The first album on this user-generated list already surpasses almost anything that was classed World Music in the original 1001 list. Organic, deeply rooted sound that isn’t filtered through Western pop sensibilities. Superb start.

The Lonesome Crowded West feels like something else entirely — a sprawling, messy, emotionally raw record that grips you somewhere deeper. And every time I return to it, I find more to admire. More to feel. It's long, intense, and often abrasive, but its urgency and honesty make it unforgettable. The sound is unpolished and tense, the guitars jittery and unpredictable, constantly shifting between jittery punk, shambling indie, and sprawling jams. Isaac Brock’s vocals aren’t traditionally beautiful. His voice is cracked and imperfect, not always in tune, but the perfect vehicle for these songs' themes: the loneliness of American sprawl, the death of authenticity, the slow decay of hope. Take “Teeth Like God’s Shoeshine.” It’s a violent opener, lashing out at the emptiness of consumerism and the flattening of individuality under strip malls and highway culture. It’s chaos, but it’s thrilling. But there’s more here than just fury. On “Bankrupt on Selling,” Brock turns inward, dropping the sarcasm and letting the heartbreak through. It’s a quiet, devastating song about selling out, giving up, and watching something beautiful slip away. The lyrics are gut-punches: “I come clean out of love with my lover / I still love her / Loved her more when she was sober and I was kinder.” Then there’s “Cowboy Dan,” maybe the album’s emotional and thematic centerpiece. It tells the story of a disillusioned anti-hero, lost in a world that’s left him behind. He drives into the desert, firing a rifle at the sky, demanding that God die with him. It’s absurd, tragic, and strangely beautiful. Brock uses this surreal imagery to express something very real: the rage and despair of someone crushed by a system that never cared. The band matches the intensity perfectly, building the track into a swirling, chaotic climax. Even in its quieter moments — like the heartbreaking “Trailer Trash” — the album never feels safe. There’s always tension, always the sense that things might fall apart at any second. And yet, they don’t. The band walks that tightrope brilliantly, keeping everything just barely together in a way that feels thrillingly alive. The Lonesome Crowded West is an album about disillusionment, alienation, the loneliness of suburban parking lots and late-night truck stops. It’s also about personal failures, moments of honesty that cut deeper than the loudest outburst. There’s anger, yes, but also vulnerability, tenderness, confusion. Few albums manage to be this thematically cohesive without feeling preachy, or this musically adventurous without falling into indulgence. Modest Mouse strikes that balance perfectly. This isn’t just a great indie rock record — it’s a masterpiece.

Even without speaking Portuguese, I could feel the weight of what Emicida was trying to say. With a little help from Google Translate, it became clear how important that message is. AmarElo is about identity, resilience, and hope, especially for Black Brazilians, but also the poor, lgbtq and more and it doesn’t shy away from hard truths. Musically, it didn’t do much for me. The beats and production are serviceable but uninspired. Just not really that good. Yet in this case, and how hiphop and reap actually should be, it really doesn’t matter. Hip-hop is a storytelling vehicle, and AmarElo delivers a story worth hearing. Sometimes the message is more vital than the music. This is one of those times.

What an album. In retrospect, this might be the best rock record of 2017. At first, it feels like a confident blend of Springsteen’s open-hearted rock and The National’s poetic introspection. But as the album progresses, the Springsteen-esque energy gives way to slower, string-laden ballads, and that journey—from swaggering to reflective—is what helps justify its nearly 80-minute runtime. David Le’aupepe’s voice carries it all: deep, rich, emotional, and not afraid to belt it out when needed. He’s clearly been through a lot (seriously, look him up), and this album feels like a cathartic purge—ending with titles like “Our Time Is Short” and “Say Yes to Life,” it's got soul and affirmation in equal measure. Sure, Gang of Youths cranks the grandeur knobs, and occasionally goes overboard with strings or cinematic flourishes—but the melodies, hooks, and feel-good energy are so strong, it’s hard not to get swept up. And above all, it’s performed with passion and heart. No idea how this album passed me by for so long.

