Has pointed political commentary ever gone down as smoothly as Burning Spear manages on their major label debut? That’s the enduring magic trick of great reggae: music and message are one, and that oneness is a beautiful thing. If songs like “Marcus Garvey” or “Slavery Days” were attempted in some other musical format, they’d be insufferable. Yet in the hands of Burning Spear, repeated spins reward even the casual listener. As expected, the groove is hypnotic, the mood serious but buoyant, the vocals earnest but easy, the lyrics a heady blend of protest, liberation, and Rastafari devotion. In the middle of the decade where reggae music broke wide open, becoming a global phenomenon, Burning Spear made their mark with a voice of urgency and eternity, sounding both of its time and fit for any era. Their message still sounds like it very much matters and their music still puts heads to nodding and bodies moving. That’s a rare feat, and that’s why this record has endured.

He’s Country royalty at this point, responsible for changing the genre and for broadening the conversation about an outlaw’s place in the mainstream. This record is at the heart of that impact and that influence. Had Nelson been known for this record alone, he’d still be some kind of legend. It’s a simple but profound song cycle that’s certainly semi-autobiographical. It should be noted that Willie Nelson is a triple threat: songwriter, singer/performer, guitar player. His overall persona adds another layer—a combined aesthetic, one part from the Nashville machine, the other from the outskirts of Texas, one part stoner-hippie, one part patriot-cowboy. It’s why he’s embraced by so many from so many walks of life.

A dark classic, the title track would have been enough to immortalize this record. It’s strange to think they achieved such massive success and recognition (along with a gang of dedicated haters) from a record which is essentially a meditation on the perils of excess, the spiritual ennui of the West Coast, the betrayal of love, and the desolation of fame. That’s a bit of a neat trick, all played and sung with a glossy LA sheen. It’s unclear if it’s a loose concept album or not—seems like we’re meant to think so. In any event, we begin at the enticing haunted house of “Hotel California,” full of cocaine paranoia, and we end on “The Last Resort,” a tale of suburban sameness that manages to cover additional sociopolitical critiques of colonialism, religious hypocrisy, and environmental destruction. Of course, this is the Eagles, so they have to make even their political commentary sound perfect, railing against conformity and excess in a bloated 7+ minutes in the most musically agreeable way, complete with string section. No wonder this record was such a giant hit—even when they’re trying to expose the tarnished promise of the American Dream, the band can’t help but spin FM gold.

Though not as immediately accessible as Sabbath’s first few records, this effort finds the band willing to stretch themselves, most notably on the standout ballad “Changes.” “Supernaut” is a bruising onslaught and “Snowblind” is an immediate classic on first listen. They made better records, but in many ways the band reached their creative high water mark on “Vol. 4.” You can hear why fans love it—it’s peak Sabbath. BTW: Did they run out of energy by the time they got around to titling this one? Maybe due to the incredible run of 4 records (!) from ‘70 - ‘72.

Sinatra makes it sound so easy. Easy listening in the best ways—smooth, natural, mellow, effortless, in-the-flow. It’s not that easy. Sinatra just sells it so well we keep believing it can be. Don’t be fooled: this is a master craftsman at work with Nelson Riddle laying down an expert foundation at every turn. If “You Make Me Feel So Young” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” were the only standout tracks here, then “Songs for Swingin’ Lovers!” would be worth the listen. Turns out every track offers something to the equation and swings in its own way. Sinatra has always been able to thread the needle between the pop, jazz, nightclub, dance, and vocal standards genres. That this record came out and captured attention in ‘56, the year Elvis and Rock and Roll broke open popular music, is an astounding feat to consider. My one beef: Unsuccessful album cover. Sinatra illustration looms creepily in the background looking as if he needs immediate medical attention (more true on the AppleMusic version).

If “Thriller” felt inevitable, then “Bad” had to prove itself. How would/could Michael Jackson follow up what was already fast becoming not only a bestseller but THE bestseller? Jackson doubled down on the formula that made him a star since childhood—bright, danceable pop music with hooks for days. He sold us on his brand of mainstream pop music even while hinting at danger from the opening bars of the title track, a signature smash from first listen: “Your butt is mine…” Other flashes of darkness were also wrapped in expert R&B/Rock/Dance arrangements, namely soon-to-be-classics “Dirty Diana” and “Smooth Criminal.” Jackson remains a globally-embraced artist because, for all his ambition, he manages to succeed in delivering the goods. His career-defining philosophical statement, “Man in the Mirror,” is as sincerely moving 37 years later. Despite what we know about Jackson’s personal struggles and all the criticism we could level at him (including the irony of this track), “Mirror” continues to defy cynicism: the key change @ 2.52 lifts an already lifted melody; the celebratory whoops and “na-na-nas” @3.36 are like cheat-codes to levels we didn’t know was available. Jackson sang “Leave Me Alone,” and maybe we should’ve listened, but it’s too late for that now. Whatever you think about him or his music, nobody can deny he’s cast in bronze and his music is legend. “Bad,” the wildly impossible follow up to the impossibly successful “Thriller,” is a big reason why.

At Folsom Prison” is the celebrated one, the ground-breaker, but “At San Quentin” might be the better of two. It feels like it knows its purpose, and because of that, it’s more powerful and more dangerous. The crowd swell at 1.03 during his first run through of “San Quentin” is about as cathartic as live music gets. Best thing is it’s as authentic as it gets, too—nothing performative about inmates cheering along with a singer who’s on their side, righteously hating on their place of imprisonment. Cash is a professional throughout and makes being a bandleader, prison crowd wrangler, storyteller, and folk hero look easy (we suspect it’s absolutely not). His ease is contrasted by some raw, unbalanced takes of some of his signature tunes. Goes without saying that the satirical “A Boy Named Sue” is an instant, stone-cold-classic and a deserved fan favorite. This is one of the most satisfying live albums of any genre, and it continues to earn its acclaim more than 50 years later. Ask yourself—what other artist could have made this record? Bob Dylan compared Johnny Cash to Mount Rushmore for a reason. Listen to that reason here.

Has there ever been a better album opener to announce a group’s intentions than “That Lady, Pts. 1 & 2”? It’s just about the smoothest, funkiest thesis statement in ‘70s R&B. The 1970s multiverse that gave us Parliament/Funkadelic and The Neville Brothers decided to create one more self-contained group of Soul superheroes in The Isley Brothers. That they existed in other forms—doo-wop crew, Motown hit makers, ‘60s soul-pop label runners, now funk masters—makes their music all the more remarkable. It’s hard to say what the best thing about this record is: the athletic vocals, the Hendrix-level guitar, the arrangements that stretch out the music without stretching our patience, the musicianship par excellence all qualify as highlights unto themselves. Ronald Isley gets deserved accolades for his vocal work, but let’s take a beat to admire the guitar work of brother Ernie. His playing on this record is at once free/experimental and exactly the energy that the songs require. Peerless. That album cover? Iconic: simultaneously rooted in 1973 and timeless. Side Note: the covers on this record are incredibly satisfying. They encourage “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight” to become the R&B slow jam it was always intended to be; they manage to inject even more soul into an already soul-filled “Listen to the Music”; they transform yacht rock staple “Summer Breeze” into guitar-driven acid Soul music.

You get why fans of the ‘70s singer-songwriters must have gone bananas over “Nilsson Schmilsson.” It’s packaged with everything Nilsson offers—wry humor, sad sack tales, piano-driven ballads, rock-inflected statements, and a range of voices, like characters in a one-man play. And through the record: melody, most notable of his top tier emotional breakthrough, “Without You,” with a chorus that defies you not to sing along. “Coconut” is a lark and a fluke but it’s also amazingly catchy, even if you get the point about 2 minutes in (hit or not, this one could’ve used editing). And you get why his famous admirers, like David Bowie, and his famous drinking buddy, John Lennon, would hold up Nilsson as a guiding light for their own work. As much as he’s a good vocalist, his real gift here is managing to let the song-craft shine on this record, which probably accounts for its brand of timeless longevity.

