I think I’d rather that this album be worse than it is, because it’s just so incredibly average. Almost anything that I’ve heard from this band has been the most dragging, boring rock possible. It’s almost impressive just how middle-of-the-road it is. Occasionally a song will start with a cool riff, but then after about a minute it doesn’t develop at all, and Grohl’s vocals kill it off completely.

Well, this really was some background-listening worthy alternative rock. There really isn’t much to write home about, other than that I am not averse to any of the tracks, and would most definitely warm to most on re-listen. With the exception of Susan’s House and perhaps Mental, these are some bang-average alt-rock tunes.

Fresh off the back of what is probably the best commercial music concept of all time in Kid A/Amnesiac, in the wake of 9/11 and the ensuing Global War on Terror, Radiohead assimilated a near-hour concoction of uncertainty, anger and existentialism in song. Fluttering between the frenetic guitar-driven indignation that they mastered with The Bends and OK Computer and the relatively recently-established electronically-layered masterclasses mastered in the aforementioned back-to-back of Kid A and Amnesiac, a combination of the two alongside political motivation to form a successful album seemed unlikely, but not impossible. And as heard within this gripping hour of experimentation with that robust, friendly, guitar-based backing, they’d done it again. It’s not part of the ‘holy trinity’ of OK Computer, Kid A and In Rainbows, but put it in any other rock band’s catalogue and it’d be among their very best.

An average rock-pop album made worse by Mancunian wailing. My listening experience (in bed at midnight) is best described with an excerpt from the final song; "Your music's shite, it keeps me up all night".

This is what people who don’t like rock music perceive as rock music. Generic thrashing of instruments in an attempt to exert a ‘metal’ rhythm. Perhaps it works in their studio albums, as this is probably the worst introduction to Metallica someone can have. A 2 hour live album. I’ve no idea why this is in the list. Hopefully the next Metallica album that comes up is not soon, and is shorter.

A fantastic example of 80s singer-songwriter pop. Whilst definitely not to my tastes, I can certainly enjoy the more energetic, synth-based tracks, and can tolerate the more generic ones. I am quite averse to the slower “love songs” with questionable lyrics. A tad long, but still really quite enjoyable, with some songs standing out as ones to listen to again.

Some great acoustic stuff, with some fun numbers intertwined with a few slightly longer emotional tracks. Certainly an enjoyable and easily-listenable album via its warm atmosphere and short length, with a similar sound throughout despite the variation in emotions.

boppy and at most points very loud alternative rock. in terms of vocals, they range from comforting to seriously screechy, the latter of which is far more prevalent across the 15-song album- condensed into just 38 minutes, via a collection of short, energetic numbers. it's mostly enjoyable, but I wouldn't say it's something to revisit.

A mix of somewhat tolerable, quite poor and downright horrendous disco tracks make for an album that is most certainly not for me. Starting off fairly well with Laura, we quickly spiral downwards with the horrendous dance cover of Comfortably Numb, plunging further into the depths with the awful combination of Tits On The Radio and Filthy/Gorgeous. No thanks.

This really is as expected: a collection of uninteresting piano ballads, save the surprising exception of the title track, which actually has some interesting aspects and energy, and is now one of two genuinely enjoyable Elton John songs I have heard, alongside Bennie And The Jets. In all, some nice background ballads. Not bad, not particularly great.

An interesting mix of alt-rock belters and slower piano and strings-based ballads, the latter of which I certainly wasn’t expecting. It is easy to see the influence that R.E.M. had on bands that followed in the coming decades, and evidently this album was a cementing statement to hold their alt-rock greats status.

A seriously great mix of relaxed and, well, powerful power pop. This really is another somewhat obscure 70s rock-and-roll album, but its conformity doesn’t mean it isn't enjoyable, and in fact this album was seminal to its sound. It might have been done better since, but that does not distract from this album’s enjoyability.

Well, it’s a collection of short and snappy political punk-rock tracks. This isn’t really a good thing for me, as whilst some tracks are good fun, I feel like as a vessel for a political message, this album doesn’t feel right. Perhaps it did at the time of release, as I feel the same about the album that it is most compared to, Never Mind The Bollocks.

It’s hard to ignore just how much of an arsehole Jerry Lee Lewis was, but it is most certainly worth it to sit back and appreciate his immense stage presence, condensed into an easily digestible and enjoyable 22 minutes. The fast-paced mix of highly energetic tracks is driven by Lewis’ piano work and enveloping vocals, the listener launched from one to the next in quick succession. A truly monumental performance, and record.

It’s not hard to see and hear why Bob Marley is so heralded, not just in rastafarianism and reggae but in music as a whole. I don’t like reggae. I find it repetitive and sluggish at most times. But this record is something different. This record is Bob Marley at his best. Perhaps it was because I listened to it on an original LP, complete with intense crackling, but I don’t think that can skew my opinion too much, and that opinion is that this is an excellent album. It’s still not particularly within my tastes, but I can absolutely appreciate it culturally and musically.

Well, this really was some background-listening worthy alternative rock. There really isn’t much to write home about, other than that I am not averse to any of the tracks, and would most definitely warm to most on re-listen. With the exception of Susan’s House and perhaps Mental, these are some bang-average alt-rock tunes.

Some excellent instrumentation and a great overall soundscape is tarnished by annoying vocals and some seriously horrible lyrics at points. I have no problem with an overlying theme of sex in an album, just look at Vespertine. But this? “I fuck you in the ass, just for a laugh”? No thanks. Keep that to yourself please. My main gripe however is around half of the vocals, being seriously unpleasant over-the-top Britishness. It’s such a shame, because the instrumentation is, as mentioned, excellent. Not a bad album by any means, just absolutely not for me.

I could easily rate this highly just because of its ‘classic’ status, but I am rating it highly because, aside from its impact and the argument that it did many things ‘first’, it is a fantastic album. It isn’t just heralded ‘classics’ like Perfect Day and Walk On the Wild Side that make this album great, although these may indeed be my two favourites. The majority of the remaining tracks pack almost the same glam rock punch.

I am pleasantly surprised. This was some seriously cool experimental krautrock. Colour me impressed. I have not listened to Can, or any krautrock at all for that matter until now. I can be sure that I will rectify this soon. A mix of ambient, rock, and at some points comedy, this album, despite having only four songs, manages to be rather diverse and very enjoyable.

If you owned a radio anywhere on Earth in the 1980s, you knew Michael Jackson. This album is popular for a reason, and that reason is that it’s absolutely phenomenal. Nobody made pop music this good before, and nobody has made pop music this good since. The King of pop is, and will always be, Michael Jackson.

As the title and the opening track outlines, this is an exhibition of an artist that needs some improvements. Half of this album is Elliott getting indiscriminately angry, and the other half is her describing (often vulgarly) her sex appeal, which she defends in a strange PSA in the middle of the album. Both of these halves fit into the general theme of Elliott gloating about herself. So, does the quality of the album warrant the narcissism in the lyrics? Not particularly. Some songs are up there rivalling the old-school hip-hop that inspired the album, and some are a serious chore to listen to.

There is no mistaking that The Doors were instrumental to the mainstream popularity of American Rock, and this can be seen evidently on Morrison Hotel. Sonically similar throughout, the signature Doors sound is only altered in terms of tempo, and this is all as well, as over thirty-seven minutes, Jim and the gang muster up a storm of timeless rock.

It’s this sort of proto-Rammstein industrial rock that I’m really averse to. It’s an amalgamation of strange gurgling German covers of already-mediocre songs, combined with a soundscape fit for greasy-haired neckbeard neo-nazis. Actually, scratch that comparison. The last song includes an excerpt from a fucking Churchill speech. How on Earth did this make it onto the list.

