During the height of Stalin's regime, Mikhail Bulgakov secretly wrote a wonderfully surreal tale filled with disappearances, mass disillusionment, inexplicable deaths and sudden hysteria. Bulgakov explains that these mysterious happenings are due to the arrival of a big fat cat (Behemoth) and his sidekick (Azazello) who accompany Satan (Professor (Lord) Woland(emort)) and a vampire (Hella). The story is ludicrous, ridiculously fun and deeply traumatic. The cruelty of Stalin's reign could not and can not be comprehended. It is easier to believe that a flamboyant Satan rocked up in town with his whimsical entourage and wrecked havoc, than to face the real events. After reading The Master and Margarita, Mick Jagger was inspired to write Sympathy For The Devil, 6 minutes of derivative blues where Jagger lists off various atrocities and asks "what's my name?" with all the mischief of a wayward schoolchild. There's some interesting percussion at the beginning, but that's about the highlight of the song, and sadly, the album. I have never understood the comparison between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. One band instigated a cultural revolution which still shapes the way we dress, talk, socialise, dance, play music and enjoy life to this day. The other band were a bunch of posh English boys playing at being American bad boys. Sympathy For The Devil indeed.

M.I.A. swaggers in. Boombox booming in one hand, the other hand texts acronyms to friends flung far away. It's hard to pin her down, with her Caribbean lilts, her Bristolian beats, her Arabic patois, her Mr. Oizo synths, her Acton shout-outs. Arular's fantastic. Music from the most bombastic sources distilled through a cocky self-assured artist with a real knack for hooks. It's quite the cocktail.

Roxy Music have plastered a massive dopey grin on my mouth, stuck on with sleaze and grease. I'm not sure when I'll be able to wipe it off. I'm not sure I'll ever want to.

During the height of Stalin's regime, Mikhail Bulgakov secretly wrote a wonderfully surreal tale filled with disappearances, mass disillusionment, inexplicable deaths and sudden hysteria. Bulgakov explains that these mysterious happenings are due to the arrival of a big fat cat (Behemoth) and his sidekick (Azazello) who accompany Satan (Professor (Lord) Woland(emort)) and a vampire (Hella). The story is ludicrous, ridiculously fun and deeply traumatic. The cruelty of Stalin's reign could not and can not be comprehended. It is easier to believe that a flamboyant Satan rocked up in town with his whimsical entourage and wrecked havoc, than to face the real events. After reading The Master and Margarita, Mick Jagger was inspired to write Sympathy For The Devil, 6 minutes of derivative blues where Jagger lists off various atrocities and asks "what's my name?" with all the mischief of a wayward schoolchild. There's some interesting percussion at the beginning, but that's about the highlight of the song, and sadly, the album. I have never understood the comparison between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. One band instigated a cultural revolution which still shapes the way we dress, talk, socialise, dance, play music and enjoy life to this day. The other band were a bunch of posh English boys playing at being American bad boys. Sympathy For The Devil indeed.

"So let Germany brew your beer, let Switzerland make your watch, let Asia assemble your phone, we (America) will build your car," lectures Dylan during the 2014 Super Bowl ad break. With the title of his sixth album and the motorbike on his tee, already back in 1965 Dylan was positioning himself as a motor vehicle sales rep. His maudlin crooning over strummed guitar, replete with imagined Bible scene re-enactments, quickly established him as the King of Americana, driving from desolation row to highway 61. Vroom vroom.

There is something off about eels. They are snakes who have traded the shifting sands of dunes for the murky sea and its feeder estuaries. Or, they are fish who have bulked up and lengthened, stretched by millennia of water flowing past. They spark and fizzle, electric. But look closely into their dead eyes and see: there is nothing there.

