Let me check my notes… “if you want to rock, you gotta roll”, Wikipedia page says they “attack political correctness” and went blackface in early shows to “challenge the audience”. Musically, this means “rendezvous with anus”. Lead guitarist invoicing by the note. Chords strung into a forgettable rush… party band for the alt right… “Are you ready (for some darkness)” why the parentheses and which idiot thought this song needed an outro, all of these songs are too long… ah shit someone found the cowbells in the studio’s percussion larder… For the second day in a row I think of the Didjits, who made the patently offensive fun. Crap.

This was stuck to my CD player when it came out, apparently at the start of my second year in university, though I could swear it was in the first. JSBE had played one of the best rock shows I’d ever been to at UMIST two years before, making me snarling loyal to the band. I enjoyed this record, but would’ve played it a lot even had I not. After listening the shit out of it for a few months, or maybe the year, I moved on to other records, and have played it rarely since - this was the last JSBE record I bought in the week of release. Almost 30 years on, I still like it, and find myself predicting the riffs, textures and garagey-guitar sounds just before they reach my ears. I remember Simon Reynolds comparing the relationship of JSBE and The Jesus Lizard to the great rock bands of the 70s/60s as akin to that of Tarantino to Peckinpah - this post-modern art can look nice, but where's the flair, the excitement of the new, the innovation? A contemporary issue of Melody Maker drew a line from Shellac to Lenny Kravitz via JSBE. Both arguments troubled me as much as they entertained me. But the experience of hearing this post-modern artefact from the mid-90's is a happy one: what I feared might be schtick is a work of love towards the components: big, buzzing hooks, queasy melodic runs, hypnotic blue repetition, and gigantic drumming. I've just bought the deluxe version. The instruments sound great: Russell Simins one of the most fun drummers I've ever seen, and the record is a potpourri of thick and warm guitar growl and wobble. Spencer's rambling is unironically silly, and the yelps are those of an intelligent man trying to have fun. Awkward, irritating to many - clear from most of the other reviews here - loveable to me. Hard to speak of tunes around this record, as its more a collection of riffs and textures, a murky party record that has me move my shoulders up and down as I type, which is about as extreme as my dancing has been of late. I’ve a lovely memory of my dad poking his head into my bedroom as I was putting this on, and wincing in retreat to the opening scream of “Skunk”. Four, and not just out of sentiment. I am happy that I played it twice because I wanted to, rather than out of duty... To the Effort!

This is an enthusiastic “ok”. The title track throws thunderbolts down on everything around it, but the record is consistently pleasant. It just makes me wish they’d stretched to write more of their own compositions, rather than this bunch of covers that slide smoothly down amnesia alley. Gives me the feeling of walking into a sleazy bar in an old movie, which I like.

This immediately grabbed me with unexpected cacophony and whallop: That’s how you begin an album, nerds! Drums sound great, making my head do a Wilko Johnson dance. The Boss brought to mind, another midlife discovery with a gift for narrative, anthem and soaring. Surprised by how much I like Costello’s voice. The garage band guitar sometimes verges on no wave chaos, which is magnificent, as if the songs are barely able to hold together. The record is well paced, rockers, laments, introspective bits all feel like they’re in the right place on this first lesson. Yeah, I’ll get this. I think this is a record I’ll find more to like on further goes.

“Snivilisation”, a title with Gen X reek: easy cynicism, a cheap pun, comfortable edginess. Slowly, the kids are beginning to hate us as much as the Boomers… Dated title apart, this is alright. Better heard on headphones if not in a club, my favourite parts creep around the ears, just a little off-kilter. The sarcastic corporate samples are largely tiresome, reminders of well-worn 90’s cynicism. The best clichéd 90’s sample source will always be “Robocop”, or “Scarface” if you’re listening to the Wu Tang Clan. Unlikely to seek out again, but wouldn’t complain if someone put it on. Two point seven. Was three, but ending the record with two ten minutes-plus tracks is a contemptible move.

Slade: not just for Christmas. Wizards and cheese rolled down the hill - notes of prog and the West Country, Nobby's voice a rare regional delicacy, even at full yell

Arcade Fire, I piss out your candle of hope. Who gave the marching band a synthetic orchestra? This record failed to stick the first time around, and 19 years later it still lacks hook. Lots of soaring, lots of different sounds crammed into the packet, but almost monotone: twee. Too many parentheses in the song titles.

Dismissed this at first because I played it too quietly; the upfront vocals are not to my taste. Notably, the one song that jumped out on that go was "Barbarianism starts at home", when the vocals sod off for a while. At volume, fantastic, bass Entwhistling away, vocals make a bit more sense.

I am happy that we had been left this for the weekend. 20 years back I would not have had time for BS. Surprised by the density of guitar wail, which works for me.

I need to listen to this a few more times. It sounds perfect, but like a lot of soul records of that era, it glides part me, leaving babyish tasting notes like "smooth", "incredible musicianship", and "quintessential", but I'm damned if I can remember most of the songs, even on third listen. I like it, the title track is outstanding, it just hasn't stuck with me yet, which may be more my problem. FOUR

You can hear the stitches popping at the seams, this record's so full of ideas, hooks and the occasional sonic non-sequitur. This is a messy record and I love a good mess.

I made it through! Imagining they were singing “old Macdonald had a farm” on every song helped.

Didn’t know this would be one of the big boys! Partway through the second song, which I like, I thought this album might suffer from the "Doolittle" problem of started with the best song, but by the middle of the third song - which I thought was the fourth due to its delightful intro, a Colosseum-style keyboard nerdout demanding a centaur on cosmic flute - I muttered, this record covers a lot of ground, and so far all of it is happy. And then onto some pleasing chug. Sex is there, but not scuzzy; more that of teenage premature ejaculators, polite and thankful afterwards. Seeing that most of the music is played by one guy, without looking up more about him I've decided he's a proto-Malkmus. Where's his "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain"? You're going to tell me the rest of the records are awful.

Not for me. Some nostalgia to the turn of the century for this, but ES’s well-polished mutterings never touched me.

I like this uneven record; I can hear they had fun making it. Beck’s Bolero has the comic origin myth that Jimmy Page made it to pause Beck’s whinging about the Yardbirds. The version of Shapes… is great, though not better than the original. My ears glaze over interminable blues noodles, but there’s usually some zany noise or guitar ejaculation to draw me back in, albeit briefly. Hi Lo Silver Lining is a fine drunk novelty song. It’s no Roger The Engineer, but what is?

Hard not to be swept away by the tremendous momentum. Now show to fidget with mood and tempo, and the snatches I understand are nice. I think I get it.

They have got their big joyful sound minted here, and the record’s never less than entertaining, but there are maybe only 2-3 eternal foot-lifters here, KQ included.

I know the Eagles are meant to be evil, but had somehow never got round to listening to their main record. Greatly disappointed by the lack of the diabolic. Instead, I found patchy, occasionally enjoyable pastiche. Some poor Neil Young vocal impressions early on offset by the strange transition in "...Fast Lane" from ZZ Top to, christ, I don't know what, disco synth? The lyrics didn't linger, apart a mention of "shadows coming to stay", with or without Cliff Richard not mentioned, which would have had material impact on their already respectable coke bill. Later, I looked up the lyrics. Dear crike they’re awful.

Abyssal, fantastic. Four Women and the title track jump out immediately. All the songs have this spotlight effect on you and her, transfixing you like you're being subjected to the most dramatic monologues. The band is sensitive, knows its place, set dressing. All songs at least good due to incredible delivery, and at least four bangers.

This was a delightful surprise: I completely failed to appreciate this record when I listened to it years ago, dismissing everything apart from the famous songs as filler. It’s all very good or great.

I liked this and am completely ill-equipped to tackle, linguistically or musically. Her voice and what she does to it is beautiful.

This is frictionless music, and I am the wrong audience for it. However, it is interestingly dissonant: laudable, urgent politics to a songtrack that would go well with a swim-up bar on an infinity pool. "Homelands" has some urgency in the middle, though it drags back to the record's slow, comforting default zone. The record has dynamics, but nothing snags. I was gagging for the Yellow Swans before the halfway point. Or Sly and the Family Stone. Or the Didjits. I bet the Didjits are not on this list. Honestly, listen to "Hey Judester. Arrrgghhh this album seems to never end! "Anthem Without Nation", leave me alone!

Let me check my notes… “if you want to rock, you gotta roll”, Wikipedia page says they “attack political correctness” and went blackface in early shows to “challenge the audience”. Musically, this means “rendezvous with anus”. Lead guitarist invoicing by the note. Chords strung into a forgettable rush… party band for the alt right… “Are you ready (for some darkness)” why the parentheses and which idiot thought this song needed an outro, all of these songs are too long… ah shit someone found the cowbells in the studio’s percussion larder… For the second day in a row I think of the Didjits, who made the patently offensive fun. Crap.