This is what happens when the music you make is so great, that even people indifferent to jazz will buy your album. Beyond its cemented status as one of the defining albums of the twentieth century, I find it impossible to think how an arrangement of trumpet, sax, piano, bass and drums can create such a supraliminal, fixating soundscape. But Miles pulled it off. Miles pulled off the best jazz album I’ve ever heard.

This album did the opposite of what I was expecting, by starting off really quite badly, and seriously picking up steam towards the end. It’s not hard to see why Amy Winehouse is so revered, although admittedly not usually for this album. She certainly has a great voice, I’m just not sure I like it as much as everyone else seems to. It’s used to great effect in the latter half, where In My Bed and Help Yourself rescue this album from an ‘unfavourable’ rating. The epilogue isn’t half bad either. In fact if this album skipped the first seven tracks and started at In My Bed, it’d be good. Still not something I’d choose to listen to, but good nonetheless.

A fantastic combination of two live performances, showcasing MC5’s proto-punk capabilities. There’s honestly not much else to say about this other than that it’s bloody well great. Some seriously cool classic rock.

Often regarded as the greatest album experience of all time. Whilst I don’t think it’s the best ever, let alone the best by Pink Floyd, I do think it is absolutely sublime. Some may say that songs like On The Run are filler, and indeed they blend with the rest of the soundscape. But this is not at all a negative, as the aforementioned soundscape is utterly transfixing. Truly phenomenal.

Ah. It’s a collection of 80s disco light-hearted synth-based half-arsed love songs. Most certainly not my thing. There’s nothing I’m actually repulsed by, and there’s even some stand-out synthy sections. But overall, it’s really nothing more than what I outlined in the first paragraph.

This absolutely blew me away. Over an hour of the supreme work of the late Dickey Betts is utterly mesmerising, making this truly a live performance for all time. Insane song lengths are welcome when there’s such excellent production.

On relisten, Stevens’ folk classic still holds up as a… folk classic. You simply cannot go wrong with a collection of short folk songs with a soothing voice at the helm.

Disgusting in every sense of the word. Before this, I saw Eminem as a mediocre rapper for edgy 12 year old white boys. And indeed he is. But some of the stuff in here is absolutely horrible, and unfit for listening for anyone, let alone his apparent pre-teen audience. The abhorrent lyrics are still present in the hits Stan and The Real Slim Shady. The only bearable song on this album really is the one where Eminem doesn’t open his mouth until 2 minutes in, Remember Me?. Putting the lyrics aside, it’s still mediocre beats at best. Mr Mathers is another self-centred rapper who thinks he’s the shit. But in fact, he’s just shit. Absolute shit.

It’s an excessively long collection of some often boring funk rock, layered with a few very enjoyable stand-outs. It does what lots of other funk rock and rap rock bands do, but slightly worse. It’s just… alright rock, aside from genuine enjoyability in Suck My Kiss, Mellowship Slinky in B Major and the title track.

Supposedly this album marks the point which The Beatles transitioned from bubbly pop to start their most well-received experimental music. Well, to me, this is still quite bubbly in most parts. Not that that’s a negative thing, it’s just a bit too chirpy to make up anything that great. It can’t be doubted that they’re the masters of short and snappy pop numbers. In that regard, it’s excellent. In the regard of most other things musical, it’s considerably less excellent, though still enjoyable.

Despite the unsavoury lyrics centred around senseless gang violence, I can most certainly appreciate the conceptual drive behind this album. It’s inevitable that a combination of so many great MCs could make a record this good. The beats are excellent and are complimented well by the respective flows of all members involved.

In a mix of quick successive ~2 minute tracks and slightly longer more complex ones, Waits’ 55 minute blues-driven effort is an interesting listen, primarily due to the somewhat alternative vocals. The slightly more drawn-out Clap Hands and Gun Street Girl are the standouts for me, not to discredit the remainder of the album’s (shorter) catalogue.

It’s southern rock, it’s not going to go anywhere past the realms of easy listening and ‘this-would-be-good-if-played-whilst-driving-down-a-highway-in-texas’ territory. So with the exception of the classic Sharp Dressed Man and the great trivia that the only one in the band without a beard has the surname Beard, it’s not much to write home about.

It’s that sort of bedroom-produced slacker rock that seems to be highly loved, although usually primarily in America, where I’m sure it has more of a homely feeling. And it’s a nice, inoffensive listen. And that is all it does for me. The sort of album that I wouldn’t mind listening to a lot if it was the only CD in my car, but otherwise not something I’d really come back to.

I think I’d rather that this album be worse than it is, because it’s just so incredibly average. Almost anything that I’ve heard from this band has been the most dragging, boring rock possible. It’s almost impressive just how middle-of-the-road it is. Occasionally a song will start with a cool riff, but then after about a minute it doesn’t develop at all, and Grohl’s vocals kill it off completely.

In an incredible comeback from years of drug abuse and anorexia, Marianne Faithfull laid down a steady mix of new wave tracks, evolving from the relatively light-hearted earworm of the title track to the angry, explicit vulgarity of Why’d Ya Do It, a truly ballsy way to end any album, let alone your make-or-break comeback. And I for one think she made it. Even the cover of John Lennon’s best song doesn’t ruin it, a new twist with differing vocals makes for an all-round interesting listen. A nice surprise for an album that I hadn’t heard of.

An incredible collection of consistently emotive and intimate songwriting, bolstered by commanding instrumentation. It’s one of the most sacred and heralded singer-songwriter albums, and for good reason. It is one of a special select few albums where its lyrics can genuinely be held as poetry in themselves. A truly timeless piece.

Sure, it’s consistently vulgar and offensive throughout, but it’s not just for the sake of it. It’s intertwined with tremendous production, West Coast gangsta culture and usage of samples. As with a lot of rap albums, it’s medium-short songs in succession to compile nearly an hour’s tracklist, so it is a bit excessive. But it really doesn’t feel all too long here, as the listening experience is fun, and the album is cleverly chronological. Most certainly not my style, but I can get behind a few tracks.

Whilst it doesn’t really stray past the boundaries of a small collection of folk songs, it is a great collection at that. Listening through is a similar experience to as if Elliott was performing these songs in the room with you. It’s never emotional, but it is often intimate and homely. And for that I can commend this beyond just a collection of folk songs. But not much beyond, as I’m sure this is another throwaway album with a mixture of originals and covers of traditional songs. Nothing extra special, but certainly not mundane.

In an hour-fifteen whirlwind of frenetic yet controlled rock, Hendrix and the rest of the Experience manufacture a truly sensual experience on the ears. Building on the constant backing of heavy blues rock, layers of psychedelia are piled up to construct mammoth tracks such as Voodoo Chile - lined with just-as-punchy shorter intermediate numbers, including the renowned classics of Crosstown Traffic, All Along the Watchtower and Voodoo Child (Slight Return). The complete package of rock, and the quintessential demonstration of Hendrix’s massiveness.

This is what Post-Punk and Art Rock are about. This is the benchmark for anyone who wanted to make a record of any similarity afterward. It’s a mastery told in eight tracks of a varying length, the longest of which, the title track, is undoubtedly the standout, an incredible showcase that ticks all possible boxes of even the most strict music snob. A true, genuine classic within rock as a whole alongside just punk.

This album serves loosely as an opus for the period of indie music that existed roughly between the mid-2000s and the early 2010s, compiling all that was learnt by the band after emerging near the start of this timeframe. Elements of psychedelia are inspired by their earlier efforts (eg. Department of Eagles’ In Ear Park), seen evidently on twinkly, layered tracks such as Fine For Now and I Live With You. Alongside this relatively unique psychedelic element, there exists the reliable indie sound linked with the era, heard on one of the most renowned and recognisable indie songs of all time, Two Weeks. Although perhaps excessive, with forgettable ‘filler’ in-between the really great tracks here, Veckatimest is undoubtedly an indie titan, and for that it deserves its merits.

