This is one of those albums where you either get it or you don’t. Kollaps isn’t just music—it’s a full-on assault on sound itself, built from clanging metal, literal power tools, and raw, guttural vocals that feel like they’re trying to dismantle traditional songwriting entirely. It’s harsh, abrasive, and absolutely chaotic, but once you start thinking about what they were doing and the context they were working in, it makes a lot more sense. Coming from post-war Berlin, Einstürzende Neubauten were reacting to their surroundings—both physically and culturally—using industrial wreckage as instruments to reflect a world that felt just as unstable. Translated, the lyrics are full of bleak, existential dread, but even without understanding a word, the sheer sound of it tells you everything you need to know. That being said, it’s not exactly an album you’ll be spinning on a daily basis. The noise and destruction are the point, but it does require patience and an open mind to fully appreciate. Tracks like Tanz Debil and Steh auf Berlin feel like precursors to noise rock, industrial, and even modern experimental hip-hop—this is the OG drill music, quite literally. It’s not the worst album on this list by any stretch, but it does demand effort from the listener. If you’re willing to engage with it, there’s something undeniably fascinating about Kollaps, even if it’s more of an experience than an everyday listen.

Van Morrison - It’s Too Late to Stop Now Album Review There’s a fine line between capturing an artist in their raw, untamed glory and just throwing an entire concert at the listener with zero restraint. It’s Too Late to Stop Now stomps right over that line and keeps on going for what feels like an eternity. There’s no doubt Van Morrison’s band is on fire here—the brass section, in particular, is the real star of the show, blasting through the arrangements with energy and precision that keeps things lively even when Morrison himself starts to wear thin. But let’s be honest: this album is way too long. It’s the musical equivalent of being cornered by a guy in a pub who won’t stop telling you about the time he really got into transcendental meditation. A tight, single-disc live album could have been a triumph; instead, we get a bloated, self-indulgent sprawl that feels like a test of endurance. And then there’s Van. His voice, as always, is unique, but in this setting, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of his most extra tendencies. He sounds like he’s permanently halfway through eating a sandwich but still trying to belt out a soulful tune, gulping down syllables in between swigs of whatever keeps him going. Sure, it works for a few songs—his wild, impassioned delivery has always been his trademark—but over nearly two hours of growling, wailing, and borderline incomprehensible muttering, it becomes a lot. Tracks like Caravan and Domino bring undeniable energy, but so many others just meander, stretching out well beyond their welcome like an encore that nobody actually asked for. As a document of Van Morrison’s stage presence, it’s thorough—painfully so. There’s a great one-album live record hiding in here, but instead, we get a bloated, self-indulgent marathon that feels more like a challenge than an experience. By the end, you’re less in awe of Morrison’s talent and more just relieved it’s finally over.

For an album with "genius" in the title, The Genius of Ray Charles is surprisingly uneven. Split into two distinct halves, the first side is an energetic big-band swing session with Charles backed by a powerhouse brass section, and the second half shifts into lush, string-laden ballads. The big-band tracks, like Let the Good Times Roll and Two Years of Torture, have a great sense of energy, with Charles' vocals cutting through the bold, punchy arrangements. The band swings hard, and you can feel the joy in every note. But once the album moves into its orchestral side, things slow down considerably, with the dramatic string sections sometimes overpowering Charles’ natural grit and soul. There’s no denying Charles' vocal brilliance, but the album never quite finds a consistent groove. The transition from the lively, swaggering first half to the more polished, sentimental second half makes for a bit of a jarring experience. While both styles showcase different sides of his artistry, they don’t necessarily complement each other in a way that makes for a truly cohesive album. It's an enjoyable listen with standout moments, but compared to his best work, The Genius of Ray Charles feels more like a solid showcase of his versatility rather than an essential masterpiece. 3/5.

Born in the U.S.A. is undoubtedly iconic, but it didn’t resonate with me as deeply as it has with others. The lyrics are brilliant—Springsteen paints a raw, unflinching picture of a fractured, working-class America, full of broken dreams and quiet despair. But musically, it doesn’t quite hit the same emotional depths. Compared to Born to Run, this feels more polished, more designed for radio, and a bit less cohesive as an album. There are standouts, though. I’m on Fire is hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity, while Dancing in the Dark is irresistibly catchy, synth-heavy in the best way. The title track is thunderous, packed with righteous anger, but its relentless repetition can wear thin—by the end, I’m ready to move on. The production, full of 80s synths and drum machines, feels dated now, and it sands down some of the grit that makes Springsteen’s storytelling so powerful. Tracks like Downbound Train and Working on the Highway suffer the most from this. That said, Springsteen’s ability to write songs that dig into real, often ugly truths about life is undeniable. Even if the album feels more like a collection of singles than a cohesive journey, the intelligence and passion behind it still shine through. It’s a good record, but for me, Born to Run will always be the one that truly captures Springsteen’s magic.