This is smashing. Glimpses of the future, deconstructed stuff, are in the fun interstitial pieces; it's almost avant-garde, though it always is about charging the audience up. The audience feels close.

This smoothly glided in and out of my years leaving now residue aside from “Psycho Killer”, which bangs. A clear concept well executed, I admire this record without it moving me: my loss.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this, as I’d wrongly assumed this would have any individuality polished out, as heard in much of what I’ve heard of that period’s pop-hop. But this has a lot of character, quirk, and sonic weirdness: it’s coherent

Beep beep, beep beep, ja! I went through this waiting for the inevitable weak track. There are none. I’m no Beatles maven, but I think this is their finest record. It also sounds fantastic, clear, each element sitting in its own space, quietly astonishing in the lack of sonic congestion despite all that’s going on. It somehow sounds both rich and minimalist. And some of the guitar sounds are seriously raunchy, though never ostentatiously so. Such a happy opening cowbell spree! A close listen is rewarded here.

I reckon with twenty minutes lopped off this would be fearsome. Always listenable, sometimes great, often just fine. Strangely stronger on the second side, slightly exhausting - I couldn’t listen to it twice today.

This is an enthusiastic “ok”. The title track throws thunderbolts down on everything around it, but the record is consistently pleasant. It just makes me wish they’d stretched to write more of their own compositions, rather than this bunch of covers that slide smoothly down amnesia alley. Gives me the feeling of walking into a sleazy bar in an old movie, which I like.

Alert! Prög! Handclaps please me. Disco pleases me. Afrofuturism can be ace.Janelle Monãe can turn an enunciation on a dime - she’s sharp. But a few tracks in I was wondering if this was all nice concept, clever production, no tunes. The prog curse: pulsing cerebellum, tin ears. However, “Cold War” did the trick for me. “Tightrope” also has a decent hook, and speeds us up, and throws in the cockiest use of brass I’ve heard in a while. It’s a fun record. Not much lingers on first listen, but it’s never less than diverting.

I like endless, directionless, bouncy improvisation, so this is for me. Ginger Baker’s fogged form on the front is a curio from the days when supergroups stalked the earth. He fits in, to his credit.

Snotty playground vocals usually grate with me, but strong hooks, filthy murk, and the otherwise general heaviness of the mix work well with it. I enjoyed this a lot more than I thought I would. Peter Hook’s bass ghost dominates many of the best songs.

I like this album quite a lot, already owning and playing it when mood demands. I love her voice, fierce and smoky. Best song is the first one. It’s a conversational album, quirky song structures, closer to Brel than ABBA, with the right amount of flourish - the post-punk guitar part at the end of “The Louvre” a lovely example of this.

My perception of this album changed in ways I still haven’t fathomed when I discovered much of it was recorded in Nice, Côte d’Arsetrim. The record is too long. It’s ok, I just don’t like Bobby Gillespie drooling over my shoulder. Not that many standouts for the duration, most tracks would benefit from an accompanying Scorcese montage to augment the hallelujah coke fiend blathering. Going through the record, the first song that always halts me, regardless of mood, is “Let it Loose”, 14 tracks in.

Opens with a bracing whallop. “Love in an elevator” is great. Most of the rest didn’t touch me, and “Janie’a got a gun” annoyed me. Listening to it through tinny phone speakers probably didn’t flatter it, but not much had me want to go back with headphones. Actually, I’d also go back for the “voodoo on this town” song, as that sounded like it might be endearingly stupid.

One that I’d missed, though ‘Race for the Prize’ is correctly unavoidable. Heard mostly on a rental car stereo on the way to drop off said Toyota Yaris hybrid back at Curries Motors, last three songs on headphones walking through Waltham Abbey. Sunny morning , appropriately. Curries wouldn’t refund the replacement tire I had put on after a blow out on the A41, but I was expecting that so was not too disappointed. First time I’ve changed a car tire, one more point in the dad column. Listened to the last two songs while eating fish cake and chips from a Greek chippy in Waltham Cross - I knew they were Greek from the inclusion of souvlaki and “Greek side dishes” on the menu in a sort of faux-ancient Greek lettering in contrast to the bog standard font of the rest of the menu. Context can be important sometimes, Simon. Yeah, I like this, would happily ask it out for dinner to get better acquainted, maybe over flirtinis, who knows? The drums stood out for me on first listen - in places, a very effective “there’s a loud and flashy drummer living next door” effect, just enough remove to prevent them from being overpowering, but acting as rowdy interlopers to the dreamy, orchestral stuff in the front. Beautiful to listen to, but little lingered in my consciousness on first two go rounds, as if hooks are too crude for such a crafted object. The delicate vocals cleave closer to twee than I usually tolerate, but work for what surrounds them - the voice very occasionally breaks a little, which I like. It’s a mood piece on the first couple of listens.

When “Mr Tambourine Man” started, I thought, hey, they’re playing this cover pretty straight and then I remembered. Same happened with “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”. A classic I never got round to. Of the records from the list I’ve heard so far, maybe only this and ‘Rubber Soul’ have that spookiness peculiar to the best recordings: immersed, the old is new, with the sensation of witnessing something entirely novel coming into being. Not my usual stuff, but obviously brilliant. I’ll get myself a copy.

Easy one for me: a fab five. Immediately felt happy when I saw this cover appear on the screen. I am ashamed that before I knew them, I gave them short shrift at a music festival. Someone I don’t know stayed and wrote something one of the best pieces of forum writing I’ve read about them: http://www.premierrockforum.com/viewtopic.php?f=6&t=879&p=56759 “…As I heard more and more songs in the concert I thought about how the band Cheap Trick had played big stadiums and had girls screaming at them and been very famous and probably had lots of drugs and other things like that but now they were here playing to some people who didn't know them or really care about them like I didn't know them and some of the people watching probably wanted to see The Fall instead. But they did not get sad and instead they played like they did not want to be anywhere else or be doing anything else in the whole world” Simon, this IS the Greatest Hits. And I’m reviewing the deluxe 2 CD full gig, not the short version linked on the page. Even the otherwise throwaway “Can’t Hold On” has enough conviction in the chorus to elevate my puny fist up in the air. And the best is as powerful as pop and rock can be x

Admit mild weariness on seeing I was to listen to this again; how many times can I play and still enjoy it? But it sounds as live as it ever has. Still perfect, “European Son” included. Piano still hammers like a cheerful Tommy gun. Electric viola still simulates a jet engine. Guitars still aggressively exotic, Nico still atonally brilliant, Reed still a man knowing he’s singing something entirely new into being.

I love this record though find it hard work: I stop to listen to it, as I can’t have it on in the background.

This immediately grabbed me with unexpected cacophony and whallop: That’s how you begin an album, nerds! Drums sound great, making my head do a Wilko Johnson dance. The Boss brought to mind, another midlife discovery with a gift for narrative, anthem and soaring. Surprised by how much I like Costello’s voice. The garage band guitar sometimes verges on no wave chaos, which is magnificent, as if the songs are barely able to hold together. The record is well paced, rockers, laments, introspective bits all feel like they’re in the right place on this first lesson. Yeah, I’ll get this. I think this is a record I’ll find more to like on further goes.

I admire this record for being consistent to a very particular vision, and reaching an apogee in "Cars", which is eternal. None of the rest grabbed me, sounding like recipe experiments for the classic single, though I enjoyed the clean and charged romantic mood of the record, and think "Engineers" is a beautiful closer. 2 would be cheap, though I only liked maybe three songs wholeheartedly. Spotify crapped out as it reached the end, leaving me with the message "Couldn't find "gary numan"". I'll leave it at that.

“Snivilisation”, a title with Gen X reek: easy cynicism, a cheap pun, comfortable edginess. Slowly, the kids are beginning to hate us as much as the Boomers… Dated title apart, this is alright. Better heard on headphones if not in a club, my favourite parts creep around the ears, just a little off-kilter. The sarcastic corporate samples are largely tiresome, reminders of well-worn 90’s cynicism. The best clichéd 90’s sample source will always be “Robocop”, or “Scarface” if you’re listening to the Wu Tang Clan. Unlikely to seek out again, but wouldn’t complain if someone put it on. Two point seven. Was three, but ending the record with two ten minutes-plus tracks is a contemptible move.

Still great, still their pinnacle. Listening to it all the way through for the first time in a long while, I’m a little surprised by the relative low earworm density, but I don’t think this matters. One of the ultimate vibe albums? And the earworms are truly, truly catchy. Shadrach probably my favourite.

