over each track. And the music? Absolutely beautiful. It’s commonly known as “twee pop”, which has always suggested a bit of a snobby, dismissive attitude to me. All it really means is there’s a constant focus on melody, delicately expressed by Stuart Murdoch’s featherweight vocals. There are occasional instrumental flourishes, all gently and perfectly befitting the world the songs and their characters inhabit (Trumpets! Harmonica! Glockenspiel! Recorders!) But really, the arrangements are light and gimmick-free enough to not pull too much attention away from the lyrics and melody. “Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying” is the wry, yet catchy, yet gloomy, yet buoyant core of the album, spanning several moods over its singalong refrain. But every other track here is gold, whatever mood it falls under. Some are upbeat but unravel in pages and pages of scattered poetry, like “Mayfly”, “Seeing Other People” and “Me and the Major”. Some express forlorn sympathy mingled with more than a little hope, like “The Boy Done Wrong Again” and “Fox in the Snow”. Finally, we have the bittersweet sense of triumph building majestically across “Judy and the Dream of Horses”, my all time favourite by the band. Life after graduation got much better, by the way. Learning Stuart Murdoch had struggled with chronic fatigue syndrome for many years put things firmly in perspective.

I've just learned that Trent Reznor moved into the house where Sharon Tate was murdered to record "The Downward Spiral". Justifiable as part of his creative process, or just a horrible case of romanticising and fetishising tragedy? Whichever way you view it, the resulting "...Downward Spiral" came out insular, abrasive and depraved. It sounds like the product of a twisted environment and an even more twisted mind. The singles "Closer" and "Hurt" are the famous cuts here and they're both very effective but also outliers: the production gets much heavier and much more horrific. For most of its runtime, "The Downward Spiral" is downright filthy. I didn't enjoy a lot of it, but I can't deny that Reznor’s production is innovative, captivating, even enthralling. Alongside seismic drums (both live and electronic), walls of wailing guitars, yelled vocals and other synth loops, there are often samples of screams, torture, machines (“Reptile” is especially well-done and in my top tier) and god knows what else. The sudden loud-quiet dynamic shifts which was vogue in 90's alt-rock are taken to the extreme, like Pixies or Nirvana with extreme bipolar. While this can be fascinating, for me the heavier sections tipped over the edge of what I can actually enjoy, and the lyrics are a little bit try-hard angry teenager. "Heresy" is a prime example, with its refrain of "God is dead, and no-one cares". There's a lot of wanting to fuck and desecrate everything in sight, which wears thin after a while and doesn't make for an engaging concept album on the level of, say, "The Wall" (one of Reznor's key influences). Instead, the album is at its best when the sonic innovation is enough to distract from Reznor's patchy lyrics, or tiresome self-flagellating metal. While the vocal segments in "March of the Pigs", "Ruiner", "I Do Not Want This", etc... were just too much for me, many of the songs evolve and shift without returning to recognisable verse-chorus structures. "The Becoming" and “Eraser” are both prime examples, packing a lot into their running time and opting for either consistent forward momentum or a slow, creeping dread. Every now and then, there's an intriguing loop, burst of piano or ambient palette cleanser to shine through (thank god for "A Warm Place", giving some depth to proceedings off the back of the unbearable "Big Man With A Gun"). It's interesting approaching Nine Inch Nails in 2021, because Trent Reznor has continued to blossom from one of alternative music's most reputable figures to a critics' darling in film. His soundtrack work with Atticus Ross has won him Oscars and even taken him to Pixar, for crying out loud. The Reznor working on this album is a very different beast. I'm not likely to listen much again, but like a ruined souffle or a terrible murder, it's hard not to be taken in.

In "Fire of Love", The Gun Club cut from generations of blues and American roots music and paste it into their immediate post-punk scene. It's violent, incendiary and raw with a caustic delivery (part Lou Reed, part Joe Strummer, part Robert Johnson). It's a little too repetitive at times, but still a captivating set of songs. For better and for worse, "Sex Beat" immediately sums up the whole album with its trebly rhythm section, skeletal arrangement and explicit, barked out vocals. There aren't many other directions introduced in the remaining 37 minutes, but we do get some consistently solid post-punk with a bluesy twang. It's a new wave of garage rock, where the influence on Jack White's music twenty years later can clearly be heard (though The Gun Club are much less technically accomplished or varied). The frenetic 1-2 energy of "Preaching the Blues" and "For the Love of Ivy", with basic chords, extreme dynamics and walking basslines, is an effective marriage of rockabilly with neurotic post-punk, giving weight to the emerging genre "psychobilly." The lyrics paint pictures of killers, hunters and deviants trailing across a wasteland somewhere like the Old West. There's frequent mention of the victims-to-be and others to be lain waste to, involving problematic repeated use of the "n" word. While the sound is compelling at first, setting the band just enough apart from many of their contemporaries, it doesn’t take too long for it to become somewhere between overbearing and just plain dull. By comparison with the rest, "Fire Spirit", "Black Train" and "Goodbye Johnny" are so forgettable I have nothing else to say about them after several listens. The best tracks for my money are the slow-burners, those which move at more of a menacing strut than a frantic gallop. "Jack on Fire" and "Cool Drink of Water Blues" (the latter a blues standard) are both great changes in pace, swinging slowly into madness with excellent instrumental crescendos and perfectly pitched vocals. I admire "Fire of Love" for the places it took the genre and the wave of subsequent musicians it may have influenced, but standing alone it's not much more than a fun, solid listen.

In his first album with everything to prove, Lenny Kravitz writes every note, plays every instrument and seals everything in his own production, all the while borrowing heavily from his musical heritage. It’s an admirable achievement, which yields good (if not great) results. Kravitz is an engaging performer, but wears his influences on his sleeve in his stylings and songwriting. The Prince comparisons make a lot of sense: Kravitz’s vocal timbre glides nicely between low seduction, occasional crystal-clear falsetto and a grizzled howl (used to particular effect in slow-crawling bluesy funk tracks like “Fear”). More than just the Prince-alike vocals, Let Love Rule” resembles the Purple One’s “Around the World in a Day” era in particular, with live orchestrations and a generous helping of 60s psychedelia (enter Beatles). There are strings swelling underneath “I Build This Garden”, complemented by melodic McCartney basslines, electric piano, organ and an ultra-fuzzed out lead guitar at the end. “Let Love Rule” is a naive but sweet plea to do just that, over a diluted “Hey Jude” style mantra of a chorus. It has a warm and familiar sound and is never actively bad, but a lot of the time it isn’t particularly exciting either. For example, there’s nothing particularly special about a track like “My Precious Love”- Kravitz’s passionate vocals aside. It’s well-trodden ground and not at all cutting edge by 1989. I did enjoy a lot of this album and would happily listen again, but it’s comfortably middle of the road.

A few weeks ago, I heard Funkadelic’s “One Nation Under a Groove” and thought it was one of the best parties captured on record. It turns out that George Clinton wasn’t even matching his own efforts from three years earlier. “Mothership Connection” is a rip-roaring, all-singing, all-dancing and by all accounts seminal album in the evolution of funk. I’m ashamed of not having heard it until now, but I’m making up for lost time by repeating it again… and again. The best party tracks are the most famous: “P-Funk (Wants to Get Funked Up)” and “Give Up The Funk” are both so impeccably put together. I’d heard much of the music across the record sampled in Dr Dre’s “The Chronic” (where they were the highlights) so it was a great experience hearing them all in full. The sci-fi overtones are brought in throughout as a campy way without ever feeling trite or forced. There’s just the right amount of synth lines in the mix without letting it feel too dated or kitsch, and the rest is just pure horny goodness… In “Unfunky UFO”, the band channel Sky and the Family Stone with a slightly harder-edged riff, and a delectable “yeah yeah yeah” refrain beaming its way down the minor scale. “Night of the Thumpasorus Peoples” closes on an amazing nonsense singalong refrain. Even “Handcuffs”, bearing perhaps the most questionable lyrical content, has a killer accompaniment which it’s near-impossible not to enjoy. If you aren’t bopping along, you’ve been funked all the way into a black hole. It’s early days but each time I’ve listened to this album, it’s been impossible not to be grinning away, with the sense of experiencing a true classic.

"Drunk" is a cosmic helping of scattered, schizophrenic funk and neo-soul from Thundercat. I remember it being all the rage at the time of its release, and at the time I tentatively dipped my toe in and then quickly got a bit lost. After giving it a few more listens, it's started to work its magic but still feels like it's lacking some focus. 23 tracks over 51 minutes is quite an undertaking, and many of them come across more like frenzied snapshots for the meme generation. In the first five minutes alone, there's a soulful harmonised intro, a disarming "beat yer meat, go to sleep" mantra, and then the bonkers fusion excursion with "Uh Uh." For every fully fledged song like "Show You The Way", "Friend Zone" or "Them Changes", there's an "I Am Crazy" which is over before you know it's begun, or "A Fan's Mail", about Thundercat's wish to become an actual cat. For all the inconsistencies, there's certainly a LOT of innovation going on here within each track. Soulful vocals and harmonies, interesting modulations, unusual time signatures (hello "Blackkk") and plenty of sonic gimmicks. The production is ear-grabbing, managing to be forward looking while also revelling in retro stylings. Listen to the drum machines and plasticky synths in "Tokyo" and "Jameel's Space Ride", sounding like they were made with Casio keyboards: a lot of fun. Drunk is a decent listen and will probably reward more goes, but I almost got whiplash from some of the tracks whizzing by so quickly and wished we could have stayed in some of the grooves for longer. The more wallowy slow jams (particularly in the back half) didn't do much for me either: much more a fan of the upbeat stuff.

After being a Beatles fan for many years, "Band on the Run" was one of the first post-Beatles albums I ventured into. I gravitated towards the big, bombastic Martin-esque arrangements (the end of "Nineteen Eighty Five" is still killer), the Abbey-Road-esque suites (the title track is a classic example of "greater than the sum of its parts") and the polished, radio-friendly rock ("JET!"… enough said). It's still a great listen, but I can just about shake my bias to say it's a bit lightweight in places. "Bluebird" and "Mamunia" both have nice choruses, but "nice" is about the most enthusiastic word I can muster for them. They breeze by, meandering a bit around their verses, and then they're over without leaving much of an impression. On any Beatles album they'd have been forgettable and throwaway. It's also hard to say how much the setting of Lagos, Nigeria influenced the recording, other than the band plastering on some "exotic" percussion. Guiros and claves abound… Still, "Picasso's Last Words" is an underrated gem, with its melancholic singalong that goes through various iterations (one including some dazzling strings). While not enthralling from beginning to end, I'll always love the simplicity of the "OH- HEY HO" in "Mrs Vandebilt." And ultimately, the album still gets four stars on the strength of its best tracks: the two openers, two closers and the brilliant "Let Me Roll It" (often labelled Lennon-esque for its heavy use of echo, deployed intentionally by McCartney).

Google “best ‘Yeah’ in rock” and see how far you can go without seeing someone mention the end of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” For just one word which has also been used in about 95% of pop and rock songs ever, it seems to crystallise everything that made The Who great, capturing lightning in a bottle. When I first heard “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, I was already aware of Daltrey’s legendary full-throttled cry. It’s echoed through the pantheons of rock history as the band’s signature moment and one of the greatest climaxes in music. So when the first and much shorter “Yeah” came, four or so minutes in, it caught me off guard. Was that it? I kept listening, feeling a bit underwhelmed… and then at last, it came. And The Who have never stopped being one of my favourite classic rock bands ever since. “Who’s Next” showcases the band in their absolute prime, without any convoluted concepts or any indulgent theatrics. Their musicianship speaks for itself, all four of them jostling for the spotlight as masters of their craft. As well as ultimate closer “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, there’s the ultimate opening “Baba O’Riley” and the ultimate midway ballad “The Song Is Over”. Townshend’s introspective, soul-searching lyrics come to the fore, elevating the already great “Bargain”, “Getting in Tune” and “Behind Blue Eyes” to something really special. Then there’s the lighter pieces which I initially thought were throwaway: “Love Ain’t for Keeping”, “My Wife”, “Going Mobile”. But they all finish off the album with a lovely blend of humour and zeal, each with their own elements to love (backing vocals! Acoustic guitar licks! Horns! A solo that sounds like a duck!) It’s crazy to think the album is largely a series of outtakes from a concept piece Townshend could never quite get together: “Lifehouse”. After having read about this, I’m convinced it would have been lofty and convoluted- a sprawling mess with plenty of filler like “Tommy”. Thank god they opted for a straighter rock album here, before hitting their peak with the next album “Quadrophenia”. So just as Messrs Daltrey, Entwistle, Moon and Townshend urinated all over the imposing monolith on the cover, they spent the forty minutes of “Who’s Next” dousing their eager listeners with hit after hit, in a run of windmilling power chords, manic drum fills and full-throated bellows. It’s the only golden shower I can imagine enjoying.

And so we arrive at last, at the first of many, many essential David Bowie albums. “Hunky Dory” is a fresh, eclectic gem, with some precursors of glam-Bowie and shape-shifting remnants of folk-Bowie. There’s a tendency to view it as an artist expanding his horizons while drawing ever closer to world-domination, but one of my favourite things about “Hunky Dory” is just how unfussy and homely it feels. It isn’t his all-out blockbuster (“Ziggy”), his most radical reinvention (“Station to Station”) or even his most fun offering (“Scary Monsters”… fight me). But “Hunky Dory” perfectly balances such high ambition with a self-assured, home-spun atmosphere. It’s a sitting-round the-fireplace album, a record just as suited to a low-key family gathering as at a house party (my kind of house party anyway). We get to hear Bowie making peace with cozy domesticity in the lolloping, heartwarming “Kooks”. He wears his influences on his sleeves and gushes over them in “Andy Warhol”, “Queen Bitch” (for The Velvet Underground) and “Song for Bob Dylan”. Even “Fill Your Heart”, sometimes dismissed as a lightweight cover, strikes the perfect twee-filled note with me. And all that praise is without even mentioning three career-defining works which made it onto the same album. “Changes”… wow. “Oh! You Pretty Things”… spectacular. “Life On Mars”… come on, man. The latter especially might be incredibly ambitious in arrangement, bombast and scope, but it still feels like it could have only been written by Bowie at this specific time in his life. Twenty-four years old, still figuring out his image, channelling the contemporaries he loved, on a course to the moon. And the soul of the whole set lies with “Quicksand”, bearing the line many fans repeated after his demise: “I’m not a prophet or a stone age man, just a mortal with potential of a superman, I’m living on…”

In all my ignorance, I've never heard of Willie Colon and Ruben Blade's collaborative album "Siembra". I'm only aware of Colon through his collaborations with David Byrne on the latter's "Rei Momo". But this is the real deal: a quick Google has told me "Siembra" is the biggest selling salsa album of all time, and it's jam-packed with ornate arrangements and feelgood vibes. It's a great party, but for me it became a little repetitive after a while. There are only seven tracks here, averaging over six minutes each: while each one didn't quite do enough to have me gripped, they certainly proved pleasant to enjoy in the background or to brighten up a long work day. The language barrier has stopped me getting the full lyrical impact, but there are some interesting concepts at play (particularly the narrative about the killer "Pedro Navaja"). Musically, it's consistently tight, accomplished and catchy. "Plastico" begins, somewhat unexpectedly, with a slapped bass funk-disco figure, before settling into a more familiar salsa rhythm about one minute in. From there it's syncopated piano, a vast roster of percussion including bongos, congas, cowbell, plenty of horn arrangements gliding over the top, and all the other characteristics of Latin music I can remember from GCSEs. Favourite parts included the chanting in "Maria Lionza", giving a great sense of momentum; the call-and-response vocals in "Ojos" and some of the percussion fills in between verses; any time horns appeared. I may not be actively seeking "Siembra" out in future, but whenever I hear it I'll burst into an uncontrollable salsa.

Two Who albums in a week might seem like overkill to some, but it's hard to complain too much when the performances are this good. There are multiple versions of "Live at Leeds", from the compact, 37-minute original (listed in the 1001 Albums book) to the full-on two hour set including all of Tommy. I opted for the middle option, which is a fairly daunting 77 minutes long. Thankfully, in the company of four rock gods it zips by in a frenzy of windmill-ing guitar and microphone throws. The only part which dragged slightly was the towering medley in the middle of "My Generation"... sacrilege as it might be to say. Compared with their studio work leading up to this, the band are well and truly on form here. Daltrey holds his own against the raging storm of the three musicians playing under him, from Townshend's tightly wound guitar parts (originating power-pop) to Entwistle and Moon being absolutely unhinged on bass and drums. Really, the untouchable Moon is the MVP here. Unleashed onto a live kit, he seems to attack with more aggression and fervour than we ever hear on the recordings. Listen closely and you can hear his screams as he launches into his next fill. There's a nice split of original material and covers, all taken up to the max with showmanship. As songs themselves, I've never understood the popularity of "I'm A Boy" or "Happy Jack": they're far from the band's best material and really benefit from a slightly punchier treatment here. The prime Who cuts on the record are "Substitute" (given an upgrade here with John Entwistle's gloriously overdriven bass), "A Quick One" and "Magic Bus". Then there are the standards (including "Summertime Blues", "Young Man Blues" and "Fortune Teller") which are also great fun. I can't not mention the band's patter in between songs, from Townshend's gawky, stilted explanation of the "A Quick One" story to Moon chiming in that a "jazz sage" is a flavour of chicken. I'm more a fan of the studio work they did directly after this (Who's Next and Quadrophenia) but "Live at Leeds" is still a hugely enjoyable picture of a band at the height of their powers.

I went into "New Forms" fully expecting not to like it. Goldie's oh-so-ironically named "Timeless" had done nothing for me a few months back, and drum n' bass is really not my jam. But to give it a little credit, once I tried to zone out from the interminable length, it seemed there would be enough to like in "New Forms". "Brown Paper Bag", the most famous track, boasts an addictive fretless bass refrain and a frenetic beat. It's a freak-out, a riot, and it's fun. The same bass crops up in various tracks across the record and gives a unique, fluid kind of texture. But outside of that, there was a lot of repetition in the first disc alone. "Matter of Fact" is totally needless noodling around with sound effects, different synth lines over a stuttering fractured beat. "Morse Code" and "Destination" were more of the same- I wanted to like them but I just wasn't picking up on many intricacies or shape to them. I couldn't escape the nagging feeling that it was all a waste of time. I struggled my way to the end of the album listed on Spotify, realised it was only part 1 and there was another hour to go, and then put off going near the rest of it for several months. By the time I eventually got through the whole thing (23 tracks, 2 hours 20 minutes!) it hadn't changed my mind on the genre. It's marginally better than some of the other drum and bass albums I've heard (I liked a lot of the instrumentation and the vocal features) but it torpedoes itself with its length. I can't go too in-depth because I'd have to put myself through it all again and I'm going to have to go with my first impression. Some of the individual tracks may have been far better in a shorter album, but as it is I'm unlikely to ever listen to the whole thing again. That makes a one star in my book. I'd go back to: "Brown Paper Bag", "Heroes", "Watching Windows", "Electricks".

IF I WERE TO WRITE A FULL REVIEW IN ALL CAPS, AT FIRST IT MIGHT CATCH YOUR EYE AS YOU SCROLL THROUGH THE LIST. IT'S A COOL EFFECT, ATTENTION-GRABBING, IMPOSING. BUT THEN AFTER A FEW SENTENCES, IT QUICKLY BECOMES TIRESOME. LIKE I'M SHOUTING AT YOU. THAT'S A BIT WHAT LISTENING TO THE BEASTIE BOYS' VOCALS FEELS LIKE. THEY QUICKLY BECOME REPETITIVE AND IRRITATING, WITH LITTLE NUANCE OR DYNAMIC RANGE. IT'S A GOOD JOB, THEN, THAT "PAUL'S BOUTIQUE" HAS SO MUCH GOING ON BEYOND THAT. THERE'S SOME REALLY INNOVATIVE USE OF SAMPLING GOING ON HERE, WITH THE WHOLE BAND SEEMINGLY MINING THEIR PARENT'S RECORD COLLECTIONS FOR INSPIRATION AND COLLAGING IT ALL TOGETHER. IT'S POSSIBLY THE ONLY HIP-HOP BOOMERS COULD ENJOY, BECAUSE THE BEATLES, ZEPPELIN, HENDRIX AND FLOYD ALL MAKE BRIEF APPEARANCES. "EGG-MAN", "THE SOUNDS OF SCIENCE" AND "HEY LADIES" ARE THE BEST TRACKS IN THIS REGARD, WITH WELL ACCOMPLISHED SAMPLING AND A TRULY DANCEABLE ENERGY. HOWEVER, THE SUITE AT THE END FEELS DISJOINTED AND ROUGH, LIKE IT WAS COBBLED TOGETHER FROM SOME OUTTAKES. OVERALL, I ENJOYED HEARING SUCH A LANDMARK ALBUM IN HIP-HOP. BUT JUST LIKE THESE ALL-CAPS, THERE'S ONLY SO MUCH OF IT I COULD TAKE. A little more chopping down and experimenting with different flows and delivery would have done wonders.

Of all The Beatles' albums, this one is my least favourite. Even just looking across their early work, "With the Beatles" doesn't have the raw, "recorded-in-12-hours" power of "Please Please Me". It doesn't have the tidal wave of all-original material like "A Hard Day's Night", and it doesn't have the developing maturity of "Beatles for Sale." But it's still four stars. That's how much of a fan-boy I am. Released just a few months after their debut as Beatlemania was rising towards fever-pitch, the Beatles were still a perfectly honed machine in live performance. That energy comes across here through the band's spirited renditions, however much the actual material might sag. The covers are best not compared to the originals and instead appreciated for what the Beatles bring to them. I still get a buzz from their harmonies in "Please Mister Postman" and "You Really Got a Hold on Me", McCartney's effortlessly earnest take on "'Till There Was You" and Lennon almost reaching a "Twist and Shout" level scream-along with "Money". The originals are probably the patchiest territory: "All I've Got to Do", "Little Child" and "Not a Second Time" rank among the most forgettable in the band's catalogue. George Harrison skulks moodily through his first self-penned song "Don't Bother Me" and forgets to add a melody. But it's all okay, because "It Won't Be Long" and "All My Loving" are utterly compelling and relentlessly exciting. Why the book didn't have the band's debut "Please Please Me" instead of this, I'll never quite understand. But it's still a hell of a good ride.

My mum bought me this one year for my birthday, having confused it with the incendiary social commentary of "What's Going On". She was horrified to realise that, in fact, she had given me thirty minutes of "sex music." The joke is all on her: this album is still revealing its secrets to me many years later. The arrangements are so wonderfully sweeping and rich. The strings and brass give a firm bedrock for Gaye's vocals and backing vocals (all done himself). It's doused in a lovely amount of reverb which helps all of it come together in a gorgeous, lush wash of sound... music to bathe in. Listen to that almost imperceptible glockenspiel and flute adding another subtle dimension to "Distant Lover". Perfect. However much it's used as shorthand to a sex scene, a joke or a meme, the song "Let's Get It On" is absolutely timeless, and an incredible performance from Gaye distilling the sex-positive, sensual and celebratory themes of the album into four minutes of triumphant soul. I don't even mind when "Keep Gettin' In On" comes and does basically the same thing a few minutes later. Learning the context of the album- that Gaye was abused by his father as a child and this marked a healing process as he reassessed his views on sex, love and relationships- made it much more poignant. There's a spiritual power in Gaye's vocals which is every bit as pertinent as in "What's Going On": it isn't just an album to bang to. That said, it's definitely an album with a singular "mood"... if you know what I mean. When that mood fits, it's sublime.

In his second of just three albums, Nick Drake sings of his wishes to belong, his fall from grace, while musing on who he could and could never be. It's hard to separate from his tragic suicide just a few years later, to the extent any review feels reductive. But I had a go comparing to his later efforts at least. Even when considering Drake's work in a vacuum, I went into "Bryter Layter" desperate not to compare it with "Pink Moon", which I've always loved for its utter sparsity. In the end, I couldn't escape the feeling that this one just wasn't on the same level. Most notable are of course the orchestrations and extended instrumentals, which it's a little difficult to get used to. Some of it is still excellent. "Northern Sky" is a wonderful song: emotive, elegant and melodic with just the right amount of psychedelia. "Fly" has a lovely cascading acoustic guitar figure which is complemented nicely by harpsichord and viola (ey up John Cale). "Poor Boy" is nicely augmented by the backing vocalists, even if the piano could ease up in places. But a lot of the rest never quite lands on either side of the fence. The lyrics aren't as searing as I'd have liked, the melodies not as immediate. The guitar-playing is deft and accomplished, but all-too-often recedes behind hokey piano or swelling strings. Three instrumentals ("Introduction", "Bryter Layter" and "Sunday") is a bit overkill when the arrangements are fairly basic and twee. I felt especially bad when I heard about Drake's earnest wish for them to be like "Pet Sounds". Poor sweet man. "Bryter Layter" suffers in my head because I can't separate it from the beautiful follow-up Nick Drake would make, and the tragedy of what came afterwards. There are some lovely songs on here, but ultimately it's a sad reminder of just how much more Drake could have achieved with more time.

I'm now 166 albums in to the 1001 journey, and one thing I've learned so far is that my liking for punk is much stronger than I'd expected. This is partly because songs like the fourteen on The Undertones' debut lend themselves to a "one-album-a-day" listening experience. Every song on "The Undertones" is bright, snappy, short and on the nose. They wear everything on their sleeves and don't need repeated listens to realise any hidden meanings or memorise subtle melodies. The whole album is done in less than half an hour in a sugar-rush of adolescent adrenaline. So it's easy to dismiss The Undertones' efforts here as throwaway, but there's great songcraft at work here. The guitar riffs in "I Gotta Getta" and "Family Entertainment" haven't dated at all in the forty-five subsequent years of alt-guitar rock, "Here Comes the Summer" and "Jimmy Jimmy" bounce by with such irrepressible energy, "Girls Don't Like It" and "I Know a Girl" boast instantly familiar melodies. Even "Casbah Rock", in 47 seconds, lodges itself in the listener's head and leaves a lasting impression as a closer. It's unmistakeably Ramones-esque in delivery and pace, but no complaints from me. Sometimes three chords are all you need, and The Undertones even have a bit of an edge with Feargal Sharkey's supple vocals, reaching towards a tenor range in the likes of "Billy's Third." Lighthearted, sure. Disposable, if you insist. But it's hard to argue with an album where nothing can be seen to outstay its welcome and every track gets the pulse racing.

As someone only passably familiar with Manic Street Preachers' most radio-friendly hits, "The Holy Bible" was quite an eye-opener. When the opening song is about prostituting oneself, with the opening line "for sale- dumb cunt's same dumb questions", you know you're probably in for an unforgiving, self-lacerating experience. "Holy Bible" is just that, placing Manic Street Preachers straight into the pantheon of nihilistic 90s bands rising up in the wake of grunge. The subject matter here is provocative, uncompromising, and very bleak. It's inevitably tied with the tragic disappearance-deemed-suicide of lyricist and guitarist Richey Edwards, making for some uncomfortable listening to poison not quite unbearable music. "4st 7lb", for example, is plain unpleasant and made me think about the moral dilemma of balancing hateful art with the wellbeing of its creator (were Edwards' struggles with depression and anorexia taken seriously by anyone in the industry at the time? Or were they exploited as a publicity stunt?). "Revol" answers a question nobody needed answering: what if "We Didn't Start the Fire" was done by an angsty alt-rock 90s band? Answer: it would only have marginally more gravitas. So I've been really mixed on "The Holy Bible" and was going to give two stars after one listen, but there is a lot of merit here. Beneath the attention-grabbing toxic lyrics, some of these tracks dare to be catchy ("Yes", the chorus of "Ifwhiteamerica…" and "P.C.P" are some of the strongest examples). There's very strong musicianship (the guitar solo in "Archives of Pain", some nice shifting time-signatures, the hooky bassline in "P.C.P"). "This Is Yesterday" is as close as we get to a ballad and is one of two songs not written by Richey Edwards. It's not as radical as some of the others, but is a bit more palatable and adds a lovely touch of pathos to proceedings. Overall, "The Holy Bible" is a solid, meaty listen. It isn't all roses and sugarplums, but hey, who am I to demand what people write about?

The generator handed me "Bitches Brew" on 28th April 2022. As I type this, it's 18th April 2023. A whole year has almost passed. One of the album's instrumentalists, the great saxophonist Wayne Shorter, has literally died in the time it's taken me to gather my thoughts on this work. And in truth, I've been putting off reviewing it for so long… because I'm scared of it. Many months after first listening to it, I have absolutely no idea what to say about its dense, sprawling 105 minutes. I'm listening to it again now, and I still don't know. It's like nothing else I've heard on this list. I've been aware of "Bitches Brew" for many years, placing it in my mind alongside the acid-soaked, psychedelic behemoths of the late 60s and early 70s. It's known for infuriating many jazz aficionados of the day, while giving Davis increased vitality and relevance in the rock sphere after dipping his toes in with "In a Silent Way." It's easy to see why: some of this really goes hard, and the parts I enjoyed were the ones which embraced rock music to the full. "Spanish Key" and "Miles Run the Voodoo Down" are total freak-outs: hard-grooving, rip-roaring, mind-melting exorcisms full of funk rhythm guitar, crazy lead parts, lashings of distortion and incredibly tight, mesmeric basslines. There's also the title track's intro, with a trumpet sounding like a traffic jam, which was revolutionary and controversial in jazz circles for its liberal use of the delay effect. Striking and effective as it may be, even better is the groove introduced at the three minute mark. Slowly, inexorably, it sustains itself while the drums and keyboards froth up into a hurricane. Just as these sections are thrilling, much of the album is head-scratching and confounding. "Pharaoh's Dance" goes nowhere and everywhere at the same time: Davis's first entrance, at almost three minutes in, feels totally enigmatic, defying expected phrasing or tonality. "Sanctuary" feels like it's set to be a gentle reprieve, but ends as chaotic as everything else. And "Feio" is crawling, foreboding, menacing… finally ending the whole album in seventeen seconds of bizarre studio patter. One day, I hope to love this. I would love to carry it around with me in my heart and my soul, to feel its beguiling chaos fill every corner of my existence. To surrender to it, to feel like as much of a genius for liking it as Miles Davis is for conceiving it. But until that day, I have nothing but boundless confusion and a faint, distant admiration. The honest truth? Above all, I still just don't know.

"Coles Corner" is a lovingly retro record from Richard Hawley- the whole set oozes class, elegance and heartache. Named after a popular meeting place for dates in Hawley's (and my) native Sheffield, the album concerns itself primarily with love lost and found, with a series of ballads in Hawley’s baritone croon. It's not for everyone, presumably even less so back in 2005: it's certainly a far cry from the cheeky-chappy, Britpoppy take on Sheffield's nightlife immortalised by Pulp or early Arctic Monkeys. Instead, “Coles Corner” is a grand and stately affair, with tempos and arrangements running through treacle and lyrics softened almost into total cliche. But it is very listenable, and often dazzling in its simplicity. It's surprising that tracks like "Just Like the Rain", "I Sleep Alone” and "Wading Through The Waters of My Time" were conceived with the album, and aren’t old standards. They sound like Hawley picked them out of a dusty old songbook from a distant and forgotten history, fitting right in alongside the only traditional offering “Who’s Gonna Shoe Your Pretty Little Feet”. Sometimes a little bit country, sometimes more folksy… all with a 50's crooner delivery. Musically, it’s given a tasteful modern update by crisp, full-bodied production and gorgeous guitar work. Listen to the slide in "Hotel Room", the counter-melody in the "Born Under a Bad Sign" chorus, and the chordal accompaniment running through “Darlin’ Wait For Me”. From the rest of the tracks, “Coles Corner” is the most romantic, absolutely aching with strings. “The Ocean" is the most climactic, reaching a stunning crescendo in its last couple of minutes. And "Last Orders" is the most atmospheric, sounding like the final piano drifting through the haze at the end of the world. I've listened many times walking home on a very late night and it has always fit perfectly… almost pure magic.

The third and last album released by Jimi Hendrix before his death, “Electric Ladyland” sees him flooding the grooves with every style he’d paddled in before. There’s the stirrings of hard rock, psychedelia, blues, soul and… well, that’s about it, if we’re being honest. Nonetheless, the album stirs them into an intoxicating blend to become a dazzling effort, despite the unwieldy running time. The most well-known songs are celebrated for a reason: “Crosstown Traffic”, “All Along the Watchtower” and “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” are all electrifying and showcase Hendrix’s magnitude as a guitarist, singer and bandleader: perfect encapsulation of late 60’s rock on the cusp of something heavier. Still, thank god the band afford time for some variety. An underrated side of Hendrix’s discography includes his ballads and flirtation with soul, and it peaks here. The title track is gorgeous, along with “Long Hot Summer Night” and “Burning of the Midnight Lamp.” They’re a great mixture of fine songcraft and studio experimentation to tip them over in pure “Hendrixian” bliss. The main issue here is the album’s length, but the longest tracks aren’t entirely at fault. Of the two “monsters” here, “1983 (A Merman I Should Turn To Be)” is staggering. Its opening groove, with its gorgeous liquid riff, is mystical, menacing, swaggering and tender all at once. The subdued instrumental, all dreamy textures and restrained lead, builds beautifully into a bass groove from about nine and a half minutes back into the main theme (some lovely flute work from Traffic’s Chris Wood too). It’s the other 10+ minute track, “Voodoo Child”, which feels overlong to me and does little to justify its long running time beyond some jamming which would have worked better in a more spontaneous live setting. There are the makings of a flawless five star album here for sure, but as with many double albums, it suffers from being a little overlong. Twenty minutes or so shaved off would have done it, but the amount of quality material on here is still more than most musicians could hope to achieve in their lifetimes, much less when cut tragically short.

"Either/Or" is my first exposure to Elliott Smith's music. It's an unfussy-sounding album that's less concerned with pristine production or technical skill than it is about conveying mood, atmosphere and sentiment. I'm very happy with this approach: the stripped back style (often just acoustic guitar and spidery-thin vocals) works to the credit of much of the material. Paradoxically, it was the more filled out, upbeat tracks that felt a bit lacking for me. "Speed Trials", "Cupid's Trick" and "Pictures of Me" felt a little too beige: fairly standard 90's bedroom rock that didn't quite feel suited to Smith's voice, lyrical talents or aesthetic. When he took the simplicity in another direction, the ballads he's perhaps more known for, I was much more taken in. In general, the second half of the album kicked things up to another gear on this front, with some lovely melodies blossoming and finding beauty in simplicity. "Say Yes" is absolutely lovely: its genuine earnestness redeeming it from what might otherwise be cliched progression and melody. It's the sweetest tune here and worth sticking out the album for. Elsewhere in the back half, some similarly tuneful offerings stood out to me: "Rose Parade" is the Magnetic Fields song I never knew I needed, and "Angeles" manages to do a lot with a little. The guitar playing is often deceptively complex (take the speed and precision of "Angeles", or use of open-tuning to augment some of the chord structures- a little Nick Drake-y in this regard). Even though a lot of the chord progressions don't break the bank, they can also mask a deeper complexity. The meandering and sprawling "Alameda" is good for keeping a listener guessing, even if it does seem a little unfocused. On paper, Smith's music is everything I really like but I haven't managed to connect with a lot of the tracks after a few listens: it's been enough to show me there's something in them, so I'm keen to keep trying.

I was convinced I wouldn't be rating this above 4 stars. I'm a fan of the band, but have always much preferred the sublime "If You're Feeling Sinister", which I had on here a few weeks ago. "Tigermilk", while a very assured debut, doesn't reach the same heights. Still, as I listened to it with fresh ears, I kept waiting for a reason to knock it down, for the weak link... and none came. It's got "The State I Am In", "Expectations" and "She's Losing It" as an opening triage which are all incredible. Perfect balance between detailed, vivid character studies and warm, reassuring melodies. "Mary Jo" gives "Eleanor Rigby" a run for its money as a study in loneliness. "My Wandering Days Are Over" is up there with my all time favourites by the band. "Electronic Renaissance" is the outlier, sure... but at least it's an experiment with a different sound. So they're going to have to take my five stars- sometimes nothing else will do.

It's nice to be reminded now and again that there were more folk-rock singer-songwriters in the mid 1960s than Bob Dylan and Paul Simon. Fred Neil is one such artist, whom I'd never heard of until now. His self-titled album isn't necessarily the pinnacle of its genre, but it flourishes under a consistently mellow mood, as well as enough twists and turns to keep things interesting. The most famous track here (and possibly the sole reason the album made the 1001 list) is the original "Everybody's Talkin'", later made famous by Harry Nilsson. It's interesting to hear Neil's version, but what's perhaps more interesting is that it's by no means the standout track. It's perfectly good in a way most of the rest are: no more, no less. Neil excels at melancholia. His smooth and rich baritone voice has much more character than, say, James Taylor (whose album I had just after this one). His lyrics are introspective and often wryly dark: "You know they'll probably drop the atom bomb the day my ship comes in" is a wildly doomed line and I'm all for it. The strongest tracks for me have a lovely yearning, stripped-back quality, like "The Dolphins" and "I've Got a Secret" (originally by Elizabeth Cotten, who I'd now like to check out). But the best by atmosphere alone is the beautiful rendition of old standard "Faretheewell", a gorgeous exercise in restraint punctuated by some bouzouki of all things. There are some nice instrumental touches to keep things going: the tremolo effect on the guitar in "The Dolphins". The whistling at the end of "I've Got A Secret". The harmonica which crops up throughout many of the tracks. But it's all topped off by the closer, an 8-minute instrumental raga (titled "Cynicrustpetefredjohn Raga"). It is glaringly out of place and almost derails the whole set. In some ways, I'm not sure Neil was the man to attempt this kind of feat- what was he thinking? Still, credit to him for shaking things up in the home stretch. Overall then, I'm a fan of this album: a hidden gem (to me at least) of mid 60's folk. Not an essential listen, but a good one.

