The ur-Bob talking blues record.
I might be spoiled, as my first exposure to Tommy was the full-cast anniversary edition. The songs are here, but the songs feel lightweight in comparison, with the album as a whole feeling bloated.
While some of the lyrics fall into cringe territory (at least to a modern ear), this stands as a prime example of everything that was great about early-90s conscious hip-hop.
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Zep showcasing their breath of musical knowledge and enthusiasm for pushing boundaries.
Sonically adventurous, and marked by Björk's ear for dynamic melody. I'm just not sure it's an album I'll end up listening to more than once.
Used to be my favorite Zep album, but it's light had dimmed somewhat with time. The songs are still great (Four Sticks!!!!!!!!), but the record as a whole doesn't have the cohesiveness as earlier efforts. Bonham still fuckin' pounds, man.
I can see what they're trying to do here, and I feel like I'd be down with all these elements. But together, it's a miss.
I wish I liked this more. Some of the songs are so much a part of the canon by this point. I think that may have dulled its impact a bit compared to listening to it with fresh ears.
Realizing now that this is where *all* the millennial singer-popwriter molds have been cast. From the mumblecore lyricism to the busy dancing-on-my-own production, this album conjures up all the dreams of clubland melancholy. While this isn't For Me per se, I'm down with the vibe. Get in loser, we're going crying.
Noir-drenched baselines for creatures of the dark.
There's a fine line between genius and stupid. The Ramones sit happily on that line, huffing the marker used to create it.
Not as saccharine as I anticipated. Infused with good jangle.
I could never get into The Divine Comedy. Dramatic overwrought sadboy britpop is better served with more archness, as shown by Messrs Cocker and Gedge.
*Extremely Butt-Head voice*
Uhhh...is this Coldplay?
Cut a few songs, and I'd rate this much higher. As it stands, there's too much bloat between a couple of immortal singles.
Kendrick seals his reputation as the most essential artist of the 2010s.
So, prog always feels like the artists conflate "best music" with "most music". Still, I get where people are coming from wrt Peter Gabriel's vocals and Phil Collins' drumming. There's just so. Much. Going. On.
Witness the birth of slick.
Was not expecting this. Surprising experiminimalist work that sets a course for other germs like The Books. I can dig it.
I have always hated the Whiskey Bar song.
For the children. Gruff, grimy, and genius.
The Dude was right: I hate the fuckin' Eagles. The classic rock equivalent of greige house paint.
Did a dad make this list? What a snooze.
Witness the creation of post-glam.
I think I get thrash now. Practice your scales, kids.
Sitting at the intersection of twee and shoegaze, this album does a lot. That may be a stroke against it, as it feels about 10+ minutes too long.
The title track has been a go-to karaoke jam for ages. On the whole, it's solid MOR rock and/or roll.
I was a skeptic, but now I'm a believer. Maybe it is possible to be a gangsta, a lover, and a poet at the same time.
Setting the mold for extended double-and-beyond albums, this record goes for it. Bangers? Quasi-solo songs? Experiments, failed or otherwise? Yes, yes, and yes. It's a showcase of a band that has hit its peak and begin to come apart at the seams.
Solid dance-punk full of polyrhythms and melody. Loses a star for the band's abhorrent alleged behavior.
The OG punk poet priestess whips is all into an ecstatic state. May not be a repeat listen, but essential nonetheless.
This is probably better in a crowd than on headphones. I like a little more variety in my loops. Hack the planet.
My punk-rock both jingle-jangles and rolls.
Better than I remembered. Radiohead at the point when they wanted to be the next Pink Floyd, before they realized they could be the first Radiohead.
Stripped down songwriting that bridges the Depression -era folks tradition and the new troubador movement of the 60s and beyond.
Robert Pollard and Peter Buck both owe Roger McGuinn royalties.
Torch songs for the Tinder era.
A stunning mix of harshness and delicacy. One of the few places that I'll allow the drop-D bass tuning. Skin is like no one else.
Holy cow, this album must be responsible for the conception of so many children.
An adrenaline-fueled rush of melody and dynamics.
Of all the reggae albums that could have been chosen for this list, this is what they went with? Snoozers.