Aggressively bland, this is what Clapton was clawing for in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s, to be foiled by his religious blues Puritanism. Weller storms past, embracing the fuzz, the wah wah, the other psychedelic trimmings - one song is called “Moon On Your Pyjamas” (and jizz on my feet?) - and manages to make it all boring and just the right side of melodically forgettable. The two short interstitial instrumentals are wonderful in both their polish and disposability. I listened to half of this driving to Curries Motors in Waltham Cross to drop off another hybrid Toyota Yaris, this time the sport SUV model. The caressing beige vibes were apt to a daring crawl on and off the M25. The temptation to upgrade this to three stars is strong, as the craftmanship in this record is impeccable. Everything in balance, bright and warm, you can hear the tubes and brushes. The vinyl strings. The sax taps. Great love went into this record. “In the back seat of my head, some place I can’t remember where…” The record suffered when I switched to headphones, as I could make out more of the lyrics, which sound like the wordplay one makes when improvising a lullaby to a baby after all words have been forgotten due to exhaustion. “Magic carpet ride … chase dreams across my fields… in the shadow of the sun… shoopy shoopy hot cross bun… please go to sleep my sweet…” On the way home, I went outside Tottenham Hale station to grab family provisions. There was a tall young man in a purple suit busking with twangy electric guitar, some distortion, some flange, closed eyes, and a stream of indecipherable emotion, “why, sky, pie…” You are His Son, I thought.

Parts suggest that this record inspired thousands of background songs for emotive moments popular TV dramas, “Gray’s Anatomy”’s weepiest moments, and this is unfair. But the songs have their strange, awkward bits, and the morbid strings - on “River Man” - for example, are too engaging to sit in the background. Never heard this before, approached it warily, and was grabbed almost immediately. His words and intonation are circumspect. Having begun by blaming him for soap music, I now accuse him of providing the vocal template for “Spiderland”. The recording is great, everything clear, uncluttered, and close, played to head across pillow. A lot of it is fiddlier than I usually would tolerate, similar to “Astral Weeks”. The folk-jazz experiments of the period have an earnestness that slightly repels me, despite my admiring the intentions and elegance, and feeling nostalgic for these few years of emotive experimentation that I learned secondhand through childhood. Hippy teachers and children’s programmes, man. I like this, but drifted away after the first couple of tracks. Will listen to again. For now, a cagey, perhaps unjust three stars.

This album is dense with songs that the true faithful close their eyes and and sing along to. The stuff that used to annoy me doesn’t annoy me so much nowadays. The lyrics are still a mash of abstract platitudes, but they work as dumb, anthemic refrains. Irony, often falling to sarcasm, slapped on with paint-roller, both in words and mock heroic guitar - “My Iron Lung” is archetypical, with a guitar that switches between sneer and sonic “blah blah blah”. Their sarcasm might be sarcastic, a put on. Recursive affectation! Slightly annoying! But the instruments sound nice, if busy. Two.

This is charming, exuberant, and shows an infectious wonder around the novelty of these sounds and structure. But I don’t think I’d go out of my way to listen to the whole record again. “Who You Funkin’ With” is my standout track.

Today’s record was “Moving Pictures”, so I’ve broken my Rush-virginity. Unfortunately, this means I’ve regained my actual virginity. One star!

I was unfair to the band back when this came out: they’ve some strong tunes with the different bits in the right places, literate lyrics, and can soar with the best. And I’ve a lot more time for Bradfield’s voice. I found it a little monotonous in tone and tempo on the first listen, but I’ve felt more generous to it on second and third goes. Still not sure, but a record with this many strong songs can’t be bad. A provisional three.

File under important, but not for me. This has influenced a lot of music I like, and the guitar work is sometimes outstanding, but little hooked me and I felt like I was being sonically hectored.

This is an affable album, but little had me wanting to linger or return.

This is great. Another bit of history I’d heard of but never heard. Some less compelling tracks in there, but the overall effect is tremendous. ‘Desolation Row’ is hypnotic. And the switch to the band in the second half is fab. The harmonica playing really grabbed me! The drone at the end of ‘She Belongs to Me’ might’ve earned a nod from John Cale. Whatever version I listened to over Spotify jump-cut over the “Judas!” exchange.

I don’t like the production, which is dull to near soporific, but her voice and lyrics are occasionally fantastic, and distinctive: unmistakeable hers. But the music made me drift off.

The opener catapults this to the royal leagues. I was pleasantly surprised that my earlier impression of a record heavy with filler was wrong (I ought to return to ‘Exile…’); only ‘Love in Vain’ has little for me, five of the songs I love, and the rest is pretty to very good. The Brian Jones bye-bye, he’s here like Banquo’s ghost with bongos.

I respect and like a lot of this, but the meeting of folk and rock is an uneasy one. Reminds me of the coffee house trip hop covers of rock classics prevalent at the turn of the century. The best parts sound like the Velvets or Jefferson Airplane, while the overly folky embellishments have the air of a bugler at a historical reenactment taking a crafty vape. Look, if Kevin Rowland is not singing, it’s very hard for a fiddle player to please me on record without exiting to the sound of gunshot. Sandy Denny’s voice is exquisite, but feels constrained by the form. Of course, turns out I have four FC albums in my library. Three; two would be miserly.

The singles are great and the covers are fun. Bit long? I was never bored.

The algorithm has brought this not longer after ‘Let it Bleed’ and ‘Bring it all back home’, and has me thinking about what makes a record dated, like this one, and near-contemporaries, like the other two, not. It’s the difference between being planted into a past moment by a work, where it feels live, and looking back at that moment - it’s the distance. Forgive me; this doesn’t explain why I think ‘Aftermath’ is a relic, whereas ‘Let it bleed’ is resurrection on tape (sorry Ian Brown). Might be a materialist matter: this record contains novelty techniques that few would use now: stereo flourishes that do little other than call attention to themselves, dulcimer faux-baroque, recorded-in-an-oil-drum echoes, and unrelenting misogyny. The fuzz-bass on ‘Under My Thumb’ is brilliant, though! Still a great album. And once I start concentrating on Watts’ drumming, it’s happy trance time!

It’s ok, but nothing stuck after two listens. 2.5 rounded

The album Oasis’s popularity crested, and critics went “ooo, cocaine” before concluding “too much cocaine” on the next album. I quite like seven songs on this, which is a decent haul, but bloat is real.

This was stuck to my CD player when it came out, apparently at the start of my second year in university, though I could swear it was in the first. JSBE had played one of the best rock shows I’d ever been to at UMIST two years before, making me snarling loyal to the band. I enjoyed this record, but would’ve played it a lot even had I not. After listening the shit out of it for a few months, or maybe the year, I moved on to other records, and have played it rarely since - this was the last JSBE record I bought in the week of release. Almost 30 years on, I still like it, and find myself predicting the riffs, textures and garagey-guitar sounds just before they reach my ears. I remember Simon Reynolds comparing the relationship of JSBE and The Jesus Lizard to the great rock bands of the 70s/60s as akin to that of Tarantino to Peckinpah - this post-modern art can look nice, but where's the flair, the excitement of the new, the innovation? A contemporary issue of Melody Maker drew a line from Shellac to Lenny Kravitz via JSBE. Both arguments troubled me as much as they entertained me. But the experience of hearing this post-modern artefact from the mid-90's is a happy one: what I feared might be schtick is a work of love towards the components: big, buzzing hooks, queasy melodic runs, hypnotic blue repetition, and gigantic drumming. I've just bought the deluxe version. The instruments sound great: Russell Simins one of the most fun drummers I've ever seen, and the record is a potpourri of thick and warm guitar growl and wobble. Spencer's rambling is unironically silly, and the yelps are those of an intelligent man trying to have fun. Awkward, irritating to many - clear from most of the other reviews here - loveable to me. Hard to speak of tunes around this record, as its more a collection of riffs and textures, a murky party record that has me move my shoulders up and down as I type, which is about as extreme as my dancing has been of late. I’ve a lovely memory of my dad poking his head into my bedroom as I was putting this on, and wincing in retreat to the opening scream of “Skunk”. Four, and not just out of sentiment. I am happy that I played it twice because I wanted to, rather than out of duty... To the Effort!

Aretha Franklin’s voice is unmistakable, true to her, or the singing character she adopted, and no recording featuring her voice can be less than listenable. Voice aside, much of this record is unremarkable. Most of the ballads blur in subject matter, sound and feel. Stand by your willy. There are standouts: “Save Me”’s opening distorted guitar made my ears twitch out of ballad-induced torpor. The circular riff reminds me that Krautrock came as much from dance music as it did from the Velvets. Next comes “A Change is Gonna Come”, which feels ironic as it is another slow ballad, though one of the better ones, waltzing hi-hats elevating it. “Respect” automatically raises any ranking a notch. Got to give a little. Least a three.

He covers a lot of bases in this first stab of the donkey. Pretty good! Doesn’t hang around. On this first couple of listens, only the opening track and “Less Than Zero” jumped out. The rest sounded amiable, like sitting next to a mildly drunk John Cusack. Don’t like it as much as ‘Blood and Chocolate’.

