Go ahead and unplug me too while you’re at it.

I’m not saying this record is a toothless snoozefest flirting with cultural appropriation…but I’m also not not saying that.

A surprising amount of fluff surrounding the eternal hits makes for a night at the opera that’s less memorable than you might hope.

Best listened to on an airboat in Louisiana or helicopter above Vietnam.

I enjoyed many of the moody, melancholy components at play here but found they never truly coalesced into a resonant conclusion.

What you got, I must respectfully decline-a.

Languid lunar lounge tracks, soundtracking your electronic expedition across the stars.

Not my cup of tea, no matter the hour.

Lovely and herbaceous but it could use a little spice.

Doesn’t quite light my fuse resulting in a bang, b-b-bang-oh.

PJ’s most pastoral project paints a picture most perpetual.

Mr. Davis proves, in ways not so silent, just how many Miles ahead he always was.

Eternal rhythms sure to populate even the most neglected of dance floors.

Levitational longings for the hopeless, restless romantic.

Reasonably Enjoyable Music.

If I’m taking a ride with my best friend and they queue up this record, well, they’re going to let me down.

Straight Outta Compton, straight into my veins.

Seminal sad boy music capturing, in ways both gorgeous and ghastly, a man’s final circlings down the drain.

An expansive and eclectic achievement, from an undeniable talent, that’s not quite for me.

Go ahead and unplug me too while you’re at it.

I’m not saying this record is a toothless snoozefest flirting with cultural appropriation…but I’m also not not saying that.

I listened to this album whilst barreling down a literal highway, and while my destination wasn't “Hell,” it might as well have been.

Perfectly adequate, albeit not quite irreplaceable, post-punk rock tunes.

A fun, funky party best left a little early.

Firmly filing under HARD PASS.

Classic conscious hip hop worth trapping in amber.

The embarrassment I feel having never experienced this record prior to this exercise is outweighed only by the immense joy brought forth by the knowledge that I’ll have it in my life for the rest of my days.

My mind’s right here, and it’s landed on “Surfer So-Sosa.”

A swampy slide down the depths of a subterranean circus led luridly by a raucous ringmaster.

A dream worth both getting lost in and making recurring.

Immediately left me with a fuzzy memory of its contents.

C’est chic, oui, et oh si funky mais dans l'ensemble juste comme ci, comme ça.

Revered Enigmatic Mediocrity.

Can’t help but feel that spinning your father-in-law’s well-worn copy of Music From Big Pink while smoking cigars on a sunny Easter Sunday, like I did, is the way everyone should experience this record.

The firm grip this record applied to my attention with its opening track, regrettably, loosened with each subsequent song.

The “Tainted Love” cover is immortal, but I found most else from this Soft Cell effort to be a hard listen.

Mindful and murky, Dylan’s 30th (!) record benefits greatly from the diminished returns of the icon’s lean years and atmospheric production from Daniel Lanois.

The barking bard, with his rock tumbler voice and a head full of sleaze, leads us on a tour of dank alleyways, hazy cabarets, and bars where everybody knows your game.

With so much drama in the LBC, it’s kind of hard to give less than a 4, let alone a 3.

Shame this wasn’t an instrumental record.

OG (Original Gangster, not Olive Garden) jazz, swing, and jump blues standards performed with jubilance and reverence for the genres.

An offer from The Glamfather I simply can't refuse.

The fact that THIS record is considered lesser than Public Enemy’s three previous releases says all you need to know about the vital group’s ridiculous run from 1987–1991.

No one captured lightning in a bottle with more flair, nor more frequently, than Bowie.

Beck es bastante guay para ser un güero.

Extra crispy jazz jams that’d make even Gus Fring get up and shake his tail feather.

A collection of horizontal love songs I’ll likely be hitting and quitting.

Shimmering soliloquies featuring a striking dichotomy between sonic stylings and subject matter.

Sweet Dreams (Is An Apt Title) 😴

I have a strong appreciation for ambient music and for spending time in William’s orbit, but I ultimately found the gravitational pull of this record to be a bit lacking.

I hear the echoes of so many other bands in this Bunnymen debut, and feel a nagging desire to hop on over to their discographies instead.

It’s a “Scott 2/5” for me, but I have to say that this dude’s voice was made to croon over the big brass and smooth strings of a Bond theme (Fun Fact: Walker’s “Only Myself To Blame” was originally intended for the closing credits of 1999’s The World Is Not Enough before being replaced with a techno remix of the classic Bond theme…tough break).

Mike Oldfield’s Renaissance fair fever dream of a debut record (best known for its use in the opening theme of The Exorcist) features over 20 instruments (mostly played by Oldfield alone), runs over 49 minutes across just two songs, and gets two thumbs up from me.

I’ll keep it simple: I didn’t pay this record much mind.

Big 2-Star Energy.

Rust Never Sleeps, nor does it ever seem to accumulate on Neil Young’s discography.

Maybe we’ll never find the answers to Marvin’s musings, as the injustices of the past bleed into modern day, but as much as our revolving reality makes us want to cry, you just have to remember, always, to try.

An at times transcendent time capsule of late 60s baroque folk that could still place on Pitchfork’s Best New Music today.

WARNING: Prolonged listening can lead to an increased risk of certain side effects and complications, including nausea, migraines, diarrhea, perforated eardrums, dizziness, and death.

Everybody knows skips are nowhere to be found on this record.

Welcome to BS HQ.

I CAN and WILL give this deranged krautrock classic an EASY 5.

To write anything suggesting I enjoyed, so much as tolerated, this record would be a work of Pulp Fiction.

My Central Reservation in rating this album any higher than 2 stars is based on a complete lack of memorability.

Kinetic Latin jazz kindling ready and raring to spark the flame of any dance floor, house party, or, in my case, Wednesday morning.

Add some cannabis smoke to this fog of prog and get lost in its seas of keys and harmonies.

I’m as surprised as you are, dear reader, that a grunge-adjacent record from 1996 is getting a 4 from me, but the powers of Mark Lanegan seem to trump any of my genre or decade biases.

Long live The Queen Is Dead!

Electronic music means a whole lot to me, and I really respect Kraftwerk for laying the foundation for the genre’s proliferation by way of this groundbreaking sonic highway of a record; I just wish they hit the gas once in awhile.

A bleak, beguiling, and, at times, bewildering Bowie record that synthesizes the singular artist's individual introspections into universal understandings.

This was my favorite U2 record throughout my angstier years, and while time, maturation, and perspective have led to its ranking being bumped down one peg, it'll always hold a special place in my (still quite angsty) heart.

There’s some funky fun to be had here, but I think I’ll pass on the generous, 65-minute offer of, uh, sex…packets (?!?), thank you.

Immortal Britpop glory for the morning, noon, and night.

Come for Cash’s raw, live vocal performance for a crowd of convicts, stay for the stage banter directed at said crowd of convicts.

The best Kind Of Blue.

A sonically-diverse and well-formed debut that’d sound equally at home soundtracking a Sunday morning or cocktails by the pool as it would a Latin nightclub or cigars in a low-lit lounge.

This Go-Go’s harder than I expected it to.

The opening act of Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy features few lows and many highs thanks to the art rock atmospherics created in collaboration with Brian Eno and Tony Visconti.

Ascending a mountain as the sun set behind me while these enchanting songs from faraway lands soundtracked my journey had me feeling like a proper Bollywood hero.

Hollow and inconsequential, much like an actual prayer.

A dazzlingly well-formed, supremely danceable debut from a duo that only got better with time.

Love rules—this record does not.

And I just can't contain, this 2-star feeling that remains.

I can really respect Eminem’s considerable creative control of the English language, but the enjoyment I’ve found in actually listening to his music has always been slim.

Moments of experimental excitement are ultimately too few and far between in this over-fermented work of krautrock.

Listened to this record at the gym and now I’m convinced it should be classified as a performance-enhancing drug.

I dig the punk feminist energy; I do not dig the incessant warbly vocals expressing that energy.

I prefer the band’s three preceding volumes, but even “lesser” Sabbath is good for a couple pairs of devil horns. 🤘🤘

A mind-boggling masterpiece from a true pioneer serving as a towering testament to the unique ways in which a producer can transcend the sum of their samples.

Best listened to on an airboat in Louisiana or helicopter above Vietnam.

Seldom sounded interesting.

Worthwhile and well made, just not made for me.

I’ll never be a father, nor will I ever own a yacht, so why is it that I find myself so enchanted by Steely Dan’s silky-smooth siren songs?!

Why’s it called The Soft Bulletin when it hits so fucking hard?

Bow down to one of the most unassailable talents our world has ever seen.

