Grinding, burbling synths and processed vocal samples. Yet surprisingly soothing. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
A desert island disc, 40 lean minutes of paranoia and downtown trepidation translated to monochord jams. Byrne sounds at wit’s end, and why shouldn’t he be? Reagan is here and the world is ending — might as well dance a little.
Side A suite is excellent but the back half is hampered by its odds and ends nature. Simon had yet to find a lyrical voice that wasn’t bad college poetry (he wouldn’t get there until “Hearts and Bones”) and it really shows in those castoffs. Sometimes you have to kill your babies, even if it only leaves you with an EP’s worth of material.
A desert island disc, 40 lean minutes of paranoia and downtown trepidation translated to monochord jams. Byrne sounds at wit’s end, and why shouldn’t he be? Reagan is here and the world is ending — might as well dance a little.
Good artists borrow, great artists steal — influential artists mutate? Returning a volley in the Great Transatlantic Rock Exchange, McGuinn and company marry the oversaturated Village folk sound with the Kink-y Beatlemania invading the nation. It’s sublime at times and sounds a little thin in hindsight, but without this would we have had alternative? REM? Indie rock? You gotta start somewhere.
As far afield in style from Doolittle as Doolittle was from Surfer Rosa, this is Black Francis at his happiest. Seeped in the surf rock sounds that had been in the background prior, you could be forgiven for thinking he’d escaped his pentecostal upbringing, but in reality Francis has just exchanged the gothic themes for more alien and cryptozoologic ones. And “Havalina” presaged some of his heartfelt solo ballads. Spell it out: not every song is a classic, but the highs are as high as anything else in their catalog.
Ripsaw songwriting and extreme efficiency, but has there ever been an album that is best heard in any of the (many) alternate forms available? Mono for the punch, live for the energy — they all triumph over the aggressive stereo separation of the original. Curious, but not worth losing sleep over when the tunes are this good.
In some ways Bryan Ferry’s adoption of various styles and personas is almost a kiss off to Eno for his former sound wizard’s betrayal to the land of Bowie. Unfortunately it’s all style and no substance — the songs don’t have the juice, save a few numbers that sound distinctly Bowiesque anyway. A shame, really.
The light at the end of the tunnel after the long hangover of the sixties left friends and loved ones dead from drugs and drinking, this is Neil at his most optimistic. But that doesn’t mean it’s without a touch of darkness and doubt, creaky guitars and anti-solos sowing seeds of discord. By the end it’s as it should be: just him and a guitar, walking on.
Heady and jammy, this feels like only half the equation, which it sort of is — part of the thrill of their live performance was from the on stage antics. Still, this is a good collection, even if it’s missing their best song. Guess you just had to be there.
The production is impeccable and the hits really stick with you, but there’s only so much braggadocio one can take, and it’s certainly not an hour plus of streetwear brand promotion and spelling bee answers. Maybe my loyalties truly lie on the left coast.
Memorable riffs for days form a potent rebuttal to the flower children, direct from England’s industrial wastes. While this LP misses some of the tenderness that would come with later records, it’s a cohesive and thrilling statement by an incredibly young band.
With a name that screams Bay Area, it’s surprising how unlike their peers CCR sounded. Singlehandedly bringing a swamp rock sound to the Beatle-infested charts, the frères Fogerty and their school pals blast out alternating hits and jams, the first of three (!) records that year. If you’re looking for the hits you’d do better to grab a best of, but there’s something about throwing on the full record on a hazy afternoon and enjoying the ride through a mythical bayou. Allons-y!
The angry young man softens up and even admits defeat, perhaps — not every relationship works, not everything is peachy. A masterpiece guided by the deft hand of the singular Nick Lowe, who knows enough to get out of the way. I like this better without “Peace, Love and Understanding” at the end (as Brits originally heard it), but maybe that’s just my dour mood. We all need a little faint optimism now and then.
There’s a saying that bands have a lifetime to write their first album and six months to write their second. That doesn’t ring true for Black Sabbath, seeing as it was actually four months between their first two records, and also that their second album is so much better than their debut. Call it the Iommi rule?
These lads can’t spell to save their lives, but they sure know how to write ‘em. Let the good times roll, indeed.
Sometimes interesting electronic textures can’t save this collection of Lilith Fair-light gloomy tunes.
