Highly, highly enjoyable. The music is pitched – temporally, stylistically – between Television and Sonic Youth. Chrissie Hynde stands alone. A fantastic record (tragic about half the band, though!).

If globalisation had a soundtrack, this record would – and, I suspect, self-consciously – be it. “Aja”, pronounced “Asia”, features a cast of 60 musicians; surely, though I haven’t checked, among them some of the late-70s finest (not counting the Dans themselves, of course). If I were to hear this album without knowing who it was, I figure I’d have a 1000-1 shot at guessing Steely “Reelin’ in the years” Dan first time. What I would have said, and did, was “is this where vaporwave came from then?” Turns out yes; Aja is a preeminent example of “yacht rock” (buoyant west coast AOR primed for taking out the marina and into the crystalline waters); the stuff later sampled by Saint Pepsi, Luxury Elite, Floral Shoppe. It’s the sort of smooth audio postmodernism that presages the entire 80s: a pastiche of styles – curated, elevated – that, had he been given better taste in pop, Patrick Bateman would’ve swung an axe to. And, yes, four decades later, from yacht rock comes Vaporwave, a genre that for me satirises and romanticises the emergence of global corporate capitalism equally (tapping into/enjoying the same cultural preoccupation as Vice City, San Junipero etc. too). Vaporwave is a hauntology fixated on what might have been (fully automated luxury capitalism) made in a time that isn’t (techno-oligarchies in the ear of 1% leaders). Yet this record, so substantial and beautifully produced, is all flesh and blood. So much so that one wonders if there’s a clue as to where it all went wrong here … or, at least, pause to reflect on wether that kind of wish fulfilment is the subconscious aspiration at the heart of all our revisionist attempts to resurrect the spirit of the proto-global coffeehouse. “Deacon Blues” is a standout track for me, but the whole album draws you in and in and in. Love, love, love.

The glabella, I recently learned, is the part of the face atop the bridge of the nose and between one’s eyebrows. It’s a funny sort of joy, to suddenly discover that something you’ve taken for granted for so long has a name – and thus presumably features, characteristics, nuances and specificities deserving of investigation. Back to “In rock”. I’d only really begrudgingly put the album on; unenthused at the prospect of a full hour of plodding bluesy dad rock (I can’t emphasise enough how shallow the logic of that deeply held conditioning was: I might as well have been calling the band “Smoke on the water” such was the extent of my knowledge of their work.) So, first, “Speed king” – and I’m laughing at the intro guitar which sounds … a bit lame. Up the scale we go, then back down; not exactly Hendricks and not yet Iron Maiden. But then something interesting happens. It starts to, and I pardon my language, fucking slap. Galloping rhythms that the aforementioned Iron Maiden are still a decade from becoming synonymous with; guitar solos that aren’t Hendricks but aren’t yet Maiden but now in a good, exciting way; that drum roll moment in “Child in time”; the totally unexpected funk-out in “Flight of the rat”; “Living wreck” serving moody; ALL THOSE RIFFS (that experiment with chromatic scales in “Into the fire” has no right to work so well, really). Finally it’s “Hard lovin’ man”, which, and I mean this sincerely, exhibits art rock levels of commitment to the bit. A final track that sounds like a band attempting to put its live lightning in a bottle - and succeeding. There are things about this record that I’d say aren’t completely to my taste, but that’s almost not the point here. I learned something new today, something that forces my glabella to crease with embarrassed consternation: Deep Purple fuckin’ rocks.

I got Hybrid Theory for Christmas in 2001. In January I listened to it maybe 60 times all the way through on my bedroom CD player. In February I took it to the hairdressers because I wanted Mike Shinoda’s hairstyle on the back cover. In March I listened to it laying on my mate’s bed at a sleepover while we looked at glow in the dark stars on his ceiling and took it in turns to do the singing bits and the rapping bits. In April it was the first thing me and the hardest lad in the year talked about that didn’t involve a threat of immediate violence being visited on me. In May I decided “Points of Authority” was my favourite when it came on Radio One as we drove past a petrol station in Barnsley. In June I learned how to play “In the End” on a keyboard (in Barnsley, too). In July and August it was summer holidays, playing “Crawling” loudly on guitar in someone’s music room in the morning before booming around on bikes until it got dark. Through September and the rest of the year it was time to talk about something else, while also still watching that world tour VHS every couple of nights for all the live footage. A year of a life, at that time of a life, is a long, long time. You pack a lot in, and don’t much think about what that’ll mean for you. And as sure as I’ve a nicotine addiction to this day — I still struggle to look past Linkin Park’s Hybrid Theory. At 14 I saw them play Leeds, at 28 I sat on the couch in Finsbury Park as we got our heads around Chester’s passing; at 32 we had a table at our wedding named for “Points of Authority”. This is an album I’ll carry around for life, now. What joy it is that I’m still finding things to love about it.

Still can’t forgive Billy Corgan his voice or lyrics, but a wondrous album all the same.

At first - harder work than I’d hope from a classic album. Perhaps I’ve not the patience, as it’s sounding pedestrian (and perhaps even indulgent). As the record warms up, I begin to hear the artists who must owe Patti and incredible debt: Pat Benatar, Kate Bush, Kathleen Hanna. By the time “Free Money” is done I’m several shades more optimistic about the record.

A lot more American Songbook than I’d have guessed. Hadn’t noticed how similar the end of Maggie May is to “Losing My Religion”. “Mandolin Wind” is a song that transforms at the halfway mark, from dull to wonderful. In a way that serves as metonym - an album that’s half pretty dull, and half absolutely wonderful.

Wonderful record. Hadn’t realised that it was so ignored initially. “…Walter” a standout track for me.

Night Swimming <3

I sit in the global coffeehouse, second hand smoke atop first. Frasier Crane sends me a drink. I resolve to later memorialise him as a neon statue.

Challenging on many levels, and none of them particularly good. Today, I read an article about policy wording for assisted suicide - and found it more interesting than this record.

Ba wi wi wewww, ba wa wa wewwww. Is it possible to listen to this album and not find another layer to love about it? A taste I am grateful for having taken the time to acquire.

Eat the rich! For all the damage that privatisation has done to the U.K. – and continues to do; how lucky am I to have been directly engaging with a deep historical legacy every time I lost three hours to getting back to Brighton from London? – the upside is that in 1986/87 there was plenty of subject matter for socially-conscious pop to contend with. “It’s a sin” is the standout track – and with thanks to the Russel T Davies drama, contains lyrical ideas that still feel as vital and pressing as they must have in the 80s – but bops like “What have I done to deserve this?” (featuring Dusty, of course) and “I want to wake up” are brilliant deeper cuts. The former of which puts me in mind of Jermaine Stewart’s “We don’t have to take our clothes off…”, a hit from the year previous – though “WHIDTDT” was maybe composed even earlier; Dusty took a while to reply apparently. (Side note: I wonder how many influential one-hit wonders are forgotten in a list like this? Feels unlikely that we’ll see Jermaine Stewart, King, etc.) So deeply of its time while so completely timeless, “Actually” is sophisticated pop made by brilliant people. Simple as that.

Full to the brim with afrofuturistic big bops, massive ideas and winning collaborations. Some brilliant pop songs and lovely melodies. Not really my scene, but I love the audacity of it and so appreciate the talent.

Decadeologists, I’m reliably informed, look upon the ‘3s as transitional years. The dawn of a new decade is slow to break – and it takes a year or two for the morning stars of the previous era to fade into blue sky. For that reason, and many more, this feels like a record caught between multiple different states. There are ideas here that the Boos have taken and run with from various giants of genre (MVB, Beatles especially). And then there are ideas – riffs, atmospheres, sound textures and compositional choices – that will be picked up and refined by bands throughout the 90s (by the Manics, Radiohead, Creation’s entire roster, etc.). There are even concepts that, seen in the context of the next record’s contribution to britpop cannon, feel work in progress within The Boo’s own career, too. And so it is that, on this album from the 90s own ‘3, we find our Boos still slightly shoegaze snoozy and just now rousing. While this album will mean more to many than my “a prelude to the 90s proper” allows for – it’s also exactly that. It’ll be a year or so before the stars are fully faded and they yell out “Wake up, it’s a beautiful morning.” What a thing it must be to be able to say you were there first.

I’m in, characters fizz over the membrane. There’s risk here, but no jeopardy: they might notice something’s different, can happen, they’re not total brats; but I’ll be in El Salvador - Dios, Unión, Libertad - by the time they’ve got a handle on the damage. I’m riding higher, every touch magnetic, the thrill in the code adrenaline-sugar-seduction. Underneath the beat of the taps in the deep dark humming between those bleeding pixel greens though, it’s her. Raven-haired, always somewhere else, her. But there’s no place in the interface for her, and she isn’t hiding. I keep looking all the same.

I was surprised by the opening riff of “Cult of personality” – to put immediately in mind of a sort of post-cock rock, sedate Killswitch Engage was not what I was expecting. A ripping solo later and, in spite of my better judgement, I’m ready to throw some horns up and worry about authoritarianism with LC. And then it comes crashing in, for better or worse, my better judgement. The record starts to ask me if I’ve wondered what “Sussudio” would sound like with Iron Maiden stood in front of Phil’s kit – and I just haven’t. I have never wondered. There are a couple more jams in there: “Funny Vibe” is like a less nauseating this-era RHCP, and “Which way to America” moves at precisely the same tempo as my pool’s pump (I was guiding the creepy crawler around by this stage of the album) – fun! But then there’s “What’s your favorite colour?” – sidebar: grammatical inconsistency is sort of Living Colour’s thing; a British-English U in their band name, but not in their song titles; a question mark when asking about colour, but not when asking for directions – a question the band answer in the song … yes, Living Colour, or “Glamour Boys” which sounds suspiciously like the inspiration for “Under the sea” from the Little Mermaid. There’s nothing to dislike here, really. Tight, accomplished musicianship and a well-committed to bit. But dear me must the world have been ready for grunge by the time “Vivid” had finished with it.

Wonderful, visionary work. Everything about this feels so neatly stitched together – a seamless patchwork of lovingly curated influences and perfectly executed ideas. To have harmonised so many disparate impulses – let alone to often breathtaking effect – is something, but to have made it feel so immanent (as in: necessary, essential, teleological) is another. There’s a blueprint for a better world inside here, I wish we lived in it.

Isn’t David clever! Lots of groove, fantastic guitar work and a stone cold classic song (universe level) too. I’m never sure if I like Talking Heads as much as I should, but not to worry: the album enjoys itself whether I’m sticking with it or not. Very good.