I’ve tried. Again. And I think it’s safe to say now: jam bands just aren’t for me. Whether it’s Phish, the Grateful Dead, or Pigeons Playing Ping Pong, I hear the same directionless improvisation, fret-wanking, and fan-driven mystique… but I don’t feel anything. I get why these bands have such a devoted following: by relentless touring, high-energy live shows, and a communal vibe, but none of that translates to my listening experience. As for The Great Outdoors Jam, it brings me absolutely nothing. No standout melodies, no emotional pull, not even the novelty of weirdness to hold on to. Just a long, flat blur of jamming. I endured it more than I listened to it.

The first album on this user-generated list already surpasses almost anything that was classed World Music in the original 1001 list. Organic, deeply rooted sound that isn’t filtered through Western pop sensibilities. Superb start.

A highlight in the electronic Krautrock. It seems to have all the basic ingredients that would make electronic music big about 15 years later

It's a chaotic, horror-obsessed blast of psych-rock and garage energy, full of songs about zombies, vampires, the devil, and aliens. there's definitely some psychosis at work.

It's not bad, but John Martyn for me is always a story of never rising above mediocrity

Didn’t seem like my thing at first—too sweet, too much autotune—but a few tracks in the second half like “Unfold” pulled me back in. Not sure yet, but there’s something here. I'll give it another go and maybe it'll grow on me.

The kind of band where deep fandom hinges on live context, inside jokes, and patience for extended improvisation. The crowd’s enthusiastic clapping at the start of Stash is pure “you had to be there,” and if you weren’t, it’s more alienating than inviting. Like listening to a cult. And the fretwanking goes from “interesting detour” to “where are we even going with this?” real quick.

I was deep into Tori Amos 30 years ago, and Under the Pink was a key part of my musical experiences. If Little Earthquakes was raw emotion, Under the Pink is its more polished, possibly more powerful sibling—helped enormously by the stunning production. Back then, “Pretty Good Year” was the standout for me. Now, after a relisten, it’s “God” and “Past the Mission” that really hit. “God” especially—what a wild, unpredictable piece. No two notes land where you expect, yet it’s all held together by her voice and conviction. Slower tracks like “Icicle” and “Bells for Her” still shimmer too. This one holds up—smart, emotional, strange in all the right ways. A reminder of how far-reaching and fearless she was (and still sounds). 4,5*

I was going to write a whole thing down but thought better of it. Marillion will just never be for me.

Listened 4–5 times over 24 hours and… still conflicted. The musicianship? Undeniable. The first two tracks—What About Me? and Shofukan—landed hard with their tight grooves and rich, layered production (at times giving off Mars Volta vibes, which I dig). But as the album went on, the endless solos started to blur together. Technically dazzling, sure, but emotionally? I'm not sure it's talking to me. Maybe they're expressing something deeply felt—or maybe I'm just not wired to receive it. Still, I get why people love it. I just don’t know if I ever will quite love it myself.

I'll admit Fontaines D.C. never really made it onto my regular rotation, though I’ve always liked the singles. I've listened to all albums since Dogrel, but hadn't heard this one yet. So I went into Romance curious—would it bring that same post-punk punch? Yes and no. The spiky post-punk sound is mostly gone (only “Here’s the Thing” and “Death Kink” echo that older style), replaced by a broader sonic palette: Britpop, shoegaze, '90s alt-rock, indie, even hints of orchestral pop. And yet, it still sounds like Fontaines D.C., largely thanks to Grian Chatten’s unmistakable vocals. Honestly, I think this shift works in their favour—great bands grow beyond the genres they started in. There are real highlights here: “Starbuster,” “In the Modern World,” and the jangly, Smiths-like “Favourite” are standouts—each one distinct and memorable. But I don’t hear the masterpiece that some others seem to. Tracks like “Desire,” “Horseness Is the Whatness,” and “Motorcycle Boy” just don’t stick, and others like “Sundowner” or “Bug” are decent but not revelatory. Still, Romance feels stronger than their last two albums, and maybe even on par with Dogrel. It’s a confident reinvention that might explain why Fontaines D.C. have become the post-punk flag-bearers of their era.

