1001 Albums Journey

Hey! Wait! I got a new complaint: I liked this album a lot more before I listened to the whole thing through. Sure, it has a couple of classics. “Heart-Shaped Box” and “All Apologies” are among Nirvana’s best work, and while the band certainly has a spot on the grunge Mount Rushmore, let us not forget why. Nevermind graced us with not only the most famous phallus in history, but with a slew of bangers to boot. In Utero, on the other hand, disappoints. I thought “Scentless Apprentice” was going to give me an aneurysm. From the Stones’ “Ruby Tuesday” to the Beatles’ “Mean Mr. Mustard” to the Peppers’ “Rain Dance Maggie” and more there are a number of great rock songs named for their quirky protagonists, but “Frances Farmer” just doesn’t do it for me. “Milk It?” Fuck It. I anticipated “Tourette’s” would be tough to deal with, and my God, was I right. I have my doubts about the “Helter Skelter” story, but had Charles Manson waited another 25 years to do his worst and then pinned it on this album instead, I would have believed him. All this being said, I’ll give In Utero two stars for its two classics. But if being in utero included listening to this album for nine months straight, I’d probably just pray for an abortion.

Pink Floyd may be best remembered for Dark Side of the Moon, but Wish You Were Here proved neither masterpiece was a fluke. The raw emotion can be felt throughout, almost like it’s an ode to a fallen soldier. To the band, that may as well have been the case, and their diamonds shine through from the very beginning. I acknowledge our societal overuse of “Orwellian” to describe any social structure our collective conscience disagrees with, but “Welcome to the Machine” sets the stage nicely for Animals (Animal Farm) and especially The Wall (1984). I hear “you know you’re nobody’s fool,” but over my shoulders I feel the late 20th century reincarnations of Henry Ford and Adam Smith. The funky synth of “Have a Cigar” can ride the gravy train all the way until it fades into a fog and turns over to the radio static intro of “Wish You Were Here,” the band’s most complete, heartfelt, and even thought-provoking work. If future civilizations wish for a peek into the maddening quandaries of the modern-day human, they should look no further than this gem. Would you rather have a walk-on part in a war, or a lead role in a cage? As long as we don’t know we’re in a cage to begin with, does it even matter? Dark Side of the Moon put Pink Floyd in the mainstream, but Wish You Were Here established their place on top of the world, or perhaps entirely separate from it. I don’t know. As long as I can believe we’re all lost souls swimming in a fish bowl and it’s not just me, I’m not too concerned about being found.

Though only seven songs long, Machine Head displays a satisfying cross section of early seventies rock. With two classics and an ensemble of four- to seven-minute tracks, the album does not disappoint. Unfortunately I now associate “Highway Star” with an overzealous Griff’s regular who, each and every Friday karaoke night, thought it would be a good idea to “sing” the song through 12 PBRs and a Hawaiian shirt as unfashionable as any I own. Had our nameless vocalist replicated the multiple guitar solos, I could forgive him, but the air guitar must not have been tuned right. Regardless, it’s a good song and a great way to begin the album. A monkey with a typewriter has a better shot at writing a perfect copy of Hamlet than I have at playing a Scott Joplin rag on the piano, but the signature chords of “Smoke on the Water” are apparently simple enough to be replicated by a severely piano-challenged child like I was. Regardless, it’s the band’s most iconic track for a reason. And while it may chronicle a gathering of rock royalty in Switzerland, I prefer to think it’s about the mishaps of a redneck firework shooting spree over a sorry excuse for a lake holding raw sewage from half of Arkansas. To each their own, I guess. The album digs deeper than these two tracks, though. Look down at your feet while listening to “Maybe I’m a Leo,” and you may find them tapping on their own accord. During “Pictures of Home” you may find yourself running in place, and you’ll be fine with that. Around the three-minute mark, I felt like I was being flung around a pinball machine by a roadrunner on crack. Meep meep motherfucker. “Lazy” is not lazy at all, with electric blues harking back to John Lee Hooker and foreshadowing Stevie Ray Vaughan. “Space Truckin” is a bit repetitive, but it did get me jazzed up. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to this album before bed. Oops.

I may have been buzzed off an overpriced flight of beers on an empty stomach, but It Takes a Nation was a great album to stomp around Berkeley to. “Countdown to Armageddon” sets the expectations high, and there are a number of head boppin’ numbers to work with over the next 57 minutes. “Don’t Believe the Hype” almost sounds like Homer Simpson on a turntable, but it establishes the group’s lyrical prowess in their sophomore album. I half-wondered if Michael Dukakis would have tried to use “Louder Than A Bomb” in a campaign ad to make up for his tank blunder, then I realized that was a silly thought. Of course he would have. After a satisfying first half, “Show Em Whatcha Got” throws a sax-infused curveball, but I’m not mad about it. From a storytelling perspective, “Night of the Living Baseheads” and “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” are the pinnacle of the record, and the piano of the latter perfectly ties in a heart-thumping chase and a race against time. I appreciate the variety of intros throughout the record, and while the album is longer than it needs to be, Public Enemy does bring the noise here. It’s classic late 80s hip hop, and its influence can be heard throughout the early 90s. Maybe they’re right. Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy?

I was excited to listen to a Bowie album I was unfamiliar with, but overall, the experience fell flat. After a promising first several minutes, “Station to Station” started to feel more like a description of the BART ride I had just taken than the title track of an album from a rock legend’s prime. It dragged on, and I was ready to disembark for most of the ride. “Golden Years” may be the most popular song on the record, but now having given it more attention, I appreciate why I don’t go out of my way to listen to it. By “TVC15,” I had gathered what I hope was an intentional stylistic choice throughout the album: Repetition. I’m sure there is an artistic value here, but I personally don’t see it. With the penultimate track, I felt like I was looking less at a song title and more at a command from Bowie himself: Stay! Station to Station is by no means a terrible album, but it is far from Bowie’s best work. Overall, the record reminds me of a fart in the wind. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but we all heard it and we probably wish we hadn’t. We can only be thankful that it didn’t linger for long.

I had never dug too deep into Dolly’s catalog, but I was pleasantly surprised by the variety of music and the double-edged theme throughout Coat of Many Colors. Partially an ode to her mother and partially a cry out to her former lovers, the 27-minute record provided a nice backdrop during my Uber ride back from Hobby. From “If I Lose My Mind” to “Traveling Man,” Dolly demonstrates a complicated but close relationship with her mother. She zooms out to the big picture of life (and death) through “The Mystery Of The Mystery” and “A Better Place To Live,” and gives the audience a tip we could all put to use more often: There’s a bit of magic in a simple little smile. But without a doubt, the heart and soul of this album shines through in the title track. It reminds me of the women in my family and the values they hope to pass down, even if we’ve graduated beyond rags. “Man in Black” has always been my go-to classic country tune with a deeper message, but after listening to “Coat of Many Colors,” Johnny Cash may just have company. Coat of Many Colors reflects an October drive down I-24 more so than it does a night on Broadway, and that’s alright by me. The beers will set you back a pretty penny, but the crisp autumn air on the way there won’t cost you a dime. As they say, the best things in life are free.

Tea For The Tillerman was a pleasant listen, and while I half-expected Puff the Magic Dragon to make an appearance by the end, I’ll give Cat Stevens a pass. “Wild World” is a classic, and listening to it deeply now I realize it sounds like both an escape down a spiral staircase and a reluctant jig on a giant piano. Either way, it seems like she wants to leave, so she better take good care. Hopefully she makes a lot of nice friends out there. One line in particular from “Father and Son” will always be relevant, and points to the Achilles heel of Gen Z: We may still be here tomorrow, but our dreams may not be. Stevens establishes himself well beyond his years, and it is a nice tune, but I do wonder how he would have thought to sing this stuff when he himself hardly had hair on his nuts. Tea For The Tillerman reminds me of a stroll through the Microsoft Windows background. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s a wonderful album, but just like I wouldn’t go out of my way to skip through a meadow, I wouldn’t go out of my way to listen to this record.

I’m not sure who Eli is or what he did to deserve being the namesake of this album, but I really hope he’s okay. The background instrumentals were acceptable for a few songs, but the positives (or neutrals, really) end just about there. I’m not sure what I expected, but as soon as “Luckie” started, I was feeling pretty unluckie. I would say the piano in “Stoned Soul Picnic” reminded me of Tapestry, but I wouldn’t want to insult Carole King like that. The repetition of “surry” throughout the song didn’t make much sense, so I’d like to think Nyro was apologizing profusely for the permanent ear damage she had caused over the years. I considered calling an ENT doc after both “Timer” and “Woman’s Blues.” By the end I’d almost pulled a Van Gogh, so I threw on Cosmo’s Factory and took a walk just to get some fresh air. As far as I’m aware this record hardly made it out of 1968, but I do know we should’ve left it there. Frankly, it’s a better fit for a list called “1001 Albums That Might Make You Want To Die.” Even then, it would rank pretty highly. If you haven’t listened to it… don’t. You can still spare yourself.

I will admit I took a dip into the Napoleon Dynamite Wikipedia rabbit hole to investigate the Blood And Chocolate album cover. While director Jared Hess claims it didn’t influence the name of the movie, one line in “Poor Napoleon” begs to differ: “One day they’ll probably make a movie out of all of this.” Coincidence? C’mon, Uncle Rico is more likely to throw a football over dem mountains. Either way, I appreciate the abstract artwork. “Uncomplicated” starts off like the Foo Fighters’ “Times Like These” and ventures into the Black Crowes’ “She Talks To Angels.” “I Hope You’re Happy Now” was probably my favorite song on the record, and I particularly enjoyed the organ in the background starting about a minute in. Costello showcases his knack for storytelling in “Tokyo Storm Warning,” when he takes us seemingly around the world in just six minutes, and then immediately does a 180 into the melancholy “Home Is Anywhere You Hang Your Head.” He even displays contrasting love songs from the slow “I Want You” to the upbeat “Blue Chair.” Elvis Costello may sound like he’s singing through a kazoo with his nostrils clipped shut, but his voice is iconic nonetheless. While Blood And Chocolate doesn’t boast a lineup of Billboard hits, the lyrics are thought-provoking and display his colorful imagination in just 11 tracks. However, I thought the music itself was unremarkable, so I can’t give the album anything other than three stars.