Big, dumb, trailblazing metal for those looking to spice up their next séance, summoning, and/or Satanic slumber party.

Maybe if my formative experiences with psychedelics were soundtracked by The Dead, I’d have more patience for their nonsensical noodling…but they weren’t…and I don’t.

A wonderfully woeful album to get lost in when you’re lost in your feelings.

Lush, perfectly produced acid house as likely to get your brain moving as it is your body.

Spirits of art-, glam-, and avant-rock meld marvelously to craft a stunningly singular cocktail of particular intoxication.

Knowing nothing going in, I came out mostly swept off my feet by the melodic melancholy and emotional resonance of these decidedly-adult synth-pop soundscapes.

I was prepared to write “Meh Meh Mehs,” then Karen O. & Co. smacked some (but not all) of the smug out of me.

Production from Kanye Fucking West and J Fucking Dilla are cheat codes for a game already made all too easy by Common’s street-wisened rhymes.

I find much of the guitarwork on this record to be interesting, compelling even, but the cowpunk vocals and trailer park vibes do not work for me.

Cohen premeditates on the afterlife with a tombstone timbre as his two feet steadily sink down six.

Folktronic explorations through the neopsych kosmos are done no favors by a less-than-captivating captain.

Worth the price of admission alone to hear my favorite classic rock rhythm section run rampant.

A surprising amount of fluff surrounding the eternal hits makes for a night at the opera that’s less memorable than you might hope.

Pretty cheesy, pretty grating, yet still pretty ill, which I suppose describes the Boys pretty well, doesn’t it?

Bricks walls stand no chance against runners aided by this acrid assault on the senses.

Mr. Grohl seems like a great dude, and I do feel bad about the heartbreak he's endured, but to my ears his bland-ass butt rock may as well be made with dog whistles.

The world would be an immensely better place if sending children to “Time Out” meant sitting them down with this record.

I haven’t quite cracked the code on why I can’t quite get behind Talking Heads, but it’s quite clear there no answers to be found in their sleepy debut.

Joy Division walked (and lan Curtis swung) so New Order could run (and ultimately dance).

As Marley's dreads flowed free, so too did his music and the messages woven within.

Take a seat, young Slim Shady.

An ode to the glory of modern machinery, of place and identity, and of electronic possibilities ever-explored thanks to Kraftwerk's industrial innovation.

Je vais en prendre davantage, s'il vous plaît, et merci.

Listen to Fats if you want the skinny on rock and roll’s real, non-whitewashed history.

Prepare for a bumpy ride if alt country’s not your jam.

I don’t belong at the table, but I’ll gladly play the part of enthralled fly on the wall.

You ever had a fever dream where all the sleep paralysis demons appear as French-speaking, metalhead amalgamations of Tom Waits and Trent Reznor?

For all the hooks and catchy choruses, nothing here really grabbed me.

Leaders of the British Invasion look within, setting sail on a new, conceptual conquest against foes of their own making.

Not today, The Beach Boys.

You could revisit this landmark stretch of sonic highway 61 times over and still uncover new insights on the inevitable 62nd.

White Light/White Noise

Yet another golden hour from one of the most consistently captivating songwriters and guitarists of all time.

Not something I’d ever put on regular rotation, but man, what a set of pipes.

The final feat from a talent rarer than pearls and more raw than tartare.

Wake up, losers, it’s cock rock o’clock!

This record is a great metaphor for LCD Soundsystem's post-retirement return and perhaps even for James Murphy himself: it's a little bloated, self-righteous, and long in the tooth, yet still showcases a singular style and sound I can't get enough of.

Transformational transgressions from one of the coolest motherfuckers to ever do it.

Would summing up this pleasantly surprising, Sunday morning-worthy discovery as “MexiWilco” be clever or offensive (I’ll take my answer off air)?

Succinct and seductive, Blondie’s Parallel Lines comes oh-so close to perfection, but some slight shagginess gets in the way of true transcendence.

The hits hit just hard enough to elevate the more conventional rock tracks peppering Petty’s debut.

This record’s unfadeable, so please don’t try to fade this record (hell yeah).

A groovy, psychedelic, mostly-worthwhile, but ultimately inconsequential, head-scratcher of an inclusion on this list.

Couldn’t quite see the forest for the trees on this one, which is a common conceit of most Eno-less Roxy Music for me.

Theory would suggest I’d really like this, but the pieces don’t quite fit in practice.

Björk’s beautiful, bewildering response to the age-old question: “What that mouth do?”

My heart tells me every post-Pablo Honey Radiohead record is a 5; my brain understands the unfair precedent set by Radiohead’s revolutionary 5s.

Went in with a shitty attitude expecting to hate this record, and still wound up kind of liking it.

The kind of record you put on in the company of babbling brooks and crackling fires.

The gravity of Ray’s genius helps exalt what often sounds like 24 versions of the same song.

Although it sounds exactly as you’d expect an English synth-pop record from 1981 would, a deceptive amount of lyrical depth and instrumental nuance keep things interesting.

It’s astounding hearing a voice as distinct as Björk’s intermingle with so many varying styles of music, with such aplomb, from the very start of her career.

An inflection point for a band on the verge of greatness, a too-cool-for-school drink of water that leaves you quenched yet still Thurston for Moore.

Relatively charming—for something I’ll never listen to again.

My appreciation for these robot revolutionaries has deepened with each record this list has gifted me (three now), and I still might be underrating how important they were/are.

If smashing the fifth star whenever Miles Davis pops up is cool, consider me the man himself!

Left me feeling unsatisfied and a bit queasy, like gas station sushi.

I enjoyed many of the moody, melancholy components at play here but found they never truly coalesced into a resonant conclusion.

Winehouse was a sultry, soulful powerhouse from the very start, even though the music accompanying her vocal debut leaves much to be desired.

I’ve done it, I’ve finally done it: I found the cure for insomnia!

One of the greatest major label debuts of all time from THE greatest rapper of all time.

This record (and its ridiculous list of contributors) is at its best when it strays from blues tradition and wanders toward weirder, heavier sounds.

Listening to what Simon says is a subjective chore for me, even if he’s objectively good at what he does.

Although originally an American export, “the blues” is revealed, through the stylings of Mali-based Songhoy Blues, to be a uniquely global, decidedly human form of expression.

I was happy when it was finally Bossanover.

That Nutty Pianist sure can tickle those keys, can’t he?

I’d require several tabs in my body for this electric music to blow my mind.

Now That’s What I Call Coffee Shop Music!

Few musicians fascinate me more than Brian Eno; I’m forever in his corner, and shit like this is why.

Elton’s extravagant excess turns monochrome to technicolor, forever substantiating that the showman behind the curtain is far from a phony.

5-star hotel (try the pink champagne), 3-star record (you can never leave, nor escape it).

There’s something sonically spiritual to the way these ethereal, meandering sounds seem to rhyme with whatever you’re doing while the record’s on.

This feckless, pseudo-protest bullshit can fuck all the way off.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I can dig it.

There’s an ethereal beauty to be found in these deep, dark Icelandic waters, provided you’re in the right mood to go diving for them.

The sound of Black Sabbath opening Black Sabbath with the titular Black Sabbath is one of unholy creation—of a paradigm shifting as the flames of hell lick the anvil forging what we now hail as HEAVY METAL.

Led Zeppelin's hit rate is near mythical, and this debut record with a tracklist now reading like a best-of compilation is testament to that rock fact.

I’m guessing 1994 was a down year for teenagers.

Not my favorite from Sonic Youth, but “Kool Thing” and that album cover certainly go a long way.

The Thin White Duke experiments with Black soul and R&B, and the results are compelling, even if it was just a passing phase.

Funky psychedelic soul that sounds as good on the streets as it does between the sheets.

Enchanting soundscapes made for quiet contemplation and moody night drives.

I’ve come to realize I really only like “Making Plans For Nigel” from XTC, and, reader, that song's not on this record.

Probably a 3, but my fond memories of frequenting a club with a weekly goth/industrial/new wave night are paving the way toward generosity.

I can appreciate the production experimentation here (and I like LSD too), but the fact of the matter is that I do not enjoy The Beatles, and this record did not change my mind.

A genreless form of artistry that channel-surfs styles, transcends traditional trappings, and tunes into programming too seldom broadcast.

Mayfield’s masterclass in funk contains more soul and cinematic vision than even the Blaxploitation film it’s designed to complement.

The only sensational aspect of this album can be found in the song titles (shout out to “Giddy Up A Ding Dong”).

Fela Kuti is a commanding harbor in the tempest of primal rhythms swirling around him.

I don’t connect with Van’s vocals, and I find the music to be a bit astral plain.