The shortest song on this live set is over 6 minutes, but then nobody ever mistook Deep Purple for the Ramones. If you’re a fan of a band that can ecstatically stretch out a track like “Space Truckin’” for nearly 20 minutes, giving the Allman Bros. and the Grateful Dead a run for their money, then this is the live document for you. Most songs are pretty relentless with guitar and organ jams for days. And some vocalized screaming. Since I’ve never been a big fan of the band, I’m not qualified to judge the contents of this live set. Suffice it to say, though it’s satisfying to hear their monster jam, “Smoke on the Water,” this isn’t a record for neophytes—only fan boys and girls would admire what this band is doing most of the time here, though Japanese fans at the show seemed to be going mad for it. BTW: the Rolling Stone readers' poll that ranked “Made in Japan” the 6th best live album of all time is bonkers. It’s not even close to that level. Guess there’s truly no accounting for taste.

Does Post-Punk just mean the songs are catchy, energetic hooks, are purposely less polished and less abrasive than traditional Punk but still sung with a punk’s sneer? Possibly. If so, Magazine got the memo. But anyone listening in 1978 might still categorize this as Punk Rock—whatever all those genre terms mean. Maybe the keyboards move it closer to New Wave, farther away from Punk, and that’s why it sounds like a gateway to the ‘80s and what’s to come. “Definitive Gaze” and “Shot by Both Sides” are immediate standouts, and the rest is capably done though not a catchy. Never heard them on American radio back in the day, and they probably deserved more attention listening with fresh ears today.

Some records are so of their time that they’re timeless documents of the decade, the era, and the genre. TLC manages that on their second album, slickly produced with a mix of funky ear worms and Hip-Hop adjacent attitude. “Creep” and “Waterfalls” together justify this record’s existence as a smash, and they still earn their place as R&B staples of the ‘90s and beyond.

On “Architecture & Morality,” you can hear a group deciding who it wants to be—bright, synth-pop outfit, moody, keyboard-driven goths, or New Wave experimenters. Apologies in advance, because we’re about to play the comparison game, and bands rarely win this game without being branded secondary, possibly tertiary, ultimately derivative. I know many give OMD credit for being pioneers in ‘80s Post-Punk pop music and perhaps it’s deserved on individual tracks. Listening to this record in fully operational hindsight mode finds the listener wondering if OMD were purposely trying to be closer to The Cure or Joy Division. They did have a “sound” (or were starting to). Still, there are some very obvious attempts here to sound typically Post-Punk. That this album has no enduring hits (even though popular in the UK at the time), just some standout tracks that only longtime fans would recognize as essential, isn’t really the point. OMD have some other memorable songs and a big Soundtrack-worthy pop hit, but those aren’t present on this record even if you can hear some traces of it. All songs here are capably done, and as a document of the kind of music that 1981 produced it succeeds. Apple Music highlights this record as OMD’s essential album, which is fine, but the more immediate question is whether it’s an essential example of the genre. Even though some moments were engaging and others experimental, OMD doesn’t make a convincing case on this record for being part of the New Wave pantheon.

Hip-Hop polishes gems from rough stones—that’s its strong history and its legacy. Records like Common’s “Be” are exactly that and never more consciously so than in the concept, production, and delivery of this Chicago MC. “Be” is at once a throwback and a step forward. The rhymes and the tunes make multiple direct references to ‘70s Soul/R&B and Spoken-Word. The presence of The Last Poets on the standout track“The Corner” would have been sufficient to acknowledge Rap’s origins, but the nods don’t stop there. As “modern” as the production is and as accessible as Common’s is throughout, this album wants to challenge the listen to look back with pride, develop a social conscience, and appreciate how far the music and the community has come. The titular spoken-word piece that closes the album brings it all together, offering as optimistic an outlook as hip-hop heads have ever heard, blending advice, admonition, and uplift. Common imagines a path forward for hybrid Soul/R&B/Rap, and then he performs the trickiest feat of all—he takes us there.

This is the one. This is the home-world. This is the danger zone and the Promised Land. This isn’t the origin story, the commercial break through, or the blockbuster. But this is probably the masterwork. This is the one where Prince is the most Prince he would ever be—he tears down the walls and builds them up again. He’s defiant and prophetic throughout (but especially on the title track); he’s soulful and seductive on “U Got the Look”; he’s aggressively smooth on “The Ballad of Dorothy Parker” and aggressively pleading on “If I Was Your Girlfriend.” On “The Cross”, Prince manages to channel a religious fury through an apocalyptic guitar buildup worthy of The Velvet Underground. And that album cover is one for the ages: a peek into Prince’s private studio world, blurred superstar in the foreground, offering Easter eggs galore. Is it fantasy? Is it reality? Does it matter? Only one thing is clear: this album still does.

Overlooked and under appreciated—those are the Shuggie Otis career signposts. It’s easy to see why, but it’s criminal just the same. The title track, “Inspiration Information,” is no hit. It’s so ahead of its time that it remains outside of time, full of production touches and musical ideas that are bound to inspire listeners who can barely place it neatly in a genre. Is Otis making Rock, Soul, R&B, Electronica, or a new hybrid? That’s the magic and the mystery of these songs.

There’s a reason why Kendrick became the Next Great Hope for Hip-Hop and you can hear it here. It’s not really a formula, but if it were, Kendrick mixed up the medicine while warning about just that on the standout track “Swimming Pools (Drank).” His abilities impressive—each track is a verbal workout with his Id and his social conscience working in tandem. But it’s really the album as a whole that’s impressive as a conceptual piece (or “short film as Kendrick titles it). The next record would be the masterpiece with the one after that a Pulitzer Prize winning effort, but it’s on “good kid, m.A.A.d. city” where Kendrick really switches on a naked light bulb in the basement, exorcises some demons, and gets ready to make a run for the throne.

There might not be any records from the 1970s more about the 1960s than this one. “Bridge” looks back but it definitely moves forward too. It sounds like it’s Simon and Garfunkel reaching the next level, it’s so full of great performances and memorable songs. But there would be no more levels for them, only memories, and a Paul Simon solo career for the ages. They would have one more triumph together if you count the Central Park Concert reunion but really this record is it—the culmination of an incredible partnership. “Bridge” as a title track is at once a tour de force and a heartbreaking signal flare shot above our heads telling us that this duo is done. It has always existed and it is eternal. Simon makes the case on the title track (and throughout the record) that he is a songwriter worthy of a place in the pantheon and Garfunkel steals the show with angel tier level vocal performance right off the bat. It’s an incredibly masterful opening track and it would’ve justified this album’s existence by itself. Of course, there’s also the ageless “El Condor Pasa” and the infectious singalong “Cecilia” which both hint at Simon’s ballooning passion for World Music. “The Only Living Boy in New York” might be the most depressing song on the record, but it’s the immortally mournful “The Boxer” that strikes the saddest chord. Those “lie la-lies” speak louder than any of the actual lyrics about the depths of isolation and defeat, and that’s saying something on a record that’s essentially a Swan Song. That their final record together is probably their best is a lovely coda and a fitting capstone for one of the most celebrated duos of the ‘60s and beyond. “Ask me and I will play/All the love that I hold inside.” Well, we did ask and you delivered. We couldn’t ask for more.

It’s a capable and sometimes catchy record. It doesn’t sound like it fits in one time or a single genre but it makes sense that it’s a 2008 offering, the smart songwriting and post-Brit pop vibe give that away. “One Day Like This” and “Grounds for Divorce” are rightly pegged as the standout tracks of not just this record but of Elbow’s catalog. “Mirrorball” is another track that mixes straightforward sentiment with wry humor and observational songwriting. Guy Garvey’s vocals are the anchor throughout. It’s a memorable effort and worth repeated listens.