A kaleidoscopic mélange of everything going at the time: house music, ‘60s revivalism, gospel inflections. The singles are good but it never quite clicks as a whole, but those highs are extremely high.
Don’t bother listening to a bunch of white guys doing mediocre blues covers, just listen to compilations of the original source material. You’ll be much happier overall.
The Paisley Park prophet produces a king-making masterpiece. Every song sounds both old and new, anthemic and personal. The energy is off the charts from the start, peaking on “I Would Die 4 U,” and cooling off with the title track closer. An essential for anyone who likes music.
Minus Croz and yet to add Gram Parsons, this could have been something of a transitional moment for the Byrds. And it is, though it also manages the neat trick of being sublime as well. A potpourri grab bag, past present and future of psych rock in under half an hour. Far out.
Huffing the incense fumes a little too hard, Townshend writes a spiritual journey that goes…somewhere? Hard to say. Some of the instrumental journeys get a touch lost. But the playing is great, the riffs rock, and unlike many of his contemporaries Daltrey obviously doesn’t believe he’s actually the character he’s portraying. That’s worth something.
Pretty incredible how every major label producer spent hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time trying to replicate a sound generated by a dude with a sampler in a room.
This has as big hits as the other two records released that year, but somehow this feels like the slightest CCR LP. Sophomore slump, anyone?
Sunny optimistic sounding post-punk with a sometimes cryptic and even sinister bent. Cope’s croon and the intricate arrangements presage XTC’s art rock turn a few years later, without losing any of the danceable pop flair.
Perhaps it’s my northeastern coastal elitism shining through, but I’ve always felt the Truckers are better when they’re more concise. For every “Let There Be Rock” here you have to slog through a “Three Great Alabama Icons” as well. I get where they’re coming from and admire the cultural introspection, but the history lessons get a little draggy across a double album like this. I’m sure they’d say the same about “The River,” though — all’s fair.
The story is either inscrutable or overly simplistic, like most other prog concept records of that era, but unlike your Floyds or Who, there's no higher ascension or twee mysticism here -- just a character toughing it out on the streets of New York. At times that rings a little hollow coming from a bunch of pastoral schoolboys like Genesis; at others, the music is breathtaking.
With Rick Rubin behind the boards, the Peppers get down to what makes their sound interesting and make their best album. Sadly it leaves one wishing Rubin had done his usual reduction magic and trimmed some of the fat from this overlong slog.
Almost unbearably twee and naive — takes a child to know a child as in “Wild World.” But the nursery rhyme quality sticks with you, infiltrating your mind, until one day you’re doing the dishes and unknowingly humming the title track to yourself.
Grinding, burbling synths and processed vocal samples. Yet surprisingly soothing. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
It’s somewhat unbelievable how tepidly this was received when it was released. It is as nervy and good as any of its contemporaries, and unlike some of those it has actual hooks. I like “Crazy Rhythms” as much as the next guy, but sometimes I want to sing along with the windows down, you know?
Motown grows its hair, drops acid, gets heady. It’s pop music at its funkiest and funk music at its poppiest, if that makes any sense.
Too much sheen and ‘80s synth schmaltz outweighs a few really excellent songs.
The culmination of all the lo-fi dreams Smith could conjure up, a collection of songs at turns heartbreaking and funny. The opening/closing line of “Say Yes” deserves a spot in the pantheon of great lyrics. Listen, too, to Smith’s Beatles freak admiration for background harmonies and DI bass — you can sense the songs straining for the lush details that only a major label budget would provide him. Fair deal, in my opinion, and one that got us even grander power pop after.
Their first LP completely written by themselves, and it shows. These songs are eternal, ever surprising, and as energizing as ever. The non-movie B side of the record shouldn’t be skipped; “Any Time at All” might be one of the most overlooked songs in their catalogue, and “I’ll Cry Instead” hints at the country roads they’d be exploring in a few short months.
The playing is magnificent, and you can hear what enthralled all the boring British bluesmen (and in the case of a certain notable racist/deadbeat dad, led to a reputational laundering in the guise of a collaborative record). The crowd on this, however, has got to set a record for one of the worst ever captured on a live album, and genuinely makes it difficult to get through.
I like New Order better than Joy Division, but both bands suffer badly from being more mood setters than tune makers — you know it’s them playing but apart from a few singles you couldn’t pin down the song. Despite the dance pop pretensions, this album isn’t exactly exuberant, either. Between Bernard’s demoish warble and all the minor key synths, it's an ugly comedown at the factory.