Hendrix: Good As Fuck

Lou Reed kicked John Cale out of the band and a lot of The Velvet Underground’s thrilling experimentation left with him, as is evidenced by this tame, though lovely, post-split record.

An exhaustive, but never exhausting, exhibition of the iconic mover and shaker’s charismatic big band jazz control.

Points for being the last Beatles album, thus bringing Paul McCartney one step closer to his career highlight: co-writing the "Live And Let Die" theme song.

Foundational familial funk that started conversations continued still today between artists across so many styles and genres.

This record is 1985 as fuck and no doubt belongs on a short list of albums that perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the year in which they were released.

I love me some Missy, but I think her true superpower lies in her knack for crafting bonafide hits rather than cohesive albums.

As I drive down the road in Good Ol' Town, USA, with the sun's golden hour filtering through the dust kicked up behind me, I reflect on the American working class before letting out a raspy growl, “BABY, THIS IS NOT FOR ME!”

I’m not one to shy away from my feelings, but I really have to be in the mood for 72 minutes of doom and gloom (no matter how gorgeous or iconic it might be).

I found the interplay between Stewart’s gravelly tones and the picturesque, minstrel-inspired music behind him to be the most interesting part of this story.

The Queen of Soul stays running vocal circles around everything and everyone.

This is the type of record that requires a sort of mental time travel back to the year it was released, as it’s so foundational to everything coming next that you feel like you’ve heard it a million times before, even if it’s your first go-round.

Don’t look to me for an unbiased take; I listen to shit like this every single day.

This album’s fine, but it didn’t really inspire me, so in lieu of a clever review, I will instead point out that the phenomenal 5-star Outkast record ATLiens (which is inexplicably not on this list) features songs titled both “13th Floor” and “Elevators.”

Sister Sledge gallops gallantly atop golden grooves from Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards in this silky smooth late-70s showcase.

The ho-hum spark igniting the “Ho Hey” powder keg explosion of the 2010s’ insufferable indie folk “revival.”

Ghostface Killah’s stream of consciousness rhymes shine iridescent over a murderer’s row of producers and co-conspirators.

A satirical yet sincere, biting yet bucolic romp of a record from an iconic band that somehow still remains underrated after all these years.

I’ve taken too many drugs too many times to too many of these songs to have too many complaints.

This ethereal blend of electronic instrumentation and pop melodies evokes the carefree spirit of a perfect spring day or the sun-kissed liberation of the summer’s open road.

Not my favorite work from this acclaimed author despite the presence of a few killer chapters.

Big fat beats are far from slim on this raving relic of late-90s British electronica.

I'm quite the fan of shoegazing, but I've always considered Ride to be a class below the Slowdives and My Bloody Valentines of the world; Nowhere did nothing to make me reconsider that preconception.

I can definitely get down with this melancholic, sad cowboy, “Keep the whiskey coming, barkeep,” type shit.

Earth, Wind(,) & Fire’s trademark blend of musical versatility and energetic positivity is on full display within this rich, dynamic, & socially conscious outing.

This took me back to the days of riding along with my mom without control over what played on the radio; which is to say, I didn’t like it.

This one caught me at the right time: It’s a decidedly autumnal day here in Asheville, NC, and these rambling acoustics complemented rather well the swirling ballet of leaves pirouetting upon the crisp fall air.

This was a definite case of enjoying reading up on the band and it’s importance more than listening to said band’s output, but it’s certainly worth your time, especially if you have an interest in the history of metal.

The number of times I reactively raised my eyebrows or made a stank face during these 6 songs spanning ~43 minutes was truly absurd.

The hits soar; the rest is a bit of a bore.

This unrelenting cavalcade of Mancunian barks, carnival keyboards, incisive, elastic guitar work, and pervasive, post-punk percussion isn’t just up my alley; it IS my alley.

Reminiscent of modern prequels, requels, and sequels in the way it looks backward in an attempt to move forward.

I found this more contemplative, downbeat departure from the classic Beach Boys surf-pop sound by one of the band’s founders to be rather refreshing.

Uh, yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and take a page from the Book of Bizkit itself and keep things rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin’.

With all due respect, I’ll never be in the mood to fire this up, even when I’m feeling blue.

I would argue that one cannot truly be considered experienced until they themselves have experienced this mind-bending, psychedelic rock masterpiece from the undisputed GGOAT (Greatest Guitarist of All Time).

I have all the time in the world for Neil’s sinewy, soul-searching guitar solos.

I wouldn’t say I louv-ed it, but get a little shine in me and sure, I’ll jig to these ditties.

This soul isn't just hot, it's forged from Olympian flame; this soul isn't just buttered, it's draped in liquid gold.

I nearly ran for the hills when I saw those three frightening letters (S-K-A 😟) but was relatively relieved to find this relatively inoffensive.

Although poppy, punchy, and, of course, pumped up, the lack of a certain je ne sais quoi will likely keep me from returning.

Get it, girl.

This all-time great transition transmission is brought to you by milk, red peppers, and the Duke’s legendary affinity for Thin White lines.

It sounds like shit and Albini’s a total edgelord, but if the unhinged DIY guy of it all reels you in, the riffs just might keep you hooked.

Neither truly live or dangerous, Lizzy’s big night out is awful bloated for an artist purporting to be thin.

All Things Must Pass, some take longer to do so than others.

Passionately riding punk rock’s seminal first wave, The Adverts make crossing the Red Sea look easy in a voracious voyage that still resonates and reverberates today.

Marianne’s righteous rasp faithfully harmonizes her harrowing past atop a smoke-swirled synthesis of musical styles and influences.

Surreal and near-spectacular stone cold sober, one might imagine this record would be even more of a doozy when heard dosed up.

I don’t often fill my cup with the type of tea brewed by singer/songwriter types sat down with their guitar or piano, but Joni’s voice on Blue is so smooth, her writing so strong, that I’m finding the irresistible taste linger long after my final sip.

A psychedelic swirl of sardonic social commentary so potent it’ll have you checking your pupils just a few tracks in.

Perfectly delightful folk tunes blending ethereal vocals and intricate instrumentation across a variety of vibes and musical moods.

I want to shout out OutKast’s three 5-star records preceding Stankonia (Southernplayalisticcadillacmuzick, ATLiens, and Aquemini—all of which SHOULD be on this list) and extend a heartfelt “Stank You” to one of my all-time favorite musical acts for this forever, ever masterwork.

A tangled web of guitar-forward art rock dazzling in its distorted dissonance.

The Cult sold their gothic rock sanctuary for THIS?!

Amy’s voice often conjures images in my mind of smoke-filled clubs and lounges from a bygone era; unfortunately, like the smoke filling those rooms, my interest tends to dissipate into thin air over time.

Definitely Maybe my favourite Oasis record and definitely no-maybes-about-it one of England’s most enduring exports.

An album I’m sure Neil Young would have preferred to have never recorded—given the subject matter—stands out as one of the most emotionally resonant and hauntingly intimate entries in his expansive discography.

I was kind of taken off guard by how stylistically diverse, yet of a piece, this record was; even the awkward missteps are endearing.

There’s some tired cliché about the cracks of a broken heart helping to let the light in, and without getting too sappy, I’ll say that the sips of this tea helped to illuminate the room and restore my fractured spirits.

This bong is made for packin’, and that’s just what I’ll do…

Do your stretches before diving into this record—the ultimate love letter to love letters—and don't be surprised if your heart stretches in turn by the time you finally reach its end.

How many stars would Wild Wood get if Wild Wood truly sounded wild (more than this tame affair, surely)?

All Main Streets look the same and all these Exile songs sound the same.

Fuck the haters; the first four Coldplay records are all legitimately great and there’s a reason this sophomore effort sent them into the stratosphere.

The only thing cooler than the other side of Surrealistic Pillow is the other side of Surrealistic Pillow.

All Bob Marley is good Bob Marley, even when it’s just alright Bob Marley.

36 minutes and 26 seconds of pure, uncut snarl and low-down, unadulterated sleaze.

Now I got tinnitus.

Cloudy with a chance of hotel lobby.

I much prefer the first three Police records to the last two but grooving along with Copeland & Co. is never a bad time.

Points for eclecticism, but this one’s a bit more “Boo” than “Rad” for me.

I can’t imagine your house would ever be crowded again if you made a habit of spinning this snoozer.

I feel a great disturbance in the Force when I listen close, as if millions of Coors-drunk denim-wearers suddenly put another quarter in the jukebox and were suddenly soloing on their pool cues.

It’s frivolous fun fabricated from the Farrell-led foursome, but it’s fun nonetheless.

Tightly rolled and complementarily flavored with no single note overwhelming another.