There’s no denying that Kendrick Lamar is an ambitious artist, but To Pimp a Butterfly is a prime example of an album drowning in its own self-importance. It wants to be profound at every turn, stuffing itself with jazz-fusion instrumentals, spoken word interludes, and long-winded monologues that seem more interested in proving their depth than actually connecting with the listener. While it aims to be a powerful commentary on race, struggle, and the weight of fame, it ultimately feels like an exhausting lecture that goes nowhere. The album is so caught up in presenting itself as high art that it forgets to be engaging, making for a bloated and self-indulgent listening experience. Beyond the message, the biggest issue is the hypocrisy baked into the industry that produces this kind of music. To Pimp a Butterfly critiques the system, but it’s still a product of that same system, repackaging pain, struggle, and rebellion into something that record labels and streaming services can profit from. The cycle of “f**k the police” has been going on since the late ‘80s, and instead of finding a new way to break through, this album just repaints the same old message in abstract, overwrought colours. Worse still, it’s weighed down by the contradiction of hip-hop’s commercial machine—artists who claim to be against the system while thriving within it, benefiting from the very thing they condemn. Even if the message was delivered better, the music itself just isn’t that good. The production leans too heavily into chaotic, messy jazz and awkward funk grooves that feel more like an art school experiment than an album meant to be listened to. The beats lack cohesion, the hooks are weak, and even Kendrick’s rapping, is often buried under clunky arrangements or forced theatricality. Instead of being a timeless classic, To Pimp a Butterfly is an overcooked, self-indulgent, and ultimately forgettable album that collapses under the weight of its own ambition.

listened twice 1st time better than 2nd time. Elected is a tune though

For me there is nothing really stand out. Lyrics are decent but i lost interest with the similar sounding vibe throughout. The next Foo Fighters album is the good one, but I get it mourning the death of Kurt etc. But taking all that aside and just as a body of music it's ok... and that's about it

It's just a nice album with really good songs, nice chill mood, nice and floaty at times and quite introspective at others... and idiotech just a banger... I don't think there's a song I don't like on the whole album which is saying something there's usually one i go meh this is the weak one. i never quite understood what it is with Radiohead. I can listen to some of the most depressing derge, all the goth stuff lots of things that people would go that's a bit dark and moody. Yet some how thom yorke manages with his voice and music to instantly pull me into whatever mood he seems to be in instantly.

Mediocre Tramp Last song probably saved this from being 2/5

Feels like they are searching for a sound they haven't quite put their finger on yet. But Rock Lobster :D

It's got a few absolute bangers on it, but seriously, this album did not need to be a double—it barely needed to be a single. And as for whoever told Elton John he could pull off reggae, they need to sit down, reflect on their life choices, and maybe hand in their resignation. 1 [11:46] I get why Elton John is respected as a songwriter, but I just couldn’t get into this. It’s like being shown a famous painting and thinking, “I'd rather look inside my fridge"

wish i could rate it 4.5/5 cause I would say there's no real stand out track on the album but they're all really nice and just pleasant to listen to with enough going on to keep you engaged with the album, it's not too long and it flows really well from track to track. even the more vocal stuff has nice styling the lyrics are good sometimes metaphorical but just beautiful how they fit the music. Almost like if Radiohead were a 70s band this is the sort of album they'd make sonically at least.... especially with the track dark trees or Becalmed....

Hearing Unknown Pleasures with fresh ears reminds you why it’s considered such an essential work. It captures a moment in late-1970s Britain, a time when punk's energy had begun to fragment and become darker, more introspective sounds began to take root. Yet, this album transcends its era, sounding as fresh and evocative today for me as it must have upon its release. Unknown Pleasures it#s bleak beauty, innovative production, and emotional resonance make it for me at least a true masterpiece of its time, and all time. Martin Hannett’s production work not only elevates the band’s music but also defines the sonic template for much of what post-punk would become. I know some people don't like his production but for me it's almost as much a part of the album as the band is and the lyrics. This is not just an album to hear for it’s an album to experience. The first time I ever heard this was in a car I was about 14 traveling down the mancunian way in manchester, like the perfect setting for this album on a bleak january night, cold, dark, dreary. the car which had been talking since we left home just silenced as my friends brother put this on and it's like we all had this moment in time. by the time we got to where we were going the final notes of 'we remember nothing faded, as if perfectly timed for the journey.Two days later I brought the copy I still have on Vinyl, it's very worn these days but this is where I fell in love with post punk... obviously a 5/5 for me I couldn't rate it any other tbh, as much a part of my life as breathing at this point