What an album. In retrospect, this might be the best rock record of 2017. At first, it feels like a confident blend of Springsteen’s open-hearted rock and The National’s poetic introspection. But as the album progresses, the Springsteen-esque energy gives way to slower, string-laden ballads, and that journey—from swaggering to reflective—is what helps justify its nearly 80-minute runtime. David Le’aupepe’s voice carries it all: deep, rich, emotional, and not afraid to belt it out when needed. He’s clearly been through a lot (seriously, look him up), and this album feels like a cathartic purge—ending with titles like “Our Time Is Short” and “Say Yes to Life,” it's got soul and affirmation in equal measure. Sure, Gang of Youths cranks the grandeur knobs, and occasionally goes overboard with strings or cinematic flourishes—but the melodies, hooks, and feel-good energy are so strong, it’s hard not to get swept up. And above all, it’s performed with passion and heart. No idea how this album passed me by for so long.

FREAKS TO THE FRONT! An album I know inside-out and one that hits like a punk rock bolt from the blue. Comfort to Me is loud, raw, and totally unpretentious — a hurricane of fresh punk energy paired with direct, no-nonsense lyrics that don't care about literary polish. And that’s exactly the point. Beyond the sound, this one’s personal. After 262 days of lockdown in Melbourne, they were one of the local bands to hit the stage at the Play On Victoria gig in 2021 — and the crowd needed that chaos. Amyl & the Sniffers made sure we got it. The Sidney Myer Bowl crowd of 4000 got as rowdy as possible with masked faces and aching feet — and when the band kicked off, something shifted. It wasn’t just a show; it was a city exhaling. Every track here is tight, forceful, and urgent, and Amy Taylor is an absolute star — unfiltered, charismatic, and commanding. Comfort to Me doesn’t try to be clever; it tries to be real. And it nails it. It's just punk as fuck.

This is a confident, genre-hopping debut that shows Valerie June’s range and charm, but also struggles a bit with coherence. There’s no denying the talent here: the songwriting is strong, the voice is distinct (if not for everyone), and there’s a heartfelt musical curiosity in every track. Produced by Dan Auerbach (the Black Keys guy), the album has that retro, lo-fi 60s sound. But now, more than a decade on, it also dates the album a little. It’s the kind of nostalgic production that can slide into kitsch, and I found myself wondering on several occasions how these songs might’ve sounded with a more modern or timeless sound. Valerie June clearly has a deep love for blues, folk, soul, country, and gospel, and she pours it all into this album. The downside is that it sometimes feels more like a tour of her influences than a fully formed style of her own.

I’ve tried. Again. And I think it’s safe to say now: jam bands just aren’t for me. Whether it’s Phish, the Grateful Dead, or Pigeons Playing Ping Pong, I hear the same directionless improvisation, fret-wanking, and fan-driven mystique… but I don’t feel anything. I get why these bands have such a devoted following: by relentless touring, high-energy live shows, and a communal vibe, but none of that translates to my listening experience. As for The Great Outdoors Jam, it brings me absolutely nothing. No standout melodies, no emotional pull, not even the novelty of weirdness to hold on to. Just a long, flat blur of jamming. I endured it more than I listened to it.

Pleasant surprise, this one. A tightly produced pop-rock record that punches above its weight. It blends energetic high school rock with sugary ballads and the album is surprisingly varied and self-assured. Lyrically, I'm not that interested in it, because it’s not aiming at the life experience of a 40-something year old man. But my inner teenage girl? She had a good time. "Vampire" stood out as the clear single for good reason: it’s sharp, dramatic, and catchy as hell. And while not every song reaches that same level, there’s more than enough on here to keep it interesting Olivia wears her Alanis influence proudly, and honestly, every generation needs its own cathartic, angst-filled, high school rock heroine.

One of those cult-favorite, internet-loved oddities. It feels like a quirky student band, in the best and worst sense. colour-coded ties, barbershop harmonies, theatrical arrangements, and a kind of nerdy songwriting. Focusing on cleverness rather than emotion. It's fine for what it is.