This is a very 1972 record. Beyond the obvious standout opener “The Cisco Kid,” the record is a meditation on urban themes with an eye for social criticism and an ear for Latin-tinged, Soul-based Funk Rock. The groove is up front and personal, but there are three tunes over 8 minutes, so War isn’t afraid to stretch out and take their time. That album cover tells a dozen stories, as the cartoon-theme belies the stronger message of what it means to be a working class, inner city person of color. As the title track suggest, it isn’t just your neighborhood that’s struggling, this music is a global outreach.

It’s a rare thing to watch a star form into a superstar in real time. Of course, it really happened over years and Prince paid plenty of dues. Plus, you might argue, “1999” was the real creative and commercial breakthrough moment. Still, this is the one that counts and it counts forever. Just how eternal is this record? Play this little party game. First level: place this in any genre and it’s one of the best of the group. Next level: place in every genre and it’s still the best. “Purple Rain” arrived with vision and purpose smack in the middle of the MTV era and during what some would call the most ‘80s year of a ridiculously productive decade for pop music. That Prince made a play for the throne among so many hit makers (Madonna, Michael Jackson, Springsteen, who still rank among the greatest-of-all-time) is astounding. But somehow, Prince made it look easy. And it came with ready-made visuals as a soundtrack to a movie that helped launch Prince into the stratosphere. And even if the film doesn’t hold up as well, the music sure as hell does. Iconic soon-to-be standards abound: “Let’s Go Crazy” is a tent revival rave-up; “When Doves Cry” is a famously bass-less ear worm with equal parts savvy hit-making and family therapy session; “Take Me with U” is a bouncy road trip with a signature Paisley Park vibe. Then there’s the god-tier closer and title track, which justifies every second of its 8+ minute epicness—masterful guitar work that out-solos even the hair metal of the day. Surely Slash took notes. You may argue with his choice of favorite color, but you can’t argue ownership. We might as well retire purple from the Rock game, because nobody but Prince can wear that color again without being an echo. The king is dead, long live the Prince.

The opening track, “Birdland,” is an immediate and clear child of late-‘70s fusion, but it’s simultaneously ahead of its time. And it still is. With a nod to Disco, an unabashed Pop sensibility, all wrapped in a commercial sheen, it remains serious music with roots in jazz experimentation. These guys are trying to see how far you can push it. Only Herbie Hancock managed to equal their impact on the mainstream. Modern listeners may be tempted to dismiss what they’re hearing out of some well-intentioned but nevertheless misguided sense of hindsight. Oft-duplicated but never replicated is a better and fairer way to listen to Weather Report’s music. So much followed in their wake, endless waves of Quiet Storm-formatted radio, that the special gifts of this group get watered down. There have been Jazz revivals galore since this record was released, and plenty of incredibly talented musicians, but ask yourself when the last great instrumental Jazz-based group made a record that sounded like it was new, that stretched the boundaries of the genre and of what a Pop record could sound like. I’ll wait right here, listening to “Heavy Weather.”

“Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” might be the ballsiest opening track of the last 30 years. It certainly turned out to be prophetic. The swagger, the playfulnesses, the cocksure embrace of stardom well before it’s warranted, all cool conspire to create one of the truly memorable debut records in recent memory. Plus, the brothers Gallagher enter our orbit to put another spin on the ageless archetype of the Rock duo who constantly repel and attract one another. No matter what awful things they would say in future press releases about each other, surely they know they’ve created the best work possible together and the sooner they give the people what they want in some kind of reunion, only then will their superstar legacy will be etched in stone. One criticism too often thrown their way is to dismiss them as too-eager Beatles revivalists, especially songwriting mastermind Noel Gallagher. It’s not that they aren’t revivalists, it’s more that they wear their uniforms so comfortably and their influences so happily on their sleeves. And since they pull it off with confidence and catchy tunes, like the instant classic “Live Forever,” then no wonder people hate on Oasis for that. Nothing worse than a talented braggart who actually pulls shit off—it’s incredibly annoying and pretty amazing to watch happen in real time. Their next record would be their Apollo 11 mission, one that would produce a god-tier modern acoustic classic. But “Definitely Maybe” turned out to be way more definitive than the album title suggests. You did it, boys. You pulled off the heist but quickly made your business legit. And technically, you lasted longer than your idols, The Beatles, so take comfort in that and in the music, even when you can’t take comfort in each other.

It’s a stoner song cycle for the ages. It’s why Hip-Hop blew up. So infectious it moved out of the LBC into every suburb in America. The production is slick. The flow is unmatched. The ear worms are contagious. The skits are silly. The misogyny is indefensible. No wonder Snoop Dogg became a household name. “Gin and Juice” deserved the millions of bumps it got from car stereos that year and every year since. It’s a bonafide gangsta party classic. Listening to the menacing “Murder Was the Case” is still chilling, especially considering Snoop’s actual life circumstances at the time. Funny enough, when you listen closely to a track like “Lodi Dodi,” Snoop actually comes off more like a diva than a hard core street tough. No insult intended. It’s a role he embraces—lover not fighter, rap battler not rep enforcer. Martha Stewart was his destiny it seems. But most of the time Snoop is happy to play the ultimate crown jester of G funk on his debut—mostly bark though his flow always bites.

Meat Loaf is what Bruce Springsteen would’ve sounded like had he gone to Broadway sooner. Or if he cared about making an absolute hit record in the late ‘70s. You’d never guess it from the pulp fantasy art cover (or maybe you would?!), but this is a really fun album, aware of its own silliness. It’s in on its own joke, and that’s why it works—like all good bits, it takes the humor as seriously as it takes the music. Of course, Meat Loaf is more than the iconic front man: it’s about Jim Steinman’s songs (I mean, he’s on the album cover’s marquee!); it’s about co-vocalist/love interest/antagonist Ellen Foley; and it’s about Todd Rundgren’s unapologetically bombastic production. The cliché-adjacent song titles hint at classic tunes, and they manage the most surprising magic trick of the whole record—they deliver on what they promise. The twin standout tracks, “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” and “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” could’ve been titles ripped from the ‘50s, and they sort of are, only with an updated ‘70s Rock sensibility. The only complaint is that you have to wade through most of the record to get to them, but when you do, they pack such a satisfying one-two punch that you’re just happy to be there. Meat Loaf exploded onto the scene like the titular Bat Out of Hell, and he put in some acting work, but this is his deserved platinum-covered legacy. He’d have one more monster hit, returning to that well for a Part II and giving us one more instant classic single. Rest in Power ballads, Meat Loaf.

Has pointed political commentary ever gone down as smoothly as Burning Spear manages on their major label debut? That’s the enduring magic trick of great reggae: music and message are one, and that oneness is a beautiful thing. If songs like “Marcus Garvey” or “Slavery Days” were attempted in some other musical format, they’d be insufferable. Yet in the hands of Burning Spear, repeated spins reward even the casual listener. As expected, the groove is hypnotic, the mood serious but buoyant, the vocals earnest but easy, the lyrics a heady blend of protest, liberation, and Rastafari devotion. In the middle of the decade where reggae music broke wide open, becoming a global phenomenon, Burning Spear made their mark with a voice of urgency and eternity, sounding both of its time and fit for any era. Their message still sounds like it very much matters and their music still puts heads to nodding and bodies moving. That’s a rare feat, and that’s why this record has endured.

