1001 Albums Summary

Look out, you rock and rollers. More melancholy than a lot of his other work, but still tempered with silliness. (Still fucking hate 'Kooks', though.)

We get it, Rog. Your dad's dead and it sucks. Fuck up, champ. (Teenage me thinks this is HERESY.)

Debuting two songs in front of a bunch of prisoners? Of course he does, because he's Johnny fuckin' Cash. Not quite as good as At Folsom, but still pretty great.

I know they're twee and often cloying (and beloved of the cardigan brigade) but this was a revelation to me: truly bumming lyrics clothed most often in upbeat, layered music. Real kitchen sink stuff with occasional moments of pure elation across a remarkable debut album. 'Expectations' and 'She's Losing It' are stars amongst several all-timers on here. And it's all the result of a Scottish welfare scheme. This was the first album I bought when I moved to the UK in the late '90s, probably because it had been rereleased on Jeepster. Proof that those listening posts in HMV Oxford St really worked.

A paranoid and soupy stew. Difficult to decipher, this isn't a favourite, though there are a couple of moments which stand out. Production is *very* strange.

This sounds like something that could've come out last week: hooks and annoyance. That sax! Angry and fun, this was a real surprise. Given that they only released a few singles and one album, seems they didn't fuck about. (I wonder how much of the difficulty in finding this album (it's not complete or available on Spotify or Apple Music locally) is because of Polly Styrene's 2009 beef with Google over royalties?)

Surprising. Not enthralled by the beginning but as the album deepened I was pulled in. Some almost Fourth World sounds on some of the instrumentals.

Not their best (though they all thought so) this was a bit different to the usual Smiths sound and production- and arrangement-wise showed where Morrissey solo would end up.

An endearingly dorky amalgam of styles. Doo-wop, country honkin' vocals and that jangly Strat. More spacious and immediate than I'd remembered, I dig that cardboard box beat. Way better than Bill fuckin' Haley.

What happens when you have to top one of the biggest albums ever made: you just get better. Musically it's more Gilmour than Waters, and the better for it. Excellent tone and a tide of both grandeur and ennui. (Also, that 'Have a Cigar' intro is one of the most porno-sounding things ever recorded. Class.) Definitely higher in the pile than Dark Side, deservedly so.

Hayride Springsteen. The precursor-to-Stadium-Big-Hat-Country production occludes the songs a bit.

The mix is terrible but IT DOESN'T MATTER because this is pure amphetamine rock 'n' roll. Jerry Lee Lewis is an absolute madman, and a 12-bar blues never sounded so fuckin' wild. Completely unhinged, and I'd've been disappointed if it was any other way.

Sounds very of-its-time, but there's some interesting songs on here. Not as legendary as I'd expected, but still a diverting listen, especially given what Bjork would go on to do.

Excessive, stupid and fucking great. Songs about fucking, fucking teachers, and, uh, Benny "The Jet" Urquidez. A perfect encapsulation of big-hair metal that's still caned at pubs at 2AM everywhere.

The first "weird-period" Waits album I listened to. Still mostly unskippable, it's like being read Chandler in translation by a gypsy leprechaun. Remarkable work. (Man, I wish I could play guitar like Marc Ribot. What an absolute GUN.)

ON WHICH a hippy sings folky songs about living in a teepee, SHREDS GUITAR LIKE A GENRE-PRESAGING MOTHERFUCKER, and pens the final line of Kurt Cobain's suicide note.

A sprawling thing of joy. Not entirely my thing – I think I prefer Talking Book – but incredibly influential and surprisingly consistent given a) its length and b) the fact it's his EIGHTEENTH ALBUM.

An intensely personal album about being in and out of love. More direct than other Dylan albums, this has a strength that I didn't appreciate when I was a callow youth. Now, I get it.

Post-Army Elvis returns with increased range and improved phrasing AND in stereo! This is a neat portrait of growth from a guy who thought the Army had killed his career. I wouldn't have thought the King was subtle enough to nail 'Fever' but bugger me, he is. A real surprise.