A classic example of a band being in the right place at the right time for a cultural moment. Morrison thinks he’s scarier than he is, the rest of the band think they’re better musicians than they are, and the end result is mediocre blues that would, in any other time period, only be heard from the back of a Fresno dive bar. One or two good songs an album does not make up for the other dozen bits of filler.
Legendary sound, and the nasty side effects of the loudness wars have been ameliorated by later remasters. But lightning doesn’t always strike twice, and you can hear the wheels start to fall off here with songs that outstay their welcome, or are outright boring next to overlooked b-sides like Acquiesce. But hey, two classic albums are more than most bands could ever hope for.
In the context of the time of its release, a Kendrick record doesn't sound like anything else. He doesn't chase popular sounds, he doesn't chase what's happening on the charts, he just makes work that stands on its own as a cohesive, singular whole. And when you listen to it ten years on? It still sounds like nothing around it. A masterwork like virtually everything he's released, a meditation on fame, success, and what it means to be an American in an America that has suppressed and sidelined you and everyone you know.
Well intentioned, which is about the best I can say about this. The vibe is "background music you'd hear at a brunch spot on a Saturday afternoon" -- considering these guys would fill in for bands who dropped off bills when they were starting out, it makes sense.
Virtually all of these are timeless classics that you could play in the club and still get people moving. But can you imagine doing them at karaoke?
Yeah yeah yeah, “Fast Car” aside, a lot of these lyrics are too heart on sleeve and obvious. The political songwriting is so overt Phil Ochs would blush, the playing is expert but standard. One’s more likely to fall asleep than take action after listening to this.
Many complaints over the years have centered on the length of this album, but ignore them -- each of these songs are fantastic in their own way (yes, even "Revolution 9"), each set a template for entire branches of rock music, and each has their time and place. Some albums are summer albums; some are winter albums. The White Album says, how about something for every season? And what's more, it delivers. Skip around if you want, sure, but you'll land on something that's perfect for wherever you are, whenever you are. What could be more perfect than that?
First half is very conventional big beat music, play it at the club, have a great time. But the back half gets more experimental and, to my ears, much more interesting. By the last few tracks they've abandoned any dance pretenses and dived right into experimental R&B sounds. It's worth the wait to get to lo-fi Prince-infused closer "Being With U" -- the sonic equivalent of brushing your teeth and flopping into bed as the sun comes up.
Side A suite is excellent but the back half is hampered by its odds and ends nature. Simon had yet to find a lyrical voice that wasn’t bad college poetry (he wouldn’t get there until “Hearts and Bones”) and it really shows in those castoffs. Sometimes you have to kill your babies, even if it only leaves you with an EP’s worth of material.
In June 1976, the Sex Pistols played a concert at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall, kickstarting the UK punk movement and directly prompting the formation of such influential bands as Joy Division, Buzzcocks, The Smiths, and The Fall. The message? Anyone can do this, anyone can start a band. A teenaged Mick Hucknall was also present; after listening to this record, one wishes he had been otherwise engaged that evening.
Here Bruce gets more anthemic than ever, and the most anthemic he possibly will ever, while still retaining the singular portraits of working class life he had explored on The River and Darkness. The ‘80s polish sometimes gets in the way, though the textures the synths add on “Dancing In the Dark,” for example, stick with you.
Striking the perfect balance between the party’s highs at 10:30 pm and the ominous stumble home at 4 am, Cocker and company explore status and sameness on and around the dancefloor. Jarvis sounds like the sleaziest lounge crooner ever, but as he goes on you get the sense he may be the only friend you’ve got.
Perfectly adequate easy listening, a few funky dance numbers, nothing you’ll remember in the morning.
Firmly ensconced in a Pitchfork-baiting Bermuda Triangle between Local Natives, Beck, and the Beta Band, everything here is played and arranged to the nth degree, but nothing stays. I’m not particularly sure why this is an album one must hear before one dies; I’m not even sure if I listened to it at all, since each song sounds like the next and I can’t remember listening to it.
This is an album much like the collective that made it: an interesting idea in theory, not so much in execution. I’ve never been as high on these folks as others, especially in their alt-country phase which has always felt a little bit like inauthentic posturing, and the ramshackle playing doesn’t do much to distinguish them with more effervescent twangy bands of their era.