One of Rock music’s greatest chameleon, Beck offers up another slam-dunk mixtape of a record to remind us he’s as vital in the new millennium as he was in the last one. “E-Pro” is an immediate shot across the bow, and the songs that follow really do warrant the musical question, “Qué onda, güero?” as Beck tries on musical styles like coats as tuxedo fitting, often mixing genres within songs. It’s not just an experimental jukebox by an inventive slacker, “Guero” is an intentional artistic statement even if it’s not ever too careful or cohesive. Part of Beck’s appeal is that he’s not one thing. He’s ever-restless and searching and he takes all the music he’s tinkering with seriously even if he never really takes himself that seriously. Salsa mixes with spoken-word Electronica on “Missing”; “Scarecrow” sounds like Radiohead and Gorillaz decided to have a baby; “Black Tambourine” channels the dark, insistent energy of a Curtis Mayfield jam; “Girl” goes for galloping alternative pop layered with haunting Beach Boy harmonies and hand claps. And like every Brian Wilson song ever, Beck’s upbeat musical attitude is in contrast to lyrics shot through with melancholy, with references to distress, alienation, darkness, and mortality. “Something’s coming,” Beck sings on “Earthquake Weather,” but he needn’t have warned us—we already knew to expect something unexpected. He’d trained us for that, he’d prepared the way. On “Guero,” he does not disappoint.

In many ways, Sonic Youth remain ahead of their time; at least, they never seemed interested in waiting around for fans or critics to catch up. They’re mavericks in the sense that they create their own zeitgeist and they’ve spun it across the ‘80s, the ‘90s and beyond like a noisy cyclone. “Sister” was made before Grunge was “born” and well after Punk was dead, so maybe that accounts for why it sounds so heavy, so off-kilter, so sloppy, so interesting. Take “Stereo Sanctity,” with its alternate tuning, twin guitar attack and pummeling drums that embraces a modernized Velvet Underground sensibility, except lurking in the background is a super catchy, twangy surf guitar riff. That’s Sonic Youth for you—walls of weirdness shot through with knowing winks and nods to what makes Rock n Roll such compelling music. It’s difficult to say whether this record hints at Sonic Youth’s more focused greatness to come, starting with “Daydream Nation,” released just a year later (though they also released a couple of noisy/artsy/indie/less-accessible records in between, including a jokey covers record as Ciccone Youth, but only super fans will care about those). “Sister” is a compass needle pointing in more than one direction, because in the Sonic Youth universe, there’s no true north, only an urge to keep moving and to explore possibilities. The standout track and album opener, “Schizophrenia,” says it all: “She said Jesus had a twin who knew nothing about sin/And she was laughing like crazy, at the trouble I’m in.” Defying convention isn’t exactly the same as getting into trouble, but even the casual listener can tell Sonic Youth are up to something. That “something” has turned out to be a unique musical career and an enduring, influential legacy.

They made better albums, but few bands have ever gone out on top quite like The Police did. You can certainly argue that the weak tracks break the flow every time: “Mother” is unlistenable and “Miss Gradenko” sounds like a “Zenyatta Mondays” outtake. But who can argue with the string of radio-ready, chart-topping smashes that the trio delivered in the heart of the MTV era? As the Jungian album title suggests, The Police finally tapped into the vast collective unconscious—in 1983-1984, their music was inescapable. It’s like Sting put every hook he had in him into writing the songs that would turn out to be the most enduring of his career. Sting may be the golden boy, but his support system couldn’t be more god-tier. Summers lays the melodic groundwork, creating the immortal guitar part on “Every Breath You Take” that makes the song; Copland’s drumming is relentlessly inventive with high-hat and snare work unmatched by any of the other pop songs of that era. They’re more than backing players—they have their own voices even as Sting dominates the microphone. It’s easy to forget amid all the popular success of this record, but the band came into this record already hit-makers (5 Top 40 hits), with a reputation as one of the most distinctive trios in Rock. “Synchronicity” simply solidified that reputation. Side Note: “Tea in the Sahara” is the prettiest, most haunting album closer any band ever produced, and it deserves more attention than it gets.

Like all great jazz, Mingus puts us inside a Time Capsule that’s inside a Time Machine. We’re right there listening to art created in the spot and we’re also confronted by music that no genre or era has caught up with. It’s not for everyone but it’s meant for everybody, and it rewards repeated listens like the most timeless music always does.

Like all great jazz, Mingus puts us inside a Time Capsule that’s inside a Time Machine. We’re right there listening to art created in the spot and we’re also confronted by music that no genre or era has caught up with. It’s not for everyone but it’s meant for everybody, and it rewards repeated listens like the most timeless music always does.

Listening to Elliot Smith is an experience of what he was and what he might have been. “Figure 8” itself was a step forward in terms of adding fuller Rock band arrangements on top of his haunted vocals and the bones of his acoustic guitar. The album opener, “Son of Sam,” is a thesis statement and a guiding light: identifying with a notorious serial killer all while offering the listener a catchy, sunny Pop/Rock song is the most Elliott Smith move possible. His introspective acoustic laments survived the grungy ‘90s, made their mark on a new millennium, and then Smith was gone. “And I gotta hear the same sermon/All the time now from you people,” suggests just how world-weary this guy was. But anyone who produces music like this is more than his tragic footnote, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s what Smith meant by the album title—a figure 8 takes you on a journey, returning home again, but never quite seeing the starting point the same way again.

This record is the rare package—hit jukebox, artist sampler, primer, manifesto. Everything you need to hear and understand about who Rod Stewart is and where his roots are you can hear on this record. The standout classic “Maggie May” does the job by itself. Part Folk tune, part roots Rocker, part coming-of-age story, it predicts several ‘70s Rock radio niches that it would dominate even as airwaves turned to satellite signals. The formula is basic but unmatched: start with an acoustic guitar base, layer on mandolin touches, add bluesy guitar fills, ground it all with garage rock drums, and lift it all with Stewart’s distinctive beautiful melancholy rasp of a voice. “Mandolin Wind” is another instant classic, and it also embraces the musical ethos of the record in its tone and musical character, but it still holds surprises. Stewart takes you on a Folk journey for nearly 5 minutes only to guide you to another level in the final 45 seconds as the song splashes into new roots-rocking territory. It always sounds fresh and exciting. No music fan ever listened to more than 30 seconds of a Rod Stewart song still wondering who was singing. He’s that talented and that singular and that memorable, and this record is a huge part of that.

There’s a reason you’ve heard the “Smoke on the Water” riff played in every guitar shop you’ve ever been in—it’s primitive and there’s not much else to it. Such is the music of Deep Purple. Their music hasn’t faired well outside of the ‘70s; they never ended up with the broad, visionary appeal of a group like Zeppelin, and this record is evidence of that. Nobody rushes home, eager to blast “Deep Purple in Rock,” hoping to transform their cares and worries into ecstasy through air guitar (or air organ?) antics. It may sound like Rock n Roll sacrilege, but there’s too much of everything on this record—the excess kills the vibe. And there’s not nearly enough of the basics. Overblown guitar and organ workouts without memorable riffs or singable choruses dominant.

There’s only one Monk. This may not be the single record that proves that thesis, but it still makes the case.

Listen. Really listen. “Who’s Next” may start with a pun and a literal piss-take of an album cover, but this is serious business. It’s one of those rare Rock records that moved the needle. Has there ever been a more epic (we overuse this word; it fits here) pairing of opener/closer? It’s like Townsend wrote his thesis statement in “Baba O’Riley” and then decided what he actually needed was a generation-defining protest song, drenched in cynicism, that sounds like a revolutionary anthem, so he doubled down and wrote “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” What a wizard. Luckily, Townshend’s companions are equally up for the task and magical too. Everything The Who ever did well is on full display—Daltrey’s vocal grit and howl to the heavens, Moon’s absolutely singular thunder and controlled chaos, Entwistle’s unmatched power chord playing on 4strings and solid-as-a-fortress foundation, and Townshend taking definitive turns on electric and acoustic guitars all while showcasing that he would be the lead singer in every other band if he hadn’t found his muse in Daltrey. It’s an unbelievably defiant musical statement that manages to welcome multitudes and speak across generations.