First: dude's 31 on the cover but still looks like a teenager. What the hell? I know people give him stick for cultural tourism (probably moreso thanks to Graceland than this) but instead this sounds like a dude who loves world music and gets to, y'know, RECORD WITH JIMMY CLIFF'S BACKING BAND. You would, wouldn't you? The songwriting here sounds so natural it should be a crime.

Them nerds done good.

So, Irish soul slaps harder than you’d think. I just begrudge them the Mumford-spawn.

Sounds a bit like Soul Coughing making a Babybird album, but without being quite as good as either.

That certainly is A LOT of synth for so little enjoyment.

I'm pretty amazed that this was produced only six weeks after getting a new modular Moog setup. I'd still be trying to get a fucking sine tone out, let alone have mastered the sequencer. Classic precursor to Berlin School electronica, capturing an incredible sense of cloudy space. (With phasing!)

I was only familiar with the Australian band of the same name. This one rocks nuts much harder though.

Who knew that something that begins with a Ulysses-inspired tune would turn out to be so lush? Layered, dense, and beautiful.

Honestly, all these stars are for the phased organ madness. Everything else is either much-aped now, or a bit cack: but for brainless driving it's a jam.

In which outsider folk makes a terrifying anti-drug PSA.

Somehow both poppier and more boring than I was expecting.

I sympathise with the guy on the horse. Trees and feet, hey?

This is some soupy stuff, which sounds almost parodic. I've missed the boat. I left my flares at home. (Also they're probably responsible for RHCP.)

Infectious. Top flight stuff from a killer ensemble, even though Afro-Cuban jazz isn't my thing.

Smooooooth. Prototypical lounge music now, it's pretty remarkable that this was knocked out in a Unitarian church and became the go-to definition of samba for people not actually from Brazil. Amazing tones, still. Getz is a monster player, here accompanied by more than able foils.

Take the piss but this is a great white-guy-does-Stevie jam if you let it play.

I'm certainly not the target audience for this, and I'm uncertain why this would be chosen over some of her other albums – albums I have liked, but feel blend into one.

For intensely hippy stuff that was radio-played to death in its heyday, this still stands up pretty well.

An arse-slapping, Smiths-succeeding, coke-huffing ball-tearer of a debut. Still stands up.

I don't know what I was expecting, but this was much better than that. Fewer harpsichords, more attitude!

In which an Atari ST soundtracks adverts.

This is a lot folksier than I remembered! Less robotic than you'd expect for krautrock, it's an unexpected delight.

Poor cover album.

Some cracker songs that sound like they were recorded from inside a drawer.

Far less hey-nonny-no than I had imagined.

Ur-goth spaciousness.

A sparse delight. That VOICE.

ATTITUDE. The album that got fratboys into hip-hop.

Attitude and chops. This bridges a couple of styles, and I'm amazed there hasn't been a follow-up as big.

Wonderfully bummed pop.

CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA

Proper tear-in-my-beer stuff. Everything on here just works, from the instrumentation to that keening voice. Wonderful, and a hint of the controversy to come over 'The Pill', later on.

Supposedly a concept album, but I can't discern the story because the shadow cast by the singles is too long. Yeah, it's about "age", I guess, but that's some broad brush strokes. Still, some excellent songwriting on display. Unsurprisingly, really.

Following up the biggest album of your career with a bunch of inscrutable tunes (the best of which features a marching band, which will always rule) takes ENORMOUS BALLS. (Also, it's named after Mick Fleetwood's pet name for his wang, so there's that going for it as well.)

For the children.

It's amazing how bummed an album created on a fuckload of doped honey can sound. Rough as guts, but it works.

Half an album of grim impressionistic instrumentals, half an album of of-the-cuff vocals, unplanned until record was pressed. It shouldn't work but fuck me, it does.

Smooth and smart. Definitely the way in for people unused to hip-hop.

A sprawling, messy album that highlights a pop sensibility backed with vaudeville and experimentalism, as well as some kick-ass guitar. Holds up a lot better than I'd remembered, especially on headphones.