Total surprise. Great flow, amazing beats. If this is the warm up for her masterpiece, as Sometimes I Might Be An Introvert is supposed to be, then bring that record on.
Cold, calculated, erotic.
The first of many S-tier albums from the legend.
So much going on here. That's one thing that has always stuck out about Prince - how demands out of his bandmates, and just how dense his songs get.
More than just the cocktail bar song, this album sets the detached vibe for the New Wave.
Challenging and provocative. Portishead take what worked so well about their first two records (noir-drenched trip hop, Beth Gibbons' haunting vox) and update it for the age of post-millennium tension.
Hitting right in the sweet spot between punk and industrial.
Setting forth the early promise, Jackson steps out of his sibling's shadow.
Anxious post-punk. Solid, but not my favorite.
Enough ink has been spilled on this one. Just listen to it.
I liked Holmes' Bow Down to the Exit Sign, but this felt like sonic wallpaper.
Annie Lennox has been around for so long - and definitions of androgyny have become so, well, flexible - that it's easy to lose sight of her voice as something otherworldly.
Polished indie sleaze. The hits are total bangers, but the rest is mediocre.
I think Steve Winwood might be my musical nemesis.
I listened to this last week, without prompting. Take that, algorithm.
*adjusts porkpie hat*
*skanks away*
Wham bam, thank you ma'am.
The Theme is the GOAT, but the interstitial tracks spread things too thin to warrant inclusion on this list.
I want to like this more, but I've heard the songs so many times they've become background noise.
Combative and moody. The goth-industrial starchild.
Chill vibes that may be a little too ethereal. Moon Safari was right there, people.
This really helped me to understand where a lot of the psychedelic indie sound of the Y2K era came from. If you're a Gomez or a Beta Band fan, it helps to know your roots.
A little dated, but still a bop.
What a set of pipes. Powerful, emotional songwriting delivered all the way to the cheap seats.
Absolute fucking legend. Move your ass, and your mind will follow.
Interesting how the band's evolution from a rougher rocknroll sound to the operatic bombast we know and love occurs roughly mid-album.
Another seed from which many sounds sprang forth.
Funkdafied elevator music.
Try as I might, I just can't get into prog. So ponderous and out of my wavelength.
Warm and joyful. A delight.
Gotta get me them teenage kicks.
Give the Beth Orton track 5 stars on its own. The rest is a perfect snapshot of all that was great and ridiculous about 90s Cool Britannia - a one-trick party enamored with its own legacy. But while it lasted, what a party amirite?
East coast nihilism stands in sharp contrast to Pac's west coast existentialism.
This album has been such a party of my life for such a long time that I don't think I can review it objectively. That said, it's still immortal.
I had never listened to a-ha beyond That One Song, but I understanding their place in the synthpop family tree now. Clear connections to Bowie, New Order, and beyond.
Surprisingly fonky, but a bit overstuffed.
Probably the most Radioheady Radiohead album. But does it need to be on this list? I can think of at least 3 other albums that warrant inclusion, and there probably only needs to be 2.
From the center of the Venn diagram of garage and punk, a legendary figure will rise.
Like the first Black Sabbath album was to metal, this provides all the building blocks for the grunge era.
Hypnotic and mesmerizing.
There's a reason this is known as the teenage symphony to God.
Rocker Elvis Costello > baroque Elvis Costello.
The Stones' greatest album openers and closers, sandwiching the band at their bluesiest-loosiest.
A perfectly enjoyable collection of songs, but why is it on this list?
Shimmery guitars add an extra level of gloss to the goth melancholy.
A redefinition of R&B for the next millennium. Maximalist, layered, complex, emotional.
Power-pop hits the gym. Today is never leg day.
This is a tough album to review. What do you do when a revolutionary turns out to have feet of truffle oil? Shut up and dance, I suppose.
The mix of global beats and aggression still slaps. The content rings a little hollow in hindsight.
Chill beats for zoning out to.
Jinglourious songwriting and acerbic wit.
Decent chunka-chunka, but not enough to really grab me.
Witness the birth of the last rock star of the new millennium.
"Smithers, have Vampire Weekend killed."
"But sir, this is Grizzly Bear."
"You heard me!"