This album may feel inevitable now, but in 1986 it broke down the last door separating Hip-Hop from mainstream success. The Beasties would build a legacy light years more evolved than the juvenile hijinks catalogued here, but they surely never equaled the sonic impact of “Licensed to Ill”—the beats and production still jump out at the listener. Their follow up, “Paul’s Boutique,” already showed next-level innovation, but if that record was their New Testament, then “Licensed” was their Torah, their stone tablet offering on which their legacy was built. Some of the content is indefensible and the group themselves have disavowed parts, but the intentions aren’t malicious even if misguided and the beats and flows are fresh. They became better men and artists, but the brash youngbloods on this record captured lightning in a bottle that helped kindle a hall-of-fame career.

Perfectly fine Indie Rock with a decent blend of bright and dark—melodies and sometimes lo-fi guitars complement each other. Deerhunter definitely has a sound that fits its era, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Only Prince could make the coming apocalypse a dance party. Only Prince could make Cold War anxiety so funky. Only Prince could invest yet another car-based love/heartbreak song with new life. Only Prince could, and boy did he ever. The title track makes us look forward to immanent doom and after about 55 seconds it’s pretty clear that “Little Red Corvette” is an ageless smash across multiple genres. And that’s the magic trick of this whole record: everything we adore about Prince is on display here. That LinnDrum isn’t a tool, it’s a Time Machine that Prince uses to guide us into the musical future he knows we need to hear. His god-tier creative potential is realized on “1999,” and even though we saw Prince in real time as the hit maker he was destined to be, it’s still taken decades for Pop music to pick up what he was laying down. Every night we put this record on is the night we’re gonna party like it’s 1982, 1999, 2024, and 2099. “Purple Rain” may have lifted Prince into the stratosphere, but there’s no question that “1999” fueled the engines that rocketed him up there.

Even if it only offered the single best riff RHCP ever recorded on “Scar Tissue,” this record would be worth a listen. It’s next-level musical and lyrical maturity for the whole crew, and it deserved the recognition it received from fans and newcomers.

“Kicks” is a timeless opener—never has a finger wagging anti-drug song sounded so groovy.

These three guys make a lot of noise. And they have created a galaxy brain-level vision of a very bleak future. But at least it’s an apocalypse you can dance to. “Supermassive Black Hole” sounds as advertised, and “Starlight” is epically rendered anxiety and heartache. The whole album sounds like party anthems washed in dread. Apparently, if you pay attention, it’s a dystopian song cycle. But the same themes work on a song-by-song basis too. My son was crazy for Muse when he was pretty young; listening again, it’s not any clearer what drew him in. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Muse grooves, invents, reaches for the rafters, and makes music pretty accessible for a kid’s first Rock ‘n’ Roll crush, like a musical gateway drug for future Radiohead fans.

We can be. And so can he. And he will be. Forever and ever.

He called it “Grace” and he gave us the definitive version of the now-classic “Hallelujah.” In fact, his version is a big part of the reason this song why this song is now recognized as an all-time ballad of love and loss. Even as it offered something big and possible and hopeful, it would become something equally painful, lost, forever a what-might-have-been record, his last goodbye. What a voice, a true generational talent. And the guitar work has rarely matched the tone and spirit of an album so perfectly as it does here.

This record’s roll call asks for many to be in attendance: acid heads, Jazz heads, Rock ‘n’ Rollers, night trippers, freaks, jam band enthusiasts, and cult of personality Zappa fans. Though it’s still early stages in Zappa’s career, here he lets much of the cat out of the bag. There’s little debate that Zappa was a god-tier guitarist and talented group leader. But those who come to this early record with fresh ears might be puzzled to find the promised genius—the songs don’t adhere to one genre with such purpose as to lose their purpose at times. If you’re looking for memorable melodies or choruses, or even vocals, forget it. It’s a trip, but you have to be up for it as it never feels like casual listening and it rarely lets you just rest in the music. It’s demanding, just like Zappa would continue to be.

Never has frightening apocalyptic doom sounded like the greatest street party ever thrown. The rhythm and the groove is so driving, so infectious and irresistible, it’s easy to see why Fela Kuti called the instant-classic opening track “Zombie,” even if he meant something else about power other than the musical kind. There’s a lot going on and the percussion and drums alone would be an Afrobeat master class. It all works together—every part sounds necessary, like blood, lungs, heart, and bones working together to make sure the listener will never become a titular zombie. It’s easy to hear why Fela’s music sounds like one-stop shopping for the casual Afrobeat curious.

This band had some absolute smashes, before and after they used the “young” adjective to describe themselves. That’s funny, because when you think about it, “rascal” is already a kid-adjacent descriptor. But who cares when these guys can throw out a timeless hit like the title song “Groovin’.” Even the chirping birds and the harmonica riff cast a charming spell even as they firmly place the record in the ‘60s Pop ballad canon. “How Can I Be Sure” might actually be the better song—less catchy than the title track but “How” sustains a kind of beautiful uncertainty and mystery musically and lyrically, as it veers from pop to soul to show tune and back again. Never mind the terribly botched (and mildly unsettling) cartoon album cover—the music inside knows what it’s doing. You can trust it to take you back to 1967, when a soulful group of white guys could try out a variety of styles and pull them all off.

There is a charm here that’s not lost in their attempts to break through the noise and clutter of Brit-Pop. “Something 4 the Weekend” is fun and “If You Don’t Want Me to Destroy You” is thoughtful with some nice touches—strings and harmonies—even if it sounds like someone being sucked down to floor by the gravity of one too many pints.

There isn’t anything in current Indie music that wasn’t already present in Elliott Smith’s music—the whispered vocal melodies, the foundation of acoustic guitar, the stripped-down arrangements, the gathering darkness, the promise that will never be fully realized. Maybe “Ballad of Big Nothing” says it all: “You can do what you want to/There’s nothing to stop you.” If only that was still true for Smith, but we can live present tense in his legacy.

Her voice? It hasn’t aged particularly well, though there’s always a note of yearning and sweetness there. To be kinder—it fits the songs, meeting them on their own turf. Her songwriting and interpretations, her overall feel and her choices? They’ve done better and have aged extremely well. Griffith’s approach is a fitting companion for like-minded artists like John Prine, Emmylou Harris, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young—champions of songs as little towns or paintings, artists who do their thing and are distinctive because of it. This record is a masterclass in capturing small town loneliness and treating it with epic-scale emotional gravity. Her work deserves to endure. This record is a big part of that.

10 years later, and everyone was still looking for the next Kurt Cobain. I’ll save everybody the trouble: the Second Coming wasn’t going to happen. Lord knows they tried. I remember every Rock magazine absolutely fawning over the lead singer and throwing him in our faces as some kind of wild new genius. That lasted for about a year. Then it wasn’t true anymore. It’s the part of the stardom machine that relentlessly chews up and spits out new talent. “Get Free” was just over two minutes of something interesting but nothing much else on this record is new and time hasn’t been kind to much of the ‘00s so-called “Rock revival.” New is just new—it doesn’t mean it’s truly inventive or lasting. It’s a fresh coat of paint that will need repainting in a few years. Then it’ll be just another layer, unseen and forgotten.

The aftermath of what? Seems like it’s just the beginning. You can’t argue with the hits, the emerging Stones sound, the charisma of Jagger, the inventive spirit that was Brian Jones on everything but guitar while Keith locked down his signature rhythm-as-riff approach. There’s also the darkness, the simmering misogyny, and the strong first side vs. the weaker next side. They’ve yet to achieve greatness though there are some indisputable classics on this record—this is not “Pet Sounds” or “Revolver.” But the promise is there. You can hear it in the grooves.

