Honky Tonk Masquerade is a kinder term than “Stale, Vacuous Redneck Drag” so I understand picking that as the title.

I’m slightly embarrassed at how much I enjoy this.

So I remembered that I still had to listen to this at 11pm on a stormy Tuesday in October after one of the worst days I’ve had all year. I was not thrilled. The lightbulb in my kitchen blew just to be dramatic. I had no food in the house. So I listened to the whole album by candlelight with wine, whisky and a Halloween themed cupcake for dinner. It’s the perfect album for that situation. Literally perfect. I will treasure it always. I cannot imagine a person enjoying this at 10am. I cannot imagine a person enjoying this on a sunny summer’s day. I cannot imagine a person who meal preps enjoying this album. Perhaps that’s a failure of imagination on my part but I’ll leave it to those people to discuss their experiences. For me, last night, it was perfect. Tom was perfect. And I’ll treasure him always.

Such a perfect distillation of cynicism and earnest rage. It doesn’t feel like a singular moment in time, either - it just knocks you down and drags you into its own moment. Heart-Shaped Box was always one of my favourites and it probably still is. Dumb and All Apologies were also highlights. I’m choosing not to look to deeply into the fact that both of those songs feature Kurt Cobain yearning to be stupider so that he could be happier. I was also delighted by the Leonard Cohen reference in Pennyroyal Tea. It’s one of the things that the legions of Nirvana imitators usually failed to grasp - Kurt Cobain was the voice of a generation because he’d looked very far and very wide to find someone else who spoke for him and came up empty. But he respected all those influences and you can tell.

Did you date any pretentious, sad, morally superior, slightly-misogynistic-but-in-an-ironic-way-so-it’s-fine, “sprezzatura”, Morrissey-listeners in the early 2010s? If you didn’t but you inexplicably wish you had, then this is what it felt like. Awarding an additional star purely because I’m a sucker for a clever neon sign.

Such a perfect distillation of cynicism and earnest rage. It doesn’t feel like a singular moment in time, either - it just knocks you down and drags you into its own moment. Heart-Shaped Box was always one of my favourites and it probably still is. Dumb and All Apologies were also highlights. I’m choosing not to look to deeply into the fact that both of those songs feature Kurt Cobain yearning to be stupider so that he could be happier. I was also delighted by the Leonard Cohen reference in Pennyroyal Tea. It’s one of the things that the legions of Nirvana imitators usually failed to grasp - Kurt Cobain was the voice of a generation because he’d looked very far and very wide to find someone else who spoke for him and came up empty. But he respected all those influences and you can tell.

Sexy Boy is the only song I’d heard on this album. I like Sexy Boy. It’s fun and vibing and smooth. But I feel like there were two major late-90s “BLANK Boy” songs and you were into one or you were into the other. I chose Nancy Boy by Placebo a long time ago and nothing on this album made me reconsider that choice. Maybe I’d enjoy it if it were the soundtrack to a movie or video game? Y’know. Some other medium that could give me a reason to emotionally engage. As is, it’s trying so hard to be cool that it’s completely tedious. I can appreciate the skill behind it, but I was relieved when it was over.

It sounds amazing. The every riff, every line. It’s a really impressive noise. I’m struggling to call it art, though, because the only emotion or concept that anyone seems to be trying to communicate is Look What I Can Do. They try to get emotional on the last track. The last line of the album is “When a blind man cries, Lord, you know he feels it in his soul.” Not to be insensitive but… why? What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t blind men cry? What the hell do those things have to do with each other? It’s slightly more affecting than the song about hoping that nobody steals his car but not by much. I’m glad they made the album. Because more interesting people were able to listen to it and steal all the good bits.

I wouldn’t say that I’m a convert to the genre but I’m a convert to the album. I was emotionally engaged throughout when I really didn’t expect to be. A singular experience and one I’m grateful to have had.