What a snooze.
A Laurel Canyon hootenanny. A fun listen for an insight into these rockers' creative process, but not something I'd put on heavy rotation.
This exercise has helped me realize just how much I like funk. The stankier the better - and this is plenty stanky.
A sampadelic bouillabaisse of hip-hop evolution.
Jazzy and funky, but a bit too aggro for my taste
Finally the blues rockers are taking acid.
I used to like this a lot more, but hearing it now it's kind of a bloated mess. There are some good songs, but the record is about 15 minutes too long.
Primordial gangsta ooze. Simply raw.
Still the greatest voice in country. Hooch and heartbreak.
Developing that syncopated beat.
So much more than the Humpty Dance.
A masterpiece in all its strung out glory.
Raw and powerful. Initially I was going to ask if this album was necessary for this list - how many slots can one artist take? - but this is as essential a debut and mission statement for Harvey as an artist that it warrants inclusion.
A pleasant listen with phenomenal harmonies.
Not what I expected at all. You can hear Watt starting to branch out, chop-wise.
Didn't expect it to be quite so frantic.
So much song packed so densely.
What if Harry Nilsson was a Beach Boy?
Somewhere, Stephen Morris is still practicing that drumbeat on the roof.
A couple of hits, a lot of filler.
Such a merging of songcraft and voice. Hard to picture one existing without the other.
Bass grooves, man. This is what holds all Creedence albums together. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to start a no-wave CCR tribute band.
Hard-driving guitar histronics courtesy of Mr. Tony Iommi.
Remarkable in its self-confidence. Production stays spare, as it knows what a powerful weapon O'Connor's voice is. Timeless.
Muttery vox, skittery strums. Pleasantly chill.
In the troika of SY's imperial height of arty cool popcraft, this is the coolest.
Smooth improvisations, great piano.
"The Funky Metronome," everyone called him. Little did they realize he took it as a sign of encouragement.
Better than Steely Dan, that's for sure.
Bouncy, weird, and essential.
At the height of its powers, Motown makes it look easy.
Witty, heartbreaking songwriting
While twee may be a cliche, this album is the reason why it was ever A Thing in the first place.
What a powerful, otherworldly voice.
Passable britpop that gets bogged down in its own momentousness. Brett has pipes and Bernard can sling a guitar, but the full record is a chore.
What a trip. A heady mix of Cool Britainnia's raw ingredients, served popping hot.
Beach House has always been more of a vibes band than a songs band, and you can really feel their Urban Outfitters shoegaze coming together here. I prefer Bloom, tbh.
Portrait of the artist slowly turning into a vampire.
Sacred? Profane? Nary a difference to Cave & co.
Hear the Stones when they were still lean and mean. It's a little overlong, and we probably could do without the casual misogyny, but it's refreshing to hear the sounds that later became cliche.
Music for airports at the end of the universe.
How have I slept on Julian Cope for this long?
Gets me high on my own supply.
Frantic and nervy, like a jittery Elvis Costello jawn.
Fleetwood Mac at their messy, shambolic, argumentative, bed-hopping, coked-up Fleetwood Mackiest. Brilliant.
So much melodrama. 90s kids know the score.
Around the world in 120 beats per minute.
Fuck this guy in particular.
The talent is undeniable, but the edgelord confrontationism is something I grew out of a looooong time ago.
Surprisingly dense for being so sugary-sweet.
Was Liam's voice always this whiny?
Trying to come up with a better descriptor than "simple," but that's all I got.
Searing and melodic. Progenitor of the Portland Bleat.
Supergrass continues its run as also-rans in the battle for Britpop supremacy.
Calexico always made me wonder why there wasn't more mariachi-infused indie rock. But then if that were a subgenre, none of the other bands would have been as great as Calexico.
Remarkable how far you can get with a little bam-thwock and a bunch of bad sex puns.
Oh, to be young and stoopid again.
Probably my favorite of Lambchop's many records. Sweeping, cinematic country.
Feeling the melody underneath the gangsta pose.
Bangers, all the way down.
Polly Jean at the height of her confidence. Like Bowie in Berlin, NYC serves as a massive creative refresher.
The height of retrofituristic cool.