It’s yet another gangsta rap album, but this time it’s a seminal one. Instrumental to the genre, without this we wouldn’t have the rap that we have today, and that means it must do some things right. It does. It ticks all of the boxes to make a rap album, complete with those weird interludes that always seem to crop up. Despite the lyricism (which is not to be overlooked), this can genuinely be relaxing, what with the incredible sampling and steady flow of Dre, Snoop Dogg and other guest artists. Even beside its significance in the genre, it is a heavyweight by itself.

It’s another one of those albums that’s so great, that everything that can possibly be said has already been said. But I will say that it is one of the best blends of instrumentation and songwriting I’ve ever heard. Young’s stupendous lyrical ability is elevated to untold heights with the all-encompassing, controlled country rock backing. The words “forty-one minutes” serve no purpose here, as time is irrelevant within this whirlwind of song.

It’s a rather lovely selection of soul covers, with a few Redding originals too. It doesn’t do anything else, though. A nice soul album, a product of its time, takes you back to the era, et cetera, et cetera. With its longest song at just over 4 minutes, and most of the others below 2 minutes, it really does epitomise the word ‘album’ itself, a collection of soul numbers from the era of singles.

For some reason I was initially expecting some Sex Pistols-esque British punk, but I became more hopeful when I read that LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy cites The Fall as a major influence. And my God, it’s evident. It may be heresy to say that ‘older music sounds like newer music’, but all I could think about for most of this is how much it sounds like LCD’s self-titled album. It’s an immersive, frenetic soundscape that still manages to keep time like a standard album would. It’s on-and-off throughout, but the ‘on’s are great, and the ‘off’s are still not bad.

Starting with the incredibly strong, heavy post-punk number of She’s Hit, Junkyard quickly descends into a sporadic noise rock melting pot, with a shift back to a more controlled approach at the midpoint through to the end, with Big-Jesus-Trash-Can blending the two aforementioned genres very well. It’s a (relatively) inoffensive collection of heavy noise rock, with an unwavering deep bassline throughout, and of course great vocals from Nick Cave.

Thrash metal doesn’t do anything for me. It’s the sort of music that’d be played in an action film - specifically a montage of the characters ‘tooling up’ for the big fight. Of course, it’s fun, especially the (surprisingly short) well-known Breaking the Law. But past that - it’s not... any good. I can perhaps appreciate the instrumentation somewhat, but other than this, it’s just run-of-the-mill metal.

It’s a singer-songwriter album adapted obviously from Wilson’s Beach Boys experience - something that I’m sure is loved primarily because of this link. It’s another one of those albums that would seriously grow on me if it was, eg. one of a few CDs in my car, or if it was on heavy rotation in my house. There’s some genuinely amazing stuff here, see Dreamer, Time and the short and snappy title track. But, apart from possible personal connection to it, why would you choose this over plenty of other great singer-songwriter albums?

I’m one to defend music that is described as ‘dirgy’, long, drawn out songs can make up some of the very best albums. And this album starts off in a way that supports my claim - tracks 1-3 especially consist of some great instrumentation, with elements of trip hop and a general psychedelic feel. After this however, I find myself zoning out from it. This isn’t necessarily bad, but in this context I feel it just might be. From Aisha to the admittedly great ending of Neptune City, there really is nothing much to say about the music at all. An interesting listen, for sure, but nothing that other albums don’t do better.

I’m partial to the Beastie Boys from the billboard hits I’ve heard, but going into this I expected to get annoyed after the ~20 minute mark. I did not get annoyed at all, in fact this album’s sound matches its packaging completely - the feel of walking around a New York City boutique and sampling an eclectic range of sounds. It’s just rhyming. But it’s some seriously creative rhyming at that, bolstered by some stunning sampling.

Aside from the album’s release being 17 years before the year in question, Prince was ahead of his time in other ways - namely the consistent synth pop/funk punch that this packs throughout its hour-ten runtime. Whilst the title track stands a cut above the rest, I was pleased that a lot of others on here stood up to it, with their own unique (often excessively horny) sound. Despite most tracks straying well over the six minute mark, nothing in here is drawn out, except perhaps the length of the entire album. At points way too horny for my liking, but that’s Prince.

It’s yet another one of those ‘nice’ albums. There’s nothing explicitly exceptional here, but there is a constant nice feeling. There’s better singer-songwriter albums out there, and there’s certainly worse. But I’m glad this exists - there’s quite a few genuinely brilliant folk/country songs on here with serious Dylan influence without plagiarism, and there is a fantastic Tears Of Rage cover. So that is all. It’s a very nice album, well worth a listen. It’s not competing for the best singer-songwriter album, because it doesn’t need to. It does its own thing, and that’s just fine.

One of the greatest flowing albums ever made. You will find it hard to locate another album that conglomerates hip hop this well. Forty minutes of constant flow, yet still distinctly separate and varied between tracks. Pickup after pickup comes nigh-on to overwhelming the listener, but Nas’ frenetic yet controlled approach keeps the album on the edge, but never over it. A pure masterclass.

It’s another one of ‘those’ albums (I’ll have to think of a name for them) that are nice to play in the background, and are representative of their genre, but do not go much further past it. I’m positive if I paid more attention rather than just putting it on whilst I did work then it’d be more interesting. But how much more interesting? It really does seem like average, inoffensive alt-rock, perhaps a product of its time, perhaps timeless. I’m not sure of the specifics. What I do know is that it’s at least ‘alright’.

In a whirlwind of avant-garde folk and genuine uniqueness, PJ Harvey delivers an album with an incredible apparent overarching theme of an ode to England, something that I’m sure I could appreciate more by virtue of listening whilst walking through my area of England. Having only heard (fully) Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea alongside parts of her other earlier albums, I expected this to be a continuation - that often heavy rock sound. And I am very glad it wasn’t, as this really is something great. Especially for what might be called a ‘late era’ album.

I am very familiar with Beck’s fast-paced, wacky songs, such as Hotwax and Cellphone’s Dead - some of the most replayable songs I’ve ever encountered. But this is a step in the polar opposite direction. Sea Change is littered with shards of melancholia, a constant outpouring of grief and introspection. It is incredible to me that the man who built what is essentially his own genre with albums like Odelay and Midnite Vultures can pull such an emotional album off.

What initially promises to be a standard 60s/70s folk offering quickly exceeds expectations with a truly unique variation of songs. From upbeat snappy folk ditties to longer complex, soulful tracks - without their key asset in the form of Neil Young, the remaining three certainly held their own here.

It’s another Foo Fighters situation - where I’d rather the album be worse than it actually is, as at least it’d be more interesting to listen to how bad it is. But it is bad. The ‘heavy sections’ of the truly innovatively named ‘clitrock’ are heavy just for the sake of being heavy, and none of these songs have any driving force behind them. The vocals are talented, that’s for sure, but they’re also not very nice to listen to. I’d normally be more adverse to the ballady songs in the second half when pitched against the more intense first half, but not in this case. The second half could put me to sleep out of boredom, whereas the first half would do similarly before jolting me awake with its stupid, soulless guitar sections. Most songs are annoying. Some songs are bearable. None are any good.

An album like this could easily be put on in the background and written off as ‘alright’, ‘boring’, et cetera. And on the surface, it is. It’s boring. There’s no pick-me-ups, no crescendos or climaxes. But it’s not about the quick-fire enjoyment here, it’s about the hypnotic downtempo soundscape. Alongside a constant flow of relaxation seeps in sporadic uneasiness, not deterring the consistent production feat. Is there a theme in this album? Probably, if you analysed the soundbites or made notes on each song. It doesn’t need it, though. It’s a well-made electronic album - that’s all I need.