It’s a rare kind of alchemy found in these tracks. The words, grooves, attitudes fit like tectonic plates – first locking in, then finding friction, then pushing up together into the sky, building mountains. I’m always on the lookout for emotion-, feeling-, impulse-defining combinations of musicianship and lyricism – the sort of moments that take you to wherever the artist wanted you to go no matter your previous headspace. “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me”, sat atop that preposterously dialled-in groove is canon. It is slam dancing rebellion that throws everything at you and then its limbs; bratty rage against the machines of loving grace. (“Motherfucker”, it should be noted, is delivered with a similarly emphatic aplomb.) There’s more to this record than just that track – the 2009 U.K. Christmas number one –though. Lots. So much so that a whole generation can claim to have come of age bouncing around (moshing, pogoing, etc.) either under RATM’s direct influence or in the bombtrack’s aftershocks. I was in the latter camp; 12 years of age and tragically romanced by the concept of being “a mosher”. RATM are forever “fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” – but they’re also battle of the bands nights at the local theatre, school talent shows, all ages gigs at struggling pubs (ones that let you buy beer if you could grow a moustache!), late-late nights drinking vodka red bulls in your mates’ garden. They’re a community, a kind of belonging through music that transcends a lot besides. And when that sort of togetherness is addressed to the forces of alienation and atomisation –that which tells us to jump and expect us to say “how high?” – there can no greater “fuck you” than that.

It’s THEBOSS. Undeniable hits, but a lot that leaves me cold in between.

Enjoyable! I clicked properly into it toward the end. Toe tappers all, though. The guitars were often surprising, in a good way.

Loved it. A time capsule, and “She’s so strange” was a fab surprise!

Toe-tapping, brilliant stuff. Love the guitars especially. Couple of healthy grooves too. I enjoy how organic it feels.

Really couldn’t get along with it. Songs felt either forced or almost cringe. A difficult third album.

Highly enjoyable. 3.5 but rounding up out of Christmas spirit.

Perfect by the pool, and encourages a deeper exploration into Herbie’s career. I’m not sure this music will ever be the mood for me … but it certainly helps contribute to one.

Today it’s the beginning of summer holidays, and we listened to this in the pool (along with PJ’s Ten). Funky! Reminder to check where it slots in with Parliament and Television, which this record feels poised between. I would listen to it again. I don’t feel like I’ve ever totally connected with Bowie, and this wasn’t the moment either. Let’s see what else is in store … (Dot liked it.)

I may return to this with a five. I might just do it. I’m not sure. It’s grown on me hugely over the past two days. My first meaningful engagement with a PF album and I suppose it came at just the right time. I was far more “up for it” once I’d read the Wikipedia and understood the concept. Musically, I hear the influence this has on some of my favourite albums (Tranquillity Base…) and many, many others besides. Compelling.

Full of iconic songs, this album is a total delight. (Whether or not some of those songs would have so successfully stood the test of time had they not been sung by Dusty… I suspect not.) The perfect soundtrack to Christmas morning in many ways – even the heartbreaks are sunny. I’m landing on four stars because the album itself didn’t have that artistic cohesion that I expect from a five star record (I’m sure that having had Pink Floyd recently has had an influence). Still, bangers.

A bit of fun! I recognise a couple of these as the canonical forms of the songs … and a couple that most certainly are not. It might have registered another half star had it been listened to on Christmas Day (t’was Boxing Day down here in Aus) but I dare say I’ll keep it in mind for next year. The wall of sound and Christmas make for great friends.

Is that you, Foos? I don’t have immediate access to a dorm so I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to totally understand this record, but I do remember being a teenager and suspect I’d have hated this if I was one in the 90s. Thankfully, I’m now in my mid 30s so don’t mind the outwardly anodyne just as long as it isn’t insultingly so. Which this isn’t. 3.5 because I like “Rudderless” and hear points of influence for lots of other bands I like.

Highly, highly enjoyable. The music is pitched – temporally, stylistically – between Television and Sonic Youth. Chrissie Hynde stands alone. A fantastic record (tragic about half the band, though!).

Perfect summertime record – I can imagine it was a total breath of fresh air in the early 80s. The punk influence is nicely weaved in (more than once I felt like I was listening to a slowed down Iron Maiden, oddly). Whole thing feels like a California lost to time. Lovely when paired with a palm tree. 3.5.

First we take Manhattan … THEN WE TAKE BERLIN! Great fun introducing Fleur to that song (I was very pleased with myself for having remembered the track was on this record specifically), but barring a couple of grooves this wasn’t a great record for me. Still, enjoyable enough. 2.75.

Not at all what I’d expected from a band called “Cowboy Junkies” – I hope I never find out why they’re called that, but why are they called that? With one exception (“200 more miles” – a beautiful song that I’ll be revisiting for sure) there wasn’t much here that stuck with me. I guess that’s fine; the album created a pleasant enough atmosphere, and the gentle rumble of the tracks left plenty of space for reflection besides (some inspiration here for Malkmus’s traditional techniques?). I won’t be rushing back to it, but if ever I need an album to prove that restraint can be a genre in itself … here it’ll be. (Really cool that it was recorded around a single mic, and explains the SUDDEN guitar licks somewhat.)

An absent possessive apostrophe on the cover notwithstanding – YES. This is such a great record. “The Beat”; “Lipstick Vogue”; “Big Tears” (and the ones I’ve heard before) … it’s just tune after tune. Musically it feels so in conversation with its influences – punk, reggae, Beatles – while also, somehow, knowingly portentous (is all of pop punk contained in that first song?); perhaps easier to just say ‘a musician who loves music’. The best part of 50 years after it was released, it still sounds so fresh and immediate.

Not for me, I’m afraid.

My eyes glaze over halfway in … but the fiercest numbers are front loaded, and, dare I say, portend awesome things to come. I can’t help but feel like better bands were out doing more interesting things in 1963 – but maybe this record needed to be made so they’d never again be so bloody twee. A 3 by the Beetles standards, so unfair in many ways. But I’m willing to say it: it’s only OK.

Absolutely brilliant. That first three mins of PWARS is 1) what the 70s sounds like in my imagination, and 2) surely lifted by Daniel Striped Tiger for “Slalom”. This record has awoken in me a desire to go deeper on The Tempts and their biography.

Where were they getting all these bass lines from? I’m fond of a few new wave and new wave adjacent groups (Duran Duran, WHAM!, Spandau Ballet, TFF) but hadn’t listened to the Haircuts before – my error. A sprightly, sunshiny record that has most in common with Duran Duran (though contains much less in the way of lascivious undertones – I can’t imagine DD calling a song “Baked Beans”). At times the looser jam feel creates an atmosphere reminiscent of Orange Juice’s jangly navel gazing (“Surprise Me Again”, for example). It’s a shame they only lasted the one album. Highlights: “Love Plus One”; “Lemon Fire Brigade”

I first listened to this album in 2007, or thereabouts – some time in my own “art school” phase (doing cultural studies at uni, as good as the late naughties could offer me really). Alongside Wire’s Pink Flag, this record made an immediate impression, and has stayed on rotation since. (I must have listened to “Return the gift” 1000 times since then.) I tend to use these reviews drawing parallels or trying to chart the provenance of ideas; not that it matters necessarily where something came from or who used the idea next, it’s just fun. In this instance, suffice it to say this record must have inspired 90% of the music I hold dearest in some way or another. For me personally this album inspired something a bit different – a feeling I can’t entirely put words to, but maybe “community” is closest. I’m a happier person for knowing something as exciting as this album exists. I knew I’d get what I asked for.

If globalisation had a soundtrack, this record would – and, I suspect, self-consciously – be it. “Aja”, pronounced “Asia”, features a cast of 60 musicians; surely, though I haven’t checked, among them some of the late-70s finest (not counting the Dans themselves, of course). If I were to hear this album without knowing who it was, I figure I’d have a 1000-1 shot at guessing Steely “Reelin’ in the years” Dan first time. What I would have said, and did, was “is this where vaporwave came from then?” Turns out yes; Aja is a preeminent example of “yacht rock” (buoyant west coast AOR primed for taking out the marina and into the crystalline waters); the stuff later sampled by Saint Pepsi, Luxury Elite, Floral Shoppe. It’s the sort of smooth audio postmodernism that presages the entire 80s: a pastiche of styles – curated, elevated – that, had he been given better taste in pop, Patrick Bateman would’ve swung an axe to. And, yes, four decades later, from yacht rock comes Vaporwave, a genre that for me satirises and romanticises the emergence of global corporate capitalism equally (tapping into/enjoying the same cultural preoccupation as Vice City, San Junipero etc. too). Vaporwave is a hauntology fixated on what might have been (fully automated luxury capitalism) made in a time that isn’t (techno-oligarchies in the ear of 1% leaders). Yet this record, so substantial and beautifully produced, is all flesh and blood. So much so that one wonders if there’s a clue as to where it all went wrong here … or, at least, pause to reflect on wether that kind of wish fulfilment is the subconscious aspiration at the heart of all our revisionist attempts to resurrect the spirit of the proto-global coffeehouse. “Deacon Blues” is a standout track for me, but the whole album draws you in and in and in. Love, love, love.

I only know Supertramp from the hits, so went into this with an open mind. The first two songs inspire much more headbanging than I expected before hitting play; lots of big, chunky power chords in lockstep with the rhythm section. Eventually – and after third track “Hide In Your Shell” (a loud, quiet, loud banger) has all but thrown away the best chorus of the album by adding a theremin – the Pink Floyd via the Monkees schtick collapses in on itself; a high budget piece of regional theatre backed by an eccentric patron (not far from the truth, of course…) or the Dorking Community Players staging The Nightman Cometh.

I had no idea that EBTG were even active in the 80s, let alone churning out the hits. I say “hits”; most of this record is new to me – I’m giving it 3 stars rather than 2 simply because of the enduring brilliance of “I don’t want to talk about it” – and it’s mostly miss. Some real twee stuff, musically and lyrically, to the extent that when they do find a bit of edge (“Tears all over town”, or the lyric “a widow on a honeymoon” in “Shadow on a harvest moon”) it’s sorely appreciated. The drums, the sort so lively in, e.g. WHAM! or Tears for Fears, here drag and distract. The guitar licks don’t, but do need, to stop. Thank god for the richness of Tracey’s voice (as I’m sure Mr Watt c.1988 would agree). The second half of the record marks an improvement - more than a bit of The Smiths about songs like “Lonesome for a place I know – but the record never really recovers from the high heights it drops you from between tracks one and two.

One two CHA CHA CHA. This record got the girls up and dancing – Dorothy treated us with an enigmatic saunter around the room over dinner. A really brilliant record that, and without meaning to sound at all patronising, has touches to it that feel so modern as to be portentous. The title track, in particular, is an astonishing jam. Has a crispness, flow and energy that I’ve felt from Blaxsploitation cinema but never Bollywood (surely my error). Anyway, if J Dilla had it on “Donuts” it wouldn’t be at all surprising. Brilliant songs littered throughout. Bravo.