If you’re going to cement your legacy, then make this album. Make it with a retro feel and a soulful, once-in-a-generation vocal talent. Make your mark so clearly that everyone else after you who attempts this sound or this feel will be compared to you, and rightfully so. If Amy could have kept the demons at bay, we’d have more, and we’d be better for it. As it is, we’re happy we got the best out of her on this one. It’s a heartbreaker at every turn, so she doesn’t keep us guessing about what she was dealing with. “Rehab” tells us she was equally defiant, to her credit and her doom. It’s still a career-defining track any artist would be lucky to produce. Amy is so distinctive and so good at what she does, she makes this one of the most exciting and lasting records of the last 20 years. Time has been extremely kind to this record—it holds up and rewards repeated listens. Time should’ve been kinder to Amy Winehouse the person. But the artist and that voice? They’re immortal.

It’s the lick that started an enduring career. Knopfler is a true innovator and a singular player—you absolutely know him when you hear him. I played the grooves of my “Sultans of Swing” 45. It’s still one of the great rock singles of the ‘70s.

“Green Light” is a good opener, with a mix of intensity, bright chords, and increasingly insistent groove. There’s nothing on the level of “Royals” or “Team” here. 3 albums in the decade since Lorde’s career started show her still finding way after a lot of excited ingénue talk. It must be hard to become famous that young. Sophomore albums are also notoriously difficult, being judged by the promise of a popular debut. Perhaps time will be kinder, but as it stands, this record doesn’t display the work of a promising young artist.

It’s the blueprint for a generation of Pop-Dance-Electronica-Alternative hybrids.

It was born of its time so it could talk to the future. It’s probably the quietest musical revolution in popular music history. In ‘78 there was Muzak but nothing this minimalist and haunting. Now you can’t walk into a public space without at some point encountering ambient music. Eno was a visionary who helped other bands in their quests, but his Holy Grail might be this record.

Released at the tail end of the last decade when Rock music seemed exciting, this is a capable blend of Synth-Rock meets Punk ethos. Some great vocals and guitar work, all with an energetic drive.

Which brought this music into the world, this man or that machine? This record doesn’t answer that question, but it does enjoy the back and forth, the digital cat-and-mouse. Listen to “The Robots” or “The Model,” where Kraftwerk successfully connect the first dots between Pop, Dance, and Alternative music. In many ways, they were more Punk than the Sex Pistols in their visionary, risk-taking approach. Keyboard-based music is everywhere and nowhere nowadays. We’ve had decades of Pop music since Kraftwerk came along and incorporated synthesizers, drum machines, vocoders, and processors into Pop song structures—it’s part of the landscape, the paint on the walls. We don’t notice it anymore because it absorbed us. The roadmap Kraftwerk drew isn’t a guide, it’s THE guide for every producer and DJ that came after them. There’s no Radiohead or LCD Soundsystem without Kraftwerk. There’s no Depeche Mode. There’s no Tame Impala. There’s no “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” or “West End Girls” or “Bizarre Love Triangle.” There’s no Daft Punk or Gorillaz or Björk or Massive Attack as we understand them. And all of Modern Hip-Hop is impossible without the kind of music Kraftwerk were pioneering.

This album arrived at the perfect ‘90s moment: young, female singer-songwriters with an edge were all over the airwaves and on tour. It felt the culture was wide open and could embrace them as easily as grunge or Hip-Hop. Fiona Apple’s record landed right in the middle of all that. Well-crafted songs, great production, and a voice far beyond her years helps make these songs jump out. It’s certainly of its time, but “Tidal” could use a re-listen and a modern assessment because there’s nothing quite like it nearly 30 years later.

I had never heard of John Grant. Neither had you. Offerings like this make me question this list’s premise because there are surely 1001 records better or more important than this one. But anyway. The first minutes of his music I’d ever heard was me pressing play next to “Marz” because it’s a featured track. I’m in no way capable of rating or assessing his music after a casual listen, but I can hear his talent. Still, it’s nothing new or special; to put it another way, I can listen to other artists to find this. This record doesn’t sound like a 2010 product or an artist operating in the 21st century. That’s its charm and perhaps the albatross around its neck. I’m sure John Grant has found an audience somewhere or his music wouldn’t exist. I’m sure they appreciate his voice and wit more than I can. I hope so.

GOAT-level singer-songwriter bends genres and enters the 1980s with a record outside time. It’s sweet and sour, confrontational and comforting. The songs are top notch, several immediate Waits classics. One thing has always been true of Tom Waits: he doesn’t sound like anyone else, not even his influences. And in the middle of all these voice-as-well-traveled-gravel-road, boozy, brooding songs , ballads like “Jersey Girl” and “On the Nickel” hit you straight in the gut and squeeze your heart. Ever the Beat poet protégé, he covers a lot of ground here, from romantic meditations to religious commentary. Waits is also incredibly funny throughout: “How do the angels get to sleep/When the devil leaves his porch light on.” All tongue-in-cheek, all straight-faced and serious as hell. There’s nothing quite like him, and this record doesn’t let you forget that for a minute.

GOAT-level entry by artist who already helped define the ‘60s. There was more genius to come from Paul Simon, but this was the signal flare of greatness. Goodness start to finish.

Debut albums rarely arrive sounding like a group has been around for a while. Sometimes it’s true that they are making music on the cusp of a major change in the genre. This is one of those records, and the genre still hasn’t caught up with it. Tribe made the kind of record that still inspires all these decades later. It explodes with inventive musical and lyrical ideas—Hip-Hop doesn’t get much funkier, jazzier, or groovier than this. “Vibe” is by now an overused concept, BUT this whole album is an indisputable vibe. It really made listeners feel like the ‘90s were about to be a whole new thing. Listening to this, you’d be justified in that belief. Respect to instant top-tier MC Q-Tip. RIP Phife Dawg who reigns eternal. Hail Ali Shaheed Muhammed and Jarobi. We’re all part of One Tribe thanks to the foundation laid down by this group on this record. More greatness was to come, but this one planted strong roots for the growing.

“Lovefool” is the bright piece of Pop confection that you need to hear. There’s nothing else approaching that gem on this record. It’s a capable record but it stands more as a Time Capsule—enjoyable but it didn’t really move the needle forward.

If we’re talking about a pure dose of influence and impact, then Rage Against the Machine’s debut was a guérilla operation. They snuck up on us and dropped a noisy, rocking, message-filled album. “Killing in the Name” stands out, repeating its defiance like a mantra. Talk about moving the needle and making your mark—in terms of the notorious and clunky genre Rap-Metal, Rage stood heads and shoulders above the rest because of the guitar work and the political-social commentary. They still strike hard, their impact hardly lessened by the decades. They took over the mantle of Only Band that Matters for a new generation of listeners; I’m not sure any group since has ever reclaimed the title from them. Maybe a Radiohead. But Radiohead never made you want to run out of your suburban home and join the Revolution.

Fred Neil is a troubadour lost to time. He’s like Bob Dylan or Paul Simon’s forgotten drinking buddy. He’s the best ‘60s songwriter you’ve never heard of. Neil’s songs are still present tense for singer-songwriters of multiple generations, and they stand the test of time, even though his aren’t the definitive versions of them. But they are worth hearing here in their native form with their voice of origin.

This record is the sound of genres in a blender. Live instruments get the electronic treatment, and DJ culture gets thrown in to marinate with Indie Rock. The lyrics are knowingly cynical and the vocals are purposely off-kilter—sung with a smile and a sneer—as on “North American Scum.” But then you get “Someone Great,” and you can hear the vulnerability and the hope for a heart-centered way forward. “All My Friends,” direct descendant of New Order’s “Age of Consent,” splits the difference between resignation and celebration. It took a grown-up cosplaying as a cool kid to make this record. But it took a visionary to give it the polish it needed. In the last decade where Rock n Roll meant anything, LCD’s James Murphy made the case that Rock music didn’t need to be eulogized, just transformed, just reincarnated and reimagined.

Thunder. The darkness comes in waves of distortion through a reed-thin voice. It doesn’t get much more immediate than this. And one of all-time opener/closer combos, with the immortal “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away” ringing on and on.