Can a forty one minute album be enjoyed fully when all the tracks are this short? I suppose that is the main question with this. And I think my answer is no. If the tracklist was condensed halfway to about 14 songs, I feel I’d enjoy this more. However it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting. Very short track lengths aren’t an alien (haha) concept to me, but an entire album of them is. As for the actual musicality, there’s certainly slacking in the rock, but no relaxing. There’s consistent heaviness and (albeit often half-arsed) high energy. Perhaps if the music itself was slightly different, the short tracks would work better. But in all it’s, again, very interesting and certainly enjoyable enough.

The main driver behind this album’s acclaim is its background. A celebration of music that is rarely, if ever heard outside of where it is performed. And it’s a beautiful result. Incredible chemistry between members, some of them out of retirement, of the Social Club is constantly proven throughout each track - it’s easy to feel the sense of skill in the recording studio. The main takeaway from this for me is not the music itself (although it is consistently impressive and a few tracks are absolutely excellent), it is instead the question that arises - how much worldwide music are we, the consumers of the West, missing?

How was Young supposed to follow up Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere? This is how. This is no play-it-safe unadventurous sequel. In fact in many ways this contrasts his (technically second, but first genuinely great) ‘first album’, in that the track lengths are shorter and there’s less instrumentation, instead relying much more heavily on songwriting. That sounds like a recipe for disaster, right? A follow-up to a beloved country rock album has less music, and less rock. But it works, and it works tremendously. Even if the best song is undoubtedly Southern Man, with its song length doubling many other tracks, it is of course not about each track individually but about the overall listening experience. And here, you couldn’t wish for much more. If anything, you could not disagree to this album being just so lovely and warm. It certainly has punch in the aforementioned Southern Man, but the rest of the album is much better than a punch. It feels like Young is giving the listener a 35-minute hug.

What Kiwanuka proves above all else is that soul is possible in modern music and can easily sit alongside its compatriots, seemingly without comparison to soul’s ‘golden era’. This is soul music for today, clearly taking tips from records of the 60s and 70s, but not just remaking them - redefining them. It results in a genuinely unique sound - something that could be put on and instantly recognised as Kiwanuka. An album with a flowing and cascading soundscape, one to match its inspirations.

Incredibly consistent and punchy yet maintaining a relatively laid-back atmosphere The Low End Theory is low tempo - held up by masterful beats and lyricism. The initial laissez-faire vibe is noticed before the constant jazz-influenced undertones set in. They’ve got the jazz. They’ve also got everything else you could possibly ask for in a hip hop album. Listening idly, the entire 48 minutes could be one song. It seems to be easy for them. An easy confidence oozes out from each MC’s flow, forming fourteen tracks that each stand out with their own minor quirks, and form a hip hop album for all time.

I should’ve known I was in for something different than what I’d normally expect from Eno when I saw the ‘art rock’ tag. And that’s exactly what he delivers here. Not to discount the few instrumental tracks on here, Eno delivers an album that falls into line into the niche (but still widely circulated) genre of whimsical, silly British songs. Something I’m not a fan of at the best of times. In these whimsical ditties, Eno feels strangely at home - yet not fully grounded in that these songs leave a lot to be desired, with the exception of the brilliantly-delivered King’s Lead Hat. An interesting listen considering I’d only heard Eno’s ambient albums before this, and I’m certainly glad that that’s what he stuck to.

From the way Cash blends his ditties with the supporting cheers of the prison crowd, you’d think him one of their own - with the light-hearted interruptions and intermittent prison announcements making this a truly unique listening experience. Though within this time capsule there isn’t much to see past the clever gallows humour songwriting and Cash’s supreme charisma, it is just this that makes this album so homely, in the least homely of settings.

Never before and never since has there existed an album with such an expansive soundscape still so tightly rooted to its core concept. Constantly spacey, often anxious, occasionally frenetic and interwoven with a resurfacing sense of dread, OK Computer’s soundscape is pierced neatly with Yorke’s hopelessly human songwriting and yearning falsetto - attempting to make sense of what future loomed over him, not just within the music industry, but within the uncertain development of society as a whole. What resulted is a perfect prediction of the ever-increasing human reliance on technology and ensuing monotony in the 21st-century western world - three years before its inception.

I was fully expecting this to be a drawn-out celebration of all that is mediocre in rock. And about half of it was. The other half, however, teeter-tottered between above-average enjoyable blues rock numbers and other songs that made me genuinely question; A: if they were genuinely songs that the Whites thought were worthy of releasing, or if they were satirisations of themselves, or B: if any self-proclaimed ‘fans’ of this band could genuinely unironically say they liked them. Besides these few songs that baffled me, e.g. “The Nurse”, it was for the most part what I outlined. The most mid-2000s chart-topping attempts at rock possible.

Following the initial heavy start in Dumb Waiters, this excessive 80s-fest plunges into the unrecoverable depths of the sort of music that’d be played on a cheap BBC coming-of-age period drama set in the aforementioned decade. At least there’s some solace in longer tracks such as All of This & Nothing, showcasing that the Psychedelic Furs have artistic credibility past that of the woeful punch-punch-punch of the 80s charting drummer. I’ve spent two paragraphs somewhat berating this, but it’s not all that bad. All songs are bearable and fit for background listening just fine, and those that are relisten-worthy are excellently arranged.

Bowie’s art rock surrealist excellence came to a flourishing and sombre crescendo with Blackstar. What came two days before his death was a final outing of supreme splendour, with Bowie exploring, understanding and grappling with the inevitability of his own death in the only fitting way - through outpouring of his thoughts into music. Existential, yes, but not complete doom and gloom. A sort of forty-minute “oh well, it’s been fun” to his own life - loaded with the same eccentricism that lined his very best records, putting this record rightly alongside them.

The first of unfortunately three albums on the list from the most overrated, radio-play, bang-average band in history. And it’s very much as expected. One half glam rock that acts as an overexposed photograph in musical form, and another half of what they’re best (worst) at - shitty whimsical ditties. There is false hope in the intro to Death on Two Legs, and reconciliation in the surprise eight-minute long Prophet’s Song, featuring a genuinely good guitar section. I only hope that God can rid me of Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s certainly impressive that I can know all the lyrics to such an (allegedly) complex song without ever willingly listening to it, but the novelty’s worn off, and my Christ. It isn’t anywhere near the ‘best song of all time’. I’m aware this rating is more of a statement against the band rather than this particular record. But I can’t move past the band, so here you are.

What? Why is this on the list? I’m quite confused. This is something you’d find at a bargain bin in a second-hand record shop, or something that’d be sampled by contemporary hip-hop artists - something I’ve no doubt has been done with this record, as I know it’s been covered (Renegades of Funk by Rage Against the Machine) I feel like I’ve heard all this sort of music (electro, late 70s/80s hip hop) before, but this just seems to miss the mark in every way. Why not just go fully for the humorous approach? I can’t really fault this too much, what more was I expecting, apart from a general idea of a better listening experience? Not much. Here you have it. Weird.

Past the title of the last song and the cover, this seems to be a themeless album and collection of ‘play-the-gee-tar-and-sing-about-vague-topics’ albums, from a bloke born in Surrey. Clapton doesn’t do much to demonstrate his spot on ‘top guitarists of all time’ lists, save for some cool sliding bits in the first track and sprinkled conservatively throughout. Not very adventurous and quite mundane, with the slight impression of Jamaican music in the most popular track somewhat contradicted by his own willingness to “keep Britain white” in a speech two years later. But, separate art from artist, etc.

Any doubts I had that this album would revolve around the stratospheric singles of One Way or Another and Heart of Glass were extinguished by mere seconds into the first track. Parallel Lines delivers constant fun throughout, and it’s very refreshing to see it done so well without compromising on musicality. Heart of Glass does steal the show, but that isn’t to discredit tracks like Fade Away and Radiate which push the ceiling of this album’s effortless enjoyability further. It’s a lot of fun. And you wouldn’t want anything more than that.