An album that grew on me as I listened, as much as because I was learning more about its context as I went than because it simply gets better and better (which it does). A stomach flu will prevent me saying much more – but this is an album that sounds like a goodbye. “Riders on the storm” is Universe-level.

It’s 2025. A time for the morally dexterous to make hash out of old beefs. The chameleonic, iconic Snoop finds time in his calendar to play for a pardon. A generous gesture; will it that history doesn’t look upon it as a kindness. There’s fun to be had rolling your shoulders to the big hits. An instrumental would be preferable.

There are at least two of the best songs of the 21st century on this album (“Last nite”, “Someday”) and plenty of honourable mentions (“Hard to explain”, “Trying your luck”). I’m not going to check the chronology – I don’t want the spoilers: I have “Meet me in the toilets” on my bookshelf, waiting to be read – but I have to imagine that this record influenced, in some way, everything I listened to growing up – whether because it wanted to be it, or wanted to be its opposite. And that’s not hyperbole. I remember seeing the grainy video to “Last nite” on GMTV, the becouched co-hosts portentously asking “is this the future of music?” and laughing at the front cover (funny that America was spared the joke) and feeling excited. And I remember being 11 or 12, walking down a rainy street in Retford after school, evening drawing in, hearing a school band trying out a cover (how straightforward songs like “Last Nite” were for kids to play being an overlooked but crucial factor in The Strokes’ then seemingly infinite scalability). I remember hearing that band bringing that song fully to life in their own way and thinking I could probably do that too. So I did.

The first “successful” rock opera is a story of a boy who retreats within himself as the result of trauma. It’s a trope that we’ll see again and again, whether in “The Wall” – where our hero builds a literal wall around himself, substantially achieving the same thing as Tommy does here – or the later biographies of many youthful, rebellious rock and rollers (a genre that’s perhaps always thought of itself as safe harbour for misunderstood or under appreciated artistic genius). Anyway, Tommy. To put it gently, by the time “Fiddle About” had finished its first chorus of “fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, fiddle” you too may want to achieve a dissociative state of semi-torpor. The rock opera, it turns out, walks a fine line. Done well it’s expansive, a rousing appeal to what can be achieved with fairly limited means. Done poorly, as here, it’s almost an indictment on the whole genre – an incoherently rambling, serially uninteresting solipsism that dares to reveal the superficiality of all that pretends to rock. I feel sorry for Tommy, I really do.

At this moment in time, I struggle to wrap much of a frame of reference around this record; I’m afraid to say too much because I just don’t feel qualified. It’s maybe something (a lack of imagination?) that the first thing that springs to mind for me is the New York of Home Alone 2. The big blasts from the big band rushing through my speakers feel as exciting and overawing as the imposingly tall, impossibly alive city must have felt to Kevin McAllister – a figure central to my own childhood who is also, in the there and then of Home Alone’s NY, a lonely witness to so many of the icons of America’s great imperial phase. And that’s really what this record sounds like to me: a glorious echo from the American century. It’s one that remains vital not because America does – far from it, really – but because the brilliant people who contributed to that cultural hegemony are made no less brilliant by America having been brought low. Back to Home Alone, and in the hotel lobby Kevin sprints past a tall man in an expensive coat. The man might be on his way to the roof, spoiling to find a vantage from which to survey the world’s most significant skyline. It’s a skyline men of his appetite typically want to make their own, of course, shoving their overcompensations evermore inelegantly into the clustering mass. In short, synecdoche of a nation. It’s a shame that America hasn’t had someone of Basie’s erudition and skill to lead its own metaphorical band. Getting the best from each other starts with getting the best for each other; America’s century, so spiritedly captured on albums like this, was built on principles like that. Principles now under threat of total dismantling by tall men in expensive coats.

A couple of stone cold classics, monolithic in scale, scope and impact. And then a couple that felt pissed up the wall! Hayooo – I joke. (Best album cover of all time? It’s always resonated with me, even before knowing what’s on this record.) I enjoyed this album as much in a kind of “thank you” sort of way as I did actually and viscerally the music. Certainly, there’s plenty on this record to back Eddie Vedder’s “they left us no new places to explore” sentiments … even if that sentiment only strictly applies to acts with the imagination of Pearl Jam. Thanks for the power chords, the Marshall stacks, and the tunes, Pete. And thanks for the attack, everyone else. But more than anything, thanks for not playing “Fiddle about” again. (Fave song besides the obvious: “My wife”.)

Fleur says she feels cooler every time she listens to The Stooges. As a review, as an idea, as a fact – it’s tough to improve on.

It perhaps goes without saying, but quite a lot will rest on how well you get on with Janis Joplin’s voice. Icon of the counterculture, preternaturally gifted performer and still part of the conversation a lifetime after her tragic death – her voice is as distinctive as her enduring place in culture. While I won’t be hurrying back to this record, trying to argue against the brilliance of some of these songs and renditions is like trying to argue with the wind – or a big crashing wave, perhaps; she had both in the locker – so it’s a 3 from me.

In 2008 I headed into a double-feature: “FlicKeR” was the headline with “Do you love me like I love you (Part 5: Tender Prey)” opening proceedings. I immediately headed over the road to buy “Tender Prey”, Bobby Gillespie’s testimony on “Mercy Seat” more than enough to encourage a purchase. I’ll save my thoughts about Nick Cave’s masterpiece - and how young the interviewees in that film now look, almost 20 years on - for another time, as the film that followed, “FlicKeR” was just as influential to the next years of my life. I responded strongly to Brion Gysin’s ideas, was already enamoured of William Burroughs’ whole vibe, and spent a fair bit of time trying to make my own Dream Machine (having missed an opportunity to see a Dream Machine in person during COVID, I still occasionally check if they’re freely available … be a shame to not try it one day). The documentary featured various musical artists, all pretty cool, talking about their experiences with Gysin’s hypnotic, hallucination machine. Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo was among them, offering his thoughts to camera in a way I’d be reminded of years later standing in Coventry watching The Cribs play “Be safe” – a connection made through time that was pure lightning on both sides. Also on that documentary: Genesis P-Orridge, mid pandrogyne project – so complete a presence, spectacle and aura that I misremembered having seen a Throbbing Gristle documentary distinct from “FlicKeR”. It stuck with me, suffice to say. And then, again, years later, I’m reminded of it. I’m in the Tate Britain at, probably, “Women in revolt” and there’s a whole section given to COUM Transmissions, the precursor to Throbbing Gristle. I remember being humoured by the comments of an offended Tory politician – “desecrators of civilisation” or similar, he’d called them in the 70s. Good on Cosey Fanni Tutti, and good on COUM. Somehow, I again miss the call. I spend a couple of seconds remembering once maybe listening to Throbbing Gristle in 2008, and I move on. And so today, in 2025, I am so grateful for this project. A third invitation to fully engage with Throbbing Gristle is met ecstatically. From the first track, a darkness of beeps - a year earlier in time, but with the feeling of Joy Division’s “Unknown Pleasures” stripped of what joy and pleasure it holds - I am held in place. There’s so much space to move inside music like this, angles to explore, moods to drown in, atmospheres to let crystallise and sit gargoyle-esque atop your central nervous system. “Hamburger Lady” is a standout track; though it’s not album best thought about in that way, really. So soon after the passing of David Lynch - a time that we realise that his work can’t really be taken apart as a filmography; it really demands to be seen as one – I’m pulled into a similar orbit by similarly iconoclastic artists. This is a piece of real, enduring art arriving from within a series of lifetimes that will never be repeated.

We’ve spun this four times now; peeling back the layers there’s a strong, strong argument emerging for it being the most influential of the post-punk records of the late 70s. It still feels the freshest too. The drums tick and roll and batter; the bass wonders, punchdrunk and charismatic; the guitars can’t stay still, maybe they don’t want to be guitars anymore?; the voice somersaults, careens – gymnastically controlled, poised, enjoying itself, solidifying its dimensions while forming them into an archetype. This is a record I hadn’t realised I should say so many thanks to. It’s also perfect for a day that’s too hot to be in a house that’s without aircon – yet still pretty much feels like paradise. Fitful sometimes just fits.

I’m not convinced I’m in the right headspace at this very second to give this record its due – though I’ll also say that it’s 2025, the White House is again living up to its name, and maybe I should be making more of an effort to be in that headspace. (To that extent, maybe I can say that this album continues to do a job alerting the privileged to their position. Fair play to that.) Black Is is a rich and varied assemblage of musical styles, genres and moments. “Wildfires” is one of the defining tracks of the past decade; “Why we cry why we die” bops soulfully, disarmingly; “Black” puts me in mind of J Dilla’s musical eclecticism (while forcing some potentially tragic bobble-headed participation on my part); “Eternal life” is afrofuturism in the key of divinity. The production, the message, the talent and now the legacy. It’s a special record, and I’ll be making time to give it its due.

The glabella, I recently learned, is the part of the face atop the bridge of the nose and between one’s eyebrows. It’s a funny sort of joy, to suddenly discover that something you’ve taken for granted for so long has a name – and thus presumably features, characteristics, nuances and specificities deserving of investigation. Back to “In rock”. I’d only really begrudgingly put the album on; unenthused at the prospect of a full hour of plodding bluesy dad rock (I can’t emphasise enough how shallow the logic of that deeply held conditioning was: I might as well have been calling the band “Smoke on the water” such was the extent of my knowledge of their work.) So, first, “Speed king” – and I’m laughing at the intro guitar which sounds … a bit lame. Up the scale we go, then back down; not exactly Hendricks and not yet Iron Maiden. But then something interesting happens. It starts to, and I pardon my language, fucking slap. Galloping rhythms that the aforementioned Iron Maiden are still a decade from becoming synonymous with; guitar solos that aren’t Hendricks but aren’t yet Maiden but now in a good, exciting way; that drum roll moment in “Child in time”; the totally unexpected funk-out in “Flight of the rat”; “Living wreck” serving moody; ALL THOSE RIFFS (that experiment with chromatic scales in “Into the fire” has no right to work so well, really). Finally it’s “Hard lovin’ man”, which, and I mean this sincerely, exhibits art rock levels of commitment to the bit. A final track that sounds like a band attempting to put its live lightning in a bottle - and succeeding. There are things about this record that I’d say aren’t completely to my taste, but that’s almost not the point here. I learned something new today, something that forces my glabella to crease with embarrassed consternation: Deep Purple fuckin’ rocks.