You’re welcome, Vampire Weekend. Preppie looks (cable-knit sweaters, those look hot!) meet energetic funky modern Pop/Rock. That light, scratchy rhythm guitar, those bass grooves, that smooth sax and horn parts, those jazzy World Music touches—it’s all a pleasant mix and a fun listen.

You’d be forgiven for mistaking this for a Greatest Hits package. A casual survey of the track list reveals some of Sly & The Family’s most iconic tunes, and some of the most topical and insistent songs of the ‘60s. But the title track is Sly’s thesis statement: he wants this music to uplift, to take you to higher ground, to speak to everyday people, to be simple enough for everyone to join in and sing. He’s also out to be funky as hell—to get your head nodding and feet shuffling and to get your butt off your seat. One of the best aspects is that Sly gets the best performances out of everybody and though there’s no doubt who the visionary is in the group, it’s a true group effort. The arrangements are generous to multiple vocalists and, though Sly’s fingerprints are all over the album, it’s just about one of the most unselfish artistic statements of any era. It’s no cliche to say that this record alone cemented Sly & The Family Stone’s place in Rock’s pantheon.

It’s as close as you can get to religious music without being religious. But there’s little doubt that this monumental and influential song cycle is as deep a spiritual statement as any modern musician has produced. Coltrane, already a giant in the game, takes another giant leap forward, and he brings us all along for the journey, because as much as “A Love Supreme” is a powerful record, it’s also an inviting one. It’s about a quartet giving everything it has to bring meaning and purpose to the music. Released in the middle of the searching Sixties, this set of songs is already leaps and bounds beyond what much of the Summer of Love crowd will produce in Rock music later on. You can feel the yearning and the seeking in every song, but especially in the now iconic title track. It’s a true masterwork. If only Coltrane had escaped the ‘60s alive—can you imagine how much he would’ve stretched the music in the ‘70s and after?

The title promises and the music delivers exactly that. Some of the best Garage Rock available. “You’re Gonna Miss Me” is an indisputable stone cold classic, with that sloppy opening riff and scream—just eternally enjoyable.

Pretty run-of-the-mill for ‘90s electronica.

No one was ever going to top “Rumours,” least of all the band that made the actual record. But “Tusk” is such an interesting record that maybe the point is moot. The title track is almost a novelty song: I remember all anyone could talk about when it was released was that it featured a college marching band. “Sara” is the best song on the record, and an all-time Stevie Nicks performance—catchy and yearning, it really casts a spell. The band wasn’t trying to follow up one of the best and most successful Pop albums of all time, they were just following their muse and probably exhausted from all the hype, touring, expectations, drugs, and emotional baggage. They did the best they could and there are some flashes of brilliance even if the whole listening experience is underwhelming but fine. Plus, the album cover is a real kiss-off and kind of iconic in its own right for being an almost anti-cover.

The absolute culmination of an incredible run of albums that perhaps no other artist has equaled in terms of creativity, critical approval, and fan recognition. It’s like Wonder knew this was going to be his apex moment, so he poured everything he had into “Songs.” It’s the most accurate compliment to say only Stevie Wonder could’ve pulled this off. The record contains some of Wonder’s most uplifting songs, “Isn’t She Lovely” and “I Wish” come to mind, that celebrate new life and childhood. “Sir Duke” wears Wonder’s musical heroes on its sleeve. The first three tracks are social commentary disguised as bright Soul Pop music. It’s just a stunning array of musical ideas, melodies, lyrics, and sounds. And he’s one of the finest artists to ever justify the excess of a double album—there’s no filler here, just expanse and worlds to discover on repeated listens. “Genius” gets thrown around a lot nowadays, especially in our hyperbolic online world. For this record and for this artist, genius is a standard-setting measure. And he sets the standard somewhere in the atmosphere.

It’s fine for moody, jazz influenced soundtrack-adjacent work. Some good samples. I’d never heard of the artist and missed hearing the record back in the day, so not having the benefit of repeated listening, it’s hard to judge. It has a cool vibe. Adamson is a fan of instrumental music and is clearly inspired by his musical influences, sharing that love unabashedly all over this record.

He’s Country royalty at this point, responsible for changing the genre and for broadening the conversation about an outlaw’s place in the mainstream. This record is at the heart of that impact and that influence. Had Nelson been known for this record alone, he’d still be some kind of legend. It’s a simple but profound song cycle that’s certainly semi-autobiographical. It should be noted that Willie Nelson is a triple threat: songwriter, singer/performer, guitar player. His overall persona adds another layer—a combined aesthetic, one part from the Nashville machine, the other from the outskirts of Texas, one part stoner-hippie, one part patriot-cowboy. It’s why he’s embraced by so many from so many walks of life.

The whole album is good and very much in the wheelhouse of the Police sound—reggae-infused rock with a New Wave/Punk influence. Of course, “Message in a Bottle” is the standout track and one of the best songs in their catalog. And this record has a lot more polish and a greater sense of adventure than their debut, though with less of an edge. Personally, I’m not a big fan of the foreign phrase album title theme that continues here and into their next record. Glad they eventually dropped that.

Everyone seems to give Nirvana credit for breaking Punk into the mainstream, but even Kurt Cobain gives credit to Pixies for their “quiet, then loud” approach. Before everybody and their mother was loving on Alternative Rock and before that genre term was widely used, Pixies were here to break the mold. “Bone Machine,” “Gigantic” and “Where is my Mind?” are incredible standouts. They were way too edgy to ever get massive mainstream radio airplay, but boy did they win the influence-over-popularity sweepstakes. It’s good that the band (mostly) remained intact to enjoy that warm legacy-making embrace. They deserve it.

Everyone gives Joni Mitchell credit as a singer/songwriter and as an instrumental innovator, but what people rarely mention is her ability to craft a really decent concept album. She did it with “Blue” and she does it again on “Hejira.” It’s all about roads and traveling and the hard wisdom gained from the journey. Plus is enters new musical territory with a jazzier feel married to a Pop sensibility, something of an echo of “Court and Spark” but matured. Another in a collector’s deck of classics.

You can be part of something, you can try and break into something, or you can be outside all of it, trying to create your own thing. If you’re a band like Can, you run the risk of being revered as “influential” which ends up being its own kind of label and its own version of prison you’ll never break free of because you built it yourself. But you have to know that in advance when you put 4 songs on a record, only one of which, “Moonshake,” clocks in at a digestible length—and even that one’s weird. Of course they’re German. And from the ‘60s. That makes them brave, fearless, and maybe a little dumb, or at least out of touch with the zeitgeist. This record came out the same year as “Dark Side of the Moon,” “Quadrophenia,” and “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” all of which have some trippy concepts, stretched out instrumentals, and embrace at least a basic level of experimentation. But the difference is, they had songs, songs with singable choruses, songs that could be played on the radio. Hats off to Can for pursuing their own thing, but they didn’t stand a chance of making much of a dent in pop culture.

You’d be forgiven for thinking this was a record full of pro-America anthems. Looking at the cover, and digging even casually into the lyrics of the title track about a disenchanted Vietnam vet, the broken-hearted working man in “Downbound Train,” or the half-drunk has-been in “Glory Days,” you’d think for sure this is a critique of the bankrupt Reagan-era American Dream. Either way, you’d be only half right. Springsteen has a complicated relationship with America, with a kind of love-hate relationship with its promises. Sometimes the songs about promise sound more like betrayals, even if they’re sung in good humor, like “Glory Days,” the sad lament of the loss of a friendship on “Bobby Jean,” or with the overtones of an affair as in “I’m on Fire.” Even Springsteen’s all-time smash “Dancing in the Dark” is about trying to stay hungry for the fight that you’ve to mostly fight by yourself against impossibly lonely odds. It’s easy to see why this record sold a bajillion copies—it’s so full of bravado and energy and it’s so well-produced. But it’s crazy to think of an American teenager singing along to any of the verses in “Born in the USA” and not picking up what Springsteen was putting down for all to see: that this country makes a lot of big promises, the price of which might be your dignity, your peace of mind, or your hope for the future.