Yeah, by the end of the second track I’d decided this is probably one of the greats. Were I less uptight, I’d use that corny rolling-eyes emoji alongside the admission I’d never heard this before. Rockist teenager decided Bowie isn’t for him, takes near thirty years to start listening beyond the hipster Berlin-era albums, ouch. The title song, built around a spannered piano improv on four note bass line, is just my kind of jam. Love it. He’s one of the few English-singing artists who has taken in that Brel-like chanson mode, singing narrative, and still make the songs hook, rather than chatter. ‘Panic in Detroit’ is fantastic. Surprised by how Stooges-esque the guitars sound - the teenage rockist in me approves. Didn’t spend as much time with this over the weekend as it warrants, but easily five stars.

This is an angry, aggressive album with vivid, nighttime production, bumblebee bass hooks and alien sounds in abundance. Lyrically, Little Simz leans heavily on cliché, and sprays profanity more liberally than Tarantino. The concrete detail in her song a is powerful.

This hit the spot! Opens and closes with bangers, has a fair few between. I’m largely unschooled in Brazilian psychedelic rock, and would like to more about the sounds than Wikipedia will tell me, for example which did Wham pinch? Bookmarking this. Listened to this three times, probably would’ve listened to this more had I not been pushed down a King Crimson wormhole by companions.

A harrowing outburst of baby vomit restricted my time with the Cocteaux to a listen and a half on my crappy phone speakers, enough for me to start liking them, but not enough to dispel the snide, one-line review I came up with over the first song and a half, which I’ll get to. I’d bounced off them a couple of times for a perceived thinness of sound, a samey, echoey thrum. But this has songs, hooks, climaxes, and some heartfelt melodies. I should listen to it again. My bad review follows. The correct answer to this question is “Björk”. (Sorry.)

Thought this ponderous at first, utterly convinced by the second listen. Had never knowingly listened to Armatrading, a couple of songs in something in her voice and the record-feel expecting the "lover woo-hoo" song, and sure enough "Love and Affection" comes on like a magic trick. Her voice is surprisingly curt, often percussive; forgive me, I haven't quite worked out what's so distinctive about it that had me recognise it from a song I hadn't heard in decades. (I don't listen to much radio.) The lyrics are introspective, spiralling into themselves, and for a while I felt the record lacked memorable refrains, before I realised it was doing something else. The band sound is astonishingly good; no finer-recorded album has hit this list during our march through. Need to listen to it more, but might be a juggernaut.

This is alright. Sometimes silly, sometimes rocking, The Doors are as hated as often as loved amongst friends. I won't seek this out, but wouldn't switch it off if it came on. Amused by the mix of the faux-visionary and the horny, best exemplified early on by 'Waiting for the Sun' being followed by 'You Make Me Real' (horny).

“Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone” leaves the rest of this otherwise pleasant album in the dust. Really tense, dubbed out and eerie: haunted funk. Not much else stood out over an admittedly domestic-volume listen, the rest more mood than event.

Enjoyed this a damn sight more than the debut. Mood and the fact that today I played this from decent speakers would've played a part, but the songs are better, there's a flow to the record, and it's a lot less stiff. David Byrne sounds more interesting, and the band's killing it. Am surprised, as the debut near-convinced me they weren't for me.

Hahahaha PJ were the enemy! But my brother was fond of them, and was learning to play guitar at the time, so both this record and my brother’s wrangling of the riffs have nostalgic pull on me. Interestingly, for a band named after jizz, their first album has been celebrated as a subtle yet successful concept album on “code for shit” - see the track listing: :”Even flow”, “Black”, “Oceans”, “Deep”, and “Release” sing to the act. “Once”, “Alive”, “Why Go”, “Porch”, “Garden”, and “Jeremy” address the emotional and physical context. When I was told this, my animosity towards PJ melted. “Once. Upon a time. I could control myself.” Knowing what we know now, how can this fail to move the listener? Thirty years removed, I can enjoy some of these tunes. Tails off, and would’ve been better had the title been the correct count. Eddie Vedder seems like a nice bloke, and the grunge politics of PJ being the conservative choice while Nirvana were the revolutionaries seems daft now, though I’m sure my altered opinion will be tested when the Smashing Pumpkins bloviate into our trek. Three!

The machine chucked an unfamiliar multitude at me today: this record is really very good, and I wish I had more time to listen to it. It's sui generis, and I'm scrambling for references to anchor it - at times, it reminded me of early Sonic Youth, This Heat, Kraftwerk, and acid house, but it's really its own thing. The vocals grated at first, but on the second listen they seemed appropriate, a choice based on the material and what Mackenzie had available to him. Really tempted to give it five stars, though I've barely made it through twice.

Hey, I’ve *watched* ‘Apocalypse Now Redux* and will *willingly* watch it again! Bit grumpy RNG has given us a consecutive weekend doses of the Doors, and almost defaulted this to 2 over an impatient first listen, but skipping through this a second time, I realised most of the songs I thought sucked have their charms. The vocalist’s horny shamanistic pretensions are present, yet they work with the setting, and the band is never less than listenable. I picked up a couple of sonic puns: ‘“This is the End…” DUM DUM DUM!’ And the Alabama whisky bar song being a cabaret-worthy oompa-oompa rollick. Not crap, a perhaps mean 3 here. Writing this on Friday, going back to the Associates record to see if I like it as much a day later.

Goes on too long. First concert I went to was Clapton in the Albert Hall, as my dad is a fan back from the Yardbirds’s day. I might’ve only been 10, and was impressed as I was meant to be, but I remember feeling impatient for the big riffs, which seemed rare. My favourite song was “Sunshine of Your Love”, and I probably wondered why he didn’t play more of stuff that sounded like that, rather than the plod plod woo-hoo-yeah material that I let my legs dangle back and forth to. Later, the album “Journeyman” came out, which my dad got on tape, and I remember him rushing into a bedroom we kids had congregated in to play a segment of the song “No Alibis”, specifically a two second segment of a solo, which he happily described as classic Clapton. Even then, I felt this was poignant. Two seconds out of a 57 minute album! On heroin addiction, William Burroughs wrote that the addict could spend a whole day staring at the corner of his shoe. He might have added “or inconclusively guitar solo to “Key To The Highway”. Everything is clear and glints, all the many elements painstakingly balanced against each other. The back and forth between guitarists is evident, even if the subject of the conversation is mundane. How many of these songs are about nicking George’s wife? “Layla etc” is “No Alibi”’s dad, a shiny artifact that’s more soft than rock, but the rock that’s there is worth a linger if you like truck stops. But it is so long that a second listen through almost took me to the office sick bay for a lie-down during “Tell the Truth”. It has been a long year. (I ended up just sitting on the couch outside it, writing some of this review.) “Layla” is often said to be Clapton’s best song, but the riff is Duane Allman’s invention and the piano part is, allegedly, Rita Coolidge’s, pinched by her abusive drummer boyfriend Jim Gordon (he’d later murder his mum and spend most of his life in jail before his death this year). What I am getting to is that back then Clapton still had some good compositional taste! Far too long. Just now, I took out a headphone bud with an audible gasp of Jesus Christ. I am giving this 3, as it is an archetype, the platonic ideal of a kind of music that I find irredeemably lame, but with which I am sentimentally entangled. Having not heard it in decades, the intro to their cover of “Little Wing” stilled me. I prefer it to the original. Super epic. Followed by the dishwater blues of “It’s too late”. Can’t believe I’ve listened to this twice today. Am betting my partner in this endeavour will remedy this review with two lines and a score perhaps half that number. What was that song you taught me back in labs? “My old man said be an Arsenal fan…”

I am very fond this album, my favourite alongside ‘Only Built 4 Cuban Linz’ of this rich period of Wu Tang-affiliated records. It’s the tauter of the two albums though, similar to its siblings, it still would’ve benefited from a couple of songs dropped. Still get shivers with the opening of ‘4th Chamber’. That wiggly squeal diving into the fuzz bass is still one of the heaviest snatches of music I know. The cheesy dialogue samples have an unironic, Lynchian quality, excerpts from a cheaply dubbed version of the “Lone Wolf and Cub” series, adapted from an incredible, intense, bloody and deeply melodramatic manga, to which the wooden delivery adds a haunted mannequin quality, right for this pulpy, shamanic-beat action-horror anthology record. I’m tired, having trouble getting my head round this record I’ve known for almost thirty years, and I’m going to mutter a strangled “hauntology” and move on. They were (are?) loopy AF, but the nutty religious sci-fi proselytising is concentrated in the last track, which at least has a fun acronym, Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. Some of the lines are shivved into my skull: “Picture bloodbaths in elevator shafts” … “Tommy ain’t my motherfucking boy” Yet how often do I listen to this now? Enjoyed my first run through, got distracted through my second, possibly suffering whiplash from this following “Layla blah blah blah”.

This belongs to the "whole lot of guitars and whining" genre coined by Summer from The O.C., and I'm ok with that. But there's not much that calls me back - there's prettiness, songs with many bits to them, that post-rock marker, and uncluttered sound where even the fuzz sounds clean - and I think, I suppose I could listen to this more. The song with the sax almost made me enthusiastic. All very tasteful, competent and tepid. 3.