My first interaction with Nirvana was via a hoody. I was 11 or 12, early into my first year of secondary school and for the first time rubbing up against a subculture with a dress code that wasn’t just “the latest Manchester United kit”. Soon after that I got hold of Nevermind, which was hidden in the bottom of my parents’ wardrobe for a month waiting for Christmas. And then, after Nevermind, it was everything I could get my hands on. The next year or two a frenzy to acquire as much Nirvana – albums, bootlegs, both respectable and entirely unofficial biographies about Kurt, the band, whatever; greeting “You know you’re right” and the journals like a second coming (rather than an invasion of privacy) – as I could carry home from the record fair, the HMV, the shops that stank of incense, wherever. It feels significant to me – and not just because I can still imagine the burning hot shame of being accused, accurately, of wearing a Nirvana hoody without knowing any of their songs; the spotlight that lingers over those preteen and early adolescent years becomes an X-ray in the decades that follow – that Nirvana has always been a puzzle for me. It wasn’t that big a jump in time between working out the identity of the band represented by that cool smiley face thing I liked wearing, to trying to work out why someone who could write songs and lyrics that stuck in my psyche like gravel sticks in the waffle soles of skate shoes would choose to ever stop doing that (“Heavier than Heaven”, another six months later, got me to understand how little a role “choice” played in all of it). A gap of maybe a month between overhauling my identity in reaction to a clothing trend, and reflecting on the real existential jeopardy that might break cover at any moment. “In Utero” sits right in the centre of my Nirvana puzzle. Let alone the fact I didn’t know what a “Radio friendly unit shifter” might be (I suspected something mechanical, which I guess was sort of right) and struggled to fully get across most of the album’s themes, the primordial soup of angst, anger and antipathy from which “Scentless Apprentice”, “Tourettes”, “Rape me”, “Very ape”, “Milk it” and even “Heart shaped box” emerged was a swamp I was willing to get bogged in. As the years rolled on, I found that “In Utero” jagged and caught on my loose threads in a way that Nevermind didn’t. I’d come back to find “Serve the servants” – for me arguably grunge’s greatest song - had clicked, or suddenly with a start realise that “Frances Farmer…” had a story with energy and intensity to match its bombastic middle-8 freak out. I’d listen to “All apologies” bleed into “You know you’re right” on DIY playlists and pretend they’re part of the same breath. I’d discover Leonard Cohen entirely because “Pennyroyal Tea” told me to. Throughout all this – 20 plus years of my life – there sat at either end of “In Utero”’s emotional polarity “Dumb” and “RFUS” – the first a song that lets itself be “just happy” and the other a song that demands to know “what is wrong with me?” Two totally contrasting attitudes to life, incompatible to the point of mutual annihilation – fittingly, completely sonically distinct (vale Steve Albini) from one other too. “Dumb” is dipped oneiric syrup and conjures pastel shades of diaphanous colours; it weighs you down while it lifts you up. “RFUS” is noise as geometry, wave forms crashing atop one another; an exhibition in art punk overseen by a mumbling, desperate, anxious, aggressive, defeated curator. Poles apart in almost every possible sense, then – but here’s where we come back to the puzzle. Because for a thinking, feeling person the idea that the contrasting perspectives of “Dumb” and “RFUS” ought be mutually incompatible will make logical sense, but also won’t ring true in the slightest. We’re all in moments one or the other, sure, but we’re all also often both. 23 years after I first heard “In Utero” I know that. I know that ambivalence is a fact of life; I even suspect that learning to self-regulate might be the whole point of it. Kurt perhaps didn’t, and certainly never had the chance to offer himself that kind of grace. It’s a puzzle, all this.

Songs with steel drums, songs that bounce Songs to dance to in your underpants. Instrumentation sparse around beats that groove Or the lush lake of funk that is “Genius of Love”. Is it a holiday diary, or songs dreamed up in incarceration? For these two, is that two sides of the same equation? Enjoy the trampoline made of sunbeams, retire to a hammock for a bed I loved my time inside the laughing heads.

I’ve never thought of Madonna as an “album artist” … and I still don’t! I joke, I joke – but only sort of. I would seriously suggest that if this record was just the single “Like A Prayer” and then 10 riffs, remixes and reworkings it’d be phenomenal. (It might be that a better album exists simply by chopping everything between “Like A Prayer” and “Act of Contrition” out entirely and then looping it around six times.) Anyway, utterly glorious first track aside* – I’m afraid it doesn’t do much for me. There were better pop records made in the 80s – the high points of this album can’t shake off the shadows of those (how “Oh father” is Tears for Fears without the conviction, for example) – and will be better ones coming in the 90s (the legacy of this record is all over the careers of The Spice Girls, Britney, Christina). “Keep it together” kicks it up to 2.5 but simply too much sloshy bumph to take it any higher. *Very, very fond memories of bopping hard to “Like A Prayer” at Fleur and my wedding. Wonderful moments, big singalongs, heavy swooping dance moves. I’ll hold onto that one forever, thanks, Madge.

It’s fine. “Changes” is “Changes”. “Life on Mars” is a lovely shade of lost-electrons melancholy featuring some tight, bracing, elastic vocals. “Queen Bitch” starts off toe-tapping and ends up dancing on the tables. It’s better than fine, it’s objectively really good. And. Yet. I. Just. Can’t. Make. Myself. Connect. To. It. Fleur says that it’s how I don’t really like Star Wars; she’s totally right that I don’t always click with things that an otherwise overwhelming majority of people do – hot I can’t stress enough that it’s not on purpose*. I’m not trying to be “out there”. Fuck, I wish I got it. But honestly, I joked “Come on Dave, I could be listening to Chat Pile” as we listened to this. And I meant it. I could have been. Chat Pile rules. 2.5. We’ll try again with the next record, Dave love.

Cha-cha-chaiiiin. Can any syllable boast so rich a contribution to music as “cha”? Aretha Franklin has the sort of voice that can give any syllable substance, form and impact – and there are some properly iconic songs on this record, big tug at the heart moments of musical history. Unfortunately, I feel a bit like those songs’ ubiquity distracts a bit from their effect; kind of precession of the simulacra style. It’s not much of a criticism, granted … but if I’m destined to be a link in a chain of fools then on my head be it!

At first I resist this album, almost certainly because I know where it’s taking me. It’s all here, though. The sound of everything happening at once. A crooning voice bowing across fizzing arpeggios; rhythm section, disciplined while encouraging – often to the extent of being doting or parental. In The Smiths you meet pure conceptual perfection; proof of why bands exist and why they should forever. The ultimate charm of this record, for me, resides in a sort of paradox. Why, since what The Smiths is doing here is so, so much greater than the sum of its parts, do I not feel happy about it? We’ve Johnny, busy tinkering at melody’s atomic level while the mononymous one intones another of his jeremiads (“I want the one I can’t have”) – this charming man brittle before his reflection. We’ve the slicked back hair, oily rag smell of “Nowhere fast” – so coyly propulsive with its rockabilly shuffle. And we’ve the weaving bass and funk flourishes of “Barbarism begins at home” – a shot fired back across time to the previous incumbents of Britain’s teenage imaginary (Duran Duran especially). “Well I wonder” and “Meat is murder” offer two poignant counterpoints to the thrill of the album’s three-minute pop songs. (The former being another entry into Johnny Marr’s “d minor hall of fame”; the man just knows how to use that chord, I don’t know what else to say.) It’s a more obviously political record; you have to hand it to the lads that the final minute even works. It probably shouldn’t. I read that “How soon is now?” was added to this record for the US release – and I’d perhaps have liked to hear it kicking off the second side. But, realistically, if this album had gone on forever it wouldn’t have been long enough. For the sake of our sick hearts, we should be grateful that it didn’t. So back to what I was resisting: I’m there. I’m back to putting “I want something I can’t have” on repeat and thinking that if the edge of the universe doesn’t sound like The Smiths – if the force pushing it out into whatever’s beyond isn’t exactly the feeling contained in a record like this – then I’ve read this whole thing totally wrong. I hope not.

It might be that sophisti-pop just isn’t for me. It’s not for nothing that I’d rather listen to almost anything else Paul Wellar has done (“almost” because there’s no way I’ve heard all of it … demonstrably, there’s some skeletons in the closet alongside all those parkas and nicely cut suits). And nor did I love EBTG’s – who appear on Cafe Bleu – early 80s sophisti-pop output either (to the extent I had to chase it with hits from “Amplified Heart” just to resettle myself). It feels like, in Cafe Bleu, Paul Wellar is forcing me to listen to what he learned on his gap year inter-railing around Europe. But also, in a self-reflexively superficial way, it might also be his most punk statement. There’s a ready-made antagonism shot through it; like it wants to be misunderstood, under-appreciated or even disliked – all so that it can turn around and tell you that you just don’t get it. And I don’t, really. There’s plenty of evidence of Wellar’s songwriting chops (“My ever changing moods”; “You’re the best thing”; “Headstart for happiness”) but then there’s also lots to make me cringe (including some of the lyrics in “Headstart…” – syrupy stuff even by the standards of the early 80s). I’m happy for the Modfather that he branched out. And dear me, haven’t we all been invited to think a little deeper while surveying the scene in a Parisian cafe? But I guess there’s a reason Dave didn’t include the Style Council in my musician education. 1.5.

If the 90s is Sega Megadrive and the 80s is nuclear weaponry, then the defining toy of the 70s has to be the yo-yo. Or the space hopper. Or the pogo stick. It’s befitting that a decade so enamoured of things that go up and down should gift us – and pretty much bang in the gravitational middle of itself – “A night at the Opera”. Not that the record’s happy with bouncing up and down just the one axis, of course. It’s quiet-loud at whiplash pace; this way and then that with no warning or, often, return; totally genre-bending (and probably genre inventing); genius and gimmickry (or “effectology” according to one contemporaneous NME review). “Death on two legs” starts us on a high with some devilish guitar work and Mercury giving us full bared teeth bastard-snarl, but from there the quality skips a song each time (the exception being “I’m in love with my car” – which is probably also terrible, but I like because it reminds me of Big Business – into the undeniable classic “You’re my best friend”). While loose enough to get along with a song about auto-vehicular romancing, I will likely never be loose enough to enjoy the genuinely anxiety-inducing taxes of “Seaside Rendezvous” or “‘39”, two songs about which I said, quite sincerely, that I’d like to never hear them again. Not to worry, though – as thanks to their pendulous formula you’re only ever a few minutes away from a stone-cold classic. Hearing Mercury wrestle the spotlight away from May on “The Prophet’s Song” or, of course, “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a true musical treat. In those moments of flight they’re an unbeatable force; ecstatic, elemental. So, while patchy, this is still the album with “Bohemian Rhapsody” on it. And while some songs here might be irritating, they’d have to be capable of launching actual napalm into my ears to detract from the good things Queen’s signature song has done for the world. Silliness is temporary, joy is eternal. 3.5.