It’s another bargain bin find, but this time it’s slightly obscure mid-sixties garage rock. The sort of archaic stuff that The Monkees produced sounds similar and in fact was inspired by this, and therefore it holds up just as well as you’d expect it to - sounding like a recording someone found of their dad’s unsuccessful band in his record collection. And from what I can tell these guys weren’t all that successful, at least not to the effect of similarly-oriented bands of the time. There’s no gold in here, but there is some silver, if you will, in the form of Kicks, a great opener to an otherwise mundane sub-half-hour album.

Compiling Davis’ most progressive efforts into the start of the 1950s, there could be no better title for this than Birth of the Cool. Littered with jazz staples such as Moon Dreams and the first release of Boplicity, if finding the transition from Bop to Cool Jazz, why look further than what this album tells you in its title? So, with nothing over three minutes and the recordings preceding Kind of Blue by ten years, Davis’ playing can easily be seen to be fully-fledged, even in the years prior to his landmark albums. He didn’t just birth the cool, he embodied it.

These hour-plus gangsta rap albums are fast becoming more of a chore to listen to than anything enjoyable. Maybe it’s just the mood I’m in, the time of day, whatever. I hate to say this, but it’s all the same. It’s vaguely interesting and certainly respectable, but just not entertaining enough. It’s not even the consistently vulgar and often pornographic content, it’s just that it doesn’t sound different enough to the albums I’ve had previous, e.g. The Chronic. I can’t say anything else about this, really. A landmark album, fine, but not all that remarkable.

What can go wrong. Seriously, what can go wrong with a Christmas album? Nothing. Furthermore, a whole lot can go right, and that’s what happens here. Everyone knows every song, which you can’t say for many other albums (or, in this case, compilations). It’s a whole lot of fun and the closest you can probably get to conveying the ‘Christmas spirit’ in popular song.

It’s punk music that’s stuck firmly in the year of its issue, but that’s no problem. It’s nice and fun to hear personally, and I’m sure for those around at the time they’re instantly transported back to that time. As for me, I don’t like punk. Or at least I don’t think I could ever consider a proper punk album to be genuinely great. This however was far better than I was expecting. Most of the guitar tones are great when they’re not thrashing and/or paired with smash-smash-smash-smash-smash percussion. Yep. It’s fun. And that’s cool.

Fresh off the back of what is probably the best commercial music concept of all time in Kid A/Amnesiac, in the wake of 9/11 and the ensuing Global War on Terror, Radiohead assimilated a near-hour concoction of uncertainty, anger and existentialism in song. Fluttering between the frenetic guitar-driven indignation that they mastered with The Bends and OK Computer and the relatively recently-established electronically-layered masterclasses mastered in the aforementioned back-to-back of Kid A and Amnesiac, a combination of the two alongside political motivation to form a successful album seemed unlikely, but not impossible. And as heard within this gripping hour of experimentation with that robust, friendly, guitar-based backing, they’d done it again. It’s not part of the ‘holy trinity’ of OK Computer, Kid A and In Rainbows, but put it in any other rock band’s catalogue and it’d be among their very best.

Flitting between the brooding, foreboding depths of European industrial/electronic music in the opening minutes and the zip-zap highs of pioneering pop by the last ten, Trans Europa Express perhaps isn’t the most relistenable of albums, but it’s certainly one of the most defining. A lukewarm mix of being thrown into the near-ten minute deep end with Europa endlos, propelled into the repetitive yet effective Schaufensterpuppen and title track, before ending on a polarising optimistic tone via Franz Schubert - it’s varied yet surprisingly straightforward. Not unlike an express train.

It’s some 1950s country! And yes, that’s all it is. Perhaps issued just before the genre’s ‘golden age’, any historical significance this record has is negligible as, well, it’s 12 similar country songs. And they’re nice songs. But just that; nice. Nothing’s going to jump out at you or be experimental or anything of the sort. And why would it be? It’s not trying to be anything more than a few country songs. That’s all.

An incredibly consistent compendium of King’s songwriting and probably the epitome of the ‘fun’ singer-songwriter genre. Relatively simple yet always compelling in its lyricism, Tapestry mixes the tremendously boppy with songs like I Feel the Earth Move and Smackwater Jack and the classic, effective ballads such as You’ve Got a Friend. It’s a feat in itself to have an album that can stand out in the blockbuster year for popular music that was 1971 - and this deserves its place among the classics.

It’s like so, so many hard rock albums of its fame and its time. Forty minutes of similar guitar power chords and stressed vocals. AC/DC are one of a few bands (perhaps the most famous) that released these albums, and I can’t fault it. It does what it set out to do, and clearly to great effect. Absolutely everyone knows Highway to Hell, or at least its title track. There’s some surprising grooves in Beating Around the Bush and Night Prowler, and what should have been the stratospheric track from this album, Touch Too Much. So as far as 70s/80s hard rock goes, this gets a pass.

Thankfully, this was all I was expecting it to be. Some dirty (!), angry and groovy grunge. I’d dislike Staley’s vocals on paper - I’ve never been able to fully get behind that stretched, nasal nature of his and of similar grunge vocalists. But this time, they were the perfect fit for the consistently large instrumentation - it’s probably because this is the first time I’ve really given grunge a chance. I think I’d just likened it too much to other, more intense metal-derived genres. As for the album structure, lyricism, flow, et cetera - yeah, it works. Not to the supersonic degree that some people make out (although I can certainly see where they’re coming from) but to a satisfactory degree nonetheless. An hour well spent and another great discovery from the 1001 list.

I’ve no clue why this is on the list, but it’s a welcome addition, if you ask me. I can’t pretend it’s anything groundbreaking, but I just love these kinds of albums. ¾ of an hour’s worth of some great indie rock / art pop / whatever the hell. Weaver’s voice is suited perfectly for her instrumentation, the latter seriously demonstrated on the title track and The Architect. Groovy, artsy and psychedelic, and that’s all that matters for this kind of thing. There doesn’t have to be a big, explicit concept or experimental production, it’s just nice music.

Why did the disco genre continue at all after this? This is the pinnacle. Everything after this stands in its shadow. Surely nothing could possibly be anywhere near as groovy as He’s the Greatest Dancer. As for the other tracks, there’s a surprising album-worthy flow even amongst titanic tracks Lost in Music and We Are Family, so you’re not stuck waiting for the next recognisable track (apart from track 3, the only real weak point here). So, your album cannot possibly be anything below ‘great’, if it has He’s the Greatest Dancer. It’s the greatest disco.

R.E.M. seem to be in that weird realm of uniqueness where they’re easily distinguishable from other acts, but not actually different enough to stand out properly. It’s probably Stipe’s distinct voice or the jangle of the instrumentation - but they’ve seemed to keep their sound fairly robust over the few albums I’ve listened to. As for Green, despite its misleading title/cover matchup, its soundscape is certainly lush and (maybe) upbeat. I don’t really want to throw this away as ‘background listening’, but that’s the sense I’m getting. There’s not a grand artistic statement or experimentation. It’s a great performance of tried and tested alt rock. And it works. And it’s just fine.

Other than feeling like I’m listening to the anthems of the cultist Trump votership, this album is too long, too soft (for what it’s trying to be) and generally, too shit. Starting off with the... interesting Bawitdaba and title track (complete with genius lyricism of “3 foot 9 with a 10 inch dick”, you’d be hopeful for a change of pace by the middle of the album, but no. Mr. Rock attempts to rally listeners to his cause with a hatful of “come on!”s and “my name’s Kid Rock”s, to no avail, as we’ve basically been listening to the same song for 45 minutes at this point. Then there’s a full switch-up with Only God Knows Why, and only God knows why he decided to place this awful ballad into his otherwise rap-rock heavy album, especially as it’s followed up by Fuck Off, something I’d like to say to Mr. Rock and most of his loyal listeners, if you’re reading. And to Eminem too, who just had to make an appearance, didn’t he. So edgy! And Jesus Christ, the TWELVE MINUTE Black Chick, White Guy is some of the creepiest commercial music I’ve subjected myself to. But hey, he hates the wokes! He says what we’re all thinking! Rock for President!