I've never really heard any James Taylor, but have always had a bit of second-hand respect for him after hearing his name mentioned in the same breath as Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young and more in the top tier of early 70's singer-songwriters. With "Sweet Baby James", that respect has taken a bit of a hit. From start to finish, it seems to be the definition of easy listening. The vocals remain in a comfortable range without much "oomph", the melodies are sweet and predictable, and the lyrics are earnest and plain. All of this, of course, adds up to a perfectly pleasant set of songs. None of "Sweet Baby James" is actively grating, unpleasant or challenging, so in some ways it's a little harsh to downgrade an album for not taking many risks. But there's just nothing that particularly grabs me. Even if an album prides itself on a stripped back, easy-listening approach, it's still nice to have songs that stand out. Admittedly, "Fire and Rain" is a good track, as is a lot of the closing "Suite for 20 G", bringing a much needed element of bombast. The most offensive end of the album is the purely throwaway stuff, like "Sunny Skies", "Blossom" or "Anywhere Like Heaven" which are so ephemeral they float by like dandelion seeds and vaporise completely at the end. In the middle are tracks like "Sweet Baby James" (I read on Wikipedia that Taylor was particularly proud of these lyrics... it's hard to see why), "Country Road" and "Steamroller." Hearing that the latter was intended as a parody of weedy white bluesmen redeems it slightly, but still doesn't entirely sell it as a great song. Overall, this album just didn't really leave much of an impression on me, which is particularly strange for a genre, style and era I usually really enjoy. Sorry James, this ain't it.

"The better the singer's voice, the harder it is to believe what they're saying" - David Byrne. It doesn't ring entirely true, but goes a long way towards explaining Talking Heads' approach to music: capture a flash of inspiration, cling to the authenticity of it, worry about everything else afterwards. To me, "Fear of Music" (what a title) is when all the components of this brilliant band come together for the first time. David Byrne's unique and neurotic worldview was projecting out to everything around him, the band were starting to explore new ground and styles musically while retaining a sense of spontaneity, and Brian Eno's partnership with them was soaring to new heights. The concept of "Fear of Music" - detachment from any sense of stability, and paranoia concerning just about everything - unravels beautifully across the set of songs. We're treated to what is, in effect, a Talking Heads rulebook containing the following insights: Love is as weak as paper. Heaven is a con. Don't trust animals, they're laughing at you. Don't trust electric guitar, it's breaking the law. Don't trust the air you breathe, it can also hurt you. Bim blassa galassasa zimbrabim! Musically, they're on stellar form: Byrne and Jerry Harrison's jagged and brash rhythm guitar, Tina Weymouth's bubbling, disco-esque basslines, and Chris Frantz bringing rock-steady drum parts. Some occasional stuttering keyboard accompaniments go a long way, as does Eno's cold production. Even including the weakest link "Electric Guitar", every track is either lyrically striking, irresistibly danceable (a frenzied strut, but danceable all the same), or at least ear-grabbingly intriguing. The coda of "Animals" holds a special place in my heart. Robert Fripp's guitar cameo in "I Zimbra" is dizzying wonder. The build-up in "Memories Can't Wait" is triumphant and disturbing at once. "Heaven" sounded a lot better four years later on "Stop Making Sense", but it's still a melodic gem. Every track is completely original and arrestingly immediate. They would move onto more ambitious work immediately afterwards, but "Fear of Music" shows the band absolutely mastering three-minute songcraft.

It might not be an all-time classic, but THIS, ladies and gents, is why I signed up for the 1001 Albums journey! "Fromohio" was an album I'd never heard of by a band I didn't know, with no clue what to expect. The cover made me brace myself for some alternative metal, but then the first two songs had me absolutely reeling. "Riddle of the Eighties" kicks in with a breathtaking drum intro (one of many on the album, a flurry of cymbals and hi-hats) before a bright, jangly verse and vocal recalling early R.E.M. "In My Mind" follows up with an irresistible calypso-tinged rhythm, evoking Paul Simon's "Graceland" in the "white guys doing world music" vain. There's an amazing momentum and energy to it and I couldn't not bop along... Admittedly, the quality slowly thins out after these stellar first two tracks. There are snatches of great music across the rest of the record, particularly in the stomping "Time With You" (check out the squawking funk-style guitar), the restless punky energy of "Some Things", and the left-field barroom singalong "Liberty For Our Friend." There's also a lovely pastoral acoustic guitar solo and TWO short drum solos, as though we've moved into an early 70s prog album. On the other hand, there are some tracks that never quite seem to get going, or never land on a strong enough foot of inspiration. "Whisperin' While Hollerin'" and "What Gets Heard" are both led by meaty basslines but suffer from mumbled vocals and stop-start rhythms which break a lot of the momentum. "If'n" begins excellently but then drifts around all over the place, diluting each section's impact every time it takes off again. "The Softest Hammer" is a damp squib of an ending. I realised the drummer and bassist originally played in Minutemen- I've heard some of their tracks and looking forward to revisiting because they put in stellar performances here. As it is, very glad I got the chance to hear this one today. I don't know whether I'll stick with "Fromohio", but it's been such a fun discovery that I don't want to put it anywhere below a 4.

"Time Out" is a staple of the cool jazz movement- even as a non-jazz fan, it's probably very difficult to go through life without hearing one variation or another of these tracks by Dave Brubeck and co. I'm no jazz critic so can't get too into the detail here, but I'm struck by how this album seems just as ripe for academic study as it is for sound-tracking a cooking session (seriously... it fits really well). Commendable experimentation with uncommon time signatures runs riot across the whole set. We open with an extended piece exemplifying the talents of the whole band: "Rondo" in 9/8. It was later picked up by Emerson, Lake and Palmer: I was heartened by the story of Brubeck and Emerson becoming friends. Later in the set, we have the more conventional "Kathy's Waltz" and "Three to Get Ready" and then, of course, the aptly named "Take Five". It's all proficient and good fun, but not the most thrilling or expressive jazz I've heard (possibly because it’s been generated for me straight after the wild abandon of "Bitches Brew"). After "Take Five", things slow down a bit and the music recedes into the background. I'm sure this says more about me than the album- I've never got on famously with jazz- but this one sits as "good but not great" for me. It's unlikely to bring me any further into the genre, unlike some of the others I've heard so far.

With “Vespertine”, Bjork pulled a “Kid A” after scoring an “OK Computer” with 1997’s “Homogenic”. Like “Kid A”, “Vespertine” marks a sharp left field turn to something a little more abstract and introspective. It’s also denser, more complex and perhaps more rewarding than its predecessor. I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about it at first, but the first thing to know about “Vespertine” is that it’s a treasure trove of arrangements and production, so intricately woven together. Knowing Bjork recorded “microbeats” with a series of household objects (crushing ice! Shuffling cards!) and then used music program Sibelius to write up all the string, harp and music box parts puts it even further up my street. Right from the get go with “Hidden Place”, “Vespertine” is elegant and rich. The combination of beats, Bjork’s acrobatic vocals and especially the lush choir and strings makes for a gorgeous sound. “Cocoon” is also beautiful, and almost uncomfortably intimate: “when I wake up, gorgeousness- he’s still inside me”, followed up by some veeery heavy breathing. Of the remaining tracks, the most breathtaking are “Pagan Poetry” and closer “Unison”. The brief instrumental “Frosti” deserves a mention, and the only discernible traces of the earlier, danceable Bjork are “It’s Not Up To You” and “Heirloom”. The rest is still working its charm on me, slowly but surely… but at the very least, it’s intriguing. I have enough confidence in Bjork’s genius to know this is at least a four star and will only improve with time.

After losing original lead vocalist David Ruffin (watch his performance of "My Girl" in "Summer of Soul" to see what they were missing) the Temptations recruited Dennis Edwards and supposedly moved towards a more psychedelic-influenced sound to suit the changing musical landscape of the time. "Sly and the Family Stone" was a key influence in this, which made me very excited to hear how the band would approach a new direction (only being familiar with their biggest hits from earlier in the 60s). Honestly, perhaps listening to it fifty years on reduces the impact of this change in direction. "Cloud Nine" is a really promising start, with a propulsive bass-line, funky wah-guitar and an instantly memorable hook "I'm doing fine… on Cloud Nine". References to a "dog-eat-dog world" and escape from reality hint at some social commentary and exploration of interesting themes… but we then diverge into a fairly rudimentary cover of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine". The third track, "Runaway Child… Running Wild" is a fun, groovy jam clocking in at nine minutes. It's hypnotic and holds some interest, even though the screams of "I want my mama" are a little grating. From then on, the second side is more standard fare, without the "psychedelic soul" left-turn feel I'd been expecting from this album. The songs feel much more like standard Temptations pop tracks, with a Motown influence and a tight three-minute pop structure. Of course, there's nothing wrong with this: it's all music to bop and sway to, with lush string production (see stand-out "I Gotta Find A Way (To Get You Back)") and stabs of brass and horns livening things up. The magic of the group as performers is also without question: vocally they are, of course, excellent. Eddie Kendricks sports a beautiful falsetto in "I Need Your Lovin'", and Melvin Franklin's bass parts add some lovely decoration. The soft, lilting "Why Did She Have To Leave Me" and "Gonna Keep On Tryin' till I Win Your Love" are my other standouts here. It's not at all bad, but I'd just hoped for a bolder approach after reading up on the background of "Cloud Nine". This album maybe pushes Cloud Six-and-a-Half.

"Here, My Dear" is quite the left turn from Marvin Gaye's earlier work. It's framed around his divorce from first wife Anna Gordy (originally intended to be knocked out so she could claim royalties) and sees him laying his cards on the table... for 73 minutes. Right from the off (an opening line of "I guess I'll have to say this album is dedicated to you"), "Here, My Dear" is a deeply personal album for Gaye. Every song is either addressed to Gordy or shows Gaye looking inward to assess where things went wrong in his marriage. The lyrics, though, are oddly non-specific. They're vague enough to speak to just about anybody in a failing relationship, without detail, sharpness or much poeticism (who can't relate to the memories of "love after dark and picnics in parks"?) Conceptually and musically, though, this album is nothing short of compelling. Largely dismissed on release, it apparently gained a new wave of respect and praise in the wake of Gaye's tragic death in 1984. It's easy to see how people might flock to "Here, My Dear" as a misunderstood masterpiece: it's certainly more ambitious in scope than Gaye's other releases. At times, the music calls back to Gaye's classic work: "Here, My Dear" is a tender doo-wop ballad, "Falling in Love Again" regains the optimism of "Let's Get It On". At others it draws from funk and disco breaking out at the time, with the strutting urgency of "Anger" and the bloated but fun "A Funky Space Reincarnation". At others it sounds like a touchstone for the nu-soul movement of the 90s (Maxwell and D'Angelo surely pulled a lot of tricks from this book). "Everybody Needs Love" is one of my highlights: a lovely spiritual take on love which emerges as the most positive song on the record despite the bitterness eating away at its core. If "Here, My Dear" doesn't hit straight away, it's down to the sheer volume of material: great as it is, three versions of "When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You" is surely not necessary. Most tracks are over five minutes and many don't need to be so long. As self-critical as Gaye is here, it's also a shame that Gordy's version of events will never be enshrined like this. A quick internet search is enough to reveal Gaye's adulterous and abusive tendencies, somewhat undermining the peaceful messages espoused in this record. I might not have been particularly engaged by this album at first, but even with the above reservations taken into account, many of these songs have the grace and craft to transcend the ugly and bitter circumstances they arose from.

Led Zeppelin’s grandest and most bloated recording, “Physical Graffiti” is their obligatory double album. It’s full of their classic bombastic rock as well as some more ambitious and varied pieces. As with most double albums, it does not need to be the length it is. Many of these tracks feel a bit perfunctory: a 1975 round of Zeppelin by numbers. They could have been doing “Custard Pie”, “The Wanton Song” or the queasy “Sick Again” in their sleep by this point. The acoustic-driven blues numbers (“Boogie with Stu”, “Black Country Woman”) are a bit tired and don’t add much three sides in, and I’ve never got much out of the 11 minute epic “In My Time of Dying”. Popular as it is among Zeppelin fans, it doesn’t take me on the same journey as some of their best songs do. That said, the run of songs from “Houses of the Holy” to “Night Flight” is sheer perfection. It contains the most eclectic mix on the album, from the breathless funk of “Trampled Underfoot” to the exotic grandeur of “Kashmir”, the gorgeous ballads “Down By The Seaside” and “Ten Years Gone”, and one of the most underrated Zeppelin epics “In The Light”. Plants voice is certainly not the powerhouse it was in the band’s early work, but the hoarseness to it works to the benefit of the material. His more melodic, natural range does wonders for tracks like “Ten Years Gone” or “Houses of the Holy”, which work their way up slowly to his trademark howl. Jimmy Page is obviously as deft a guitarist as ever, whether through rip-roaring leads or a lighter touch (lovely open-tuned acoustic instrumental “Bron-Yr-Aur”). John Bonham, of course, is suitably explosive on the drums. But one of the reasons “Physical Graffiti” works so well is in its willingness to push further away from the band’s comfort zone at times. Bassist John Paul Jones is one of the key ingredients here: the band’s most underrated member, he contributes multiple keyboard and string arrangements to give many of these songs an added depth. “Kashmir” and “In The Light” in particular are made by this: it sets them apart nicely from the core Zeppelin combo. It’s a long set, but “Physical Graffiti” more than holds its own six albums into Zeppelin’s career. As a single disc, it could have been their best ever: instead, it settles for very very good.

“Talking Book” is Stevie Wonder’s fifteenth album. He was 22. That alone, considering the quality of the material here, is a remarkable achievement. This album is acknowledged as the start of Wonder’s golden period, after he’d stopped just having to churn out albums at the behest of his record label. Breaking free and flexing his songwriting muscles a little more, he was really only just getting started with “Talking Book.” It had no right to be as good as it is. I hadn’t heard it before bar the two biggest hits (“You Are The Sunshine Of My Life” and “Superstition” have been unavoidable for fifty years), so it was an interesting listen. Very much an album of two halves: the gritty, clavinet driven funk ala “Superstition” (see “Maybe Your Baby”, “Tuesday Heartbreak”), and the softer, dare I say schmaltzier ballads ala “…Sunshine of my Life” (see “You and I”, “You’ve Got It Bad Girl”). At times it gets a little too syrupy: if “Sunshine” feels a bit slight, then “You’ve Got It Bad Girl” and “Lookin For Another Pure Love” leave even less of an impression on first listen. Their corniness seems, in part, due to the instrumentation. The electric piano and some of the synth leads used have become synonymous with soft 70s fluff. Wonder’s vocals, however, are enough to keep them buoyant, and he displays great range between the more mellow numbers and the harder-edged rock. The weaker songs aside, there were some great surprises in “Talking Book”. “Big Brother” is a laidback treat fusing Orwellian nightmare with racial and social commentary, still managing to sound melodic and carefree with some classic, tasteful Wonder harmonica lead. Then “I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever)” is almost transcendent as a closing track: multi-layered vocal crescendo, dynamic performances, a simple and heartfelt chorus. “Talking Book” is half really great and half pretty good. It might not be Wonder’s best and it might be a little uneven. But the hits really hit, and any album with a career-defining banger like “Superstition” on it can’t score below four stars. Them’s the rules.

Sure, I could try to be objective here. So many criticisms could fairly be levelled at Yes and all they represent: excessive, bloated prog with overly academic philosophising. In albums like this one, there’s often more focus on showing off instrumentally than concise songwriting, and don’t even get me started on those outfits. Could any music be less cool than this? The fact is, “The Yes Album” has long been one of my favourite albums of all time. In my teenage years, the band had already started to look like the mythical creatures they might have sang about. Prog still lived in a dark and secret place, vanquished from the mainstream, and hearing this band for the first time felt like unlocking a whole new language. When I listen now, I still get a kick out of the intro to “Yours Is No Disgrace”, with the whole band giving it their all. The perfectly paced “Wurm” sequence at the end of “Starship Trooper”: one of the best build-ups in rock. The harmonies and countermelodies used in “I’ve Seen All Good People”, enough to give the Beatles a run for their money. The thrilling instrumental break in “Perpetual Change” when we get two totally different recordings overlapping, panned hard left and right before the main hook returns. Any gripes people could have with prog rock are executed so well here, with such energy and enthusiasm that it’s hard not to just enjoy the ride. What’s more, “The Yes Album” captures the band in their more accessible early stages. It’s pre-Rick Wakeman and his myriad of keyboard solos, when the rot started to truly set in. While there might be many instrumental passages here, all of them hang on to some choppiness. It’s easier to be breathlessly swept along, rather than constantly checking the time and getting sick of the noodling. Chris Squire’s trebly bass is deliciously high in the mix, forming one of Yes’s many hallmark sounds. Guitarist Steve Howe had only just joined the band and does incredible work, from the duelling guitars at the climax of “Starship Trooper” to live acoustic showcase “Clap”. I’ve written this review as an unapologetic classic prog fan. I’m long past the point of trying to get anyone else into Yes, but I’ll snap up any opportunity to talk about why I love them.

"Illinois" is the second of fifty albums Sufjan Stevens supposedly planned to release based around states of America. Just like the conceit, it's ornate, grand and more than a little tongue-in-cheek. The pretension might not be to everyone's taste (especially those who like their song titles lean and their instrumental segue-tracks non existent) but the high points make "Illinois" well worth the journey. Over the course of 73 minutes, Stevens masterfully combines homespun indie chamber-pop with Broadway showtunes, country-folk narratives and proggy instrumentals. It's impossible not to at least admire the ambition behind "Illinois". Songs at the centerpiece, "Come On! Feel the Illinoise!" and "The Tallest Man, the Broadest Shoulders" unfold like dazzlingly intricate musical numbers. The orchestration includes everything but the kitchen sink, the verses ripple and shift over odd time signatures and new sections, yet the vocals never rise above easy and breezy. It shouldn't work, but for me it really does. As well as these fusions of Broadway, prog, jazz and indie, some of my favourites here include all-out rock hits ("The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts"), indie crowd-pleasers ("Chicago", "Jacksonville"), and poignant, fragile ballads ("The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades...", "The Seers Tower"). Through all of them, Stevens displays striking versatility, sensitivity and great musicianship. One of "Illinois"'s best assets is the way it balances musical whimsy with pure emotion. It would be easy for it to collapse into self-parody and become too academic or ironic to connect, but then comes an utterly heartbreaking track like "Casimir Pulaski Day." It details a loved one dying of cancer in such breath-taking detail and unadorned lyrics: "Tuesday night at the bible study, we lift our hands and pray over your body, but nothing ever happens"... Understated, simple and moving slowly towards a gut-punch of an ending. Inevitably, not every song hits. There are at least five completely superfluous instrumental tracks, maybe intended as palette cleansers but coming over so nebulous as to not leave any impression after many listens. The best material is in the front half in terms of songs, and then the last thirty minutes or so suffers from a lot of padding (either extended codas, instrumentals, or songs that simply retread the same ground). Despite this, I'd still recommend "Illinois" to anyone looking for a compelling, elaborate and quirky album to represent 2000's indie. Of the work I've heard by Sufjan Stevens, it stands head and shoulders above the rest in scope and accomplishment.

I’ve never quite been on board with all the Sonic Youth hype. The first time I heard “Daydream Nation”, I couldn’t really stick with it and ended up half dozing off. I was only half-listening and it may well have caught me on an off-day: Sonic Youth are a band who might reward repeated listens. In “Goo”, they supposedly levered their sound towards a broader audience, alienating their devoted fans as they screamed towards the mainstream. It’s not as if they were lip-syncing on Top of the Pops every week, more just trying a bit harder to get to a melody. As enjoyably uptempo as “Goo” may be, it’s still just a bit too sour without enough sweetness for my taste. It feels a bit like The Velvet Underground’s early period reimagined for a late 80s audience, foreshadowing shoegaze and grunge without possessing enough nuance to really tick. When the band really commit to aggression, it can be astounding. The explosion of noise three minutes into “Dirty Boots” is the runaway success of “Goo”: passionate fury, howling feedback, with a meaty riff and juicy hook over the top. If the rest of the album can never quite match it, it’s because it encapsulates all the best qualities from the outset: they don’t leave much room to go. The other highlights are the similarly uptempo, fiery tracks: “Mary-Christ”, “Mote” and “Cinderella’s Big Score” are all enjoyable, if sometimes overlong. On the other side, the songs with Kim Gordon deadpanning her way through the vocals might have great lyrical depth, but if I’m being honest they feel a bit hit and miss. “Kool Thing”, despite being the lead single, doesn’t do much for me and is one of the most bizarre ways to include a rapper I could think of. As much as I’d like to be cool enough to have Sonic Youth as one of my favourite bands, I think they’re still howling way over my head.

I’d heard a fair bit of raving about this album but had never given it a listen until now: it certainly wasn’t what I’d expected. I didn’t even realise Boards of Canada were an electronic duo categorised under the (snobbish) umbrella of IDM (intelligent dance music). There isn’t much to dance to in “Music Has the Right to Children”, and I wouldn’t want to equate any work of art with intellectual value, but I can say I found it often compelling and sometimes dull. The tracks are divided into more long-form, beat-driven tracks (done best in “Telephasic Workshop”, “Open the Light”) and shorter segues with either a noodling synth or a repeated vocal sample (done best in “Triangles and Rhombuses”, “Roybgiv”). One of my key takeaways here, regardless of what the band would have wanted, is that this music works just as well in the background as it does up close. Even when the sounds crystallise into a programmed beat to give them a backbone, they are floaty, ephemeral, dreamlike. The effect is of a hazy soundscape where nothing is too distracting or outlandish. It all fits neatly together as a calming soundtrack for our over-saturated 21st century lives, but audiophiles are likely to go beyond that and enjoy the rich depths of the production (especially on headphones). Some of the vocal samples become a bit grating, standing outside of the rest of each composition enough to feel distracting and more than a little dated. The chopped apart ones work just fine as becoming another layer of sound, but the repeated “I… love… you!” early on is trying, not to mention the endless “orange”s in the otherwise superb “Aquarius”. The more I actively listen to it, the more repetitive “Music Has The Right to Children” starts to feel. It’s way outside what I’d normally enjoy or stick on for fun, but I have enjoyed it a lot more than most of the other electronic 90’s albums that have come up so far. Giving it extra points here for its ability to keep me interested throughout, so it just scrapes a 3 star.

"Guitar Town" is Steve Earle's first album after years racked up as a session musician and songwriter. He broke out here with commercial success and multiple singles hitting the country charts. My dad, ever keen to present me with easy-going soft rock with shades of country, gifted me this a few years back as a random selection from the book. I dismissed a bit as lightweight and am only just coming back to it now. I was wrong, Dad. Well, a little bit. The opening track "Guitar Town" gives a good idea of what to expect: super polished, pristinely produced guitar country. There are walls of shimmering acoustic guitar and a clean twangy lead with plenty of tremolo. Drums are stompy, handclaps punctuate the choruses, swells of organ fill in the gaps. The lyrics are unrelentingly cliched and "been-there-done-that" to the point they don't even register, but feel like well worn shoes to dance in. The poor lyrics aren't too much of a problem: the hooks come from the guitar and Earle's unfussy vocals (often with some lovely harmonies, as in "Goodbye's All We've Got Left"). The best songs here are "Guitar Town", "Someday" and "Fearless Heart" (with a cracking chiming guitar solo). Elsewhere there's country blues ("Hillbilly Highway", "Think It Over") slightly dodgy attempts at harder rock ("Good Ol' Boy") and tepid ballads which bring the pace grinding to a halt ("My Old Friend The Blues", "Little Rock 'N' Roller"). Instrumentally, it's very accomplished: not particularly spontaneous or rough around the edges, but it serves the songs well. In 1986, "Guitar Town" must have been completely out of step with the prevailing popular styles of the day, regardless of what was happening in country. Hearing it now has made me appreciate Steve Earle a lot more, but it still isn't really my cup of tea. I'll keep waiting for Travelling Wilburys to come along for this formula to truly click.

I'd heard quite a bit about Speakerboxxx/The Love Below before, from the hip-hop circles I've very tentatively dipped my toes into. A total split down the middle from Outkast's two members, the general cliché about it I've heard seems to be that Big Boi's disc (Speakerboxxx) is solid hip-hop but Andre 3000 blows him out of the water with the more ambitious, transcendent and genre-hopping "The Love Below". Having listened to both in their entirety a few times, I've surprised myself by siding with Big Boi here. His delivery is clear, focused and sharp and he never loses track of the melodic hearts of each of the songs. "GhettoMusick" sports a breathless killer chorus and some whiplash inducing tempo/style changes. "Bowtie"- maybe my favourite Speakerboxxx track- has such incredible, effortless swagger, "The Way You Move" deserves every inch of its classic status, and "The Rooster" ups the ante to some frantic energy. All of them are complimented by sensational live brass which makes the whole set come alive. "Speakerboxxx" isn't without its diversions. After an amazing first half devoid of any filler, "Tomb of the Boom" feels disappointingly unremarkable and brings the momentum right down, while "Flip Flop Rock" and "Reset" are fine but don't quite possess the same fervour as other cuts here. By comparison, "The Love Below" has taken me much longer to get on board with. I was somewhat disappointed that the peerless "Hey Ya!", the one EVERYONE knows, is not at all a fair representation of the rest of the disc. On balance, Andre 3000 aims for something much darker, denser and more sprawling. The hooks are not the end-goal here: there's about twenty minutes more material than Speakerboxxx and a lot of it takes the form of extended instrumentals (hello, drum n bass "My Favourite Things") or eccentric skits ("Good Day, Good Sir" and "Where are my Panties" are fun, but feel inconsequential). It's a shame, because the good songs here really are great. "Prototype" is a sun-soaked dreamy jam and "Happy Valentine's Day" justifies the litany of Prince comparisons thrown at Andre. "Take Off Your Cool", a refreshingly stripped back duet with Norah Jones, is the last hurrah. But in general, it confirms my feel that Outkast could have put out the album of the decade with a little more refinement and cooperation. Still, it's absolutely one of the best hip-hop albums I've heard on the list so far.

It's raw. It's raucous. It's feral. It's sleazy. Much of "Sticky Fingers" captures The Rolling Stones at their peak, strutting through blues and country as though they own it, staying just the right side of gimmicky. There are some very famous tracks here in the form of "Brown Sugar" and "Wild Horses", but there are some unsung heroes here (or, unsung as any song by one of the biggest bands of all time can be). "Moonlight Mile" and "I Got The Blues" are gorgeous ballads. "Can't You Hear Me Knocking" is one of their best jams with a searing lead guitar performance from new member Mick Taylor. The horns in "Bitch"! The dizzying coda of "Sway"! The jubilant singalong of "Dead Flowers"! It all combines brilliantly, swelling up just like whatever our young cover star is hiding under his jeans. So why not the five stars? However catchy that opening riff might be, however danceable the instrumental feels, those lyrics to "Brown Sugar" were not okay in 1971 and they never will be. No amount of boomer nostalgia should change that, and in fact they're a key reason I can't go celebrating this as a perfect album. Also, "You Gotta Move" does nothing for me and "Sister Morphine" is eerily atmospheric but really brings the pace down. And finally, I'm waiting for "Exile On Main Street". One year on from here, it's where they'd really take off.

“Beauty and the Beat” is buoyant, driving and fun. It might be repetitive in places, but the Go-Go’s still seem to have struck a winning formula making it worth the listen. Most of my favourites here are the peppiest: “Our Lips are Sealed” is a killer opener with notably more keyboard than a lot of the tracks here (foregrounded for commercial appeal, fitting in with the burgeoning new wave movement?) “How Much More” has a great jangly guitar lead and keeps the momentum of the opening up to the tee. Belinda Carlisle’s vocals are one of the winning ingredients across the album: bright and committed, with just the right amount of slurred punkish sneer. There’s a bit of an explosion of revived energy and inspiration at the end of the album after things seem to have settled into their lane. “Can’t Stop the World” is a last kick of adrenaline fuelled pop-rock. Also listen for the drumming in “Skidmarks on my Heart”- there are some great fills in there. There’s also an early 60s throwback guitar solo, and a winning chorus with a full wall of harmonies (bonus points on introducing a new, unrelated chord on the line “you’ve got me in FIFTH”). I also have to shout out “Automatic” for being the black sheep in this set: it’s a refreshing change of pace which moves in a slower, darker direction. The Go-Go’s doing Joy Division their way? I wouldn’t doubt it. On first listen, some of the earlier songs appear to chug along at a similar tempo with little variation in the guitar parts or drum beats. Chord progressions are recycled and lyrics are often general and vague. “Tonite”, “Lust for Love” and “This Town” all run into each other a bit, and don’t match up to the material on either side. Many punk and new-wave bands of the time, of course, made careers out of using one song in many different ways to fill out their albums. That the Go-Go’s did this as a then-rare all-female band (the first to top the Billboard 200 Album Chart) gives weight to their legacy and enduring appeal. They challenged the musical landscape and came out on top.

A touchstone of new-wave, "The Scream" is very striking for a 1978 release. It could have easily been released ten years later as part of the noise-rock explosion, and would have still sounded fresh and relevant. In 2022, it's easy to see the influence this continues to wield: distorted angular guitars, unconventional progressions, thunderous drums, edgy semi-chanted vocals. On paper, it's everything I love... but not all of it played out as perfectly as I'd hoped. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of great stuff here. "Helter Skelter" is an absolutely inspired Beatles cover which unleashes the song's demonic potential. "Nicotine Stain" and "Mirage" are deceptively upbeat tracks, wearing the inner turmoil on their sleeves. But "Carcass" is the winner for me, telling the disquieting and original tale of a butcher (or serial killer?) falling in love with a slab of meat. Its final minute, all cacophony and freak-out with added handclaps, is a perfect frenzy. All of those tracks are great, but there are some that never really kick off as well. I ended up wishing they'd laid more into all-out aggression than some of the gloomier atmospherics. "Pure" is a bit of a nothing-opener, and "Overground" and "Metal Postcard" are just too dirge-like for me to get much out of. "Suburban Relapse" would have been a better closer than "Switch", which runs out of steam a bit towards the end. Some more catchy, lighter songs like the excellent single "Hong Kong Garden" (left off the original release) wouldn't have gone amiss, though I respect it may not have fit the band's vision for the album. Still, what works really works, and the band's overall style eclipses a lot of the weaker songs. Sioux is the perfect punk singer, hollering and yelping her way through each of the tracks with wild abandon. The drums are given a hypnotic, tribal feel: all toms and very few hi-hats or cymbals. Fascinating to find producer Steve Lillywhite honed this approach with Siouxsie and the Banshees a full two years before taking it to Peter Gabriel. Ultimately it's one I admired more than enjoyed: if I don't listen to it again for a while, I hope I'll come back with even more to get out of it.

Oh god, two shocking things happened today. The first was that I had to listen to this seventy-minute album by the disgraced Ryan Adams. The second... was that I kind of liked it. "Gold" was Adams' second solo album, his attempt to create a modern classic. It's far from that, but unfortunately it's far from irredeemable. Although it's long and the songs take us down well-trodden paths, they at least put us in comfortable shoes. These are three-chord songs on acoustic or electric guitar, sugary melodies and harmless lyrics and vocals. It's definitely not Dylan, but it's also hardly a challenge to listen to... or dare I say it, enjoy. The more upbeat, rocky tracks were a bit wearing for me- at the start of "New York New York" I was grimacing and preparing for the worst. But where Adams excels is in the slower, melancholy ballads. "Le Cienega Just Smiled", "When the Stars Go Blue", "Wild Flowers" and especially "Sylvia Plath" were all winners for me. As far as upbeat tracks go, I did enjoy "Firecracker" and the lilting swing of "Answering Bell". On a personal note, my girlfriend is angry with me for giving this album a full listen, and she's angry at the list for including Ryan Adams and not Phoebe Bridgers. Even though some of his songs here were good, that knobhead has made this a really awkward day for me, so I won't use up any more words writing about him.

"Foxbase Alpha" is steeped in a strange flavour of nostalgia: we hear radio broadcasts, old 1960s film samples, the quiz show "Countdown" and more. It's a fun concept for an album: create a strange world existing in between the stuffy post-war generation and the raved up optimism of the early 90s. But it doesn't always fly. We begin with a radio announcer's anthem, bursting out its fanfare several times in succession before giving way to an inspired house-style cover of Neil Young's "Only Love Can Break Your Heart". It's one of the most esoteric introductions to 1991 I've ever heard. This opening is Saint Etienne's most well-known track and for good reason- it really does work and lovingly evokes the time it was made in. The other hit was "Nothing Can Stop Us" (apparently there's a version out there with Kylie on vocals) which is similarly enjoyable for its immediacy. Elsewhere we range from decent downbeat club tracks ("She's the One") to syrupy, cringeworthy pop ("London Belongs To Me"). Then there's "Stoned to Say the Least", which stretches its repeated bassline to breaking point over nearly eight minutes, while "Wilson"'s "would you like some sweets, Willy?/Come on Auntie, we'll miss the bus!" is one of the most grating samples I've ever heard and I'm banishing it to my nightmares after hearing this. I'm not exaggerating when I say it nearly tanked the whole thing. It's all alright in the end, though, as "Like the Swallow" feels like a worthy tribute to the album as a whole: sometimes boring, but always evocative, pretty, and strange.

1991. Pixies and Sonic Youth have given way to a new breed of noise rock which has now crystallised into grunge. Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden are in their prime, with shoegaze blowing up across the pond too. But I’ll take Crowded House’s “Woodface” any day. At first listen, this album seems very out of step with a lot of alt-rock of the day, but there's crossover with R.E.M. and definite foreshadowing of Britpop. The Beatles revival is tangible in tracks like "It's Only Natural" or "Fall At Your Feet", where the vocals- and a lot of those clean and jangly guitar lines, for that matter- are very reminiscent of George Harrison at times. And the near-constant harmonies are a lovely touch to elevate songs even further. “Weather With You” is the only one I’d heard here, but it is better than I’d ever given it credit for- the chorus could run and run. That said, it also sounds like it would be enjoyed by dads in faded jeans trying to cling on to youth by listening to “this newer band Crowded House” at a festival. Just about every other song, from the singles to the deep cuts, is tight and accomplished, demonstrating smart, choppy songwriting from the Finn brothers. There’s more than a little wry humour, even if sometimes it veers a little on the mean-spirited side (the otherwise great opener “Chocolate Cake”). Later, "there goes God, in his sexy pants and his sausage dog” is a ridiculous line but made me wonder why I’d never heard such a portrayal before. Inspired. The band are a little less convincing when they're going for all-out rock ("Tall Trees", "Fame Is", but they're still enjoyable tracks. And when the tempo takes a backseat, there’s the effortless melodic sensibilities of melancholic tracks like “Four Seasons In One Day”, "As Sure As I Am" (more songs need accordion) or the gorgeous “Fall At Your Feet”. I hadn't expected to enjoy it so much, but “Woodface” is a real gem and I could give something I like about every song on here. Bravo.

Bad double albums are an absolute chore to sit through. Good double albums usually comprise an amazing single album and then a load of filler. Great double albums? That’s an art form. That Stevie Wonder achieved that here as part of a run of absolute classics, and THEN stuck another stellar EP on top, is testament to his genius. Beyond the obvious hits we don’t even need to discuss in “Sir Duke” and “Isn’t She Lovely”, there’s a rich goldmine of material which many casual Stevie Wonder fans (let’s face it: who ISN’T one?) might never hear. Right from the off we hit the ground in soulful, expansive territory. “Love’s In Need of Love Today” is a fairly low key opener that didn’t do a lot for me at first, but the more I hear it the more I find to love about it. A timeless message, gorgeous harmonies and an endless chorus, it’s a thinking person’s “Hey Jude”. And that’s just track 1 of 21. “Village Ghetto Land” elevates the humble synthesiser to an orchestra. “Contusion” sees Wonder going all-out jazz fusion… and nailing it (I would die for those “doo-doo” backing vocals). “I Wish” is one of the bounciest, most irresistibly funky Stevie Wonder songs I know. “Knocks Me Off My Feet” and “Summer Soft” see his voice in its finest form, navigating key change after key change with stunning control and passion. “Ordinary Pain”‘s gear shift from electric piano ballad to hard-edged funk (with guest vocals from Shirley Brewer) is a brilliant moment and a thrilling way to close the first half. So far, so perfect: released on its own, it would have been an easy five stars. But Wonder gleefully goes further, stretching even the double album beyond its limit. In all honesty, the beginning of the second disc is where “Songs…” is most at risk of collapsing into excess. “Joy Inside My Tears” and “Black Man” are great at first but don’t need to be the length they are. (As a side note, it’s a slight niggle that he wrote an eight and a half minute song about equality between humankind and mostly forgot about women). Even the treasured “Isn’t She Lovely” suffers a bit from its length, with an extended outro in the album cut. “If It’s Magic”, though, brings us refreshingly back to earth with a gorgeously restrained harp-and-vocals only song. “As” and “Another Star” are the two epics (both glorious) taking us into the home stretch. In the past I’ve been fatigued at this point and often haven’t bothered with the EP, treating it as a bonus. But listening recently has made me realise what an incredible bonus it is! If anything is enough to tip this album into five star territory, it’s the fact Stevie Wonder could put the buoyant singalong “Ebony Eyes” and the stomping funk of “All Day Sucker” on a bonus EP, not even fitting them onto the main four sides of his eighteenth album. What a god damn man.

I've always heard great things about The 13th Floor Elevators' debut album, "The Psychedelic Sounds of...". From those I've heard mention it, it's been held up as a hidden gem that sowed some very fragrant psychedelic seeds into the late 60's. Pink Floyd, The Velvet Underground, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane? All supposedly a few floors behind 13. As it is, it might be one of the most disappointing albums I've heard. Context is everything- yes, it's slightly ahead of the curve and the band may have coined the term "psychedelic rock", but that doesn't necessarily make it any more enjoyable. What I will say for it is that it has a really strong opening track: "You're Gonna Miss Me", at least, deserved to be a hit. It's short, snappy, and comes over like a logical progression from British Invasion style rock into something a little more spacey. The vocalist and guitarist, Roky Erickson, sounds like Robert Plant a full three years before Zeppelin would be blowing up the scene. They recapture the same energy in "Fire Engine", my other choice cut here along with "Monkey Island". It would have been good to hear more along these lines, even if it meant sacrificing some of the more introspective moments. That's just the problem, though: so much of the album is mid-tempo, meandering and shapeless that it's a drag even for 35 minutes. In the slower ballads (like "Splash 1") they sound like a watered-down Moody Blues... and THAT is saying something. The production also makes it a difficult listen: everything's swamped out with no definition ("Reverberation" indeed), there's fairly frequent unpleasant distortion and the electric jug (Tommy Hall) is usually a little too invasive. It works as a gimmick in "You're Gonna Miss Me" and then quickly becomes fairly tiresome. Listening casually, I didn't really pick up on anything spirited, excited or dynamic in the musicianship. For all the lysergic cover art, it mostly defaults to pretty basic blues/garage rock with an electric jug thrown in- no outstanding performances here. Not really any catchy melodies to grab hold of either: it feels a bit like they got so excited with the psychedelics and forgot to inject any pop. Maybe this suffered for the high expectations I had of it. Maybe I'll come back to it another day and fall in love. But for today, it wasn't a good trip. I'll just take the stairs.