In "It Happened In Monterey", Sinatra tellingly speaks of his love interest in the third person. These songs are not for swingin' lovers; "You Make Me Feel So Young", "You're Getting To Be A Habit With Me" and "You Brought A New Kind Of Love To Me" are all misdirections; for Sinatra is not really addressing women, he is addressing men. Woman, for Sinatra, is a man's vessel for his affection, not an autonomous being with her own thoughts and wishes; she is a prop. Men are his true target. Sinatra's singing is impersonal, free from messy histories and aired skeletons. His male audience are free to project their own fantasies and uncomfortable lives upon his songs. Sinatra seduces men in, by allowing them to believe that they can be as dapper, delectable and debonair; wear a fedora like he can, romance like he can, croon to the moon like he can. And boy, oh boy, do I wish I could.

At the odd party, you'll have the misfortune of meeting an elaborately coiffed man, whose clothes have more personality than himself. He'll invariably collate a discussion group around himself about what the real meaning of life is, before disclosing it's really all about "love" or "life" or "truth" or "death" or "it" or "this" or some other monosyllabic concept. He'll then pull out a guitar and start singing Kumbaya with unfaked gusto (and, admittedly, undeniable musicality). Thanks– but no thanks.

I want to dive into Bowie's hair, frolic in its lusciousness. I want to nestle by his sweet voice, have his choir console me with sugar-coated harmonies. I want to slide down the groove of a warm fuzzy bassline, to watch sax flourishes garland a relentlessly blue sky, for synths to ooze sweat, rum and sea salt, to taste sparks, to chase a nostalgia of a future which has never existed, which has never been, but is all too present.

The Temptations lure me in, with their rollin' basslines and interlocking voices. Underlying tensions pull me this way and that, across the dancefloor, and then to unknown territory. I'm left alone and told to do my own thing. I look back, flustered, unsure what to make of it all.

Iron Butterfly faff about, puffed with air, gawping at pretty colours. On the last song, they figure out a decent riff, and sing and prance around it with all the vim of a waffle.

An arctic monkey dons a Stetson, adds some spurs to his boots, and mounts a toy horse. He gallops around with stabilisers still on, within a well-fenced paddock. In Alex Turner's best song, Fake Tales of San Francisco, he snaps: "You're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham." Maybe we all grow to become what we once hated. Yeehaw, as they don't say in Sheffield.

There's an inherent conservatism to folk rock, but Crosby, Stills & Nash sniff at the boundaries, adding a bit of extra fuzz to the bass tone here, sprinkling some extra minor tones there. But then they create something as infantile as Marrakesh Express which instantly voids any attempt to take them seriously. To add insult to injury, the trio released it as a single. Why? Iggy Pop is right. "I mean, Marrakesh Express? It may be the worst song ever written."

2 seconds in and I'm grinning. The music soars from some funky rhythm guitar strumming, before a hell of a guitar line shines through. Some lovely singing eases us in, checks in on us, makes sure we're all settled and comfortable, before the main show starts. And what a show it is. Five songs in, we're commanded to listen to the music. With pleasure.

Getz, perhaps more than any other individual, has showcased the delights of the saxophone to a broader public. His style and tone are composed, his flourishes mannered, his melodies eternal. Charlie Byrd accompanies him on this album, and the two interweave, playing off each other's licks with relish. Jazz Samba so completely defines a style, that it has spawned countless talentless imitators who are keen to recreate that perfect laid-back, but vivacious, lounge/bar/beach/hang-out. Listen to the breath-control in the opening line of O Pato though. The emotion in three pulses on one note. There's the detail and level of intricacy required.

It's definitely not the best version, it's not necessarily even a good rendition, but Down by the River is a good song. Thank you Neil Young.

What is ABBA without the hits? I once went to a zoo and saw a giraffe without a neck, a leopard without spots, a cheetah who sniffed at so much as a jog. At first, I marvelled at the novelty and felt sorry for the poor creatures. But then I saw the owl with a stiff neck, the kangaroo without bounce, the penguin who had forgotten where they'd left their tuxedo again, and I started to feel cheated. What was the point?