Colour me surprised, for up until about halfway through this, I thought it was just going to be run-of-the-mill 1960s/70s Britishness. And for the most part, it is. But crucially, it’s not just that. It’s fantastically produced, whimsical, witty, et cetera. It’s all you could hope for from a ‘rock opera’. And here I was expecting some over-the-top Queen-esque sludge. Certain tracks are that sort of silly British ditty that I’m not sure I like (see She’s Bought a Hat Like Princess Marina), but quite a fair few of them are genuinely explorative and brilliant (see Australia and Shangri-La). So, it’s as I was expecting in that it’s a ‘fun’ album. But it’s not as I was expecting as it’s an enjoyable ‘fun’ album.

Noisy yet controlled, consistently heavy and often dark, Sister is a compendium of alternative rock well ahead of its time. Each song can stand on its own, yet when listened through they can morph into one crazily noisy landscape of guitar-driven rock. I doubt it’s something that will blow you away on first listen, but it’s certainly something that will grow in the ears of the listener over repeat plays; an untested theory, but I’m sure it’s true. It’s held in high enough regard and I enjoyed it enough to probably relisten in future. Nothing absolutely exceptional, but why would it need to be? It’s bloody brilliant rock.

This sits firmly alongside At Fillmore East in terms of the great Jam Band live recordings, with exponential guitar mastery across a multitude of often double-digit length tracks, long in their listing but short in actuality - solidifying the Dead as one of the greatest live acts in history. Producing something this explorative to the mass market in ‘69 was surely no mean feat. There’s no taster for what’s to come in this album, because the ‘what’ is given permission to land straight away with the twenty three minute opener of Dark Star, crawling through and highlighting every aspect on that stage in San Francisco. What follows does not pale in comparison, the concentrated yet crazed Turn On Your Love Light leading disc 2, into a mellow, mean blues in the form of Death Don’t Have No Mercy, serving as the real closer before a truly confident addition of Feedback, certainly an acquired taste. An infamous live performance functioning just as well as a studio album, with added extended flair exclusive to the Dead’s all-encompassing stage presence.

For Elvis to release an album of this calibre well after his heyday towards the end of the 60s is an achievement in itself. As for the songs themselves, it’s a very consistent feeling of Elvis-ness, with his commanding voice enveloping the relatively insignificant instrumentation around it. Somewhat uniquely, there is only one immediately recognisable ballad in this tracklist, In the Ghetto. If its recognisability makes it stand out rather than its own merit as a song, I don’t know, but it’s a perfect closer for a seriously consistent album. For me, an Elvis album can’t do much besides be Elvis-y, and this was nearly no different, but I did enjoy it. And that’s about the highest praise I can give something like this. It’s enjoyable. It’s nice enough.

This is the rock album. Where else could you find this stratospheric level of instrumentation and songwriting with such a marketability for all audiences? On their untitled fourth output in just two stellar years, Zeppelin interweave the cymbal-driven crashing of the blues rock and hard rock that enabled their initial success with the most enchanting of folk influences that enabled Stairway to Heaven to become the pillar of popular song that it so greatly deserves to be. Whole Lotta Love could have kept Zeppelin afloat in musical culture for decades, but with [IV], Plant, Page, Bonham and Jones will be at the very core of rock for eternity.

The descriptor that best suits the Stooges’ second album is the title of their third, Raw Power. This power umms and ahhs on the edge of insanity, still keeping musically composed and sonically uniform. The title of the actual album that we’re focused on, however, Fun House, is a descriptor that fits a feeling of rocking out whilst flying across a bleak, fiery landscape, as illustrated in the album cover. A great demonstration of the music that preceded Punk, which exceeds it alongside the Post-Punk that succeeded it.

This is the sort of thing that I love to see from lists like 1001. An album that not very many people, certainly not many in the West, would ever find, let alone listen to. This is a great odyssey of Indian/Hindustani Classical, introduced by the steady movements of the first part, and exemplified by the spiritual and explorative epics of the second part. There is so much traditional and indeed contemporary music from across the globe that’s so rarely heard by Westerners, and this is such a shame as it often has vastly different musicality to that of Western Classical. I will certainly be seeking more where this came from.

...And it’s more thrash metal. Seriously. I had hoped for something better than the second album that I rolled on 1001, S&M, and to be fair, I got it. This is a better album than the 2-hour live escapade of S&M. But only really because it’s an hour shorter and it’s in-studio. All of the thrash metal I’ve been exposed to is just that, thrashing metal. Nothing to write home about. Lyrics seemed to be derived from that One line, “darkness imprisoning me”, and other such similar unserious themes of gothic sentiment. There’s the spectacular intro to One that precedes perhaps an above-average song, and most of To Live Is to Die is fairly enjoyable. But that is all that I can say besides for the remaining hour of chug-chug-chug guitars that I’m subjected to here. Maybe if it was shorter? Maybe if I was played it at a young age so it had some sort of personal nostalgic value? I don’t know. And I apologise. But this is all Metallica does for me, from what I have heard. And that is: not much.

A fantastic fusion of traditional Indian sounds combined with modern Drum and Bass-driven low-lying blankets of percussion, exhibited in a flowing hour’s-length display. This has more of a spatial, atmospheric feel rather than the club-oriented Drum and Bass you might’ve found at the same time, or indeed the more grandiose of Indian Classical music that this album so very clearly takes inspiration from. It’s certainly unique, but without showing off as such. Instead OK lurks in the background (or, more appropriately, the underground) of the British music industry and seeps through into the music that follows.

A masterful songwriting performance that exudes a feeling of the sun shining through on a grey day. This is Walker’s fourth album (could you tell?) so I’m not sure of the ‘sonic evolution’ that I’m told of, but this first helping of his musicality is incredibly inviting and indeed exciting for the remainder of his catalogue. At just over half an hour, I think it can be said that Walker can stand alongside other short singer-songwriter records such as Pink Moon in its soft impact. Whether I can definitively describe that impact is another matter; I’ll need many more subsequent listens, which I’m sure will be occurring.

It’s another country album, and another post-single era album that seems to have a single and then half an hour of filler to make it LP-length. Lynn’s voice is amazing, and the twanging country backing is nice enough, but it really is just more country. I can’t possibly say that this is anything more than ‘good’. The title track is enjoyable (given it lended its name to the album) and Get What’cha Got and Go was surprisingly good against the general country haze of the remainder of the album, but that’s all there is to it. Of course, it’s not trying to be anything more than a simple country album for your American Dream home stereo system, and in that respect it does very well.

An exploration into the weirdness of Mr. Bowie. That’s all I can get from this album, really. And by no means is that a negative thing. Aside from the stellar Sound and Vision, most of the remainder of this album is characterised with eerie synths and manipulative stereo sound, strangely rarely pierced with Bowie’s artsy lyrics and vocal operatics. It’s another album where I ask the somewhat rhetorical question; “is there a theme here?” To which I think there is - one of a strange German-infused exploration in all that was eerie in 1970s Berlin. I think. If anything, it’s a very enjoyable listen, just to sink into its vague concept for 40 minutes is enough.

After drawing the unreserved insanity of Fun House before in 1001, The Stooges’ debut is, in comparison, reserved. And that’s something that works to its benefit. Although ‘reserved’ likely wouldn’t be the descriptor used if first hearing this on its release, from the “ironically timeless” opener of 1969 through the ten-minute spatial drawl of We Will Fall up until the last wow-ing guitar at the end of Little Doll, it’s a contained groove that’s still perfectly experimental. I guess the thought process here was, “fuck it, it’s 1969”.