I had never listened to the Offspring aside from their hits, but Smash is about as complete of an album as any to come out of the nineties. Now I’m going to listen all the way through Americana too just to see what other hidden gems the band has to offer. “Bad Habit” may as well be called “The Houston Driver’s Anthem.” Throughout the song I couldn’t help but imagine a cobalt blue Challenger topping 120 southbound on 59 through Greenway. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, I guess. “Gotta Get Away” has a Nirvana-esque feel to it, especially during the chorus. “Come Out and Play” is a classic, and I’d never appreciated the depth of the song and its story until I took a couple of listens this weekend. I do wonder if the band would have written it in a post-Columbine world, though. I hate to admit it, but “Self Esteem” sounds all too familiar with lines like “I may be dumb, but I’m not a dweeb.” “Not the One” appears superficial at first, but the final verse reveals the band’s maturity and ability to incorporate meaningful lyrics into their head-banging style. Though we bear the burdens of past generations’ mistakes, we can only hope we’re not cursing future generations in the exact same way, but more likely than not, we are. I was looking forward to a seven minute solo to finish things off with “Smash,” and while the five minutes of silence followed by an Arabian take on “Come Out and Play” confused me, I’ll assume there’s an artistic value I don’t understand. Smash is the epitome of mid-nineties angst. With both classics and deep cuts orchestrated by a soothing narrator, the album has not a single skip in 14 tracks. Hmm, I especially enjoyed that one. Let’s see what’s next!

Songs From The Big Chair may be only eight tracks long, but a single listen reveals why Tears For Fears is synonymous with eighties music. I had never noticed how long “Shout” was, but now listening to it more deeply I realize the duo gets far more experimental with their background instrumentals than I had previously thought. “The Working Hour” shows hints of the sax from Pink Floyd’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” and then the album really hits its stride with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” and perhaps the most iconic opening lyrics of the eighties: “Welcome to your life, there’s no turning back!” Some of the background melody of “Broken” was lodged in the deep recesses of my memory until it turned over to the all too familiar intro of “Head Over Heels,” during which I could only picture a teenage Anthony Michael Hall work up the balls to ask the prom queen out on a date. Both “I Believe” and “Listen” may serve no purpose other than to put the listener to sleep, but I’m guessing the duo didn’t set out to write lullabies. At the same time I sometimes watch golf for the sole purpose of falling asleep, so maybe I’m not one to talk. Songs From The Big Chair boasts multiple quintessential eighties bops and encapsulates pop synth as well as any album of the decade. I much prefer the classic rock of the seventies, which for many bands spilled over into the eighties, but I have to throw five stars at Tears For Fears.

Witty lyrics are the highlight of Heartattack And Vine, an album I’d classify as more indigo than blues. Tom Waits cuts to the chase in the opening title track with lines like “Don’t you know there ain’t no devil / There’s just God when he’s drunk.” The record proceeds to sample the entire emotional spectrum through a variety of settings, from the Mexican whorehouse in “Mr. Siegal” to the dark and desolate streets in “On The Nickel” to the bottom of a liquor bottle in “Til The Money Runs Out.” In addition to the lyrics, the album cover is worth a deeper look. From the misspelled song titles to the July 4th time stamp to the variety of US cities scattered around the front page, surely only Waits himself has any idea what’s behind all this madness. Tom Waits sounds like Randy Newman with a frog stuck in his throat, and while I don’t hate the gravelly voice, I can’t help but think it’s an acquired taste. Heartattack And Vine may not have the tempo to make me dance with women three times my age, but if this cat strolled into the Big Easy and gave us his best, his tip jar may just see a Lincoln or two courtesy of yours truly and my empty Red Stripe.

It was a nice change of pace to listen to music not for the words, but for the music itself and the emotion within. After all, isn’t the meaning of the words we say just a fraction of the meaning we hope to communicate anyway? Either way, Miriam Makeba communicated her meaning with clarity and grace. In “The Retreat Song,” Miriam may as well have been a bird singing in the morning dew. She paid homage to her hometown of Johannesburg in “The Click Song” while revealing her humorous side at the same time. Fuck dem Tories! I couldn’t help but research “Mbube” as I listened to it. I had no idea of the origins of this song, or the fact that it originated in the 1930s, but I do know one thing without having to consult Google: Disney made a few quick bucks off the tune. I knew the Animals didn’t write “House of the Rising Sun” themselves, but I wouldn’t have thought it was an international sensation before they got to it in 1964. “One More Dance” showed an interesting stylistic choice, to say the least. Miriam didn’t break from the mood of the rest of the album, but Charles Coleman had me laughing almost as hard as he was. Maybe it’s my extremely limited knowledge of South African music (the extent of which hardly goes beyond that phase Peter Gabriel had), but Miriam Makeba’s self-titled album seems to me as timeless as the sun rising over the horizon. I may not understand it to its full extent, but aren’t the greatest works of art those that make you feel something anyway?

Much of Steve McQueen sounds oddly familiar, but I’m almost positive I’ve never heard anything by Prefab Sprout. I have to hand something to them, though: Their general style, and particularly the vocals, seem to have influenced a number of bands in the nineties and aughts. The familiarity starts with “Bonny,” but I’m not sure if that’s because they sound like an amalgamation of all aughts alternative bands or because in this particular track the vocals sound quite a bit like those in “Up the Junction” by Squeeze, which actually came out years before this album did. “Appetite” sounds like a first round reject from the Stranger Things soundtrack. Aside from the music itself, “Goodbye Lucille #1” at first reminded me of Buster Bluth from Arrested Development, but then evolved into a reminder of the “Johnny, Johnny” lullaby commonly heard around Hanszen Sundeck circa Fall 2018. Eating sugar? No papa! The band’s familiarity (or perhaps their easy-to-replicate style) continues to show itself in “Hallelujah,” which sounds more like a mid-tier Death Cab for Cutie song than anything else. The tracks at the end of the record fall flat and blend together, particularly the uninspiring “Moving the River,” “Horsin Around,” and “Desire As.” Overall I found nothing much to like and nothing much to dislike about Steve McQueen. I wouldn’t be surprised if Prefab Sprout influenced a number of alternative bands, but there’s no mystery around why they didn’t stand the test of time.

From Nirvana to Pearl Jam to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, a number of late 20th century rock bands hit their strides in 1991, but perhaps no band hit their stride more gracefully than Metallica did. After the successful trio of Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, and Justice between 1984 and 1988, the band blew expectations out of the water with this tour de force to open the nineties. Take the album’s opening track and you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s the band’s Mona Lisa, with a hummable chorus and a mysterious hue. But dig deeper and you start to see that it’s actually their Sistine Chapel. Aside from the obvious religious theme, the electric opening and structural diversity puts “Enter Sandman” at the top of its genre. If only I could’ve seen Mariano Rivera ascend the mound at Yankee Stadium to this masterpiece. From the schizophrenic “Sad But True” to the patriotic “Don’t Tread on Me” to the intergalactic “Through the Never,” the band continues to communicate a wide range of emotions and themes throughout the record. It’s funny how we associate music with memories or places without even meaning to. I had never actually heard “Wherever I May Roam” until it popped up on my shuffle the other day at EoS, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I forever associate the song with lat pull-downs. If that keeps my rotator cuffs intact, I’ll take it. With “The Unforgiven” the band proves they can play at a slower pace than their usual gasoline-drinking style, further revealing the intensity of the other tracks. “Nothing Else Matters” continues this trend, and through lyrics like “I’ve never opened myself up this way,” they recognize they’d broken into a plane of existence metal had never seen before. Or, to put it in their words, the Earth had become their throne.

I’d never heard of Kraftwerk until this listen, and while techno is not my style, I was pleasantly surprised by the agreeability of all six tracks. Throughout “The Robots” I felt like a microscopic sea creature was trying to get the Krabby Patty secret recipe outta me. Ravioli, ravioli, give me the formu-oli! The beginning of “Spacelab” almost sounds like the intro to the Steve Miller Band’s “Fly Like An Eagle,” but the song eventually settles into more of a Space Invaders feel. “Neon Lights” could be background music in a coffee shop where all the baristas are mid-thirties dudes named Bartholomew with beards reminiscent of the Gilded Age presidents, or could be music to fall asleep to. “The Model” gives us a glimpse into what New Order would sound like if they hailed from Central Europe. In fact, once the album wrapped up and Spotify started shuffling recommended songs, “Blue Monday” came first. I can’t say I’ll go out of my way to listen to more Kraftwerk, but none of the tracks are overbearing and I can see how this would be good background music to focus to. I’ll give ‘em a few points for that.

At first listen Bill Callahan seems to fit in well with the songwriters of the early seventies like Townes Van Zandt, Nick Drake, and Lou Reed. It’s always refreshing to find well-composed, underground, and almost poetic music emerging in the 21st century. I can confidently say that “Jim Cain” is the most well written song we’ve gotten that (likely) none of us has ever heard, and even the very first lines are worth taking a deeper dive into. Why is he looking for the ordinary, as opposed to the extraordinary? Things don’t turn out as planned, but how do things end? Callahan’s songs take on a variety of experimental lyrical structures, such as the pyramid buildup in the back half of “Too Many Birds” and the well-placed repetition in “Faith/Void.” But more significantly, they invoke a variety of images in our minds. “All Thoughts Are Prey To Some Beast” is a stroll through the Columbia River Gorge while an angry Pacific storm brews out west. “Invocation of Ratiocination” is an eerily still midnight on the usually gusty Dakota plains. “Rococo Zephyr” is a warm breeze over whichever backyard creek makes you most yearn for the carefree days of youth. Stylistically, the album is a crossover between mid-career Beatles (particularly “Eleanor Rigby” from Revolver and “Blue Jay Way” from Magical Mystery Tour) and Transformer by Lou Reed. Bill Callahan’s lyrics are as rich as any and go far beyond most on even this list. I’d never heard of Callahan or anything by him, but I’ll definitely take a look at his catalog. I’m not sure if he found what he was looking for on his search for ordinary things, but with this album he’s certainly given us something more than ordinary.