Some songs are outstanding and some are underwhelming. But listening to the album made me contemplate how music that really spoke to you when you were a teenager will bask forever in this warm glow of the mind. And music made for teenagers that you listen to as an adult will always exist outside that warmth. My Generation is still fantastic. But since it wasn’t an anthem of my youth, when Roger Daltry sings ‘I hope I die before I get old’ I found myself thinking “Now, Roger, that’s a dreadful thing to say, stop being so dramatic” which… er… was probably not the intended effect. La-La-La-Lies didn’t resonate either, I just sat there thinking “Aww. That’s a wee shame.” I also wasn’t entirely convinced by the James Brown covers. Solid overall, though. Declarative. Anthemic. I understand why it’s part of the canon, even if it won’t be part of mine.

Class.

Look, y’know those optical illusion drawings where the picture is simultaneously two things? Like, it’s a duck AND a bunny or it’s a couple kissing AND a Greek urn or what have you? Well this album is, simultaneously, completely awesome AND the naffest thing I have ever heard.

I really liked this album but I think that this project is flagging up an issue for me. When an album too smooth and flawlessly produced, I find it a bit emotionally distancing. This was a slick, jazzy, nearly flawless listen though.

After being exposed to a lot of slick and shiny hip-hop recently, I was so happy to listen to something this warm and earnest. Music is meant to be about people and this album is obviously very personal even if it’s about two guys tryin to be cool. It’s well made and it’s sounds great. Some of the rhymes read kinda clunky today (Execution of a… chump? Wow. Don’t go too hard on him) but I enjoyed it all. I would never have listened to it outside of this project and I’m glad I did. I just feel so much affection for it.

It’s fine.

Really solid album. Incredibly varied but with a distinct tone and character shining through. I hadn’t heard of Little Sims before this and I’m really glad this project made me aware of her.

Incredibly fun to listen to. It’s like a virtuoso Gremlin got really into delta blues and psychedelic rock and threw an album together.

I found myself craving the raw fury and world-weary cynicism of Simon and Garfunkel.

It’s giving Mystik Spiral. I’m not mad at it but I wouldn’t listen to it on purpose.

UB40 is always a good time. You put them on when you’re cooking or tidying up or drinking with friends. They’re always uplifting and soothing and interesting. Or, with this album, when you’re protesting the wanton cruelties of a Tory government in the UK and racial injustices across the world. While drinking. With friends. Perfection.

As I go through this project, I’m starting to realise that the albums I like best are the deeply personal ones. The ones with a clear identity that shines through in every track. That presents a difficulty for me here because I always thought I disliked Kate Bush. After listening to it properly though, I’ve realised that I don’t dislike Kate Bush. Kate Bush is incredible. She’s a singular figure, distinct in a crowd of thousands and fascinating to witness. I adore her. I do, however, hate Kate Bush’s voice.

Sad montage music.

Loved some of it, hated some of it, mostly I’m just glad it exists.

I will never not love The Kinks. I actually bounced around for a while when I saw this was my album today.

Brian Eno said that even though The Velvet Underground and Nico only sold 30,000 copies in its first five years, everyone who bought one of those 30,000 copies started a band. The issue is, I heard those bands first and I like them more than this.

I respect it, I don’t enjoy it.

Figrin D’an and the Modal Nodes made a soundtrack to a Noah Baumbach Film about a D-list Batman villain finally seeking therapy after his mundane but painful divorce.

Well that was tedious.

I don’t believe that unbiased opinions exist. I think that the closest to unbiased that any of us can get is to try to be aware of our biases and be honest about them. So when I tell you that this album is exactly my shit and I adore it, I am not saying that it will be exactly your shit or that you should adore it. I’m just telling you that years before I was born, some working-class pinko punks in Leeds made an album for me and I love it very much.