This is just a more inscrutable version of Muse.

Cosmo’s Hit Factory more like, wot wot.

This snotty Junior Kinks album is pretty great, you know.

Cocaine and Adultery: the album.

This is a more solid eight hours' work than I've ever done in my life.

Reverbed wig-outs are rad.

When this was released I thought it was deep and emotional but upon relistening it appears fucking insufferable. Nice music, but those vocals? Drunken elves.

A fist to your fucking face.

I honestly have no idea what the fuck is going on.

Drugs are bad, but they get a pass for resulting in an album as depressively great as this.

This is very appealing goblin music.

Terrible yet great.

If you want your drive to feel like a PSX game, then this is your album.

A lot less appealing than a proper Wu album.

This Pearly King writes some bummer narratives, doesn’t he?

Half Bad-Seeds-Do-Vegas, half heartfelt. Better than I remembered.

At least the cover art is mildly diverting.

Fucking great. Despite variable production, this holds up well 30 years later, some skits aside.

Supremely enjoyable, this.

Good production can’t cover the fact that this is still a collection of fucking Christmas songs. Also, fuck Phil Spector.

By the numbers, somewhat appropriately.

Overblown and underwhelming. Sounds like Hunters and Collectors with tickets on themselves.

An absolute monolith. Gnomic on first hearing, enlightening after multiple.

Ain’t nothin’ like a me thing.

I'm not on enough cocaine for this. Enough with your summery bullshit, Stephen.

The talent in the Finn family is just ridiculous. Some misfires here, but when they work, HOLY FUCK.

As much as I find Paul Weller fucking insufferable, when he's good he's great.

This feels like a millennial-soundtracked ayahuasca trip.

Dated in terms of arrangement and production but still some powerful, affecting songs.

The kinetic energy on this thing is fucking incredible. Dazzling shit.

Look, no.

Listening to this makes me think old mate from Joy Division was on to something.

Some shit-hot playing on here. Wouldn't normally listen to stuff like this, but this one stays.

Angry and danceable. Brilliant stuff.

Widescreen? Widescreen. Still sparkles.

A party I'm not supposed to be at, but it sounds GREAT.

Considered a flop at time of release, this is basically a more upbeat Belle & Sebastian album. It's great.

Never got them at the time. Retrospectively, this reads as a less-stoned Dinosaur Jr or a less-wanky Sonic Youth.

Was there anything he couldn't do? I mean, really.

Hobbits and lemons and stolen tunes but it all just WORKS.

This could be any one of a million mediocre white dudes with an acoustic.

Fuck the folkies, this thing swings.

Ah, Brian.

This album sounds like the lead-up to a BIG hangover.

Band has big "Jamiroquai but different be-hatted cunt in charge" vibes.

Close listening is worth it. Mind you, so is being off your face on acid.

King's a songwriting titan. It's surprising how much of her stuff you know without knowing.

NERRRRDS!

The wonderfully dumb alpha and omega.

Darker than I remembered. That production! That voice!

Not as good as the debut but darker in a very appealing way.

Honestly a lot better than I had expected given his later aural wallpaper.

Very tea-and-toast British, but still endearingly grim.

It could just be the title track for the whole duration and it would still be just as good.

This sounds like the background music in every '90s upscale hotel.

I'm not on enough coke for this.

As claustrophobic and entrancing as when I first heard it. A high point.

There's a lot you can criticise Ye for, but this album isn't one of them. I'd probably act like a dick if I'd released something as cohesive as this, too.

I had no idea 'Street Life' was an ELEVEN-MINUTE SONG. I'm not sure if they did, either.

Toot toot it’s the SS Anxiety!

Protean jams.

Beautiful pain.

Rockin' nerds. Overlong, but still a jam.

Band: Let's score this like an upbeat '80s film! Leonard: Here's some lyrics about the AIDS crisis.

Stylish but soporific.

There's a comedy vagina on the cover. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

The ribbon of melancholy that runs through this is quite addictive.