The way memory functions is weird – if “Somebody told me” was released six months after Funeral for a Friend’s debut album then why do I remember being a child when listening to the former, but feeling like a grown up listening to the latter? It might be because The Killers – purveyors of absolutely OK, post-punk-ish, synthy-sort-of pop that you’re always happy to hear at weddings, or playing in the background of a pub you’re at for a 50th birthday, you know, adult occasions – are totally and utterly grown-up. They’re Interpol for mums; knowing better than to do something unexpected (might throw your back out!). Safe. And to that end we have a record that starts with back-to-back bangers. Twenty minutes of top ten material that twenty years on has your listener saying “was this our millennial Nevermind?” The thing about 20 minutes though is that’s pretty much as long as it takes to drive to the supermarket and back. And I feel like that’s not an accident. This record was made to be listened to on the way to Tesco. It was made to deliver a feeling that’s a bit like nostalgia – it’s fresh material, but it nods back hard enough to get your Gen Xers suddenly feeling 18 again. How else can a person be expected to get through the weekly shop? The first half is an embarrassment of riches, but it isn’t hyperbole to say – and certainly in the context of epochal hits like “Mr Brightside”, “Somebody told me” and jams as solid as “Jenny was a friend of mine” – that the second half is a bit embarrassing. If memory serves, then The Killers give us a better album with “Sam’s Town”. But then memory is a funny thing.

Capitalism, according to various thinkers concerned with the cultural mode of postmodernism, is fantastic at absorbing its critique. So good that it often goes one better – commodifying the terms of its deconstruction, always-already negating its critics … to the extent that if they’re especially charismatic and/or unlucky, they’re turned into t-shirt designs. In the early 00s, Greenday was smarting. “Warning” had represented a doomy portent only to the band themselves: they were in danger of becoming obsolete. Greenday huddled, began tracking a new record … and then the tapes were stolen. It’s a sliding doors moment, as had they released “Cigarettes…” they might have disappeared forever. Instead they scrapped the project and began working on what would become “American Idiot”. And the rest is history; or, as the angel of history might put it (and in more ways than one), “a bad record.” As the angel sees history piling up before her, destructive winds driving her forever backward, this album can boast a mounting body count of better artists and their ideas. Here there’s melodies lifted from Bryan Adams, Joann Jet; riffs and ornamentation seemingly lifted completely (surely Dillinger Four got an out of court settlement?); and then – not content with having “musically quoted” from The Kinks on the abortively boring “Warning” – there’s the one where our Anglophile magpies return to Blighty to the answer the question of “what would happen if ‘How soon is now’ was also ‘Wonderwall’?” I wouldn’t mind it – in fact I might even enjoy it – if it weren’t for the fact that it feels so nakedly cynical. Everything about this album feels like the result of focus group testing: the “emo” uniform, the accusatory anti-government stuff (“this trended great with the NOFX kids, Bill, just consider it”), the “concept” of a “Jesus of Suburbia” – a figure who might be the target persona of this elaborate marketing action brought to musical life. And then there’s the “punk rock opera” element: songs that blend into one another, a creative choice that feels grafted onto the whole thing late in the piece after someone noticed that everything’s in pretty much the same key. It’s enough to have one wondering whether the “American Idiot” being narrated isn’t actually you, the listener, for ever letting yourself think that this meant anything more to Greenday than revivified album sales numbers. So, while I’ve been trying to keep my cool through this review, I also need to be fair to myself: this felt fucking lame in 2004 and it feels fucking lame now. This is not an album of rebellion, these are not songs of resistance or hope. This is a pastiche of punk, the sound of the end of history. There is no alternative. Suburbia’s soundtrack is the only game in town. For 15-year old Matthew’s sake, here are three albums released in or before 2004 that I loved back then, succeed where American Idiot fails, and actually should be on this list: “Sticks and Stones” by New Found Glory (pop-punk that looks for you, finds you, and stays with you; actual magic); “Casually dressed and deep in conversation” by Funeral for a Friend (the ultimate melding of post-hardcore and emo, unapologetically hi-fi and edifyingly anthemic); “Tell all your friends” by Taking Back Sunday (atmospheric, antagonistic, bratty, brash, brilliant – gigged into shape, never knowingly focus-grouped).

From a seat on the windowsill, a bejumpered Carole gazes back at us – we’ve interrupted her reverie, but that’s ok. She’ll tell us what she’s been thinking about. A problem shared is a problem halved, and this record doesn’t scrimp on problems. Nor does it scrimp on quality; what’s here is perhaps the neatest distillation of Carole King’s genius available. The song craft, the choices, the melodies, ideas and lyrics that ought to have existed forever – and in a way did, in so far as they perfectly capture something common through human history. It’s a melancholy affair, and the whole thing – from the palette of the album art, to the slightly dusty feel of the mix – amounts to a thorough exploration of our collective autumnal soul. That bit we have that’s caught; that enjoyed the light and warmth of all before but feels it, inexorably, cooling. Carole takes us there and keeps us there. Her characters are always somehow doubting something – never whole, and careful not to totally let themselves feel so. They’re either busy configuring themselves around another’s affections or intentions, or basking in the edifying glow (albeit temporarily, cautiously) of an other’s unbroken gaze. It is to our eternal lack, the bit that wants to know for sure, that “Tapestry” is addressed. And for the simple fact that none of us is ever fated to fill it, be glad that we have a friend.

If you’re to go to the effort of conceiving, writing, practising, refining, recording, mixing, mastering, distributing performing and touring a 69-song concept album then I feel that it’s only fair that I judge you exclusively on the merits of your 69-song concept album. Did the concept, in that most ineffable manner of speaking, succeed? Did it justify the additional demands placed on vinyl producers, warehouse logisticians, shipping and last-mile delivery companies, record shops, listeners and anyone else involved in the process of creating and participating in art? Did The Magnetic Fields manage to make something that’s greater than the sum of the sixty-actual-nine parts presented? From the offset, I’m unsure. I’m into song two (admittedly, still less than 3% of the way through the record) and I’m fearing that what I’m about to spend almost three hours subjecting myself and my family to is an exercise in the art of the possible. Yes, a good enough 69-song record about love can be made, just don’t expect it to move you beyond a polite toe-tap. Enjoy the concept because it’s the concept that really sells it! A minute or so later those clouds of doubt are further massing. My mind has raced off. What if the 69 OK songs about love leave me little space but to conclude that all of this is, this whole thing, creativity, concepts like “essential listening”, all of it, is just so many appeals to a completely predictable cultural median value. The joking use of “69” isn’t in reference to, ahem mutuality, but is rather a coded message about music itself being a sort of analogue for a composite number – multiply two positive integers and anyone can score a hit. What if this album about love forces me to fall out of love with … music? As is so often the case, “A chicken with its head cut off” forces a sharp re-centering of perspective. It’s a funny song, honky-tonking its way around the place like the titular beheaded chook. But then it starts to dawn on me – this isn’t a throwaway line. It’s actually a really quite perfect analogy for a set of feelings that might be best captured by the image of that poor bird. Who, I ask you, hasn’t been made to feel like a chicken with its head cut off by love? Have you ever lived otherwise? It all clicks into place for me from here. There are truly fantastic standalone songs that I’ll cherish forever (“Sweet-Lovin’ Man”, “No One Will Ever Love You”); surreal ditties (“Punk Love”, “Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits”); tunes that, given their subject matter, make me feel appropriately uncomfortable (“I Can’t Touch You Anymore”) or bittersweet and wistful (“I Don’t Want to Get Over You”) or reflective of how profoundly in-love one can be lucky enough to be (“Nothing Matters When We’re Dancing”). Even the stuff that doesn’t really work as ‘a song I like’ doesn’t fail to move me (a boudoir is the last place “For We Are The King of the Boudoir” should be experienced). This is an epic kaleidoscope, a constantly shifting tangle of states. We’re in love, out of love; experiencing love unrequited, giving love, returning it with interest. We’re also in ourselves, in our beds, at our best or brought low by it. It’s visceral. It’s essential. It’s fucking everything, the whole fucking point. When I proposed to Fleur, I wrote an accompanying letter. In that, I borrowed from Alain Badiou, for whom “Love is a quest for truth.” It’s a line given fresh resonance by this collection of songs. And it’s a collection of songs that gives the most important thing in any life exactly the attention it deserves. So yeah, Magnetic Fields “succeeded”. This is a masterpiece.

Last we spoke, only a couple of weeks ago, it was Hunky Dory – “Changes”, “Life on Mars”. So it’s a little confronting to so soon find myself here, David’s momento mori. His autoepitaph. His goodbye. With this record, I finally get it. And not just because this is an album charged with reference points and influencers I get along with already – although that helps – but because of what that actually means. Why is a man who had been one of culture’s most chameleonic, mercurial and successful lights for 50 of his nearly 70 years listening to Death Grips and Kendrick Lamar a few months before he died – let alone using those records as reference points for his final creative sign off? And smuggled away in that question is the thing I wasn’t getting about David Bowie. His ultimate vitality. I was so busy looking at him as a leader that I never really, properly let myself see him as the devotee to sound, colour, light and life that he was. And that’s in evidence here. Songs like “Blackstar”, “Lazarus”, “Girl loves me” are sombre while sprightly, look backwards while thrusting forwards; they’re legacy while never letting themselves become eulogy. This is something new, another contribution to the conversation David was having with us, with music and with posterity throughout his incredible life. And so here we are. Blackstar is seven songs sent from just this side of the event horizon, a postcard from the most alive person to have ever lived. I finally got it.

I have scattered memories of Suede from childhood. There’s one that’s just Brett Anderson going up (or “coming up”?) on an escalator – we’re at the top but crouching down, seeing him steadily appear – there’s a lot of blue and black, and I’m wondering why they’re in Meadowhall after everyone’s gone home to bed already. It’s around that time that I’m told by various men about the importance of a good hifi (perhaps not literally, but rather through the decisiveness of their actions when around a tall all-in-one and general seriousness of their expressions). There’s the bloke my mum’s mate is going out with who likes to play Garbage on repeat. There’s the fella next door who puts Toploader on and has it blasting out his conservatory while he tends to the BBQ. And then there’s grandad, who I don’t actually remember ever seeing interact with his hifi system but had some cool looking CDs. It’s the 90s, and we are shiny disc – don’t scratch it! – worshipping audiophiles. And it’s here, in this groove of memory (I’m analogue, sorry), that I place my impression of Suede. A band who could give a home speaker system a ruddy good run even if they don’t do much else for a listener like me. This is all absolutely fine. There are really well crafted hooks (“The wild ones”), very tasteful nods to their influences (Bowie, especially throughout) and some stirring atmospherics (“The asphalt world” is a personal highlight). There’s often a bit too much – guitar, whining, strings, song, songs – though, and the accusation that this is a pretentious record certainly starts to feel fair by the ”Still life”’s final “swell”. But it’s also a portentous record, in many ways – something like “The Black Parade”, for example, feels like a spiritual cousin. I’ll pay it the due respect, but likely no more.