This album feels like it was tailor-made for me. Gorgeous, emotionally honest lyrics about long-distance love? Been there, lived that, and married her, too. That bittersweet pull of closeness stretched by geography runs deep in these songs, and it’s written with that intimate melancholy that Death Cab does so well. Transatlanticism finds a beautiful balance: the louder moments are never too much, and the quieter ones, especially the stunning title track, cut to the bone. That song might just be the best thing they've ever recorded. And yet… it’s a strong 4 stars, not quite 5. Not because of anything wrong, exactly. The production, the sound, the style, I enjoy it all. Maybe it's just that ineffable something that keeps it just shy of greatness for me. But what’s here is more than enough to return to.

This is lo-fi storytelling at its most raw and charming. The whole album plays like a series of intimate confessions sung directly into a boombox, which, of course, it literally is. John Darnielle’s trademark Panasonic RX-FT500 gives the record its unique texture... and its limitations. You can actually hear the wheel grind of the tape recorder at the start of songs, and while that adds some character, it can also be a bit too lo-fi for my taste. Still, the songwriting shines through. The Mess Inside is easily the highlight of the album. Emotionally powerful, painfully honest, and beautifully simple.

I approached Misplaced Childhood with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. Reading the reviews here, Marillion’s reputation sits somewhere between art rock royalty nostalgia and over-the-top theatrical indulgence, and as someone who both loves and loathes different corners of the prog-rock universe, I wasn’t sure where this would land. First track? Rough start. The vocals come off very theatrical, almost in a forced Peter Gabriel impersonation kind of way. Combine that with thick layers of 80s synth gloss and it immediately felt like I’d landed in the soundtrack to a forgotten fantasy VHS tape. "Kayleigh" was next — a song I already knew from every best-of list under the sun. I still don’t rate it all that highly, but the bassline does some nice work. It wasn’t until Lavender that things briefly clicked. That track had more heart, a touch of sincerity, and even if Fish still seemed to be channeling Gabriel, it worked better. I’ll give them credit for the continuous flow of the album, songs blending into each other in classic concept record fashion. But aside from the occasional sonic curveball like Waterhole (which made me perk up), the rest felt like derivative mid-80s prog that’s too in love with its own gloss. The production is just too 80s for me — not in a nostalgic way, but in that over-sheened, emotion-flattening way that sucks the energy out of the songwriting. Ultimately, this didn’t offend me, but it also didn’t excite me. There are flashes of potential and moments where it reaches for something deeper, but it doesn’t have the emotional weight of Genesis or the bite of Floyd. Just a bit of a pleasant, overacted meander.

This is a fun one. Fast, loud, unapologetically punk from start to finish. It’s high-speed, high-energy Ramones/Misfits-style punk, delivered live and surprisingly well-recorded. The songs blur into each other in a way that works for a while — you’ll be nodding your head, maybe even grinning — but after an hour of relentless tempo and samey structure, fatigue sets in. Fittingly, the second song chants “tout le temps pareil,” which pretty much sums it up. My French is shaky, but I caught enough to get the vibe, and it seems fine. Honestly, this is a solid live punk record — nothing life-changing, but it scratches the itch and I would've 100% checked these guys out on a festival in the early 90's

Apparently this is one of the ultimate country classics and her breakthrough record — which is surprising, because it opens with painfully by-the-numbers pop-country. For a while I thought I’d be stuck in radio-friendly line-dance hell. But when Carpenter slows it down, something interesting happens. Rhythm of the Blues is a real standout, a ballad with genuine emotion and depth. Only A Dream is another one — melancholic, textured, and easily the best thing on here. Unfortunately, those moments are islands in a sea of safe, stock-standard country-pop that blends together. Not Too Much To Ask might be one of the worst offenders — cloying, saccharine, the kind of ballad that makes your teeth hurt. I’m glad I gave the whole thing a fair listen, but this one’s just not for me. Her ballads show real talent, but the rest? Skippable.

I’ve now listened to this four times, and like a few other reviews, I really wanted to like it more than I do. On paper, it’s got a lot going for it: a Civil War-inspired concept album wrapped in scrappy punk energy and Springsteenian ambition. There are moments that catch my ear, and I admire the scope and intent, but somehow it all washes over me without landing. It’s loud, it’s clever, it’s ambitious… but it doesn’t grab me emotionally or stick in my memory. In one ear, out the other. Maybe I’ll come back to it someday and it’ll click, but for now, it’s a respectful shrug.