I can confirm he is indeed Alive.

solid 4/5 for that album but it has dated in places though. some very 90s way's of thinking but still superbly written about and some very nice melodies to the song and interesting use of styles. what stops this being a 5 is really the fact it gets to a really good level and sustains it which makes it really nice to listen to but never gets that push over the edge into something really special for me. but as a britpop album it's one of the best for sure...

Yeah there's a reason this album is often in the top 100 albums list though, and it's mainly cause there was nothing quite like it before, and nothing really like it afterwards. Huge influence on music after 1977. There were 40 people saw the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester on 4 June 1976, they came away inspired. But they were inspired in a very Mancunian kind of way. Many people in the audience that night didn’t look at the Pistols and so much think: "I want to do that..." but instead, they looked at the young Londoners and thought "I could do way better than that!" there would be no Buzzcocks, Magazine, Joy Division, New Order, Factory Records no Happy mondays, no oasis... and that's just the manchester bands... Without the ones that got up and did something with this 'new music' there would be no Nirvana or Green Day, no Suede, no Killers, no Arctic Monkeys, no Interpol or Savages, no Blur, no Pavement, no Radiohead, Prodigy, no Arcade Fire. Having said all that the album sucks musically 3/5

Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark is a stunning fusion of jazz, folk, and pop, tied together by her evocative voice and poetic lyrics. The album feels deeply personal, like a collection of snapshots from Joni’s life. Tracks like "Free Man in Paris" and "People’s Parties" showcase her ability to capture fleeting, intimate moments and turn them into universal stories. Her songwriting feels both observational and deeply emotional, drawing the listener into her world. The orchestration is a standout feature, with lush arrangements and thoughtful touches, like the gospel-like choir in Down to You. Each song feels carefully constructed, yet the album retains an unstructured, flowing quality, especially in tracks like Troubled Child, where the jazzy undertones reflect wandering thoughts and introspection. Raised on Robbery adds energy and relatability, while Twisted ends the album with a playful, witty flourish. With its blend of sophisticated lyrics, vivid storytelling, and rich instrumentation, Court and Spark is timeless and captivating. It’s a collection of songs that lingers in your mind long after the music ends. Final Rating: 5/5

Its good like a high 4 but I think it suffers a little from all the songs being roughly the same topic. This is the album that you'd play when people have already listened to the more popular beatles albums as like the final masterpiece to the 'early' Beatles

How could it not be really... taking aside it being one of the most culturally important albums and that Brian eno said that everyone who brought a copy in its first issue started a band... or that it's in the top 20 greatest albums of all time.... I just love the sound of the velvet underground, i love the lyrics.. the guitar tuning every string to the same note... experimentational style and just how its completely different from everything else out there...

The whole thing feels like a lazy, half-arsed effort by people who think they’re clever but can’t actually deliver. It’s like they’ve walked into a pub quiz thinking they’ll smash the music round because they skimmed a Wikipedia page about jazz. You can almost hear them patting themselves on the back after every dull, lifeless chord progression. It’s not clever, it’s not interesting—it’s just pretentious waffle dressed up as something sophisticated, like one of those overpriced craft beers that tastes awful but has a trendy label. I regret every second of this. It’s like being stuck talking to someone who insists they “truly understand” Thom Yorke because they once watched Meeting People Is Easy and now won’t stop going on about how “Kid A changed the game.” They don’t really get it—they just want to sound deep. This album feels like it’s trying so hard to be smart and different but has absolutely nothing to say. At least I can confidently say I never want to hear Steely Dan again. This is pretentious rubbish for people who think their music taste is “classy” because they’ve got a vinyl player from Argos and a shelf full of “Greatest Albums Ever” reissues. It’s music for people who talk a lot about sound quality but wouldn’t know a good tune if it hit them in the face. Total waste of time.