All too often does an early nineties American alt-rock album descend into the pitfall of proto-2010s emo vocals and repetitive uninteresting riffs. But thankfully, although it threatens to do just this on multiple occasions throughout, Copper Blue is not one of these albums. An admittedly average soundscape is pierced often with frankly incredible riffs and instant-earworm hooks. There’s also a sort of artificial, manufactured nostalgia about this; even though I was born across an ocean fifteen years after this album released, something about this and similar 90s and 00s American alt-rock and indie albums harbour this strange feeling that transcends the musicality itself. Maybe I should have saved this pandering for a more monumental or personally significant album, but I’ll come back to it. It’s just nice to be reminded of this feeling when I’m not expecting it.

The sounds that emanate from Zombie are Kuti & Co. giving a great big jazz-infused middle finger to the Nigerian government, and enjoying themselves whilst doing so. Aside from its politically-charged excellence, it is a straight-piped global translation from Afrobeat groove to the listener’s ears, enabling a ‘get up and dance’ attitude even in the harshest of post-colonial West African political landscapes. Art and musicality through hardship, a concise yet effective punch of jazz to rouse spirits. There’s no better medium.

What originally started for me as repeat playing of Obsolète turned into repeat playing of Prose combat, fast becoming one of my favourite hip hop albums, let alone French hip hop. I somewhat ‘completed’ this by purchasing the double LP in a record shop in Montmartre, for the ultimate hipster credit. But this isn’t Prose combat, it’s its predecessor. And it serves just as you’d hope it to, its more laissez-faire older brother, with Solaar meandering through a cool jazz-influenced hip hop soundscape with a ‘je m’en fiche’, ‘à prendre ou à laisser’ attitude. I’m unsure if this really is overshadowed by its follow-up three years later, but it is for me. So whilst Qui sème le vent récolte le tempo is no doubt a stellar rap album, but it’s not something I can come back to when Prose combat is right there.

This album’s necessity has been surpassed by 2011’s Smile Sessions, but its significance is not to be overlooked. This is my first exposure to anything Smile-related, and even the Beach Boys as a whole are still fairly alien to my ears. But this is what I’d expect from Wilson. A forty-seven minute exposition in sunshine-y harmonies, taking on various mid-century pop hits and a fair few Beach Boys originals. Capitulating in a (barely differential, but noticeable all the same) rendition of one of the most stratospheric songs in popular music, Good Vibrations. Looking at each individual song of itself will likely reveal all sorts of intricacies with songwriting and production excellence, but an overview of the entire escapade will only produce a haze of baroque harmonies, and that’s just fine, I suppose. I guess I need to listen to “every good song by the Beach Boys. All the underground hits. All the Modern Lovers tracks.”

It’s that 1990s-2000s rock/garage that does absolutely nothing other than ‘defining the genre’. This compilation has the air of an album from the early album era - one where the hit single is first, followed by about half an hour of filler. No songs are really above 2 and a half minutes aside from the clear most popular song Hate to Say I Told You So, which is evidently popular although I don’t think I’d heard it before. One of those songs that you can’t ever remember hearing before, but is still memorable in some way. That’s the only merit I can give this compilation above the bare minimum of ‘being palatable’. I will be making the obvious joke here that The Hives are certainly not my New Favourite Band, but I hope someone may be swung by this music. It just does nothing for me. I especially can’t imagine anyone having this as their favourite album ever. And therefore I can’t imagine why it’s on the list.

As a link between album sound and art, you can’t get much more intertwined - this has a feeling like you’re a fly on the wall of a dozen record shops at once, sample after sample seeping through an eclectic selection of percussion backing tracks. Hip Hop’s lyricism is always make-or-break for me, so if you remove it almost entirely, it can only make the record more focused on its production. And DJ Shadow is a rare case where the Disc Jockey earns that title. If absolutely anything, this is just Shadow showing off. An hour of hip hop beats and samples. A.K.A., my usual favourite bits of your average rap record. And this is no average record. Some areas are so unique, they can’t be compared to anything else.

Over an hour of Wilco is far from the worst musical hour you can spend. Tweedy’s consistently homely and often funny songwriting is always paired with the most upbeat of country-infused rock stems, and this musical hour is all the better for it. Disc 1 (tracks 1 through 10) is more twee - upbeat and repeatable - one of those albums that you can’t really say is amazing on first listen, but can certainly see that you’d learn to love it with (warranted) repeat listens. Disc 2 (save for the whimsical crashing outro of Dreamer in My Dreams) is more outstretched and I suppose ‘album-like’, rather than being more enjoyable on relisten this disc would be more... interesting? I don’t know. It’s a Wilco album. It’s fun, and it’s worthwhile. I have no complaints.

With no compromises on track lengths or indeed commercialisation (see Free Form Guitar), Chicago made their debut in ‘69 with a sizeable punch, given their year-mates’ competition. Bookended by instrumental brilliance CTA is then comprised of a filling made of shorter listener-friendly tracks, yes, like Listen, and seven-minute-plus odysseys of guitar, not just by way of crazy experimentation but by way of expanded-length tracks like South Carolina Purples, the spatial tones you’d probably expect to hear on a live album, not a debut studio one. Classic rock, jazz-infused expansive rock, snappy radio-friendly bites, spoken word? What’s not to love? I don’t mind, I don’t mind.

Chapman’s discography was (allegedly) never better than her debut, a claim I’ve yet to verify myself. But some go further to say that even within her debut, nothing could match Fast Car. And yes, it’s the standout on the record, and certainly my favourite if I had to choose. But this album isn’t just a mish-mash of supporting tracks, it’s a genuine heartfelt compendium of songwriting. Opening with the subtle call-to-arms of Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, and of course followed up by the stratospheric strumming of Fast Car, such subsequent tracks as Behind the Wall, a no-nonsense near-spoken word track taking domestic abuse head-on, Mountains O’ Things, the other track above 4 minutes, and For My Lover, with the second-best chorus on the record, are not to be dismissed.

It’s the sort of thing you’d hear at 1990s UK house parties, presumably. An event like this is a worst nightmare for me, but the actual music in question isn’t half bad. It’s ‘just’ 50 minutes of electronic, bassy, ‘big beat’ sound. There’s nothing spectacular, and there’s nothing too awful. It’s a 1990s British album, so it’s the sort of thing that blokes in their 40s wank over, much like the britpop of the time. And that’s fine, just don’t come near me and wax lyrical about your Oasises and your Blurs. There’s some good music hidden amongst the general festival-goer 1990s British scene, this album doesn’t really fit the bill. But at least it didn’t make me feel ill, the way some of the other stuff does. I’ve turned this into a general hate letter to britpop. This isn’t that, it’s Big Beat. And the beats are big. That’s for sure.

It’s Deep Purple being Deep Purple, no compromises in the heavy sound, no compromises in track length, even with this regular-length album. Speed King brings you up to speed with what the album will sound like, with Child in Time fully demonstrating the outer reaches of Deep Purple’s sound by the end of the first side. And side two holds up well too, making this a seriously complete record. It’s one of hundreds of late 60s / early 70s rock records that seem to each be unique and each be fantastic in their own right, and I’m nowhere near to hearing all of them.

Over an hour of Australians attempting to make a conceptual, British-orientated album. In the decade before their monumental disco success, the Bee Gees were apparently catering towards the insatiable British desire for baroque, twinkly, whimsical ditties. The first ¾-ish of this is the same story about something-or-other that’s vaguely relevant to British high culture, in marketable song/album form, and the last quarter is more of the same, split up by respite in Vaughan Williams-inspired instrumental numbers and the lyrical beige that is First of May. Another case of an album being theoretically much better if it was more concise, i.e., ending after the 6th or 7th track. There’s nothing to despise here, it’s just 1960s vaguely experimental pop. And at least it’s not their 70s disco stuff.