It’s not often that a truly singular talent comes along who remains so for their career. They are rare finds. Though I’ve never been a huge personal fan, I can respect her musical and artistry. She’s clearly operating in another league. Hints of the avant-garde Pop experiments to come on her debut.

She was already a Jackson, so she was fame-adjacent no matter what. “Control” was a fun record. But this one made her a giant in the Pop world. What an incredible mix of Pop, R&B, Funk, Soul, sampling beats and Hip-Hop influences. Just a mature statement as well as a vehicle for Janet to shine. Plus, it fits the concept album definition, so kudos to Janet for trying on so many hats and so successfully presenting herself as a multifaceted artist.

This record is as radical and furious as its title and its sweaty album cover promise. While it’s only rivaled by The Stooges for its influence on what would be called Punk Rock, it’s a pretty singular document of the late ‘60s and the anger at social conformity and an unpopular war in Vietnam. Still, the record’s influence is perhaps greater than its actual charms. What it does succeed in capturing is the MC5’s live sound and energy—and that’s something considerable.

Their star was already ascendant, but this is the instant classic that would assure U2 a place in the Rock pantheon. It plays like a start-to-finish concept album but the concept is elusive. The Joshua Tree of the title is a symbolic stand-in for America, but also for soul-searching, for freedom and justice, for a better world. The opening track points the way, but to a place beyond words—it’s a showstopper (or more accurately show starter) and it’s one of the truly great signature album openers of the ‘80s. What follows is one of the greatest no-skips sides of music any band has ever offered, back when album sides mattered. Listen again, and you’ll hear an amazing feat: a 5-song cycle that takes you from the desert to the city, from darkness to light, from hopelessness to some kind of redemption. It’s an amazing listen, each song fitting with the others while exploring a different tone and sub-genre of Rock—anthem, gospel, haunted love, political commentary, and drug-sick ballad. The same can’t be said of side 2, and it’s not a perfect album, but it’s as close as anyone could ask for—career-defining work that met the moment the way few bands have. Only “Achtung Baby” rivals it in their catalog, and that’s saying something. A must-listen for fans of the 1980s, for anthemic Rock music, and for listeners who long for the days when the biggest band in the world exceeded our expectations.

Neil Young is a walking contradiction: one of our loudest rockers is also one of our quietest, most introspective tune smiths. Sometimes he does both on one record. This time, he leans into the introspection, delivering some of the finest , most enduring songs of his career. “Heart of Gold” and “Old Man” are instant classics. The rest is a mix of beautiful and haunting, with some of the best playing from top notch musical collaborators.

Pretty good rock band who started with much promise, peaked, and self-imploded. This is from when they were on the come-up, so it’s more honest, even if far less polished. “California Waiting” is a jam.

“Squares” is a must-hear for fans of quirky, hip-hop influenced alt rock. The rest is fine though not as memorable—worth a listen even if it doesn’t move the needle much.

Steve Earle pulls off a real magic trick on his debut: make old country sound new by sounding like old country. Doesn’t hurt that he’s an incredibly talented songwriter—something he would put on display in the coming decades, as he became an elder statesman of Alt-outlaw-country. It’s all here on display even in his earliest work: the defiance and the rough edges, the deference to tradition and the polished song-craft, the heartache and the longing. “Guitar Town” is a perfect opener and a true thesis statement. “Hillbilly Highway” is a lonesome story song with a chorus that defies you not to sing along. “Someday” should’ve been a much bigger hit. This record sounds like ‘80s Country revival but it also sounds out-of-time, like it could’ve been made during another decade. Earle would go into explore other folk and rock territory, and he’s a famously opinionated and restless spirit. Still, he should consider one nostalgic look back, and tour this record, playing it from start to finish, because everything he is as an artist is already here.

The one that set him up for a rocket ride into the stratosphere.

A dark classic, the title track would have been enough to immortalize this record. It’s strange to think they achieved such massive success and recognition (along with a gang of dedicated haters) from a record which is essentially a meditation on the perils of excess, the spiritual ennui of the West Coast, the betrayal of love, and the desolation of fame. That’s a bit of a neat trick, all played and sung with a glossy LA sheen. It’s unclear if it’s a loose concept album or not—seems like we’re meant to think so. In any event, we begin at the enticing haunted house of “Hotel California,” full of cocaine paranoia, and we end on “The Last Resort,” a tale of suburban sameness that manages to cover additional sociopolitical critiques of colonialism, religious hypocrisy, and environmental destruction. Of course, this is the Eagles, so they have to make even their political commentary sound perfect, railing against conformity and excess in a bloated 7+ minutes in the most musically agreeable way, complete with string section. No wonder this record was such a giant hit—even when they’re trying to expose the tarnished promise of the American Dream, the band can’t help but spin FM gold.

Bands on the cusp of a breakthrough are at their most interesting and their most unpredictable. Before the Pumpkins became the Led Zeppelin of Alternative Rock, before Billy Corgan became the bald, monk of underground rage, before they released their hit-making magnum opus, there was the dense, fuzz guitar anthem “Cherub Rock” and its haunting acoustic cousin “Disarm,” which arguably goes harder than any of the blistering guitar assaults the band ever produced. “Today” is a spiritual companion to “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and it might be the only successful single in Rock history to simultaneously warn against suicide while celebrating a release from this veil of tears. For fans of guitar-based Rock, the Pumpkins offer layer after layer, with Corgan and James Iha making the case for the best, most effective guitar partnership of the last 30 years. Their debut was an exciting promissory note for ‘90s Rock. “Siamese Dream” delivered on that promise, paying that investment back, and then some.

They didn’t invent Country-Rock, but the argument could be made that they perfected it. Further arguments could be made that The Byrds already leaned this way (with their history of Folk-Rock) and that this record is far more traditional Country than it is Rock ‘n’ Roll. In any event, it’s a great album and a pleasantly balanced collection of covers and notable originals—“Hickory Wind” and “One Hundred Years from Now” are standouts. Clearly, Gram Parsons was the kind of influence they absolutely needed. It’s a landmark moment where you can hear genres and styles and culture come together in a uniquely satisfying way. It’s among their best records, and that’s saying something.

They took their iconoclastic distortion and turned in down a notch, cleaning up the production for a more accessible sound. It still sounds catchy even with its roots in the underground. “April Skies” is a standout and along with “Happy When it Rains,” the case is made that The Jesus and Mary Chain are direct descendants of The Ramones. Both seem obsessed with crafting what are essentially ‘60s Pop songs with a gritty, alternative edge.

While the Wu-Tang is always strongest together, this solo effort makes the case that the GZA could’ve made it fine on his own. And he did, his lyrical prowess on full display here. “Dual of the Iron Mic,” “Cold World,” and “Shadowboxin’” are standout cuts.

This record deserves its status as a reputation-maker.

Garage Rock pioneers—way ahead of the curve, and that’s why only music buffs know who they are. The Monks have a definite underground appeal without the depth or poetry of the Velvet Underground.

Let’s face: Pop music is a game of pigeonholes. Maybe not so much for discerning music fans, but the whole apparatus doesn’t know what to do with a talent like Joan Armatrading. Is she a Joni Mitchell? Is she a Roberta Flack? Is she a Stevie Nicks? Armatrading makes music for adults, for mature adults, full of nuance and complexity and heartache gained through a lived experience. Her music has aged very well. I mean, the depth of her melodies and lyrics has no expiration date. For anyone who’s fallen in or out of love, “Love and Affection” is supremely relatable. “Down to Zero” is the perfect thesis statement for the songs to come on this record. Someone coming to her work for the first time must wonder where she’s been their whole listening life, waiting there in between charts and easily packaged genres. What a revelation.