In other news 4/5 for Killing Joke... if this album had 'eighties' on it 5/5

This is, without question, my favorite Cure album. It's one of those records that feels completely otherworldly, like it exists on its own plane. Listening to it on headphones is an experience—every sound is so intricate, so perfectly placed, it’s almost intoxicating. The opening is incredible: the shimmering, panned chimes that seem to dance around you, followed by the deep, grounding thud of bass and synth—it’s like a one-two punch that takes your breath away. The first two tracks are pure magic, the way they complement each other, like two parts of the same thought. The reverb, the delay, the EQ—it’s all done with such precision, creating this hypnotic effect that pulls you in completely. I find myself wanting to shut everything else out, just sit in the dark and let this album take over. It’s like drifting in and out of consciousness, somewhere between dreaming and waking, and honestly, I could stay there forever. What really gets me is the contrast. The way it moves between delicate, almost fragile moments and these saturated, intense bursts of sound. It’s dramatic in the most perfect way—gripping, emotional, but never forced. It’s not just an album; it’s a world you step into, and every time I listen, I never want to leave. A true masterpiece.

I’m a bit conflicted about this one. On the one hand, Paul Weller’s talent for writing a solid tune is undeniable—there’s a real knack for melody and catchiness throughout. The songs are nice, no doubt about that. But something about it feels a little of it’s dated, but not in a way that feels charming or timeless. It’s more like it’s trapped in a specific moment that doesn’t quite hold up. What really struck me, though, is how much this feels like Weller is trying to channel Steve Winwood. I can’t fully explain it, but I could easily imagine this as a Winwood album instead. It’s not a bad listen by any means, but it doesn’t feel particularly special, either. It’s like a lot of those records that 70s rock artists put out during this time—polished, competent, but missing that extra spark that makes it truly stand out. It’s like a decent brew that’s gone lukewarm; drinkable, but nothing to rave about.

Morrison Hotel is split into two halves: Hard Rock Cafe and Morrison Hotel, and they’ve got two pretty distinct vibes. The first half, "Hard Rock Cafe," is the blues one, and I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting much from it. The Doors, to me, have always been more about the psychedelic stuff, so the blues approach wasn’t something I thought I’d enjoy. But it’s actually quite decent. Roadhouse Blues is fine, it’s got the energy you’d expect, but it’s nothing particularly special. The rest of the side, however, has some great moments. Peace Frog stands out with that groove that’s unmistakably The Doors, and You Make Me Real is almost like garage rock. Waiting for the Sun is another highlight it brings a bit more atmosphere into the mix. Overall, it’s better than I had anticipated. The second half, is where you’d expect me to really get invested. This is meant to be the psychedelic half. And there’s some of that here; Land Ho! has a fun, trippy energy, and Indian Summer which was actually the 1st track they ever wrote back in 1965, I appreciated but seemed to me to be a much shorter version of the more famous 'The End' . But the rest? It didn’t leave much of an impression. The songs are fine, but they’re not the kind of tracks that linger in your mind. I kept hoping for something to really stand out, and it just never quite materialized. All in all, the first side was a pleasant surprise, while the second side fell short of expectations. It’s not a bad album; but it’s not the one I’d recommend to someone new to The Doors. A 3.5 if I’m feeling generous, but realistically, it’s more of a 3 when you look at the whole package. Decent enough; but they’ve done better.

Lauryn Hill’s undeniable talent is the lone saving grace of The Score, but even her brilliance can’t save this monotonous and overhyped album. “Killing Me Softly” is fine at best, but it pales in comparison to the original—hardly worth the effort of this reimagining. The rest of the album drones on, recycling the same tired beats for nearly every track, making it feel like one endless, lifeless loop. Even the skits, which should add charm or personality, are nothing more than irritating interruptions. The lyrics? Without having them in front of me, I’d have no idea what’s being said, and when I do catch bits of it, the subject matter is either gratingly crude or so far removed from anything I care about that it’s impossible to engage with. "Mista, Mista," for example, attempts to be a soft, reflective ballad but is ruined by gratuitous profanity and its overly bleak focus on addiction. It comes across as trying too hard to be edgy rather than meaningful. If anything, listening to this album underscores why Lauryn Hill left the group to go solo—her talent deserved so much better than this repetitive, uninspired production. Adding to the distaste is the knowledge of Wyclef Jean’s mismanagement and exploitation through his Yéle Haiti charity, which casts an even darker shadow over the whole experience. The Score may be considered a classic by some, but for me, it’s a shallow, monotonous slog that I couldn’t wait to end.