Move over Rover, and let Jimi take over! Man, what a treat we get with this 60-minute masterpiece. Are You Experienced starts off with a classic Hendrix tune in “Purple Haze,” and begs the question: Which came first, the weed or the song? They can both put you on another spiritual level, so the answer is inconsequential. “Hey Joe” fuses the amusingly dark storytelling of Johnny Cash with the carefree background vocals of the era’s psychedelic rock bands. I’d never heard “May This Be Love,” but with its mesmerizing drums and inquisitive guitar, it’s earned itself a spot on my main playlist. The songwriting in “The Wind Cries Mary” is some of Jimi’s best, with lines like “You can hear happiness / Staggering on down the street / Footprints dressed in red.” How do we reconcile happiness with the imagery of murder? And why do we only hear happiness? Why don’t we see it? Wedged between “Fire” and “Foxey Lady,” Jimi gets real existential with “Third Stone From The Sun,” an alien love song to our Mother Earth. Are we a virus killing our terminally ill planet, or is he overreacting? To all of our detriment, he didn’t live long enough to either elaborate or find out. Are You Experienced is both the most influential and the greatest blues rock album ever conceived, full stop. Will there be another like it? With this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom, we whisper, “No, this will be the last.”

I didn’t know what to expect in The ArchAndroid beyond a satisfying taste of R&B, but Janelle Monáe gives us far more than that. “Dance or Die“ is packed yet not overbearing, so she makes sure we know she means business from the get-go. You might as well keep dancing if you’re not gonna run! She proceeds to sample a variety of genres in the following tracks, from pop in “Faster” to R&B in “Locked Inside” to hip hop in “Tightrope” and even psychedelic in “Neon Gumbo.” Just when I thought she couldn’t surprise me, I perked up at “Oh, Maker” and its seemingly continental European-influenced instrumental. Then she’s right back to rock ‘n roll in “Come Alive,” funk in “Make the Bus,” and gospel in “57821.” Oftentimes an artist’s greatest works are their eight-minute behemoths that take on multiple structures and a long story arc. “BaBopByeYa” is Janelle’s masterpiece, with a complexity reminiscent of rock operas like Tommy, A Day at the Races, or The Wall. To more fully appreciate the power of this concept album would require several deep listens, but alas, we have only 24 hours. Janelle Monáe incorporates around ten different genres in this record (if not more), and while that sounds like it should be messy, she somehow pulls it off.

It’s rare for an artist’s “sound” or “persona” to be tied to one particular album when they are as influential as Bob Dylan. Is the definitive Beatles Sgt Pepper’s or Abbey Road? Is the definitive Stones Let It Bleed or Exile on Main Street? Is the definitive Springsteen Born to Run or Born in the USA? For none of these questions is the answer clear, if any of these questions has an answer at all. But for all the incredible albums Bob Dylan has given us, Blonde On Blonde is the definitive Bob Dylan, no questions asked. Highway 61 Revisited is whimsical at times, especially in its title track, but as soon as “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” kicks off, we can tell something is different from his previous work. The lines “When the jester sang for the king and queen / In a coat he borrowed from James Dean” from Don McLean’s “American Pie” may have been inspired by The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, but I could be convinced that his image as a jester comes from Blonde On Blonde’s opening track. “Visions of Johanna” takes a sharp turn toward the pace that Dylan’s greatest songs will always be known for with its five verses and slowly unwinding story arc, and makes clear that his immaculate songwriting of 1965 would not soon regress. “One of Us Must Know” is one of the most underrated songs in his catalog and one of my personal favorites of his, especially with its dance between the harmonica and the guitar and its battle between the piano and the organ. “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again” is the record’s token tribute to his Mississippi River roots, and may be the most Dylan-esque song of the most Dylan-esque album. “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat” is the intellectual’s musical interpretation of a monkey with cymbals doing backflips, and for some reason reminds me of my senior year driveway at the northeast corner of Kirby and Gramercy. I’ll give props to Professor Scott Derrick’s class focused solely on Bob Dylan for that one. “Fourth Time Around” almost sounds medieval (so maybe this one actually inspired McLean’s jester comparison?), and is one of the funniest, most bizarre love songs you’ll ever hear. You could be forgiven for claiming “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” is too long, but like “Desolation Row” from Highway 61 Revisited, the piece is one of the most well-written songs of all time. I will say there is one notable omission from the recording sessions that didn’t make it onto the final record. “I’ll Keep It with Mine,” which never made it on a studio album at all, is one of my personal Dylan favorites and one of his most heartfelt ballads. In contrast to his usual long-form poetic style, the lyrics get straight to the point with straightforward lines like “You will search, babe / At any cost / But how long, Babe / Can you search for what is not lost?” Maybe the song’s relative simplicity didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the album. While not quite to the extent of Highway 61 Revisited, the album is still reminiscent of the era’s Beatnik writers; some, if not most, of the tracks are nearly impossible to decipher if they’re intended to be decipherable at all. Either way, there are a select few records I could be convinced are the greatest ever. Without a doubt, Blonde On Blonde is one of them. I considered going to see Bob Dylan play when he was in Houston last year. While some artists age like fine wine (Exhibit A: The Rolling Stones), many others wilt like neglected flowers far before their day is done. By no fault of his own Bob Dylan is one of those “many others,” so I played hooky on my favorite solo artist to ever live. If I can trick myself into thinking he always has and always will sound like Blonde On Blonde, I think I made the right decision.

And speaking of Beatnik-inspired musicians! Named after a sex toy from Burroughs’s Naked Lunch, Steely Dan is next to Lynyrd Skynyrd at the top of the list for rock bands and their bizarre etymology. From the funky instrumentals to Donald Fagen’s iconic voice, the band ranks among rock royalty for many other reasons too, and Can’t Buy A Thrill is a case in point. Steely Dan’s debut album kicks off with two of their finest songs, each offering its own sinful story, in the unrelenting “Do It Again” and the sorrowful “Dirty Work.” These tracks contrast to each other in many ways but each demonstrates the complexity of their music, which makes it all the more impressive that this record is their first. Part of me thinks the finale of side one sounds a bit like elevator music, but only a fool would say that. “Reelin In The Years” may be regarded as the group’s best song, and for good reason. Especially given the slower pace of most of their songs, Fagen sounds near out of breath at the end of each verse, and there’s something satisfying to that. While not their most famous tune, the intro to “Fire In The Hole” might just be the group’s most catchy jingle of all. Steely Dan doesn’t hit much on politics in this album (or in any of their albums, for that matter), but I have to think “Change Of The Guard” has at least some sort of political inspiration. Once the album turns over from the final track, I’m left thinking one thing: Back, Jack, do it again.

I was only loosely familiar with Clapton’s second solo album, and while it’s not his best work, I’m not disappointed either. The upbeat “Motherless Children” sounds more like “Lady Madonna” than an ode to a fallen mother. Clapton likens himself to Robert Johnson, and the Mississippi Delta twang and weary vocals of “Give Me Strength” validate his point. “Willie And The Hand Jive” sounds a bit too close to Dylan’s 1969 album Nashville Skyline to be an accident, and it lacks substance. I would say it’s unfortunate the best song on the record is a cover with “I Shot The Sheriff,” but I guess “Cocaine” isn’t a Clapton original either, and it may just be the best song on 1977’s Slowhand. Either way, the Bob Marley original is well executed, so I’m glad it’s here. I’d never heard “Please Be With Me” before, but it’s beautiful and refreshingly introspective. 461 Ocean Boulevard isn’t packed with smash hits, but it is classic Clapton. However, it’s nowhere near Slowhand and just isn’t memorable enough for me to give it more than three stars.

When I saw we got an album called Movies by a guy named Holger Czukay, I figured the worst thing it could be is cringey elevator music. Boy, did I expect too much. There’s no possible way to take “Cool in the Pool” seriously, and maybe it’s not supposed to be taken seriously. Either way, the overly German nature of it somehow makes it even worse than it would be otherwise. When I hear “Oh Lord, Give Us More Money” I think oh Lord, give us more mercy. The third and fourth tracks are no better than the first two, and as the album nears its end, I consider a drive to the local lobotomy clinic. A coked up cat could attempt the Charleston on a keyboard and give us something better than this. After the album was over (half of which I’d skipped) I felt cheated out of remotely decent music (or music at all) so I put on another far-out record not included in this list to stand in for the day. I owe the Grateful Dead and their From the Mars Hotel a word of thanks for my little remaining sanity.

I’d never heard of The Style Council, but sappy eighties pop is about what I expected from the album cover. I don’t hate sappy, but they could’ve done it better. Songs like “The Whole Point Of No Return” and “My Ever Changing Moods” reveal that the Style Council is really just a diet Elvis Costello (as a side note, “Everyday I Write The Book” was the first song to appear on shuffle once the album finished). The early hip-hop-inspired “A Gospel” is a welcome stylistic choice, and is probably my favorite song on the record. Across the other tracks the voice seems just a bit off-key, which can sometimes add to the music (think Mick Jagger, Kurt Cobain, or frankly, Elvis Costello). In the case of the Style Council, it detracts. I’m not a fan of the vocals, but I can jam to the purely instrumental tracks, especially the rhythmic piano of “Mick’s Blessings,” the Austin Powers intro credits feel of “Me Ship Came In,” and the anti-Reagan rhetoric of “Dropping Bombs On The Whitehouse.” Strip the vocals out of this album and it may just be a three.