I enter a familiar room, filled with familiar shapes. We nod at each other (how's the week been? woah, really? not too bad not too bad) and step back, admire each other's colours and edges (quite the sparkle round there). We jiggle, we jangle, iridescent slicks streak the midground, bubbling at the fringes, we finkle, we fankle, following the piper past furred bamboo shooting heavenwards, stroking bleeps and bloops, having a great time. Same as it ever was.

Prior to re-listening to this, I knew I preferred The Bends, OK Computer, Kid A, In Rainbows and A Moon Shaped Pool. However good Hail To the Thief may be, it is definitely not Radiohead's finest. But re-listening caused those opinions to dissipate. 2 + 2 = 5 was the first Radiohead song which I truly appreciated. First the tuning in. Followed by the shifting time signatures. The guitar hook which grabs and thrashes. Then there's the foreboding Sit Down. Stand Up. The eerie command. The pulses. The new expanding beat. The Mingus climax. The beautiful rolling Sail To The Moon. The hanging voice. The to. The fro. The floating flickering Backdrifts. The ghost within the mixer. Go To Sleep and Where I End and You Begin then begin to tread water, but even then there's a guitar pop here and there to add a flourish. Soon piano chords pull us back into the maelstrom. The desperate croaked voices of We Suck Young Blood. The miscued claps. The begging. The omnipresent bass of The Gloaming. The crackles. The hi-hat so thin it could shatter. The droned percussion of There, There. The relief of electric guitar. The wail. The guitars again. The freshness. The twisted harmonies of I Will. The hip-hop backing of A Punch Up at a Wedding. The piano-voice atonalities. The frail high notes. The disassociation of Myxomatosis. The suffocation. The too thick air in Scatterbrain. The down-pitched screwed up blues of A Wolf At the Door. The sheer end. What a mad bad and terrible ride.

In Utero may be flawed, Bleach may be too raw; Nevermind is bang on. Though it may have inspired many second and third-rate imitators, who keep thrashing through the same four chords of Smells Like Teen Spirit in a grainy cover video again, Nevermind, more than any album of the 90s, set the contours of the decade to come. Since 1991, no teenage coming-of-age has been left unaffected by this album. And no wonder. Each track is an anthem for the disaffected. Each song is a crushing mix of drums, bass, guitar, angst and unflinching hooks. Ryan Schreiber is right. "Anyone who hates this record today is just trying to be cool, and needs to be trying harder."

There's comfort to be found here. Sometimes it's nice to sit back and listen to a man with his guitar playing some other person's songs. Kick back, relax, and enjoy a pleasant voice. He might not be that great, he might not play that well, he might not be all that, but who cares? Life ain't all that bad.

Trust underpins all human relationships. We trust family to have our backs, we trust chefs to not poison us, we trust shopkeepers to not fleece us. We pick up on subtle cues when we come across those who might not seem quite as they are: a gripped hand, a twitchy gaze, a too sincere tone. Our hackles are fallible though; many a friendly chump can end up unfairly overlooked. But I do not like the look of The Band's jib. The songs are overwrought, the singing overdramatic, the tempo troppo lento. The emotions displayed feel as original as the band's name. A pervasive sense of faux-ness obscures my judgement of them. But maybe those emotions are true to The Band. Maybe the songs do need to be as wrought, the singing as dramatic, the tempo so lento. "What else can we do?" plead The Band at the end of Lonesome Suzie. "I do not know," I answer rhetorically, as I slowly walk away, collars popped, throwing backward glances.

M.I.A. swaggers in. Boombox booming in one hand, the other hand texts acronyms to friends flung far away. It's hard to pin her down, with her Caribbean lilts, her Bristolian beats, her Arabic patois, her Mr. Oizo synths, her Acton shout-outs. Arular's fantastic. Music from the most bombastic sources distilled through a cocky self-assured artist with a real knack for hooks. It's quite the cocktail.

Fiona Apple's music spell-binds me. I love listening to her dissect each word, stretch each vowel, crunch each consonant. There's an unmatched artistry in her voice. On this album though, the backing plays backing, as opposed to leaving space for her voice to truly shine. The effect leaves Fiona Apple washed out, as on the album cover. But who am I kidding? It's still magic.