I’ve really struggled to get into any of the 90s dance/electronic albums on the list so far, so approached “Dig Your Own Hole” with a bit of caution. It still might not be entirely my thing, but it’s definitely the best of the genre/era I’ve heard so far. The album begins with a very promising bang. An apt sample of “back with another one of those block rockin’ beats” kicks off a simple looped bassline and the seismic, reverb soaked drums come crashing in, demanding any listeners attention. I can only imagine the impact live or through club speakers- it must have blown the roof off. “Elektrobank” has a similar impact, sustaining exceptional energy levels to border on full-on rave mania. Later, “Setting Sun” is the first track with sung vocals (by no less than Liam Gallagher). Having actual lyrics and a melody to get behind helped me to enjoy the album more, even if there are stronger songs on here. The subsequent run had me starting to feel a little fatigued- “It Doesn’t Matter”, “Don’t Stop the Rock” and “Get Up On It Like This” don’t particularly bring any new ideas to the table after a fairly strong opening run. But the last three tracks save it by diving into much trippier territory- more prominent keyboard, echo galore and hypnotic beats. If you’re going to hear just one track, make it “Where Do I Begin” featuring Beth Orton on vocals. It’s a bit of an outlier here, but it’s a stoned cold classic. The finale, “The Private Psychedelic Reel”, suitably lives up to its name with an almost symphonic feel and a brilliant sitar-style loop leading the way. It’s glorious. Not too surprised to have enjoyed this- after all, the Chemical Brothers supposedly based their whole career on the sound of The Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows”- but very glad I can finally share an EDM album I quite liked.

One of two albums to have won Polly Jean Harvey the Mercury Prize (incidentally, a feat no other artist has achieved), “Stories from the City” is firm, tough, lean and urgent. It’s also, in Harvey’s words, “beautiful, sumptuous, lovely”. Ultimately, it’s difficult to disagree. It may not be a perfect album, but it’s unlike anything she’d done previously, and shows off her tremendous range and evolution as a songwriter. It evokes the grittiness of New York City in one song, and the mystery and beauty of the Dorset coast in the next. When it goes hard, “Stories” really goes hard. The riffs are spoken for with crunchy, buzzy open chords, thrashing away insistently underneath Harvey’s dark and theatrical vocals. The drums are simple, punchy, propulsive snares driving each song headlong into battle. “Big Exit”, “Good Fortune”, “The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore”, “Kamikaze” and “This is Love” are all stellar examples of this. Not content with hard-edged rock, Harvey adds real warmth and depth elsewhere. “You Said Something” is wistful, open-hearted and personal, resembling Alanis Morrissette in the best way. Better still are “One Line” and “Beautiful Feeling”. Haunting, hypnotic and stark, the latter really gets under the skin on subsequent listens. It’s hard not to mention Thom Yorke, who’s understated contributions on backing vocals (and then lead in album highlight, “This Mess We’re In”) gel perfectly. Of course, though, this is PJ Harvey’s show, and it’s impossible to get through the album and not end up entranced by her as a singer. She snarls, sneers, howls and cries her way through each song, perfectly balancing passion and technique. There are so many great vocal stylings: the soaring high notes amidst the melodrama of opener “Big Exit”, the yelping siren after the second verse of the brilliant “The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore”, the hushed backing vocals in the chorus of “A Place Called Home”. If anything lets the album down for me, it’s that I’d have liked the “concept” to hold together a little more. The title and background reveal a fascinating premise to paint a vivid picture of New York, and capture the two worlds Harvey was caught between, which the music evokes well, but sometimes it slides into a set of tangentially related songs. It falls away especially at the end with the slow and brooding “Horses in my Dreams” followed by “We Float“, with its jarring switch to an electronic beat and piano riff, and then non-sequitur hidden track “This Wicked Tongue”. It’s an interesting final stretch, but doesn’t really feel like the grand closing statement to tie everything together on. Still, the rest of “Stories…” is a really solid album. The lyrics walk a satisfying line between personal and abstract, specific and elliptical, while the music ricochets between savage and soothing. Well deserving of its place on the list.

The concept behind "Buena Vista Social Club" (the album and especially the band) is fascinating. Today I learned the original Buena Vista Social Club was based in Havana and had its heyday in the 1940s. Fifty years later, this band was formed from an ensemble of Cuban musicians (some young, many retired after having been active in the 1940s). We shouldn't ignore the fact the project was masterminded and produced by white American Ry Cooder, which raises an interesting debate around the merit of Western-branded "world music": why must lists like these prioritise Latin-American/Caribbean, African or Asian pop tailored towards Western audiences? Putting that aside for a moment though, at its most basic reading "Buena Vista Social Club" sees an ensemble of retired Latin-American people celebrating the music bringing them all together, reaching back into a shared history of a pre-revolution Cuba. It's basically the Avengers of Latin-American popular music, which is super-cool. It really made me feel invested in the album and root for the people involved: here we have a group of dozens of musicians audibly having the time of their lives and getting lost in their work. It's a great set-up, although much of it ended up a bit lost on me. I'm a total novice in Cuban or Latin American music: I'd never heard of the trova or filin so can't appreciate the intricacies of those forms of music and how they're celebrated here. It was inevitable that after a few tracks, the similarities to my ears began to blend together and the album was best enjoyed as a background accompaniment to a sunny day. Highlights? The laid back piano running through "Pueblo Nuevo"- and the ecstatic release when the trumpet bursts in. The danceable high-energy of "El Cuarto de Tula" and "Candela". The call-and-response of "De Camino a La Vereda". I could, of course, still appreciate the emotions and vibes coming across: "Buena Vista Social Club" is carefree, relaxed, breezy. It's a lovely way to spend an hour and made me want to learn more about the styles/lyrical themes so that I could come back to this in future and enjoy it more.

As much as I love prog's first wave in the 70's, I’ve always struggled with the genre once the influence of metal crept in. Steven Wilson or Tool never worked their magic on me, and The Mars Volta have always sounded like noise. To this end, "Deloused in the Comatorium" feels completely impenetrable. It’s a prog album through and through: indecipherable concept, weighty fantastical narrative, instrumental wizardry, even a Storm Thorgerson designed-cover. The problem? For me, "…Comatorium" possesses all of prog's inherent snobbery and loftiness without any tongue-in-cheek humour, any heart, or any soul. Consider “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway”. While it also fits my initial description above, it is full of memorable melodies, a recognisable character arc and theatrical humour. Good luck finding any of that here. Just a quick glance at the album’s lyrics reveals the tone: "Last night I heard lepers flinch like birth defects, its musk was fecal in origin as the words dribbled off of its chin." If it weren’t for the band’s explanations or Wikipedia, there’s absolutely no hope of understanding the shape of the narrative, which is a pity because it seems the band had a moving story to tell about Cedric Bixler-Zavala’s friends’ death. Ultimately, though, this storyline becomes a limp framework for an hour of instrumental posturing. To the album’s credit, there's absolutely no possible argument against the virtuosic musicianship on show here: the guitar playing is varied and cinematic, alternating between blistering lead parts or expansive soundscapes in "Eriatarka". Jon Theodore’s drumming throughout, and particularly in "Drunkship of Lanterns", is frantic and exhilarating. Bixler-Zavala has an impressive vocal range, with a startling belt to cut through the noise. The problem is that it's all style and little substance. The most melodic we get is in the standout tracks "Eritarka" and "Elevators" (the latter in particular serving as a much-needed breath of air). I also enjoyed the evolution of "Take the Veil Cerpin Taxt" (whatever the hell that means), which dials back the metal influence for a jam session that feels equal parts funk, new-wave and Latin-inspired. But this aside, “Comatorium” is either indulgently flashy and discordant, or dissolving into ambient nothingness. The ending, "Ambuletz", feels insulting to anyone who has sat through the one hour "storyline" with genuine investment: it hardly provides satisfying closure. It’s a real effort to make it through the whole album, and I’m not sure I’ll be managing it again any time soon.

As of today, "Kenza" has, and will always have, the distinction of being the first Algerian album I've ever heard, my first exposure to rai and my first exposure to Khaled. Wikipedia lists him as one of the world's most famous Arab singers, synonymous with the genre of rai from the late 20th century with regular social commentary and undercurrents of protest. But as a Western listener, the only points of brief familiarity were the suffocatingly earnest "Imagine" cover and the fact it's produced by Steve Hillage, former prog-rock guitarist of Gong. Both very jarring things to take in amongst an album that is otherwise way outside my usual frames of reference, and once more showing this list's preference for world music with one foot in the West. It's hard to know what to make of this one on the whole: I'm not going to attempt a proper critical analysis of the music in relation to its genre and form, because I'd only embarrass myself. I had a great time with the more upbeat, celebratory songs like "El Harba Wine", the shuffling "Trigue Lycee", and especially "El Bab". These are often elevated by the instrumentation, including varied percussion, fluid basslines, and an omnipresent jubilant string section. On the other side, "C'est la nuit" is a beautiful, lilting ballad, if not quite showstopping enough to warrant a reprise later on. The main issue here is the runtime: nearly 80 minutes is quite tough in any genre. There's also some production that sounds distractingly 90's: the scratch effects in "E'Dir E'Sseba", the Euro-style four-to-the-floor beats throughout. It's also a pity I don't understand the lyrics and whatever depth they're communicating, but that is of course my problem rather than Khaled's. On the whole though, I had fun and I don't have any right to mark this any lower: "Kenza" deserves a fair listen from anyone.

Reviewing this album obliges me to once again expose my ignorance of non-Western music. Koffi Olomide is one of the biggest stars of African music from the last few decades, and I was completely unaware of him until now. I also knew nothing about soukous, which is the Congolese-based style of dance music which he is a spearhead of. From what I can discern listening to "Laut de gamme", it relies on simple repeated motifs and hooks, deft guitar improvisation, prominent lead basslines, and- if we're lucky- a coda characterised by a sudden lift in tempo and urgency, as the vocalist growls and then shouts out "Poussa, poussez!" over and over again. So far, so likeable, but it's a shame the late 80's/early 90s production cuts through some of the arrangements and distracts from the heart of these songs. Every number is stacked with dated whistling synths, plastic-sounding drums, and Casio keyboards a-plenty. Listen to the intros of "Desespoir" or "Elixir" for a prime example: flat, lifeless, lacking the passion or raw energy I'd like to hear from soukous elsewhere. On top of this, the songs feel a little thin and don't do much to merit their extended length. Only one song here is under six minutes, and none of them particularly feel as though they earn their length outside of a dancefloor. "Koweit, rive gauche", for example, is a treated acoustic guitar loop for the entire song. Tender, but dull. It isn't all bad, though: some of the guitar work is virtuosic and jubilant. The bright, buoyant lines running over the back half of "Desespoir" and "Dit Jeannor" are some of the highlights of the album. There are also some great guest vocal spots in "Dit Jeannor" which add some much needed variation: while Olomide has a serviceable singing voice, he rarely explores anything between a soft croon or a lecherous rasp. I'm intrigued by soukous as a genre, and there are some good moments to be cherry-picked from this particular album, but in the end it was too much to wade through for me. A quick read about Olomide's personal transgressions- which I find difficult not to mention here- dissolves the chance of any further effort I might have made to get into his music.

Bombastic, tender, soulful, energetic… I wasn’t familiar with this album at all, but TV on the Radio’s “Dear Science” is a real gem of the late ‘00s indie scene. TV on the Radio are rare representatives of Black indie music, and are presumably one of very few Black indie bands on this list. So rare, in fact, that I’m ashamed to say I spent the first listen convinced they were white, cringing at the rap in “Dancing Choose”, thinking it was all misguided cultural appropriation. When I realised this wasn’t the case, I felt like an idiot but could at least listen with fresh ears and get into the matter of the music. There’s an impressive array of mood and energy across the rest of the album: “Halfway Home” is an urgent, irrepressible anthem, all nervous energy spilling over into catharsis. “Dancing Choose” is a winning shot of adrenaline, fuelled with passion and rage as it fires across all cylinders. “DLZ” is a swirling vortex of angst and hopelessness: dark, brooding and dramatic, it’s music to soundtrack the end of the world. But the standout is “Golden Age”. It’s the hit here, and it’s fairly easy to see why: an unashamedly simple chorus managing to soar above the noise, between effortlessly cool funk in the verses. “Dear Science” also showcases a great blend of sound and instrumentation, to give strong dynamic range: the looping synth in ballad “Crying” flutters perfectly around the swells of strings and horns, while the brass section in “Red Dress” injects some drive into proceedings. Where the album fell down a little for me were in the more delicate numbers: while “Family Tree” is the restrained, gorgeous exception, it renders the other more tender numbers inadequate and unnecessary. “Stork & Owl”’s plodding beat and backing vocals are a bit clumsy, and “Love Dog” is a bit of nothing which leaves no impression. We end on “Lover’s Day”, a fun, bombastic finale and one of the most sincere expressions of sexual longing I’ve heard in a while, though the lyrics do read a bit like a horny teenager getting distracted from his poetry class. All in all, this is an invaluable album for its time period. I picked up on shades of Arcade Fire’s energy and LCD Soundsystem’s genre-hopping and production, but there’s so much more than that going on. “Dear Science” is a world of fierce talent and restless innovation- bravo.

“Stand!” is a perfect distillation of a band at the height of their powers: here, Sly and the Family Stone stride between funk, soul and psychedelia, influencing generations of musicians across all three areas and more. There are the phenomenal makings of a Greatest Hits compilation here, and all of the shorter tracks shine in their own way. While “Everyday People” is my all-time favourite for its buoyant singalong refrain, the other songs crackle with the same level of life and optimism. The title track and “You Can Make It If You Try” bookend the album with positivity, serving as anthems for the underdogs. (Also, “Stand” has a killer funky outro that hits harder than anything else here). “I Want to Take You Higher” is a barrage of heavy soul, while “Somebody’s Watching You” cleanses the palate with a sunnier, twee-without-being-naff melody. Finally, “Sing a Simple Song” manages to sit a “doh-reh-mi” major scale singalong in the middle of a rip-roaring funk track… without derailing the whole thing. Inspired. The remaining 19 minutes of the album is devoted to two tracks: “Don’t Call me N****r, Whitey” and a THIRTEEN MINUTE instrumental jam to “Sex Machine.” Both of these songs retain spunk and aggression, but also give way to extended, hazy jam sessions. They may showcase the band’s live power, but they aren’t quite as compelling on record. There’s also a heavy reliance on the talkbox here, which takes some getting used to. It goes without saying that to make it all work, the musicians are on absolutely splendid form, though drummer Greg Errico deserves a special mention for his controlled chaos at the end of “Sex Machine” and for elevating “I Want to Take You Higher”… well, higher. If “Sex Machine” had been half as long, this would have been an easy five stars. As it is, it teeters right on the edge… but I’m rounding up anyway. It’s just too much fun. (On a side note, Questlove’s 2021 documentary, “Summer of Soul”, showcases Sly Stone and co. at their peak, with earth-shattering renditions of “Everyday People” and “Sing a Simple Song”. After I saw this film and realised what a powerhouse the band must have been live, “Stand!” solidified itself as an absolute classic.)

Short albums with short songs deserve short reviews. Chaotic, confounding, catchy, cryptic... genius.

I’d never heard of Fishbone or “Truth and Soul” before, so had no idea what to expect from this. What a hidden gem it is. I really appreciate the eclecticism on this record, with the band willing to give all sorts of styles a go. Ska? Throw some of it in with “Ma and Pa”. Social commentary? Try it out, in multiple places. Open with a heavy rocking Curtis Mayfield cover? Sure, why not- set the tone with “Freddie’s Dead”. It helps craft a real sense of playfulness, inclusivity and spirit. The bottom line, though, is that “Truth and Soul” is one hell of a party. The stand-out track, “Bonin in the Boneyard”, has all the zest and pomp of early ‘80s Prince, with a prominent rubbery bassline, aggressive horns and call-and-response vocals. I defy anyone working through this list not to be stopped in their tracks by it and start bopping along. There’s also “Question of Life” and the swinging “Mighty Long Way”, which can get away with being a bit hammy when they’re so much fun. When the tempo is dialled back, the results are a bit more mixed: “Pouring Rain” is overlong and completely breaks momentum, but “Change” is a beautifully understated closer. “Truth and Soul” may be greater than the sum of its parts, but as a whole package its a really enjoyable record. Already looking forward to revisiting.

In 1968, the sort of people who thought excessive flange and phaser effects sounded futuristic and otherworldly were probably the same people who thought that by 1996, we'd be discovering signs of alien life on the moon. In this album, The Byrds are those people. I've always really admired this band but don't know a lot of their material on a deep-cut level. "Mr. Tambourine Man", released three years before "The Notorious Byrd Brothers", is the Byrds album I'm most familiar with and it's very different from this one. Delving deeper than ever before into psychedelia, the band become more introspective, solemn and ambitious here, and they do get a little lost along the way. There are cautionary songs about drug use, harrowing hallucinations of Vietnam, a longing to retreat into some innocent life free of responsibility. Even one of their cover choices- a wistful standout "Goin' Back"- is a yearning elegy to childhood. It's only 1968 and the Byrds are already sounding disillusioned with the Summer of Love. My favourite stretch of the record was in the middle: "Draft Morning" to "Old John Robertson" is a really solid run of tracks. The country influences are logical and accomplished, lap-steel guitar forms a welcome addition to the line-up, and it goes without saying that the harmonies are breezy and immaculate... perfectly measured vocals to serve each song. When the tempo ramps up, in "Old John Robertson", it's a ray of light through the fog. When it breaks for a lysergic, delay-soaked guitar solo like "Change is Now", it allows some of the most effective atmospherics on the record. The songs in 5/4 also push the envelope nicely. Slightly less effective for me are the songs that push the iconic 12-string Rickenbackers to the background: "Artificial Energy" has a fairly basic horn arrangement and doesn't do a great deal for me as an opener. "Space Odyssey" is a weak note to go out on, and "Natural Harmony" is a bit too dirge-like for my taste. The band's ambition throughout is admirable, but the constant studio effects are more than a little dated now and often distract from the strength of the songwriting. For a run-time of just twenty-eight minutes, "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" is sufficiently sprawling and dense. The band manage to pack a lot into each song, and while it doesn't reach the eight-mile heights of some of their other work, the craftsmanship and attention to detail here is applaudable. Definitely one to let sink in over some lazy afternoons and foggy nights.

It’s taken over 200 albums for me to draw one by the Godfather of Grunge himself, titan of southern rock and roll and champion of the free world. Neil Young’s legend looms long and low in popular music, but I’ve never heard “Tonight’s the Night” before. After three full listens, my verdict is that it’s a raw, vulnerable experience: it gets better the more Young strips away the edges of his soul. Death permeates much of the record, following Young losing two close friends to drug abuse (one detailed with painstaking frankness in the two renditions of the title track, the other giving a searing posthumous performance on “Come on Baby Let’s Go Downtown”, a live performance from five years prior and a fitting way to pay tribute). The raw, bleeding heart of the record makes up the songs from “Borrowed Tune” (containing an ingenious admission of plagiarism) to “Roll Another Number (For the Road)”, which is both melancholic and positive, resigned and somehow hopeful. “Albuquerque” is another highlight, one of the closest things to weariness personified I’ve heard in a long time. The band sound dry, live, spontaneous- it’s a rough around the edges approach which really serves the songs. Young’s vocals are gritty, delicate and frail as I’ve ever heard them, and it works perfectly with this material. The more he strains or waver over yearning tracks like “Mellow My Mind” or “Tired Eyes”, the more compelling it becomes. Unfortunately though, a lot of the record falls under less noteworthy, more straight-down-the-middle meat and potatoes rock. “World on a String” chugs along with no consequence, and “Lookout Joe” is a solid rocker but feels a little out of place (perhaps due to its origin in a whole different recording period). Then there’s “Speakin’ Out”, a little too loungey and languid to appeal too much. There might be future Neil Young albums coming up which I’ll prefer, and not all of this was up my street, but the middle third is really powerful stuff. One to revisit for all the bleak days and stark nights.

This album has been my first exposure to Bert Jansch’s unique brand of folk. I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a guitar virtuoso on this level. These songs feel like the steeliest dust-bowl blues tracks to ever have materialised from a folkie in Glasgow. I’d hesitate to praise “Bert Jansch” as an album to listen to for the strength of the vocals, songwriting or narratives. Jansch does a serviceable job of all three, but nothing to elevate him above his peers. Instead, this is a guitar album through-and-through, with no other instruments (or musicians) featuring across its 38 minutes. Everything is doggedly unadorned and stripped back, usually to the benefit of the material and stark cold aesthetic. Of “Bert Jansch”’s fifteen tracks, six are instrumentals. When these get a little more rushed or odd notes are flubbed (like in “Casbah”) it doesn’t even matter: it feels raw, real, honest. In “Smokey River” and “Alice’s Wonderland”, you can even hear the faint sound of Jansch breathing underneath the sonic textures he manages to craft out of a single acoustic guitar. It’s sheer expressive playing in its purest form, and helps give the instrumentals every bit as much value as the vocal tracks. In terms of the other songs, they’re mostly unremarkable if not for the guitar playing. They’re generally straightforward blues tracks and concepts or dark laments on war, famine, love, death… the usual suspects. “Needle of Death” is the most poignant track on offer here and deserves to be singled out: it’s a rare track where the guitar settles in a repeated fingerstyle pattern and the melody sits comfortably above it, occupying the sweet spots of Jansch’s range. Finally, it’s eye-opening reading about those who Jansch influenced with his guitar playing, which read like a who’s-who of 20th century titans. Jimmy Page adored this album. Neil Young placed Jansch above Hendrix in his own guitar pantheon. Paul Simon adapted “Angie” early in his career. Nick Drake seems to have based his whole career on picking up where this album leaves off, with “Angie”’s final wistful strains. Bert Jansch may not be talked about enough in 2022, but respect to this list for giving him a rightful place among giants.

One of my last few albums to be drawn was “The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators”. I thought they were the most “overrated underrated” band I’ve heard in a while, getting a lot of acclaim from hipsters who called them “proto-psychedelia” even when their songs weren’t particularly great. In the same year, The Monks were out making much more intriguing music with their only album, “Black Monk Time”. It might not become an all-time favourite any time soon, but I have to appreciate how radically different this must have been from the prevailing tastes of the day. It starts with a bang. A searing, stuttering one-note organ refrain, like a frantic morse code. Thrashing, crashing snares and percussion from a garage junkyard. The rhythm is beaten out on an electric banjo, cutting through the mix like barbed wire. And then a jagged, fuzzy guitar bares its teeth, as if to send Keith Richards and Dave Davies skittering into a corner. “Shut Up”, “Boys are Boys and Girls are Choice” and then the remainder of the album progresses in much the same way: repetitive one-two rhythms, barked out vocals and a chaotic lead guitar and organ vying for position. Every now and then a glimmer of a pop chorus breaks through, with some harmonies or a more easy going melody, but it’s quickly subverted by discordant organ, an abrupt cut or change, or a exorcism-style shriek from the vocalists. Take “Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy”- absolutely out of this world. Drums are kept to rumbling toms, the organ goes wherever it wants to, the vocals scratch and yelp above the mix. It’s new-wave thirteen years early. Elsewhere, we have bold compositional decisions to thrill any listener. “Oh How to Do Now” sticks stubbornly to one chord for the first minute and 24 seconds. “Complication” has an interlude summoning the Beach Boys from a demented alternate dimension. The vocals in “Love Came Tumblin’ Down” don’t start until halfway through. “We Do Wie Du” is perhaps the most conventional, and there’s still something slightly sinister about its repeated playground chant with insistent, staccato backing. Psychedelia? Punk? Garage rock? New- wave? Basement indie? The Monks casually flick through genre after nascent genre like time travellers from the future. They might not all be stellar songs, but it’s an absolutely fascinating listen.

One of the most striking lyrics in “Five Leaves Left” comes towards the end, in “Fruit Tree”. “No one knows you but the rain and the air… open your eyes to another year; they’ll all know that you were here when you’re gone.” Aged 21, Nick Drake released this record of gentle, pastoral folk, stacking it full of meditative musings, mature lyrical themes, and promising guitar playing. Five years later, he’d be dead, presumably with no thought of one of his albums being remembered as one of 1001 for people to hear before they died. All three of them made the list: 100% of his recorded output in his lifetime, which surely isn’t true of many artists on here. It’s been very hard to look at Drake’s music in the same objective way as the others I’ve had on the list so far, as part of me feels the slim output he graced us with in his short life should be treasured unequivocally. However, now that I’ve heard all three of the albums released during his lifetime, I think I would comfortably put this one in somewhere on par with “Bryter Later”, and still a way behind the devastatingly beautiful “Pink Moon” (which I couldn’t stop myself drawing comparisons with). Drake’s guitar playing here isn’t quite as much in the foreground as it became in his later work, sometimes absent altogether. However, the orchestrations are used to much greater effect than they were in “Bryter Layter”. There are no unnecessary instrumentals or overdone arrangements- it all feels very well balanced. The strings in “Riverman” and “Day is Done” are a thing of beauty: elegant, dramatic, understated until they need to leap out. Elsewhere, the bongos in “‘Cello Song” add a somewhat hypnotic feel, and the woodwind in “The Thoughts of Mary Jane” perfectly compliments Drake’s vocals, which float along on a wisp of air- hushed, fragile, cracked. While it’s very well arranged and a great sounding record, with some eerily prescient lyrics, unfortunately for me it lacks some of the same high points from Drake’s other two records. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as “Northern Sky”, or “From the Morning”- nothing as raw as “Place to Be”. Instead, Nick Drake is in enigmatic mode throughout. “Five Leaves Left” is an immersive, all-encompassing set of hazy songs to get lost in. Full marks for atmosphere, but his best work will always be “Pink Moon” for me.

“Something happened on the day he died, spirit rose a metre then stepped aside…” Because I have such vivid memories of “Blackstar”’s release, it’s hard to rate objectively. So I’ll settle for personal preference once again: it sits comfortably in my top five Bowie albums, and its creator sits comfortably in my top five artists of all time. Blackstar was released on 8th January 2016. I was just in the middle of a Bowie binge, treading into deeper waters than the shallow rockpools of Ziggy or Hunky Dory: Scary Monsters, Station to Station, The Next Day. I welcomed a new album and wondered if a tour might be on the horizon: what a time to be getting back into the man! Two days later, I woke up to the news he was dead. I immediately went to the video for Lazarus and watched it with my mind spiralling. All the “clues” had been there: “look up here, I’m in heaven”, the hospital bed, the elegiac feel, the retreat into the cupboard after frantically trying to write everything down. It’s a stunningly poignant piece of work. Putting the inescapable ties to circumstance aside, what we are left with is a dazzling work of originality. There was a tendency among Bowie fans to link “Blackstar” to his previous work: “Dollar Days” sounds like a Hunky Dory track because there’s acoustic guitar in it! “Blackstar” sounds like Station to Station because it’s ten minutes long! “Sue (In a Season of Crime)” sounds like Earthling because it has a drum and bass rhythm! In reality, the most striking thing about “Blackstar” is how DIFFERENT it is from anything Bowie had done before. It’s just as ambitious, just as sprawling and just as dramatic, but it reaches for new territory altogether, tentatively integrating avant-jazz into space-rock and a little bit of dark theatre. I have so much respect for Bowie for every creative decision here: listening to Kendrick Lamar and Death Grips for inspiration, ditching his long-time backing band and recruiting a New York jazz ensemble, even crafting an addictive hook out of the line “where the fuck did Monday go?” It’s bold and brilliant on every level, making for a challenging listen but a rewarding one. On each round, subsequent delights are unveiled. The transition in the title track (and the baritone sax that comes in when the beat drops) will never not make me smile. “‘This a Pity She was a Whore” is an exhilarating ride and, together with “Sue…”, is far more hard-rocking than any 69 year old has any right to be. Lazarus is a haunting, theatrical last gasp. “Dollar Days” and “I Can’t Give Everything Away” seem to cycle from desperation to acceptance, with an ambiguous sentiment in the final track. Is he lamenting that there’s more he wants to share with us, or slinking behind the curtain with a knowing wink? We’ll never know, but it’s beautiful. Thanks for this last ride, Mr. Jones.

In his very first album, Cohen crafts a remarkable set of poems and a slightly less remarkable set of songs, but there are still plenty of high points to be enjoyed over the course of its runtime. Cohen, 33 years old in 1967, already comes across world-weary and disillusioned next to his boyish contemporaries, as he sings of heartbreak, abandonment, sex, death. Biblical allusions abound: these are songs haunted by prisoners and masters, a sinking Jesus, Joseph looking for a manger, lambs at the slaughterhouse, overflowing with apple cores, skeletons and decay. There’s also a tendency to return to a theme of travel and wandering, with rogue and merciful characters alike roaming through the verses looking for a home. Instrumentally, it’s sparse, cold and wintry. Many songs are just accompanied by delicate fingerpicked nylon guitar, but occasionally backing vocals, strings or accordion swell underneath (see “Suzanne” for a particularly successful example of this). Cohen’s voice is a long way off the gravelly depths he’d arrive at in the 80s, and there’s a little more of an attempt to ride the melodies in earnest participation (“So Long Marianne” is positively soaring by his standards). “Suzanne” and “So Long, Marianne” are the career-defining works here, and they’re both stand-outs on the album. In particular, “…Marianne” is the peak, chock full of heartbreaking lines. My personal favourite: “we forget to pray for the angels; and then the angels forget to pray for us”. A lovely, succinct depiction of a relationship sliding into oblivion. It’s difficult to know how to rate this one: I think one can get almost as much from it just by reading the lyrics, as they’re so vivid and accomplished. The music is not to the same standard, and starts to drag a little by the last couple of tracks. Cohen would go on to greater works, but this is a great introduction to his singular, iconic voice. I plan on spending more time with it, and suspect it will take time to reveal itself.

In "Fear of a Black Planet", Public Enemy grasp the bull by the horns, realising hip-hop's full potential to shock, outrage and offend. They also take the opportunity to make a statement on the world from their unique perspective, and harness their genre as a vehicle for change that threatens to break down or crash every few minutes. This album is rich, overwhelming, chaotic, furious, exhausting, incendiary. Play it loud and drown. The music is dense and seems impenetrable on first listen: a complete overload of samples and effects, like Spector re-incarnated. Listen to the opening bars of "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" for an accurate representation of the flavour of this record: squalling distorted guitar, a heavy, front-and-centre beat, discordant keyboard, ad-libs dropping in and out, piles of reverb, and Chuck D spitting out a hurricane, barely pausing for breath. Chuck is an admirably passionate MC and there are so many lyrics to take in - pages and pages all at once - that I could only let it wash over me at first. Song by song, I became enveloped in the urgent, angry world echoing all around me: "Fear of a Black Planet" is a spectacularly immersive album. "911 Is A Joke", "Who Stole the Soul" and "Burn Hollywood Burn" were just some of my highlights on first listen, as well as the iconic "Fight the Power". It's only after a few listens that I caught wind of the anti-Semitism row that plagued the band more than any other, and then identified the problematic lyrics in the otherwise knock-out "Welcome to the Terrordome." It was hard to keep approaching the work in the same way, knowing the group's anti-semitism and homophobia severely injures the album's mission statement and undermines Public Enemy's plea for a tolerant world. At its heart, though, I can't deny that "Fear of a Black Planet" is a compelling listen. It's overlong, stretching its dense, cacophonous and enveloping production to its limit over 63 minutes, but perhaps that's the point. It's hard to feel quite as engrossed in "B Side Wins Again" or "War at 33 1/3" as it is in "Brothers Gonna Work It Out" or the intoxicating "911 Is A Joke", because lack of sonic variation or vocal delivery has caused a serious fatigue. By the end, it's hard to even determine whether the group are calling for peace, violence, or anything in between, but it's a gripping and engaging album that demands full attention.

"The Wildest" heralds from the distant haze of 1958- to this millennial, it might as well be a time wrapped in legend and myth, where "the wildest" anybody ever behaved was in blasts of saturated saxophones and gruff, rasping vocals and bursts of scat. Throughout the running time, Louis Prima comes swinging out of these songs with a swaggering, irresistible charm. He's deft, energetic and relentlessly upbeat. His ad-libs in "I Ain't Got Nobody", his responses to Keely Smith in "The Lip", his manic enthusisasm in "Jump, Jive and Wail", his brief steam train impression in "When It's Sleepy Time Down South", his unexpected tenderness in the lovely "Buona Sera". These are all great songs, but the real showstopper comes right out of the gate with "Just a Gigolo/Ain't Got Nobody". It's a magnificent showcase for Prima and his backing band, encapsulating the spirit the whole album has to offer. The moment it switches to the latter track, the energy kicks up a gear, the backing vocals swell underneath Prima, and the drummer (Bobby Morris) absolutely lets rip on the snare. You could just listen to this and not miss too much nuance from the other tracks, but the whole album is worth spending time with. There's some welcome variation in the rest of the album. Keely Smith is a welcome addition on vocals- she gives great performances in "(Nothing's Too Good) For My Baby" and "The Lip", with amusing interjections from Prima. "Body and Soul" and "Night Train" are two gloriously performed instrumentals, with real passion and panache from the whole band. Is "The Wildest" an all-out masterpiece? Probably not. But it's certainly the most fun I've had listening to any pre-60's album on the list so far- perhaps the earliest album I could put on at a party and know it would guarantee a good time for all.

Anyone who thought Madonna had “matured” with “Ray of Light” clearly hadn’t anticipated the state of her Instagram account by 2022. (If you haven’t seen it, stop what you’re doing and take a look. Solid as it is, this album might hit different.) “Ray of Light” is certainly a more sonically adventurous album than Madonna’s earlier work. It might be a little more refined, a little more cohesive, and a little more mature. But does this mean better, or does it just suck all the fun out that I’ve come to expect from a Madonna record? Much has been made of William Orbit’s production in the hype surrounding this album, and how it helped with the reinvention of Madonna. To an extent, this is true: there are some interesting production choices here which place the album more in the 90s EDM boom than the pop world. Things begin in a really promising fashion, with the enticing “Drowned World/Substitute for Love”. The build up to each chorus, layered with subtly shifting instrumentation and beats, really help to sell it. From there, “Swim” is a perfect follow-up: sensual, a little livelier, an emphasis on the spiritual. I was expecting a much more muted, moody record from these openers, so I was caught completely off guard by the album’s title track. “Ray of Light” is just that on an otherwise dark and stormy album- it comes in like a bolt and- remarkably- Madonna’s careering vocals sound wonderful in it. But for me, it’s also the peak of the album. This isn’t great for track 3 of 10, with plenty of longer, more meandering and less rewarding songs to come across the rest of it. I can’t see the appeal at all with “Frozen”, the lead single and one of Madonna’s most famous songs from this period. It feels stumbling around in search of a strong hook or lyric, lost in the haze of Orbit’s production. A good mood piece, perhaps, but hardly single material. “Skin”, “Little Star”, and many others besides, are just mediocre songs dressed up in cutting edge production that is fortunate enough to not have aged as badly as some of Madonna’s other material. That said, it’s “Shanti/Ashtangi” where things really go off the rails. Nobody asked for Madonna to do a whole song in Sanskrit with a vague Indian accent: it’s naive at best and wholesale cultural appropriation at worst. “The Power of Goodbye” is a little better, redeeming the back half with a solid vocal performance and one of the most outwardly emotional songs on the record. Then we end on “Mer-Girl”, which is dark, surreal, even admirable. It’s not exactly a show-stopper, but presumably she was opting for a more low key finish here. I’m very aware that the more extroverted songs grabbed me the most here, so perhaps this album is a more subtle beast or maybe I wasn’t in the right headspace to get into it. It’s certainly an interesting evolution, and these two stars may as well be split across the first three tracks.

“Sound of silver, talk to me, makes you want to feel like a teenager, until you remember the feelings of a real life emotional teenager, then you think again.” The most improbably lengthy, yet still catchy, hook I have ever known. I’ve been a fan of LCD Soundsystem for quite some time, but have never strayed far beyond their excellent 2010 album “This is Happening” (sadly not in the 1001 list- I checked). I’ve tried to get into Sound of Silver before but have never made it through, so I’m glad to have given it more time here, because it’s brilliant. The best or worst thing about LCD Soundsystem, depending on one’s angle, is that James Murphy is a born magpie, shamelessly cherry-picking from his record collection and spinning old hits and deep cuts into new concoctions. Is this a smart skewing of DJ and electronica sampling in a rock environment? Is it an example of post-modern bricolage to reflect our increasingly fractured world, just like a shattered mirrorball? Or is it just a huge rip-off? Kraftwerk, Pete Shelley, Bowie, David Byrne and many more could put a reasonable case in after hearing this album, as well as any other by Murphy. Bowie’s response to Murphy’s plagiarism admission? “You can’t steal from a thief, darling.” My feelings are similar: everything is borrowed in one way or another. All heroes have heroes and nothing is made in a vacuum, like it or not. With this album, Murphy just about stays on the right side of pastiche. “Get Innocuous” is a very well-constructed opening, from the distinctive synth percussion intro, to the bassline filtering its way into existence, to the echoing foreboding vocals right up to the chant towards the end. It’s completely addictive and had me hooked as it unfurled all the way. The third track, “North American Scum” is an adrenaline-fuelled stomper with a satisfyingly beefy sound and passionate, furious vocals from Murphy. But “Someone Great” and “All My Friends” are on another level: sublime tracks making up the heart of the record. Immediate, emotive, simple: true modern classics, and the fact we get them back to back here is astonishing. My only gripe is that these two centrepieces set such a high bar for the rest of the record. The other two highlights are “Us v Them”, an admirable epic which manages to keep the momentum going against all odds after “All My Friends”, and the stirring, dejected “New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down”. On the other hand, “Sound of Silver” and “Watch the Tapes” could have arguably been trimmed out to make a much tighter album. “Time to Get Away”, too, is relatively lightweight, enjoyable but failing to reach the same heights as most of the other songs here. Still, this is an immediate, irresistible hit. Catchy, immaculately produced and full of humour and heart, it’s a nine out of ten for sure.