Listened to this twice and… I genuinely have nothing to say. It’s 70+ minutes of dreamy, lo-fi indie pop that’s all vibe and no spine. It’s pleasant enough, and I know that's the vibe they're going for, but the whole thing feels like sonic wallpaper. I get the aesthetic, but I need something to hold on to. Even the better tracks ("Tailwhip", "Show Me How") barely ripple the surface.

Three tracks into Once and I already couldn't believe this is considered one of the flagbearers of symphonic metal, a genre pioneered so beautifully by bands like The Gathering. This feels like a caricature: all the bombast, none of the nuance. Nemo, the lead single, is basically hollow symphonic Top 40, bringing nothing special. Planet Hell was the first track I actually enjoyed, mostly thanks to the keyboard player: there's some real atmosphere and restraint there, which is completely absent elsewhere. And then... Ghost Love Score happens. What a song. It’s like the band finally decided to write with purpose. The buildup is powerful, the choir and orchestra are used tastefully, and even the rhythm section feels inspired. There's tension, there's variety, transitions. It’s almost like a different band entirely. Okay, the guitar solo in the middle is kind of dreadful, but I'll forgive it. In the end, Once feels like an entire album built around one song: Ghost Love Score, with Planet Hell as the only other real standout. The rest? Bloated and unmemorable. But those two songs just about save it.

The Lonesome Crowded West feels like something else entirely — a sprawling, messy, emotionally raw record that grips you somewhere deeper. And every time I return to it, I find more to admire. More to feel. It's long, intense, and often abrasive, but its urgency and honesty make it unforgettable. The sound is unpolished and tense, the guitars jittery and unpredictable, constantly shifting between jittery punk, shambling indie, and sprawling jams. Isaac Brock’s vocals aren’t traditionally beautiful. His voice is cracked and imperfect, not always in tune, but the perfect vehicle for these songs' themes: the loneliness of American sprawl, the death of authenticity, the slow decay of hope. Take “Teeth Like God’s Shoeshine.” It’s a violent opener, lashing out at the emptiness of consumerism and the flattening of individuality under strip malls and highway culture. It’s chaos, but it’s thrilling. But there’s more here than just fury. On “Bankrupt on Selling,” Brock turns inward, dropping the sarcasm and letting the heartbreak through. It’s a quiet, devastating song about selling out, giving up, and watching something beautiful slip away. The lyrics are gut-punches: “I come clean out of love with my lover / I still love her / Loved her more when she was sober and I was kinder.” Then there’s “Cowboy Dan,” maybe the album’s emotional and thematic centerpiece. It tells the story of a disillusioned anti-hero, lost in a world that’s left him behind. He drives into the desert, firing a rifle at the sky, demanding that God die with him. It’s absurd, tragic, and strangely beautiful. Brock uses this surreal imagery to express something very real: the rage and despair of someone crushed by a system that never cared. The band matches the intensity perfectly, building the track into a swirling, chaotic climax. Even in its quieter moments — like the heartbreaking “Trailer Trash” — the album never feels safe. There’s always tension, always the sense that things might fall apart at any second. And yet, they don’t. The band walks that tightrope brilliantly, keeping everything just barely together in a way that feels thrillingly alive. The Lonesome Crowded West is an album about disillusionment, alienation, the loneliness of suburban parking lots and late-night truck stops. It’s also about personal failures, moments of honesty that cut deeper than the loudest outburst. There’s anger, yes, but also vulnerability, tenderness, confusion. Few albums manage to be this thematically cohesive without feeling preachy, or this musically adventurous without falling into indulgence. Modest Mouse strikes that balance perfectly. This isn’t just a great indie rock record — it’s a masterpiece.

This album mostly just made me tired. Green’s flat delivery, underwhelming melodies, and lyrics that seem to aim for clever but land somewhere between smug and pointless didn’t do much for me. Apparently, this is part of the New York anti-folk scene, where irony, lo-fi kitsch, and deadpan absurdity are the whole point. But it just comes off as flimsy if you’re not in on the joke.