I believe that Super Rich Kids can be taken as a microcosm of Channel Orange. The music is laid-back, but there's a steely underneath. Ocean's singing is sweet, but weathered. There's an interesting kernel, but it is stretched out too far. The lyrics, I'm not sure there's anything all that perceptive here. Sure, it's better than Drake, but so what? On the song, Earl Sweatshirt steals the show with his delivery, his rhymes, his tonal inflections. And therein lies my confusion. Surely, by featuring, Sweatshirt is indicating his respect and admiration for Ocean. What for?

To create such an album at the turn of the millennium is to be wilfully ignorant of over half a century's worth of musical history and innovation. The song titled in French offered hope of some flavour, but alas, it is a wet baguette.

With Histoire de Melody Nelson, Gainsbourg creates the first true (and perhaps only) concept album. Precursors first linked tracks thematically, then sonically, then historically, but the tracks were always separable from the whole; the music stood up by itself. Later attempts at concept albums have culminated in epic feats of navel-gazing. Histoire de Melody Nelson is the first album where the music is incidental to the story, and the story is incidental to a deeper philosophy of life. Gainsbourg wields rock music to pose us questions on sex and violence, to challenge us to confront the ideas posed by Nabakov, Ballard and Bataille. And before we know it, the music boils over, leaving us more stranded than we were before.

One Nation Under A Groove sets out a clear manifesto: let's unite in dance. And though the manifesto may be noble (yes), well articulated (yes!), and political (YES!), it isn't funky (no). The lack of an opposition to overcome deadens the whole atmosphere. Only a third of the way through the album, on Who Says a Funk Band Can't Play Rock! do Funkadelic introduce the necessary opposition, which sparks the friction and fracas needed to get down and get funky. It's well worth the wait.

I love this so much. I have nothing clever to say.

What are your thoughts on orange juice? There's a freshness, a zest, a breezy summer day captured in a drink. There's evidently universal appeal, no shop or restaurant the world over is without. Yet I have not heard anybody say it's their favourite drink: it lacks complexity; it's universality acts against it; as it is enjoyed by all, it is loved by none.

This morning, on my walk to work, I saw a creature stumble out of the local swamp. It seemed rather dazed, so I decided to check if it was okay. The creature was cloaked in mottled hair and writhing in mud. Occasionally it would yelp and fat riffs would ooze out. I wasn't able to really communicate with it, or understand many of its vocalisations, that is until its voice suddenly sweetened, infiltrated my senses, and tweaked my heartstrings. It was lamenting a lost love, I believe. I gave it a pat on the back which seemed to do the trick. Soon it was giggling again, thrashing its numerous limbs with what I took to be ecstatic delight. I kept it company for a while, before then finding the right moment to depart. I do hope it's okay, the poor sod. I was rather fond of it.

The closer to perfection, the starker the imperfections. And there are plenty of missteps on this album: the tracklisting, the shifts between partying and politicising, and obviously the tracks which the band ended up regretting and dropping from their setlists. But so much is so right about the album. An energy palpates throughout, intent on creating a better world, unafraid to directly face up to the obstacles in the way. And through their music and their performances, The Specials did.

Slip on a leather jacket, slap on a bass, scowl through some sunglasses and you too can pretend. But we don't have to make-believe too.

During my late teenage years, I was blessed with the opportunity to join a jazz orchestra. Each Saturday, I would catch the bus, unpack my case and try to hit the harmony lines. It was good fun: the bandleader was charismatic, my band members were encouraging, the tunes were exciting. But the real joy came at solo time. The soloists would have come up with new lines, new melodies, and explored new thoughts during the week. The real beauty came when they started going down a new pathway for the first time during practice. We could see and hear creation before us. On this album, we not only hear Miles Davis, arguably the most gifted jazz musician of all time, explore new territory, but are also blessed with other giants of the genre sniffing at the boundaries. And not just one at a time, but all together, foraging here and there, leading each other on, responding, riding the drift of each other's thoughts. It's thrilling.