Jefferson Airplane were, of course, driving the psychedelic rock and hippie movement in San Francisco back in 1967, alongside a select few other groups. I’ve known two of this album’s tracks for many years (no prizes for guessing which) and was excited to hear a full set of Grace Slick’s stunning, hypnotic vocals. Alas… There’s a reason “Somebody to Love” and “White Rabbit” are the only Jefferson Airplane songs most people have heard of. As well as displaying more lean, muscular songwriting than most of the others on “Surrealistic Pillow”, it’s obvious from the outset that Grace Slick is the band’s MVP. When her lead vocals kick in with “when the truth is found…” or rise up to the climactic “FEED YOUR HEAD!”, it’s impossible not to pay attention. It feels like the whole band are ascending into another cosmos whenever she starts to sing, and it’s criminal that she was excluded from the other tracks. Marty Balin and Spencer Dryden both have serviceable vocals, but they sound like they’re from totally different bands: neither of them capture the bravado or drama on the same level as Slick. Vocalists aside, the songs we are left with either slot neatly into the burgeoning psychedelic movement of the late 60’s, or stay in their lane with much more of a folk influence than I expected. “She Has Funny Cars” is a decent opening, with a fuzzed out guitar riff coiling itself around a Bo Diddley beat. Psychedelic, surf, rock and roll… it’s an intoxicating mix. “My Best Friend” is a languid, carefree love letter that lollops along like a Labrador. And “Embryonic Journey” is a stunning acoustic guitar showcase (Jorma Kaukonen deserves much more praise). “3/5 of a Mile in 10 Seconds” also deserves a shoutout, for getting the pace back on track in the middle of the record and injecting more raw rock and roll energy than anything else here. On the other end of the spectrum are the light and airy ballads of “Comin’ Back to Me” and “Today”, and the breezy Simon and Garfunkel lite of “How Do You Feel”. They’re all perfectly pleasant, but feel quite insubstantial and safe for a record that’s often hailed as an all-round game-changer. And while “D-C-B-A 15” employs some lovely harmonies and arpeggiated guitar, it’s nothing the Byrds hadn’t already been doing better. Really, then, once you’ve heard the Slick tracks you’ve heard the most bold, exciting material Jefferson Airplane seem capable of at this stage in their journey. There’s nothing to actively dislike across the rest of the album- in fact it’s mostly an enjoyable listen- but it’s just not quite as revolutionary as I’d hoped.

“Raw Power” is rough, savage, primal, the sound of some missing-link creature emerging from a swamp and throttling the listener for 33 minutes. It’s usually just as painful and agonising as it is intriguing and compelling. I went between both mixes of the album before listening in full. I ended up sticking with the Bowie version to reflect the original release, but I’d like to put the debate to an end with my two cents: on a technical level, they’re both terrible. Over-compressed and heavy-handed or pulled taut and thin like glass, muffled sludgy low-end or drums made of paper… you decide. The Stooges aren’t out to be virtuosos, so instrumentals are rudimentary: this is fine, if the songs can leap out and attack, which some do. “Search and Destroy” is certainly an attention-grabbing opener: serrated, forceful power chords, strangled drums, as much of a hook as we’re likely to get here. “Shake Appeal” crashes in like the twisted ugly stepfather of “My Sharona”, immediate and full of character. Iggy’s persona is on form throughout: snarling, sneering and soaring. Unfortunately, for me it just doesn’t feel enough. For such a lean, tight running time of 33 minutes, an awful lot of the tracks end up outstaying their welcome. “Gimme Danger” saps out the momentum as early as the second track, with its cloying tempo and squalling strings trying to be Velvet Underground. “I Need Somebody” feels interminable: respect to Iggy for giving the slow, swampy blues a go, but he gives himself nowhere to go after the first minute and they really don’t do a lot for him. By the time Iggy was rasping and rattling his way through “Death Trip”, I was willing it to end. I don’t want to discount Iggy Pop as a performer. His stage presence and showmanship is undeniably mesmerising, and would have given these songs a real lease of life. But sadly, that’s not how they’ve been immortalised here, dogged by a weak sound and awkward sequencing.

Thank God Buddy Holly was lucky enough to show the world his talent before his tragic death at 22. In “The Chirping Crickets”, he takes the newly emergent form of rock and roll and makes it well and truly his own through twelve tight, accomplished and exhilarating numbers. Listen very closely and you can hear Lennon, McCartney, Jagger, Richards and many more besides sitting up, taking notes, figuring out the chords. Generations of influence stemming from 25 minutes- not bad at all for a 21 year old. This is simple, pure and honest songwriting that sticks: almost every song here is written in the same key of A Major and sticks to the three major chords of the scale. Some are in a basic blues structure, while others go beyond that. It could be boring and repetitive, but somehow, Holly makes them all sound distinctive, with each of the melodies standing apart from one another. “That’ll Be The Day”, recorded in a different session with presumably a very different setup, sticks out from the others straight away as the clean, dynamic and instant hit. It earns its rightful place as THE Buddy Holly song almost any listener is bound to recall. “Maybe Baby” is another highlight, in particular the breathless backing vocal accompaniment in the break. Incidentally, I first heard it from a cover by Brian May, which is worth a listen and further evidence of Holly’s influence reaching across numerous rock icons. If any of the record starts to sag, it’s in the last third: three consecutive ballads feels a bit unnecessary and a tad safe. It’s as though the band are dialling themselves back into the pre-rock and roll era of traditional pop, in case too much excitement would blow up the speakers and summon the devil. Still, at a total running time of 25 minutes, it’s hard to complain about any dead weight, and the ending “Rock Me My Baby” is lively and punchy enough to send things out on a high note. Bravo!

Ladysmith Black Mambazo's "Shaka Zulu" is a rare entry of "world music" in the exclusive 1001 club. It's presumably very unlikely the group would have appeared on the list if they hadn't become known to Western audiences through their involvement in Paul Simon's "Graceland", and Simon subsequently producing this album to high praise in the Western world (it reached no. 34 in the UK albums chart, becoming the group's only effort to go anywhere near such a place). Of course, it's great to hear it here, and I'd never listened to a full album by the group before, but it does once again make me wonder how much incredible music from non-Western countries and cultures must be missing from the list, simply because white male rockstars weren't involved. Anyhow, on to the actual content of "Shaka Zulu". It first appears far removed from any Western rock or pop albums so is a little challenging to adjust to, but it is blissful, peaceful and meditative. Most of the words are sung together in deep, rich harmonies, with a range of vocal percussion including tongue clicks, rolling "r"s and- most surprisingly- kissing. It's all impeccably performed with a great clean sound to let the performances shine: there's nothing I could fault and I don't know the first thing about isicathamiya or mbube to give any comparisons. There are moments of familiarity here and there: as well as many of the songs being performed in English, the harmonic structure is very easy on the ear and the implied chord progressions would not be out of place on "Graceland". At heart, "Hello My Baby" is a very direct, simple love song. "King of Kings" is a stirring plea to God for peace, where the emotion behind the stunning technique is most on display. "How Long" feels slightly more Western-influenced, even employing an unexpected walking bass blues scale. The inevitable drawback is that a solely a capella recording is unlikely to stay engaging for very long. Even at 35 minutes, the sound began to wash over me on each listen. The claps and stomps towards the end of "Wawusho Kubani?" feel like the dawn breaking, the world waking up after being wrapped up, hushed and enchanted, in a blanket of sound. "Shaka Zulu" has been a great introduction to this style of music: it's certainly a worthy addition to the list if not going to be on regular rotation.

Caught perfectly between perky defiance and world-weary fatigue, "On the Beach" is a considerable level above "Tonight's the Night", the album Neil Young recorded beforehand and released afterward (and also the one I had generated for me just a couple of weeks ago). Recorded in the wake of "Harvest"'s success by a rapidly disillusioned and alienated Young, "On the Beach" is overcast with a growing wistfulness, which fills the second side's final three tracks as Young holds onto hope by a thread. The emotional crux might not be as strong as "Tonight's the Night", but the material Young draws from it feels stronger, more refined and focused. The opener "Walk On" is a strange outlier: one of the most misleading opening tracks I've ever heard. A buoyant guitar line, full-bodied arrangement with lyrics that at first glance seem optimistic and carefree. "Some get stoned, some get strange, sooner or later it all gets real; walk on." I came to view this as a little more nihilistic in the context of the album: everything's falling apart, nothing's what it was, but don't turn around to watch the memories burn. Later, the beach becomes overcast in "See the Sky About to Rain", boasting a slide guitar solo which fits perfectly alongside the electric piano and fragile vocal. The atmosphere at the end, featuring Young's wordless vocal line, is blissful, bittersweet melancholia. "Revolution Blues" is perfectly placed, upping the ante with some serious edge: jagged guitar solos, an "anything-goes" performance drenched in reverb and crunchy distortion. The confession at the end- "I hear that Laurel Canyon is full of famous stars, but I hate them worse than lepers and I'll kill them in their cars"- is a bit of a shock, but it's also one of the most badass statements to come out of music pre gangsta-rap. If there are any songs resembling throwaways here to drag the score down, it's "For the Turnstiles" and "Vampire Blues". The former is some out-of-the-box country-style jamming with a casual, unfussy banjo accompaniment and sounds a bit like a outtake, while the latter is a tired 12-bar blues with a baffling one-note guitar solo. Completing a triptych of "Blues" named songs alongside "Revolution" and "Vampire" is "Ambulance". Almost every song on "On the Beach" is a winner, but this final track would probably win the accolade of my all-time favourite by Young (across the four albums I've heard- admittedly a fraction of his discography). It brings a satisfying level of acoustic folk from Young's previous albums, with a melodic guitar accompaniment I could listen to forever. (Incidentally, I found out Young ripped this from Bert Jansch's "Needle of Death", which I was given recently on the generator… canonised music is a small world.) It's a gorgeous song, overflowing with yearning, nostalgia, and lyrical gems like the below: "An ambulance can only go so fast; it's easy to get buried in the past; when you try to make a good thing last…" Incredible stuff.

““Yellow”? Hey, more like beige, lads, am I right? HAR HAR HAR!” It’s more fashionable to hate Coldplay than just about any other band going, and I’m still not totally sure why. Throughout their transition from an intimate guitar-based indie rock outfit, to bearers of pop-rock torch anthems, to a pristine stadium-filling pop act with a roster of guest artists, they have seemed to alienate every camp of music fan. “Parachutes” takes us back to the very beginning, which saw grand and epic songs sitting alongside rough throwaways. They’re a young start-up band here, for better and worse. The simplest songs are the strongest, with “Don’t Panic” and “Yellow” doling out fragile, sincere emotion with pleading eyes and shaking hands. They’re beautiful, and require little more than a verse and chorus, three chords each. Later, the build up in “Everything’s Not Lost” gives a juicy bit of gravitas and euphoria to the album’s end, saving it from becoming a little too colourless in the home stretch. Chris Martin’s signature falsetto is nicely judged throughout, undeserving of the vicious barbs it gets thrown at it. But it’s Jonny Buckland who gives the record’s standout performances with distinctive, accomplished guitar lines. At once emotive, tasteful, and varied, he gives many of these songs some much needed colour if Martin’s voice or songwriting fails. Their interplay is on finest display in the terrific “Shiver”, another album highlight which I hadn’t heard before. Moving on to the weak spots: “Sparks” and “We Never Change” are both dirge-like and forgettable with cloying 3/4 strumming patterns and a failure to grasp any emotional heft. My impression was that “Spies” and “High Speed” wanted to be dark and mysterious, but between trite lyrics and Martin’s earnest, unadorned voice they don’t quite convey anything besides filler. And “Parachutes”, a 43 second interlude, is utterly pointless. I return to the theory that Coldplay have degenerated with time, becoming shells of their former selves. Any die-hard “Parachutes” fan insisting their lyrics peaked early could surely not defend “I want to fly, and never come down; and live my life, and have friends around.” Any champion of a “more stripped back production” could surely not listen to the uber-compressed intro of “Shiver”, with clipping left right and centre, and insist it was a better job than their later work. “Over-produced” doesn’t always equal “bad corporate sell-out trash”. The point is, much of Coldplay’s earlier work was more flawed than some fans probably care to admit, and much of what they’re doing now probably has more merit than some fans would be comfortable with. I take my hat off to them for evolving and staying aloft for over twenty years, whichever direction their music might go. “Parachutes” is no more than one step in their journey.

Frank Zappa thrusts himself on an unsuspecting world with a killer opening gambit: “Mr America, walk on by your schools that do not teach” kicking off a song called- what else- “Hungry Freaks, Daddy”. Over the next sixty minutes (one of the first double albums in rock) he and the Mothers of Invention heap irony upon irony, skewering both pre-rock and roll pop and the psychedelic movement and blurring all lines between the sublime and the ridiculous. After having been a bit intimidated by Zappa’s jazz fusion output and famously arch sense of humour, the most surprising thing to me as a first-time “Freak Out” listener is that it’s a reasonably accessible pop-rock album. At surface level, there are plenty of conventional, catchy tunes on here. “Motherly Love” (questionable treatment of women aside), “Hungry Freaks, Daddy” and especially “Any Way the Wind Blows” all have the right mixture of sure-footedness and quirky charm to be winners. Zappa’s lead guitar work is in fine form from the opening, and the orchestration- brass section, strings and some cheeky kazoo- gives some lovely flourish. As the album unfolds, we veer between rock and doo-wop parodies, hearing superbly melodramatic teenage angst in “Go Cry on Somebody Else’s Shoulder”, “How Could I Be Such A Fool” and “You Didn’t Try To Call Me”. Some influences are more brazen than others. “Wowie Zowie” directly lifts the Four Seasons’ “Sherry” for its coda, while I like to think of “Help I’m A Rock” as a literalist’s response to Simon and Garfunkel’s song of a similar name: “did you ever think about what being a rock would actually feel like, Paul?” Any negative review here will tell you that Zappa is doing everything coldly, with scorn and a condescending “look-at-me” style of humour as he belittles the source material. Actually though, I think there’s some affection in the parodies. They’re solidly written songs that work on multiple levels: it’s not as though the only way to enjoy them is nodding and winking along with Zappa and co. The humour- sometimes scathing, always zany, often ridiculous- isn’t going to be to everyone’s taste, but to me feels at mostly the right level. Zappa’s repeated self-pitying ad-libs in the ballads, all focused around reupholstering his car to get his girl back, are hilarious. Even in the more obnoxious “It Couldn’t Happen Here”, I can’t make it through the ludicrous stuttering backing vocals without grinning. Things get a little more real with “Trouble Every Day”, an admirably searing protest song in response to police brutality at race riots in California. Then, the “freak-out” proper comes in the record’s final three tracks, which took up the entire second disc in original pressings. Up until this point, I was engrossed, but got a little lost in the indulgent finale. The total commitment to insanity is fun at first, but feels a little forced and has dated more than anything else on the record. Helium-voices chanting “cream cheese” for five minutes works as a one-off surprise factor, but there’s only so much enjoyment one can get out of it on each listen. “Freak Out” is imperfect, particularly as a double album, but it’s a beguiling listen and has made me want to hear more of Zappa’s wider body of work. I’ve already gone back to it multiple times and feel convinced that its songs will continue to do wonders for me: the 1960s would not be complete without it.

For their second album, and breakout success, Blur made a transparent attempt to revitalise what the Kinks were doing in "Village Green Preservation Society", without quite the same humour or heart. On my first listen, "Modern Life is Rubbish" really didn't do a lot for me. But it's worth persevering to allow the best songs to float to the top of the "oily water": there are some gems here, albeit obscured by a performative indifference. On first hearing this album, my struggle was that it seemed relentless with Damon Albarn's smug and faintly condescending songwriting about stranded twentieth-century men and women trapped in "modern life." Most of the songs boast unorthodox chord progressions which are interesting at times and obnoxious at others, as though Albarn and co. are showing off at the expense of crafting good songs. Still, once I listened more and had got over wondering how each song was going to settle itself, I started to appreciate Blur's craft much more. "For Tomorrow", a last-minute addition to go out as a single, proves irresistible with its deceptively chirpy "la la la" refrain. "Chemical World" is a slow-growing anthem, even if it does sound like the Weasley twins on vocals. "Star Shaped", "Turn It Up" and "Villa Rosie" are my other honourable mentions, though my highlight of the whole album may just be "Intermission" at the end of "Chemical World". Surprising, refreshing and dramatic, it's a perfect interlude. For a second album, "Modern Life is Rubbish" is reasonably assured in taking risks but could perhaps have gone further. Despite the promise of genre experimentation and an expanded orchestra section, all too often we end up reverting to throwaway character studies ("Colin Zeal"), robotic punk-by-the-numbers ("Coping") or tuneless dirge ("Miss America"). The rest of the band are competent but not breathtaking: Graham Coxon proves himself a supple and versatile rhythm guitarist, while Dave Rowntree's drumming is rarely anything but seismic and intense. As a forty minute album, "Modern Life Is Rubbish" could have been truly special. As it is, it's just pretty good- but knowing the heights Albarn would later reach, both with Blur and the far superior Gorillaz, makes it a worthwhile curio.

I adore 1970s rock and pop: most of my top albums so far have been from this decade, and I like to think of it as an area I’m quite knowledgeable on. That said, I wasn’t familiar with any of Joan Armatrading’s work, and immediately felt guilty about it after hearing this album. She’s undoubtedly a hero of the 1970’s singer-songwriter crowd in Britain, with a tremendous voice, lovely guitar work and an honest, direct songwriting style. “Joan Armatrading”, her third album, is a solid demonstration of all these areas. Producer Glyn Johns called it the best album he’d worked on… and he worked with The Beatles! I’ll start with the heart. “Love and Affection” is the key track here: the album’s centrepiece and Armatrading’s most famous and most successful song. I’d never heard it before, and was imperceptibly transported from a sparse, wandering folk prelude to a grand romantic ballad, to a saxophone solo revelling in pure pop. After several listens, I was absolutely hooked. The most remarkable thing about the song is that it’s difficult to distinguish much of a hook or central melody in the freestyle vocal line, but it hardly matters. “Love and Affection” is about the power of a feeling, of emotion and love overriding everything else. It knocked me out. Elsewhere, there’s a blend of meaty, muddy grooves and tender balladry. “People” is a real standout, a hard-edged soul track finished off with an immensely satisfying key change and a saturated fuzzy guitar solo. “Join the Boys” is a sleazy, bluesy number to strut through a seedy bar to, “Like Fire” has a rhythmic acoustic guitar motif to die for, and “Water with the Wine” bears one of the album’s stand-out melodies, casting Armatrading in a lighter, playful light (real echoes of Joni Mitchell). At the album’s close, “Tall in the Saddle” marries both the album’s key styles, with a seamless last-minute switch into fifth gear. On the ballad side, I loved “Someone Who Loves You” for its backing vocals, and the warmth emanating through “Down to Zero”’s earthy production. There’s a lot of great material here and I really wanted to absolutely love this album, but on the whole it isn’t completely doing it for me yet. Despite some really great songs, there were some tracks that felt a bit unfocused and meandering: “Save Me” and “Help Yourself” haven’t made much of a connection with me on the first few plays, and it would have been nice to hear some more of the tight grooves in the mould of “People”, or the apex reached in “Love and Affection.” Armatrading’s performance, though, is superb.

The last time I had an extended stay in hospital, I watched Stuart Little 2 again and again until it felt as though I could recite it word for word. In the 1970s, it wasn’t out yet, so all Brian Eno was able to do was coin a new genre of music. “Ambient” was allegedly conceived when Eno was bedridden after an accident and stuck with the volume of his music too low to distinguish it from the sounds of his environment. The resulting “Music for Airports”, one of his first full-length explorations of ambient music’s potential, isn’t strictly music for a dedicated listening session. It’s not an experience in itself, but it’s in service to something else. It’s music to be subliminal, wallpaper, an extra layer of the environment. Most succinctly described by Eno as “ignorable as it is interesting”. This album has helped me through many a study session or sleepless night in the past, becoming my go-to to calm my nerves or put me at ease. In most cases, I’ve only got as far as the end of 1/1 before either falling asleep or switching it off and getting on with something else. I’ve never listened to it in the middle of an airport lounge while worried about a flight: on this particular occasion, I heard it through headphones in a dark room. At worst, “Music for Airports” is distracting (presumably exactly what Eno did not want it to be). At best, it’s arrestingly beautiful. There’s something of a feeling of diminishing returns across the album: when the vocal or brass synth pads come in on 2/1 and 2/2, it feels a bit plastic space-age, like an airport from a Star Trek set. In 2022, it was enough to take me out of the immersive experience and wish they’d gone for some different sounds. The sparser and more organic the instrumentation is, the better, which is why 1/2 feels so effective and cleansing. As the whole idea of this album is to present a different purpose and function of music, it’s useless to measure it in the same way as others on the list. The main question really is whether “Music for Airports” fulfils its aim?While it never really took off (no pun intended) as a departure lounge soundtrack, ambient music is pervasive now, and this is a landmark record in the genre. Sure, if Eno hadn’t done it, somebody else would have done, but “…Airports” is spacious and serene enough to deserve its acclaim. I wish I’d known about it back when I was stuck with Stuart Little 2.

Between the unifaun’s opening plea and the “English ribs of beef” fade-out, it’s become impossible for me to look at this one objectively. It’s been a favourite for many years, since before I’d heard 95% of albums on this list and knew who many of the most popular artists were. So it’s interesting reading people’s thoughts upon hearing it for the first time in this kind of context, between Fugees, Nirvana and Radiohead. “What is the not-Phil one bleating on about?” “Did they honestly think those synth patches wouldn’t date by 2022?” “Does Tony Banks have to be so unbearably middle-class to open “Firth of Fifth” wanking out a classical piano piece?” “And why does it all have to be so ball-achingly long?” I’m so familiar with “Selling England by the Pound” that none of its ridiculous proggy nonsense feels jarring, strange, corny or ham-fisted. Every switch to an odd time signature, every lyric referencing medieval England, Greek mythology, 70s supermarkets or Epping Forest, every abrupt tempo change or indulgent solo, feels as natural and comfortable as it remains bold and exciting. This album feels like home. Four monster tracks trade places with (relatively) short interludes as the album unfolds. “Dancing with the Moonlit Knight” is prog-rock wizardry distilled: everything about it works perfectly and the modulation to major key during the guitar solo is icing on the cake. “I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)” is catchy sing-along joy. “More Fool Me”, which I used to write off as the Phil Collins pop throwaway, is a graceful palate cleanser between epics. “The Battle of Epping Forest”, which most of the band disliked for having too many wordy lyrics crowbarred in, is a tour de force of storytelling, rich with detail, character and humour (the “Reverend” section alone is worth the price of admission). And “The Cinema Show” just keeps getting more and more orgasmic with every new phrase in its behemoth keyboard solo. Musically, it’s a masterclass in almost every instrument. Guitarists should study Hackett’s smooth, melodic and dramatic guitar solos (flashy tapping when the song requires it, but all taste, style and grace in the instrumental “After the Ordeal”). Vocalists (and pantomime performers) should revel in Gabriel’s theatrical delivery. Keyboard players have the “Firth of Fifth” intro and the breathtaking “Cinema Show” solo to practice for the rest of their lives. Bassists and drummers should listen to… all of it. A perfect rhythm section. But while the technique is there, it’s in no way a substitute for soul, passion or emotion. Hackett’s wailing, bombastic reprise of the flute in “Firth of Fifth”. Gabriel’s isolated vocal at the opening, increasing in gravity over the next couple of verses. Once again, the light and shade in “The Cinema Show”’s solo (yes, yes, it’s one of my favourite bits). There’s so much to unpack, but those who make the effort will be rewarded with an evergreen symphony of sound. I tried as hard as I could to listen with fresh ears, imagining how “Selling England by the Pound” might sound if I’d been brought up on punk, new wave or pop. I was still thrilled by it: either I’m biased or it really is one of the best of all time.

With "Hunting High and Low", a-ha are out to become reigning champions of 1980's synth pop, one programmed beat and stratospheric falsetto line at a time. It's a very competent, accomplished and sophisticated piece of work, if not always genuinely exciting. The whole album is pristinely engineered, almost to a fault. A synthesised orchestra unfurls across each arrangement, giving all the bombast of a Beethoven symphony mixed in with digitised sounds, programmed trebly drum machines, one-note bass synths. It all sounds pure and utopian, but there were times when I was hoping for a little more grit or authenticity in the mix. I was surprised to hear that half of this album’s tracks were singles. “Take on Me” is absolutely ubiquitous, and none of the other singles come close to exhibiting the duo’s same knack for crafting earworms or utilising Morten Harket’s stunning upper range. The closest they get is “The Sun Always Shines on TV”, with its urgent, aching cry of “Touch me / how can it be?” The other singles (“Love Is Reason”, “Train of Thought”, “Hunting High and Low”) don’t seem to occupy anywhere near the same space in public consciousness as the lead single 40 years on. They’re also, to put it plainly, just not as engaging. “Train of Thought” is reasonably solid- and cast in a darker and more paranoid shade than “Take on Me”- with a decent hook and rising vocal throughout its chorus. But then “Love Is Reason” sounds horrendously dated with its squeaky clean synth refrain and a bland central melody and lyric. Across the rest of the album, it’s a similar story: “The Blue Sky” and “Living a Boy’s Adventure Tale” are okay, with some good woodwind and falsetto in the latter. “You Tell Me” is a wandering sophisti-pop interlude to sap away any energy. Ending “Here I Stand and Face the Rain” brings things to a sweeping close with its crashing minor chords and brooding, ominous mood: going out on a dark note in an era of Cold War paranoia. All of it is very well recorded and engineered, with a sublime vocal performance from Harket. I just wish there was more of the same heights achieved by its two biggest singles.

Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is an unassuming jewel in the crown of early 2000's indie rock. It's gathered such a reputation in the years since release that I was excited to finally get around to it. For the most part, I was not disappointed. For 51 minutes, Jeff Tweedy's taut and trembling vocals croak out personal, abstract observations, accompanied by chugging acoustic guitars in almost every song, tied up with some surprising production choices. It's well and truly in my wheelhouse. Tweedy's modus operandi is to craft a set of simple folk songs and then adorn them with electronic flourishes, long and low feedback, filtered drum machines, and what can only be described as an orgy in a junkyard. Take the opener, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart". It's an instantly memorable and simple melody that could have stood up on its own, but with the treatment it receives here, it becomes a beguiling mess. Always one step ahead of its listener, it spends its five minutes on the verge of total collapse: hammered piano chords and strummed guitars drop in and out of focus, amid shards of chimes, fragments of drum fills, snatches of glissandos on indeterminate instruments. It's all topped with Tweedy's fragile, weary vocal: an absolute triumph of an opening. The other arrangements here are gorgeous, too. In particular, "War on War" through to "Heavy Metal Drummer" is an absolute gold streak, and showcases the album at its most accessible. It's perfectly paced, from the tender strings of "Jesus, Etc." to the vast desolation of "Ashes of American Flags" to the peppy nostalgia of "Heavy Metal Drummer". Giving the material the edge is the sonic experimentation. Through liberal employment of feedback, "Ashes of American Flags" is elevated to a cavernous, desolate apocalypse, while the disintegration into a hurricane with the radio broadcasts of "Yankee... Hotel... Foxtrot" is absolutely haunting and genuinely unsettling. The other tracks are still solid, but I cared for them a little less. For me, "Radio Cure" doesn't probe the same emotional depths as the other ballads and never settles on a distinctive melody. "I'm the Man Who Loves You" feels too derivative of Beck's "Odelay" with its devil-may-care, pastiche approach to alt-country. "Pot Kettle Black" and "Kamera" are much needed light relief, but not indispensable. And then we get to "Yankee..."'s closing number, "Reservations", which feels like a bit of a dud to end on. It drags proceedings out a little too far past the sweet spot it finds in its chorus with an extended, ambient-leaning outro. Still, each of these tracks are still enjoyable, and at its best "Yankee..." is sublime. This is a great record with some beautiful songs, never failing to be noteworthy and sometimes managing to be transcendent.

For an instant music biopic generator, see Merle Haggard’s Wikipedia page. All the hallmarks are there: childhood trauma, multiple incarcerations and stays in prison, a chance encounter with his musical hero, redemption and liberty through music. For its soundtrack, one probably couldn’t go far wrong with the “I’m A Lonesome Fugitive” album. Its title track seems to capture Haggard’s life some years earlier as a “rolling stone”, with one eye on the next lay-by and another on the rear-view mirror. Ironically, its writers were completely unaware of his past troubles, but it fits perfectly. It’s a solid opening and a remarkable story, but ultimately the music falls somewhat flat for me. Across the rest of the album, Haggard gathers his tales of heartache, rambling and rejection and etches them into the train tracks to freedom. It’s listenable, but not particularly arresting and soon wears thin. Haggard may have a suitably lovelorn voice, but I’d have liked a bit more grit mixed in. When every song amounts to either a breezy shuffle or melancholy waltz, it’s hard to stay too invested. The good songs are the most ragged and withdrawn. “House of Memories” is a lovely, wistful take on a heartbreak ballad, with the benefit of being the first slow number on the album before diminishing returns set in, and the introspective “Life in Prison” is clearly channelling Haggard’s lived experience. Conversely, the happier Haggard sounds, the less interesting the songs ultimately feel. “Mary’s Mine” is sweet enough but is hopelessly sentimental, verging on corny. “If You Want to Be My Woman”, perhaps intended as a lighthearted detour, is frivolous and throwaway. The best songs of all maintain an upbeat feel while conveying dejection and despair. “Skid Row” and “Mixed Up Mess of a Heart”, which marry irresistibly toe-tapping rhythms with jaunty melodies, chirping lead guitar accompaniments and rueful vocals, are my kind of country. “Drink Up And Be Somebody” is a nicely ambiguous number, remaining unsaid whether alcohol will heal or harm. So while there are some high notes, overall they fade into the background. Merle Haggard sounds like a very interesting character, but reading his life story left much more of an impression on me than these thirty long minutes did.

Free love. Acid. Bongos. In one fell swoop, the Happy Mondays party like it’s 1967. I’ve never dropped acid, I’ve never been to a rave, and I’ve never leapt around a stage handling my maracas. But I did live in Salford for three years, which I felt gave me a gateway into the Happy Mondays’ screwball technicolour dream. Most of the time, “Pills ‘N’ Thrills And Bellyaches” radiates the kind of sunny optimism that must have been pervasive on the UK dance floor throughout the early 90’s. It’s a fun listen, and feels inseparable from the time of its creation: at its peak, it made me nostalgic for a time I never knew and a person I never was. The best tracks are obvious from the outset. There’s the fire-starting “Kinky Afro” with its killer opening line, the sneering “God’s Cop” with its disarmingly euphoric chorus, and of course “Step On”: swaggering confidence, meaty guitar, Shaun Ryder’s unbeatable charisma. The most surprising moment for me was “Harmony”, an unexpected pop gem to carry the listener away into the ether. These tracks struck me as the most convincing blend between a guitar-based indie band and the emergent rave culture, staying buoyant without losing their teeth. The liberal borrowing from other songs, and “Step On” itself being a cover, doesn’t especially bother me: in this case, I think it’s justified alongside the album’s “anything goes”, anarchic party atmosphere. The main problem for me is that “Pills, Thrills and Bellyaches” isn’t always very danceable. Despite a very strong opener with “Kinky Afro” and “God’s Cop”, things start to dwindle from there: “Grandbag’s Funeral” feels like a ramshackle garage jam session, “Loose Fit” has none of the immediacy of the other singles, and by “Bob’s Yer Uncle” it feels a little too baggy and unfocused. All in all, though, this is a likeable listen and an undeniably cool album to have in one’s collection. My favourite exhibit of Shaun Ryder’s humour? His perversion of Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman” into “sunshine shone brightly through my arsehole today.” Yes it did, Shaun- don’t you know it.

I’ve always had an aversion to heavy metal, and did an almighty roll of the eyes when this album came up on the list. Iron Maiden have never appealed to me and I’ve never sat through a song, let alone a full album. So I cued up “Invaders”, bracing myself to be thoroughly bored… and then something strange happened. Almost by itself, my head began to bob- at first imperceptibly, and then with gradually increasing vigour and enthusiasm. I felt the Devil knocking on my eardrums, looking for my very soul… and I let him in. That’s when I felt my hair getting greasier. Several species began to grow in the crevices of my armpits. For forty minutes alone, I became a metalhead. How did Iron Maiden grip me in its vice? The key ingredient here, which has been missing from the other metal albums I’ve heard so far, is the spoonful of sugary melodies to sit alongside all those high-fat riffs and cholesterol-loaded basslines. The chorus of “The Prisoner” is guiltless radio-friendly pop-rock, at no detriment to the song’s potency. The harmonised guitar solos- in “Children of the Damned” and later “Hallowed be thy Name”- are exemplary. Crisp motifs in major keys are much more this band’s currency than sludgy, bludgeoned riffs and tuneless yelling. Each member of Iron Maiden is a master of their field, with no room for faults. As well as crafting the majority of the songs, Steve Harris gives a star turn on bass, anchoring the songs when he needs to and milking the instrument elsewhere (“Invaders” verses, and the delicious rising figure capping off the solo in the title track). Drummer Clive Burr has a hell of a workout with the thrashy tempos, making excellent use of the ride cymbal. And little more needs to be said about Bruce Dickinson’s vocals and guitarists Dave Murray and Adrian Smith: gloriously theatrical, hammy for better or worse. The all-out highlight, bringing all of the above together in four exhilarating minutes, is “Run to the Hills”. Impossible not to either sing along to, flash the air-guitar or mime the drumming for the intro, even after just a couple of listens. I don’t think I’d ever heard it before, but it will now be forever lodged somewhere in my mind, to arise like an ancient prophecy at the mere mention of Iron Maiden. However, there’s only so much rope I’m willing to give: all the good feeling in the world can’t excuse the particularly laughable “22 Acacia Avenue.” The idea of a metal band earnestly peering around the door of a brothel to tell a sex worker to “stop screwing around” is comical for all the reasons they didn’t want. Devoting a six and a half minute song to the subject with a character named “Charlotte the Harlot” brings it closer to plain offensive, so it’s a good job there’s a characteristically emotive guitar solo to make it more bearable. So in short: yes, the lyrics are hackneyed and corny. Yes, the album retreads the same ground repeatedly across its short runtime. And yes, these songs are for body rather than soul. But there was something in the raw power of these songs which really got through to me. Removing all prejudice, it’s a thrilling listen.

Where 1995 is now widely acknowledged as the year of the Battle of Britpop, surely 1994 should be known as the Battle of Bristol. Established trip-hop ensemble Massive Attack release their sophomore effort just one month after Portishead slink onto the scene with the dark atmospherics of “Dummy”. Only there’s no beef, no scraps, no arrogance: just blissed-out vibes all round. Both acts were coy about being labelled “trip-hop” and eschewed the term in their own ways, whether by expanding their sound or broadening their pool of collaborators. In “Protection”, Massive Attack embark on a direct continuation of “Blue Lines”, turning even further inward: this album is moodier, mellower, and lacks their debut’s sense of scope, adventure or ending catharsis. It’s a well-made album, but gets a little samey by the end. First things first, it sounds absolutely gorgeous: healthy and distinct low-end, crisp hi-hat, ripples of piano or keyboard flowing over the top, occasional stabs of guitar or synth chord. It’s a very spacious mix, with each layer given chance to shine. I can only imagine how great it would sound with the bass rumbling through a club sound-system, opening a black hole in the middle of the room. “Protection”, “Three”, “Euro Child” and especially “Karmacoma” are all standouts. “Sly” also deserves praise for its stirring string arrangements, which add another dimension. On the other hand, “Weather Storm” is pleasantly atmospheric, but tends towards wallpaper music. “Better Things” and “Heat Miser” are similarly underwhelming: intriguing and evocative, but downtempo enough to stop one’s pulse. Finally, the live version of “Light my Fire” is a bit of an odd inclusion for the ending, tearing apart the silky cocoon the band have spent the last forty five minutes wrapping its listeners in. Perhaps it could have worked with a studio recording, but to me it felt jarring and anti-climactic as a finale. While having a roster of rotating vocalists on a conveyor belt risks a lack of cohesion, I feel it serves the album well and gives a nice flavour of variety which could otherwise be entirely absent. Tricky has the album’s standout songs, his subdued and hushed delivery serving the production perfectly. Tracey Thorn also gives a strong performance in “Protection”, and Nicolette does a great job with “Three”. These songs live outside the spotlights, hiding in the shadows. They demand to be sought out, to lead listeners away from the path. This is good if one is in the appropriate mood, but otherwise “Protection” exists as a subliminal other world. The first couple of times I listened to the album, I was aware it was playing but most of it passed by without note or incident. When I listened again in a mellower mood, it was more effective and I found myself getting lost in the album much more. I don’t know if I’ll ever become fully immersed in this one, but I know that if I do it will be glorious.

On my first listen, I approached with caution after hearing about The Fall's thorny and abrasive reputation. I enjoyed "Frightened", and then spent the rest of it trying to decipher Mark E Smith's incendiary rants. On my second listen, I started to lose hope that I'd find anything rewarding in "Live at the Witch Trials". It was initially intriguing, but quickly wearisome and seemed more like something to appreciate at arm's length. But then, on my third listen, I was suddenly confronted by the stench of sausage meat, docklands debris, dusty paperbacks and fermented whiskey. I turned round to see the ghost of Mark E Smith, hunched in the doorway and scowling at the books on my shelf. He had absolutely nothing to say to me, but I thought I'd better make conversation. I let him know I was listening to "Live at the Witch Trials" and struggling to enjoy any of it. "Why are you pissing away your time listening to something you haven't the brains or the balls for?" "Well, it's part of this online album generator, it's in the book of 1001 Albums to Hear Before You Die". "I always hated those fucking books. Imagine having to be told what to listen to- does this Robert Dimery bloke tell you how to get dressed or wank yourself off as well? Anyway, who the fuck would bother with all that nonsense? I can tell you now that the whole list will invariably be total shite." I steeled myself and pressed on. Told him I couldn’t really connect with the album's format. It degenerated into repetitive, one-note ranting, was poorly produced, had no display of musical skill, and was hindered rather than helped by its "recorded-in-one-day" slapdash feel. He rolled his ghostly eyes to the back of his ghostly head and said I reminded him of all the bum-boys at NME. After some more staggered back-and-forth, I thought I should try and look for common ground. "Do you want to hear what I have given five stars?" "Not really." "The Smiths- The Queen Is Dead." "Never could stand them. Pseudo-intellectual snivelly pap." "Pavement- Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain." "Those rip-off twats have never had an original fart, never mind a song." "The Beatles- Abbey Road." "What the fuck is this, 'Music To Be Breastfed To'?" I gave up after that. He did a very deep sigh, and reached for a swig of my beer but just poured it onto the carpet ("I'm always doing that", he said). He told me he really didn't care what I - or anyone on this website, for that matter - thought. He told me that we were all insignificant to him, he's a legend and we never will be, that if I didn't get it and would prefer to listen to The Beatles it's my fault, not his. So, all things considered, I don't feel remotely bad giving this two stars. Sometimes infamy and reputation just can't account for personal preference.