The coulda-woulda-shoulda-been-a-Bond-theme-crooner returns with a velvety vengeance!

This stands as my favorite Zeppelin record, and arguably their best, even though it feels a bit like cheating, considering it's a double album from one of the most all-around talented bands at the apex of their respective powers.

Sumptuous soul painting a vivid scene where stylistic flourishes and genre influences stroll on by like passing strangers in the park.

Take a dive down into the dark, debaucherous depths of Dulli and The Whigs’s most well-known—and most malignant—masterpiece; fucked up as it might seem, it’s one of my favorite places to be.

There’s no denying the impact, influence, and, frankly, immortality of this album, so don’t even try.

Poignant songwriting powered by haunting harmonies and just the right amount of six-string muscularity to accentuate the quiet coziness.

It takes stones, indeed, to put out a debut record comprised mostly of covers—that are mostly good covers but covers nonetheless.

The crown jewel of Sonic Youth’s discography and an unassailable alt-rock masterpiece.

Life tastes a bit sweeter when soundtracked by the First Lady of Song’s renditions of these timeless jazz standards.

I tried to connect to this band that so many others seem to be influenced by, but just couldn’t Dü it in the end.

I found most of this record engaging, and I was pleasantly reminded that I had a song or two saved in previous playlists, though I can’t say most of what’s here warrants regular rotation.

Buckley’s unique mix of raw virtuosity, remarkable vocal range, and tender vulnerability results in a classic one-and-done legacy that, like the mighty Mississippi, remains unfuckwitable.

I’ve a lot of love in my heart for post-punk, and this band’s debut helped write the book.

On 21, Adele delivers a vocal performance almost as awe-inspiring as the album's colossal, enduring success.

Everyone digs “Sunshine Of Your Love,” but it’s under-appreciated tracks like the groovy “World Of Pain” and—perhaps my favorite Cream song—the absurd “SWLABR” that rise to the top of this supergroup’s sophomore album.

The sheer audacity of cramming 105 samples into this album's production is unreal; yet, the Beastie Boys manage to not only keep up but run rap circles around the kaleidoscopic beats.

This p-funk perfection—with its scorching soul, indelible grooves, and Hall of Fame Eddie Hazel performance—is required listening for any motherlover lucky enough to be breathing on this thrice-knocked-up planet of ours.

“Sympathy For The Devil” and “Street Fighting Man” are so, so good, but everything else here is so, so dull.

The Purple One proves, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is by far the most prodigious pop powerhouse this world’s ever seen.

I really wish I remembered more (read: any) of the French I took in school so I could understand and better appreciate what sounded to be a rather revelrous evening of music and life.

I’ve got nothing but love and respect for dance floor forefathers like Orbital, whose pioneering efforts helped shape one of my most-listened-to genres today.

Self-proclaimed geniuses rarely live up to their own mythologizing, but the proclamation tends to ring true when you’re one of the most prolific purveyors of popular music in the 20th century and beyond.

Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea, PJ plus NY equals magic to me.

This record kicks off with its best song, and that bar is never again met, let alone raised; I’d much rather listen to Jamie xx’s solo stuff.

Modern Midwestern melancholia masterfully tinged with enough turn-of-the-century country psychedelia and folksy flights of fancy to make every re-listen a revelation in its own right.

The Score melds intricate flows, knockout beats, and incisive lyrics into a hip-hop epic that still cuts as deep and sounds as smooth as it did in '96.

Not going to jump on the bandwagon or join the club, but the guitar work on this record really captured my attention even if my overall interest waned over time.

MC5 promised me revolution; MC5 failed to light my molotov.

A big beat odyssey that tapped its era's youth culture zeitgeist by successfully fusing the techno rave with the punk rock pit, becoming a defining musical force of the late 90s in the process.

The religious allusions—of which there are many—were completely lost on me, but the bleeding heart romanticism—delivered in equally ample supply—spoke to me loud and clear.

A beguiling portal into a world I’ll never truly know but one I very much enjoyed momentarily experiencing.

The wistful interplay between Getz's jazz sensibilities and Charlie Byrd's bossa nova experiences make for a landmark fusion of styles at once both somber and serene.

I'm a total Grinch and still found it cheeky for this otherwise random list of albums to intentionally gift a collection of classic Christmas hits on the day itself.

Bit grungy for my tastes, but the rising PJ tide lifts all boats of style and genre.

I did not enjoy the show.

The first few pints better be free if this is your pub’s entertainment for the night.

All the apologies in the world wouldn’t suffice for making me listen to this butt rock bullshit.

The production is top notch but I can’t totally get behind the vocal style.

This expansive exploration into the world of chilled-out trip-hop is a delight indeed.

Wagnerian, over-the-top operatic rock rife with heightened tales of love, lust, and rebellion featuring one of the greatest album covers ever printed.

With an electrifying clash of punk rock feminism and dancefloor aptitude, Le Tigre's debut sinks its claws into complacency and shakes listeners out of their comfort zone.

George Michael moves away from the upbeat pop sound of his previous work in this introspective, at times somber, demonstration of the thoughtful artistic depth behind and beyond his mega-stardom.

Slick, catchy, and oh-so-feathered, Bon Jovi's rafters-reaching breakthrough cemented these Jersey boys as global superstars and heirs to the hair metal throne.

I can't imagine I'll ever be listening to this drivel again.

This sounds like the future no matter what days you call your own.

The ramshackle blast of primal rhythms—including an electric banjo (!)—and shrill, shouted vocals on Black Monk Time prove The Monks were wildly unconventional rock innovators who presaged punk's revolt against the musical and societal establishments.

Introspective, well-read lyricism is complemented by deceptively intricate baroque pop arrangements in this underappreciated-in-its-time, ahead-of-its-time vestige of psychedelia's golden age.

While ultimately something I'd deem inessential, there was enough eclecticism and experimentation in the songwriting to keep me engaged.

This record never reaches the heights of its namesake, but I did quite like the bubbling flow of funky bass lines throughout.

No gods, no masters, no Kings of Fucking Leon.

Blue Lines simmers with trip hop's signature hypnotic allure, though its sparse sonic palette leaves some moments feeling unfulfilled.

Faith shows Michael's willingness to evolve past his Wham! days and explore more sophisticated terrain in a solo debut rife with hits for both the streets and the sheets.

What initially comes across as a tough hang, in time, gives way to devastating beauty for the patient, active listener.

The dads were right, and they still are; this shit rips.

I was rather lukewarm on this one, though I no doubt enjoyed and appreciated the affecting introspection in Elton's character-driven lyrical style.

Although iconic, I prefer Brown's funk pioneering to his early blues- and gospel-inspired work; it almost feels like a disservice to The Hardest Working Man In Show Business to merely listen to his legendary stage presence without actually seeing it happen.

I can't even think of this album, let alone listen to it, without tearing up; the artistic intention in its creation and release as a final statement and parting gift to the world is, and will forever be, heartbreakingly transcendent.

Beautifully melancholic yet uplifting soul-pop that perfectly soundtracked a walk around my snow-dusted neighborhood.

Started off feeling like a chore to get through; ended up leaving me feeling rather enchanted.

There’s no denying The Allman Brothers Band’s vast breadth and depth of musicianship, but I’m more or less immune to the charms of blues-based Southern rock bands.

Though underappreciated upon its 1970 release, Led Zeppelin III has proven over time to be one of the band's most crucial and inventive records, marking a transitional, masterful fusion of their hard rock roots with emerging folk influences.

I appreciated the message of the album more so than I enjoyed the delivery of said message.

Defiantly delightful madness that’s as artful as it is abrasive.

Chock-full of performative, angst-fueled shock rock anthems, School's Out proves that even though Alice Cooper looks like a goth or a metalhead, he was always a theatre kid at heart.

I’m going to say that claim is false, Elvis; this one missed the mark.

No skips across its 19 songs, no doubts about its 5-star rating, and no hesitations in picking up when it's London on the other end of the line.

The Soul Machine showcases his vocal versatility and flow flexibility in this stellar sonic snapshot of early 00s hip hop.

OutKast split it down the middle so you can see both the visions; the resulting divine dichotomy's the closest I'll ever get to religion.

Springsteen illuminates the dashed dreams, dead-end jobs, and decayed towns at the shadowed heart of so many working-class lives, but ultimately his somber soliloquies can't quite light up this heart of mine.

All I’m left thinking after this record took my eardrums on a ride pugnaciously piloted by two saxophonists, two drummers, and a bassist is, “Let’s go again!”

When David Lynch wrote, "We are like the dreamer who dreams, and then lives inside the dream,” I think he might have been listening to this (perfect dream pop) record.