The first twangs confirm the album cover: folkish twaffle. In The Century of the Self, Adam Curtis argues that after the middle-class counterculture kids of America met the full force of the state in the 1960s, they sought to change the world by changing their minds, as opposed to by changing society. The kids abandoned the material world for the spiritual one, and sought fulfilment of the id, as opposed to justice for the disempowered. Close To You is an album made for these creatures. Each song is a lullaby for wrinkled babies, who suckle on safe comforting familiarity. There's a cover, or two, or three, or four. There's the reassuring presence of God through the church organ. There's a by-the-numbers romantic sax flicker. Yet, when Karen sings, I feel the cynicism siphon away. Her voice is sweet. She seems unperturbed, removed, aware enough to not be too earnest, but not so self-aware to be ironic. Her melodies promise the return of innocence, escape from all past sins. However, on I Kept On Loving You when Karen steps to the side, the full atrocity of the music comes into view. The sheer inanity amazes. I remain torn. Maybe I'm in a good mood. Maybe I'm ill.

Copper Blue packs the punch of stale bread, which has been chewed, gargled and spat back out. Its sogginess and general lack of flavour discourages further inspection.

Emerson, Lake & Palmer seem intent on showing us that their musical education has been worth it. "Look at the theory we've learnt! Look at the composers we've studied! Look at the techniques we've mastered!" But for all their knowledge and prowess, in Pictures At An Exhibition they fail to imbue their music with any humanity or human experience. The whole listening experience feels akin to marking the English homework handed in by a precocious kid who lacks an interior landscape. An utterly thankless task.

ChuggachuggachuggaBOOMBOOMBOOMcrashwhoooooooooooshWEEEARRRGHHHHHHHboomcrashARghBoomBoomChuggachuggathudthuddidudidudiduddleyeeehawwwooftdudududududududtcrashboomcrashboomwaerjabkasdkc.... No.

If I had had a bedroom pop phase – I never did – but if I had – i don't know why I never had one – does discovering Radiohead count? – but if I had – and I could have had – and if I had heard Either/Or at the same time, I would have loved it. As it is, I like it, but the possibility for me to truly love it has already passed.

At its best, folk music binds people together in communal union through the shared experience of the trials and tribulations of life, haunted by the spectre of the unknown. On White Light's titular track, Gene Clark reaches for this ideal, but his lyrics fail him. A lack of clarity permeates the rest of the record. Ill-defined boundaries leave Clark's ideas and melodies shapeless and formless; his intentions latch onto the closest floating concepts, before falling to the ground and pooling themselves into inconsequential puddles.

Coldplay expertly take punk rock's simplicity, and strip it of its violence, its anger, its vitality, its nihilism, its raison d'être, and wrap it in wool. The result is a blob of sickening infantilism: melodies so simple, nursery rhymes would eschew them; lyrics so plain, white bread looks exotic in comparison; voices so banal... you get the idea. Nonetheless, it is obvious when placed next to Coldplay's other albums, that A Rush Of Blood To The Head (well, at least the first half, the second half really does drag on) reaches closest to Coldplay's Platonic ideal. What that ideal is, and why anybody would seek it, I do not know. But I'm repulsed by it.

Sometime during the turn of the millenium, indie morphed from being a descriptor of which music label an album was released from, to an aesthetic in its own right. Much of indie was a reaction against the sheer dearth in creativity and general thuggishness found in guitar music and its audiences (for a prime example, see Oasis, King of Britpop). Some bands eschewed typical time signatures, others typical key signatures, yet others still any hint of musicality to show that they were different. On Bitte Orca, Dirty Projectors display the twee tendencies of the movement. Most of the songs are 4/4, but Dirty Projectors noticed that by slowing the tempo down, they can give off the impression of a non-standard time signature without committing to the real deal. Similarly, by adding in noodling, they can give off the impression of pseudo-intellectualism. By yelping, they're singing could be misconstrued as interesting. Even the name doesn't mean anything, it just "sounded good". On Bitte Orca, Dirty Projectors go nowhere slowly, high on their own farts.