The Britpoppers can keep “Parklife” or “Modern Life is Rubbish”. To me, this is Blur’s finest hour, as their music crystallises into a perfect blend of wry character studies and compact, hooky pop. They also find the right balance of honouring their musical heritage without slipping too much into pastiche… mostly. The fourteen songs here reveal a more mature side to Damon Albarn’s songwriting: no less witty, slightly more introspective, a little more tender. “Beetlebum” is a strong start and worthy single, while “On Your Own” and “Movin’ On” are irrepressible pop-rock anthems. Catchy, direct and anthemic, they are both vastly under-appreciated entries in Blur’s catalogue. Elsewhere, “MOR”, a brilliant propulsive rock song, just about gets away with lifting David Bowie’s “Boys Keep Swinging”, and “Strange News from Another Star” barely escapes Hunky Dory’s shadow. When the mood drops to a chilling temperature, it doesn’t feel too distracting or indulgent: I can mostly appreciate the change in direction and the sophistication in some of the arrangements. “Theme from Retro”, “Death of a Party” and “I’m Just a Killer for Your Love” all convey a dark alienation not a million miles from various new-wave artists of the late 70s and early 80s. “Essex Dogs” is the only one which risks going a little too far astray with its irritating CD-ROM/whirling disc drive sound effects. Theres a very satisfying balance between murky synth lines and crunchy guitar riffs, streamlining the band’s sound very well. The lo-fi production (read: liberal distortion and filtering on vocals) really gives the record some character and helps elevate the songs beyond their bare bones. Take Graham Coxon’s charming solo turn: “You’re So Great”. The recording crackles and hisses away like a weathered analogue tape, and the vocals are so fragile they could shatter on any line, but it wouldn’t work any other way. So in summary, a very solid album. Music shouldn’t be all about rivalries, but it is worth noting that this album veers left of the field in a way Oasis never quite managed. With this release, Blur put an end to the debate of which of the two bands were more versatile, long-lasting and- arguably- talented.

After two attempts to wade through this dusty, grimy debut album, up to my eyeballs in post-grunge jam sessions and finding it all rather dull, I realised I’d been listening to an extended reissue from 2011, which came as something of a relief. Giving it the benefit of the doubt, I switched over to the 1998 original, expecting a tighter, less bloated listening experience. I was wrong. Even at 46 minutes, “Queens of the Stone Age” treads the same ground so much that anything beyond about six songs feels like a small eternity. For every tight, intriguing few seconds there are a few more minutes of stoned, indulgent wallowing. Homme’s riffs and song structures walk the line between hypnotic grooves and mindlessly repetitive, and it’s often difficult to pinpoint which side they land. After a promising start with “The Bends”—alike “Regular John”, Homme plays the same hand again… and again… and again. High-gain, power chords, mid-tempo thrashing, vocals sticking within narrow range while occasionally gliding into falsetto. Each song displays little range or movement, keeping to two or three riffs rinsed and repeated. This rarely feels engaging, with the exception of the best track of all: “You Can’t Quit Me Baby”. Despite being six minutes built around the same riff, there’s at least a bit of drama and scale to it. From the snare-heavy drum pattern to the spacey slide guitar breaks through to a climactic accelerando, it presents a clear build-up and pulls it off. On the other hand, a track like “You Would Know” is irritatingly stop-start without getting anywhere. Elsewhere, there are three minute guitar grade-book exercises (“Hispanic Impressions”), one note accents for a whole song (“Walkin on the Sidewalks”) and so on. Critics likening the band to Neu and Can for apparent motorik rhythms, seem to have somewhat missed the mark: while there are traces of the same grooves, there’s little here to indicate the same worthy technical proficiency, and- with the exception of “You Can’t Quit Me Baby”- even less of a knack to build atmosphere, tension or transport the listener. “I Was a Teenage Hand Model” is worthy of some kudos for introducing more diverse percussion, splashy synths and a muted dynamic into the mix… but ultimately it’s too little too late.

Emerging from an unlikely place in the music industry in 1978, Mark Knopfler's warm yet brittle Stratocaster tone and softly spoken vocals linger on the corner of the map in this debut album. "Dire Straits" feels untraceable to its era, completely out of step with disco, punk or new-wave. Instead, it's an understated torch-bearer for all the folk/rock/blues singer-songwriters of the world. This is certainly a commendable mission statement, and on a technical level it's undoubtedly well executed. There's no need for me to wax lyrical about Knopfler's signature guitar tone, his distinctive way of playing fingerstyle. While there's a lot to love in his mastery of the instrument, "Dire Straits" ultimately comes across as a bit of a shallow exercise. The main issue here is that for most of the runtime, Knopfler's guitar work is desperately propping up the material, rather than accentuating its power or complementing any inherent brilliance. The guitar playing is the only consistent factor here, apt comparisons being Pink Floyd's "A Momentary Lapse of Reason" or anything Clapton played on after about 1972. There's nothing very exciting going on in the song structures (alternating weary ballads with choppy blues tracks) and the lyrics are mostly melancholic, world weary ruminations of love lost, with a couple of more narrative-heavy tracks which fare better ("Sultans of Swing", "In the Gallery"). In this album, love is an adolescent memory by the waterside, love is water in a dry desert, love is the act of being set up and put down, love is the cut of a six-blade knife. Sometimes the lyrics sell these ideas (particularly the evocative opening "Down by the Waterside") but mostly they're reduced to throwaway generalities or really flimsy analogies ("you take away my mind like you take away the top of a tin"). Knopfler certainly doesn't seem to earn the "Dylanesque" label here, which is often lazily slapped on his music and lyrics. The primary exception to all this, of course, is "Sultans of Swing", which does all the legwork and stands on its own as a great song. Vivid storytelling, an instantly memorable melody and a tight structure place it miles above the rest of the material here: if the same standard had been held up throughout, "Dire Straits" would be at least twice the album it is. "Wild West End" also deserves some praise for its lush, wistful chorus: a nice balance between technique and soul. Dire Straits would go on to release another five albums in their career, peaking commercially with "Brothers In Arms" (the only other album of theirs I've heard). While "Brothers In Arms" is flawed and fell slightly more under the trappings of its day, it's still a mostly enjoyable, catchy and emotive listen. By contrast, "Dire Straits" lacks most of its charms or hooks, and winds up feeling as beige and empty as the image on its cover.

Where to start with Kendrick Lamar's "To Pimp A Butterfly", one of the most celebrated and significant albums of the 21st century so far? First of all, give it the attention it deserves. This is not for a one-off casual listen during a commute, cooking a meal or scrolling through social media. More than most of the other albums I've heard on the list so far, this one really demands repeated listens, multiple readings of the lyrics, an uncovering of Lamar's intentions, a deep dive into the analysis and interpretations of the themes. "To Pimp A Butterfly" is denser and darker than its predecessor "good kid, m.A.A.d city", even if it revisits many of the same ideas. While I initially liked "good kid" more for its musical content, this one is much more ambitious in its storytelling and scope. The storyline is told in a sequence of bookmarks conveniently repeated throughout the album, which eventually emerge as a poem read to Tupac in the album's conclusion, "Mortal Man". The basic progression: Lamar begins as a "caterpillar" in the music industry, consuming all around him and hustling to survive. He becomes trapped within society's "cocoon" as well as a cocoon in his own mind, struggling against self-doubt, institutional racism and material temptation. Eventually, he finds his "butterfly" and the means within his platform to empower others, surviving and thriving as a Black man in America. It's hip-hop's "Lamb Lies Down on Broadway", delving into some very weighty themes and concepts in a nuanced, thoughtful way. If that might sound like absolutely no fun and a chore to get through, go ahead and just bop along to "King Kunta"… but you'd be missing out on the richly intense world Lamar created here. For example, listening to opener "Wesley's Theory" might be a fun experience for Thundercat's bubbling synth-bass, the rich array of hooks and Lamar's rapid-fire bars, but understanding its place in the album's storyline elevates it to more than just a song on an album. It's a pivotal stage of Kendrick Lamar's life journey, a stanza in a poem, a scene in a play, a chapter in the latest Great American Novel. Of course, textual and thematic analysis is one thing, but as this is first and foremost a listening experience, we turn towards the songs. Many of them might seem impenetrable at first: strong jazz influences, lots of downtempo passages, low on the anthemic choruses or hard grooves, but they all start to gel together in line with the underlying narrative. “The Blacker the Berry” is a powerful politically-charged stand-out, featuring aggressive boom-bap beat and a fantastic chorus from guest Assassin. "For Free" boasts a surprising live jazz arrangement, alongside one of the most free-wheeling and frantic of Kendrick's verses at the climax. "For Sale" and "You Ain't Gotta Lie" are lovely, laid-back jams, very easy on the ear even if one of them is literally personifying the Devil. Keeping the album even more accessible and fun - no easy task given the weight of the concept - are "King Kunta" with its addictive bassline, the smooth, sensual funk of "These Walls", and the all-out party in the first half of "i". Lamar's vocal performance is astonishing: dramatic, theatrical, chameleonic. In "Wesley's Theory", he introduces a sleazy Uncle Sam voice to represent the state. In Obama’s favourite song of 2015, "How Much a Dollar Cost", Lamar transforms into God in the guise of a homeless man. In "u", he commits to tape some of the most brutal self-laceration I've ever heard, all with stunning vocal range and dexterity. "To Pimp A Butterfly" is a fantastic, rich and masterful piece of work, but I'd stop a little short of loving every minute of its 78 minute runtime. If I’m being completely honest with myself, musically it does start to lose me in the middle. "Hood Politics" and "Complexion" are solid but a little more repetitive and not as dynamic as some of the other tracks, and the musical half of "Mortal Man" feels a bit unnecessary after the cathartic conclusion of "i": it could have perhaps worked better cut to the appended conversation/poem. I’m ultimately marking this a (high) 4 because my respect and admiration for this record outweighs my personal enjoyment of it, but you shouldn’t need to read these words any more to understand this album is an incredible piece of art. Just go ahead and immerse yourself.

In one of music’s most controversial career moves, Miles Davis saw out the 1960s by turning from jazz towards rock. It’s up there with Dylan going electric, Lennon going avant-garde and Spears going bald. Much like those cases, Davis angered many of his core fans and thrilled many others, bringing his music to a whole new audience and sealing his reputation as one of the 20th century’s most singular musical minds. A few years ago, “In a Silent Way” was my first album-length introduction to Miles Davis. As someone who knows little about jazz and a fair bit more about late 1960’s rock, it still feels like the most palatable way to experience his talents. There are just two tracks here, “Shhh / Peaceful” and “In a Silent Way”, but each of them feels nicely paced across about twenty minutes, with three distinct sections each. Davis’s trumpet is reliably excellent, but he also gives ample space to the other musicians across the album’s run time, each one getting a moment to shine. Dave Holland on double bass opts for a very satisfying “less is more” approach, rooting the compositions, while Wayne Shorter contributes some lovely fluid soprano sax. John McLaughlin gives a particularly standout- though sacrilegious- performance on electric guitar. He taught Page, jammed with Hendrix and was referred to as the world’s greatest by Jeff Beck, so really helps to give the album crossover appeal from a rock perspective. The electric piano is split between Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and Joe Zawinul, who was brought in later in the process and had composed the original version of “In a Silent Way”. There’s some dispute about who contributed what, and whether Davis was right to have amended Zawinul’s composition to - shock horror- a single chord! This reviewer thinks it works perfectly, and is a much better track than the one Davis composed alone, so rest easy Zawinul. As for the album’s material, if “Shhh” is a good but non-essential way to pique one’s interest, “In a Silent Way” is the true standout track: lulling, sinister, thrilling and soothing in turn. It begins with gentle, tentative improvisations over a single major chord, McLaughlin and Zawulin laying a pillow of sound for Davis’s entry. When things pick up and the drums kick in, we move to a sequence of chromatic chords on electric piano, which foreshadow the highlight of the album. Eight and a half minutes into the title track comes a bluesy bass/guitar riff that would sit right at home on any rock album of the period, and it blows my mind that it hasn’t been sampled more. At thirteen minutes, the drums return, all crashes and cymbals, and send the same riff stratospheric. We return to a recapitulation of the original theme to bring us gently back to earth. More adventurous than “Kind of Blue”, more palatable than “Bitches Brew”… until I find another one, “In a Silent Way” feels like the Miles Davis album for me. “Shhh” isn’t as transcendent as the title track, so holding back on full marks for now, but at its best, it’s hard to see this album being matched by many other jazz recordings on the list.

By the age of 21, Shuggie Otis had already chalked up an impressive resume. He'd released two albums with a roster of guest musicians, worked as a session musician for various artists (including electric bass on Zappa's "Hot Rats") and was referred to by B.B King as "my favourite new guitarist". It can't be ignored that he was born into a musical family: his father was bandleader, producer, "Godfather of Rhythm and Blues" Johnny Otis, who helped establish many of Shuggie's connections and had him playing guitar by the time he was two years old. Nepo babies… they're nothing new. On "Inspiration Information", Otis is out to stand on his own. He plays almost every instrument, incorporates drum machines in their infancy, and crafts an intriguing blend of delicate pop songs and soulful noodling. There's a really promising start, with the title track striking a good balance of languid soul and a tight, catchy hook. "Island Letter" is a nice mellow ballad, if not a showstopper, while "Sparkle City" and "Aht Uh Mi Hed" both have some good grooves hiding in the padding. At around five tracks in, though, the album evaporates slightly, with Otis seemingly losing his vocal mic halfway through. After the insubstantial interlude, "Happy House", there are no more vocals (or melodies at all) across the remaining four tracks. It's a strange way to sequence the album and means things go out on a bit of a damp squib. Otis saw the guitar as his primary instrument (above his voice), which would be fine if it featured slightly more here. He only lets rip in final track "Not Available" with some caustic funk rhythm guitar, and is in a more introspective mood in the jazz inflected "Rainy Day". The other two instrumentals are meandering, keyboard or organ-focused, and unimaginatively named ("XL-30", "Pling!"). Pleasant enough, and not actively bad, but ultimately it leaves the whole album feeling intangible, and not very cohesive. Some of the bonus tracks tacked on the re-issue (the hits "Strawberry Letter 23" and "Sweet Thang", along with the lengthy but proficient "Freedom Flight") showcase what could have been with this album. Shuggie Otis clearly had a knack for accessible, gently soulful singles as well as psychedelic, hazy guitar jams. It's a pity that we don't get a full commitment to either on "Inspiration Information": instead, we end up drifting in the nether-zone.

A couple of minutes into the Fugee's second and final album, 1996's widely acclaimed "The Score", Lauryn Hill raps: "You use that loop over and over, claiming that you got a new style, your attempts are futile, ooh child, you puerile, brain waves are sterile, you can't create, you just can't wait to take my tapes". It's a characteristically impressive verse, cramming multiple rhymes into a tight couple of lines. It's also an audacious statement to make on a record primarily built from samples, its biggest hits being covers of Bob Marley and Roberta Flack. Detractors may argue that this gives the Fugees no more merit than their targets in "Zealots", but on balance, while there may not be a huge amount of musical innovation in "The Score", the performances are exemplary. I'd never heard "The Score" before generating it here, even though it receives more praise than most albums in its circle. The Fugees found a perfect space to blend Lauryn Hill's gifted vocals and wordplay, the smooth cool raps of Wyclef Jean, and… whatever Pras brought. The interplay between all three members, as they trade lines, hooks and ad-libs, works to the album's advantage, bringing a nice amount of tonal variation which must have been especially refreshing in the mid-90s (female vocals in rap, whatever next?!). While there are brags a-plenty, this is no gangsta rap: it's much smoother around the edges, much more eloquent, and much more melodic, forming a clear bridge between hard-edged East Coast hip-hop and the neo-soul Hill would diverge into in 1998's "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill". The best cuts foreground an R&B influence, with Hill's triumphant lyrics and stunning singing voice front and centre. "Ready Or Not" is truly great, alchemising two disparate samples (Delfonics and Enya) into an intoxicating, moody jam. "Fu Gee La" is exemplary, with a killer hook and mellow delivery. I also really enjoyed "The Beast"'s ominous tone, and "The Mask"'s catchy hook delivering considered commentary on social attitudes around race. I was conflicted at first about the covers ("No Woman, No Cry" and "Killing Me Softly") but they're both done so well it's hard to be too critical. Both contain excellent vocal performances from the Fugees, and the production refreshes them enough to make them relevant and vital for new generations. "The Score" is overlong, like so many albums of its time, and could easily have trimmed down (or cut altogether) "Manifest/Outro", "The Score" and "Cowboys" as some of the more underwhelming tracks. But in this case, the high points really make up for it. I'm stuck between a 3 and a 4, but relative to the rest of the hip-hop I've heard so far on the list I think this deserves to rank near the top.

Throughout the 1970s, Chrissie Hynde cut her teeth in the music world through many years of hustling: as well as playing in and mixing with nebulous forms of The Clash, Sex Pistols and The Damned, she first expressed her way with words as a journalist for NME (that's right, fellow reviewers, there's hope for us all yet). In "Pretenders", she finally gets the chance to shine. Although it drew a lot of disparaging remarks at the time for harking back to artists of the 1960s, today "Pretenders" sounds refreshingly contemporary, in more ways than one. Firstly, James Honeyman-Scott is a tour de force on guitar. His chiming lead parts, squalling solos and glistening rhythm accompaniments go a long way to defining the record's signature sound, giving it a certain polish and finesse that many lauded bands in their circle lacked. Listen to the serrated call-and-response in "The Wait", the arpeggiated solo at 1:30 in "Kid", the signature riff of "Brass In Pocket". There's a lovely, open stringed Rickenbacker jangle, suspended in time between the Byrds and Johnny Marr. It's the perfect complement to the edge of Hynde's vocals, and Honeyman-Scott's untimely death in 1982 (at the age of 25) was a great tragedy for the alternative music scene. Ultimately, though, Hynde is the undisputed star of the show here. She sneers and snarls her way through the whole set from top to bottom, with lashings of charm and charisma. Her withering put-downs, powerful mid-range, suggestive phrasing ("Up the Neck"'s perfectly timed "veins in his... brow") and iconic turns of phrase (the end of "Precious" is one of the most satisfying uses of "fuck" in a song I've heard in a long while). She's excellent and makes for a constantly engaging listen, even where the material is lacking. As far as the songs go: obvious as it may be, "Brass in Pocket" is the ultimate highlight. It's relentlessly contemporary and effortlessly cool, perfectly pitched between pop, punk and new-wave. I also really enjoyed "Kid" and "The Wait", while "Precious" is a powerful, aggressive opening. I didn't realise "Stop Your Sobbing" was originally a Kinks song, but it makes perfect sense: it's a bit of an outlier with its sunny 60's jangle and harmonies. Elsewhere, it's more of a mixed bag. There's some commendable experimentation with time signatures ("The Phone Call", "Tattooed Love Boys"), filler instrumental ("Space Invader") overbaked, dreary cod-reggae ("Private Life") and a gently stirring ballad ("Lovers of Today"). It's not always amazing, but the sheer force of Chrissie Hynde backed by the fluidity of James Honeyman-Scott's guitar gives me a sheer surge of goodwill that I can't help but make it a 4.

Big chair. Bigger songs. Much like some of this album’s equally overblown contemporaries - The Police’s “Synchronicity”, a-ha’s “Hunting High and Low”, Genesis’s “Invisible Touch” - it’s a decent record elevated by some excellent blockbuster singles. The rest of the material can be a little patchy, but mostly pulls through. The production is everything we now think of as the 1980s to the nth degree: gated drums saturated in reverb, synthesised bass and some fretless work, corny woodwind synths and orchestra hits… it’s all there. It makes for a dramatic foundation for Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith to sing over, though I’d argue it’s never better employed than in the leading track, “Shout”. “Shout” is a formidable opener, full of gravity and drama, though it starts on about a level 7 and doesn’t give much room for build-up: an even steeper crescendo would have done wonders. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”, the single which has perhaps immortalised Tears for Fears more than any other, is a classic example of an album’s biggest hit being hastily written, recorded and slapped on in the last few days. It feels a little more spontaneous, and everything about it works perfectly, crystallising the band’s pop pretensions in an efficient two-chord shuffle. The middle-eight sends it to the heavens. “Songs…” also deserves a special mention for its perfect intertwining of “Broken” and “Head Over Heels”. Foreshadowing the latter’s riff lifts “Broken” so much beyond a mere filler piece: it would have been great to hear similar repeated motifs throughout the album to hang it all together a little more. And for my money, “Head Over Heels” is the essential cut here: bold, wistful, chaotic, theatrical. The rest are a curious bunch, revealing the band digging deeper and yielding some treasure and some fossilised crap. “Listen” is refreshingly subtle and ethereal: an intriguing closing track with its incantation at the end, loosely translating as “Birthday girl, don’t worry”. A reassurance, a mantra, a prayer echoing into a swirling void. “Mothers Talk”, the album’s lead single, is a fun bass workout, but has not quite stood the test of time on account of its suffocating drums and cheesy orchestra hits. On the other hand, “I Believe” is absolutely turgid and spends five minutes going nowhere. On the whole, while some of the low points are difficult to sit through, the highs balance it out and make for an enjoyable listen. Scraping a 4 mostly thanks to the brilliance of “Head Over Heels”.

I’ve been a Radiohead fan for many years, but it’s taken me a long time to believe all the hype heaped upon “In Rainbows” (or the revolutionary “pay-what-you-want” album, in music critic shorthand). I’ve always enjoyed it just fine, but have never found it to quite match up to the band’s best (“OK Computer”, “Kid A”, “A Moon Shaped Pool”). When it was generated for me here, and I finally had to condense my feelings into a 1-5 rating, everything changed. At this stage in their career, Radiohead were billed as coming back down to earth from their most outlandish sonic experimentation and politically charged material. The story goes that they set out to make warmer, more intimate, indeed sensual songs than their last few albums. And “In Rainbows” pulls it off against all odds. Ten years on from everybody’s favourite social-intellectual-outcast album “OK Computer”, how have we arrived at a record where Thom Yorke can sing “I don’t wanna be your friend / I just wanna be your lover” and it doesn’t feel remotely unnatural? The answer is that “In Rainbows” walks a fascinating line. It’s mostly calm and serene at a surface level, brimming with melancholia, but a raging storm is barely concealing itself beneath. The opening track, “15 Step”, encapsulates the sonic palette of the record: Yorke gliding from calm and collected to manic and paranoid, a warm and intimate Greenwood guitar figure that slowly develops into something more unhinged, an electronically treated drum pattern, bursts of children cheering. Then, we’re hit with “Bodysnatchers”: an explosive rocker showcasing Radiohead really letting loose: no pretensions, no fat, all surprises. And just as we might be figuring out the shape of the record, in comes “Nude”, a song first rehearsed for the OK Computer sessions. It’s an absolutely gorgeous ballad, with a classic existential Yorke lyric: “Don’t get any big ideas; they’re not gonna happen”. The rest of the songs break through casually at first, like pretty shells washing up on a beach, but each of them contain multitudes. Even though I’ve never understood the outpouring of love for “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi”, I can’t deny it’s an impressive composition, weaving cascading arpeggios into a powerful climax. “All I Need” is a love song as much as they’ve ever written, but still has all the gravitas of a funeral march: that’s versatility. Finally, “Reckoner” and “Videotape” are truly haunting, heavy with a sadness to overpower most of Radiohead’s own catalogue. “In Rainbows” still might not be my favourite Radiohead record, but having spent more time with it I can no longer argue that it deserves less than five stars. A comfort listen as much as a challenging one, mature but still exciting, this one exemplifies the art of aging gracefully.

On their debut album, Leftfield explore some intriguing sonic territory, but end up overstuffing and underwhelming in equal measure. Like all the electronic or house albums I've had so far on the list, it's a product of the 90's CD era and ends up interminably long at 69 minutes, with over half the tracks around the 7 minute mark. The best praise "Leftism" is deserving of is that it's immaculately engineered. Clean, tough and spacious, it sounds great and would surely be a good candidate for showing off a new hi-fi or club sound system. Some of the vocal tracks were intriguing at times: "Release the Pressure" is a solid start, with its fluttering synths and pads gently building into a shapeshifting, pulsing manifesto. Earl Sixteen is a great fit for vocals here, particularly when his ethereal falsetto kicks in at about the four-and-a-half minute mark. One must also admit that it's difficult to imagine something more "left-field" than John Lydon guesting on an EDM record for the very convincing "Open Up": another of the record's high points. And "Melt", mostly beatless, gets top points for crafting an immersive, dreamlike soundscape: perhaps my favourite on here and a side to Leftfield I would have liked to have seen more of. Beyond this, though, the songs I struggled with were hell-bent on degenerating into an endless, pulsing, four-to-the-floor beat, really leaning into house music. "Black Flute" plays all its tricks within about thirty seconds, and then "Space Shanty" is an extreme test of patience over seven minutes, as is "Storm 3000" with its very dated breakbeat. And as much as I liked Toni Halliday's vocals, "Original" just came across as a slightly poor, more dated Massive Attack track. I really did try to like this one, but ultimately it just faded into the background. I get the appreciation its length is much more a factor in its downfall than the skills of the group, as there is some promising material in here. But by the end, I found myself longing for some good old-fashioned songwriting rather than farting around with synths, drum machines and production wizardry.

“Rejoicing in the Hands”, Banhart’s second album, is a sparse collection of alternative folk, labelled as “freak folk” by various critics and fans because of his quivering whispered vocals and off-kilter lyricism. Banhart himself rejected most forms of categorisation and wished not to be pigeonholed, allowing the album and his persona to gather their own freewheeling mystique. At its best, it has the feel of ancient folk songs carved out of cave walls, rings in fallen trees, frozen waterfalls. It’s vast yet intimate, otherworldly yet cozy. For just as much of it, it simply sounds like a subpar demo from someone mucking around in their bedroom. Almost every track consists solely of Banhart’s vocal and his own acoustic guitar accompaniment. It’s a rough and raw approach which is very risky: either it falls down completely after four songs or the performer has enough charisma and skill to have an audience hanging from their every word. Banhart is somewhere in between. There’s something very enticing about his songwriting: it’s enigmatic, evasive and often darkly strange. There’s a real poeticism at play: direct and unadorned in the rueful “The Body Breaks”, dark and veiled in “Insect Eyes”, dense and surreal in “Poughkeepsie” (ending with a stuttering list of Elvis songs). It’s well served by competent finger-picked guitar, though some more variety in the instrumentals would have been appreciated. The tracks where the instrumentation is a little more varied happen to also be some of the best: “Will Is My Friend” introduces some twinkling piano until it practically aches with an innocent yearning. Gentle percussion in “Fall” lends a hypnotic feel to get completely lost in. Folk hero Vashti Bunyan makes an appearance in the title track to double up on the vocals. And “Autumn’s Child”, at the end, is heartbreaking in its simplicity on piano. Gently enticing, softly stirring, faintly memorable… it passes by like an airy dream. When it’s done, it’s hard to recall many details, but there’s a feeling of vague contentment and peace.

I’d never heard any Solomon Burke before today… and what a voice I was missing out on. Described as one of the founding fathers of soul music in the early 1960’s, he has never enjoyed the same level of success, ubiquity and ongoing influence as Sam Cooke or Otis Redding. After listening to “Rock n Soul”, it’s hard to see why. He possesses a stunning range and great control: sometimes he howls, sometimes he croons, sometimes he wails, always with tremendous depth of feeling. When he sings “I’ll never see brown eyes again” in “Beautiful Brown Eyes”, you really believe it. “Can’t Nobody Love You” is perhaps his most showstopping vocal performance of all, flipping from raspy grit to soft honeydew within a single phrase. Dense multi-layered lead and backing vocals help to add an immensely satisfying, thick sound (see the backing vocals in “Someone to Love Me”, or all of “You’re Good for Me”). Burke’s voice is by far the key selling point: as pleasant as the songs are, they’re mostly forgotten standards of the day. They’re also mainly soul numbers with little in the way of rock: the mournful waltz-time ballads (“If You Need Me”, “Goodbye Baby”) become a little wearing within the short runtime. It would have been nice to hear more upbeat tracks like “Cry to Me” and the excellent “Hard, Ain’t It Hard”. Later in the album, “Won’t you Give Him (One More Chance)” are “You Can’t Love ‘Em All” are both intriguing changes of pace from the first few tracks, with Latin-inspired percussion and rhythm. Burke then croons his way out on the traditional-sounding “He’ll Have To Go”, a disappointingly understated finale (but the string arrangement is nice). “Rock n Soul” may not change my life, and I may not die full of gratitude to have heard it. But it’s a beautiful place to spend half an hour.

It's one of the most significant albums of the 1960's: while the civil rights movement was picking up steam, Ray Charles tore up the rulebook and recorded an album of white music (country standards). His audiences quickly diversified and garnered Charles more mainstream praise than ever before, which is either a testament to music's potential to break boundaries or a indictment of the narrow-minded white folks in the pop market. Still, Charles undoubtedly deserves the praise he gets here. The album begins by alternating big-band swing or shuffles with achingly tender ballads. "Bye Bye Love" = bombastic bounding fun. "You Don't Know Me" = swooning, blooming roses. "Just A Little Lovin" = swaggery sass. "I Love You So Much It Hurts" = among the best of all, a great fluffy pillow of sound. As much fun as the upbeat big-band tracks are, the ballads here really tie the package together. Awash with lush strings and choirs, they're beautifully recorded and arranged, delicately performed and exceptionally sung. Charles seems born to sing this material and does so wonderfully. Yes, it might seem a little cloying at times, particularly towards the home stretch. In 2023, this music has suffered a little from associations with classic Christmas soundtracks or Disney films. This isn't Charles' fault: those are merely the pop-culture touchstones of the 1950s and 60s that have endured the most into modern day. While I had my doubts on the first couple of listens, the one-two finale of the gorgeous "I Can't Stop Loving You", followed by the levity of "Hey, Good Lookin'" seals the deal. (Everything afterwards is from Vol. 2, still pleasant but not what we should be assessing here.) We now take music's diversification for granted, in a world where any genre is at our fingertips and styles as diverse as we like can nestle side by side in a playlist. It's difficult to actually appreciate how radical "Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music" must have been. But it isn't difficult to appreciate that it's consistently enjoyable, and supremely listenable.

With their original bandleader Al Kooper gone, heralding an near-constant revolving door of line-ups, the nine-piece Blood, Sweat & Tears make an ambitious, confounding album that barely holds itself together. Restless, convoluted and virtuosic, it's certainly a fun listen but also a frustrating one at times. Many of the songs here are covers, and so a main draw of "Blood, Sweat & Tears" is hearing them interpreted by a large brass ensemble and a group of very talented session musicians. Sometimes this works well: the rocking cover of Traffic's "Smiling Phases", or a concise and reasonably faithful rendition of "You've Made Me So Very Happy." However, other times it's a little bit hackneyed. Erik Satie's "Gymnopédie" is a lovely piece in its own right, and I'm not sure how much I needed to hear it on classical guitar and flute, bookending the album. Later, an incredibly bombastic "Sunshine for Your Love" and "Spoonful" both make appearances in the yawning "Blues, Pt. II", while Billie Holiday's "God Bless the Child" is extended with an aimless jazz-rock jam crowbarred into the middle. Covers don't usually bother me, but in this instance I end up with a nagging suspicion the band had to rely on other artists' work before sprucing them up with their technical chops and passing it off as an "improvement". This comes across most of all on "And When I Die", a beautiful song which I'd never heard before. The original recording by Laura Nyro (she wrote it at 16!) is profound, moving and already displays impressive musicianship. This one gets a little lost in showing off, as the band butcher it into a hokey Broadway cabaret tune with baffling tempo changes and pregnant pauses. All style and no substance, foreshadowing Yes's treatment of Simon and Garfunkel's "America". With principal songwriter Al Kooper gone, the originals are also a mixed bag, and it's perhaps telling that they weren't the biggest hits of the album. However, while "Sometimes In Winter" is maudlin and distracted, I did enjoy "More and More" and "Spinning Wheel": both good fun, with tremendous use of the brass section. For all my quibbles on the song selections and treatments, I really can't fault the performances here: they're all very strong, particularly the rhythm section who contend with changes all over the map. Bobby Colombey's jazz-influenced drumming patterns and Jim Fielder's all-over-the-place-in-the-best-way bass are two of the record's strongest assets, and of course the brass section gives the band a signature sound to set them apart from many of their peers. David Clayton-Thomas's searing lead vocals give some much-appreciated bite. Overall this is a good listen, if a bit uneven: the arrangements are so dense and complex that they will likely grow on me more with time, and I wouldn't be opposed to hearing it again.

Imagine a baker who has made a living specialising in selling nothing but steamed horseshit. One day, looking at the gourmet establishments around him and realising he might need to diversify to stay afloat, he diverges slightly from his speciality and launches a new line of cream cakes… horseshit flavour. While the baker may consider this an improvement, the change would be barely perceptible for anybody who didn’t consider horseshit delicious to begin with. For those uninitiated, the lasting impression of these cream cakes would remain one of… horseshit. So it is with Incubus’s second album, which sees them moving away from their beginnings as a through-and-though metal band. “Selling out” in the eyes of their most devoted fans, they created something more “melodic”, with alt-rock, grunge, funk and even hip-hop overtones. On paper, that might sound promising. But to this reviewer who can find nothing to like in nu-metal’s overblown, heavy-handed, hi-gain, self-flagellating nonsense, there’s almost nothing to latch onto anyway. Over-affected, whining vocals undermining any sense of melody. Blaring, grinding guitar riffs lacking in subtlety or passion. Gimmicky record scratching (presumably that’s the “hip hop” talking). And worst of all, truly awful lyrics. Vague sentiments of self-pity and taking control of life spill out over the whole thing like toxic waste. Here’s an example from the closer, “Out from Under”: “To resist is to piss in the wind; anyone who does will end up smelling Knowing this, why do I defy? Because my inner voice is yelling There is a fist pressing against; anyone who thinks something compelling” I can’t discern any such compelling thoughts involved in the making of this album. And so I proudly resist, piss into the wind and waddle off in the strong stench of my own self-satisfaction. And horseshit.

Listen to this album if you want to feel like an expensive chocolate praline trapped inside an advert, forever being licked in a sensual way by posh women. I have very little else in terms of frames of reference for the Gotan Project's "La Revancha Del Tango"- it's quite unlike anything I've had so far on the list, automatically lending it an enticing, enigmatic air. This perfectly suits the music running through the album, making it an intriguing listen... for the first fifteen minutes or so. The basic premise of the Gotan Project is a group of French musicians aiming to revive tango as a popular music genre for a new 21st century. They draw upon electronica, downtempo and trip-hop, yielding a smoky cocktail of mood music. Accordion and violin reign supreme, sitting comfortably alongside synthesised bass and programmed drums. I did enjoy the mood it got across, but ultimately "La Revancha Del Tango" becomes repetitive and a little dull. The electronic treatment doesn't offer much dynamic range, and the performances are measured and laidback, without a great deal of showiness or passion. There are some standouts- the breezy elegance of "Last Tango in Paris", the steaminess of "Epoca" and "Santa Maria", the relatively frantic, discordant piano at the end of "La del Ruso." It certainly isn't bad, and I appreciate that maybe in a different mood, I'd find a lot more to like in this. Today, though, it wasn't quite for me.

First impressions are vital in rock and pop music, which is why a decent album can usually be lifted immeasurably by a strong opener. A opening track is a mission statement for everything a band or artist stands for. It’s a signal of what you’re about to hear, a call to arms, a war cry. The stakes are never higher for the artist as they fight for an audience’s attention, set up stall and shoot for the sun. Many of 1987’s hit albums are frontloaded with a killer opener: Prince’s “Sign O’ The Times”, U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name”, Guns n’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle”. But perhaps nobody does it better than R.E.M with “Finest Worksong.” Titanic, swaggering drums, two notes hammering away incessantly on the guitar, a quick bass fill. Then Michael Stipe’s first line, scorching through the noise: “The time to rise has been engaged”. Pay attention, everyone: R.E.M are no longer jangling in the sidelines of alternative rock. This was their first big brush with mainstream success, and it practically explodes from the speakers. From there, we go from strength to strength. “Welcome to the Occupation” is assured and moody, with some subtle organ adding body and depth. “Exhuming McCarthy” see-saws a happy-go-lucky melody from one key to the other with a playful malice. There’s a brilliant cover of Wire’s “Strange”, injecting it with even more finesse and energy than those criminally underrated British post-punks could muster. And “The One I Love” nails the art of the “is-it-sweet-or-is-it-sinister” love song, with a solid riff to boot. But there’s no use arguing: the glorious centrepiece is “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)”. Frantic stream-of-consciousness lyrics, almost unintelligible, rattle over a rapid drum beat and a sparse rhythm guitar. We crescendo into a perfect chorus with a very well-measured counter-melody from Mike Mills. The apocalypse never sounded so enticing. In the last third or so, nothing quite matches up. The strong melodies dissipate a little, the lyrics become less focused, the song structures looser and more repetitive. But R.E.M have done all the heavy lifting: content to relax a little, they settle into serviceable alt-rock territory. There’s a soft-rock in 6/8 with a standout saxophone solo, and there’s a snare drum march with a taste of mandolin, which will later surface in a much more prominent role in 1991’s “Out of Time”. They’d reach greater heights after this, and perhaps had a more ardent cult following before it, but “Document” is a lively picture of R.E.M with the world at their feet, and only one way to go: the stratosphere.