I just can’t connect with Led Zeppelin. Obviously, it’s all in there: riffs, rocking rhythms, “Stairway to Heaven” etc. Good stuff! Thing is, though, if I’m going to enjoy a load of dudes taking silly things – mythical wars, outre symbology, trees, fairies – way too seriously, they’ve got to be wearing corpse paint. It’s the only way I can handle it. And so I get through this album twice with a smile, enjoy the occasional bop, and get on with finishing dinner. It’s good! They won’t miss my deeper adulation, I’m sure.

I’ll try and get the obvious out of the way first: the last minute of Bodhisattva is so strong a gust of what-can-make-music-so-fucking-brilliant that it threatens to capsize me (and by extension my attempts to really encounter this record) every listen. How it stumbles, twists, grows in confidence, breathes, starts to run, looks up, then screams. Ah. If it fails to make you feel alive then urgently seek help. It’s just. Fuck. Guys. “Countdown to Ecstasy” is a wonderful amalgam of rock, jazz, blues and whatever else (bluegrass, skiffle, R&B, French?) the fellas fancied integrating and elevating. It’s a typically smooth, strongly melodic bit of work, but there are edges to it to enjoy, too – “Show Biz Kids” swaggers, machined-in to the beat, while “My Old School” is finger-pickin’ funk that unapologetically shreds its way towards Hendrix then bails out and scurries back to surf. And that’s something, really. The Dan seem to have an infallible instinct for knowing where they are and where they want to be. They feel in control; never too close for comfort to their source material – pretty much “iconic acts no one can sensibly think of approaching with anything over than reverence” – while also never so far out that their innovations feel obviously contrived. Back to Bodhisattva. It’s true that it ends with a sort of triumphant freak out, but it’s equally the case that the song’s already been excellent for three minutes or so by then anyway. In each cycle through the verse, chorus structure it’s changing things around, giving vent to different harmonic expressions, picking up speed, accumulating ideas, placing motifs that you’ll delight in hearing again later – played a little quicker or with a little more brio. Again you’ll feel it’s all completely under control, right up until the moment you can’t be. And for this the song is, of course, a countdown to ecstasy properly. They’re the real deal, what else would you expect from them?

It’s Thursday February 27 and Fleur, Dave and I have been to see Fontaines D.C. The Dubliners feel at the peak of their powers, touring their fourth record, “Romance” – primed now to push them that bit closer to what’s undoubtedly their goal: world domination. It’s eleven very good songs that you feel, at times, might have quite stretched the lads creatively. And it starts with a swelling, droning din that cuts abruptly to a melancholy jangle of notes. It’s Saturday March 1 and I’ve some catching up on albums to do! I start with Thursday’s record, Yes – the sort of band I’ve spent a listening life aware of but ignoring. “Fragile” is their fourth studio record; nine songs showcasing a band at the peak of their powers, stretching themselves creatively, aiming for world domination … and it all starts with a swelling, droning din that cuts abruptly to a melancholy jangle of notes. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about coincidences. How they might happen, what factors make them more likely – why a person can sometimes feel and then be portentous in the most incredible or unlikely ways. And while I’m not necessarily given to magical thinking, I love letting a coincidence maybe mean something – if each instance is a single clap, then let the series be the sound of the universe applauding itself. “Fragile” is, first things first, a fantastic record – prodigious musicianship, production. There’s a humbleness to it, too; a dash of humour accompanying all the ‘big vision’ theatrics. It’s serious on all the levels that matter for a record like this. I play the album a couple of times while making dinner for my visiting in-laws, then leave it on in the background while we eat. As it happens, Fleur had also noticed the Fontaines parallel, Bernadette hears “Roundabout” – “they had a couple of good songs, this is the best” – and it triggers a memory of having seen Yes years ago. Tim, sat beside her, hears track two (“Brahms and Cans”) and asks “Is that Brahms? It is, after a fashion, anyway…” and by “Long distance runaround” – my favourite track – I’m wondering why the Wikipedia for Television’s “Marque Moon” mentions a jazz influence to Verlaine and Lloyd’s guitar work but doesn’t cite a Yes influence. (I do a similar bit later with The Number 12 Looks Like You – a mathcore band I loved in the 00s who surely owe a similar debt to Yes and/or prog bands just like them.) No moment around that dinner table is strictly a “coincidence” (not in the spooky-synchronicity sense), granted – but our collective experiences feel like they amount to something. It’s Yes in the middle of the centrifuge, spinning sugar into strings. It is distinct experiences characteristic of totally different lives lived across three separate continents and seven decades, here assembled – coincidentally – around a table in Rockingham, Western Australia. It might be tempting to ask here whether everything, all shared culture, experiences, perspectives etc etc is then, by my generous definition, a big coincidence – and on a particularly existential day a person might say, for better or worse, that it is. But I doubt that just any record could have encouraged so many personal reflections on that day. And to that extent, “Fragile” felt meant to be. Returning to thoughts on coincidence; in short, I think it’s a numbers game. The physics of co-occurrence deem it that the more experiences a person collects, the more coincidences they’ll uncover. The echos a person will apprehend, both in the moment and through time, just have more to bounce off. Put a record as filled up with ideas as “Fragile” on and something’s bound to resonate. It might sound un-magical, even boring to say as much – but it needn’t be. The edifying truth is that there’s poetry in the everyday, and coincidence is cosmic rhyming. Say “Yes” to more. You’ll eventually be glad you did.

I’m only ever a right-shaped moment in time away – as we all are from anything, pretty much, of course – from being shown to be a right fickle sort, but as things stand I’d answer the question of “Clapton, Beck or Page?” in the same way Bartleby did when asked to do his job. “I would prefer not to.” I don’t know what it is about the words “guitar legend” that so throughly chills my blood but I’m starting to suspect it’s actually simple. Maybe I just don't really like it. I’m, and with respect, a bit bored by the output of these grand juggernauts; these behemoths; these elder statesmen of the six, twelve and occasionally seven stringed vessel of etc etc amen. Maybe it’s a reflection of a personal limitation somehow, I’m open to the idea … but yeah, no thanks lads. This record is absolutely fine. It anticipates a whole load of stuff I love*; and I bet had I been bouncing around watching England bring it home in ‘66 I’d have been entirely enthused by the ecstatic portions of sound presented herein. But for all the clear and obvious good gamesmanship of an album like this, my soul remains unstirred. No heroics, no goals scored in extra time. A good record that I doubt I’d be able to say I’ve heard in a year’s time. Who knows … maybe I’ll be better placed to get it by then. 2.5 *Full credit to Beck’s riffs on that front, admittedly.

To the bottom right hand corner of the all black front cover of Metallica’s Metallica sits a coiled timber rattlesnake. In early pressings of the album the snake’s made almost imperceptible by its dark grey colouring, but I promise it’s always been there. The snake design is borrowed from the 1775 Gadsden flag, a banner that gives the snake a thorny subtitle: “Don’t tread on me” (also the title of track five of Metallica, for the avoidance of any doubt regarding the snake’s provenance). Initially designed by Christopher Gadsden for use by the American Continental Navy (whose chief task then was intercepting British supply ships en route to arming their countrymen in the Revolutionary War), in its 250 year history the flag has seemingly meant something to everyone across the American political spectrum. Libertarians globally have stood under the flag’s bright yellow, appropriating it as their signature shade; abortion rights activists have twisted the snake into the shape of a uterus, a warning to anyone who thinks they have sovereignty over a woman’s body; Jan 6 rioters paraded it around the US Capitol as the world looked on, horrified. (My favourite “Don’t tread on me” fact concerns Nick Offerman. Both his Libertarian turn in Parks and Recreation, Ron Swanson, and his romantic survivalist at the end of the world in The Last of Us, Bill, are seen with Gadsden flags in their possession.) Having shifted millions of albums worldwide since its release in 1991, you’d have to say that Metallica has as broad a valency as Gadsden’s flag. People click with it; “Enter Sandman”, “Sad but true”, “Nothing else matters” – these are songs that the numbers indicate it’s safe to assume someone will like by default. And yet … Few records elicit as many groans for me as this. Time and again I’m left begging them to get on with it, assuring them I get it, willing them to play “Master of the puppets” instead. From the often turgid lyricism to the lame use of an orchestra (something they doubled down on in the utterly fucking woeful S&M) this is exactly the sort of album you’d expect a thrash band who want to make some money to make. (That they chose to do it under the watchful eye of Motley Crüe’s producer itself tells you plenty.) It’s profoundly big enough and profoundly bad enough, unfortunately, to bring us back to Gadsden’s flag. Shorn of any properly political dimension – seriously, just try to bleed any actual perspective or insight out of the macho fightin’ talk on this record – the snake’s nobly pugnacious sentiments feel only sneering. Bellicose. Stupid. And to that end, perhaps Metallica is a fitting final form for the plucky serpent. Maybe that revolutionary spirit embodied by “Don’t tread on me” has now turned in on itself for good – coincidentally, Hetfield has said this record was the sound of the band turning “in”. Maybe the aggressive-seeming-but-ultimately-nonsensical snarl we hear on tracks across this record actually anticipates American exceptionalism’s collapse into American isolationism. It’s a bloody minded mentality; and this is music for picking fights to. Revolution. Independence. Expansion. Petulance. Ostracism. Sad but true.

Weird, fun – out there in a way that stops it ever fully coming in here. Thanks, Dr.