This is an exuberant record where most instruments swing, and some song stories are vivid, moving at a clip, little time to be bored. I shunned this when it came out due to my weird prejudices, but think this is fine. This is a light, cake. <looks at my comrade’s review…> …or maybe, I was right all along?!

Those three dangerous words: I have this. Both in my digital library and my surviving brain memory, as the tape was stuck in my parents’ car for a billion years when I was around 10. ‘Money for Nothing’ is a song I’ve been fascinated with since I heard it, probably when it came out. The exciting opening climaxing Sting, which even then I knew was some sort of joke, was the first fixation, the song-long guitar solo the enduring one. A majestic experimental musician of my acquaintance labelled the guitar sound “brown tone” which, while not complimentary, fits. As a teen in Newcastle, Mark Knopfler worked as an intern at the Newcastle Evening Chronicle where this notoriously grumpy old man also worked. The grumpy old man was modernist poet Basil Bunting, at that time neglected and impoverished, probably finished in his own mind, though his revival with his masterpiece “Briggflatts” was only two years away. Knopfler recently made a song about him and their shared time in the office, and the lyrics appeal strongly to my sentiments. The music, not so much. Not enough brown tone. Still: ‘Bury all joy/ Put the poems in sacks/ And bury me here with the hacks.’ Which is to say, I like Knopfler. And you should read ‘Briggflatts’, and listen to Bunting read it (there’re videos on YouTube). ‘Your Latest Trick’ is the most MOR object that I will ever cherish. Sociologists favourite it, as it is the accepted marker of the cresting of MOR sax. MOR: making good MOR is incredibly hard. Have you ever tried drawing a long, straight line freehand? ‘Why Worry?’ is trite AF, but the descending little synth motif still puts eerie on me, especially with accompanying Knopfnoodling. Musicologists favourite this one as the high water mark of cheesy synth, after which the instrument moved on to the Channel 5 soft porn industry and never looked back. Knopfler is basically Clapton if Clapton wasn’t a… but let’s not embed a list in a list. ‘Ride Across A River’ hahahah did you write this after watching ‘Crocodile Dundee’? Oh shit, that sax… That’s what happens: the songs start off sounding like the cheesiest ‘80s makeout crap, and then they do something that spoils it all by infesting my brain via strange bait. Was that an eBow I heard there? See, ‘The Man’s Too Strong’, fingerpick strum yawn fingerpick strum yawn, hey why is my pulse slightly elevated? “BAM BWAMM, bong BAHBONG!” ‘One World’ is maybe the only plain herb track on this. Still listen to it on all playthroughs, as I need respite from the constant weird ambushes. Closing with the title song reeks of pretensions that bubble through an ambitious album: experimental, daring MOR, the latest synths, the latest digital, and songs that confidentially skip and straddle genre, all tied together by that voice, one of the boldest celebrations of regional identity that went platinum. What about that second side, mostly about war? And what about the fact that there are no sides because this was the record that sold CDs as the forever format? Before they started rotting and people noticed the mastering was shit. Returning as an adult to ‘MFN’ and the war songs, I I like the stories, and the hint of fatalistic Nordic saga in them. Knopfler’s mocked vocal dourness has an ancient and mighty North East English lineage. When I started, I found it hard to bring myself to listen to this, and had to listen to ‘Bang Your Head’ by Gravediggaz to fortify myself after hearing the intro to ‘Walk of Life’. I’m not going to write about ‘Walk of Life’. O God, not another 3! Only joking: fuck you, FOUR! Take that, melts!

This is sadly not the long-hoped-for revelation: most reggae bores me, feels lacking until the heavy dub effects and weirdness are pasted on top. The first track showed promise, which I now realise was because my rockist ears had picked up the overdub of Wayne Perkins guitar, transported from a different, funkier scene. This is not a bad record, just not for me right now. Perhaps never for me.

‘Bright Flight’ contains story-led, well-crafted pieces of pessimistic whimsy that never stole all my attention over a couple of plays, despite some Jack-in-the-box imagery - ‘my horse’s legs look like brown shotguns’ is a clip from one of the more psychotic Loony Tunes skits. The crafty lyrics take precedence over the music, and that’s not enough for me, at least not today. The flat and dry, academic delivery might be the crucial part that doesn’t reach me - ‘Time will break the world’ has what should be a great chorus, but it arrives like a lecture hall recitation of Orwell’s rules for writing. There are some fantastic lines in here, though. ‘…because the dead don’t improve.’

I gave this one and a half-arsed listens dawdling between sadness and doldrums. The experience was summed up when without thinking I told my one-year old, “shall we turn the boring record off?” I like the man, but the music does nothing for me, and his proclamatory lyrics leave little space for mystery or humour. Listening to his optimistic throating of socialist axioms depressed me; we know how this story is going to go. My heart says three, my head says two. Sorry Billy x

I shot the heroin: how I became the best paid busker in the business. You hear it in his voice. I was going to write that Clapton sings with a transatlantic accent, but it’s weirder than that, more like he’s doing an impression of what he believes an American singer sounds like, but nervously, not wanting to offend, like a busker. ‘Motherless children’ is a strong opener! ‘Lord give me strength’ to listen all the way through this track. No-one’s made that joke before. ‘Get Ready’ is startlingly ok, a smoky, funky throwaway that hooks. There’s a single-note tease of heavy, distorted guitar at the end that is almost a troll: Clapton could rock, but he chooses not to. He’s mellow now. The cover of ‘I shot the sheriff’ is funny for a number of reasons, especially Clapton’s perception of the original as “hardcore reggae” and that the other guitarist had to convince him to play it, which I choose to believe was a prank. His busker voice on this is something else, and if my partner in this pilgrimage uses both "Racisthand" and "blackface" in his review, I *will* shout "BINGO!" regardless of my surroundings. He’s on safe ground with the couple of blues covers, no surprises there. Made his busker bones in that racket. ‘Let it grow’ actually did surprise me: it’s a beguilingly simple yacht rock banger. The finale is enjoyably daft. This is patchwork, odds and sods, proficient karaoke, but I enjoyed it more than I expected, and I’m intrigued that my two favourite tracks are Clapton’s originals. Put a loaded signature Fender Strat to my head and I’d choose this over Layleh. Was expecting a 2, got a 3.

Very good, though I prefer his record with Jobim, a soft masterpiece. His phrasing is exquisite even to a grunge dirtbag like me, and the words he chose to apply himself to are some of the wittiest. A good few hits, a smattering of filler.

The puerile lyrics and their wanky delivery made me feel even angrier when I was trying to find my work pass, convinced that it had been put on a container ship. Don’t fucking ask. Once I’d calmed down, I observed that this record is competently executed soft rock with annoying vocals and some tepidly adventurous instrument sounds and quasi-proggy song structures. Isn’t it funny that Kiedis sometimes inserts nonsense just to balance a line with rhyme? Writing this as I hear a ‘bow wow wow’, but also remembering the ‘ding ding, dong dong, ding ding, dong dong, ding ding’ in the opening track that he sings suspiciously like the racist parodies of Hindi and Urdu that I remember from playgrounds of my childhood. I admire his streamlining of the time consuming process of writing! And perhaps this shortcut is preferable to his writing: I’ve just looked up the lyrics to ‘Get On Top’. Thanks, Ass Killah Tony. Overlong. Had this on while working, forgot I was listening to music rather than office noise, was surprised that it had not started on a second playthrough when I check the App. Don’t like it, but no 1.

Highly bad. Been six days since I heard this and the memory has the sensational impact of a stale eggy fart.

On first listen, I’m inching towards “this is bullshit”, especially with an early organ-blues lawyer guitar jam that had me looking angrily towards the door in case Mel Gibson staggered in with mullet and bigotry, but ‘Jersey Girl’ is a great song. ‘On the Nickel’ too, perhaps. Distrust of sentiment and nostalgia in art is inculcated in me, as is a demand that people be authentic to themselves, but I have decided this is nonsense and people can pretend to be whoever they want to be so long as they commit. Just not sure Waits commits enough, and the music itself is unremarkable, bringing to mind a sage’s words: “jazz is badz”.

A hard decision, as stripped of context these sound like schematics of future bangers. Relentless, heavy, stark electronics, the rapping is glorious, but confusingly slow to today’s ears. Enthralling, but not entirely enjoyable. Intelligent minds forging something truly unheard: raw, earnest, bravely awkward.

Didn't get enough time with it, but I liked it, hippy drippings included. The main song is deservedly feted, one I knew without knowing I knew. Am exhausted, would like to listen to it on headphones, but shall sleep instead! x

The pretentious spelling of the band's name immediately pisses me off. See runtime is over an hour, crack my knuckles. Two points knocked off and the music hasn't even begun. The music isn't terrible, and at its best sounds a little like Robyn, just without the magic. Synths are usually urgent, the songs have velocity and the album is dynamic both within the tracks and their sequencing. Were this half its length, I could call this consistent, but as it is over an hour it is samey. My ear lobes were curling up with boredom by the halfway mark. 2.