Released in 1985, New Order's third album finds them grasping ever more boldly for the light switch, while riding the wave of synth-pop and dance-rock through the decade. On first listen, it may seem difficult to identify any of the gloomy post-punk Joy Division were celebrated for. But even though the synths are perkier, the tonality brighter, the tempos quicker, "Low-Life" is still a dark record, tinged with sorrow and despair. It makes for an engaging listen, without reaching the heights of their best work (sadly, no "Age of Consent" here). The cynicism and grief is dragged out screaming in the opening track, "Love Vigilantes." While the soaring melodica and three major-chord progression suggest an unabashed optimism, dig a little deeper and we're chronicling the tale of a trigger-happy war patriot who gallantly fights for his country and then returns home to find his wife laying dead, tears frozen in her eyes, a telegram in her hand telling of his death. The narrative approach really helps to sell the song, kicking off "Low-Life" on a promising note. "The Perfect Kiss" conjures up a wistful, nostalgic sentiment. It's full of thunderous tom fills, sweeping synths with thousand-yard stares, Bernard Sumner's frayed, ailing vocals. Samples of frogs and sheep add an air of novelty which, mercifully, isn't too distracting. The climax of "Sunrise" is perhaps the high point of the record, where the frantic rhythm guitars are dialled up into a maelstrom. Elsewhere, "Elegia" is an expansive instrumental, and a welcome opportunity for the band to envelope the listener in atmosphere alone. And "Face Up" is a wonderful pop-leaning closer, from the opening arpeggiator and booming drums to the cathartic final run of the chorus. The vocals are decidedly flawed, and the songwriting isn't always gripping ("This Time of Night" and "Sub-culture" in particular both come across as hurried filler). But the sheer sound of New Order is surely their greatest asset: a winning interplay between bang-on-trend synthesisers, programmed drums, and Peter Hook's iconic shimmering basslines.

Red Hot Chili Peppers thrash their way through 1991, as grunge bursts out of the floorboards all around them. I’ve only heard “Californication” in the past and really didn’t like it, but I haven’t been able to shake a second-hand respect for the Chilis as musicians: it’s an empirical truth that John Frusciante is a peerless guitarist, and that Flea is one of the greatest bassists of his era. In “Blood Sugar Sex Magik”, they’re key ingredients in an intriguing cocktail of blistering hard-rock, slightly abrasive rap and stomping funk, throwing in the odd radio-friendly hook. Sometimes it works, other times it doesn’t, and it’s much longer than it needs to be, but there’s an impressive raw energy running through this album which can’t be ignored. Most of the best songs are in the opening stretch, before things get too stale. I got a kick out of the bone-dry guitar scratching its way through “If You Have to Ask”. “Breaking the Girl” calls to mind the dark acoustic folk of Led Zeppelin III, and “Funky Monks” is the loosest and most enjoyable track to be had: danceable in the best way. There are nice moments scattered across the remainder of the record, including Flea’s liquid bass solo in “Naked in the Rain”, a surprise trumpet hiding in the left channel and singalong wordless refrain in “Apache Rose Peacock”, and the welcome outlier of the nicely melodic, undisputed hit single “Under the Bridge”. The sequencing is well done, with tracks running into each other to keep a nice sense of pace. The closer, a tossed-off cover of Robert Johnson’s “They’re Red Hot”, calls to mind Abbey Road’s “Her Majesty” or Night at the Opera’s “God Save The Queen” as a novelty throwaway coming in after an epic climax. It’s a fun, lighthearted way to finish such an unwieldy album. So “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” is funkier, rawer and- it has to be said- hornier than I expected. It doesn’t all land, and there’s not enough variety for such a long running time, with the band frequently resorting to shouted rap over fairly generic funk riffs. The shoutier it gets, the more grating and wearing: “Suck My Kiss” and “Give It Away” are both a real chore to get through. But at its best, there’s enough strength in this album to keep it lithe and lively. I’d take it over “Californication” any day.

It's about time to confess I've always struggled with grunge: it passed me by throughout my alienated teenage years, has never given me the wild sense of abandon it's supposed to thrive on, and turned me off by taking such a cue from metal. While many grunge artists rejected the label, Mudhoney are nonetheless seen as one of its progenitors, ticking all the key boxes: based in Seattle, signed on the Sub Pop label, growling and grinding their way through an abrasive catalogue. "Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge", their second album released at the onset of grunge's explosion in popularity, has some ear-grabbing moments, but is ultimately too much mud and not enough honey for my taste. The recordings are wilfully homespun, having been taped on low-quality 8-track, which adds to the band's singular style but doesn't make for a pleasant listen. It's a constant assault of grungy power chords deep-fried in fuzz, ugly chord changes pressing up against each other. Mark Arm's vocals shriek and howl above it all, often obscured in noise. From the grinding dirge-shuffle kicking off "Generation Genocide", through to the end of "Check-Out Time", it's oppressive and aggressive. "Let it Slide", "Thorn" and "Into the Drink" are chaotic avalanches of sound, and the likes of "Something So Clear" are repetitive one-chord rampages with volcanic toms. That said, it's not completely dreadful, and has some worthy moments. "Who You Drivin' Now?" is a nice, straightforward garage rock number that feels like an alternative successor to the 60's. "Good Enough" is a strong single with a satisfying hook and intricate drum beat. Finally, the lead guitar counter-melody in "Pokin' Around" is about as far as we get to any jangle or memorable musical figures. I appreciate many people would find more to like in this collection, but right now I'm not one of them.

Before listening to Immigres, just about all I'd heard of Youssou N'Dour's remarkable voice was his magnificent contribution to Peter Gabriel's 2002 track, "Signal to Noise". Described by Rolling Stone as "the most famous singer alive" in Africa, N'dour's also collaborated with Paul Simon (percussion on "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes"), Neneh Cherry, and many more besides. He's become a "gateway" into Africa's popular music for many a sheltered Westerner (me), and so it feels difficult to argue with his inclusion in this canon. "Immigres", N'Dour's sixth album released the year before "Graceland", showcases the mbalax style, which I'd never heard of before today. It's a term N'Dour coined to describe percussion-heavy dance music from Senegal, emerging in the 1970's. As such, this is an album to quicken the pulse, galvanise the body and lift the spirit. The four tracks here are all extended jams showcasing syncopated rhythms, constantly shifting and overlapping grooves, N'Dour's voice ringing out triumphantly on top. There's frequent improvisation at work, giving every member of the band a chance to shine, but usually returning to a strong central melody. It's far from the music I'm used to listening to, so I'm rating on a tentative first impression and won't attempt to analyse it in any more depth just yet, but it's very well performed and it's always great to have the chance to hear something new. "World" music albums on this list are few and far between, so I appreciated the chance to hear N'Dour without any Westerners involved.

A little known fact: if you play recent pressings of this album backwards, in amongst the howling feedback of "Satan" you can hear the collective sobbing of SPIN magazine's 1991 readership after "Bandwagonesque" was deemed Album of the Year above Nirvana's "Nevermind". It was a controversial decision, and a quick scroll through these very comments will tell you most Nirvana fans still aren't over it. I might be thirty years late to the debate, but I'm here to argue it was a sound decision. Teenage Fanclub land on a winning formula here, serving up literal DOLLOPS of crunchy guitar and noisy feedback alongside instantly familiar harmonies, picking up right where Big Star left off. They have much in common with their Creation Records labelmates The Jesus and Mary Chain, but land on a much stronger equilibrium between noise and pop. Vocals, mostly shared by Norman Blake and Gerard Love, are crystal clear and refreshingly laid back: they don't try too hard or reach too far, but they could harmonise in their sleep. The material might be simplistic and easygoing, but just try to listen to a song like "Star Sign" without grinning at the perfect alignment of it all. A lively drum beat, thunderous distortion from the rhythm guitar, a 60's throwback chord progression, unison bends on lead guitar kicking in at the second verse, all the while with gorgeous harmonised vocals. Much of the rest is in the same spirit: "The Concept" is a mini masterpiece, its tender and wistful verse giving way to a blissfully spaced-out guitar solo on clouds of falsetto "aaaaaahs". "What You Do To Me" repeats the same two lines for two minutes and never quite wears out its welcome. "Metal Baby" is Beatlesesque pop perfection. "Pet Rock" ends with a chaotic riff, horns slowly building up and saturating the signal. "Alcoholiday" and "Guiding Star" take a gorgeously melancholic turn: "there are things I want to do, but I don't know if they will be with you". Lovely. But the most striking cut of all is the closing instrumental, "Is This Music." Things switch gears here, hinting at a slightly more industrial direction with a more synthetic sound and a blaring, melodic guitar figure looped all the way into eternity. "Bandwagonesque" is candy-floss and broken glass, a marshmallow fire, forty-three spoonfuls of burnt sugar. It might not be perfect ("December" and "I Don't Know" haven't yet hooked me) but it's darn close. And yes, I like it more than "Nevermind".

It's both rare and unfortunate for a 28 minute, 12 song album to feel so repetitive. The Ramones' self-titled and Buddy Holly's "The Chirping Crickets" are two similar cases I've reviewed here, but both ended up winning me over on charming delivery and an impeccable winning formula. This audaciously-named compilation by The Hives ("Your New Favourite Band") is anything but, though there's no denying it's relentlessly energetic. Through every staccato cranked-up guitar riff, furious drum fill, and fuzzed-out vocal, it aches with an urge to be taken seriously as a new breed of snappy, hyper-active schoolkid rock. Although there's a clear influence from 60's garage and 70's hardcore punk, it's a polished, super-compressed sound that could have only been pumped out in the early 2000s and gives no breathing room. "Hate To Say I Told You So", the band's signature song and one I did recognise, strikes the right tone as an attitude-filled opener. But then we hear the same attitude again. And again. And another time. And with more distortion. And at a slightly higher tempo. Every track may as well be an indistinguishable blend of tuneless frenzy, all very rough-and-ready but lacking any polish or sophistication. Any melody, nuance or variety is thrown out of the window in favour of strangled yells, rasps, outbursts. "Make it harder! Make it faster!" screams the salivating manager, envisaging The Strokes' or White Stripes' level of success. By the time "The Hives Are Law, You Are Crime" rolls around with a refreshing change in sound and a lack of vocals, it's too little and too late. "Your New Favourite Band" gives the same rush as drinking a full six-pack of (diet) Coke in one go, without anything to break it up. Fun and tasty at first, with a feeling of wild rebellion… but by the end I was sick of the taste and ready to piss it all out of my system.

I'd never heard of Big Black or Steve Albini before. I'd gone my whole life oblivious to their 1986 album "Atomizer". I'd never seen the cover image before, didn't know what kind of music they played, had never heard a single note. I had absolutely no idea what it was going to sound like. And I was not prepared. "Atomizer" is like being trapped inside a burning landfill, an enormous dustbin being lashed with knives, the inside of a virus-riddled spaceship. Proto-industrial, metal-leaning, produced inside a tin can… it's an overwhelming barrage of noise. The subject matter ups the ante, ramping the album from abrasive sonic experiments to an exhausting exploration of humankind's worst vices. "Jordan, Minnesota" is about an alleged child sex abuse ring and ends with a horrifying depiction of such abuse. "Fists of Love"? Extreme sex degenerating into assault. "Stinking Drunk"? Giving in to addiction. "Big Money"? Abuse of power in the police. "Kerosene"? Bored teenagers setting themselves on fire. It's a real shame that there isn't more light and shade here, because in moderation, "Atomizer" is breathtaking. On first (and second, and third) listen, "Kerosene" really knocked me out. None of the rest of the album quite matches its furious intensity, wearing very thin after about three tracks. So in general, I felt this was powerful music, but that I would never be of the temperament to ever really enjoy it or add it to my collection. 2 stars and done. And then I learned more about Steve Albini. I read that he has grown in stature as a producer since Big Black, working on Pixies' "Surfer Rosa" and Nirvana's "In Utero", among others. Nice! I read some articulate interviews with him reflecting on Big Black, his more controversial lyrical content, what he has learned since, and how he is trying to be an ally to marginalised groups. Great! And then I read that back in the 80's, around the time "Atomizer" was released, his way of being provocative was by owning magazines depicting violent acts of paedophilia. Reading about this, on top of his liner notes for "Jordan, Minnesota", absolutely ruined my day. And now I have no desire to hear any of it ever again. For all "Atomizer"'s intriguing production choices, it boils down to a stubborn and desperate need to be seen as "cutting edge" by being as edgy or shocking as possible. It's a gimmick of the worst kind: cheap, lazy, and just not nice. And so, any goodwill I might have had about the content of this album has evaporated. If you think this makes me a sensitive snowflake and I'm "missing the point", go ahead, give yourself a pat on the back and enjoy Big Black's music while thinking about how edgy it makes you. Ooooh, yes, you're well hard.

The first thing I learned about Bebel Gilberto is that she's the daughter of bossa nova pioneer, Joao Gilberto. Joao was heralded as the father of bossa nova, which would make Bebel either its sister, or the genre incarnate. Either way, it's in her blood... and 2000's "Tanto Tempo" proves it track by track.   Raised on bossa nova music her entire life (naturally), Bebel Gilberto had been releasing music for fourteen years by the time "Tanto Tempo" rolled around. It was her third full-length studio album, and saw her become one of the biggest selling Brazilian artists of the 20th century. Despite this, it's extremely difficult to find online in the UK, and I've had to resort to listening to a cover of "Alguem" because there's no trace of it. If I ever finish the rest of the 1001 list, my final regret will be never hearing the original "Alguem". If you're reading this, HELP! "Tanto Tempo" is often billed as bossa-nova meets electronica, but on first listen the electronic elements are scarcely noticeable. At best, they contribute really well to the ambience: some whooshing, whistling synths turn "Mais Feliz" into an elegant beguiling soundscape. A couple of programmed drum beats crop up here and there, but they're subtle enough to not detract from the bossa nova feel. They've just allowed critics ever since to contextualise "Tanto Tempo" vaguely within trip-hop and downtempo. Instead, "Samba de Bencao" typifies the sound of the album: bossa nova guitar rhythm, whispering saxophone and twinkling vibraphone, percussion barely kept above brushes on the snare. There are no crescendos so much as waves gently breaking on the shore. Tying it all together is Gilberto's vocal: velveteen smooth, intimate and casual. Over the course of the album, she slips between Portugese and English (singing both beautifully, but hearing the lyrics in English somehow diluted the album's beauty. Imagine if, instead of birdsong, we heard their actual calls to one another of "Ey up! I done a shit! Fancy a shag and some worms?" Not as lyrical, is it? Anyway, that's my problem, certainly not Bebel's). Once the mood is established in "Samba de Bencao", it remains much the same across the rest of the album- sedate, sultry and smooth- until we reach a couple of surprises. First, "Sem Contencao" livens things up with a light samba, retaining the same instrumentation while upping the tempo a little. I appreciated the change in tempo, but on the whole this didn't quite work for me: too breezy to be exciting, but too energetic to be blissful. Later, "Bananeira" and "Close Your Eyes" are two shocks coming at the eleventh hour: out-and-out drum beats, a full brass section, lively samba. These feel as though they shouldn't work, particularly when the soporific, skeletal "Samba e Amor" sits between them. But, while bossa nova purists may well balk at it, against the odds I found myself grooving away contentedly.  "Tanto Tempo" is not something I'm likely to revisit often (mainly because it's so bloody hard to find), but it's been a relaxing Friday afternoon listening to bossa nova incarnate. And western pop fans rejoice: "So Nice (Summer Samba)" was also covered by Baby Spice herself, Emma Bunton. Hurrah!

Listen to Aerosmith’s ‘“Pump” for a clear illustration of why grunge and 90s alt-rock had to happen. Just as Yes’s “Tales from Topographic Oceans” explains why prog-rock had to eventually give way to punk, “Pump” represents the worst excesses of 1980’s glam-metal. It’s hammy, crass, bloated, perverse… but my god, it’s a real guilty pleasure. Already elder statesmen of rock by this point, Aerosmith had reached their tenth album. Steven Tyler was 41 and kicked most of the drugs he’d spent the last couple of decades on. Not one for aging gracefully, his midlife crisis took the form of seeking oral sex in elevators, going on the prowl for daughters in “Young Lust”, and the skin-crawling lechery in F.I.N.E (“I’ve heard you’re so tight, your love squeaks”… not nice). It’s macho to the extreme, grotesque in its content and relentless in its delivery. The vehicle for this born-again horniness is a set of songs with fairly basic hard blues riffs and seismic drums, all gloss and 80’s sheen. …So what works? While I really expected to dislike it, I can’t deny there are some good hooks in these songs. It’s hard to love, but it’s pretty easy to like. Before I registered the pervy lyrics, “F.I.N.E” boasted an excellent strut. “Janie’s Got a Gun” veers into relatively unknown territory for the band, with a reasonably sensitive exploration into violence and abuse. And even though the music mainly stays in its lane, it’s also full of welcome adornments. The “woah-oh” backing vocals in “Love in an Elevator”… the synth strings in “Janie’s Got a Gun”… the horns in “The Other Side”… even the jarring interludes on dulcimer and fiddle… all give some variety I wasn’t expecting. The album closes with a sweet if predictable ballad, “What It Takes”. Big, bombastic, on-the-nose, but oh-so-singalongable: it’s a final exclamation mark on all my conflicted feelings on “Pump”. The destination may not be worth all that much, but we may as well enjoy the ride.

In their second album proper, released in the twilight of the 60’s, The Band venture out in search of a pre-psychedelic America, tracing well-trodden roads to their humble beginnings. Some lead to country (“Across the Great Divide”, “Rocking Chair”). Some lead to folk-tales of the American Civil War (“The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”). Others even lead to ragtime (“Rag Mama Rag”). Don’t let the brown, washed out aesthetic fool you: this is a deceptively diverse, enjoyable set of songs. I first heard “The Band” a few years ago, and it didn’t move me much at all: to me, they represented all that was safe and staid in late 1960’s rock. I still feel this way to an extent: this is a bit of a white bread, ready salted, meat and potatoes, dry Weetabix, 35 in a 40 zone, second-hand sofa, one-pint-and-then-home kind of album. Most of the songs sound like they could have been hastily picked from an old and dusty book of folk or country standards, and are delivered more with a shrugging ease than boundless passion. It might not appear to push the envelope in the same way as the lysergic freak-outs dominating the back-half of the 1960s… but really, it’s just pushing it in a different direction. There are, in fact, plenty of enjoyable tracks to be had here, with fantastic vocals and nicely diverse instrumentation. The bittersweet “Night they Drove Old Dixie Down” boasts a gorgeous harmonised chorus and swells of harmonica in the verses. “Up on Cripple Creek” has a downright funky drum beat and clavinet bassline, with a campfire of a chorus. I also enjoy the 6/4 refrain in “Jawbone”, the spiralling organ and catchy chorus of “When You Awake”, the tenderness of “Rocking Chair”, and the all-out fun of “Rag Mama Rag” and “Look Out Cleveland”. These are splendidly performed songs with plenty of characterful moments: it’s just taken a long while to reveal itself to me. Well worth sticking with it, even through the sleepier moments.

"Made in Japan" almost didn't exist. Deep Purple did not want to release a live album, seeing no way to replicate their explosive live set on record. When their touring engineer presented them with these recordings, the label were fanatic about them, and the band begrudgingly went along with a professional release (partly to stifle bootleg recordings and partly to jump on a similar trend by other groups). 50 years on, now the hype has dimmed and the purpose of release is null and void, this 70 minute, 7 track album has retained a lot of its power, but the indulgence of it all hasn't quite stood up to time. The best thing about "Made in Japan" is the added vitality that the studio versions can't quite match. Deep Purple perfectly fused raw metal power with virtuoso performances and sheer exhilaration, and that's perhaps more evident here than I've ever heard before. From the get-go, "Highway Star" blows the roof off. Ian Paice's drumming ups the tempo, Roger Glover fuzzes out his bass, Ritchie Blackmore throws in increasingly blistering guitar runs, and Ian Gillan retains the powerhouse vocals of the studio version with just a little more grit. It's a real thrill, and the peak of the whole record. The main issue is that every track is stuffed out to breaking point, with only "Highway Star" and "Smoke on the Water" maintaining a brevity of seven minutes. "Child in Time"'s dramatic build in intensity, though still powerful, is undermined when the heavier sections are dragged out for several days, losing any sense of climax. "The Mule" begins well but quickly dissolves into a seven minute (yes, SEVEN MINUTE) drum solo from Paice. There are frequent interludes of extended solos, dragged out crashing endings, Gillan's wordless call-and-response with Blackmore, and long stretches of feedback and sonic experimentation. "Space Truckin'" is the worst offender, at a needless twenty minutes. Everybody knows Jon Lord was a phenomenal keyboard player: he's wonderful throughout the whole album and makes his mark on "Truckin'", mining the depths of his instrument and lifting phrases from famous classical pieces (I spotted Holst's "Jupiter" among others). While it must have been a thrill to experience live, it's a tough listen when removed from the atmosphere and the visuals. And therein lies the main problem with "Made in Japan": expertly performed and essential for hardcore Deep Purple fans, but a real struggle as an album-length listen. Perhaps the band were right all along, in assuming their barnstorming live act could never quite be captured on recordings. You just had to be there.

Any discourse about the Velvet Underground’s debut is likely to include hyperbole after hyperbole, all of which you’ll have heard before. Saviour of music in the 1960’s, progenitor of punk, progenitor of grunge, progenitor of indie, post-punk before there was punk, God’s favourite album. For as long as I’ve adored “Sgt Pepper” or “Pet Sounds”, I’ve had people try to tell me this is cooler, more daring, all round better. In fifty-six years since its release, it only seems to have grown in stature, never losing its allure as a gateway drug for hipsters and inspiring generations of sixteen year olds to get into music, drugs, art-school, or S&M. My instinct tells me it’s an overrated dud, with nothing here to match most of the other 60’s albums we put on a pedestal. Listening with fresh ears today, I’ve tried to reconcile my bias with “Velevet Underground and Nico”’s undeniable forward-thinking approach and revolutionary legacy. For what it’s worth, I much prefer Velvet Underground’s later work when they leaned further into lush melodies and conventional rock and roll, before Lou Reed peaked in his early solo career. It follows that “Sunday Morning” has always been the track that’s stood out to me most here. Absolutely gorgeous melody, lovely use of celesta, featherweight vocal, somehow weary with the weight of the world… it captures its title perfectly. “Waiting for the Man” is also a classic, somehow managing to draw a compelling song from two chords and insanely simple instrumentation. “Heroin” is a masterclass in well-paced intensity, from its blissed out intro, the funereal toms, through to the primal build up and ensuing chaos at the gates of hell. Nico’s vocals are a really welcome addition as well, giving “I’ll Be Your Mirror” and “Femme Fatale” a lovely elegance. The rest of the tracks tend to veer from vaguely interesting to forgettable or obnoxious. “The Black Angel’s Death Song” doesn’t do a lot for me. “Run Run Run” and “There She Goes Again” are gnawingly ordinary, only edgy on account of their poor recording quality, shaky performance and badly tuned instruments. Finally, “European Son” begins well but ends with a strung-out jam lacking any nuance or skill. “Velvet Underground and Nico” is frustrating, maddening, head-scratching, wilful, bold, out there… and I must admit, highly commendable. Ultimately, most of my instincts telling me not to like this album are an aversion to those snotty hipsters who proclaim this album as the second coming. Listening as freely and objectively as possible today, I must concede that it might not be a favourite, but it is darn good.

At the time I’m writing this review, “Heaux Tales” is the newest of 1001 albums to hear before we die. It was released six years after I first read through the list, and is certainly a welcome change from the constant stream of white male 70’s rock dominating the canon. Showing how far hip-hop has come since the days of Dre and N.W.A, “Heaux Tales” is a feminist semi-concept record about women reclaiming their identities: essentially eight tracks padded out with six spoken interludes (Antoinette, Ari, Donna, Rashida, Precious, Amanda). Each of them has their own story to tell, with their own perspective on sex, empowerment, relationships and social pressure which come across very loosely in the songs. The material is of varying strength, and the more lush and mellow the sound, the more I enjoyed it. While “Bodies” is an underwhelming start and “Put It Down” is a fairly generic R&B jam, “Lost One” is fantastic. Paired with just a bass guitar, Sullivan’s vocal perches on the precipice of heartbreak, pushing itself to the limit and cracking just slightly on the edges: sublime.“On It” is the most sensual, soulful and mellow delivery of the words “I want to sit on it / I’m gonna spit on it”: worlds away from what I might have imagined. And “The Other Side” is the best of all: yearning, wistful and anthemic. Sullivan’s vocals are excellent throughout, with strong features from the likes of Ari Lennox and H.E.R. If there’s a criticism, the album feels a tad underbaked at 32 minutes, being described as more of an EP on release. As strong as the concept is, it doesn’t quite pull together in a satisfying way at the end: the “tales” feel more like retro-fitted springboards for the rest of the songs. It would have been great to tie it up in a stronger conclusion, but strangely, “Girl Like Me” is a mournful break-up ballad which is hung up on being rejected by a man and lamenting the “hoes” he’s gone for instead. It’s a great performance, but it’s not the thematic closure I expected. Maybe Sullivan wanted to show womens’ relationships with sex, their bodies and each other as a messy, grey and contradictory area, perpetually divided by the whims of men? It’s not my place to mansplain any more of this to you: just do yourself a favour and have a listen. It’s a good one.

Upbeat and unpretentious, romantic and mellow… “Moondance” is a landmark moment in Van Morrison’s long career. In 1968’s dazzling, experimental “Astral Weeks”, he’d aimed for the sun. One year on, he recorded this third album as a means of coming back down to earth. In his own words, “I make albums primarily to sell them… I had to forget about the artistic thing… one has to live.” Questionable as this approach might be, the result is a refreshingly direct, sturdy album, chock-full of rich and soulful vocals, mellow acoustic folk, and numerous jazzy adornments. There’s no disputing Morrison’s vocal talent, and he’s on fine form here, anchoring the more twinkly and ephemeral tracks and galvanising the upbeat ones. The instrumentation is very easy going, including a horn section full of character, piano and an occasional double-bass. There’s even some unexpected harpsichord and flute to liven up “Everyone”. The title track deserves to be a jazz standard. “And It Stoned Me” and “Into the Mystic” have an instantly beguiling spiritual quality. “Come Running” is lightweight, throwaway fun. And for gentler fare with gospel backing vocals, “Crazy Love” and “Brand New Day” are both beautiful, softly stirring soul numbers. Finally, we culminate in the triumphant closer “Glad Tidings”, which feels like a transparent attempt to recreate “Brown Eyed Girl” for a new album (right down to the same chord progression and a “La La La” refrain in the chorus). It’s a wonderful, if obvious, way to wrap up. “Moondance” is consistently comfortable and endlessly easygoing. It might not be the most exciting album I’ve heard, but I’d be hard pushed to find a more pleasant set of songs.

I’m only familiar with Depeche Mode through their peppy breakout hit “Just Can’t Get Enough” and their most famous album “Violator”, a moody monolith of alternative synth-pop. Named with deliberate irony, “Music for the Masses” is supposedly a bridge between the two, as the band inch away from sprightly singles and closer towards the doom and gloom of “Violator” onwards. I’d call it more of a dark and cold underground tunnel between the two: this has none of the sheen of “Just Can’t Get Enough”, or the polish of those more commercial-reaching moments in “Violator”. On first listen it felt like a real slog, with no discernible excitement or prowess. After spending a bit more time with it, certain songs have started to slowly emerge from the haze… but it’s still not blowing me away. This is an atmosphere-first, songwriting-second, grooves-third album. The focus here seems to be much more on Andy Fletcher’s keyboard textures than anything else, which sit well in the unmistakeably 80s production. “The Things You Said” is a strong example of this approach working well: sparse and minimal, a bassline shifting between two chords, ripples of other synths or programmed drum fills billowing over the top throughout. “Pimpf” is a pleasingly bombastic closer. And it may be an outlier, but I appreciate the audacity of “I Want You Now”, punctuated by deep breathing and vocal-sounding synths. It stands out from the rest and at least shows a little more sonic experimentation beyond every other line-up in the 1980s. I’m beginning to suspect there’s not much more to these songs than the first few listens can reveal. Most of the lyrics are written in vague generalities, with an occasional toe-curlingly awful line to grab attention (“Promises me I’m as safe as houses, as long as I remember who’s wearing the trousers”, in the otherwise album standout “Never Let Me Down Again”). The rest of the tracks range from passably interesting to wholly forgettable. Where “Sacred” is a rare (but bloated) chance to dance, “Little 15”’s arrangement hasn’t aged so well and is a real snooze break. There’s a lot of wallowing, with nothing particularly concise. It’s fine, and passes the time without much objection, but I can’t say I’ve unearthed a classic.

It’s 1969 and the Mothers of Invention are dead, having given birth to Frank Zappa’s solar eclipse of an ego without knowing what to do afterwards. Now, the virtuoso, multi-instrumentalist, composer, arranger, satirist and beloved anti-establishment figure spreads himself all over the close of the decade, mashing himself up into extended, bluesy, psychedelic-leaning jams. “Hot Rats” is perhaps Zappa’s most famous record, as much a brush with the mainstream as he’d ever be willing to admit. It’s also the only record of his I’d heard before this project, so I’m going in with some much-needed familiarity. First off, “Peaches en Regalia” is an absolute triumph: dense and diverse, memorable and accomplished. It brings all the talents of Zappa as a guitarist and an arranger into sharp focus with a structured, rigorous composition, cycling through distinct hooks with endless panache. Some are on flute, some on guitar, with a glorious saxophone break: it all works brilliantly. It’s become one of Zappa’s signature tunes, and deservedly so. The jazz number “Little Umbrellas” is of a similar length and equally disciplined, with a sleepy double-bass giving way to languid saxophone, organ and flute solos. The rest is nowhere near as structured or embellished, hanging on improvised jams with a smaller core group. While it begins to border on indulgent and shapeless by the end (“It Must Be a Camel” is a little superfluous) the performances are accomplished and expressive enough to allow Zappa and co. to pull through. Captain Beefheart’s vocal feature, at the start of “Willie the Pimp” before he seemingly gets bored and goes for a joint, gives a wonderful gruff flavour, and listen out for the ratchet playing early in the jam section to drive this one home. “The Gumbo Variations” has such a strong attack in its opening riff, with excellent saxophone, violin and guitar solos, and fluid bass work, that I can’t harbour too much animosity towards its length. “Hot Rats” was described by Zappa as “a movie for your ears”. While its lack of lyrics is a shame, at least this allows Zappa’s guitar work (arguably his greatest asset) to take front and centre alongside an ensemble of very talented musicians. Mercifully, no lyrics also means no dodgy misogynistic overtones like those which muddy the waters of his other work. What we’re left with is a group of great musicians playing to their hearts content, and it’s difficult to argue too much with that.

Old England. Rural retreats, vast swathes of farmland, friendly neighbourhoods, tea parties, Victorian music hall, the village green. Almost fifty years before this kind of nostalgia exposed itself as a complicated, damaging, Brexit-leaning force, Ray Davies was reading Dylan Thomas and reflecting on The Kinks having been banned from touring the US. What did his country mean to him? How was it changing with more and more technological advances? What was going to happen to it? Could the British Invasion go both ways, with the increasing Americanisation of his beloved home turf? The result is The Kinks’ maturation into one of the most versatile and singular bands of the 1960s, and Ray Davies’ blossoming into the next in a great line of romantic English poets pining for the pastoral. The title track of this album, “The Village Green Preservation Society”, is a perfect distillation of these ideals: a seemingly nonsensical lyric mostly comprises jumbled pop culture references from Davies’ childhood and beyond, expressed freely with little fuss or force. Desperate Dan, Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Mopps, Dracula, Donald Duck and many more sit side by side in a cozy, Utopian vision, as Davies searches for one group or another to feel part of. The music- gently strummed acoustic guitar, ramshackle piano intro, a hypnotic backbeat, short and simple riffs on electric guitar and whistling organ, breezy vocal harmonies- is absolutely spellbinding, perfectly capturing a naive innocence which grows more desperate with every key change. The album never quite surpasses its opener, but the themes of nostalgia, memories, change and aging are returned to again and again with a range of interesting perspectives and far more nuance than most of Davies’ contemporaries would have been able to muster. “Picture Book” and the ready-made-for-the-2020s “People Take Pictures of Each Other” consider our obsession with cataloguing memories, and the forlorn hope that a picture could somehow bring it all back. In “Do You Remember Walter”, a childhood friend may be fat, married and sedate, but “memories of people can remain”. Later, “Big Sky” and “Animal Farm” are pure joys of escapism in the face of an indifferent, unfeeling world. Then there’s the astonishing album-centrepiece, “Last of the Steam-Powered Trains”, in which Davies imagines himself as a train, all soot and scum, the voice of a missing-link generation. The album is at most threat of collapsing when the Kinks dial up the whimsy and branch into “When I’m 64”-style vaudeville. “Phenomenal Cat” is a sleepy Mellotron-led number which isn’t quite as clever or timeless as it wants to be. “Sitting by the Riverside” is pleasant but doesn’t quite land its cheap attempts at “Day in the Life” style crescendos. “Wicked Annabella” feels like an early-era Kinks track tacked on towards the end. But it’s easy to overlook these half-decent songs in favour of the brilliant ones. “The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society” is never unlistenable, and at its best it is transcendent. It also deserves points for having much more of a valid hold on the “early concept album” tag than Sgt. Pepper, or Pet Sounds. This is Davies making a full set of songs out of Brian Wilson’s “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times”. Peerless and unique songwriting, pitch-perfect performances… it’s superb.

Not only did 1977 see the Sex Pistols staunchly oppose the bollocks, Wire fly their Pink Flag and Buzzcocks launch their debut EP, but it also saw perhaps the most enduring British punk band of all come searing onto the scene. In the spirit of its surroundings, "The Clash" is raw, riotous, and rough around the edges. At first I struggled to get on board with it, as this debut lacks the polish or genre-hopping which the band came to display later in their career. Mostly punk through-and-through, bar a six-minute cover of reggae track "Police and Thieves" (promising, if a little overlong). It's not an overwhelming classic, but what makes it a great, attention-grabbing debut? It's tightly wound and snappy: from the flurry of drums and slurred love-letter of "Janie Jones" through the knees-up crudity of "Protex Blue", it barely pauses for breath across its thirty-five minutes. Brevity is key, and the breathless playing from all members of the band suits it perfectly. It's catchy as hell: I was mostly drawn to the songs with Mick Jones on vocals, his higher register and more melodic tone grabbing me more immediately than Strummer's borderline-unintelligible rasp. "Remote Control" jangles its way down a major key progression with brazen confidence, culminating in an excellent outro, and "Hate and War" is an anthem for the ages. It's fiercely political: "White Riot"'s rally call to an apathetic white working-class is incendiary (not to be misunderstood as a call for a race war), and "London's Burning" seethes with abandonment and resentment towards those in power. Not to mention the excellent "Career Opportunities", perhaps the highlight of the whole set. Lithe, stuttering, scathing and charged, it's the sound of years of bottled up frustration with "the system" being released. Finally, it's the sound of an emergent band with a fully formed identity, remarkably sure of their place in the world. Pay attention to the closing manifesto of this album: The Clash are not joining all the young punks with their new boots and suits. They're a garage band, and they come from garage land. Even though this attitude is a little exclusionary in its own way, credit to Joe Strummer for calling out the fakers. Punk's finest hour begins here.

On my second ever listen to "Live Through This", I was reading up about Hole and the life of frontwoman Courtney Love. The articles very quickly spiralled into a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories implicating her in the death of husband Kurt Cobain, whose suicide came days before "Live Through This" was released. The toxicity towards her seems to be perpetuated either by Nirvana fans, sexist critics, or both, with some of her inflammatory statements and behaviour over the years simply fanning the flames. It's a pity that this ugly and tragic context has eclipsed Hole's work, because "Live Through This" is a decent album: perhaps the most consistent of its kind I've had on the list so far. Coming in 1994 at the tail-end of grunge's first wave, it was a conscious attempt by Love and the band to produce something more polished and melodic, separating it from many other grunge or riot grrrl albums and bringing it much closer in line with Nirvana's later work (cue the stream of theories around Cobain ghostwriting, because heaven forbid a woman could do this on her own). From the very first track, restrained and simmering resentments are packed tightly against explosions of fury and rage, taking Nirvana and Pixies' dynamics and amplifying them even further. "Violet" begins quietly and then bursts into flames, guitars kicking in and vocals screeching up an octave. Things progress in much the same way, with the occasional dip in energy ("Doll Parts") or power ("Credit in the Straight World", "Gutless"). Love's vocals- tight, gritty, intense- are a minor revelation, allowing the songs to soar rather than sink in the sludge. For a prime example, take the astounding closing track "Rock Star". It belongs in a hall of fame of vocal-cord wrecking performances, right alongside the likes of Lennon in "Twist and Shout". Thematically, the songs frequently return to the pressure on Love's shoulders: the expectations of her as a mother, a woman, a celebrity, the wife of the most famous rockstar in the world. "Jennifer's Body" tells a harrowing tale of a woman kidnapped and mutilated. "Miss World" shows the inner turmoil of a major starlet held on a pedestal. "Asking For It" addresses a horrifying incident of Love being sexually assaulted by fans during a stage-dive. Milk and blood flow through "Plump", "Softer Softest" and "I Think That I Would Die" like rival currencies. These are weighty topics which necessitate the volume of screaming, even though the songs sometimes grow a little too predictable to do them justice. While it's still too heavy for my tastes in general, with not enough stand-out melodies, I appreciate "Live Through This" is a strong album. Rating a high 3 purely for personal preference, though future listens may lift it slightly.