Basically, I don’t get it. I struggled with whether to go three or four stars on this one. I enjoyed the album quite a bit but I expected more from it given Jim Morrison and The Doors’ Iconic status. It was fine, y’know? Peace Frog was great, but I could skip Indian Summer forever. That kind of thing. I looked around for a bit more information on the band to maybe give me some context on what made them so lionised. And my god, I don’t get it. The intensity of emotion about this band and Morrison in particular is utterly inexplicable to me. Don’t get me wrong, I love that people are passionate. And I enjoyed the music enough that I can understand people still actively liking the band. But, quite clearly, there’s a piece here that I’m missing. In conclusion: I don’t get it.

“Dusty! Oh my god! Great to see you! Look. Love you, mean it. You know that. But. Uh. Respectfully… what the fuck are you doing here, D? You really shouldn't be in here. Definitely not with this album, Dusty. You know that, right? No, obviously I won’t tell anyone. Just don’t let Keith Jarrett see you. The man tried to make Lou Reed suck on a lozenge earlier - most uptight jazz musician I’ve seen in my life, I swear. And you shouldn’t go out the back way when you leave, I saw Lesley Gore and Dionne Warwick out there earlier and those are two ladies you do NOT want to meet in a dark alley, babe, trust me… Hmm? No, Dusty, I am not on *their side*. I just feel bad for them, that’s all. The poor things didn’t even get on the list, either one of them. And you being in here with your bland little cover album… That has to sting. That’s all I’m saying. Look. Maybe you should head out, hmm? Come back with Dusty in Memphis? You’ll be so much happier with that album. If anyone says anything then you can just point to Son Of A Preacher Man, end of conversation. And you won’t have to worry about Lesley Gore shanking you with that one. Won’t that be better? Hmm? Oh, you will? Amazing! Looking forward to it! See you then, D! Give my love to Aretha when you see her! Okay, then. Bye now, Dusty! Call me!”

So I remembered that I still had to listen to this at 11pm on a stormy Tuesday in October after one of the worst days I’ve had all year. I was not thrilled. The lightbulb in my kitchen blew just to be dramatic. I had no food in the house. So I listened to the whole album by candlelight with wine, whisky and a Halloween themed cupcake for dinner. It’s the perfect album for that situation. Literally perfect. I will treasure it always. I cannot imagine a person enjoying this at 10am. I cannot imagine a person enjoying this on a sunny summer’s day. I cannot imagine a person who meal preps enjoying this album. Perhaps that’s a failure of imagination on my part but I’ll leave it to those people to discuss their experiences. For me, last night, it was perfect. Tom was perfect. And I’ll treasure him always.

Oh. Honey. No.

This album did replicate the sensation of being so sleep deprived that your mind runs away from you and your aching, translucent body has to chase after it, begging it to cooperate. It’s not a good feeling and I don’t like the album. But still.

Well this was all blandly competent. In a hollow sort of way.

I can respect a classic even if it doesn’t speak to me on any sort of deeper level.

Perfectly competent. But it feels insincere somehow. I’m completely unfamiliar with the band The Band, so I don’t think I’m biased against them, but I just don’t believe them when they say things.

I’d heard Nilsson referred to as The American Beatle before but I’d assumed those people were delusional or selling something. I was wrong.

So I started listening to it and was irritated by it. About four tracks in, I remembered there was a Trash Theory video about Sonic Youth and Daydream Nation from a few months back that I hadn’t watched. So I watched it. I liked the album much more the second time around. Is that a reflection on me, a reflection on Daydream Nation, a reflection on Sonic Youth, a reflection on Trash Theory, a sign that music (like all expression) needs context in order to be meaningful or proof that I’m a poseur? Fuck if I know. But I like the album now and a win’s a win.

Hype music for cardigan-wearers.

“When are they gonna get to the fireworks factory?!” The Album.

Style and Identity are very different things. After listening to this album, I am not convinced that Christina Aguilera has either. She does have is an incredible voice. It is not enough.

It’s obviously a masterpiece. I love it. Or, I suppose, I want to love it. But there are all these little moments that made me go “Hang on, what do you mean by that?” And not all of those moments were from Killah Priest’s bonus track.