Two songs for eternity, a handful of covers and some likeable period pieces. S, would you agree this is a “skip to the greatest hits” band?

Calling your debut solo album, ‘Debut’, cheek or laziness? At least it is understandable: you ever tried ordering a vespertine in a brasserie? The chef came out to tell me to fuck off. Much is too twee for me, the irony paper thin - ‘Like Someone In Love’ is cack handed - and a lot of it is boring, Park Lane cocktail lounge music, but I like the hits more than I did back then. Massive Attack at their most violently beige are a fair comparison.

Passable tunes for babies recorded in a metal bin, some mid-tier guitar wail and cymbal-drowned percussion played in the kennel next door, but has Paul Stanley played “Great Expectations” to his daughter? Pukey!

This list makes me face my demons. B&S, how I’ve swerved around, fled and cowered from you without even knowing why. I suspect my fear was of what I perceived to be softness, which I grasped you rejoiced in. Weird isn’t it. That’s not a question. This is very good and I haven’t had enough time with it. There’s a play between folk, rock, dissonance and storytelling that feels both fresh and archetype-making. Soft? ‘Me and the Major’ is not soft: it’s pretty bleak! Same for most of the rest. Hard to judge greatness on a single playthrough, but that’s all I have. Going for a likely conservative 4. Now back to playing “Two Nuns and a a Pack Mule” really loud!

This is good, maybe great, but I’m just not in the mood for it, and may never be. I respect this record, and the lovely clean space between sounds, the atmosphere evocative of an Antonio film night-place, the carefully laid-out lyrics, the unusual structures, while wanting it to finish and to get on with a busy evening of staring at the wall. How do I score that?

None of the songs have much stick to them, the title track worthwhile as a period curiosity on drug discourse, but the tremendous musicianship pushes this above mediocrity. I ought to look up what else the session musicians have done.

77 minutes? When I look up unfamiliar contestants on Spotify, the record length is all I look for. Pressed play and got ready to kick the shit out of this record, and finally roll out a long-brewing rant about the bloat of turn of the millennium hip hop albums. Unfortunately, the first track's so good and unusual, it quelled my rage and I started listening closely. Sweetly placed afrobeat flourishes from the start made my nose twitch, and while the opener, 'Time Travelin' (A Tribute to Fela)', is a standout, it is not an outlier. The involvement of J Dilla makes sense when I look this up: the record has a wriggle to it. It is overlong, though. I only had time to listen to it once. I may listen to it again.

After the uncontrollable shuddering subsided from reading Fishbone are a 'funk-rock and ska band', and I'd listened to three minutes of this record, I wondered if this might end up being the album I'd never listen through. By the end, I still think it's crap, but admire it. It's cheerful. Were 'Boogie Nights' set a decade later, I imagine Jason Molina's character would be cheerfully shotgunning the blow to this on an expensive CD system. And it's ambitious, true to itself, jumping all over the record store sections while maintaining internally consistent: the last three songs had me thinking of, in turn, George Clinton, the Butthole Surfers, and Extreme, while sounding only like Fishbone. I don't think any other band could sound like Fishbone. (For a little while they also reminded me of the late, lamented Complete. Simon, listen to and watch this, then read the comments: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P07Di283vfw ) This is a respectful 2.

Last night, after listening to three songs, I decided that Microshift by Hookworms is nice and tolerably boring. This evening, the rest of the album lanced much of my contempt. I'm not in love with the record, but 'Opener' had a powerful effect on me, and the motorik-pulse soothed my scorn away. Sorry I haven't called, S, been a hell of a week x

Amazingly, I never had this record until a year or two ago. I only knew the hits, which I liked a lot. And until today, I had not listened to the record closely. I like the other songs. Yet I need more time. Ask me in a year if I want to upgrade this measly 4.

This was the first album I bought on CD and I know it front to back, though I haven’t listened to it all the way through for the best part of 30 years. What’s changed? I don’t remember noticing Izzy Stradlin’s fantastically louche rhythm guitar when I was a teenager. The misogyny was apparent to me even then, but I’m annoyed by it a lot more now. Some of the lyrics are smarter than I would’ve given credit for. This is a strong set of songs, if you can put up with the hackneyed LA sleazebag posturing: going through the track listing, the only song I couldn’t remember from the title was “Anything Goes”, and playing that again I thought it a fun, minor rocker. By my count, there are 7-8 songs I’d put in their top tier, and the rest aren’t far behind the others. Cartoonish fun, I have left this behind, but I cannot fault it for what it is.

Third Costello album on our marathon, this has two songs I actually know! The obvious ones, obviously. Liked it, and noted I’ve picked up, perhaps by osmosis, my comrade’s inability to wholeheartedly embrace Costello’s records. Puzzled, as the songs are all at the very least fine. Maybe it’s his voice, which might be too much of a great thing: vocal similarity flattens the record. A couple of songs where he toned down the near-sarcastic delivery stood out.

I was sceptical of this at first, monologues over sine waves, you're not getting me to scratch my chin, mate. But it opens up, and by the third song I was comparing it to This Heat and late Talk Talk, both of which I adore. It's introspective, maddened, instrumentally expansive, but feels very personal. Ran out of time for the second listen again. A cagey 4.

I bought this on recommendation a few years ago and never got round to listening to it. The sound of the record is exquisite and, to my ears, unusual: there’s so much going on, it often is a wall of sound, , but one where you can easily make out each individual element. The songs are frequently beautiful, but oppressively tasteful. Harris’s voice is outstanding, perfect and distinctive, the experience of hearing her sing these covers is like watching an exceptional actor play a classic role. Lovely, but not haunting. Unfairly, Souled American’s handful of skeletal covers jump to mind as the victorious counter argument. After writing that I listened to their take on “Little Bessie, and let faint terror in. I’m not asking for a Lo-fi slowcore Emmylou Harris album, but some grit and flaw would have lifted this record up. S, this morning I saw a brown bear on the way to the nursery - O shouted “DAHG!”

This is a seminal album in the evolution of a mode of keyboard music that I find pleasant, which earn it this piffling middle score. But love is not too much to ask for! Si, have listened to “Desire” once, liked it quite a bit, especially the opener. Will listen to some more!

Don't blame him! Jazz rock would’ve happened already. There is a lot less of the fuck-around in this than in what I haven’t been able to avoid of the aftermath. It has force and direction from a supermassive rhythm section, corralling the soloists and their splashing around. Menacing, at times, reminiscent of Morricone’s queasy giallo pieces. The coherent and clear placement of so many different improvising instruments at the same time is rich magic. Never bored listening to this, frequently excited and enchanted. The song “Sex Swan” is my favourite, I think.

This is fun, yet at first I feIt ought to enjoy it more. Unlike some of the best albums of the previous decade, it feels stuck in its time. But on first listen, it got strong as it went on. "Hymn for the Dudes" has a hefty swoon. "Violence" sounded daft, but "Ballad of Mott the Hoople" and "I'm a Cadillac/El Camino Dolo Ross" are moody and fabulous, the latter exquisite in its long stroll to the end. There's a sniff of Dylan to "I Wish I Was Your Mother', closing out.

Guess what I came out in when I saw this was the record on the day of my youngest brother’s funeral? Mixed them up with The Vines, but they’re not that bad. Opening track’s the famous one, and it’s pretty good - hook hooks, and plays around with structure and texture just enough to make it interesting, Pixies-worthy. How’s the rest? Listenable, but little that snags memory. Recognised and enjoyed “Supply and Demand”. Garage rock is so swift and minimalist, that hooks, flourishes and refrains must catch fast, otherwise the songs sweep past traceless. “Mad Man” has a cute intro, enough to bite and note. “Here We Go Again”, has a strong axe-chop chord progression let down by a tepid chorus. After that track, only the closer, “The Hives Are Law, You Are Crime”, had me look down to check the song name, as it has a stomp and swish unheard elsewhere on the record, perhaps a factor of it being the only instrumental. The record is just under 30 minutes, which is welcome.

The opening deceptively suggests someone involved in the band cares to write tunes with dynamics, riffs that linger, and choruses - it's a worthwhile tune. Tedium trails Love's drawl and wail, and I chafed at the slack in each song, each a minute more or less too long. Towards the end, I realised I'd made a listener error, and that this cruise-control, repetitive chord parade has purpose, the equivalent of a truck driver simulator or certain minimalist techno, where each song's sequence is repeated until we hypnotically mumble along.

'Immigrant Song' is mischief, kicking off the record with a rocker as immortal as the one that opened the album before. What follows are some of the deceptively modest, almost-not-there songs of the band's career. Bold! I like it.