There was much I hadn’t realised until I finally put this record on. For one, the origin story. Initially asked to sing because he dressed interestingly on nights out, Phil Oakey was barely even in the band when they rebranded from The Future to The Human League. And by the time Dare was released, the founding lineup had entirely changed out (“The Ship of Theseus” might have been a more apt band name, on reflection). Then there’s the sort of embarrassing penny drop that Phil Oakey is also the one singing about electric dreams. Under different conditions, I might have gone my whole life never knowing that. The thing that most surprised me, though, was the appearance of “Don’t you want me” right at the back of the album. Now, had this been an AOR record, it being track 10 would have made sense to me. But this isn’t AOR, it’s big pop bangers (might this record, and that song, even be the birth of the modern concept of the “pop banger”?) – you don’t put your strongest material at the least accessible part of the vinyl. And you certainly don’t fight your management and record label when they suggest releasing it as a third single from the album. Phil, what were you thinking? Track one might help get us to half an answer. “The things that dreams of” – a Kraftwerkian verse into an anthemic, singalong chorus; a formula that repeats on “The sound of the crowd” and others also – puts me in mind of not The Nolans, Brotherhood of Man or ABBA … but Gang of Four (who, it transpires, also released music through Fast Records). Sharp angles, sparse melodic arrangements, sprechgesang lead, call and response dynamics in the backing vocals – everything I love about Entertainment is here, it’s just been blown out, lacquered and given a smokey eye mesmerising enough to hold a whole generation of TOTP viewers hostage. “Darkness” is a particularly arresting tune; essentially three well crafted sections welded together with heavy atmospherics, it has – and, arguably, to an extent, sort of throws away – the album’s only big crescendo. (That I’ve felt compelled to listen to the song at least 20 times this week may indicate that it isn’t at all a “thrown away” opportunity … it’s a guarantee you’ll be back.) Not that it’s all moody dramatics, though: “Do or die” is a full colour bit of buoyant dance floor bait; and has me wondering how much The League were listening to Talking Heads’ Remain in Light from the previous year. At any rate: so far, so post punk. And then we come to that final track. I’ve been hearing this song my whole life – but then haven’t we all? It’s a song so good and so ubiquitous that I’d be surprised if there’s anyone out there who doesn’t have a story they attach to it, a memory or an anecdote. (Full disclosure, hearing “Don’t you want me” for the first time through a proper pair of headphones recently was completely exhilarating.) So what is it about the song that works so hard for so many? Is it the completely unapologetic run up and down the scale; is it how that same dynamic – up, down, building up, breaking down – bares out in the story arc presented in the lyrics, right down to the prevaricating ‘change of mind’ reflected in that pre-resolution note noodle; is it how it taps into a whole spectrum of feelings – in the process nailing the relationship between bratty arrogance and aching vulnerability; is it simply the fucking “woah oh ah woah” of it all? Yes, probably, definitely, certainly and a million other things. What “Don’t you want me” definitely isn’t is a post punk song. It’s a big behemoth of a pop banger; an archetype; an apex type, even, whose place at the top of the synth pop food chain will probably never be seriously challenged (that the group were jealous of Gary Numan feels, years later, especially cute on that score). The thought occurs that – since it sits on an album full of songs that had me drawing connections with some of the more serious reference points listed above – maybe “Don’t you want me” is the most contrarian, punkest thing about Dare. Anyway, let it retain some of its mystery. For as long as there are hearts in our chests to yearn with, “Don’t you want me” will resonate. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen to the nine songs before it on Dare too.

Now this is a Queen I can get on board. For all its whinnying on about ogres and fairies – literally – there sits on this record a handful of hip-swinging heavy rock songs. Ah, hold on, I’ve just had a thought … While considering why these songs about profoundly daft mythologies feel also so in possession of a profound sense of the libidinal, it finally dawns on me that the ogres and fairies may be euphemisms. And before you try telling me that something a black queen is just a black queen, you’ll first need to clarify what it is Freddie means by “I’ll be your bad boy, I’ll be your bad boy” if not “he’ll be your bad boy.” Queen II isn’t just a Queen I can get on board with because it’s heavy. It’s a Queen I can get on board with because it’s barely concealing its true intentions. There’s a freedom to this whole thing that I’m not convinced I’ll find anywhere else in their catalogue (I didn’t in the doldrums of “A night at the operas” circus silliness anyway). Big riffs, bonkers production ideas, moonshots that actually come off and more falsetto shrieking than the Bee Gees trapped in a temperamental shower. This is a Queen album I can finally lose myself to, perhaps because it feels like I’m hearing a member or two of the band finding themselves, musically and otherwise. Let the ogres do battle, indeed.

Boredom is a necessary condition of adulthood. Not the skittish boredom of hyperactive childhood, or the “I’ve got nothing on” boredom of one’s teenage years – a boredom freighted with anxious-joyous anticipation – but actual, brain-numbing boredom that threatens to form an ocean of apathy so vast that you can’t hope to ever be rescued from it. Bored as you may be, it’s your duty, as an adult, though, to get on with it. You’re invited to find in the tedium rhythm, in the dull a purpose. You’re reminded that if it didn’t feel like work you wouldn’t need to pay someone to do it. You’re alienated from your labour, of course you are, but that’s the cost of living. Get on with it. If that attitude of corporate ascetic were to be transformed into aesthetic, this record would likely be the result. This is the soundtrack to the hump days of your life; a bland and anodyne tour of an uninteresting series of emotions. It’s the musical equivalent of an anonymous message scrawled into a card passed around the office. While no one knows who said that mildly pleasant thing, it doesn’t stoke anywhere near enough intrigue to merit a follow up. And so I fail to finish this album, and experience that as an act of defiance. My fate might mean being bored awfully often, but I can still say “no” sometimes. Good for me.

I was six when this album came out, and when Fugees dominated the Top 40 countdown I’d pretty much live by between the ages of six and twelve. Six was a difficult age, I think. I have this memory of being quite uncomfortable in an indoor playground, maybe 20 ft high at the time, holding a bottle of Panda Pop blue flavour – tired, grumpy. The Fugees is on, “Killing me softly”. Even then, under those most testing of conditions, I liked it. I liked “Ready or not” too, even memorised some of the rap. Later I’d like Lauryn Hill, and, against all odds, I’d like Wyclef’s early solo chart hits too. (Thankfully, this record is much, much better than Mr Jean’s solo work.) Of course, that memory isn’t of the tiredness or grumpiness, or even necessarily of Panda Pop, it’s of that solo vocal that opens the track. A generational voice, which feels fitting since it’s one of my earliest musical memories (Spice Girls’ “Wannabe”, released the same year, is another early memory; another strong emotional response that will, now I’m thinking about it, form the template of all excited future reactions to new music). 29 years later, the effect isn’t any less. Fugees may have been my first ever melancholy, which is to say that I heard them at exactly the moment I needed to. Six was a difficult age, but it was made easier by moments like that.

This record is a wily, wiry, often incandescent bricolage of sound. Its textures and rhythms inform towering compositions that do so much more than provide a blueprint; they throw down a gauntlet. It’s ironic, maybe, that the thing my mind first conjures when listening to this sample-heavy affront to UK policing overreach is the classic 90s anti-pirating public service video familiar to VHS viewers everywhere – “you wouldn’t steal a…” – and its iconic soundtrack. Surely a Prodigy rip off? While there’s a somewhat dated sense of the thing having been quantised to within an atom of the grid lines at times – resulting in a rigidity that threatens to flatten the atmosphere – the propulsive momentum of the tracks will carry you through. It’s a big record, full of iconic moments; but what’s in here is also a sophisticated sort of musicality that scavenges and builds to produce its affects (what postmodern philosophy might identify as evidence of a “deterritorialising” impulse). It’s a good punk record, an excellent electronic album, and rave’s true claim to immortality.

It’s the most milquetoast of ironies; Coldplay, a band with so amazingly few characteristics to remark upon have, for a quarter of an actual century, managed to inspire the most intense of reactions from seemingly all who hear them. Good or bad, you have an opinion on Coldplay. And that opinion is either “world-beating stadium-eating monsters who have totally reinvented what it means to continually reinvent yourself” or “Chris Martin is the audio equivalent of finding out your house has been flooded”. No in between. And this is the sense in which Coldplay actually matters. Not as musicians – fucking hell, imagine! – but as early bellwethers of the defining cultural shift of the 21st century – the embracing of antagonistic dichotomies. Coldplay is a significant early entry into the pantheon of things that we love to love or love to hate, a trend they commenced but that soon swept up the likes of Nickleback, James Blunt, immigrants, and latterly the environment. What do I think? I think we live in a beautiful world, and I think that’s a really true and fair thing to say. And I think the stuff around it that he’s singing to is lovely, too. In fact, I doubt you could objectively argue against that assertion. Really, everything here is absolutely as it should be. But then, that feeling again. That feeling that Coldplay isn’t good. Coldplay doesn’t care. Coldplay isn’t here to be anything else than another reason to hate my neighbour. Weird. I swear it just sounded like safe indie miserablism.

There’s an introduction to Baudrillard that, talking about the precession of the simulacrum, presents an image of visiting an American desert only to feel like you’ve already been there on account of how many western movies you’ve seen. I’m not totally convinced by the philosophical implications of that thought – nor do I think that’s what Jean was aiming at – but it’s always stuck in my mind as a sort of warning, in its own right. Don’t let the aura of a thing be eclipsed by your familiarity with its representations. So with Dolly, I try to keep it situated. I try to hear it in-itself. And I hear, in that in-itself, an album that’s plainly country; well intentioned; and full of the sort of judgemental rhetoric you’ve come to expect from America’s specific take on Protestantism. I’ve never met a Dolly I too fondly liked.

There’s this pretty unsubtle, absolutely excellent (perfect?) moment in “Everything’s fair” as the front-of-the-mix Funkadelic sample meets the bass line in the crossfade then disappears, leaving us with Q-Tip telling a story about unrequited lust, ambition and money. (But in a way that’s never more dramatic than “casual”.) I mention this moment specifically because a) driven by a beat I can only, feebly and in awe, describe as “sick”, it slaps, and b) it feels like a nice little metonym of what’s so spectacularly cool about this record and Tribe’s whole thing. The nods back, the moves forward, the feeling of effortlessness about it all; the knowing you’re in safe hands, so letting your guard down and having a dance. The 90s that this record helped to shape might not have been “my” 90s – unless the vibe they cultivated had any bearing on Space Jam or upstream influence on The Fresh Prince? – but here in 2025 this record still feels sharp, organised and focussed. That this is a great record feels evident in it being as available to me while I’m making pizza on a Saturday night as it was while waiting for a bus on an early Tuesday morning. You don’t need to be in the mood, because it’ll transport you. Props.

Throw enough spaghetti at the wall, and some of it’s bound to stick. And, in this case of this most profligate pasta bowls of an album … it does. A bit. It sticks until it’s wiped away by the next load of spaghetti flung at the wall, anyway. Fine. No, don’t worry. I wasn’t hungry anyway, Yes. I don’t mind this record, and there are sections of it I quite like – but it’s often quite abstruse. Would it kill them to let the dish sit for a minute? Would it kill them to offer a Parmesan garnish? Why must it always be more spaghetti?