This is brash, fuzzy pop-rock with glammy guitars and punky attitude—but underneath all that sneer, it’s actually a lot of fun. Nick Christian Sayer’s rockabilly-tinged guitar work gives the songs some swagger, even if the songwriting isn’t always memorable. It sits somewhere between Sigue Sigue Sputnik and Fuzzbox, with a splash of synthpop gloss and a whole lot of 80s attitude. You won’t find hidden depth here, but for loud, energetic house-cleaning music? It more than earns its keep.

I grew up with a couple of Tool megafans in high school in the mid-90s, which gave me a bit of an aversion to them for a while. Something about the intensity of the fandom made it hard to approach the music on its own terms. But I got over that eventually, and I’m glad I did. Listening for myself, Lateralus quickly revealed itself as one of the most exciting, complete albums I know. It’s heavy without being numbingly aggressive, cerebral without being cold. The drumming alone is worth the price of admission. It's complex, unpredictable, yet never self-indulgent. Guitars and bass lock in perfectly, not just to show off, but to serve the structure and mood of each track. The whole album breathes, shifts, and surges with purpose. This is where everything Tool had been building toward came together: the raw power of Ænima, the refined intricacy of their later work, balanced perfectly. It’s loud, meditative, explosive, restrained and sometimes all at once. The lyrics dig deep into personal and philosophical territory without slipping into pretension. And it all just works. I could say so much more, but honestly, it’s all been said. Lateralus is a masterpiece of modern progressive metal, and one that never loses its emotional core. An essential listen, and one of the most glaring omissions from the original 1001 Albums list.

Fun once, but in one ear and out the other. Clever and cleanly produced, sure — but it never grabs me emotionally, musically, or even lyrically. Just a quirky little blip of a record. I might put it on while cleaning, but I’d never seek it out.

This is exactly the kind of album the original list was missing. Instead of just picking the most Westernised release from a major Latin American artist, the user-generated list actually brings something bold and representative to the table. Even if Re isn’t perfect — a bit uneven in places — it’s vibrant, creative, and rooted deeply in Mexican and broader Hispanic influences. It's not just a curiosity; it’s essential listening if you care about what the rest of the world has been doing outside the anglo bubble. I'm glad I heard it.

One of the modern classics from the early 2000s, and it still holds up. High-energy, danceable rock with sharp edges — you can feel the urgency in every track. It's part of that last wave where albums still mattered, and you can hear the influence of bands like Gang of Four all over it. “Banquet” especially could’ve walked straight off 1979's Entertainment! with those stabbing guitars. This might not be wildly original, but it’s tight, exciting, and very well executed. Really enjoyed it.

Cool start with the opening song with that bass swinging left to right, and “Sense Of It” held my attention later on, but the rest just didn’t live up to the promise. I like noisy, off-kilter rock, but this wandered into noodly territory without the payoff. Admirable idea, forgettable execution.

Look, I won't knock anyone for loving catchy bubblegum pop. This starts off decently enough — bright, uptempo, and a notch above some of the soggy pop that made the original list. But submitting this as a must-hear-before-you-die pick? Bold move. After the first few songs, the quality drops like a stone. “I Said Never Again” and “Some Girls” are fun, but most of it fades into a blur of copy-paste pop. “Dumb Dumb” offers a bit of flavor, but overall? Not dying to hear it again.

If I ever want to let someone hear how to NOT play a note and let silence between the notes do heavy emotional lifting, then this is the album I'd put on. It's music that warrants your attention.

Even without speaking Portuguese, I could feel the weight of what Emicida was trying to say. With a little help from Google Translate, it became clear how important that message is. AmarElo is about identity, resilience, and hope, especially for Black Brazilians, but also the poor, lgbtq and more and it doesn’t shy away from hard truths. Musically, it didn’t do much for me. The beats and production are serviceable but uninspired. Just not really that good. Yet in this case, and how hiphop and reap actually should be, it really doesn’t matter. Hip-hop is a storytelling vehicle, and AmarElo delivers a story worth hearing. Sometimes the message is more vital than the music. This is one of those times.