Murmur has not helped me decide whether I find R.E.M. boring. I certainly find them boring some of the time, but ‘Radio Free Europe’ is exciting. Rest cheerfully slided past my ears without residue on first listen. Then I listened to this in OUR NEW CAR and they made more sense. The passion one stood out in particular. Is this car music? I still have trouble remembering most of the record, but I felt happier when it came on automatically when I worked out how to start the engine again. Maybe the connection is boredom: driving is boring at its best, a good kind of boredom. This is an important record, and I respect how they manage to pin down a distinctive aesthetic straight out of the gate. Calling their first album "Murmur" is gloriously on the nose, vaulting past the introductory, peak and self-parody phases straight to the post-modern. Feigned kindness has me refrain from repeating Chris Morris's cruel dark mirror description of Stipe, but I mention its existence in case it reminds S or anyone else here of it to bring a nasty smile.

I was cold to this until I put on headphones I and began to enjoy the delicately laid instruments and samples, closer to Fleetwood Mac (Buckingham) than Public Enemy. My main problem remains: few of the songs stick to me, though Getting Up is a good tune. Slightly bored, I wanted to break my own rules and start skipping after the first minute of each song, as most felt predictable. You has some stick too, I suppose. This all slips easily down the earholes, and perhaps sticky tunes are deemed too disruptive for oyster-slurp passage. Same with what lyrics I caught: no imagery called out. The Renaissance is a lazy title, isn't it? The Comeback, The My Big Art, The Look Ma I Do It All.

I was going to write about Grunge, Gen X and the insidious politics of apathy, but this record drained me of the, or any, inclination. They could’ve disheartened me with less than a third of this record - it’s really potent!

A good record, but hasn't clawed into me like ..."Sinister"

I hadn’t heard this uninterrupted for over 20 years, and am thankful for being given a weekend for this. Perhaps the only song cycle/concept album that I consider flawless. A student flatmate once complained that the record was samey, which I worried over, but now doesn’t bother me. Its consistency is a marvel.

Better than ‘Aftermath’, maybe not as good as ‘Let it Bleed’. I think this is the fourth Rolling Stones album the machine has ladled out to us, and this time I started listening closer to the bluesier songs I’d let drift past and realised the weird irony they wrestled with over them, which makes them interesting to listen to. Some bona fide bangers earn this a 4.

I cannot imagine a record doing what this record does, but better. Reminded me of loaded club scenes in modernist classics - again, thinking of Antonioni here. Four stars

First listen was meh, liked this more and more in subsequent go rounds. All the songs have personality; I might argue with them, find them long-winded or daft ('Indian Sunset'), but they stick out, say their thing and don't pander.

Everybody’s favourite cover band, ey? Thoroughly ruined by auteur theory, I struggle to get over the Byrds’ paucity of originals, though I love “Eight Miles High”; you may not think me an idiot for that. This album baits my prejudice out: while I appreciate what their transformation “Bells of Rhymney”, this sounds like standard plink plonk country rock to my untutored lugs, albeit with hippy vocals. I’ve decided to be a jerk and just listen to this once, and let this mean opinion ossify. Simon, waiting for your refutation. Before listening to this I bought “The Gilded Palace of Sin” in anticipation of wanting to hear more Gram Parsons. Now I’m all ha ha the Byrds hired a slide guitarist and a plink plonk pianist to go country, and then had the piss kicked out of them at the Grand Ok Opry for being poseurs.

I enjoyed the rave-up blues numbers, which I have a fondness for through my dad's love of the Yardbirds, but when "Tell Me" starts we can clearly hear something very new emerging.

The machine has started the week kindly. I won't try to write something new about a record that's been dissected, scrutinised, extolled and rolled between many a sticky hand. My experience of listening to this today was marred by some randomizer I couldn't switch off in the car that kept jumbling the record, usually to play 'After Hours', one of the two songs on this record that I find a little irritating - the other is 'Murder Mystery' - though I'm glad they exist. The randomizer also threw 'Foggy Notion' at me, which is not on the record, but should have been, and is one of my favourite rockers in their repertoire, so irritated me in a different way. So I'm knocking one star off their six as punishment.

Scorpio and the Message are great, the rest is poor to mediocre. This is an important record, but I feel like they quite grasp what made them special.

This lulled me with its indulgent murk of exquisite sounds, but by the end I’d forgotten what had come before: it’s a mood piece with few hooks, a lapidarist’s perfectly useless object.

Such an arc Life's Too Good by The Sugarcubes took me on: I started it with headache and pessimism, felt hope flower after a minute of promising post-punk gestures, followed by about 30 minutes of distraction and more headache to go with the realisation that this is an aimless, pointless record. More importantly, it is not fun.

Like 'Parallel Lines', which we listened to an age ago, this record pleased me by having a lot less filler than I remembered from a dismissive first listen. Brass in Pocket has its own sacred mound, but the entire album is strong, pared back just enough to make the fluorishes jump out, and Hynde's word and delivery deserve a lot more time than I've given them this weekend.

A dabblers compilation of dub murk and uncommitted guests that has interesting sounds circling void: this has a lackadaisical, fix it in the studio character wrapped in Jamie Hewlett’s cheeky pop art, which never betrays any underlying purpose, manifesto or feeling.

The machine threw us this right after the ‘Gorrilaz’ debut, whiplashing us from dilettante indulgence This album is as frontloaded as ‘Atomizer’: the four track spree up to and including the title track is ear worm fever. The more modest songs are worthwhile, and all have some quirk to snag attention. The Kinks influence is well-known, but I was surprised by the spikier, post-punk modes, Wire especially. Also caught some Beefheart, woof. Some albums are a chore, this one was a pleasure.

This is another record that had inch thick dust on my hard drive, one that ricocheted off me thirty years ago: I was disappointed by the promised noise (how could this be compared to Sonic Youth?) and unimpressed by the tunes (sounds old so very old). I'm charmed now, especially by the opener, but something about its self-consciousness reins in my enthusiasm. To a Velvets' Candy, we add a Cindy; we hear a motorbike; we see a creepy Spector behind the desk. I know he was just a Ringo for hire, but perhaps the knowledge of what Bobby Gillespie was to become has tainted my appreciation of Psychocandy.

I'd probably treasure an album that was solely Speed King's opening guitar dragon freakout iterated over an hour, though I suppose I already have that record in a few different forms - The Blue Humans 'Clear to Higher Time', maybe the closest. Perhaps back it up with some power electronics. There you go, my ideal unlistenable band! This is fun, and I am sorry I only made time to listen to it once, as it sounds like the archetype-forge for Seventies hard rock, making it significant. Can't say the vocals do it for me, or the songs themselves, which bolt on too many zany digressions to up the note count, but the mood is authentic to what it is: completely dedicated to making this weird, serious and silly melodrama. I only knew 'Smoke on the Water' before this, so was expecting similar riffage, rather than the unrestrained guitar wail or the stoner choir on a bad night of 'Child in Time', or indeed titles like 'Child in Time'. The digressions are admirably maddening - I'd happily have gone for a pint with 'Flight of the Rat', but instead it dragged me out to watch it down a pitcher of cloudy cider, suckle on a bottle of vodka, and finish the night chewing a bong while some bastard plays bongos next door. This wasn't what I asked for, but I'm not going to return it. The guy who hired me for my first job in my career turned out to be a Deep Purple fan. I finally think I understand him now that I've heard this.

The length of the Wikipedia summary for the album tells me something. This is a pretentious record sparse on attractions. The spoken word bit in the middle is funny, though. Anyway, Paul Simon is a massive jerk. Kinder Simon: have you heard Steven Van Zandt's anecdote about getting that massive jerk removed from an anti-apartheid assassination hitlist? Confess an unkillable fondness for "America" having heard it countless times in my parents' car for that year or two when they had the live Central Park tape on repeat. Ditto "A Hazy Shade of Winter". They could write genuinely unforgettable tunes. They have also inspired entertaining writing by people who hate them. My friend Lourens wrote: "Ugh. A campfire-proof Dire Straits." And I'll leave the last word to the poet Brett Eugene Ralph: "Garfunkel? As my old man used to say, "Art Garfunkel? That sounds like a dirty word." And so it is. Why listen to Simon & Garfunkel so long as Everly Brothers recordings are available? S & G are to the Everlys as Kingdom Come is to Zeppelin, as Pat Boone is to Little Richard, as Toby Keith is to David Allan Coe. The only vaguely listenable S & G song is "Hazy Shade of Winter"--the BANGLES version!"

Someone must really like the WS, as this is the weakest of the three albums of theirs I’ve heard, and I’m not a fan of them generally. This is ok, entertaining enough. The one that sounds like a quiet song from “White Light/White Heat” was a nice surprise, though it went on too long, like this album. I assume one of their more popular albums is on this list as well, so I’ll put more work in on my nascent theory about them being the Tim Burton of classic rock.