Today, Marlais received his first pair of proper shoes. And so it’s a divine cosmic coincidence that today’s record starts with “Blue suede shoes” (a reasonable description of his baby New Balance trainers). We spend the first spin of this record largely talking over it; it’s Elvis, we get it. We’ve been getting it since before his millennial revival, even. Cool. We let the thing spin down, then we talk a little about it. What was it that made this the biggest thing on the planet? How much can we say we meaningfully owe to Elvis Presley. A second listen through starts, and things begin to click into place. The bass finds its focus; the guitars spring suddenly to life; the caterwauling – so charged with energy that it cycles between states of wobbling, then teetering, then feels temporarily back under control, until… – becomes a cry through time; but this doesn’t feel the stuff of a hedonistic death drive, but rather its opposite. Something's being born here, it’s completely undeniable. This shift in perspective is not, as you might expect, because we’re listening to the record any more closely; instead, it’s come about purely because we’ve had a minute to reflect on Elvis in history, so to speak – everything from his music’s largely ignored antecedents, to the enormity of his fame, which then must have been totally without precedent. And from that vantage, we’ve imagined ourselves, for a minute, still closer in thought to turn of the century Victorians than we ever possibly could be to mid-70s punks. In that moment we’re caught, anxiously and with trepidation, between youth and young adulthood, between wartime regimes of thought and peacetime motions toward liberalism, and we’re looking for an outlet, or more accurately perhaps a lightening rod – something, whatever it is, that we’re grateful to find Elvis offering us. The significance of that moment can’t be – isn’t, really! – overstated. Hearing Elvis in these songs give shape to adolescent hankering is to feel yourself being thrown back in time – not to the 1950s, but to your own brief spring of limitless potential. And that’s what this Elvis record is, really. An invitation to experience an emotional immediacy you’re encouraged, as an adult, to dull; and a nice reminder that to find the magic in something, sometimes all it takes is to let yourself walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

I tell Fleur that I’ll buy her “something amazing” if she can guess who this record is by. She throws out Crosby, Stills and Nash and Jefferson Airplane and even Bob Dylan … and I’d have probably done something similar. My own ballpark explanation as to why Gene Clark felt so foreign a name was that he “must have been in another band first” – accurate enough, but in practice as helpful (and safe) as saying I suspect he had hair. Anyway, Gene exists. Gene was in The Byrds. And Gene had hair. Gene also wrote some stirring, melancholy songs that walk a line between folk, country and rock in often surprising, sometimes mesmerising ways (for example there’s a section on “Lady of the North”with a violin that’s simply sumptuous musicianship). But it does feel like Gene’s memory is under attack. And that’s a huge shame, because “No Other” is a fantastic record that’s surely within a shout of being one of the most sophisticated pieces of Americana out there. It’s baroque, effete but also knowing – too clever by half, perhaps, to have remained a fixture in many minds for long. It’s not like you can say this record has been forgotten everywhere, though. I’m time and again reminded of Stephen Malkmus’ “Traditional Techniques” – and surely it’s the song craft of the likes of Clark that Malkmus is apeing across that (very good) album. I’ll certainly be returning to it, anyway; be it directly, or in another such hagiography later on.

That The Kinks – chroniclers of the British experience (though, if we’re being honest, isn’t it just “English”?) – managed to put out a concept album that covers emigrating to Australia tickles me enormously. I suppose I hadn’t ever fully considered just how important a strand of the British psyche “going to Australia” has been (and for well over a century now); the lingering upside down uncanny, as if at some stage Britain’s history decided to pack up, leave and live out an alternative destiny at the global antipode. It’s a place that you lose people to. This is another absolutely solid Kinks record. There simply can’t have been a bigger chorus in all history up to that point as in “Victoria” – I will happily be corrected on the idea, but might it be the first big indie rock banger? It sounds stadium even sitting on the train, off to service my mortgage (Ray’s ongoing patronising of the routines of adult responsibility portends punk’s most petulant attitudes). Songs like “Yes Sir, No Sir” (a sort of Catch-22 come to melodic life), “Mr Churchill Says” (a codex for literally every guitar band in the 80s and 90s), “Brainwashed” (unbelievably stylish in every facet) and “Australia” (direct, wild; the sound of a promise not being kept) cement in my mind the idea that there was no better band active in the UK than The Kinks until culture pivoted to reimagining them through those guitar bands. Pairs well with sunshine, too.

Is it sad to see the American century (+) drawing to a close? Yeah, maybe. It’s uncharted waters, anyway. It’s odd to think that my children will grow up with a different locus; they won’t watch Friends and feel desperate to live that (sic) NY life, or crave, deeply, a twinky without knowing for certain what one is. Among the various items of cultural detritus they might wade through as they attempt to gain a sense of just what America meant to mum and dad they might find this epic. And they, as I have, may arrive at the unkind conclusion that only in a century dominated by a certain kind of cultural mode could an album like this be elevated to “classic”. 1.5.

Oh last night I put this album on (I won’t say which album) and sure, I thought it started strongly (I won’t say how strongly) but then sure enough I started to lose interest (I won’t say which interest) until finally I read a Wikipedia page (I won’t say which Wikipedia page) and then I saw that this was the result of a project (I won’t say which project) that was bringing to life the works of famous songwriter (I won’t say which songwriter) who had died an untimely death (I won’t quite say how he died) and whose legacy deserves to draw fresh breath (I won’t say what kind of breath) and I realised this endeavour is the result of an awesome idea executed thoughtfully and with so much love – even if there’s only one song I actually really liked (I won’t say which song I liked).

So while reviewing RATM’s debut, I said a whole lot of stuff about that word “motherfucker”, and oh oh oh did I not then totally grasp precisely how loaded with rock n’roll history that tight little portmanteau is. “Kick out the jams motherfuckers” might have been a call to action too far for mainstream America to get behind in 1969, but I guess that’s their loss. Five minutes into this album, I’m telling Fleur that there’s no way I could have liked the Beatles in the late 60s if this is what they were up against. This is simply fucking fantastic – not a single moment wasted, every moment demonstrably wasted. Almost 60 years later, my enthusiasm for this record transforms into a mess of limbs. I’m air guitar. I’m air drums. I’m warbling along like whatever that dude’s doing in the background too. I just love it. MC5 need no introduction, but if we must insist on one – let it be “kick of the jams, motherfuckers” and let that be that forever.

I guess that some of these songs were among the first “hits” I ever properly clocked. Songs like “Babylon” and “This year’s love” were, at the turn of the millennium, absolutely massive. They kicked off a rude run of form for the perma-troubled troubadour, one that hasn’t really ever concluded (what is a Benson Boone if not, ultimately, just a sexier shade of Gray?). And yet the story of White Ladder – a self-produced effort by a young artist that didn’t much bother listeners first time around, but found a global audience (including, at one point, 1 in 4 Irish households) upon rerelease 18 months later – is, for better or worse, more interesting than the record itself. Take the hits away – songs which themselves excel at giving precious little more away than one or two charming melodies – and you’ve not a whole lot to shout about. I struggle to believe this wasn’t always drab; tales of heartache delivered by a particularly heavy raincloud. And it strikes me that to happen upon White Ladder, you first need to subtract something (The Smiths without the energy; Magnetic Fields without the magnetism; U2 without the spine). None of that is necessarily criticism, of course. Certainly, the sparseness of this album creates space for some punishingly bleak atmospherics. But it is a shame that one of the defining albums of that time feels like it’s lacking much by way of definition.

Dazzlingly good, really. Muscular, confident songs that stride out the speakers and demand attention. When you learn most of this album was recorded in a day, you first gasp but then can sort of start to believe it – if the rest of the room was even nearly as talented as Otis, magic was never unlikely. It’s a profound shame that Redding’s career was cut so cruelly short; for a minute, he might have been the brightest light in music.

I got Hybrid Theory for Christmas in 2001. In January I listened to it maybe 60 times all the way through on my bedroom CD player. In February I took it to the hairdressers because I wanted Mike Shinoda’s hairstyle on the back cover. In March I listened to it laying on my mate’s bed at a sleepover while we looked at glow in the dark stars on his ceiling and took it in turns to do the singing bits and the rapping bits. In April it was the first thing me and the hardest lad in the year talked about that didn’t involve a threat of immediate violence being visited on me. In May I decided “Points of Authority” was my favourite when it came on Radio One as we drove past a petrol station in Barnsley. In June I learned how to play “In the End” on a keyboard (in Barnsley, too). In July and August it was summer holidays, playing “Crawling” loudly on guitar in someone’s music room in the morning before booming around on bikes until it got dark. Through September and the rest of the year it was time to talk about something else, while also still watching that world tour VHS every couple of nights for all the live footage. A year of a life, at that time of a life, is a long, long time. You pack a lot in, and don’t much think about what that’ll mean for you. And as sure as I’ve a nicotine addiction to this day — I still struggle to look past Linkin Park’s Hybrid Theory. At 14 I saw them play Leeds, at 28 I sat on the couch in Finsbury Park as we got our heads around Chester’s passing; at 32 we had a table at our wedding named for “Points of Authority”. This is an album I’ll carry around for life, now. What joy it is that I’m still finding things to love about it.

Prochronism describes a moment when something from the future is placed in the past. And right up there alongside a baroque blockchains or rococo smartphones is Eddie Van Halen’s “Eruption” – a guitar solo that would have sounded pretty out of joint on any playlist of 1978’s most popular tracks (think Chic’s “Le Freak” into ABBA’s “Take a chance on me”). No doubt, EVH was a genius. (Perhaps, at times, too great a genius for his band’s own good – why, Mr Lee Roth, must you feel the need to compete?) It’s a struggle to find praise high enough for the guitar playing on display here, or to adequately capture the impact of Eddie’s innovations without lurching into sickly hyperbole – so instead I’ll do what we all wish David Lee Roth would do at times, and shut the fuck up.

I was surprised to learn that Duran Duran’s fun-loving, vibe defining, feather-headed hedonism – an attitude since tousled by time’s limitless libido into a sort of archetype of a version of masculinity – wasn’t well received by critics in the early 80s. And then I thought about the sort of person offering a published opinion on new music in the early 80s … and it clicked into place. (Strikes me the Duran Duran boys might have been doubly confused by their critical panning – it’s unlikely they’ve ever had cause to experience envy themselves.) Not to worry, the casting vote on this occasion was the public’s – and thank the saucy gods it was so. To have risked losing this album to history’s unkindness would have been a crime, really. “Rio”, “Hungry like the wolf”, “Save a prayer”; not so much “songs” as cultural quilting points, moments where music, art and general horniness meet to, erm, snog? Anyway… Duran Duran looked the part, acted the part, and sounded the part. The songs here feel remarkably fresh – surely a function of the largely live feel of the recording – and there’s plenty of strong playing and solid compositional chops. At the edges of Simon Le Bon’s debonair delivery there’s even a suitably post-punk angularity, too. Never do we go full synthy-slick. Duran Duran is always definitely a band. (With the exception of “Chauffeur”, a charming song that, pleasingly, reminded me of where Arctic Monkeys went with The Car.) Given how poorly they were reviewed in 1982, it’s almost poetic that Duran Duran’s impact on pop and 20th century music is still under-celebrated, especially compared with some of their contemporaries (and even those they blazed a trail for…). While the historical revisionism applied to this album may be unanimously flattering in tone, it might still be Duran Duran’s fate to forever be jealously held off to one side a bit. And what a legacy that would be.