Before I'd ventured into this all you can eat buffet, I'd heard of the pop, which is sweet, catchy and infectious. I hadn't heard of any of the other specialities, but I was interested to sample them. Sadly, the chef's ambitions exceeded her strengths (though this is more of a result of the vastness of her ambitions than any limit to her talents). The classical dishes, the folk rock plates, the misjudged electrobeat forays all left me wishing for the real deal, instead of these good, but fundamentally underwhelming, attempts. (Aside from the folk rock. Never do I wish for folk rock. Nor do I wish for electrobeat, now I think of it.) None of the dishes aside from the pop were worthy of revisiting, and there seemed to be little if any cohesion between the flavours in this potpourri buffet. I left feeling overstuffed, dissatisfied and mildly bemused.

On All Saints Day, whilst meandering through suburbia, I saw a kid going door-to-door disfiguring Halloween decorations. What are you doing, I asked. Smashing pumpkins, the kid replied. Care to join? I stood at the entrance of the cul-de-sac and watched. The kid continued with methodological precision and aesthetic flair. Some squashes had their innards strewn out, others their tops knocked off, yet others merely bruised, or knocked to one side. A gaggle of fellow observers had joined me by the time the kid had completed the tour around the cul-de-sac. The kid headed out grinning, and proceeded down the next cul-de-sac. Shocked onlookers whispered aghast, surely not another cul-de-sac? Such ambition!

It's the 70s. An erratic barnet atop matchsticks limbers on stage. It proceeds to plough through 40s and 50s material which I fail to recognise. Whose song is this? I ask. The barnet's, answers a helpful sidekick. I remain confused until the familiar lyrics of That's All Right greet us. I get it! I exclaim. The barnet's a tribute act, but it decided to branch out and create original tunes, with no rhyme nor reason. Chuffed, I bin the gig.

Hypocrisy Is The Greatest Luxury is so firmly situated within its time, place and mindset, it feels unkind to dislodge it from there and review it now. To approach it as an album, instead of as a historical artefact, feels inappropriate. Some pieces of art can be described as timeless; this not one of them. The bits which cut through the decades most are those which remain relevant: lamentations about the two-party political system in the US, about the glut of acronyms, about euphemistic language. The frank lyrics of Music and Politics also stick out. Frankness must be met frankness. What am I writing these reviews for? Who am I peacocking to? Am I? Why did I listen this album and then wring words together to describe the experience it has evoked within me? Is this a good enough ending?

With Lucille, Little Richard screams rock into existence, writhing with danger, the unknown, the magic. Folk rock takes rock and strips it, scrapping the danger, the unknown, the magic, leaving only the instruments and none of the spirit. What's the point of folk rock? Why are there saxophones? I don't get it. For the record, Bryter Layter is not a good name. It's not clever.

Nevermind is so much better it's crazy. Of course it would have been a gargantuan feat to match Nevermind's brilliance, but the drop-off in quality is glaring. In Utero's songs are as tasteless, confused, and laughable as its album cover.

London Calling isn't a punk album, nor is it the greatest album ever: the tracks are too bright to be punk and the songs are too disjointed to merge together into one well-integrated cohesive whole. My view of the album remains clouded by these two misconceptions. I find it difficult to judge London Calling by its own merits, freed from the clutches of fawning critics ("The Only Band That Matters", my arse). There are decent tunes on here. Flourishes of ska, rockabilly, reggae and dub add flavour to good but otherwise fairly standard rock tracks. The further from the standard template The Clash venture, the better the tracks are. But then again, the brilliant Revolution Rock is a cover, so what does that mean? Should The Clash have just done reggae covers? I don't know. Is London Calling as good as Unknown Pleasures, which came out in the same year? Or The Specials? Or Entertainment!? No. Definitely no.