“At the height of his powers” is a hackneyed phrase but it must’ve been invented for this album.

I find Wayne Coyne to be remarkably insufferable – the QUIRK! – and though you can smell the bongwater throughout this, there's some good tunes.

This sounds like a very particular type of party in the late '90s.

Patchy, but when it works it's fuckin' great.

Some very clipped stoner action. Surprisingly deep.

If you're wondering where the '90s exotica thing borrowed heavily from, then this is your album.

How can something be mysterious and devoid of character?

Quite lovely, really, all the magic dust bullshit aside.

That sure is a catchy song about wanking.

Flawless production. Not entirely my thing (as much as her later albums would be) but still worth it.

Is this the whitest album ever made? ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES.

Not as wild as earlier stuff, but supremely polished and wry. Dig it.

Bit rah-rah stereotypical soused-in-a-circus music, but the dude knows a killer chorus.

Solid twanging.

Californian confectionary.

Ding-dong, Lou Reed et al calling.

A woozy opus.

Completely normal to have a groundbreaking album as, you know, your EIGHTH. Still pretty great, oo-er missus.

I pledge no allegiance to such dated backing tracks.

If Dinosaur Jr were a Weezer-influenced band (without the fetishes).

There's way too much RHCP vibing going on in this for my liking.

I'm much more into the Nebraska style of Bruce, but you can't deny the electricity the flows through this album. That title track!

I don't want to live on this planet any more.

An interminable album by an alcoholic racist – who stole a piano part from a bandmate's girlfriend – best known for a song about how he wanted to bone a good mate's wife. Big selection of "put this on so the DJ can take a shit" tracks.

Sounds like a studio project, though some of the tunes are catchy. Very digital distortion sheen over things.

An OK cover band I guess.

Nina's leftovers are way better than many others' first-choice albums.

HMS Big Fucken Whoop, more like.

Whip-smart debut, this.

Deeply fucking grim, and I'm someone who gives *hobbit prog* a pass.

An absolute all-timer. Half concept album, half bangers.

This one's much better than the later San Quentin album. This list doesn't need them both: keep Folsom.

You know, they could've shot the messenger.

Those nerds know their way around a song, yep.

A Thatcherite critique you can dance to.

Probably the only Stevens album I come back to regularly. Something about bittersweet tunes about serial murderers.

Look, their next one is MUCH better.

I mean it's Prince, so it's technically brilliant. It's also twice as fucking long as it ever needed to be.

That brilliantly miserable bastard.

A ridiculous talent and an incredible tragedy.

Smooooooooooth. (Ignore the expanded edition.)

Strong. Still not my thing, but strong.

There's a reason this thing was so big. Still sounds pretty great, and a lot better than most of their following albums.

A proper trip. I've never gelled with much other Primal Scream stuff, but this album is a stoned killer.

Just take the L, man. Christ.

Look, he's not his dad.

Production sounds dated but also inextricably linked to this album. Some great songs.

I've never understood this band, and another listen to this album hasn't changed that.

Production has dated but the songs are still strong. That voice.

Ridiculously talented stuff.

I'm not on enough drugs for this.

I missed the boat on these guys, and I'm not particularly sad about it.

Overlong, but still chock-full of bangers.

Like most hangs with stoners, it goes on a bit long.

I can only assume threats of physical violence against list authors is the explanation for this album's inclusion.

Like being on a ride to a Californian beach in a van driven by the Manson Family.

Machinelike cool.

Taken by complete surprise. The writing on here is just so ridiculously good. A real treat.

If Ken Loach were a band, he'd be Pulp.

Simple and solid. Still kills.

Slick, soulful and just not my thing.

Damn, I was expecting to hate this. But it's actually pretty great.

Percolates a lot more than similarly-vibed bands. Good stuff.

In which an insufferable prick, aided by more than competent musicians, makes a song about being a creeper.

A smooth cracker.

Icy horror.

Curiously goofy.

Great tune, so-so album.

Finely honed.

Slick, with great production. I don't like the dude, but this is pretty infectious.