From a hits perspective, Kendrick Lamar is rightfully best known for Good Kid Maad City and Damn. But when looking at each album as its own work of art, To Pimp A Butterfly is Kendrick at his best, and the parallels with To Kill A Mockingbird go well beyond their respective titles. “King Kunta” is one of the greatest, most complete hip hop songs ever recorded. You might think a song with references from Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal” and Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (among other literary works) would be overwhelming, but really it showcases Kendrick’s unmatched talent as a songwriter and a poet. It’s tough, if not impossible, to think of a song more closely associated with a social movement than “Alright” is with Black Lives Matter. I’ll admit that I prefer the simpler 2014 single version of “i” to the album version, but it’s still a centerpiece of the record. The album goes far deeper, both lyrically and stylistically, than the highlight tracks. “These Walls” sounds like late 20th century Compton, while the instrumental of “How Much A Dollar Cost” sounds so much like Prohibition-era Manhattan that I half-expected a Billie Holiday appearance. Some songs are soothing, like the R&B of “Complexion,” and some appear as painful for Kendrick as they are necessary for the audience, like “The Blacker The Berry.” “Mortal Man,” with its deep introspection and experimental mid-track interview, is the perfect way to end the album. From the repetition of “forty acres and a mule” to the all-time classic lyrics “I remembered you was conflicted / Misusing your influence,” there’s no wondering why Rolling Stone ranked To Pimp A Butterfly in its top 20 albums ever. Just like Harper Lee’s masterpiece, this record will stand the test of time as a shrine to decades of civil rights movements. I can only hope that high schoolers in the 2050s may write essays about both of them.

At some point or other I’ve happily listened all the way through each of Steely Dan’s first seven albums. At best they stand among the upper ranks of seventies music. At worst they provide great music to listen to while working, only half-realizing music is playing at all. Pretzel Logic falls into the second category. Their work is characterized as elevator music by some, and with songs like “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” and “Any Major Dude Will Tell You” as the headline tracks on this album, the critics make a valid point. On most other Steely Dan records, they would be mid-tier songs at best. “Night By Night” is to Pretzel Logic what “Home At Last” is to Aja; it’s not the most popular track, but with multiple listens it feels more like a hidden gem. I have a tough time hearing the Lou’s influence in “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo,” but I thoroughly enjoy the variety in this pure instrumental. Pretzel Logic is not as good as The Royal Scam or Gaucho, and comes nowhere near Can’t Buy A Thrill and Aja. It adequately showcases Steely Dan’s style but leaves the listener thirsting for more. That may as well be the perfect formula for a three.

Just… wow. I can’t imagine how the fuck this shit is only the fourth lowest rated album on this list, but I hope we don’t see the three lowest for a long, long time. The vocals, if they can be called that, sound how Cocaine Bear would sound if he could talk. I don’t know, I never saw the movie. Compared to Napalm Death, Iron Maiden belongs in Weenie Hut Jr’s and Metallica belongs in Super Weenie Hut Jr’s. These guys eat nails for breakfast without any milk, and they enjoy it. I won’t even bother reviewing individual songs (again, if they can be called that). The one redeeming quality of this album is the cover artwork and the I-Spy for multinational corporations among the skulls. I only listened to the first several tracks to spare both my eardrums and my Spotify algorithm. The first song I shuffled into out of this mess was “Dancing in the Moonlight” by King Harvest. That couldn’t be more of a 180, and that’s fine by me.

From 111 to Sundeck to Gramercy, a bare-chested, arms outstretched Jim Morrison flag served as one of my main wall decorations throughout college. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my dad actually had a nearly identical flag in the eighties, so I’m tempted to believe such behavior is correlated with an underdeveloped frontal lobe and not with our family tree. Either way, I’ve been familiar with LA Woman for 15 years, but the hallmark of a great album is discovering new appreciations regardless of its perceived novelty or lack thereof. “Love Her Madly” is a Doors classic, and sets the bar high for the rest of their final album with Jim Morrison. I’d never given much thought to “Hyacinth House,” but a closer listen reveals that it borrows from both Led Zeppelin and Bob Dylan while retaining the signature psychedelic blues that only the Doors could pull off. While not a staple of the Doors, “Crawling King Snake” is a timeless blues classic, and the different versions of this song show how blues rock has evolved over the decades from John Lee Hooker (1949) to George Thorogood (1985) to the Black Keys (2021). The combination of cryptic lyrics, dark instrumentals, and the sounds of thunder make “Riders on the Storm” the perfect way to end the record. My favorite song on the album, and my favorite Doors song in general, is the title track. For lack of a better word, I have many fond drunken “memories” of singing “LA Woman” on Rockband in the movie room at 3 a.m. after any given night’s shenanigans. The more drunk I was, the more convinced I was that I sounded just like Jim Morrison. My sober guess is that I did not. Before listening to the album this time around I assumed it would be a four, but after listening through a couple of times I developed a new appreciation for the deep tracks and had a welcome reunion with the classics. No doubt about it, Mr. Mojo Risin gets five stars for that.

Since I had never listened to any of David Crosby’s solo work, I was excited to listen to something new on my flight to LAX. The album falls flat though, and I found myself switching back to my main Classic Rock playlist throughout the drab 38-minute record we got today. “Cowboy Movie” claims to be the highlight of the record, but it drags on far too long for what it is. “What Are Their Names” is probably my favorite song on here, but it’s a shame that I had to find it on YouTube instead of Spotify. Of all the songs on the album, “Laughing” sounds the most like Crosby, Nash, Stills & Young, but without the charm of the quartet’s gems like “Teach Your Children” or “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” David Crosby clearly benefited from the rest of CNSY for songwriting inspiration. If I Could Only Remember My Name is by no means unpleasant, but it includes nothing memorable.

I’d never heard much by Muddy Waters, but I can now better appreciate the artist who created the namesake for my all-time favorite band in his 1950 song “Rollin Stone.” “Mannish Boy” is a blues staple, and I’d recommend listening to Jimi Hendrix’s electric version too. The harmonica in “Jealous Hearted Man” and “Crosseyed Cat” may as well be the whistle of a Southern Pacific train rolling through Louisiana, and the piano in the latter is a nice touch. “The Blues Had A Baby” reminds us where rock and roll really came from, and that maybe we should pay homage to the Mississippi Delta more than we do. After a deeper listen to Muddy Waters, I can’t help but hear his influence in a slew of songs by the Stones. Specifically, “Midnight Rambler,” “Ventilator Blues,” and “Black Limousine” come to mind. While I’m not sure if he named this album Hard Again despite being in his sixth decade or because he was in his sixth decade, it’s a fine collection of blues that inspired legends for decades.

By the late seventies Bowie had passed his peak, but I do think Low is a step up from Station to Station. The album holds a nice mix of songs dominated by either vocals or instrumentals, and I prefer the latter in this case. “Sound and Vision” is the only song from the album I’d heard of before this listen, and while it makes sense as the centerpiece, it’s no Bowie classic. “What in the World” feels awkward and forced, and the album would be better off without it. The supernatural theme shines through in “Weeping Wall,” which might just feature a by-now expected contribution from our extraterrestrial visitors. The saxophone in “Subterraneans” sounds like a poor man’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” but it’s a fitting way to end the record. I can appreciate what Bowie is going for in the concept album here, but since I can’t see myself ever going out of my way to listen to it, I can’t give him more than three stars.

Heaux Tales is by no means a casual listen, but Jazmine Sullivan puts on a masterclass in destigmatizing sex through music here. Some of the tracks, like “Put It Down” and “On It,” push the boundary on taboo topics artists (and particularly women) can get away with singing about. It’s no Silk Sonic, but Anderson Paak is a great feature on “Price Tags.” “Lost One” is a welcome emotional interlude amongst the album’s physical focus, yet the six “Tales” add a personal touch to the album that conventional tracks simply can’t add. This is a fascinating idea for a concept album, and Jazmine nails it. I can’t say I’d go out of my way to listen to it again, but I can at least appreciate the artistic value.

I wrote an essay in college comparing Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline with Creedence’s three albums from 1969, including Green River. Willy And The Poor Boys probably gets more fanfare, but this record is sneakily one of the best of the late sixties. “Wrote A Song For Everyone” is an extremely under-appreciated song. It features John Fogerty’s songwriting at its best, digging deep emotionally and addressing civil rights issues through lines like “Saw the people standing / Thousand years in chains / Somebody said it’s different now / Look it’s just the same.” Aside from the Vietnam-fueled “Fortunate Son,” the hilariously misleading “Bad Moon Rising” is probably the band’s most popular song, and for good reason. Named after a town 30 miles south of Sacramento, “Lodi” reminds us that the band is from California, not Louisiana, and is my favorite Creedence tune. “Sinister Purpose” is another underrated track, and has one of the band’s most addicting guitar riffs. 1969 would have been a great year for Creedence even if they’d only released this one album, but they released three top notch records, which just goes to show how much they accomplished in such a short time. And of course, always remember: Don’t go ‘round tonight, well it’s bound to take your life… there’s a bathroom on the right.

Given the name I’m not sure why, but I hoped Murder Ballads would be an alright album to put on during my morning Amtrak ride. Alas, I was wrong, and from the very first track, Nick Cave makes clear that he intends to give us some murderous ballads indeed. He somehow gives a Tarantino vibe (particularly in “Where the Wild Roses Grow”), so this music definitely has a time and a place, but I’m just not feeling it right now. To complement my morning train ride, I instead put on Orange Blossom Special by Johnny Cash about halfway through Connecticut. New England may be on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line, but starting off my day with the Man in Black is always good for my attitude, regardless of my latitude.

Considering the familiar “Blister In The Sun” starts off the album, I wondered if the Violent Femmes would have other recognizable tunes. After listening to a few more tracks I deduced that they were just another eighties one hit wonder. “Please Do Not Go” is a plea to the listener as much as anything, and the irritating “Add It Up” is actually a minus. I can appreciate how the Violent Femmes may have influenced other alternative bands of the eighties and nineties; Blind Melon (and their hit classic “No Rain”) is a good example. However, I just find the vocals too annoying to enjoy the album.