Duke, I smell the hippy salad. Are the Gipsy Kings on next? My contemporaneous contempt for the '90's tie-dye revival may have mellowed to indulgent fondness, but don't injure me with an album of the stuff. This is not atypical of the time in throwing revolutionary rhetoric onto an unadventurous soundtrack. Strobing a song with Arabic singing and psychedelic dub effects does not immediately make it interesting. This record is rhythmically soporific, perhaps to let Wobble's shake his flashy bass at us, but the absence of hooks for most of playing time left me bored. I just looked down to see what song had started playing to mention a standout exception, only to see that Spotify had moved onto Julian Cope.

I was not in the mood for this today, perhaps not for music at all, but given how parts of this still linger in my head, this is probably a good record, though I've a lingering suspicion of this sort of earthy, country-blues racket.

I'll return to this, as I was grumpy while listening to the first few tracks before realising this album might be brilliant. What sounded at first like rote, well-recorded mid-seventies soul/funk murk resolves into a weird, sometimes uncomfortable but memorable lunatic mash of ideas - it never gets boring, and "A Funky Space Reincarnation" is glorious.

Hey, wait, which of the dozen different versions of this album are we meant to be listening to? Think I'm fine with the 17 tracks on my hard drive, a rare case of the bonus tracks being essential - Hey Joe and Purple Haze feature. I expected to be torn over this. Many of these songs are foundational to me, my dad inculcating a love for the band, whom he'd seen in Chelmsford as a teenager. Recent dips into Hendrix's work have provided a patchy harvest; Electric Ladyland might be a more challenging assignment. But scanning the track listing, the first five tracks I didn't need to listen to again (though I did) to know they're incredible, and most of the rest is similar. His guitar never gets dull, and he had the most beguiling singing voice of his contemporaries, a seductive conversational tone. Misogyny is impossible to ignore, particularly after hearing the bonus track 51st Anniversary. To paraphrase Norm MacDonald, that Joe was a real jerk! But Third Stone From The Sun! Feel like that’s a path that was never successfully followed, apart from by Right Said Fred, as pointed out by my dad, angry and tipsy one NYE when “ I’m Too Sexy” emerged on Capital Radio’s Listeners’ Best Songs Ever countdown, and my dad furiously sought out his original LP…

I like this, but I feel God wants me to enjoy it more. I’ve listened to it three times today! It’s fun! But I can’t remember any songs a few hours later, just Carlisle’s voice cutting through as of from another room, and defiantly thin guitars!

Ha ha Easy Five stars Next! ... Jonathan Richman saw the Velvet Underground and thought what if I did this, but like me? Goofing "Sister Ray" into an exuberant "Roadrunner" was alchemical genius. "Pablo Picasso" punched a loud laugh out of me with "...in his El Dorado" and a revelation that a thesis on narrative identity could be written about this song, and its envy of Picasso's ability to hit on women, the ending guitar solo poised between sleaze and sexual frustration. Si, did JR do anything else worth listening to? Or are you with Hiooy Johnny? <shocked emoji>

Another Bill Calahan/Smog record that I swerve past, saluting it, lingering over parts, but not falling in love. That might happen one day. This is at least a good record, could be a great one, but a suspicious part of me doesn't trust it completely, the theatricality, the seductive podcaster monologue enunciations. Which is absurd: so much that I love revels in artificiality and exaggeration. I hope to return to this one day, for now a rueful 3.

What's getting on, S? The spree of MG's What's Going On, Here My Dear, and Let's Get It On has convinced me he was the master of the concept album, a mode I'd thought cursed. He matches form with function perfectly, and it all starts with how he uses his voice. Sonically, this is consistent to the point of repetition, but as the record is only 35 minutes long it becomes this perfect expression of his sentiment.

I think this was the first LZ album I hear, around the same time I got into Black Sabbath. Immediately knew it was special. Undimmed.

One I own that I expected to give a solid four, remembering a few filler tracks. Nope, only Sail Away feels minor, but it’s a nice palette cleanser before the distortion comes. Both “Hey Heys” I knew were immortal, and Powderfinger only increases in its power over me as I age. The more nonsensical tracks surprised me today: Young’s lyrical naivety would usually bring from me a carafe of boiling scorn, yet he has this magic trick of wormholing through cringe into a zone of sly bizarreness where he’s imagining sharing a bed with Pocahontas that’s to be cheerfully crashed by Marlon Brandon. Maybe he’s just an incredible verbal acrobat on the hippy salad? The guitar sounds on side two are like the Alps, and I now realise that Welfare Mothers and Sedan Delivery are not joke songs, but gonzo classics. The woozy change of gears on Sedan Delivery is marvellously queasy.

I've been saved from delivering the thesis that Bad deserves by having our shipment of possessions arrive this morning after three months in transit, surrounding us with a brown cardboard box apocalypse. This is a very good album and I am surprised by how much of it is familiar, because I don't think I ever listened to it in its entirety. Brain bullets: - even the weaker songs such as Just Good Friends have hooks that make them worth returning to - Quincy Jones' production is exemplary, a perfect exhibit of a style that was once anathema to me. When I was an angry youth, I contributed a documentary on Steve Albini's music to a student radio station, and my noisy joy was edited generously by a student who admitted a passion for smooth production, mentioning QJ. I nodded and then got him to cue up 'Steak and Black Onions' by Rapeman. Somewhere between rueful and glee is how I feel about this - I saw Moonwalker in the cinema when it came out with a classmate called Michael Robinson. I remember being nonplussed by how weird it was, and by the giant robot Michael that did not make sense. Though maybe that was a dream Was tempted to knock a point off to bring a halt to this spree of unnaturally high scores, but I've extolled more flawed records than this

BITUSA has two standouts for me: title song and Dancing in the Dark. Not sure what to make of the rest, apart from I'm On Fire, which isn't far behind. I've had this record for a couple of years and usually skip through the rest, repelled by the high budget Shakin' Stevens vibe (I prefer my nostalgia middle budget). It's a bit much. Listening to the rest today, they're mostly fine, but I can understand why tB prefers Nebraska.

Hated them, loved them, largely indifferent to them now. This is their best record. Heard this through other people's speakers far too many times now, but skipping through the opening of each track I count only Digby's Diner as filler, which no doubt someone would retort that it is the mystical key to their magical cabinet. …yet after a track and a half I felt too bored to continue.

I admire Dookie and its seamless segues, the ceaseless hooks, the guitars that sound punk yet tirelessly happy, and the emotional consistency: Green Day could craft a song about the fall of Fallujah and it would still sound like Dookie. It would work too, like Free Nelson Mandela. My wife loves this record, and I frequently noted subtle shifts and fluorishes. The cover is super cute. A “kicking an affectionate puppy in the face” two stars out of five.

Flawless can be as boring as a diamond in a vault or as overwhelming as a Frank Auerbach landscape, and Joy Division’s debut is dead on the latter. While I respect how distinctive and groundbreaking Hannett’s production was, I prefer most of these songs on the posthumous official bootleg, “Les Bains Douches”, most especially Curtis’s coruscating Insight.

Reflex review: hate this stuff, ‘kin Boomers! Review in kind: at least the Sultans of Ping had Where’s Me Jumper. Comic records I like: Locust Abortion Technician by the Butthole Surfers (though the sexual assault song is revolting), Dante’s Disneyland Inferno by the Sun City Girls, the few Rutles tracks I’ve caught, maybe Meet James Ensor by They Might Be Giants (biased as I associate it with the incredible Chris Morris/Peter Baynham Radio 1 show), a smattering of Bonzo Dog tracks I’ve had shoved into my ears. All of these have something unusual, some new shapes and intentions of their own, other than a wish to point to something else and yell “ha ha”. These records have skin in the game. Most comic records suck, are childish and petty, and this is no exception. Leaves me sad that time and talent went into making music for self-identifying smartarses. Apart from Trouble Every Day, which I think is good and not an over engineered sneer. There are worthy parts on most of the songs, infuriatingly.

Took me about a year of monthly visits to Piccadilly Records in Manchester to finally snag this CD, and was initially disappointed that they didn’t sound like Sonic Youth. I can’t remember whether it was during the third or fourth listen in a row when I fell in love with it, and over that summer it became my favourite album. (Displacing Daydream Nation, arf.)

This record made sense in the car, though after almost two listens I cannot remember details (second listen halted by a slightly dirgy song getting voted down in our commie collective). This sort of proto-prog, pre-Layla, earnest rock does have some mileage with me.

1. At last I get to listen to the full length Barry Norman theme. 2. This is the music played in Mel Gibson’s retirement home. 3. This album was better when they had Jarrett’s original song titles: “Sharon at the Rodeo”, “Miles Cut Yr Hair”, “Where’s My Currywürst, Vera?”, and “Tony, Get The Wheels!” This is obviously a powerful performance in its idiom, a record beloved by many, and a demonstration of what a virtuoso can do under what were apparently crappy circumstances. This is not something that was my jam today, but ended up being decent company for the hour before we went our separate ways.