Gloriously sloppy.

Snotty trust-fund jerks make good.

A grower. Not great, but the good songs are BRILLIANT.

The preferable era of Genesis.

This version of James Brown is more slick, but something's missing.

A passable album does not a cunt redeem.

Stealth country. Does what it does pretty well. I probably won't seek it out again, but there's some great songs here.

Many more good jams than I was expecting!

Christ alive this is bad.

A rough diamond, pressure-formed by pain.

This album proves that relativity exists because it's only an hour long but it feels like fucking six.

Ridiculously smooth.

NERRRRRRRDS

Longer than it needs to be.

Milquetoast: The Album.

Widescreen.

Wonderfully, powerfully stupid.

Very much a best-of band. Good in points but overall: meh.

This still sounds incredible.

The sound of night car trips throughout my childhood. Delightful.

There's some bangers. And then there's a cover of Imagine.

The third in a line of practically perfect albums.

Hey nonny no, baby.

Such a light touch for such serious stuff.

This music PUNCHES AND FUCKS.

Big dumb dancin' fun.

Remember how he made a terrible movie after this? Good times.

That's gonna be a no from me.

Snotty party music.

Elvis is a dick but this one is all right.

Jesus that's a of of fiddle.

Pop from another planet. Just amazing.

Creepiness starting to filter in.

Drugs, hey?

I liked it better when they didn't write their own songs.

Instead of using a vocoder, Bowie used Iggy.

Ubiquitous, understandably.

Absolutely fucking not.

The fact I'd forgotten this is justice in itself.

I hadn't expected there to be a quaint ZZ Top album, but here we are.

The apogee of this particular style. Still fresh and cool.

Wild that GIs made this pop-punk weirdness.

I get that it's an important album but fuck me Jello Biafra is insufferable.

Precisely constructed songs of joy and ice.

The album that launched a hundred bands.

Another collection of wonderful songs for sad boys.

Like, wow man.

Spellbinding portrait of a transitional time.

Eccentrics, man.

Mournful with FM vibes.

A bit much of a good thing.

Smoother and more multi-layered than I would ever have expected.

Every day is improved by an eighteen minute Jimmy Webb cover.

Either delightful or an ice-cream headache, depending on your mood.

Fuck no.

What you get when you order Bruce Springsteen from a 1910 Sears Catalog.

Laid-back jams.

Turns out they were fucking great straight out of the gate, hey?

This album really goes from the sublime to the ridiculous.

And to think they'd go on to make even better albums than this.

What a hammer-blow of an album.

An album of Proustian moments.

Delightfully bummed evenings in.

Still rips.

Without this, there'd be no Richard Branson ballooning. I guess that's a tolerable price.

Supremely polished.

Cooler than you.

An excellent record of a troubled life.

Still amazing.

Rocks a lot harder than I thought it would. Pompous and great.

Still overwrought and deeply resonant.

San Francisco has a lot to answer for.

How this remains fresh sounding after so long is an absolute fucking mystery.

Is it a strong album? Not all the way through. Is it a banger? Yep.

The sound of a carny having a midlife crisis. Perfect.

Smooth, but my French isn't up to the task.

Certainly is.

I'm not drunk enough for this.

Delightful tinnitus.

Androgynous soul? Nice.

A faded photobook of memories.

Bit bummed, isn't he?

Yee-har.

Boxy production but still pretty great.

Not as good as the first three but still a top time.

Surprisingly not awful.

The number of fucks Paul Simon gives can be estimated by the fact that this album begins with a song about skin rashes.

That’s some juicy cheese.

The most excellent and righteous mixtape.

Good, but not great.

Scuzzy goodness.

Still phenomenal.

Cowgirl crooning.

Accomplished but still not my jam.

Pop goodness.

SWAGGER!

YEE HAW YEAH NAH.

Transformative.

Louche and prissy, it's still great.

Missed it at the time, don't care about it now.

Ridiculously heavy.

When it's good it's GREAT. When it's not, it's ehhhhh.

Soulful wonder.