I like Deep Purple quite a lot, but five of the seven songs on this live album originate from two studio albums also on this list, and I don't believe the live versions are revelatory enough to warrant double-dipping, sooo what are we doing here?

There's a certain mystifying esotericism and musical eclecticism here that keeps me thinking about and returning to this album, even though it's not something I'd say I particularly enjoy.

Franz Ferdinand is the best named-after-an-archduke band of all time, and their potent debut instantly assassinated any doubts that they would have a major role to play in rock and roll's early 2000s revival.

Even in the midst of considerable stylistic diversity, Beck maintains a singular musical identity that is unmistakably his own.

Rather listless and slippery, as if the entire auditory experience passed through my memory banks without any consideration of taking root.

I was quick to dismiss this on an initial listen, but another go-round revealed a delightful bit of fantastical whimsy to break up the standard psych folk fare.

This triumvirate of distinct voices interweaves marvelously to co-create honeyed harmonies that gently glide above classic country tunes.

Bad, bad girl; good, good debut.

It's hard to find words that are kind, so I guess I'll just say, "Oh well, whatever, Nevermind."

An angular album uncompromising in its abstract chaos and unquestionable in its importance for the development of post punk and art rock.

One of the strongest, most enduring exports forged during the almighty New Wave of British Heavy Metal in the late 70s/early 80s.

Eastern traditionalism meets Western sensibility in this synth- and sitar-fused raga rock reclamation project.

The only flag I pledge allegiance to belongs to the United Funk of Funkadelica.

The first perfect album from a band primarily concerned with one-upping themselves by finding new ways to make a perfect album.

The band's blues prowess, while undeniable, is showcased to the point of excess, and the assorted love songs often feel more like fleeting flings than enduring romances.

My pops didn’t raise no fool, and he sure as hell didn’t raise his son to give MCMLXXXIV anything less than a V.

A fascinating educational exploration into Hindustani classical music from a supremely qualified teacher.

I acknowledge the importance of this band's later innovation and experimentation, but their early bowl-cut bubblegum bullshit belongs in the bin.

I don’t think we can be friends if this album doesn’t make you levitate.

Though I would have preferred more originals and fewer covers, Redding's iconic soulful voice could recite the phone book and I'd still be captivated.

Willie’s storytelling ability transports you so effectively that you can practically taste the cheap beer served in the dimly-lit taverns and smell the smoke filling those quiet little out-of-the-way places he croons about.

I’m not completely immune to The Offspring’s charms, but this mostly just sounds like a 13-year-old Mountain Dew addict’s ideal skate soundtrack.

The Prodigy fights for our rights to party in this rebellious relic of rave culture's heyday.

Well, folks, here it is: my favorite album of all time.

They don’t make them—sequels—like they used to.

It's time to rethink some things if you come to find yourself vibing with these cringe-worthy attempts at hip hop and blues rock fusion.

The punk-meets-country aesthetic and familiar angsty English vocal seemed bound for a 3 at best, but the synthesis oddly compelled and propelled something in me.

I find it difficult to take this band seriously.

Whether you consider Elvis the “King” of Rock and Roll or of Musical Appropriation, there’s really no denying his singular ability to meld influences into a style and presence all his own.

An astonishing exploration and celebration of Black identity, culture, power, and beauty expressed through a uniquely understated blend of soul, funk, gospel, and electronica.

I throw this record on and am immediately transported to an eerie, edgy Halloween party where everyone’s costume incorporates leather and lung darts are passed out in lieu of candy.

I can do all things through The Beast who strengthens me.

Sad songs, quite Frankly, have never sounded more cinematic nor more mesmerizing than they do coming from the lips of Sinatra.

It's a "not for me, dawg," but I can certainly appreciate Drake's delicate vocals, introspective lyrics, and soft finger-picking fusion of folk, jazz, and baroque pop.

I love records like this for their ability to transport the listener and transform even the most mundane of life’s experiences.

The brain boggles at the sheer scale of spontaneous creation resulting from Jarrett’s immaculate improvisation; as his fingers wander, so too will your mind.

Don’t let the album title fool you, this pioneering drum and bass effort is very much a hermetically-sealed capsule of the time and place in which it was recorded.

I’m not gonna lie: it took some doing to make myself get through this one.

The notion of being "born in the wrong generation" is usually one I roll my eyes at, then I remember that most members of the one I belong to not only tolerate but adore this drivel.

Rip It Up and pour it up: this blend of post-punk, indie pop, and early-80s guitar jangle goes down smooth!

The songs will get you bouncing (“Passin’ Me By” will never not be a bop), just don’t expect the album to bounce around your mind for long after it concludes.

Imagine zooming in on the lifecycle of several seeds (these songs)—each blossoming into a distinct, striking flower—then zooming out to behold how every vibrant participant played its part in forming a garden (this album) of immaculate, harmonious beauty.

I loved reading about how Willie’s decision to release an album of jazz and pop covers ruffled the feathers of record company executives worried it would undermine his outlaw image when, in fact, doing so only reinforced that image.

It’s interesting hearing Missy operate at a more subdued frequency before she achieved supa-dupa-star status; at times this sounds more like a showcase of Timbaland’s production than it does Elliot’s presence.

Comme Ci, Comme Ça Company.

Cave’s lyricism often grabs my attention, and his enunciation practically demands it, though I’m not always so captivated by the musical worlds it mingles in.

The facial expressions I made while listening to Moondance were eerily similar to that of Van’s on the album’s cover.

I simply cannot imagine a world where these beautifully bleak pleasures are unknown to me.

This so-called date totally took place at a sock hop.

A monumental record with just enough charming shag in between the monolithic bookends to keep revisits interesting.

Competently crafted punk rock that's most definitely a tier or two below the more household names of the genre.

While moody and grandiose in its conceptual design, the production’s a step too slick and the prevailing feeling I walk away with is one of heavy-blanketed languidity.

A soft baked pretzel is a lot like Steely Dan when you think about it: both pair well with a dad beer, neither ever truly disappoints, and when done just right, they can really hit the spot.

The ceiling for my enjoyment of a Smiths-less Morrissey is fairly low, but this self-important sad sack’s solo effort packs just enough biting wit and wry worldliness to outweigh all the eye rolls.

Stills goes solo tying together soul, funk, and Latin influences with folk, the blues, and an absolutely STACKED featured guest list.

The Man In Black’s legacy and mortality loom heavy over 15 haunting closing statements.

I’ll proudly serve as pallbearer for this triumphant introduction to these instant indie rock icons until my very own final day.

Kiwanuka soars through soundscapes of his own making with an effortless ease and exacting control befitting only a musician of his prodigious caliber.

I found this to be much more engaging than any other S&G (or just S, or just G) project I’ve heard to this point.

This groovin’, movin’ masterpiece from the maestro Murphy never, ever fails to get hands in the air or feet on the floor.

The pioneering electro sounds, drum machine rhythms, and danceable grooves across Planet Rock make it one of the most monumentally influential records in the origins of hip-hop, electronica, and other contemporary genres still sampling it today.

I’ve listened to a lot of live albums, and this just might be the one that most makes me feel like part of the crowd.

Totally serviceable British indie rock but not a second of the album sounds unlike the band’s more original, more talented inspirations.

Fleetwood Mac is my mom’s favorite band, and my little sister’s name is Stevie; this album’s so in my bones that they’d probably break if I rated it less than a 5.

Three stars, in the middle of our scale.

Smooth, real smooth…maybe TOO smooth but smoooooth.

Motherfucker, this is IT!

U2’s most top-heavy album—if only for the massive weight of its front-loaded mega-hits—is as timeless as it is topographical.

As I understand it, this is viewed as a seminal album from the Summer of Love psychedelic era…which is something I don’t quite understand.

Herbie and his hunters are after your head, and once they find it, they’re going to fill that cranium with the funkiest, grooviest, sweetest cerebral candy your mind’s ever tasted.

When The Boss called this album “a group of songs about which I've always had some ambivalence," I felt that.

Kind of like a good, strong shot of espresso—it’s invigorating, it’s robust, and it’s best consumed in small doses.

Appreciated/Endured

A delirious freefall into the oily, mechanized mouth of industrial metal's apocalyptic wasteland.

I like some Fugazi songs—and I really like their politics—but I ultimately think I like the idea of Fugazi more than Fugazi itself.

Humble, honest, workmanlike early folk played with deep respect for the enduring American tradition.

One delightful slice in an otherwise doughy, disappointing dessert.

Uniquely adventurous and uncompromising in its approach to avant-garde, psychedelic blues.