Sometimes you just have to draw a line in the sand: I'm not listening to any more Metallica.

Halfway between here and the antipodes, aboard a container ship, tucked in with other paperbacks, lies my copy of Papillon. Prior to sending my books on their voyage, I had leafed through Papillon and read enough to hint at the Latin adventures to come. Should the book have been written during the 2000s, I could full well imagine a Manu Chao appearing within as a travelling musician, a character who hides his tales in song, whose languages barely outnumber his misadventures, whose charm lies in a crooked smile and twinkle in the eye.

Adele rose to fame at the crest of The X Factor's power. Audiences in the UK had been conditioned to respond to a powerful voice, especially when backed up with a back story. (The emotional power of the back story never mattered, add in some twinkling pianos and any story would become sufficiently emotional.) The worst clichés and tendencies of the genre and era are in full force on this album: bland arpeggios, unnecessary key changes, perfunctory Phil Collins-esque percussion. These shortcomings could have been overcome by Adele's voice, but alas, it is only on the first and last song where her singing breaks free from the shackles of dullness. Adele is the pop diva for the Simon Cowell generation. Her voice is better than we deserve; the music and production, sadly, are exactly what we deserve.

I have yet to truly distill what it is about metal that turns me off. It is not the brashness or loudness or violence or difficult thematic content; I am a fan of several aggressive hip-hop, noise rock, punk rock and experimental jazz groups. Nor is it the general silliness; I will happily listen to jazz musicians playfully jeopardise melodies and tonality. Nor is it even metal, I like plenty of Black Sabbath and a sprinkling of other metal groups. Could it be the lack of sincerity? Metal bands play at being tough, but typically shy away from hard questions. (Whereas punk is political, metal fantasises about the Devil and other horned red beings). Metal bands embrace silliness with a lack of self-awareness and play at being technical (listen to the guitar tapping, just listen to the guitar tapping) without serious study of music theory. What is the Giant Steps of metal? Not that one is needed, but for a genre which puts so much emphasis on technical prowess, it seems implausible that so little of the soundscape outside of E Dorian (and drop D) has been explored. Would it be unjust to call metal the wrestling of music? Iron Maiden suffer from all of these ailments. This album is a messy heap of testosterone, goofing about, guitars, and yes, guitar tapping. Sincerely, no.

Tres Hombres' title hints at a potential Latin lilt, but there definitely ain't none. Instead, ZZ Top serve up straight down the middle blues and rock & roll, done well. Especially La Grange. La Grange is done especially well. But it's all a bit too straight down the middle, too bound to the road.

Catchier, funkier, weirder, saucier would have been better. Also, a bit less in the mid-range: it's rather crowded.

Roxy Music have plastered a massive dopey grin on my mouth, stuck on with sleaze and grease. I'm not sure when I'll be able to wipe it off. I'm not sure I'll ever want to.

The White Stripes are an American band who sound like a British band trying to sound like an American band. After diving in the mid-Atlantic searching for treasures, The White Stripes return with a pathetic bounty of scraps and discarded tat, the pearls having long already been plundered.

It seems impossible to provide a new angle on Kid A. Countless words have been written on it, and countless words in response. Any serious account of Kid A must take stock of all of these conversations, digest them, address the most pertinent points, and only then try to say something new. It seems futile to even attempt it. Yet, despite all of these countless words, countless descriptions, countless takes on how the songs sound, how they sit in history, how they affect a listener's psyche, it is evident that any attempt to recreate the album from merely written descriptors would result in a pathetic pastiche at best. And therein lies Kid A's brilliance. Despite being denoted the decade's best album just a year into the 00s and setting off reams and reams of columns, counter-columns, blogs and forum posts discussing its merits and how it renders rock and roll childish and how actually it's overrated and how people have fiddled around with electronica before and listen to Mingus and Aphex Twin and actually if you listen to Amnesiac and OK Computer and yet, Kid A defies the grasp of words. Only by listening, can it be truly appreciated and understood.