I first heard “Eliminator” a few years ago, just as my newfound love of Talking Heads was changing my life. By comparison, this lightweight pop-rock - self-consciously retro even in the early 80s - did absolutely nothing for me. Listening now, I wondered if I’d been too harsh on it. Theres a certain laid-back self-assured quality to these songs, together with pristine production. Almost every track chugs along with crisp, disco-style drum beats, buzzing one-note synths and meaty guitar riffs. Yes, I bopped along to the shuffling “If I Could Only Flag Her Down”. Yes, “Thug” boasts an impressive extended workout on the bass. And yes, the guitars sound great in many of these tracks, particularly the crunchy refrain throughout “Gimme All Your Loving”. But the main issue is that there’s really no discernible charisma in these songs. It sounds as though there’s nothing on the line, that the band are going through the motions with some new-wave stylings slapped on top to make a sweet sweet dollar. The lyrics are worse still: “TV Dinners” is exclusively about its name, full of winking lyrics about twenty year old turkey, enchiladas, teriyaki. Can you imagine a more banal subject for a song? What were they thinking? Though on balance, the TV dinners are fleshed out more, and treated with more reverence and grace, than most of the women unfortunate enough to be subjects of ZZ Top’s songs here. In “Legs”, a woman is described and defined almost entirely by her lower half. In “Dirty Dog”, she’s just that, even though he “dug her bush and her ass was fine”. And then we have “I Got the Six” (followed by “give me a nine” in the chorus). Rather than sexual bravado or irresistible attraction, the image of someone forming half the 69 position just brings to mind a gibbering and drooling sweaty naked man in the foetal position, grasping at the intangible. ZZ Top, ladies and gentlemen, showcasing their sex appeal. Fans of “Eliminator” may cry that the band were in on the joke, that they were just trend-hopping, or somehow skewering a sleek new-wave culture they knew full well to have no place in. But when it’s all over, the album leaves little impression either way. My copy of “Eliminator” has been gathering dust since 2016… now back on the shelf it goes.

Garba, Aliou and Oumar Toure (no relation despite sharing a surname) left their home near Timbuktu, Mali in 2012, after occupation by a jihadist group named Ansar Dine who were imposing Sharia law over the north of the country. The ban on music (!) forced the three Toures and fellow musician Nathanael Dembele out of their homes to Bamako in South Mali, where they later formed a band. “Music in Exile” was released three years later. I‘m not sure I’ve ever read a more compelling background for any artist. Songhoy Blues play music as a means of resistance, music as an act of joy, and music as an irrepressible way of life. As such, “Music in Exile” crackles and glows with energy. The band recorded it with the guitarist of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and grew up on American rock, so there are clear Western influences here (apparently an unfortunate pre-requisite for any “world music” act making it onto the 1001 list). But Songhoy Blues’ brand of music seamlessly incorporates Malian grooves and Afrobeat, giving them the edge over US-based blues groups I’ve heard in the past. If car companies caught wind of “Soubour” they’d surely be tripping over themselves to use it in every TV advert they possibly could. It’s brittle, tough blues rock and a perfect opening. “Sekou Oumarou” is in a similar vein: hypnotic and lean with a touch of menace, no messing around. The Afrobeat-leaning “Irganda” is even better: a propulsive beat, handclaps, chanting vocals, a kitchen sink of percussion, restless skittering rhythm guitar. It’s a delight, and my favourite track here: if anything might push “Music in Exile” to a five star album, it would be more of “Irganda”. The rest is perfectly enjoyable, though, as we’re treated to the driving bluesy shuffle of “Nick”, some excellent rhythmic see-sawing in “Al Hassidi Terei”, and a masterclass in quietly building intensity with “Jolie”. There’s also good stylistic variation: “Wayei” drops the tempo and leads things in a more lilting direction before the first minute of “Petit Metier”- and later the whole of closer “Mali”- drop to just acoustic guitar and vocals. These aren’t as thrilling as some of the other songs, but I appreciate the breathers. “Music in Exile” is fierce, passionate, relentless, vital. The layered vocals are a force of nature, and the guitar tones could take on the world. The language barrier hardly matters here: the backstory and vitality of the music speaks for itself.

In this hefty double album from 1969, the Bee Gees invite us on board the Odessa for a one hour and four minute voyage. The concept sinks after just seven minutes, into a sea of treacly three-minute baroque pop songs. There the album would have remained, buried without trace and ignored by press and reviewers everywhere. However, after the Bee Gees broke into the mainstream, critics were forced to reassess their early work, landing “Odessa” in the “1001” hall of fame. I’ve been dimly aware of the Bee Gees’ pre-disco material for a while. My mum has long waxed lyrical about their hit “Massachusetts”, keenly watching archive footage of a doey eyed Robin Gibb performing it on Top of the Pops. I fell for “Massachusetts” too, but it isn’t here: in fact, the only hit worthy of a “best-of” compilation is “First of May”, with its winning lyric on the loss of childhood innocence as measured by one’s relative height against a Christmas tree. So the rest is either buried treasure or deserved landfill, depending on personal taste. After a couple of listens, I’m ending up somewhere in between. “Black Diamond”, “Sound of Love” and especially “Lamplight” might not be to everyone’s taste, but to me they’re all showstoppers: great dramatics and oceanic choruses, with soaring vocals. “Marley Purt Drive” is direct, to the point and oversimplified, but a decent pop song nonetheless. The grandiose instrumentals “Seven Seas Symphony” and “With All Nations (International Anthem)” are where I was most sold on the bombastic orchestral arrangements, though having them back-to-back is some bizarre sequencing. And if still in doubt of the band’s abilities pre-1975, just listen to the chorus of “I Laugh In Your Face” for a sign that those classic Bee Gees harmonies we all know and love were ready to take the world by storm. “Odessa” boasts several decent melodies, and shows assured songcraft, but the main issue is one of quality control, as the band !become bogged down in lightweight repetitions. “Edison”, “Melody Fair” and “Suddenly” bring very little the other songs hadn’t already brought, and too many tracks end up dissolving into a syrupy mush without substance or bite. That said, the diversions from this formula don’t work too well either: when “Whisper Whisper” crowbars in a danceable coda via a jarring edit, it feels glaringly out of place. “Give Your Best” functions as a change of pace, but still plays like a cringey attempt at a hoedown. Perhaps the biggest misstep is the title track, “Odessa (City on the Black Sea)”. Misleading audiences into thinking we’re in for a lengthy concept album, it lacks the tight structure, musical skill or diversity, and strength of storytelling to sell the Bee Gees as a high concept band. They should have ditched it altogether. Ultimately, what we‘re left with is a frustrating listen. “Odessa” could have been something much more special if trimmed down to its least pretentious cuts and most emotive ballads: as it is, it’s an enjoyable collection and worthwhile curio for fans of the band.

Where to possibly begin? Fifty years on from its release, “Pink Moon” has become inseparable from Nick Drake’s tragic mental health deterioration and eventual suicide two years after release, aged just twenty-six. While I don’t think it’s the explicit, “all-hope-lost” suicide note many might see it as, the association is unavoidable: “Pink Moon” is widely regarded as one of the most unflinching, personal albums of all time. This alone brings a good deal of its acclaim, but why else? What are these five stars for? For a winning less-is-more approach. This album hits all the harder for being twenty-eight minutes when it could have been fifty-eight. For the devastating simplicity of the title track’s lyric “None of you stand so tall; the pink moon’s gonna get you all”. For the removal of each and every superfluous musician from the line-up after Drake’s previous releases, “Five Leaves Left” and “Bryter Layter”. In time, Drake showed the world that his songs would shine the brightest when unadorned. For every cavernous space in between phrases in “Horn”. For the almost-unbearable intimacy. Drake’s close-mic vocals rarely rising above a whisper, audible squeaks and buzzes on his guitar. Such striking clarity of production which places him in the room with the listener. For foreshadowing Radiohead’s entire career in “Parasite”. For the album’s quiet determination to blow against the wind with its sparse construction, and against every contemporary review or critic which either overlooked or derided it. You bastards. For all the dark days “Place to Be” and “Which Will” have carried me through, as well as I’m sure many a Nick Drake fan. Both heartbreaking, and two of the very best. For the melodic sensibilities of these songs: each wafer-thin hook exposed and trembling, but above all beautiful. “Things Behind the Sun”, “Place to Be”, “Pink Moon”… wow. For the ominous poetry of “Harvest Breed”, hinting in four lines at an ambiguous journey towards death, or rebirth. For Drake’s magnificent and underrated guitar playing, and for all the hours I’ve spent trying to nail “From the Morning”, doggedly tuning to BEBEBE and barely managing it at half-speed. For “now we rise, and we are everywhere”. Words to punctuate Drake’s final recorded song, the jewel of his entire catalogue, and words which can be read on his gravestone in Tanworth-in-Arden. For every note. Every line. Every grey day. Every new morning. And every shining pink moon.

Just over one year after "Lady in Satin"'s release, Billie Holiday was dead at the age of 44. 70 cents in her bank account, an estate of $1,000, her classic recordings out of print, and a short obituary on page 15 of the New York Times. I was stunned to read this: Billie Holiday, a legend today by anyone's estimation, was essentially forgotten by the time she had died. How did it come to that? A slow decline through alcohol and drugs; years elapsing without much notable output; obstructions in music's circulation in the mid-twentieth century; none of it seemed to have helped her case. By 1958's "Lady in Satin", she was written off by many as a has-been at the end of their rope. More fool them. There's a profound emotional quality to Holiday's renditions here, which can be as peripheral or pervasive as the listener is willing to allow. While I'm much more on the peripheral side (I won't be putting this on regular rotation, and am struggling to retain the content of this album after several listens), I'd never object to hearing it waft sleepily through the air. The parallels are clear with the oldest album in the 1001 catalogue, Frank Sinatra's "In the Wee Small Hours". Holiday actually set out to emulate its smoky, mellow and mournful mood, to the point that three standards from Sinatra's record also appear here ("Glad to be Unhappy", "I'll be Around" and "I Get Along Without You Very Well"). As assured as Holiday's performances are, I'd have to say I preferred Sinatra's versions on the whole. "Lady in Satin" suffers from a lack of Nelson Riddle (Holiday's initial choice of arranger, owing to his work on "In the Wee Small Hours"). While Ray Ellis still does a great job with his orchestra, the bedrock for Holiday's vocals could have been lusher or more varied. Where Holiday arguably has the edge over Sinatra, though, is in authenticity. She still sounds impeccable to my ears, but the mythos around her being a tarnished star, her voice a cracked and broken shadow of its former self, only enhances the appeal of "Lady in Satin". It's true that Holiday has a fragile timbre here, sometimes cracking and straining, but there's also a winning quiet assurance. She perfectly foreshadows the atmosphere of Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen's latter-day recordings, fifty years early. Vocal jazz is never going to be a favourite style of mine - I first heard "Lady in Satin" a few years ago and couldn’t remember any of it - but I can appreciate its significance for the genre and as a sombre, bittersweet send-off for one of the greatest talents in the field.

“Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.” With no more than one opening line, 14-year-old me was hooked. “Sympathy for the Devil” was one of the first classic rock songs I ever paid attention to, while I was still an innocent, wide-eyed musical virgin. From the opening samba percussion, through a build up of phrases introducing one new layer of sound at a time, up to the brash lead solo kicking things up an extra gear as the vocal careers deep down into Hell, it shook my young teenage world apart and refused to put it back together. It’s still thrilling, no doubt about it… but it was well over ten years before I ventured beyond it to hear the rest of its parent album. Listening now, I feel “Beggar’s Banquet” exemplifies a long-held view I’ve had on the Stones: they’re an absolutely incredible singles band, but struggled a little more with the album-format. Just like the other Stones albums I’ve had on the list so far (“Let It Bleed” and “Sticky Fingers”), this one has some absolute monster hits and then a fair chunk of filler to edge down the overall quality. In terms of the good stuff, just try to argue with the power of “Street Fighting Man”. Chiming open-tuned guitar chords, as distinctive a Keith Richards intro as you’re ever likely to find. Charlie Watt’s dynamite tom entrance, Mick Jagger’s incendiary two-note melody. Even Brian Jones’ touches: perfectly judged tambura drones, sitar coming in at the best possible moment. It’s arresting. Now try to argue with “Parachute Woman”’s languid blues, or “Factory Girl”’s patchy folk. You’ll find it much easier. These are off-cuts, with little substance beyond carefree throwaway exercises. It’s frustrating, because much of the genre hopping is really convincing. “Jigsaw Puzzle”, by all accounts an attempt to capture Dylan’s wild thin Mercury sound and songwriting of the mid 1960s, is a solid track. “Stray Cat Blues” deserves a mention: despite its deplorable content, it’s one of the most raucous Stones tracks going (the piano drives it home). And “Salt of the Earth” is simply electric: one of the band’s very best, forming a holy trinity of gospel Stones songs with “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “Shine a Light”. “Beggar’s Banquet” is often hailed as the first in the Rolling Stones’ golden run from 1968 to 1972, which would culminate in the magnificent “Exile on Main St”. From here on out, they’re honing the experimentation and embellishments, beginning to have more of an established identity away from the Beatles’ shadow. It’s a very, very good album, but without the filler- and with some more of their surrounding hits- it could have been exemplary.

I’ve always had an admiration for Earth, Wind & Fire for their ability to fuse mind blowing musicianship with gargantuan pop hits (“September”, “Boogie Wonderland”, that Beatles cover…… you know, whatever else). I’d heard “That’s the Way of the World” once before, and let it wash over me a little. Coming back to it now, in amongst the swamp of other albums included on the 1001 list, it shines all the brighter. The first jolting, goosebumps-worthy moment comes halfway through the first verse of “Shining Star”, when Philip Bailey glides up into his signature, silky smooth falsetto. That alone is enough to reveal we’re in the presence of greatness, and then seconds later, the harmonies come in and we reach the chorus. All doubts buried in the Earth, blown away in the Wind and ravaged in the Fire. Moving forwards, things settle into a rhythm of alternating soul ballads with more upbeat, funk or world-influenced offerings: that’s the way of “That’s the Way of the World”. Arguably, the best example of each comes at the start of the album, with its two singles: “Shining Star”’s slick soul-funk and the absolutely gorgeous “That’s the Way of the World”. Luscious falsetto vocals, warm rhythm guitar, strings and glockenspiel underscoring… this title track has it all. While we don’t reach quite the same peak again, there are many more highlights to be found in this set. “Happy Feelin’” is exuberant and irresistible, with my new favourite falsetto singalong (“FEEEEEEE-eeeeelin”) and perhaps the most euphoric kalimba (I think?) committed to tape. “Africano” is also an unexpected treat: instrumental fusion-y bliss, with stunning performances all round. The rest is good (“Reasons”, “Yearnin’ Learning”) to middling: “All About Love (First Impression)” is a softly stirring slow jam, but doesn’t hit on the same level as most of the others here. All in all, though, it’s a supremely groovy album. Summer’s here, and the time is right for dancing to these beats.

My old art teacher once went on a long and passionate tirade about The Who’s “Substitute”, saying it was the best thing they ever recorded. His reason? He imagined all the dials swinging firmly into the red during the recording, from the sheer raucousness of all four members of the band. At the time, I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to discuss any other examples of this from a similar period. I’d now like to go eleven years back in time, wave “Here are the Sonics” in front of his face and shout “forget Substitute- this is what ‘in the red’ sounds like!” The sound quality on this record barely holds together, threatening to explode at any moment. The Sonics famously recorded their debut album using just a two-track recorder, capturing the entire drum set with one mic. Nearly sixty years on, it’s heralded as an early example of the low-values and high-energy synthesis that would return in punk over a decade later. Fans of the Sonics would later recognise the band’s place in music history, notably Kurt Cobain, who would call it the best drum sound he’d ever heard. Once I got used to the recording quality, which is inescapably shabby and knockabout, I was able to just concentrate on the material. And I must admit, it’s a fun ride. The eight covers are played with bulldozing confidence, and it’s enjoyable (if not essential) to hear the Sonics’ take on such classics as “Do You Love Me”, “Roll Over Beethoven”, “Money” and, of course, “Have Love Will Travel”. The latter in particular, being the most famous Sonics track, is a delight. However, the total exhilaration of the set disguises a suspicious lack of original material: “The Witch”, “Boss Hoss”, “Psycho” and “Strychnine” are the only ones here. “Psycho” is perhaps the best of these, even if it does sound like “Have Love, Will Travel #2”. I could also do without the screams at the end. “Here are the Sonics” is a fun album, but its central gimmick- rock n roll standards played to 11 by a howling garage band- would be difficult to sustain for much more than 29 minutes. I’m sure the band would have been more thrilling in a live setting. Regardless, what we do have here is a relentless pack of songs that spin those dials up and refuse to bring them down. Plain and simple, but a worthy substitute for “Substitute” indeed.

I’m getting a crash course in the early rumblings of punk on the generator this week, with this album arriving one day after The Sonics’ debut album from 1965. Both albums are heralded as influential for the wave of punk bands who eventually rose from the ashes in the mid-1970s. In particular, The Stooges appear to be changing the game here: Iggy Pop’s snarling, sneering, half-sung-half-shouted vocals, guitars drenched and slashed with fuzz, power chords hammered out alongside metronomic drums. John Cale’s stark production places The Stooges firmly in the “early Velvet Underground” camp of trailblazers who could just as easily be heralded as the second coming or written off as a lot of old noise. It‘s easy to call it a landmark moment now, but does that mean I should enjoy the album any more than its songs allow me to? Well, the Stooges’ mission statement to the music world begins with a bang: “1969” and “I Wanna Be Your Dog” are a promising 1-2 kick to throw psychedelia to the curb. This is a new, hard edged kind of music, grabbing listeners by the unmentionables and telling them all they need to know about why the Stooges must have been groundbreaking to the right ears at the time. But then in comes “We Will Fall”. A ten minute dirge centred around one repeated phrase, influenced by raga rock and Indian drone music. Seriously? It wasn’t at all what I’d expected from the Stooges and, while I admire the ambition here, they don’t seem like the band to pull it off. Wallowing through this murky bog without any climactic build or chaotic attitude tanks all the momentum the album had been gathering. No wonder it took punk an extra seven or eight years to really get going. The rest of the songs are a mixed bag, from “Ann”’s dull drop in energy to “No Fun”’s lively guitar solo (but poor mix) and “Little Doll”’s toppling drums. I appreciate “The Stooges”’s place in music history, but- like other albums I’ve heard by this band- it just doesn’t grab me as much as it wants to, or perhaps as much as any punk fanatic would expect it to. I’ll gladly skip to my pick of the bands this influenced if it means a better listening experience.

I've now had Stephen Stills' ambitious project "Manassas" on my list to review for a number of months. I've listened to it a few times in that period, and each time it has passed by perfectly pleasantly, like a summer's afternoon or an episode of Bake Off. The problem is this: Stephen Stills and his various folk-rock entourages have about as many albums in the 1001 club as there are summer afternoons or episodes of Bake Off. After so many, a bright blue sky is just air, a gorgeously presented gateau is just sugar, and a Stephen Stills-featuring album is just nice. The most interesting thing about "Manassas" (named after Stills' latest band, formed with restless ex-Byrd and Burrito Brother Chris Hillman) is that its loose structure allows a little more genre experimentation than Stills had done in the past, complimented by his ever-expanding ensemble and broadening horizons. The album is split into four sides: the first a homage to rock and Latin, while the second goes country/bluegrass, the third goes folk and the fourth opts for blues jams. My favourites were probably the middle two-sides, which seemed to have the giddiest, most care-free energy. "Colorado" and "So Begins the Task" are both standouts on the country end: breezy, lilting, highway-in-California-with-the-roof-down kind of songs. "Don't Look at My Shadow" is a buoyant, cartoonish bluegrass to send us skipping merrily into sunset. On the third side, "Johnny's Garden" and "How Far" are commendable folk-ish cuts. There are a handful of other highlights across the rest of the record: "Both of Us (Bound to Lose)" begins in plain beige dad-rock colours, before an explosion of Latin percussion and piano rhythms brings the song to a dazzling, technicolour close. The rest is middling and feels a little too inconsequential to reward repeated listens, with the final side in particular dragging its heels in self-indulgence. "Manassas" doesn't provoke a particularly strong reaction in me at any point - there's little sense of grit or emotion in these songs - but, like most Crosby Stills and Nash I've heard, it rarely stoops below a decent listen.

I will not reduce my review to how attracted I am to Debbie Harry. I will not reduce my review to how attracted I am to Debbie Harry. I will not reduce my review to how attracted I am to Debbie Harry. God, I love her, but there’s so much more to this album than that. Anyway, let’s go. 1978’s “Parallel Lines” was Blondie’s multi-platinum breakthrough: the pin-point of when they tipped from a hustling New York band to international megastars. The winning formula? Sharp, snappy pop and rock songs, overflowing with charisma, bite and warmth. It’s a perfect alchemy and near-impossible to fault as a whole. We begin chomping at the bit with a Nerves cover: “Hanging on the Telephone” is hard-edged, bristling punk with a shiny pop surface. Concise, direct and straight to the point. “One Way or Another” doubles down on that, with a searing attitude and a chorus to lodge itself in the head of whoever hears it until the day they die. “Picture This” (with a flawlessly executed key change-into-guitar solo), “Pretty Baby” (vocal acrobatics abounding in the outro) and “Sunday Girl” are three of the sweeter melodies on here, surely enough to send the most po-faced of music snobs falling head over heels. Meanwhile, for any listeners hoping for a little more edge and experimenting in this “pure pop” album, “Fade Away and Radiate” departs from a love-song lyric or catchy melody, with an ambitious arrangement enlisting a certain Robert Fripp. Unsurprisingly, it’s pulled off with just as much style and artistry as the rest of the material. You get the idea- the rest of “Parallel Lines” is just as striking, memorable and charming. “11:59” and “Will Anything Happen” fizz and pop with unsuppressed urgency. “You’re Gonna Love Me Too” is an inspired choice of cover: Blondie recognising their musical heritage with the fun and brevity of Buddy Holly’s 1950’s rockabilly. It was chosen by the record label as a sure-fire hit, but it ultimately failed to chart and was wiped clean by the blockbuster originals. And all this before even discussing “Heart of Glass”, a genre-defining smash-hit which seals itself in as the jewel of the whole record- their whole career- and leaves the dying remnants of the 1970s choking in its wake. “Parallel Lines” is so consistently engaging, with song after song making waves through popular culture, that it’s impossible to dislike. Even when these aren’t the most stellar musicians you’ll have ever heard, the teeth on the songwriting reveal that all the artsy virtuosos in the world do not guarantee as good a time as this. Any quibbles? Well, for one, it’s always baffled me they didn’t opt for “11:55” to rhyme with “stay alive”, but such a quibble does not form reasonable ground to deduct a star.

The Prodigy were one of the first rave acts I was ever aware of, after hits like “Firestarter” and “Omen” surfaced into the mainstream and carried the band’s momentum for a good couple of decades. I wasn’t at all keen on the full album of theirs I heard before this (“The Fat of the Land”), and have never found much to like in electronic music, so was bracing for another one star. But this album, I have to admit, is something different: “Music for the Jilted Generation” sets itself apart from most of the other electronica albums I’ve heard on this list within the first few minutes. It’s difficult to pin down why, but the dynamic big-beats, elaborate layering of sound, scale of drama, intensity of the atmosphere goes a long way. For example, there’s a real sense of tension running through “Break and Enter”: the opening bars are punctuated by breaking glass, slowly rising in intensity, until everything is filtered back to a dull thumping masked by heavy breathing and footsteps. The vocal samples are not distracting and all used in service of each song’s character, the gear changes are well-timed (especially the unexpected break to piano in “Full Throttle”.) There’s a clever layering of sounds and a strong sense of pacing that sells “Music for the Jilted Generation” as more of a cinematic experience than many of its contemporaries. Then, by the time the vocal hooks came around in “Poison” and then the best track on the whole album, “No Good”, something remarkable was happening. I was dancing round my kitchen. Truly infectious EDM: I’ve perhaps never felt sadder to have been too young for the rave scene. At 78 minutes, it’s not all engaging: songs like “Their Law” and the final track “Claustrophobic Sting” are a little more like drafts than fully formed songs. And “Speedway (Theme from Fastlane)” has perhaps aged the worst, sounding like a cutting room floor leftover from a PS1 racing game. It’s stuffed with sound effects of whizzing and speeding cars, but goes absolutely nowhere. So while it may sound a little dated now, and is still from a genre I struggle to get on with, but this is up there with Chemical Brothers’ “Dig Your Own Hole” as my favourite of the big-beat/rave genre so far.

In a deep dark shack in a deep dark wood, there’s a deep dark growl over deep dark grooves. Who is this strange creature, unknown to me until today? Enter Dr. John, rolling in like an outcast from an old medicine show. The real Dr. John was a Senegalese prince and spiritual healer, who brought voodoo magic to New Orleans in the 1800s. A century later, Mac Rebennack was fascinated by this history, and offered the “Dr. John” persona to a bandmate, later assuming it himself. Inspired homage to Rebennack’s hometown of New Orleans and its cultural history, or a walking minstrel show? Either way, the stage was set for an enticing debut album, named after- what else- voodoo luck bringing amulets: “Gris Gris”. I didn’t know any of this before today, and had no clue what to expect from this debut. However, I certainly didn’t expect a New Orleans psychedelic-blues-swamp-rock mutation. It’s a fascinating murky cesspool of styles and influences: with his dried-up snarl, low bluesy shuffles, and hodge-podge of instrumentation, Dr. John somewhat foreshadows the 80’s era of Tom Waits. Praise of the highest order. Right from the muted, sinister opening, “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya”, this is a quietly captivating album. Soft plodding percussion and a crawling groove underscores the titular refrain, until it becomes a mantra; a command; a way of life. “Dance Kalimba Ba Doom” is more of a diversion from New Orleans, ostensibly influenced by traditional west-African music, with a whole kitchen sink of percussion, a rapid triplet rhythm, and chanting galore. “Mama Roux” shows a subtle bossa-nova flavour, “Jump Sturdy” is a straightforward folk-blues blend, while I’d really struggle to pin down the chief influences going on in “Dance Fambeaux” and “Croker Courtbullion”. Finally, the closer “I Walk on Guilded Splinters” is mesmerising, returning to the hypnotic mystery of the opening track with a chant to keep us hooked through the eight minute runtime. It’s not as wildly inventive as it might have been, often feels a little too slapdash (“Croker Courtbullion” especially) and the recording quality is rudimentary. But I’m always excited when the 1001 Albums list throws in a treat like this: something I’ve never heard of before, have zero preconceptions of, yet I finish it knowing I’m going to keep listening for a long time afterwards. Today, that’s “Gris Gris”. Bravo.

A year or so ago, I listened to “Cosmo’s Factory” by Creedence Clearwater Revival for the first time, and absolutely loved it. So expectations were astronomically high coming to “Green River”, which the band released the year before (one of their THREE 1969 albums!) After expecting it to be as good or better than what I’d already heard, I was a little disappointed on first listen. The songs were good and the performances were strong, but there was nothing to jump out and grip me beyond a solid execution of standard-sounding blues rock. But, once I realised it was unfair to rate the whole album according to how much more I liked something else by the same band, I settled into the “Green River” rhythm a lot more. The middle section of the album was my favourite: “Wrote a Song for Everyone” and “Lodi” are both excellent balances of melancholia and crisp, shining melodies, so familiar it feels as though I’ve known them all my life. “Bad Moon Rising” is the obvious hit here, surrendering to gleeful desolation. Later, even though it’s a cover, the closing rendition of “The Night Time is the Right Time” is stacked with so much raw power that it’s impossible not to be won over. Perhaps my favourite version of this song I’ve heard. Ultimately, this is a 4 rounded up from a 7 as “Cosmo’s” was a 4 rounded down from a 9. The more I’ve listened, the more I’m realising “run of the mill” is just as much a reason to praise “Green River” as it is to deride it. Even though it’s a little basic, “Cross-Tie Walker” is effortlessly evocative and passionate. “Tombstone Shadow” might just be a 12-bar blues, but it’s still tough and muscular: dig that chewy lead guitar part. It’s useless to deny the fact that during this time, John Fogerty was a songwriting tap that just couldn’t be turned off, and here his music flows down the Green River into the ocean of great American songs.

“Weary inside, now our heart's lost forever; can't replace the fear, or the thrill of the chase.” …just some of the closing lyrics on Joy Division’s second and final album, one of the most infamous posthumous releases in music history. If you’re reading this, you’ll likely already know that “Closer” has always been held up by listeners as a window into Ian Curtis’s final days before his suicide, capturing his fragile and tormented state of mind. It’s soaked in a no-way-out kind of despair which makes it difficult just to comprehend, let alone sit and write a few hundred words assessing its value or importance. Anything I say about “Closer”, particularly within days of first hearing it, is going to be reductive by nature, and it doesn’t help that it hasn’t completely struck me as something to revisit. Nonetheless, let’s have a look at the songs… Bleak as it is, “Closer” brings Joy Division more in line with New Order’s sonic palette than I’d realised before. Songs like “Isolation” and “Heart and Soul” seem to bridge the gap between Joy Division’s early guitar-based post-punk and the electronic, synth-friendly approach perfected by New Order. The production is great here, too: crisp, clear drums, crunchy and fuzzy guitars twisted into abrasive soundscapes, Peter Hook’s basslines in the foreground. The wonderful “A Means to an End” exemplifies it all. Elsewhere, there’s “Twenty Four Hours” laying bare the template for The Cure to take and run with for years afterwards, foreshadowing “Disintegration” by nine years… and the slow crawling dread of “The Eternal” and “Decades”. But most astounding of all is the opener, “Atrocity Exhibition”. The drumming pattern (allegedly an attempt to evoke Pink Floyd’s “A Saucerful of Secrets”) is engrossing, as is the abrasive guitar squalling left right and centre. Curtis fills the void by alluding to insecurities around his epilepsy, describing his own body twisting and writhing while an adoring public gawp on. It seems to hint at his deep discomfort with being romanticised, fetishised, trapped in a warped narrative by fans and the press. Forty-five years on, the background of “Closer” has sustained that narrative even more, immortalising the album as a source of morbid fascination. Uncomfortable, confrontational, unsettling… this is a hard album to stomach and not a personal preference, but it’s inarguably vital listening.

Every generation has the right to an anthem defining their disaffected teenage years. "Anarchy in the UK", "Fight the Power", "Smells Like Teen Spirit", the "Crazy Frog" ringtone... we could all argue which generation was the first to have their own era-defining, pop polemic, but one could make a strong case that the original "youth anthem" came from a twenty-year-old Pete Townshend. As a song, "My Generation" is exemplary. Rage, frustration and alienation all stutter and stammer their way over each other, filling a vacuum of aimless adolescence. And to cap it off, the players are pretty bloody good at their instruments too. Something else would have come along if not for this, but it's hard to name a more zeitgeist-capturing song in 1965's Britain. So, of course, this title cut is classic. "The Kids are Alright", another veiled "leave us alone, you old codgers, you don't understand us" track, is a pop jewel with a glistening melody and sugary sweet harmonies on full display. "The Ox" showcases the instrumental prowess which would later guarantee each member a place on "Best Guitarist/Bassist/Drummer of all time" lists for… well, all time. And "A Legal Matter" is a sterling turn from Townshend on vocals, with an irresistible lead melody. The rest? Whisper this next bit… on paper, it's a fairly mixed bag. "I Don't Mind" is a standard doo-wop ballad, "I'm a Man" is a slightly cringey sex-crazed blues, "The Good's Gone" is shapeless and dull with Daltrey in a morbid baritone. The harmonies are a nice touch throughout, but it's not as though no other bands in the mid-1960's were doing the same thing. But where The Who have the edge, even here, is in their relentless raucousness. Moon's drums are thunderous and raw, Entwistle's bass is dialled up to an unearthly treble, and Daltrey is just beginning to find the growlier, raspier corners of his vocal timbre. There's a thrill in "My Generation" which sounds like a young band figuring themselves out, honing their craft, playing it safe… before their stars would light up the rest of the decade.

Is this the best album on the 1001 Albums list to criticise Nigeria's military dictatorship? I'll let you sift through the reams of other Nigerian protest albums to be found here before coming back to me with an answer. What is clear is that the story behind "Zombie" would fill any songwriter's whole career: at the time this album was released, Fela Kuti was living in a commune which he'd declared an independent "Kalakuta Republic" seven years earlier. After numerous provocative swipes at his government, and sublime pioneering exercises in Afrobeat, "Zombie" became Kuti's culmination of all-out protest. Its popularity resulted in one thousand soldiers ransacking Kuti's home, burning it to the ground and murdering his mother (herself a prominent women's rights activist). As a shamefully ignorant Brit, this wasn't how I first heard of Fela Kuti: that was a few years ago, when I read about how he'd influenced Brian Eno and David Byrne in their creation of one of my all-time favourite albums, Talking Heads' "Remain in Light". This is where the grooves began, and "Zombie" delivers them in spades. It's defiant, angry, passionate and joyful, and it only lasts for twenty-five short minutes. Across this album, Kuti personifies every single soldier in the Nigerians' military regime as a "zombie", following orders, unfeeling and unable to follow their own instinct. The culmination of the magnificent title-track sees Kuti barking out multiple orders ("Fall in! Fall out! Fall down! Get ready!") as the rock-steady groove holds relentless underneath, the horns rising in a breathtaking crescendo. Political commentary aside, it's a brilliant party, with some of the most sing-along-able horn parts I've ever heard. It lasts for twelve minutes, and I'd happy have let it go on for twice as long. The second and final track, "Mister Follow Follow", is a little more languid and slightly more sombre, but still a rhythmic powerhouse. A little more material to fill the space in between, matching the energy of "Zombie", would have lifted this score all the way, but as it is, we're left with a solid album and an absolutely remarkable story of a controversial icon.

Head in hands, ears peeking through my fingers, I began this 75 minute album by electronic duo Orbital. “Snivilisation” is their third album, bringing their fusion of techno-rave and ambient sound to their largest audience yet (months after a star-making performance at Glastonbury 1994). Its concept on the foibles of society has it placed under the dubious umbrella of IDM, as though it’s more worthy of praise than other techno albums because it has “something to say”. Here’s the thing: I didn’t mind “Snivilisation”. I’ve listened to it a couple of times, once while working during the day and once just after waking up while still in a dream state, and both times I’ve found a fair bit to like. It’s very well produced, with a range of different beats and synths layering up over each other, shifting the soundscape every few minutes. It also feels surprisingly non-repetitive for such a long album. “Forever” is a good intro, and there’s the lovely “Kein Trink Wasser”, with a choppy piano intro which LCD Soundsystem surely ripped off for “All My Friends”. Later in the album, “Are We Here” is an odyssey of a track, with the highlight being the fantastic break just before the 9 minute mark. Alison Goldfrapp’s vocals suit this brilliantly: mysterious and ethereal (actually, Cocteau Twins’ Elizabeth Fraser would have been the perfect choice, but you can’t win ‘em all). But much of “Snivilisation” falls under the same pitfalls as many electronic albums I’ve had so far: call me shallow, but I end up longing for more concise structure or traditional song-craft. The relentless, soulless industrial drives of “Crash and Carry” or “Quality Seconds” do absolutely nothing for me. There’s also some attempt to conceptualise the whole album as a commentary on consumerism and society’s urge to catalogue, label, track. It brings to mind a more socially conscious “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts”, geared towards contemporary Western society rather than an “imagined” one. Fair enough, and an interesting through line, but it makes for some intrusive vocal samples at times (constant invitation to study different subjects in “Philosophy by Numbers”, or “I Wish I Had Duck Feet” combining a circus freak show ringmaster with advertisements for cosmetic surgery. We get it, you’re doing a satire, let’s not be too on the nose). “Snivilisation” has some interesting things going for it, and I could have it on in the background without too much protesting, but it’s unlikely to ever become a go-to thanks to my prevailing genre bias.

For all the ratings I’ve given throughout my 1001 Albums journey so far, however considered or arbitrary, one of my biggest regrets is giving Spiritualized’s “Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating in Space” a 2. I’ll admit that my initial impression was one of severe boredom, but I wasn’t giving myself time to adjust to its lush sonic world: there are some transcendent tracks on there. So, I’ve been eager to have the chance to reassess Spiritualized with this, their first album from 1992. “Lazer Guided Melodies” is full of slow burns and blissed out waves: clouds, haze and all the organ. Most of the songs alternate between two chords (the same two, in different keys) but I’m fine with that: the beauty lies in spending time in this world, letting it envelop us, wash over completely. The lullaby introduction of “You Know Its True”, the crushing slow build of “If I Were With Her Now”, the tender ballad of “Step Into the Breeze” (listen out for spine-tingling one-note strings!), the slightly raga-leaning “Sway”… they’re all enchanted lakes to get lost in and soothe the soul. Crucially for its runtime, “Laser Guided Melodies” isn’t a complete snooze-fest and the arrangements are reasonably dynamic. Tempos shift and change across the running time as the band flirt with shoegaze and give their drummer a reason to exist. “I Want You”’s palpable energy calls to mind Primal Scream, while “Run” is a nice homage (and, whisper it… vast improvement) to Velvet Underground. Later, “Shine a Light” represents Spiritualized tipping their hat to gospel, with a very noisy crescendo at the end. Finally, I must shout out “200 Bars”: the premise of this last track, a voice literally counting out 200 bars of music which slowly crystallise into a song, is inspired. As the voice doing the counting fades, the lead vocal sings “I’m losing track of time in 200 bars”… genius. It does hit a bit of a lull in the middle: “Symphony Space” is the most indulgent moment, a shapeless wallow leaving no impression. “Take Your Time”, following it, is also feels a little too lethargic. But it’s still good wallowing music, and I’m sure will hit much harder if I’m in the right mood. Maybe Spiritualized albums demand multiple listens, or maybe they demand a certain dreamlike state, or time of day. But I liked this one so much more for giving it time, and feel ready to return to “Ladies and Gentlemen”… their music plays the long game.

It’s always interesting to check in on an artist who created one of 1001 albums to hear before we die, then vanished from public consciousness. Finley Quaye must have been doing something right with this 1997 album, but I had no idea where he’s been since. Turns out, he’s been throwing road signs through bus windows, doing community service for aggravated assault, and being declared bankrupt. What a legacy. Twenty-odd years ago, he was in a brighter spot, and much better placed to make the most of his family connections (dad was a Ghanaian jazz singer and pianist, brother was a guitarist for Paul McCartney and Elton John, among others). The result? This mixed bag of an album from the tail end of trip-hop’s stronghold over alternative music. Quaye crafts a beguiling, likeable album capitalising on the trends of the era, with prominent dub and reggae influences masking his Scottish upbringing. This blend of styles often works to great effect, as in the sublime calm of “It’s Great When We’re Together”. Distinctive dub bassline, fairly minimal instrumentation, soaring vocal, simple progression: it’s a hit. “Your Love Gets Sweeter” is another top pick: a simple, shuffling island breeze, benefiting from being one of the most stripped back tracks here, with the simplest of melodies. Later, “Ride On and Turn the People On” and “Supreme I Preme” bring a nice energy to proceedings. The record does somewhat run out of steam in the second half, with Quaye beginning to retread the same ground in such a short space of time. The extended instrumentals like “Red Rolled and Seen” doesn’t bring a great deal to the table, and in the filler tracks “Falling” and “I Need a Lover” he seems to have lost any sense of passion from the performance. “Maverick a Strike” ends up feeling like a summer’s day: enjoyable and a pleasant stretch of time, but ephemeral, ten-a-penny. It’s a nice listen but doesn’t feel indispensable, or even essential.