Springsteen’s first artistic departure admirably shifts toward sparse arrangements, gritty acoustic folk storytelling, and austere, character-driven lyricism.

Describing The Cure as moody is like calling water wet, but the shoe’s a perfect fit on this murky, mysterious album from the band’s early days.

Alien Lanes exudes a concise lo-fi charm, its 28 blink-and-you’ll-miss-them tracks evoking the feeling of scrubbing through radio static in search of the perfect fuzz-tinged gem.

I call for disarmament.

Boring debuts by boring bands get boring reviews.

Like Tricky Dick resigning before impeachment, Lambchop should have abdicated the studio before this release.

Brews don’t get much more bitchin’ than this.

Though it doesn't hit the highs of "Low," "Heroes" still soars as the second act of Bowie's ambient, experimental Berlin Trilogy, introducing one of its strongest characters in Robert Fripp's atmospheric guitar work.

I found this to be more engaging than earlier Blur, as the shift from the Britpop sound towards a more eclectic, lo-fi approach aligns more closely with my sonic sensibilities.

Lo-fi rock's frill-free ethos captured but lacking the thrills to keep one fully enraptured.

Come for early Jeff Beck, don’t bother staying for anything else.

My blood, it boils, this chocolate’s too bitter; Elvis Costello, I don’t like you much, mister.

Boston’s blockbuster self-titled debut marries complex recording techniques with instantly-memorable melodies to create an iconic classic arena rock sound.

The album’s name and cover perfectly portend its abrasive, cacophonous, and nihilistic sonic assault.

I’m putting in my two-star notice, Boss.

UK’s mod revival era isn’t my favourite, but The Jam sure know how to kick out some effective genre-blending punk, and I really like the sly simplicity of the album title.

A few euphoric electronic highs here, but the overall trip is a bit up and down.

An audacious album that’s slick yet grimy, minimalistic yet complex, fragmented yet cohesive, and still somehow underrated despite its considerable influence.

I’m not sure I have enough experience with the reggae genre to truly discern between good and great offerings, so I’ll just say this was an enjoyable, chilled-out listen and that you could do a lot worse soundtracking your smoke sesh.

I was honestly unaware of pre-disco Bee Gees (PDBG), maybe I should have kept it that way.

Fuzzed-out guitar interplay and nasally melodies abound, yet nothing memorable comes out of the distorted wash.

Beck plumbs the troubled waters of romantic heartbreak, ultimately discovering poignant treasures in its gloomy depths.

Pour out some Perrier for the death of a dynamite discography.

This live album does exactly what all live albums should: make you wish you were in the crowd that night.

I believe jazz to be intrinsically romantic and cinematic, and this album is a grand, sweeping sonic narrative—a heart-swelling, emotionally epic journey that encapsulates the seductive and transporting powers inherent to the genre.

Jones’s emotionally evocative country ballads took this cowboy off guard.

Respectable Even-Though Middling.

A gangsta rap sacred text as bulletproof as the man who wrote it.

A good, not quite great, psychedelic prog journey with a heartening undercurrent of environmental consciousness and naturalistic wonder.

Pritti shitti.

Smooth, romantic ballads showcasing the velvety vocals and seductive soulfulness of a leading purveyor in lush, sensual R&B.

It is a sick and heinous crime that Deltron 3030 is not on this list, but I can find a quantum of solace in knowing Del the Funky Homosapien, Dan the Automator, and Kid Koala’s immense talents are integral to the successful debut of Damon Albarn’s most interesting project.

What the hell kind of music does a good brain make if the bad ones sound like THIS?!?

I will not be intimidated by the likes of this creep and his legacy; Bad is not Good, it’s Fine.

This meditative unearthing of ancestral waters culminates in tastes and sounds as ruminative as they are refreshing.

Quite the presumptuous title coming from everyone’s, like, fifth- or sixth-favourite garage rock revival band.

Björk cathartically charts the anxiety, actualization, and aftermath of a broken heart through the healing powers of soaring strings and avant-garde electronica.

Django Django rides from track to track with melodies unchained and eclectic electric fun fired off at a machine gun’s pace.

I'm pretty sure I'm 0% Norwegian, but this record has me feeling most koselig; it's like sipping something warm and fortified at the edge of a formidable fjord.

One of the game's greatest success stories—and improvisational talents—lays out the schematics to moving on up, but not everyone's built to bust the ceiling.

For fans of: gritty seaside shanty towns, smoking two packs a day, xylophones made from bones, drinking alone, backyard percussion with rusty tools, apocalyptic gospel hymns, etc.

Scrub all you like, there's not enough elbow grease in the world to do away with the dingy, indelible imprint this record leaves.

I’ve listened to this album 1,001 times, and I’ll listen to it 1,001 more, because each revisit is just as good, if not better, than the revisit before.

Slipknot always struck me as daytime television heavy/hardcore metal; you can find me outside until primetime rolls around.

These lounge love songs are crooned charmingly enough but they're ultimately too sleepy to truly penetrate the heart.

A musical masala where every genre-spice contributes a tantalizing detail, yet lacks an essential element of taste needed to truly make the dish sing.

Vivid Irish tavern tales and rousing pub anthems that grow more compelling with every sunken pint of Guinness.

Press play for pleasant flashbacks of formative psychedelic experiences.

A cavalcade of Cuban musicians, bound by cultural pride and fueled by rum and coffee, come together to preserve their country’s rich musical heritage for generations to come.

Hypnotic rhythms, layered instrumentation, and affecting, atmospheric ambiance make for an engaging post-rock listen whether in the background or the forefront.

Punchy instrumentation is fused with trenchant social critique in this blissfully bitter early hardcore punk declaration.

Shake up a heavy pour of big Bond horns here and I’d be double-oh so delighted to imbibe; as is, I’ll live and let you have it.

Shuggie's addictive confection of funk and psychedelic soul is even sweeter than his namesake.

Ric Flair “WOOOOO!” but he’s referencing Wu-Tang.

Nascent New Romantic art-pop that feels oddly essential as a forbearer of synth-based popular music's meteoric rise in the years following its release.

Cinematic atmospherics from the streets of New York and some jazz fusion adds a touch of individuality to what is an otherwise standard, though still enjoyable, downtempo electronica affair.

I would have been pretty into this back in 2009, but I guess it slipped through the cracks; everything comes back around, however, as I'm still plenty into it 15 years later.

A lot is going on here stylistically, from psychedelic folk and baroque pop to country and instrumental electronica, yet the record blends everything cohesively without ever seeming like it's trying to do too much.

Wonderfully wistful, whimsical little escapades of songs that put not a pep in your step but a glide in your stride.

Pencils down, ears open: Miseducation contains no misinformation on subjects of the heart or neo-soul.

Fairly pleasant conventional British folk rock.

It won’t change your stripes, but it’s worth a couple coins at your local honky tonk’s jukebox.

Self-indulgent slop from the too-cute Beatle.

Shelf upon shelf of brain-tickling literary lyricism and toe-tappingly layered instrumentation, all bound together within one totemic volume.

The Keys Of Life In Song.

Leonard Cohen's works (this one included) strike me as acquired tastes that are perhaps too intense or foreboding for some palates, but for those willing to let the flavor linger, there are rewards of emotional catharsis and poetic resonance to be revealed.

Aside from the hit, this record's too weak to warrant serious listening consideration.

Musically, I don’t care for it, but culturally, I appreciate the record for introducing Western listeners to traditional Zulu music and South African culture during a time when the country was still under apartheid rule.

Bebel helped me turn a rainy Asheville morning into a sunny Brazilian afternoon.

I’m a million different people from one day to the next, and they all lack verve for this album.

Props to Aimee, mann; she really captured the essence of her album with its title.

One mesmerizingly atmospheric, heartbreakingly beautiful world.

From no opinion to no skips: I loved this album on my first listen and fall harder with each return.

Though the forms no longer sound new, I can certainly acknowledge this album's impact on electronic music and how it helped establish drum and bass as a respected genre beyond the club scene.

If your idea of paradise involves watering down the rebellious spirit of punk for mass consumption via a derivative sound and whiny vocals, welcome to it.

I’m so in the bag for Ian Dury’s dry, wry, Cockney tales delivered over punk-funk grooves fringed with music hall flair.

Jangly guitars and honey-sweet harmonies make this power pop gem shine, even if it doesn't always dazzle.

A curious, mood-lifting daydream of an album, one which I’m struggling to shake from my psyche.

CrazySexyCool vocal performances meet SoulfulFunkySmooth production in this pop R&B benchmark.

Undeniably off-kilter yet not challenging, with an equally undeniable rhythmic and melodic sensibility lurking just beneath the strange surface.