Ignoring the Cash originals, especially the tremendously slapping opener of the title track, I just can’t shake that this is, first and foremost, a collection of covers. Some are standouts (Personal Jesus), some are rightfully critically praised (Hurt) and some are genuinely hard to listen to (Danny Boy). Not even the brilliance of Fiona Apple can save the hollowness of Bridge Over Troubled Water. Whilst it’s obvious that it’s going to be well-received given the nature of its output, I genuinely think that - at the very least after the opening two tracks - it’s undeserving of it. Of course, it’s not going to be At Folsom Prison II, that would be even more of a recycled record. But does Cash’s stripped-back melancholy style warrant nearly an hour’s worth of mostly covers? I feel this only caters towards the die-hard Cash fan.

I suppose Morrissey’s solo career is what the Smiths would’ve been without a unique guitarist. Or bassist. Or drummer. It’s just the unique vocals that take centre stage here. That weird British whimsical ditty ten times over. I don’t particularly play much attention to the lyrics with this album, but it’s hard to ignore such insanity as The National Front Disco and You’re the One for Me, Fatty. Yes, we hate it when our jangle pop friends become bigoted wankers, but we can tolerate their albums, I suppose. There’s just something huge missing here, and that something is most certainly Johnny Marr’s guitar. Without it, it’s just some bloke rambling about John Major’s domestic policy, or deindustrialisation in the Greater Manchester area, or something. It’s best to just listen and move on, I think.

I listen to these sorts of albums very often, but I can never really curate a rating for them. Some Ambient Albums Are Bigger Than Others, sure, but it’s hard, perhaps even impossible, to go wrong. And Orbit doesn’t go wrong on Strange Cargo III. There is a constant spacey presence in the background of these songs, and a lush sparkly, glittery atmosphere presented in the foreground. Orbit seems to walk the line between ‘music to study to’ and ‘music to test your new speakers with’ well, lending his expertise to either activity.

After one of the all-time classic blistering openers of Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song) and the title track, this album unfortunately descends the mediocre route of piano rock, with such songs as Just the Way You Are and Vienna being the, still loved, but ultimately uglier and less desirable little brothers of the opening tracks. This probably helped its acclaim, in its ‘something for everyone’ approach. Lure the music elitists in with some stereo-shattering intricate piano-blasting ballads, and invite radio play from such singles as Vienna. I suppose I fit into the former group, especially with how I felt listening to this. Those opening tracks alone are worthy of a ‘great’ rating, or any equivalent high-up but not quite five-star rating.

I hoped this album would help me to understand why so many of these critically-acclaimed hip hop albums are always over an hour long. It didn’t do this, but it did keep a solid rhythm for all of its runtime, even if the songs merged into a general R&B/soul conglomerate after around track 7. Ms. Hill is exceptional both in her vocals and lyricism, and it’s not hard at all to see why this is so well-loved. Again, it’d benefit by being cut by about 20 minutes. But that’s just in terms of the overall value at a glance, not the storytelling and album structure, which becomes fully fledged. Yeah, it’s a great album. But I feel it can’t go much further than this. Certainly not into ‘greatest of all time’ discussions. I hate those anyway.

It’s another 90s rap album, and another album that’s passed me by. Once more, there’s a respectable selection of beats, interesting but ultimately cliché lyricism, and (as always) a selection of skits. From what I could deduce in this vague haze of lyrics, there’s some storytelling. Whether it’s any good, I didn’t play extremely close attention, so I can’t tell you. I’m certainly in the minority here, but the case seems to be that once I’ve heard one of these sorts of albums, I’ve heard them all. Sure, if this was the only CD in my car, or if I forced myself to listen to it over again, I’d grow to love it - it has the potential. But on first listen, I certainly don’t find myself wanting to return. I guess it’s luck of the draw that this album got drawn after the other highly-acclaimed 90s rap albums. That are always, always, over an hour long. Why are they all that long?

All the genres should point to a greatly enjoyable record here, but all I can come away with is a general sense of... mundanity. It’s the sort of thing you’d see in a charity shop and say “hey, this is a pretty good album”, before setting it back down again, with clearly no intention of owning it. Who cares if you own G. Love and Special Sauce’s self-titled debut, anyway? Who even are those guys? Those guys, it turns out, can manufacture a nice sound throughout the hour that they give themselves. And that’s just about all. It’s a nice enough record. Something that’d be used as a donor for sampling something more impressive.

This is one of a select few albums where the moody, meandering low-tempo funk soundscape wrenches but one response from the listener; “hell yeah”. To lift a phrase from Jay Kay, this is more of a Funk Odyssey than anything else I’ve heard. War feel, more than anything, like a band for the people. The good people, anyway. Yes, the world IS a ghetto, so what’ll we do about it? Let’s start with making a ¾-hour prog soul / funk / whatever the fuck album that’s both easy on the ears and expansive if you take a closer listen, a cacophony of instruments working in tandem to produce a silently feisty musicality that matches the front cover all too well. Genius.

Unfortunately, this is funk rock to forget. You’d think a punchy and energetic album like this would be fun throughout, but in reality it’s likely to leave you checking the tracklisting to see how long’s left before you can right a passive-aggressive review. There’s some great messaging here on paper, but its execution seems more like a box-ticking exercise than anything to move the masses. Perhaps by the late 80s the ship had sailed on this sort of stuff. I wasn’t around, so I don’t know. It’s what I’m getting from this sole example, though. It’s a 40-minute conglomerate of similar-sounding not-quite heavy enough funk rock, until the ending of Change, a weird semi-ballad that seems to say; ‘just in case you didn’t get our very basic messaging, here’s something to hammer it in.’

It’s Britpop with shitty Albarn vocals, complete with intonated ‘o’s and a vague, cringy air of the popular side of British culture that I’m particularly averse to. There’s a general collection of interesting instrumentation, which never even attempts to stray into the far-reaching lands of above average, save for maybe the uncharacteristic drawn-out Oily Water. For Tomorrow is fun, if you can of course ignore Albarn’s ‘I’m definitely British, and this accent is for the ketamine-induced, bucket hat-wearing, football-brained 90s British crowd!’ accent. It’s not nearly as bad as the Mancunian counterparts with their senseless wailing. But it is still not any good. Keep it to yourselves, aforementioned 90s crowd. I don’t want any part of it.

Whilst not epitomising the “Experience” section of the artist name (this would come in the following albums) the actual experience of this is a subtly masterful psychedelic rock... experience. There’s a mix of sunshine-y major chord riffs (i.e. Remember), heavy-hitting blues rock classics (i.e. Foxy Lady), and incredibly unique psychedelic tracks, the finest of which undoubtedly within the title track. Never before and never since has a single piano note played repeatedly sounded this good. Well, maybe 40 years later on Get Innocuous!. But that doesn’t have the crazed shifting percussion, imitating short gusts of wind, or something. The blueprint for showcasing the 60s/70s psychedelic rock sound. The precursor to so many more incredible albums made by people off their heads on drugs.

The Cocteau Twins seem to bridge the line between ambient and pop, while others tend to stay either side of it. Treasure is a fantastic compendium of all that they are capable of, from the slow-dance numbers of Beatrix and Otterley to the syncopated grand etherealism of Persephone and Cicely. You needn’t worry about conventional song structure, or indeed lyrics, as you can simply ooze into the alien yet inviting songscape engineered by Elizabeth Fraser & Co., where twinkles and deep bass / percussion leaves some subsequent albums to sound so incredibly normal next to this friendly behemoth, stretching the ‘pop’ genre to its limits, with your speaker’s high-frequency tested too. What is Elizabeth Fraser saying? We don’t exactly know, but it sure sounds like something descended from the heavens, brought down via your dreams to tickle your every aural sense.