The fact that Look Sharp! didn’t make the original 1001 Albums list is baffling. No Joe Jackson at all? But six Elvis Costello albums? That’s just criminal. This album has been on repeat for me for the past two days. It’s deceptively smooth and accessible, but the more you listen, the more you hear how sharp the songwriting and arrangements really are. Graham Maby’s bass work is phenomenal—propulsive, melodic, and playful—and Joe Jackson’s lyrics are clever without being smug. There’s real charm here, and I often catch myself grinning while listening. What really sets this record apart is how versatile it feels. It's great when you're in a good mood thanks to its punchy energy, but you can just as easily sink into the lyrics when you need a bit of catharsis. ‘Sunday Papers,’ ‘Is She Really Going Out with Him?,’ ‘(Do the) Instant Mash’ and 'Got The Time' are clear standouts, but honestly, there isn’t a weak track here. It works as a cohesive whole and holds up to repeat listens without losing any of its freshness. I don’t hand out 5-star ratings lightly, but if this one doesn’t deserve it, I don’t know what does.

Storms outside, swirling guitars inside. Revisiting Bloody Kisses today, I wasn’t sure what I’d feel. This was an album I played to death in my youth — a goth metal classic soaked in atmosphere, sardonic humour, and Peter Steele’s baritone. I half expected it to feel cringe in hindsight. It doesn’t. In fact, it holds up better than I imagined. After the bruising Slow, Deep and Hard, Bloody Kisses was a drastic pivot. The hardcore roots aren’t gone, but they’re pushed to the back as romantic, doom-laden goth takes centre stage. Christian Woman and Black No. 1 kick things off with a theatrical flourish — slow, massive riffs given space to breathe by Josh Silver’s moody, melodic keyboards. The lyrics in both tracks are tongue-in-cheek, playing with tropes of religious guilt and goth vanity. The call-and-response vocals only add to the campy fun. And yet, Bloody Kisses (A Death in the Family) changes everything. Here the irony vanishes for 10 minutes, and you’re left with a stunningly slow, mournful, sincere doom piece. The drums drag like grief itself. The solos ache. The keys wrap the whole thing in a gothic cathedral's worth of atmosphere. It’s the emotional core of the album, and perhaps the best thing Type O ever recorded. That emotional punch only makes the return to playful weirdness more effective. The Seals & Crofts cover Summer Breeze shows again how much 60's influence there is on this album. We Hate Everyone and Kill All the White People are lightning rods of controversy, but also tongue-in-cheek middle fingers to the people who misunderstood (or deliberately misrepresented) Steele’s politics. If Untermensch from the previous album provoked outrage, this album gleefully toys with that fallout. Steele never backed down from confrontation — I still remember Carnivore handing out communist propaganda at gigs — and he used shock just as much as sincerity to make a point (and sell records). Even the strange interludes ("Fay Wray Come Out and Play", "Dark Side of the Womb") add to the sense of chaos. And yet through it all, the album flows, never outstaying its welcome despite the hour-plus runtime. Listening again today, what stands out is how Bloody Kisses walks the tightrope between camp and genuine feeling. It’s dramatic, erotic, heavy, completely ridiculous, sorrowful, romantic, and tons of fun — sometimes all in the same song. That contrast is what makes the album so compelling. Steele knew when to wink, and when to cut deep. For all its theatrics, Bloody Kisses is sincere where it counts. It’s a towering slab of goth metal that still stands tall. And damn, it’s good to have it back in rotation.

Without knowing the backstory, this just sounds like a scattered collection of unfinished electronic tracks, some promising ideas, but nothing that fully lands. But once you do know the history (that this was a leaked, unpolished work that derailed Jai Paul’s career for years) it’s easier to see the intrigue. There’s a raw talent buried in here, like glimpses of what could’ve been a groundbreaking debut. As it stands, it's more myth than masterpiece. Interesting, but not essential.

Wait... Kick wasn’t on the original 1001 list? That’s wild. INXS were absolutely everywhere at the time. This album shows them at their peak, blending Aussie pub rock with late-'80s new wave in a way that still holds up today. Most of the spotlight tends to fall on Hutchence, and sure, he’s a great frontman. But Andrew Farriss is the one who really holds this album together. As the main songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, he shapes the sound—from slick synthpop to rock guitar swagger—and gives the album its drive and style. Not every song hits quite as hard, but the overall quality is high. The best tracks are undeniable, the grooves are tight, and even the weaker moments are still fun. Solid 4 stars from me.