A harsh symphony of automation, an early industrial opus, forcibly welcoming listeners to its uncompromising mechanical dreamscape.

Ears are all you need to make this album soundtrack seemingly any activity imaginable—no yacht required.

I find Courtney Love to be quite the compelling character, but that sentiment does not extend to her music.

Mafioso Rap Revelations, a.k.a The Book Of Gambino Genesis, a.k.a Optimally Built 2 Culturally Last.

Thrash dudes love to trash this classic metal album’s perceived lack of heaviness, as if they haven’t lovingly memorized every iconic riff, solo, and shitty Lars fill top to bottom.

The still waters of Spiderland run deep with sparse, tension-filled arrangements, hypnotically unconventional song structures, and trance-like spoken-word vocals.

The controlled chaos of angular guitars and propulsive percussion still hold up, but it is Karen O's uncompromising vocal urgency and undeniable magnetism that will forever draw listeners in.

Yeezus is the pinnacle of Kanye’s career, one of the greatest left turns in all of music history, and my all-time favorite rap record.

New Order expertly fuses rock and dance to create a triumphant, Balearic blend of sun-drenched sounds evoking the sensual pleasures of a perfect summer day.

Not many bands can claim to be both one of the best bands ever and one of the coolest bands ever; Pavement can.

Much like waking from a good night's shleep, the fragmented memories of Wyatt's album drift between lucid beauty and hazy bewilderment once dissolved by the harsh light of day.

I've never heard a hornier album with less sex appeal in my life.

Everything about this album should light up my brain, so why, after several listens, am I feeling less than illuminated?

Can we get THIS Elvis to leave the building now, please?

Kick rocks, kid.

Kanye's legendary opening statement instantly cemented himself as a genre-defining artist whose only real competition would be himself.

Top marks for cultural impact and importance, but the music doesn’t quite match the influence.

When it comes to big beat bangers, few beats bang bigger than those from The Chemical Bros.

A dash of psychedelia tempts these Motown soul staples toward a higher ground.

Feels like three solo albums stitched together, but instead of that being a detriment to this album's effectiveness, it's actually its greatest differentiator.

While I wouldn't die on this Hill, the Cypress branches aren't my favorite limbs of the hip-hop tree.

Bouncy bouncy, not such a good time.

Some sections veer dangerously close to department store soundtrack territory, but under the right circumstances, a little Anita could definitely set this party off right.

An acoustic punk romp with busy bass lines, rich harmonies, and vocals that dance on the edge of grating charm.

I love the smell of Cosmo’s Factory in the morning.

Famous French electro maestros (the other ones) topple the dancefloor aristocracy with their microsampled manifesto of synth-driven anthems and operatic disco glitz.

Intriguing though mediocre, the album's distinctly British indie-retro-glam identity predates Britpop, sidesteps nostalgia, and avoids sounding too of its time.

Have two.

All I’m saying is that the bands I like to listen to ON drugs still sound good OFF drugs…

A snapshot of its time—for better and for worse—The Message is delivered loud and clear for all those willing to hear it.

I awoke from a dream where I visited The Penguin Cafe and desperately tried to fall back asleep.

The only Congolese album on this list will likely elicit a smile if you've got a straw in something tropical while you listen.

The humble Bragg folksily fuses personal and political, exploring matters of heart, mind, and society with his distinctive voice and songcraft.

Formed from the ashes of Minutemen, fIREHOSE shows promise but fails to rise anywhere near the heights of its predecessor despite retaining two-thirds of its jazz-punk DNA.

Though the goosebumps this culturally critical album raises on my skin lack melanin, the heart and soul within are forever tuned into the fearless frequency of Chuck D and the limitless legacy of Public Enemy.

Holiday's weathered, vulnerable voice intertwined with lush orchestrations creates a haunting, emotionally resonant capstone to her illustrious career.

Frequently Kinda Awesome: twigs's production twirls, even when songs don't fully bloom.

Much of this doesn’t do much for me, but there’s enough stylistic variance, genre fusion, and global influence to keep things interesting.

Despite their Madchester pedigree, The Charlatans fail to captivate with these stories, proving that seniority doesn't always translate to superiority in the dynamic 90s UK rock scene.

Cube’s first solo effort is a furious declaration of West Coast independence made all the more memorable by its idiosyncratic East Coast production.

Enthralling West African blues elevated by Touré's trance-inducing guitar work.

Sail away to sleepy time slumber land.

I would do little to dissuade someone from giving the best Pixies record five stars, so imagine my surprise when I walked away from my latest listen without that special five-star feeling.

Listening to this wild, visceral Cuban rumba while strolling the sterile aisles of a grocery store was a refreshingly dichotomous experience.

There's a certain chrysalistic quality to this album that sticks with me, even though most of the actual songs do not.

Brushing with his own first finale in a near-fatal crash, Wonder emerged from the wreckage with the introspective inspiration necessary for a fulfilling album worthy of its ambitious title.

I gave this a whirl when it first came out—I won't deny it—but nowadays it'll take much more than night falling for me to return to the whirl well.

Though these myths now sound more like the recent past, each track contains a melody, lick, or line worthy of space in the crowded mid-aughts canon of UK indie rock.

You've heard it all, so here's a story you haven't: On May 13, 2023, I took too many edibles at Chicago's Adler Planetarium before a 50th-anniversary audiovisual celebration of this capital-P perfect record, resulting in an overwhelmingly transcendent experience that quickened my pulse to alarming levels and nearly caused my heart to burst from my chest.

If you think this album is inessential, wait until "If You Think You're Lonely Now" and your skepticism will be long gone.

A charming debut that brought Makeba's distinctive South African voice to the global stage.

I’m trying to be softer, so I’ll simply use this space to state that this is my favorite person’s favorite Beatles album.

If no one man should have all that power, how did the majestic Crimson King acquire these weapons of mass percussion?

The musical equivalent of a city rat, slick with slime, crawling from the gutter to leer at passing suits.

A meditative, trance-like listening experience awaits all those willing to try on a different perspective.

Deep Purple undergoes metamorphosis, adding heft and depth to their sonic strata, forever setting their sound in stone.

All you need to know going in is that this is one of David Lynch’s favorite albums.

Air's score complements this film so well, but it loses some of its ethereal magic as a standalone listen.

Iggy and the artist formerly known as Ziggy construct a brave new world of gothic industry and stark, robotic grooves that pulse with dystopian decadence.

Everything you've come to expect from the Berkeley bayou boys, nothing more, nothing less.

I'm not sure if it's because I have German ancestry, anarchistic tendencies, or a few screws loose, but I found Kollaps to be one of the more fascinating listening experiences provided by this list.

On Dear Science, TV On The Radio continues to carve out their niche as the thinking person's indie band, merging eclectic sounds with cerebral themes.

Wince.

These toys aren't as embarrassing to play with as later models but they're best kept in the attic either way.

Music in the kitchen hits different, and Buzzcocks music hits different no matter where you listen.

Though "The 40 Minutes of Bewilderbeast" would have been more effective, I appreciate the boundless ambition inherent to an artist pouring everything they have into their debut, especially when it covers so much sonic ground.

We have Bruce Springsteen at home.

Promiscuous production underpins lusty bilingual lyricism in this discotheque dalliance.

An undeniably declarative debut showcasing complete control of the artist's worldview and considerable talents.

The Kinks pack so much social commentary, character study, and eccentric whimsy into these 36 minutes of quintessentially English art pop; it's Something Else, indeed.

Pleasant though vapid, this band is more interested in referencing the Golden State than they are in living up to their namesake.

Now we’re talking…aaand now we’re melting.

Come for the opening and closing tracks you’ve heard too many times, stay for the penultimate track you’ve heard too few.

The melancholic minstrel rides again.

I feel like I'm stuck in a shitty sports bar; all the kegs are kicked, they just ran out of mozzarella sticks, and the dude who drank all the beer and ate all the mozzarella sticks keeps loading up the TouchTunes with songs from this album.

Despite its relatively narrow sonic palette, the Dire Straits debut showcases enough intricate musicianship and effortless virtuosity to elicit, at the very least, sincere appreciation.

SOAD tops the nu metal pyramid with their unique Armenian-influenced political fury, but while I appreciate their distinct cultural identity and activism, the resulting music isn’t really for me.

From Los Angeles With Lust.

The drab, muted blues of White’s cover spills over into the blues played in his songs, resulting in an album that, while technically proficient, leaves me feeling wonderless.

Khaled's "Kenza" delivers solid raï-pop fusion with some genuinely catchy moments, even if it occasionally feels too polished for its own good.

Life appears rather, well, lifeless thru this vapid prescription.