This or a desert drive? Difficult choice.

Wait, there were FOUR albums before this? Christ.

Surprisingly layered. Good stuff.

Didn't really get it/still don't.

Look I'm both too old and not on enough drugs.

Oh, so you think YOU'RE depressed? You've got nothing on this.

That's a lot of fiddle.

This has no right to be as great as it is.

More personal than I remembered.

Banger.

Great music supporting an obnoxious asshole of a singer.

Subtly crushing.

Shut up mum I'm a grown up

I get that it's significant, but christ, edit that shit.

This is not convincing me that Elvis is great.

While it initially appears less aurally confrontational than her other work, the layering on this thing is just incredible. A real grower, and still sounds fresh.

As a follow-up, pretty good.

Look, it's softcock stuff but it's great.

Beigest of the beige.

Powered by bitchiness. Dude could write.

And this is his FIRST album. Jesus Christ, what a talent.

Slick.

I enjoyed this a lot more than I remembered doing.

Stupidly good.

Morrissey would kill to put out something like this, but with more racism.

Motherfucker can't say 'polaris' properly.

Much less cheeky-chappie than their other albums, and better for it, even if it's not quite as catchy.

Look, shouting in French over drum machines and samplers has never sounded so good.

Look, childhood exposure ensures I can give this no less than four stars no matter what faults it may have. (Not many of those though, I must admit.)

Buzzy but somehow pedestrian.

Sleazy, starry-eyed fun.

Still not as good as In Sides.

Bloody hell.

Not as polished as Fear of a Black Planet, but when this works it knocks you the fuck out.

Not as good as his preceding album, but still better than most songwriters' output.

It's a behemoth, and therefore impossible to review dispassionately. David fuckin' Gilmour, folks.

A failed experiment – an ode to the in-studio live album Mingus made – that's way too flabby, but there's moments of brilliance if you look. The ensemble is fucking great.

A compact gem.

Such excellent bitchery.

Look, I've never got them as an album band and I'm probably too old to start now.

Widescreen yet personal. One of PJH's most compelling and consistent albums.

Look, it ain't my thing.

Anselmo is more interested in vulgar displays of white power these days.

Not for me then, not for me now.

The album that launched a thousand dadrock bands.

That's a lot of synth.

Motorhead were always best in three-minute bursts. This is a LOT more than that.

Look, it's still good. But it ain't no Fear Of A Black Planet.

A lot more varied than I'd remembered.

I really shouldn't like this, but it's infectious.

Hey this bar band's pretty good.

Spiky and still full of jams.

A bit too big band for me, but still effortless.

That tick-tack bass.

Always left me cold. Mad Season was much better.

OK hippies.

Is it possible to view this thing disapassionately? Fuck that, five stars forever.

This is fairly terrible, but I have a very soft spot for it.

Overlong, but a lot better than he's been in years.

Protean horrors.

I feel bad that David Rawlings is associated with this chode.

That Canuck seems fairly bummed.

Dude's insufferable but also undeniable.

Just listen to Primal Scream for fuck's sake.

With tunes like this I'd be a cocky fuck as well.

From albums named after shit to political agitator, hey? Naaaaah.

Young me never got Marley. Young me was a bit of a dick.

On some level I feel I never got Sonic Youth. This is OK, but nothing spectacular.

I honestly don't care. You'd think I'd like this and you'd be wrong.

How do you top the first four of their albums? With this one: indulgent as fuck but still great.

I have an ice-cream headache.

Some honest, hard workin', car drivin', go-nowhere-with-your-girl music.

Knowing Mark Knopfler wrote 'Private Dancer' makes it that much creepier.

That's one good-sounding sad cowboy.

Primitive genius.

Seems a lot more brittle and scattered than I remembered.

Hey it smells like patchouli in here.

Things would only get better. More druggy, too.

I don’t care.

Never as great as I imagine it is.

Angular fun.

Damn this is smooth.

Smooth.

Snappy.

Neat, but not my thing.

PLAY THAT FUCKIN' JUG.