Last month I contrasted Tapestry against Laura Nyro’s atrocious Eli and the Thirteenth Confession, so it was nice to get a quick turnaround there. Carole King does not disappoint on this one. From the very first seconds of “I Feel the Earth Move,” King’s piano dominates the album without overwhelming the listener, much the same way Dylan’s harmonica does. There’s no wonder why “It’s Too Late” is her most popular song, with its funky guitar and easy swaying rhythm. I’m not sure there’s any connection, but she does talk about a coat of many colors in the title track, and this album came out the same year as Dolly’s Coat of Many Colors. She does a fantastic job covering Frankie Valli’s “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” and then Aretha’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” to wrap up the record. It seems like James Taylor is sometimes credited with “You’ve Got A Friend,” but he just doesn’t pull it off like King does. As random as it may seem, the song reminds me of her performance at her 2021 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Maybe I’m missing something, but I’m not sure how it took until 50 years after this masterpiece for her to receive the honor. I’d never listened to Tapestry all the way through, and from the hits to the deep tracks, it’s one of the most complete albums of 1971. I’ll definitely be listening again.

I’d never heard of Ride before, and I was pleasantly surprised about the U2-meets-Helter-Skelter feel of the opening track. However, after the nineties psychedelic vibe of “Kaleidoscope” and most of the tracks that follow it, I get bored. Several songs in, it seems like these guys have never listened to anything other than The Joshua Tree, and since this album came out in 1990, that checks out. The main problem, though, is that every song sounds more or less the same as the one before. Many say the same about U2 (and others), but to each their own, I guess. For as reliable of a litmus test as possible I tried distinguishing between by far their most popular song, “Vapour Trail,” and the other songs, but couldn’t decide whether it was any better or more developed. I don’t mind the simplicity of the song titles and album cover from an artistic standpoint, but unfortunately, that simplicity describes the music too. It’s not bad, but it’s far too long and monotonous.

Given that “As Tears Go By,” originally written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, was the only Marianne Faithfull song I’d ever heard, I went into this album with decently high expectations. Maybe those expectations were unfair, but I feel let down. Armed only with this this trivia nugget, the opening track throws a bit of a curveball. I hoped it was more experimental than anything, but “Witches’ Song” sounds like a drunken washed up suburban soccer mom with bleached hair stumbling through a Christine McVie-led Fleetwood Mac tune. I can see why the synth and heavier hitting lyrics of “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan” make it her most popular song, but I still can’t say I like it. Overall I feel like Marianne Faithfull is an acquired taste, but at the same time, I guess you could say the same thing about Mick Jagger. I’m truly confused about how this is the same singer as 1964’s “As Tears Go By,” because her version is absolutely beautiful. I’ll at least give her two stars for that.

This album isn’t full of hits, but sometimes that’s a sneaky strategy to build a well-balanced classic. I particularly like how the album title implies that the record’s contents are about inconsequential things. “What’s the new record about, David?” “Oh, I don’t know, buildings and food.” Given the Talking Heads’ nonchalant style and Byrne’s blithe voice, you’d be tempted to believe him. But it’s far more than buildings and food, and that’s the beauty of it. From couples who save their relationship by replacing the monotony of TV with nutty games of make-believe (“Found a Job”) to boys who can’t come face to face with their emotions (“With Our Love”) to a comical anti-love song (“The Girl Wants to Be with the Girls”), the contents of this album are anything but normal and expected. With lines like “You can’t see it till it’s finished,” the bizarre “Artists Only” might just be the musical interpretation of Vonnegut’s underrated 1987 novel Bluebeard. Of all the possible songs to cover, the band does a fantastic job with Al Green’s “Take Me To The River,” another late night banger I associate with the Hanszen Old Section movie room. “The Big Country” feels like a Tralfamadorian disapproval of Earthlings and our meaningless lives, but why should we care what they think? It’s a great song, and I stand by it. David Byrne’s voice may be an acquired taste, especially aside from the Talking Heads’ most popular tracks. I didn’t know much about this album coming into this listen, and while I wouldn’t expect to hear much of it on the radio, it is extremely well written. I’d go so far as to say it talks about a bit more than just buildings and food.

Jerry Lee Lewis may be a staple of early rock and roll, but this 22-minute live blitz admits why he’s not necessarily a legend in his own right. Songs like “Money,” “Good Golly Miss Molly,” and “Long Tall Sally” were all previously hits by Black artists, and while they aren’t poorly executed, Jerry’s versions stand no chance against the originals. There are songs to appreciate, though. “High School Confidential” sounds like Jeff Spicoli whipping his hair back and forth at the school dance while Mr. Hand stands by and shakes his head in veiled disappointment. “Lewis Boogie,” which I have to assume is a Jerry Lee original, features some of the better piano I’ve heard. “Your Cheating Heart” might just come from Tom Hanks falling across the huge piano in “Big,” but at least he falls with style. Jerry Lee Lewis is often thrown in as one of the all-time rock and roll greats, and I just don’t get it. “Great Balls Of Fire” is a good song, but it’s not enough to make him a legend on its own.

Coming into this listen I knew Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain was a highly rated album, but I didn’t anticipate the masterpiece that it is. Aside from maybe a couple of them, the tracks aren’t necessarily to be heard individually, but they work so well together that this record is much more than the sum of its parts. “Can You Get To That” does work individually, and is as complete of a funk song as there is, especially with the multi-layered vocals. If it weren’t for the sexual implications, I can only imagine that Jake and Elwood Blues would have done an epileptic jig to “Hit It and Quit It” in a packed church while James Brown stood by in awe. Throughout “Super Stupid” the guitar hints at Deep Purple, the organ reminds of the Doors, and the vocals channel Jimi Hendrix. The bookends take the album from a cohesive collection of songs to a beautiful piece of art. While only eight lines long, the title track’s Neo-Malthusian lyrics hark back to Jimi’s “Third Stone From The Sun” from a few years before, and forces us to ask ourselves: The world’s population has more than doubled in the interim, and why aren’t we talking about that more? “Maggot Brain” and “Wars Of Armageddon” might be allegories for humanity, and just like humanity, these songs are beautiful, strange, and at points even hard to listen to. The album’s ending foreshadows the end of civilization, but the last few seconds predict that rock and roll will remain the heartbeat of life on Earth even when we’re gone. It may be impossible to capture the whole of human experience in 37 minutes, but Maggot Brain does it as well as you could hope. It can be tough to admit, but we are the maggots. If we have any shot at growing into something like a dragonfly, I guess I can live with that.

I often put on mid-20th century jazz musicians while working, so Sarah Vaughan was a nice addition to the daily grind. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know anything by her coming into this listen, but I do generally prefer the artists better known for the songs on this live album than Vaughan herself. A prime example is the opening “September In The Rain.” While not originally by Dinah Washington, her 1960 performance surpasses all others with its string-dominated background and more consistent tempo. I already associate “Honeysuckle Rose” with the Queen of Jazz, so in my eyes any other performance is bound to fall short of Ella’s. Vaughan’s rendition of “Just A Gigolo” sets quite a different tone than Louis Prima’s does, but I’m here for it. My favorite version of that song, though, has to be David Lee Roth’s. What could’ve been a staple of Diver Down might just be Roth’s best solo work. I feel like At Mister Kelly’s would’ve been better with more originals instead of songs already (or soon to be) perfected by others. But at the end of the day, Sarah Vaughan has one of the best voices in jazz, and there’s no ignoring that.

From the name alone I dreaded this album and wondered if it’d be another Napalm Death, so I was caught off guard when I didn’t hate what I heard. The album showcases a variety of instrumentals, from the accordion in “Star” to the catchy guitar riff in “Medication.” “Stuka” reminds me of “On The Run” from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, and “Kowalski” sounds more like one of those prehistoric three-foot-long dragonflies got stuck in the Matrix than a penguin that got stuck in Madagascar. “Get Duffy,” and the album in general, sounds like James Bond on quaaludes. If one were to ask what it sounds like to cross metal with nineties alternative, Primal Scream’s Vanishing Point would be the answer, with a strong focus on the “nineties alternative.” There wasn’t much that stood out to me, but at least it wasn’t death metal.

The more I listen to Lou Reed, the more I realize he influenced a variety of musicians who came after him. With albums like this one, it isn’t too hard to see why. “Candy Says” is one of the Velvet Underground’s more underrated tracks, with introspective lines like “What do you think I’d see / If I could walk away from me?” I didn’t know the band had ever ventured into Southern twang, but they pull it off well in “Some Kinda Love.” The simplistic instrumentals and raw emotion in “Pale Blue Eyes” make it the best song on the album and one of Lou Reed’s best songs ever. While nearly impossible to follow, the parallel storylines in “The Murder Mystery” are an interesting stylistic choice. About halfway through I wonder if Patrick Bateman might walk through the door and explain to me, ax in hand, his interpretation of the song like he does so enthusiastically with “The Power of Love,” and by the end I tell myself the track could inspire a Coen Brothers thriller. The singalong song “After Hours” is a strange way to end the album after the tumultuous penultimate piece, but its simplicity is welcome. It’s not as good as Loaded or their debut album with Nico, but the Velvet Underground’s self-titled record is where contemplative psychedelic meets the early stages of new wave. It has a couple of uninspiring tracks, but overall, it’s an enjoyable listen.

I’ve said before that Nirvana belongs on the Mount Rushmore of grunge (presumably in Washington’s spot), and a strong argument could be made that Soundgarden belongs in one of the other three positions. The guitar riff in the background of “Fell On Black Days” may as well be the heartbeat of grunge. During “Head Down” I picture Hannibal Lecter decked out with his face guard and no straight jacket in a lightning storm, and with each flash he gets a little bit closer. “Black Hole Sun” is not only an iconic grunge song, but an iconic nineties song in general. The lyrics of “Spoonman” don’t seem to carry much weight, but it’s a headbanger regardless. I don’t know much about Soundgarden, but I do remember hearing about Chris Cornell’s death on the radio of a ‘98 F-150 on my way to clean pools on a May 2017 morning. With songs like “The Day I Tried To Live” and “Like Suicide,” we’re reminded that while rockstars may seem to be on top of the world, it’s a lonely place up there, and they have their own demons to fight. Chris Cornell certainly did. All in all Superunknown is a great grunge album, but I do think it’s much longer than it needs to be. Either way, this listen made me appreciate Soundgarden more than I ever had.