Though the horror-show aesthetics might suggest otherwise, Slipknot's debut reveals a band more interested in musical complexity than mere shock value.

Down home country classics from the Nitty Gritty Ditty Committee.

Old dust bowl ballads sprouting through contemporary cracks.

The sounds of Superfly all sobered up, trading street funk fantasies for stark American truths.

His nickname checks out.

Sonic Youth's "Dirty" paradoxically polishes their sound while keeping their subversive spirit wonderfully unwashed.

No, it’s not.

A soaring space rock love letter to heartbreak and healing, orchestrated in zero gravity.

The Manic Street Preachers deliver their sermon on human depravity with all the subtlety of pyrotechnics at a funeral march.

Like a politically charged sugar rush, these repetitive beats and rebel soundbites hit hard but fade fast.

An achingly intimate ritual of raw confessions and spectral melodies.

The Beasties dial back the samples to flex their musical muscles, letting punk and jazz influences color their signature hip-hop backdrop in a communication that comes through loud, clear, and undeniably ill.

Despite the killer guitar and drum work, this album is too long and my patience for Corgan’s nasally wailing is too short.

S.F. Sorrow: The brooding, lesser-known older brother of Tommy who traded pinball for profound despair and avant-garde introspection.

Whether you're a Boomer or an Alpha, the raucous rhythms and timeless themes of The Who's debut prove these tunes don't need to be of your generation to be your anthem.

The album's sometimes somnolent production occasionally holds things down, but Mariah's generational voice lifts it all up, adding a grace that elevates the overall experience.

Bitte shitte, innit?

Introducing The Hard Truth According To Blake Matson Becker: This Shit Sucks, Terence.

Short and sweet, Baby James is not without his folksy charms, though his sleepy melodies may put you in a tranquil daze.

How many other albums on this list can say they successfully synthesize the trappings of six different genre classifications yet still maintain such a cohesive artistic vision?

A driving dose of hypnotic electronica where trance-like beats and mumbled poetry create something both danceable and deeply strange.

Cave is at his most incisive and convictive here, crafting caustic narratives that linger like half-remembered dreams.

I rock with the maestro Quincy and the many musicians he employs on this album, but I do not rock with the man on its cover.

A debut that throws everything at the wall with youthful abandon, but despite its creative ambition, nothing quite sticks.

For all his sartorial splendor, Ol' Blue Eyes finds himself a touch overdressed for Jobim's breezy yet balmy Brazilian cocktail hour.

Truthfully—maybe not so soulfully—just a silly grab bag of styles and influences that’s as groovy as it is goofy.

Once again, despite the simplicity and repetition inherent to the blues, Muddy makes it hard to deny his monumental influence on guitar-based music.

Rejoicing in the ears when this record finally ended.

Fallow, fruitless, not very fun.

I needed to stoke the flames here and there between the eternal fire-starters, but when this debut album burns, it leaves an indelible mark.

A cerebral jazz-fusion odyssey that intrigues more than it entrances.

I prefer my metal to be less reined in.

Buckley bridges the gap between his earlier folk period and later avant-garde work, finding a pleasant middle ground where his trademark vocal elongations and jazz improvisations can run free.

A thunderous, groundbreaking prototype of heavy metal that roars with primitive power, even if it sounds quaint compared to the genre's later sonic sophistication.

Poignant, though not universally appealing, revealing sensitive songwriting and emotional depth for those willing to listen.

I avoided listening to this when I saw the runtime, and I rolled my eyes as the concept album narrative revealed itself, but I'll be damned if this bloated mess didn't wear me down into submissive appreciation by the very end.

The Last Of The True Believers offers a pleasant journey through Nanci Griffith's folk storytelling, with a welcomingly-healthy dose of slide guitar adding warmth to a satisfyingly average album.

The best thrash metal band beginning with an M not-so-peacefully proves that what shreds may never die.

Bonnie “Prince” Billy has to think about his entire life before he plays.

I found Harvest's soul driving through November cornfields, where Young's earthen wisdom resonated across every stubbled acre.

ELO delivers high-voltage, arena-sized pop with precision, if not restraint.

Prine's debut transcends the genre's wandering tendencies with clever, cutting commentary that locks the listener's mind firmly in place.

Beach House crafts a hazy sonic landscape where dreamy dirges shimmer momentarily before dissolving into sonic wallpaper.

Not the kind of stuff this cowboy is going to be fiending for.

The greatest rapper's greatest achievement; an album sharing space not just with other GOAT albums but with other GOAT works of art, regardless of medium.

A wispy, whimsical spiderweb on the wind of an album—light as a feather, even when the subject matter is anything but.

Roxy Music blur the lines between business and pleasure on their playful, provocative second act.

While this isn't going to win any originality contests, Elastica manages a solid, tight post-punk homage that's more enjoyable than it probably should be.

A record so devoid of spirit that its title becomes an accidental punch line.

Call me contrarian if you'd like, but I'd rather listen to this quirky curio than anything from Talking Heads.

These Invaders don't just rise, they soar above bedlam with an eclectic sound that moves through genres with surprising dexterity—ambitious, sonically varied, and groovy as all get out.

Not a debut, a declaration: an album so atomic that its fallout fundamentally rewrote rock’s laws of physics.

Spinning tales of youth, love, and wanderlust with his trademark gravelly charm, Stewart offers an unleaded rock narrative that meanders pleasantly but never fully accelerates.

There's a murkiness to Mask that helps establish its world while also leaving the listener wanting a more dynamic exploration of its atmospheric potential.

Intelligent, introspective lyrics delivered through incisive flows over innovative beats create a powerful musical statement from an artist who defies conventional hip-hop boundaries.

Everything about this album, from the title and cover to the tracks about pizza and good head, sounds like it was AI-generated according to a prepubescent boy’s prompt…and I kind of love it?

Equal parts mesmerizing and meandering, beautiful and boring, world-building and world-weary.

Like scanning the radio in a new town, you stumble through a restless collage of rhythms—fascinating in passing, forgotten on the next frequency.

The perfect synthesis of Eno's art-rock "before" and ambient "after," a masterful bridge of musical alchemy where quirky complexity dissolves into ethereal expansiveness.

Another case of the massive pop single on the album deserving some sort of "before you die" recognition, but not the album itself.

Forgive Suba, Father, for their infectious São Paulo soundscapes have led me to sin.

I might as well be Pluto.

Every track oscillates so wildly between rock, jazz, blues, and pop genres to the point where, if you're like me, you might just glance at your phone to ensure you're still listening to the right album.

Wholly uninspired but not wholly unlistenable, baby.

This entry in the Book of Arcade Fire takes place between its two best chapters and falls short in comparison but remains an essential part of their story.

Coltrane's quartet bares all before the higher power of jazz, revealing a collective soul in this supreme meditation on music, faith, and spiritual transcendence.

Close to the edge, down by a river is where you’ll find a quintessential prog rock spirit journey that sounds and feels like an endless freefall into enlightenment.

Qui tend l'oreille, récolte le message.

One of the most sonically diverse samba albums I've ever heard; every track is a new playground for Regina's enchanting voice to explore and run wild within.

There are few moments of random precision and even fewer worn-out welcomes in this shining diamond's solo debut.

If you really want to investigate this time period’s UK garage and subsequent grime scene, I would suggest digging a little deeper, but you could do worse for an entry point.

Historically speaking, I've had a lot of time for bands of this ilk, and my allegiances still lean Anglophilic, but this band was never part of my rotation and that fact will not change.

Wild are the emotions wrought by the gale-force of Simone's stirring voice.

These tribe members rap with such absurd, effortless intelligence that listening to their flows feels like witnessing rhythmic conjuration disguised as everyday conversation.

There's a house on Ocean Boulevard, where Eric kicked the smack to play tunes in his yard.

My opinion of these historical reenactment dorks has been forever altered for the better by Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

Massive Attack architects a subtlety sophisticated expansion on their trip-hop foundation, constructing new wings of dub, soul, and electronic design through refined production and intricate arrangements.

Harris bridges traditional country and folk-rock sensibilities, her crystalline voice illuminating both classic covers and original gems with haunting grace.

Dirt's unwavering aura is both its asset and Achilles heel, proving Alice In Chains were capable hard rock metallurgists caught in grunge's suffocating undertow.

My irrational grudge against k.d. lang stems purely from her association with my least favorite Bond movie (Brosnan's masterclass in banality: Tomorrow Never Dies), and the adult contemporary slog that is Ingénue does not help her case.

Skepta goes in, fam, bare cold bars from the ends, big man ting, man’s moving mad, patterned it worldwide, fam, merking every ting, every wasteman, mandem, ya get me, fam?