“Elvis Presley” is the self-titled debut of the so-called king of rock and roll. Its inclusion as the second-earliest album on the whole list of 1001 perpetuates a narrative that Elvis single-handedly invented the genre, giving birth to popular music as we know it. Instead, of course, Elvis didn’t write any of these songs himself: he combined them with his winning charisma, showmanship, and white privilege to galvanise the whole of the Western world. The most rocking tracks are the best. “I Got a Woman”, “Tutti Frutti”, and of course the “kick-the-door-down-on-popular-music” opener “Blue Suede Shoes” still boast an irrepressible energy. Even if they may not match the originals by the likes of Ray Charles or Little Richard, it’s fun hearing them back-to-back in Elvis’s iconic drawling, yelping twang. Not all of it is a thrill, though. In its infancy, rock and roll was pulling on threads from a number of different genres, but some of these threads are decidedly less rewarding than others. Among all the rollicking blues and swing numbers, there are moments where the energy grinds to a halt. “I’m Counting on You”… “I Love You Just Because”… really? These are cloying, snoozy country ballads, which suffer from a lack of dynamic orchestration, interesting arrangements, or showstopping vocals. Big missteps. All that said, “Elvis Presley” remains mostly a bright, snappy and assured debut. And for an indication of its cultural impact on up and coming musicians, look no further than “Trying to Get to You”. It’s almost identical in chord progression, structure and feel to “In Spite of all the Danger”, the first ever song written and recorded by a teenage John Lennon and Paul McCartney a couple of years later. Seems a reasonable measure of a legacy.

Supertramp’s third album found its way to me just after I’d turned eighteen. I was insecure and aloof as many eighteen year olds tend to be, and always in search of a prog rock track from the 1970’s to clumsily apply to my life. So it came to pass that while my generation were brooding to “Take Me To Church” or partying to “1989”, one of my alienated teenage anthems became “Hide in Your Shell.” It still grips me from beginning to end: the melancholy intro; the mounting drama; forlorn lyrics like “too frightening, the fires becoming colder; too beautiful to think you’re growing older”; the climactic end with Hodgson’s vocals cracking under the strain, the saxophone bursting in to reprise the chorus melody. A top tier track. The band were perhaps the best to capture loneliness, alienation and despair through Wurlitzer soft-rock, and “Hide in Your Shell” is just one version of it. Across the rest of “Crime of the Century”, we hear various takes on similar ideas, stringing together the loosest of concept albums. The magnificent opener, “School”, examines the roots of isolation (with one of my favourite piano solos in rock), while “Bloody Well Right” touches on the damage done by the UK’s class system. Lyrically, “Asylum” seems to be aping Pink Floyd’s “Brain Damage” from the previous year, and is a little clunky, but the cathartic explosion of sound in the choruses more than makes up for it. And then we have “Dreamer”: an idealist’s downfall set to an insistently catchy (perhaps to the point of irritating for some, but not for me) keyboard-led pop single. After this high watermark, the album does lose a little steam. “Rudy”, for all its grand pretensions to be an emotional centrepiece, is overlong and lacks the same payoff (narrative or musical) as many of the other longer tracks on here. I was never overly fond of “If Everyone Was Listening”, and I’m even less so now. The extended metaphor of actors and jesters on stage in a dying performance feels a little corny, and the pace really drags. But things are brought back with the epic “Crime of the Century”: quiet emotional verses, huge final build introducing the band (and an orchestra) back into the mix one by one. Musically, it’s consistently great: the saxophone and Wurlitzers are surprisingly tolerable and Roger Hodgson and Rick Davies’ interchanged vocals and songwriting aspire to Lennon-McCartney levels of distinct personalities, with some success. I’m being harsh on it for the weaker spots and to temper my own personal bias, but it’s a 9/10 record any day of the week.

Oh, lord. I try to be reasonably in-depth with these reviews, and to give each album a fair assessment on its own terms, but I also reserve the right to not over-analyse something too much if I just plain don’t enjoy it. And here we are with Pantera’s “Vulgar Display of Power”, an eminent entry in thrash metal. I’ve never been a fan of the genre and this one was never going to convert me. Hated the thin, compressed sound. Hated the unbearable bellowed vocals. Hated the lyrics. Hated the hatred. See the guy in this oh-so-profound album cover, with the fist in his face? I think Pantera want that to be all of their naysayers across the 51 minutes of this album. Confronted by their almighty rage! I just ended up bored, thinking ahead to reviewing Supertramp instead. If you like it, good for you. I just couldn’t. Could barely listen through, so was determined to make reviewing it as little a chore as possible.

I’m still quite new to the genre, so I’m not sure what happened to electronica around the late 1990s, but my impression from the 1001 list so far is that EDM, rave and techno gave way to something lusher and prettier: whole landscapes of sound delicately crafted and shaped. “Melody A.M” is up there for me with Air’s “Moon Safari” or Goldfrapp’s “Felt Mountain” as some of the most ethereal of the genre I’ve heard. Röyksopp hail from Norway: their name translates as “puffball”, either referring to a mushroom or atomic explosion. I’ve really struggled with a lot of electro/house music on the list so far, but I can acknowledge that this act manage to stand up above many of their contemporaries for multiple reasons. For starters, it’s a reasonable length! 45 minutes is much more manageable than, say, Goldie’s “Timeless” or Roni Size’s “New Forms”, and generally the tracks here don’t outstay their welcome: there’s a nice sense of pace. The ten pieces making up “Melody A.M” are also stylistically varied, from the jazz-influenced chords of “In Space” to the sleepy vocals of “Sparks” to the shapeshifting, shuffling funk of “Royksopp’s Night Out”. Most importantly, though, it lives up to its name by being very melodic. Right from the beginning of the album when “So Easy” kicks in with an easygoing singalong refrain, we’re placed in an atmosphere of calm, tranquility and exoticism. It comes to a head with the penultimate track, “She’s So”, which almost picks up where “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” left off with its breathy sax and sweeping synth pads. “Remind Me” is a little dull and doesn’t particularly benefit from a non-committal vocal, while “Royksopp’s Night Out” becomes perhaps a tad too repetitive for me. But this is a solid album and I’d be keen to give it the benefit of a little more time. Perhaps by the end of my 1001 journey, this will stand among the very best electronic albums and I’ll have much more of a taste for it, but for now I’m happy placing it squarely in the middle on a 3.

“…Because the force… it’s got a lot of power… and it make me feel like… it make me feel like- OOOOOOOH!” An intro to shatter the walls of pop music and rearrange the heavens in the shape of Michael Jackson’s imperial phase. His star grew more fierce across the following decade, his reputation more insurmountable and his baggage more untenable… but looking back now, he was perhaps never so authentic, vibrant and energetic as he was on the peerless “Off the Wall”. Coming back to this album many years later, only having heard it a couple of times before, I realise exactly what I’ve missed out on whenever I’ve bulldozed everything with MJ’s greatest hits. Whatever my feelings on the man, I can’t deny that the entire first half of “Off the Wall” is sheer magic. The first five tracks- plus “Burn this Disco Out” at the end- all possess their own infectious energy, from the breakdown in “Don’t Stop…” to the smooth confidence of “Rock With You” through to the hyperactive bassline of “Get on the Floor”. But the biggest and best revelation of them all is “Workin’ Day and Night”. It’s such a workout, from the bass to the auxiliary percussion to the urgent falsetto refrain. This is supreme funk: the strings and horns, arranged by production mastermind Quincy Jones, are impeccable and the sound is crisp and clear. As much as I think the songs are decent in the second half, things do descend a little too much into schmaltzy territory for the album to reach full marks. There’s the fun but jarring Paul McCartney and Wings cover “Girlfriend”, the oft-parodied, delivered-through-tears break-up ballad “She’s Out of My Life”, the overabundance of electric piano in “I Can’t Help It” and “It’s the Falling in Love”. It’s where the album begins to seem the most dated, which is a pity as most of it remains totally fresh. But on the whole, this is a remarkably consistent album and 1979’s most irresistible party. Before the uber-commercial genre-hopping of the 80s, the whitewashed Christ of the 90s, the monstrous disaster of the ‘00s, there was nothing but potency, positivity and potential. “Off the Wall” represents Michael Jackson’s ultimate unleashing of disco, funk and soul. Surrender to its force… feel its power.

Picture it. All of the deadbeats, dirtbags, hustlers, scoundrels, down-and-outs of New York City have fallen down a plughole into the fires of Hell. They try and crawl their way back up, circling the drain, gathering grime. The ghost of a Puerto Rican mistress with a wooden leg… Napoleon weeping in a carnival saloon… a crumbling beauty with tattooed tears… all of them are our Rain Dogs. Their plight is related- sometimes with scorn, sometimes with sympathy- by the voice of our ringmaster, the Devil himself, Mr Tom Waits. Soaked in bourbon, grime and kerosene, his voice might be an acquired taste for some, but I can’t imagine any other performing these songs. Waits’ storytelling in “Rain Dogs” is among the most captivating I’ve ever heard, with astounding lyricism and some fascinating turns of phrase. Every line is a painting, but here are some of my favourites… “Steam, steam, a hundred bad dreams Going up to Harlem with a pistol in his jeans” “Outside another yellow moon has punched a hole in the nighttime” “You’re east of East St. Louis And the wind is making speeches And the rain sounds like a round of applause” On the page they’re intriguing, but with the music they really come alive. I’ve known few other albums which diverge so much stylistically, yet retain a crystal-clear singular vision. The slow, menacing crawl of “Clap Hands”; the demented cabaret of “Rain Dogs”; the Springsteen-esque “Hang Down Your Head” and “Downtown Train”; the fiddling country ballad “Blind Love”. All of them are absolutely wonderful and there’s not a single track I dislike, but if pushed for the best of the best, I’d single out “Clap Hands”, “Jockey Full Of Bourbon”, “Time”, “Union Square”, “Downtown Train”, “Anywhere I Lay My Head” as the all-time standouts. Marc Ribot should also be singled out for fantastic and unpredictable contributions on guitar, and Keith Richards for fantastic and predictable ones. When I first heard Rain Dogs some years ago, I had no idea what to make of it. Then the more I listened over the next few months, the more it fell into place until it became an all-time favourite. It’s a rough and slippery ride into the gutter, but stick with it… there’s beauty in these ghosts.

An unknown name to many a music listener (including myself before today), Machito is remembered by jazz aficionados as a pioneer in fusing Afro-Cuban music with big-band swing and jazz arrangements. The resulting extensive body of work includes this lively, exciting record from 1957, full of mostly original compositions. “Kenya” pivots effortlessly from bombast and noise to a cool, smooth breeze. It’s all instrumental: the “vocals” are provided by the endlessly expressive ensemble. Squealing trumpets, muted and moody trombones, breathless saxophones… they all combine to a bombastic horn section, often playing in unison to open and close each track. Each player has many a moment in the sun, and an impressive CV beyond “Kenya”: alto sax player Cannonball Adderly dominates “Cannonology” and “Frenzy”, and would go on to appear in Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” sextet. Trumpet player Joe Newman worked regularly with Count Basie, and trombonist Eddie Bert was a regular for Charles Mingus. Listen to the dynamic opener “Wild Jungle” for all of them working in tandem, and perhaps the energetic high-point of the whole set. The best thing about “Kenya”, though- which sets it apart from a lot of other jazz I’ve heard- is the rhythm running through its veins. The Latin percussion- congas, bongos, claves- play in frantic syncopation and supply a dense base layer to every track, and it’s wonderful. To this end, there are great sequences across the whole record from all involved. The grandeur opening the title track as well as the sudden tempo switches in its final minute… the panache of the muted trumpets in the sublime “Holiday”… the rapid-fire refrains, stabs and punches punctuating “Frenzy”… the percussion break in “Tururato”. Occasionally, the sound buckles and distorts under the weight of the horns- this was 1957, after all- but somehow it only adds to raw power of this ensemble. Seeing them live must have been such a thrill. My knowledge of jazz is very limited, but today, I have to add that I’m currently staying on the Spanish island of Majorca with my family, and this music complemented my poolside relaxation perfectly. Solipsistic as it sounds, it’s easy to enjoy music more when it forms a soundtrack to our own lives and captures the places we’re in… and it’s easier to enjoy a holiday when the soundtrack is this good.

At the turn of the 21st century, “Stripped” became one of the seminal feminist self-empowerment pop albums. Heralded by the likes of Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez and Ariana Grande as a major influence on their work, we have this album to thank for many a starlet navigating a thorny post-Disney Channel career. It’s a simple enough premise: keen to reclaim her identity after being marketed as a squeaky clean teen-pop star, Christina Aguilera becomes a self-empowered, confident and sexual 22 year old (still written by mostly male songwriters and producers, to the delight of the male gaze… but your feelings on that come down to which wave of feminism you subscribe to.) The opening, “Stripped Intro”, expresses the concept reasonably well through a collage of news headlines and celebrity gossip, before Aguilera delivers a nutshell-fitting diatribe against her critics. It serves as a springboard for a whopping 78 minutes that just about hold together, though don’t feel hugely cohesive as an artistic statement. Concept aside, the album’s defining feature is Aguilera’s voice: melismatic, soaring, dramatic. Her vocals are rarely toned down and vulnerable, and won’t be to everyone’s taste, but it’s hard to argue that she isn’t a quintessential 2000’s diva after hearing this. She’s at her best in the big ballads: “Beautiful” and “The Voice Within” are both magnificent songs and she fills every corner of them with passion and precision. “Cruz” is an unexpected highlight, being a musical-theatre style rock ballad. Every note of it is a corn-beef-hash-full of corniness, but she sells it to the last. There are a lot of other tracks I enjoyed here: “Underappreciated” is a gritty and tight funk jam; “Fighter” is fierce, uncompromising and even boasts a guitar solo; it’s nice to hear the less belty, more subtle tones of Aguilera’s voice in the hyper-sensual “Loving Me 4 Me”, which floats by like a barely recalled dream. There are some nice segues and satisfying gapless sequencing, which bring more cohesion than perhaps is actually there. But with such a lengthy running time, and Aguilera’s determination to show off her musical and vocal range, there are plenty of missteps. “Make Over” has a completely flat production with an abrasive, irritating refrain (stolen from the Sugababes… a bit of a low bar if you ask me). “Walk Away” and “Impossible” are forgettable piano-driven jazz ballads, and “I’m OK” and “Keep on Singing My Song” at the end feel tacked on and inconsequential: two ballads too many, “The Voice Within” being a much more appropriate ending. Most crucial of all to Aguilera’s aesthetic reinvention are the “WAP”s of their day, “Dirrty” and “Get Mine, Get Yours”. These are decent celebrations of casual sex and expressions of sexuality, but feel remarkably tame by today’s standards. They’re not showstoppers, but I tend to find these kind of songs rarely are: instead they’re a litmus test for our society’s squeamishness, like dropping a naked pebble into a puddle of prudes to count the ripples of shock value. With that, she certainly succeeded, and “Stripped” remains potent twenty years later: something worth commending.

"Winter in America", Gil Scott-Heron's 1974 collaboration with keyboardist Brian Jackson, sees his music achieve zero-gravity weightlessness and his lyrics become more grounded than ever. If "The Revolution Will Not be Televised" reveals the seeds of Public Enemy's hip-hop, perhaps "Winter in America" is where we find the genesis of A Tribe Called Quest or neo-soul: scathing commentary, pathos and humour are all intertwined and slowly exhaled through dark and moody jazz. Of the songs here, "H20 Gate Blues" is one of my favourites: a fascinating spoken-word track which begins with a genius deconstruction of the blues as a form of music and Black expression, before evolving into a searing takedown of Nixon's administration and the US in 1974. Despite its fairly stripped back, free-flowing arrangement, it's alive with energy and intelligence, and sparkles without having aged a day. Then there's the sheer force of "The Bottle", one of the funkiest tracks ever to utilise a flute, and one of Scott-Heron's most commercially successful (and check out the incredible bassline). It's wonderful, but both it and "H20 Gate Blues" are outliers here: I feel that in praising them as the highlights, I'm missing the point of the rest of the album. Most of "Winter in America" is very subdued, either softly soul-searching, eerily despairing or quietly content with itself. "Peace Go With You Brother" is slow and mellow but remains a hypnotic opener, getting a welcome reprise to bookend the album. But then as much as I like "Rivers of My Fathers", "Song for Bobby Smith" and especially "A Very Precious Time", the sole accompaniment of electric piano feels a little oversimplistic: these songs become demos, skeletons, ghosts. They drift by pleasantly, but I found they lacked much character or distinction. The full-bodied arrangements of "Back Home", "The Bottle" and "H20 Gate Blues" serve as welcome breaks to anchor the music again. This has subtle charms and most likely demands repeated listens. Its association with free jazz hasn't helped me warm to it instantly, but I'm sure there are rewards to be had in "Winter in America" if one puts the time in.

I was a little surprised to see the Monkees on this list: one of the earliest examples of a manufactured boy band, they’ve been derided and slighted by many a “serious” music listener since their conception. The band were bred in the laboratory of the US’s TV industry, to contend with the Beatles’ effortless charisma in “A Hard Day’s Night” and “Help!”. The style was there, but the substance was not. After spending several years goofing around in their own TV show without playing or writing any of their own music and becoming increasingly disillusioned, “Headquarters” marks the moment they dispatched their manager Don Kirshner and took control themselves. It’s hardly a triumphant story of rock and roll legend, because it’s undermined by these songs not being out-and-out classics. “Headquarters” lacks any of the seismic singles which have allowed the Monkees to endure into present day: no “Daydream Believer”, “I’m a Believer”, “Last Train to Clarksville”. It is, however, a modest success. On first listen, I heard no merit in most of the by-the-numbers tracks and was all ready for a dismissive two-star write up. When they aren’t aping the Beatles, the Monkees shoot for the Kinks with toe-curling music-hall (“I Can’t Get Her Off My Mind”) or the Zombies with snoozy baroque-pop (“Shades of Gray”). Later, the band’s stagey roots sprout up to the fore with “Zilch”, which comes off as some kind of tongue twister warm-up exercise from stage-school hell. But it’s unfair of me to trash every single 60’s band on account of not being the Beatles. In truth, there are some standout, glistening melodies here. “You Just May Be The One” and “Sunny Girlfriend” sparkle with sunshine - feel-good hits with amazing choruses - while “Mr Webster” shows off some sophisticated chord progressions and stands up as a competent character study piece. And finally, “Randy Scouse Git” is full of rage and pent-up frustration, seemingly the band letting loose in their newfound freedom. When told by their label that UK listeners would take offence and they’d need an alternate title, they begrudgingly released it as “Alternate Title”. That raised a smile.

"Hard Again" is right: at 64 years old, Muddy Waters strides back into the game with a set of mean and muscular blues. This is raw, rough and ready rock… there might not be too much depth to it, but it's a lively lesson from the master. 1977 was an interesting musical landscape for Muddy Waters to burst back into the major leagues. It seems the explosion of punk, with its return to raw, spontaneous, do-it-yourself music, must have proved a fertile environment for Waters' blues to return to the fold. And so we arrive at 10 tracks coming to 50 minutes, as the band cycle through age-old forms like well-fired pistols. "Mannish Boy", an old standard Waters had performed many times throughout his life, gets a searing full-bodied treatment, with joyful cries and shouts from the backing musicians to heighten the spontaneous feel. The shuffling strut of "Crosseyed Cat", with its wailing harmonica refrain, is a lot of fun, and I also really enjoyed the slide-driven, rootsy acoustic shuffle of "I Can't Be Satisfied"- a really nice diversion which I could have done with more of. The production is tight and choppy: the bass drum is given a huge amount of space, and the guitars sound titanic without being overpowering. It all sounds present, live, large. My main issue is that there's only so much twelve-bar-blues a guy like me can tolerate: it's fun, but it's not going to change my life like it's changed so many others. Ultimately, I find the likes of "Bus Driver", "Jealous Hearted Man", "Deep Down In Florida" and "Little Girl" are lolloping behemoths which end up collapsing under their own weight. As much as I would have killed to experience this live - and I tip my hat to Mr. Waters for getting hard again at 64 - as an album experience I'd argue this is one to file under "semi".

Here’s the stuff of music legend, enough to spawn a feature-length documentary (and it has). In “Mermaid Avenue”, salt-of-the-earth protest singer Billy Bragg and alt-country outfit Wilco come together with a set of fifty-something year old lyrics* by folk hero Woody Guthrie. They take the words and craft a lovely collection of simplistic, catchy folk tunes which manage to sound both timely and timeless. It’s by no means innovative, adventurous or edgy music, but it has no desire to be: the artists’ loyalty to the premise wins through. As much as I loved Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” (which in retrospect leans towards a 5), I preferred Billy Bragg’s contributions to this album. His vocals have a little more gumption to them than Jeff Tweedy’s, and his music leans more towards traditional, evocative folk. “Walt Whitman’s Niece” is a knockabout, ramshackle opener calling to mind the Basement Tapes. “Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key” is melancholic beauty, nicely accented by accordion and Natalie Merchant’s backing vocals. “Ingrid Bergman” is sweet innocence in a tiny bottle, and “I Guess I Planted” is a barroom-style knees up. By contrast, “Hoodoo Voodoo” is the album’s first misstep, Guthrie’s throwaway verses being given a novelty record treatment. “One by One” borders on dreary and dirge-like, not breathing much life into the source material. I must, however. single out “California Stars” and “Hesitating Beauty” as exemplary offerings from Tweedy and Wilco: light, airy and awestruck by the world. “Mermaid Avenue” is a delightful place to spend some time. At its best, it recalls the free sunsoaked spirit of the Travelling Wilburys: artists with nothing to prove, coming together to honour their musical heritage. They don’t need to show off their technique or cram in any convoluted chord progressions, because simplicity is key. The fun they’re having is infectious, the joy etched into the grooves. A heartwarming listen. *Incidentally, thirty-five years previously, in the early 1960’s, Bob Dylan tried to get his hands on these lyrics at Guthrie’s request, and failed on arrival at his house. He relates this in his autobiography “Chronicles”, somewhere between wistful and bitter. Given the career he went onto and the pleasures of “Mermaid Avenue”, I’d posit that it worked out okay for everyone in the end.

I’d never heard of Sepultura (Portuguese for “tomb”) before today, and I’m not convinced they’ve made my life any better so far. Their fourth album, “Arise”, is a prime exhibit of groove-metal, a sub-genre which places an emphasis on chugging, grinding riffs played out against a steady beat. The low end is taken up almost entirely by sludgy rhythm guitar, rarely advancing beyond about the third fret of the bottom E string (which is usually tuned down). It’s a tough, often grating and increasingly repetitive listen, but I didn’t find it as irredeemably awful as a lot of the metal I’ve sat through so far. There’s a lot of colour in the performances here, which helps to lift the songs out of the gutter: the guitar solos might be hackneyed and corny, but there’s a visceral thrill to them. The solo four and a half minutes into “Desperate Cry” is emotive and wailing, the one midway through “Dead Embryonic Cells” frenzied and chaotic. I enjoyed the drum sound (particularly those low, thick snares) but Igor Cavalera could ease up on his double bass pedals now and again. There are also a few welcome shifts and changes thrown in to keep listeners on their toes: the tribal percussion and synths in the first minute of “Altered State” caught my attention. Often the tempo shifts multiple times within one song, to nice effect: my favourite example of this was in the final minute of “Dead Embryonic Cells”. So while the pace is lively and the technical prowess is undeniable, the main thing turning me off here is the vocal performance. Max Cavalera‘s signature move is to bellow, howl and growl his way through the entire set, draining the songs of any nuance, range or depth that they could have otherwise had. It makes this a really difficult listen and unlikely to be something I’ll revisit, though I’d stop slightly short of abject hatred.

Pre-2017-me was a difficult beast, with an uncontrollable superiority complex around music. When I was a teenager, I refused to listen to anything that wasn't the Beatles until 70's prog became a perfect vehicle for my holier-than-thou intellectualising. Six years and one stint in a Genesis-worshipping prog band later, and I'd made tentative steps towards pop through offbeat, alternative artists (Kate Bush, Talking Heads, Magnetic Fields), but still rarely ventured into the uncharted waters of post-millennium music. But then, in April 2017, on came "Green Light"… and somehow I felt it was time to change. Maybe I was drawn in because Bowie had proclaimed Lorde as the future of music. Maybe it was the multi-layered composition, building up perfectly over the first minute. Maybe it was those seismic tom fills before the chorus, sounding straight out of "Hounds of Love". But I was quietly hooked, and from then I just kept sinking deeper. With each new release, I found something else to love. The haunted, broken and beautiful songwriting behind "Liability." The cathartic chorus of "Perfect Places", both wistful and euphoric. And, when the album came out, I became head-over-heels. This is Lorde's crowning achievement, full of danceable hooks, wry humour and abject heartbreak, sometimes all in a few lines (see "Homemade Dynamite": "we'll end up painted on the road, red and chrome, all the broken glass sparkling… I guess we're partying"). It's also Jack Antonoff's finest hour, with countless ear-grabbing production choices and instrumentation (horns and bongos in "Sober", grinding metal synths in "Hard Feelings", sudden cuts to a capella at various points in the record). Tight, focused, emotive, cohesive… "Melodrama" taught me a lot, but mainly opened the door to pop music not as something to scorn, or covet as a guilty pleasure, but something to savour. Pop can make you want to dance- like the choruses of "Green Light" and "Homemade Dynamite"- or it can make you want to curl up and die like "Liability" or my album favourite "Hard Feelings / Loveless". It didn't die in 1986, the next generation are not out to desecrate music, and lovesick 2010's ballads can still be thrilling, heart-wrenching works of art. I am just a few months older than Lorde, and was going through my own period of growing up at the time of "Melodrama"'s release. Nowadays, I still have a little whiff of a superiority complex - many of my reviews will show you that - but I like to think I'm getting better. And I owe a huge chunk of that to Lorde, Jack Antonoff and "Melodrama". What a perfect place.

In the early days of the COVID lockdown, around April 2020, one of the ways my partner’s family chose to pass the time was by compiling and comparing their top-ten songs by different artists. When we inevitably came to The Beatles, I was thrilled: a chance to wax lyrical about my ten favourite songs by my favourite band, all of us revelling in their greatness via Zoom. But when I declared “She Said She Said” as my number 10, it was met with blank looks and raised eyebrows - and then, a “oh, haven’t heard of that one” - from a family who are generally very knowledgeable on popular music. So until every damn person in the whole damn world has listened to “She Said She Said”, as well as the rest of “Revolver”, and can give an informed opinion on it, don’t even think of coming to me and shouting about The Beatles being overplayed. “She Said She Said” is an amazing song which encapsulates the Beatles’ “Revolver” era: Lennon’s thick, lysergic double-tracked vocals, buzzsaw lead guitar dialled up on distortion and echo, lyrics of paranoia, disillusion and memories of childhood, McCartney’s bass more melodic than ever, Ringo’s frenzied toppling drums, harmonies crystal-clear as ever underneath it all. It’s one of fourteen flawless offerings of a band beginning to push the envelope with the help of bottomless studio gear, emergent counterculture, and just a little bit of drugs. I don’t care if it makes me sound obvious or basic: I love “I’m Only Sleeping” for its backwards guitar solo and jangly acoustic. I love “Here There and Everywhere” for its gorgeous falsetto and harmonies, “Yellow Submarine” for its boundless fun, “I Want to Tell You” for its unpredictable musical motif, “For No One” for its effortless distillation of a failed relationship. More than anything, I adore “Got To Get You Into My Life” and “Tomorrow Never Knows” (the other “Revolver” tracks in my top ten) from beginning to end. “Revolver” is often cited as the thinking person’s “Sgt Pepper”, the cool person’s “Abbey Road”. It’s about as alternative as a Beatles record gets, and has arguably outlasted the rest of the group’s catalogue in terms of influence on contemporary music. Fifty-seven years on, “Tomorrow Never Knows” still sounds like the future. That’s one hell of an impression to leave.

I first heard of Hugh Masekela a little over a year ago, watching his spirited performance of "Grazing in the Grass" in Questlove's "Summer of Soul". It's a great segment, but it gives no indication of this kind of magic. Three years on, Masekela swung slightly more left-field with "Home Is Where The Music Is", incorporating sounds and styles from his native South Africa alongside American jazz and soul. The result is a driving, dynamic force of nature that rarely suffers under the weight of its 76 minute runtime. Masekela - and his whole ensemble - are on fire from beginning to end. Masekela is the master of his instrument: perhaps the most engaging trumpet player I've ever heard, and I've enjoyed three Miles Davis albums on this list so far. Listen to any number of his solos on "Home Is Where The Music Is" for a first-rate showcase. The rips! The trills! The rapid double-tonguing! Every note is perfectly placed, spaced and graced. I can't even single out any of my favourite examples, because it's all gold, but the talent is evident from three minutes into "Part of a Whole". This isn't just Masekela's show, though: his band are a water-tight group of instrumentalists, from the dazzling ripples of piano opening "Minawa" to the frenetic drum solos in "Blues for Huey" to the bass anchoring "Unhome" (a piece originally written by Masekela's ex-wife, Miriam Makeba). Does all of this top-tier performance translate into a fun, engaging listen? The honest answer is mostly, yes. Sometimes it's plaintive and introspective ("Minawa" is the best example of this). Sometimes there's an effortless, breezy swinging swagger to it ("The Big Apple", "Part of a Whole"). Occasionally there's a lively third-lap-on-Mario-Kart atmosphere ("Maseru") or absolutely breathtaking symphonic scope ("Maesha"). These five tracks were my favourites, but I found the whole album remarkably easy to listen to… though it did soundtrack a lovely walk through central London on a sunny evening, so I may be biased. Still, some of the best jazz I've heard on the list to date.

Welcome to Beastie Boys World: prepare to rhyme, steal and wank your way through adolescence, with the whole world at your fingertips as long as you shout loud enough. In their debut, Mike D, Ad-Rock and MCA are anarchic, riotous and ridiculous: it’s good fun, when it isn’t incredibly grating. I reviewed Paul’s Boutique a year or so ago (IN ALL CAPS) and was turned off by a perceived lack of range, depth, and the yelling… oh, the yelling. But after hearing “Licensed to Ill”, and then revisiting “Paul’s Boutique”, I realise what a progression their second album was, how much more sophisticated and exciting. By comparison, “Licensed to Ill” is a series of bellowed brags, with all the grace and subtlety of a gang of spotty and horny college brats. To put it diplomatically, it’s much more direct and to-the-point, proudly leaving its maturity at the door. The samples are based in the crunchy riffs of rock music, with barely a funk or soul track in sight. Led Zeppelin are a key point of reference: the whole album opens with John Bonham’s titanic drum beat from “When the Levee Breaks”, before “The Ocean” and “Custard Pie” both make appearances later on. There’s also a typically bracing, edgy lyric- “if I played guitar, I’d be Jimmy Page; the girlies I like are underage”. Wow. After an immediately attention-grabbing opener, “Rhymin’ and Stealin’” (admittedly a great start) my two biggest and best tracks come back to back in the middle: “Fight For Your Right (To Party)” followed by “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”. These best capture the Beastie Boys’ crossover with rock and emergent hip-hop, sitting comfortably in either scene right through to today. I’d also shout out “Slow Ride” and “Brass Monkey” for varying the mood very slightly with some brass samples. Elsewhere, though, the joke quickly wears thin as Rick Rubin’s relentless production and the gang’s strangled vocal cords allow for no breathing room. “Girls” at least shows some attempt at humour and levity, but is pretty puerile stuff. Throughout “Licensed to Ill”, the Beastie Boys revel in being obnoxious and crass: perhaps it’s a shared persona, or some kind of satire on adolescence, but not all of it lands forty years on. Just edging three stars on account of its best material and its place in music history, but it’s also one of the first times I’ve felt too old for an album on this list.

A few seconds of anticipatory silence. Some tentative piano jazz chords. Swells of cymbal, twinkling chimes. And then in it comes, screaming in technicolour all the way from one channel to another: Carlos Santana's signature searing guitar tone. This is "Singing Winds, Crying Beasts", and it marks the beginning of a psychedelic odyssey through the sound and soul of Latin America. I've never listened to any Santana before, but "Abraxas" is a gem: the band's second and most famous album, it's held up by stunning instrumental work threading together some dynamic originals and inspired covers. I'm often sniffy and dismissive about covers of other artists' work, but the versions done here form such great bedrocks for Santana's guitar parts and the band's Latin accompaniments. "Black Magic Woman" (originally a minor hit in its own right by Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac) is hypnotic, smooth and seductive, with an infectious burst of energy in "Gypsy Queen" tacked onto the end. We're then into "Oye Como Va", originally a Tito Puente number but given a rock-oriented make-over here with guitar and organ solos a-plenty. Both pieces ultimately became more associated with Santana than their original artists, and it's a delight hearing them back-to-back in the mould of a unique fusion of Latin, jazz and rock. Carlos Santana's own contributions cannot be overstated: his guitar is all over this album, and deserves praise as Latin rock's answer to Hendrix. While the rest of the band more than hold their own against Santana, I would single out José Areas as an absolute treat of a percussionist. Without his contributions, instrumentals like "Incident at Neshabur" or "Se a Cabo" could fall flat, but his conga and timbales run through their veins: the life and soul of "Abraxas". In the second half, there's a noticeable pivot to more conventional blues rock penned by lead singer Gregg Rolie. "Mother's Daughter" and "Hope You're Feeling Better" leaped out at me on first listen, with their immediate crunchy guitar riffs and soulful vocal performances, and then on second listen they began to feel slightly jarring in amongst such intricate Latin-influenced jazz. I've now settled on the idea that they're great fun in their own way: reminiscent of Traffic or Cream songs, they satisfy a visceral urge to rock out as well as shake our hips to the album. The gorgeous, lush "Samba Pa Ti" forms a welcome tonic in between the two. Seamlessly paced, virtuoso performers, psychedelic heaven… "Abraxas" is going to stay with me. It's a high four (9/10) for now, but I've no doubt this could improve with time.

I came into “Movies” as a cautious fan of Holger Czukay’s work as the co-founder, bassist and visionary engineer of Can. Those delicious, neverending grooves in “Halleluhwah”, “I’m So Green”, “Mother Sky” and many more, as well as the widescreen, immersive soundscapes of “Aumgn”, “Peking O”, “Bel Air”… they were mostly down to Czukay. Reading that he went on to become a prominent early force in sampling, becoming a big influence on Eno among others, I was expecting a proto “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts” to sink my teeth into. I was not- repeat, NOT- expecting “Cool in the Pool”: a blissed out funk jam that treads an uncomfortable line between the ridiculous and the sublime. Interspersing crystal clear funk rhythm guitar with bursts of abrasive synth, brass and various vocal tics shouldn’t work… but it somehow does, right up until the jarring “cutaway” ending. At first baffling, on subsequent listens it’s got under my skin. Credit to Czukay: placing material like this alongside the rest of the tracks here is how to truly confound an audience. The remaining three pieces are much more expansive, moving through a bucketload of moods and motifs like a five year old with a pick n mix. Speech samples are woven throughout, alongside distracted vocal hooks or instrumental lead parts. Every time we appear to be grounded in a primary chorus or hook, the idea is abandoned and we’re off somewhere else. It’s a restless, sometimes frustrating album which also starts to really sag somewhere in the middle. “Oh Lord, Give Us More Money” peters out towards the end, lacking a satisfying climax, while “Hollywood Symphony” rarely sticks with a groove for long enough to sink in, going all over the map with little sense of purpose. “Persian Love”- supposedly exemplifying Czukay’s interest in the music of other cultures- is a pleasant diversion and groove, but nothing otherworldly. “Movies” may not feel as groundbreaking or “out there” as I would have expected- particularly in the context of Czukay’s earlier career with Can- but it’s mostly an intriguing listen, a sonic journey where you have to get out and walk a little way for the best views. Perhaps further listens will bring it up in the ranks, but for now it strikes me as a middling effort from a singular mind.

Arriving at the tail end of Talking Heads’ peerless Eno-produced trilogy, “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts” is a quirky side-project which saw alternative music’s favourite oddballs (David Byrne and Brian Eno) let loose in a toy shop of sampling. The album was first conceived in a questionable vision of “Fourth World” music, shared between Eno and would-be-oddball-composer Jon Hassell. Their intention: to create an “imagined” otherworldly culture fusing indigenous music (“primitive”, in Hassell’s words) with the latest pioneering synthesiser technology. When Hassell heard “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts”, he threw his toys out of the pram and claimed his work had been “appropriated”. Interesting irony for a man whose approach could easily be called out for colonial overtones. So while “My Life…” is dated and flawed in its premise, it’s mostly dynamic and engaging in its execution. Eno’s soundscapes are as reliable and enticing as ever, and Byrne’s off-kilter perspective and knack for paranoia leaps headlong into the emergent world of sampling. Where these tracks could have been boring and indulgent, most of them are imbued with their own distinct character and flavour… same bush, different ghosts. Like “Remain in Light”, the first half of the album comprises jittery, unnerving funk and Afrobeat, with the second half becoming more insular, less beat-driven, more textural. Particular highlights from the first half include “Help Me Somebody” (feverish, restless, all-out-frenzy), “The Jezebel Spirit” (with a genuinely unnerving sample of a pastor performing an exorcism) and “Regiment” (the presence of Robert Fripp and Chris Frantz mean it could have been a song on “Fear of Music”). Afterwards there isn’t as much to immediately grip me, or keep me coming back to the record, but it’s enough to get under the skin. “A Secret Life” is eerie and disquieting, and “Mountain of Needles” is a remarkable landscape of calm, evocative of being left alone in the fog at the end of a dark and winding road through different cultures and ideas. It might not be perfect, and it’s not at all a conventional listening experience. I’m perhaps also biased as a Byrne/Talking Heads fanatic, b