1001 Albums Summary

This old chestnut. The light beer you drink turns to a sort of speed in your blood after you drink enough of them. Walking briskly to the corner shop before they close, you might listen to this. You won’t know that your singing along but everyone else will.

Aw Kryst. We’ve all tried to be something better. There have been moments of confusion, detours, off ramps that became weird winding interstates of their own. Sure we have. All of us. And it sounds exactly like we want it to sound, huh? Probably not, actually. It sounds almost exactly like this album, like something you thought it should sound like if it sounded like it should sound like. Perfectly named if you’re the white guy walking consciously slowly somewhere in Southern California.

People tell you about darkness. This will occur. Music will try to do the same. Sometimes. This album walks the line of both of these occurrences. It is somehow a black album and also not at all dark. Nothing this popular could ever be dark really, not the way really moving music might be. The songs might be quasi great, I really have no idea, but the album blows. Because look at it. Look at it in the 21st century. Metallica is lawn mower music.

A musicality to the police siren. Chinos, sweatshirt, smoke. Let the Alpine sway.