It really says something about a rock band from London in 1968 if a class of fourth grade boys from Missouri try to match their hairstyles forty years later. No, I’m not kidding. Led Zeppelin is without a doubt one of the greatest, most complete bands to ever grace the music scene, and their debut album is a case in point. “Good Times Bad Times” starts off with one of the most iconic guitar riffs of all time, and this riff alone may have helped vault the band to superstardom. The album quickly dives into the deep rock ballads that Led Zeppelin could pull off better than anybody else with “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You,” and foreshadows that they will be back with plenty of six-plus minute songs that build momentum the entire way. “Dazed and Confused” does not remind me of Matthew McConaughey leaning out a window whispering “alright, alright, alright,” but it does remind me of a careful dance between Robert Plant’s vocals and Jimmy Page’s guitar, and I’ll take that any day of the week. “Communication Breakdown” is one of the earliest rock songs (and definitely one of the earliest deep rock tracks) I knew, so I’m sure it was a hell of a time to see my musically challenged 10-year-old self try to act like I knew what was going on. In July 2018 my ‘08 Toyota Avalon was totaled in the Med Center at Main and Dryden, and at the time, I was of course glad that nobody was hurt. When asked if there was anything of value in the car, I did a once-over and grabbed everything I could see. I thought I had claimed everything, until I realized later on that I missed one crucial artifact. I had neglected to eject Led Zeppelin’s Mothership, the first CD I had ever bought, so it went to the junkyard with the rest of the car. To this day, that might be my favorite “Best Of” album of all time. I surely did not realize it in 2008, but somehow trying to emulate Led Zeppelin set the course for not only my favorite bands, but for the types of music and the types of art I love today and will love forevermore. You just can’t throw a Led Zeppelin record at me without expecting five stars in return.

Coming down from the Led Zeppelin high, we were bound to get a one-star record at some point. From the very first track, PJ Harvey establishes a bipolar style of quiet vocals contrasted against loud instrumentals that may as well be pots and pans falling down a staircase. I want to give this album a fair shot, but when I turn up the volume just to be greeted with a cowbell amplified by a bullhorn, I don’t appreciate it. You could argue that true art can’t possibly be appreciated by everyone, and I’d respond that some art just sucks. Her cover of Bob Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited” is blasphemous. What was once only the title track of an all-time great album is here scrambled into a hardly recognizable soup of what can be described charitably as “noises.” Some albums are hard for me to listen to, and Rid Of Me is one of them. It’s yet another reminder that this list is not about the best albums, but rather albums that should be heard. Even that claim I tend to disagree with sometimes.

If I were to ask you about your earliest memory, would you recall it? At some point or other we all gained sentience. I couldn’t tell you at what moment I gained mine, if I ever did. It may have involved a Mark McGwire home run in his final season, complete with an onslaught of fireworks that likely left snotty tears on my dad’s shirt and an ice cream cone in my hand. It may have involved 9/11, where I of course had no idea there was anything wrong but was happy to see my great-grandparents after their vacation to DC was canceled. Or it may have involved something as trivial as snooping around the local plant nursery searching for “clues,” otherwise known as “price tags,” that had fallen off their respective merchandise (yes, that is a great strategy for occupying toddlers). But at the end of the day, I couldn’t tell you when or how I gained sentience in this world of ours. But I can tell you when I gained sentience in the world of music. It was Johnny Cash, in February 2007, at my grandparents’ 40th wedding anniversary in the town of Mexico, Missouri. “I Walk the Line” played over the speakers, and I had to know who it was. The mahogany voice and rhythm that could make you sway in your sleep put me in a trance. But the Man in Black wasn’t done; by the end of the night I was all over “Ring of Fire,” too. In the coming months and years I would learn more and more music, hardly any of which was written on this side of 1990. In December 2007 I listened to my uncle’s iPod for the first time and fell in love with rock and roll. The fact that I quickly learned the hits from AC/DC, Aerosmith, the Beatles, and Bob Marley makes me think I should’ve gotten more creative than just going in alphabetical order. But hell, if I’d gone the other way I might’ve just wanted a clean shirt, new shoes, a silk suit, and a black tie. Regardless of how far I expanded my rock and roll repertoire, Johnny Cash was always there as the old oak to look back to. He gave us stories in “Ballad Of A Teenage Queen” and “Tennessee Flat-Top Box.” He gave us humor in “A Boy Named Sue” and “The One on the Right is on the Left.” He gave us family in “Jackson” and “Daddy Sang Bass.” Fast forward a decade and I’m with my grandparents for their 50th anniversary visiting Sun Studio in Memphis, where Johnny Cash got his start. We pose for pictures where he sang with Elvis, with Jerry Lee Lewis, with Carl Perkins. He may be long gone, and while I never met him and never thought about it much, he probably had a greater impact on my life than I realize. For all I know my grandparents walked the line at some dance hall in rural Missouri all those years ago.

I was shocked to see that “Karma Chameleon” didn’t show up in the soundtrack of a single eighties movie. It just sounds too much like Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear, or maybe Anthony Michael Hall creating a girlfriend for himself. It was also the only Culture Club song I knew going into this listen, and based on the other tracks on Colour By Numbers, I’m not surprised why. The album is quintessential eighties pop, but as dynamic of a genre as eighties pop is, it isn’t near the top of my list. “Karma Chameleon” is the only song that really stands out to me, and at least none of the rest turn me away, so I can only give this album three stars.

My only prior experience with Booker T & the MG’s came from The Sandlot, when Benny Rodriguez and the rest of the gang confront the kids who play ball on a real diamond with “Green Onions” in the background. It took me until now to realize that this album, released in 1962, came out the same year The Sandlot took place. Or, as the narrator would have us know, it was the same summer that Dodger Maury Wills would break the stolen bases record. The album as a whole is 35 minutes of addicting organ to stride along and snap your fingers to. There are great tunes I’d never heard before, like “Rinky Dink” and “Stranger on the Shore,” and classic covers, like “I Got a Woman,” “Twist and Shout,” and “Comin Home Baby.” It’s not the first thing I would choose to bump around Richmond, BC to but it served as a nice warmup for a quick hop across the Salish Sea.

Some say that all U2 songs sound the same, and while I disagree, I do see their point. Along those same lines, though, you could make the point that The Joshua Tree is just a cohesive album driven by U2’s signature sound. The record has one of the best 1-2-3 punches of any in history with the slow buildup in “Where The Streets Have No Name,” the adventurous background melody in “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” and Bono’s vocal range in “With Or Without You.” Unfortunately, the list of songs that lasted on the radio waves ends there. Either way, it’s impressive to think that the band recorded this album in their mid-twenties after over ten years working together. Aside from the harmonica of “Trip Through Your Wires,” The Joshua Tree is not exactly an album I’d associate with the American Southwest; the Eagles and America had that locked up in the seventies. The quiet intros to several of the songs don’t pair well with a jet engine in the background, but that’s my own fault. While there are only three real hits, the album works well as a whole. I can’t give it five stars, but it’s close.

Despite knowing the Killers’ biggest hits for many years, I’d never listened to Hot Fuss all the way through until now, and I’m not disappointed. “Mr. Brightside” should be reminiscent of high school and/or college for anyone younger than 40, and it probably is to some degree. Of all the songs I could associate with dancing on the rotting 111 table clad only in underwear, this one takes the cake. “Somebody Told Me” is another anthem of 2000s angst that has rightfully stood the test of time. With lines like “When there’s nowhere else to run / Is there room for one more song?” and the iconic chant of “I got soul / But I’m not a soldier” all set to a drumbeat that might just be the collective pulse of the band, “All These Things That I’ve Done” is the most complete song on the album. The Killers have a distinct sound, but from the bubble gum synth of “On Top” to the New Wave influences of “Change Your Mind” to the creepy rattle of “Everything Will Be Alright,” a full listen to Hot Fuss reveals a musical diversity I didn’t expect. It’s not confidential: This album has got more than just potential.

Many would put Radiohead’s earlier work near the top of the alternative genre, but apparently by 2007 they had ditched novelty for music that could today be created relatively easily by AI. Some of their songs are hits (“Creep” and “Karma Police” come to mind first), but this album generally functions better as background music, especially “Weird Fishes,” “All I Need,” and “House Of Cards.” The main exception is “Jigsaw Falling Into Place,” whose influence can be heard across the Glass Animals’ discography. In Rainbows might just be a forgettable mid-2000s fever dream. I don’t dislike it, and it’s a pleasant album to work to, but the fact that I don’t have many concrete takeaways (positive or negative) means it can’t be anything other than a three.

Prior to this listen my knowledge of War was limited to “Low Rider” and “Why Can’t We Be Friends,” but The World Is A Ghetto gives me a whole new perspective of the group. With both songs fit to listen to in isolation and songs meant to be heard in a greater context, this six-track masterpiece has to be one of the best albums in the funk genre. “The Cisco Kid” is a fantastic way to begin the album with a beat to swing to, a protagonist to root for, and a story to live through. “City, Country, City” reveals the urban and rural divide in America if not by demographics, then by the energy of everyday life. I’m not sure what exactly “Beetles In The Bog” is supposed to represent, but I imagine beetles are not on top of the food chain in bayou country. With its nearly hopeless lyrics and pleading sax, the behemoth title track is unsurprisingly the centerpiece of the record. As far as funk concept albums go, I assumed Funkadelic stood in a league of its own with Maggot Brain. I stand corrected.