It’s just Mick making nonsense noises on top of music you’ve heard better versions of.

For the first time since starting this experiment, I listened to the Extended Album and I’m not mad about it. That’s 5 stars right there.

I was assigned this album the morning that Donald Trump won his second term. It opens: “When I woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad Seem like total silence was the only friend I had Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down, and won.” It’s a whole mood. Incidentally, John Prine died of complications from COVID-19 in April 2020.

The quintessential 90s sound. Which is pretty impressive for 1983 but it’s still grating in large doses.

Warm liquid sunlight. I know that doesn’t make sense but it’s what it sounds like. An album so pure and golden that it seduced me into supporting this relationship with all my soul - no matter how dysfunctional it sounds.

It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.

Surprisingly solid listen.

Sublime.

I get why people who like it like it but I was embarrassed to be listening to it.

Did you date any pretentious, sad, morally superior, slightly-misogynistic-but-in-an-ironic-way-so-it’s-fine, “sprezzatura”, Morrissey-listeners in the early 2010s? If you didn’t but you inexplicably wish you had, then this is what it felt like. Awarding an additional star purely because I’m a sucker for a clever neon sign.

Turns out that if Kanye was well-adjusted then the albums would be mid.

A triumph of showmanship over substance. … that was a compliment. In case it was unclear.

Honky Tonk Masquerade is a kinder term than “Stale, Vacuous Redneck Drag” so I understand picking that as the title.

I tried to take it seriously and I couldn’t get into it. So then I tried to treat it with the same indulgent affection that I’d treat a 13 year old cousin in his goth phase and I enjoyed it much more. It’s not a nuanced or comprehensive look at the human experience but it certainly captures a mood.

No one knows what it means but it’s provocative.

I think that Bo Burnham’s “Pandering” has ruined a lot of modern country music for a lot of people. Righteously and justifiably. This album basically felt like “Pandering: the Tween Girl Version! <3” It’s all butterflies and wildflowers and horsies and “rivers running to the sea” and blah and yadda and so forth. You could madlip the whole thing just using LiveJournal icons from 2004. I liked “Same Trailer Different Park” but obviously this album is more marketable. Which means it’s more bland. I dunno. It’s not for me. It feels hollow and dumbed down in a calculating sort of way. I’m just struggling to believe a thirty year old woman claim that she “didn’t know she could feel happy and sad at the same time!” Really, Honey? Cuz. Not to be mean but the main character in Inside Out was 11.

It’s okay, I guess. It didn't make me feel anything but it’s nice enough. “(Serbian Producer) Suba died from smoke inhalation while saving the newly recorded album from a studio fire.” Wait, what? What the fuck? For this fucking lobby music? Fucking hell.

Is that really how you say it?

The lyrics were sometimes hackneyed. The synths were an little embarrassing. The tracks seemed to veer wildly between a sincere expression of nuanced human emotion and cliché meaningless bullshit. Raitt’s voice is consistently incredible but it’s not quite enough to win me over.

Sometimes, if I’m not careful, I can be a bit a smug, pontificating wank. Damon Albarn suffers from the same affliction and that’s usually why I like him - he’s going to a bit of a dick about his pal who moved to the country and likes baths but he’ll be funny and a bit insightful about it so you’re prepared to let it go. And he’s a musical genius so you’re distracted by that too. From one wank to another, lads, the mix was slightly off on this one. Not funny enough or insightful enough to feel anything but mean and not musically interesting enough to overlook the cruelty.

If they’d just played Immigrant Song 10 times then it’d be a 5 star album. They didn’t.

The most 1989 thing that has ever happened. More than the Berlin Wall coming down. It’s amazing.

Sort of like the more experimental bits of The Clash were concentrated down and mixed with Monster Mash levels of camp. Magnificent.

The answer to the eternal question “What if beat poets liked meth?”

Not my favourite U2. Not awful. Just not my favourite.