Just a few days ago I claimed that U2’s The Joshua Tree has one of the best 1-2-3 punches in history, but the first three songs of Green Day’s American Idiot are superior. The opening and title track is as sobering as it is funny with its not-so-subtle callout of the Fox News media machine, and it’s only grown more relevant in the nearly two decades since its release ahead of Dubya’s 2004 showdown with Democratic challenger John Kerry. I have to say I appreciate the algorithm gifting us this album the day after Rupert Murdoch announced he’s stepping down as chairman. In the words of Logan Roy: Fuck off! The second song, “Jesus of Suburbia,” is to Green Day as “Bohemian Rhapsody” is to Queen, chronicling the collective plight of those who live in broken homes through an amalgamation of what could be several different songs. As far as songwriting goes, it’s the best work the band has ever done. “Holiday/Boulevard of Broken Dreams” rounds out the legendary trio, and is a personal favorite of mine for getting fired up. Unlike The Joshua Tree, however, the album goes much deeper than the first three songs. “Wake Me up When September Ends” may have been the first YouTube video I ever saw when the platform launched in 2005 (I explicitly remember seeing “Hello Goodbye” by the Beatles and “Crazy Frog” by, uh, Crazy Frog, around the same time). Songs like “St. Jimmy,” “Give Me Novacaine,” and “Letterbomb” give us a little more context around the protagonist of the album, and would be the top tracks on most of Green Day’s other albums. American Idiot is one of the greatest albums of the 2000s, and shows that the rock operas of the seventies can transfer over to the rock genre of the 21st century. As the magnum opus of a band that served as a cross-millennia bridge, the record gets an easy five stars from me.

I feel like a broken record here, but the more of these albums I hear, the greater the influence I realize Lou Reed has had over the past half century. Listening through Lust for Life, I can’t help but think that Iggy Pop is just a cross between Reed and nineties punk rock in general. The record is driven by the title track and “The Passenger,” whose addictive opening riff is one of the best of the late seventies. Iggy himself may be the passenger in the song, but surely he wants us to realize we’re each the passenger at some point. For as much free will as we may or may not have, there’s always an element of surprise to either fear or to look forward to, but always to anticipate. No? Fuck, I’m not sure. There is promise in some of the other songs, like “Some Weird Sin” and “Neighborhood Threat,” but nothing much else really sticks with me here. There are two classics and a slew of skippable songs, plus the unnecessarily long “Turn Blue.” Some albums get three stars because of how vanilla they are. This album gets three stars because of how all over the place it is.

I’d never heard of White Denim before, but they sound exactly how I’d imagine an Austin-based indie band to sound, so I’m not disappointed. They remind me of the Black Keys from the get go in the opening track, and their psychedelic blues continue to dominate for the rest of the album. That isn’t to say that the album is stylistically straightforward, though. “Street Joy” gives us an introspective pop fit for the mid-2010s, while “River to Consider” clearly draws influence from far beyond the Texas Hill Country. “Bess St” sounds more like Dan Auerbach on vocals than any other song on the record, and just as the Black Keys have maintained a relatively steady style and demeanor over the past 20 years, it feels like this album could have been released any time since the turn of the century. Some further investigation after finishing the album led to their cover of “Just Dropped In,” originally by Kenny Rogers and the First Edition. They do an immaculate job, making enough adjustments to make the performance their own but keeping the melody true enough to the original to pay respect to the original. They apparently covered the Big Lebowski soundtrack classic for the TV version of Fargo. If these guys can make the Austin music scene proud with their psychedelic blues and fanboy for the Coen Brothers too, I have to give them five stars. The groove abides.

From the very first track of her debut album, Patti Smith wants us to know she’s not fucking around. She turns a classic song on its head and makes it her own, and while it’s hard to listen to at points, it’s not exactly easy to listen to the Doors’ remake of “Gloria” either. She continues to leave a trail of wreckage in her wake with the uncomfortably long “Birdland,” and by the time she gets to “My Generation,” you’d think Roger Daltrey was an obedient schoolboy and not one of England’s biggest rockstars. There are hints of relaxation throughout the album, like the reggae of “Redondo Beach” and the Dire Straits-esque guitar of “Free Money,” but Smith isn’t going for Monet on a calm spring day. She’s going for Picasso on Adderall, and she nails it. All that being said, and as much as I appreciate her thought-provoking lyrics and the fact that each line is as unexpected as the one before it, I just don’t like the music itself, and there’s no getting around that. At least that saves the album from getting one star.

As much as I enjoy getting familiar classics through this platform, it’s always refreshing to get an album that can expand my musical knowledge beyond just the US and the UK. I was unfamiliar with the movie coming into this listen, but the Bollywood now-cult-classic Shalimar features a soundtrack that samples across a range of styles and a range of emotions. “Aaina Wohi Rehta Hai” is at times relaxing and at times chaotic, while “Mera Pyar Shalimar” is downright hypnotizing. “Countless Caper” seems to draw influence from around the world while staying true to its Indian roots. I find it interesting that the English version of Salimar is called Raiders of the Sacred Stone. The film preceded the first Indiana Jones installment by a few years, but it’s almost comical how easy it is to name a movie to appeal to an English-speaking (and particularly an American) audience. I can’t say I would’ve found this album without this platform; I’ll go out on a limb and say I learned more than I would have from another David Bowie record.

After listening to “Sleep to Dream,” I had high hopes for the rest of Fiona Apple’s Tidal based on the opening track’s 1965 Dylan-esque lyrics and haunting piano. In a way, the song does set the tone for the rest of the album, but only in that each track sounds more or less like some variation of every other track. I don’t mind her monotone voice, and if anything this can be spun into a positive; the instrumentals just need more variety to make that happen. “Criminal,” apparently one of her biggest hits, does not stand out to me at all. A nice little Easter egg is the tinge of mid-20th century jazz-inspired xylophone in the background. I noticed Apple covered the Beatles’ “Across the Universe” in 1998 and had to give it a listen. While she does a fine job, the song still sounds too similar to most of the songs on Tidal. Her voice is pleasant and her lyrics are well-written, but the monotony just leaves too much to be desired.

I had high expectations coming into The Bends, our second Radiohead album in two weeks. I don’t hate the album, but I do feel a little let down. “High and Dry” is one of the stronger songs on the album, but I do wonder how it has 350 million plays on Spotify. At best it’s a combination of other mid-nineties acoustic alternative, and at worst it’s some piss-drunk fella’s idea of a good karaoke song at Griff’s on dollar-PBR night. “Fake Plastic Trees” is not only a sobering reminder of our gilded consumerism, but an admission that we may even be too far gone. I find a couple of the songs (like “Bones” and “Just”) to be irritating, especially the vocals, but maybe Radiohead is more of an acquired taste than I’d thought. The album does finish strong with “Street Spirit” though. I’m not sure how justified this is or where it comes from, but it channels Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 for me. Diving deeper into Radiohead’s catalog, first with In Rainbows and now with The Bends, I’m just realizing that maybe I don’t like them all that much. There are some decent songs on this album, but there’s not enough here to be anything other than a three.

Like Radiohead, my knowledge of Queens of the Stone Age is more limited than I’d thought. I really only knew the classics like “No One Knows,” “Make It Wit Chu,” and “I Sat by the Ocean” coming into this listen, so their first album (which was apparently released only a couple of weeks after I was) is new to me. They start strong in “Regular John,” establishing their almost pleading sound that has come to define their vocal style. Other tracks hint at dystopian undertones from “free range humans all cooped up” in “Avon” to “a world that’s full of shit and gasoline, babe” in “Mexicola.” I’m impressed at the three pure instrumentals in the back half of a debut album. The six-plus minute “Spiders and Vinegaroons” is the best of them, and while it can’t decide whether it’s a cult-like western chant or a spooky space odyssey, that indecisiveness might just be a positive. This isn’t a record full of hits, but it does set the stage for a rock band that has enjoyed success for more than two decades since. It has enough consistency to work to and enough variety to stay interesting. Maybe I should listen to these guys more often.

This is the third Bowie album we’ve gotten, and it’s easily the best so far. David Bowie helped establish the genre of glam rock (along with Elton John), and Aladdin Sane was a key driver of that. Bowie’s work in the late seventies, in my opinion, kind of runs together. The first two tracks of this album prove the opposite was true in the early seventies. “Watch That Man” almost feels like a continuation of 1972’s fast-paced “Suffragette City,” while “Aladdin Sane” boasts a haunting jazz piano. He puts on a theatrical performance in “Time,” which almost feels fit for era-defining rock operas like Pink Floyd’s The Wall. When the Stones write a song they really own it, so the fact that Bowie pulls off a cover of one of their classic concert openers, “Let’s Spend the Night Together,” and even puts his own spin on it, is extremely impressive. “The Jean Genie” is the crown jewel of the record, fusing Mississippi Delta blues with the aforementioned emerging glam rock. Bowie really came into his own in the early seventies (especially in 1971 with Hunky Dory and 1972 with The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars), and 1973’s Aladdin Sane was a crucial part of his evolution into an all-time star. Aside from the music, the album also gave us one of the more iconic personas of seventies rock.

I can’t listen to this album without thinking it’s a 28-minute perfume commercial, especially the opener “Melody.” Overall this seems like a nice little concept album about a girl named Melody, which we can just get from the title, but I can’t infer much more than that. The instrumentals are pleasant, but to be quite honest I just can’t take the French all that seriously in much anything they do. For some reason I’m imagining Steve Martin stumbling around as the Pink Panther. Oui oui! The only rockers I knew who were running around France in the early seventies were evading the authorities and working on one of the greatest albums of all time: the Stones with Exile on Main Street. Maybe if we’re lucky we’ll get an album like that one next.

When I’m initially unfamiliar with a song with over 300 million Spotify streams (especially anything tangential to 90s rock), I’d like to say I usually recognize it once I put it on. I can pretty confidently say I’ve never heard “Alright” though. It’s presumably the reason this album is on the list, but for a one “hit” wonder, I’m a little disappointed in Supergrass. At best they sound like a generative AI’s response to the prompt “Write an album like you’re a group of uninspired horny London high schoolers hanging out in their mums’ garages, bruv. Oh, and make sure you somehow incorporate vocals from the Minions!” They are by no means bad, but nothing stands out about this band or this album other than their aggressively British accents.

Listening through the lyrics of some of Ice Cube’s songs, it’s tough to get behind his message. While well known for his advocacy against police brutality (especially in the wake of the Rodney King beating), he throws daggers at other demographics to the point that he suppresses the mission he hopes to achieve. There are plenty of nineties rappers who didn’t do this, or at least not to the same degree. At the end of the day though, Ice Cube is one of the most influential West Coast rappers who came to prominence in the late eighties and early nineties, and his beats speak for themselves. The South Central LA classic “It Was A Good Day” is one of the most iconic songs of both the era and the genre, still inspiring artists and athletes alike with lines like “Last week fucked around and got a triple double!” The soul-tinged “Check Yo Self” has also stood the test of time, and the turntable-dominated “When Will They Shoot?” is a nineties DJ’s dream. The Predator has more depth than I would’ve thought, ranging from the booming words of civil rights activists to the hilariously donut-themed anti-police “Say Hi To The Bad Guy.” Ice Cube’s music wouldn’t stand a chance today, and it shouldn’t, but this album has some great beats and its influence could be heard throughout the rest of the decade.

Had I known Wilco’s track record extended so far beyond “Jesus, Etc” and “California Stars,” I would’ve listened to them years ago. After a once-through of Being There, I realize I need to take a deeper dive into their discography. The opening “Misunderstood” could have been covered by Johnny Cash in the same way he covered “Hurt.” The main difference is the Wilco original is flat-out better than the Nine Inch Nails one. They infuse their own country spin too, especially with “Forget the Flowers” (sitting in a front porch rocking chair overlooking an empty dirt road) and “Someday Soon” (swinging to a lumberjack’s Tennessee flat-top box at White Horse while hints of organ sneak in from outside). “What’s the World Got in Store” sounds a bit like George Harrison, and I can’t help but notice the repetitive lyrics aren’t too far off from Weird Al’s “This Song's Just Six Words Long.” “Someone Else’s Song” channels Harrison’s counterpart Bob Dylan, especially his pre-electric days. The piano of “(Was I) In Your Dreams” is reminiscent of the Stones’ hot streak of records in the late sixties and early seventies, while the piano of “Sunken Treasure” foreshadows Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head. If the fiddler in the finale “Dreamer in My Dreams” had made a deal with the Devil, I bet he would’ve walked away with some gold hardware. Coming into this behemoth I expected a repetitive record that overstays its welcome by 30 minutes, but man, was I wrong. There’s not a single skip, and Wilco showcases a variety of genres from bluegrass to folk to funk. Whether intentionally or not, they put their own spin on the styles of a number of my favorite artists. These guys are quite a bit more than a two-hit wonder.

Beyond “Pink Moon,” I can’t say I’ve ever heard much by Nick Drake. My first impression is that he’d do well in an inquisitive western clash between Tarantino and the Coen Brothers. The six-plus minute “Three Hours” in particular fits this description. The strings of “Way to Blue” might just make a poor man’s Succession theme song, but maybe that’s the feel he was going for. “Saturday Sun” is more of a stroll through the Boston Common than a trudge through Buffalo Bayou Park. “Cello Song,” and frankly much of the album and even Nick Drake’s general style, gives an aura of the early sixties environmental movement, but I’m not sure why. I can only imagine that if Carson and Frost had lived long enough to hear this record, they would’ve enjoyed it quite a bit.

Van Morrison is one of those artists I don’t remember hearing for the first time, but whose music I definitely knew well before I could’ve been expected to. Specifically, I know “Brown Eyed Girl,” “Jackie Wilson Said,” and even “Moondance,” with all its sexual innuendos that surely eluded my youthful ear, were played around the house. As great as his best work is, especially the albums Astral Weeks and Moondance, I’m just not sold on over 90 minutes of live Van Morrison. Sure, this includes a number of his classics. Some of them, like “These Dreams of You” and “Domino,” do not disappoint. But some of the others (I’m looking at you, “Into the Mystic”) are much better listened to straight off the original LPs. His cover of “Bring It on Home to Me” sounds more than anything like Jimmy Fallon impersonating sixties soul through Van Morrison’s voice. I’m not sure why a live album like this one is included on the list when he has so many strong studio albums. But at the end of the day, Van Morrison could probably turn the Wiggles’ soundtrack into a heartfelt 12-minute ballad, so I have to throw a decent rating his way.

I can’t hear the song “Amie” by Pure Prairie League without thinking of the time I was picking up Travis from the graveyard shift at the Chipotle in the Med Center, and bam, the Walmart version of Kurt Cobain totaled my Toyota Avalon at the intersection of Main and Dryden. That was the song playing on the radio. A flashbulb memory, so to speak. I can’t hear the song “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by Cyndi Lauper without thinking of the time Chris and I were driving down Montrose and a couple of inebriated pedestrians nearly fell into my passing car. While a close call in the moment, the song’s opening few seconds quickly became our shared anthem for quick comic relief in nearly any situation. A very-near-miss flashbulb memory, I suppose. Aside from Lauper’s most popular track, though, the album doesn’t have a whole lot to offer for those somewhat averse to the poppiest music the eighties had to offer. The other high point is “Time After Time,” which I can’t listen to without just thinking of Napoleon Dynamite. Vote for Pedro, I guess.

Rubber Soul may have been when the Beatles came into their own from a songwriting perspective, but 1966’s Revolver proved 1965 wasn’t a fluke. Revolver is one of the best albums by the Beatles, and might be one of the best albums of all time by anyone. Fit squarely between their touring days of the early to mid-sixties and their purely recording days of the late sixties, Revolver was their most complete album yet. George and even Ringo shine on vocals, Paul starts dabbling in psychedelics, and the group draws from Indian influences that becomes one of their hallmarks in 1967 and 1968. The record features major hits like “Eleanor Rigby” and “Yellow Submarine,” but it really sets itself apart with its deeper cuts like “And Your Bird Can Sing” and “I’m Only Sleeping.” They lightly address the day’s political landscape in “Taxman” while making room for ballads both heartfelt (“Here, There, and Everywhere”) and crushing (“For No One”). The closing “Tomorrow Never Knows” offers a glimpse at the next year’s offerings in Sgt Pepper’s and Magical Mystery Tour. The summer of 1967 may have been the Summer of Love, and the Beatles were either a step ahead of everyone else or they single-handedly created the psychedelic rock genre that came to dominate the late sixties. The Beatles’ brief career is typically divided into the early years from 1963 to 1965 and the later years from 1967 to 1969. Revolver straddles both eras, and while under 35 minutes, it is one of the most complete rock albums ever conceived. It’s one of my personal favorites, and it always will be.

Coming into this album I was loosely familiar with Buena Vista Social Club, but I’m not sure I’d ever given them a fair listen. I was unaware that this record helped revive the Latin music scene on a global stage, but I’m not surprised. What is somewhat surprising is that the group came out of Cuba in the nineties at the peak of Castro’s anti-globalization policies in the midst of the Soviet collapse. I listened to this album while working, and it was a great soundtrack to finish the day to. While I can’t fully appreciate the lyrics, I can appreciate how it stands at or near the top of its genre.

Lou Reed punches well above his weight with regard to influence compared to recognition. Whether they realize it or not, a slew of artists in the past half century drew at least some aspects of their styles from him. He establishes a solo electricity in “Vicious” while keeping a hint of the mellow rhythms from his days with the Velvet Underground. “Perfect Day” boasts anesthetic instrumentals on top of his ambrosial vocals in what might be an auditory interpretation of a chardonnay-laced picnic. “Hangin Round” throws it back to the original rock n roll of the fifties with its guitar and piano reminiscent of Little Richard. With its low-key beat, intriguing vignettes, and addictive saxophone, “Walk On the Wild Side” may have kickstarted the early alternative genre. In “Satellite of Love” Reed’s fingers slide across the piano keys like hang gliders over the Alps on the first day of spring. Lou Reed arguably started the alternative genre with this record. Or, maybe we could say, he simply transformed music. Either way, he keeps me hangin’ on!

I didn’t have high hopes for 72 minutes of what I could only assume would be death metal, and my expectations (or lack thereof) were well warranted. Needless to say, I did not listen for 72 minutes. Not even a minute into this hell, I thought I might’ve been experiencing symptoms of Havana Syndrome. I had to pause just to make sure. In “Sulfur,” the singer sounds like he’s foaming at the mouth. If you’ve ever made eye contact with this guy I’d suggest you get a rabies shot immediately. Truthfully, I could not listen much past this point. It’s been a while since I’ve given out just one star, but All Hope Is Gone fits squarely in the bottom tier of albums we’ve heard. Slipknot belongs in our arsenal reserved for intense psychological warfare. Blasting “Welcome to the Jungle” in Panama in 1989 would have nothing on blasting this album around the Kremlin in 2023. Does anybody have any Q-tips?

While only seven songs long, Aja packs more punch than any other Steely Dan album and just about any other album from the late seventies. It’s one of the rare albums in which each song brings its own flair, and if one were to ask me which song I like the least, I’d simply reply “No.” If one were to ask me which song I like the most, I might have a different response each day of the week. “Deacon Blues” rightfully serves as the backbone of the masterpiece. At first listen it may sound like glorified elevator music, as so many like to jab at Steely Dan about. But with each successive listen, you’ll find yet another jazz musician in the shadows clutching his brass. While short on lyrics, “Aja” and its several minutes straight of solos is worthy of Coltrane. I can’t imagine “Peg” and “Josie” would have been friends, but the reluctant star and the long-awaited homecoming queen each add enough personality to the album that it’s impossible to pick between them. It may be a long shot, but I’m tempted to think that Aja, Peg, and Josie might just be the three Sirens calling to Odysseus during “Home At Last.” It’s worth a shot. I may never learn to work the saxophone, but I’m sure glad these guys did.