Music journalists are storytellers as much as anything else. And I can’t help but think this album is on this list is because the story of the gifted, died-too-young Jeff Buckley having a gifted, died-too-young biological father who was also on the list was just too good a story pass up.

I get why Robert Redford said no.

I don’t have many actual thoughts about the album but that’s because whenever I was listening to it I enter Main Character In An Indie 90s Romcom Flow State.

I’m slightly embarrassed at how much I enjoy this.

I’d like to attest right off the bat that Kanye West is a cunt. Nothing he has ever or will ever produce will detract in any way from what a cunt he is. Moving right along. I was curious to revisit this album because I hadn’t heard it in years. I remember thinking it was a masterpiece at the time. I can still see why I thought that and I can hear the artistry in every track. I can hear the obvious influence that this album has had in the years since. It’s impossible to ignore the trajectory that Kanye West has taken since then though and it puts a different complexion on some things: lines that I used to think were funny or sarcastic have curdled into something much harder to go along with. An artist is someone who tries to express their internal reality in a way that others can connect with. I think the album does that successfully. But Kanye’s internal reality is that of a total piece of shit so you don’t really want to hang out there for long.

It’s not for me, lads.

Look. They’re clearly fucking mental. But they’re having a very nice time and I enjoyed being a part of it.

I wonder if this is what people who like Morrissey like about Morrissey? This sort of exquisite whinging sincerity that makes you feel both the smugness of youth and the smugness of long experience, simultaneously.

It’s pretty. I like her voice. I like the production. I respect her honesty. I like the character depicted in the album. I’m glad I listened to it. I’ll never deliberately listen to a single track ever again though.

So Prince didn’t know who Dorothy Parker was when he wrote The Ballad of Dorothy Parker. I found this whole album naff and insufferable but it did make me look up a couple of Dorothy Parker poems again so here are a couple: “ By the time you swear you're his, Shivering and sighing. And he vows his passion is, Infinite, undying. Lady make note of this -- One of you is lying.” “ Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.” And, of course, there’s her reply when being asked to use the word ‘horticulture’ in a sentence on a radio show: You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.

I get hit with a wave of affection for them with every new song. A sparkly, refreshing, youthful, sincere little album. An Appletiser of an album, if you will. And if you won’t, I still will.

Spectacular. The measure by which all other live albums, outlaw country albums and singer-songwriter comeback albums should be judged.

Tracy Emin attracted much disdain in the late 90s when, following a depressive episode, she exhibited her unmade bed covered in clutter and rubbish everywhere, as a sculpture. A chaotic but honest insight into her mind. Skeptics said that anyone could have done it, to which Emin agreed but said that no one did. Fans of the work pointed out that the lack of curation and polish was what gave the work its subversive candidness. Personally, I don’t like “My Bed” but I can appreciate it and its contribution to the art that came after it that I liked more. Anyway, Surfer Rosa is considered a classic by a lot of musical geniuses. I think it’s (mostly) shit. But we got Nevermind out of it so thanks anyway.

Kind of a mid-point between Lana Del Rey and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Two artists I already consider quite mid.

You ever have a guy that all your friends were convinced you should like but you just didn’t click with? He’s fine. You don’t ever avoid him. He doesn’t make a party worse. You believe your friends when they tell you that he’s great. You even occasionally have a truly excellent three minute interval talking to this guy. But if you literally never saw him again, you wouldn’t notice unless someone else mentioned it. Talking Heads are perpetually that guy and this album did nothing to change that fact.

Y’know when you have to get a night bus and the mental case who’s drinking White Lightning moseys over to you and starts telling you his life story? And at first you’re annoyed about it but then, as more and more people pile onto the bus, you start to realise that this singular nutter is actually saving you from having to talk to lots of other blander alcoholics. Then by the time it’s your stop you’re going “You’re right, Barney, they were arseholes for sacking you from that school janitor’s job just for tell that one 9 year old to go fuck himself! I’ve met 9 year olds! He probably deserved it!” Then you leave the bus, shake it off and get back to the business of being yourself. That’s this album.