A descent into darkness, a corridor lined with echoes, each track a new step deeper into the abyss. Closer is less an album and more a confession, a whispered cry from a soul teetering on the edge. The opening, "Atrocity Exhibition," doesn’t welcome—it confronts. It is ugly, abrasive, and hauntingly human. There’s bravery in that choice, in starting with chaos and daring you to follow. This is not music that soothes. It writhes, it mourns, it disorients. The basslines pull like an undertow; the guitars claw at the edges of sanity. Martin Hannett’s production wraps the sound in a spectral fog, machines humming like ghosts beneath every melody. It is alien and yet painfully intimate, the dissonance of feeling too much and not enough. By "Heart and Soul," the transition becomes clearer—the rawness of Unknown Pleasures is still here, but now it’s surrounded by the cold light of synthesis. The human touch remains, but it fights through the circuitry, making the pain all the more palpable. Every lyric, every note, feels like a confrontation with mortality, with futility. When "Decades" arrives, it’s as though the record itself is taking its last breath. Some hear war, others hear life reflected from the grave. Both are right. It’s a culmination, a fragile beauty that fractures under its own weight. This isn’t just an album; it’s a testament, a warning. It’s goth before goth, post-punk as the shadow of something even darker. Closer doesn’t ask you to understand. It doesn’t even ask for your empathy. It simply is—unforgiving, relentless, stunning in its despair. Two months later, Ian Curtis was gone. What remains is this jagged monument, a tombstone etched in sound. You wonder if it could have saved him, but salvation never lived here. It is rain that follows the sun, a shroud over brighter days. Yet, in its hopelessness, it finds a way to dance. You can feel its influence in bands that followed, in sounds that dared to scrape at the edges of light. And somehow, from this, New Order rose.

Southern Rock Opera feels like a love letter to Southern rock culture, wrapped in heavy critique. It starts intriguingly, with thoughtful commentary on identity and racism, but quickly loses its spark. The concept is compelling, yet the 90-minute runtime turns into a test of patience as the songs blend together, leaving little that truly stands out. Musically, it’s polished but lacks grit. Tracks like The Southern Thing and Angels and Fuselage offer glimpses of brilliance, but much of it feels like a parody—campy vocals and overdone tropes that wear thin. A standout moment for me was when a female voice took over briefly, elevating the energy and coolness of the album, but it was fleeting. I wanted to connect with this, but it felt more like an academic project than a visceral experience. For all its ambition, it left me checked out, longing for something deeper and less self-aware. Highlights: Birmingham, Angels and Fuselage.

Coldplay’s Parachutes is, in many ways, a snapshot of their earliest promise—a record steeped in melancholy, nostalgia, and those iconic hooks that would come to define their sound. For some, it’s easy to dismiss Coldplay as middle-of-the-road, a band that seldom ventures into the unknown. Yet, when you step back, there’s an undeniable magic in this debut. It’s a competent, heartfelt collection of songs that set the stage for one of the biggest bands in the world, even if it doesn’t fully realize the creative risks it hints at beneath the surface. Listening to Parachutes, I’m struck by the guitar-driven pop-rock at its core. The shimmering guitars, tinged with tasteful delay and modulation effects, create a soundscape that’s as earnest as it is atmospheric. There’s a certain charm in the simplicity of the melodies and the emotional weight behind Chris Martin’s delivery. Tracks like Shiver and Spies remind me of a Coldplay reaching for an alternative edge, leaning into a rawness that would later be smoothed over in their more polished works. Still, there’s a sense of safety here, a reluctance to push boundaries. They flirt with unique ideas but often pull back, opting for comfort over surprise. It’s frustrating, in a way, because you can hear the possibility of something more just beneath the surface—a potential that remains tantalizingly out of reach. For me, the second half of the album resonates more deeply. From Trouble through to the hidden track, Life Is For Living, there’s a personal vulnerability in the music that feels genuine. These songs unfold like moody, introspective reflections, offering a glimpse of authenticity and earnestness that might explain why this debut continues to connect with so many. It feels like disjointed sad songs strung together, but somehow, Coldplay manages to sell the vibe, imperfections and all. Yet, my relationship with this album is complicated. It’s not just about the music—it’s about the memories tied to it. Parachutes became a time capsule of sorts, forever linked to a difficult period in my life. Coldplay was the first band I saw live on my own, at a venue that wasn’t Glastonbury, where I always had other people to lean on. I thought I was ready, and I wasn’t. They were undeniably great, but I wasn’t prepared to feel what I felt that night. That push and pull, the simultaneous longing for more from this album and relief at being able to shelve it when later records arrived, has shaped my view of Parachutes. It’s a bittersweet strain down memory lane, a reminder of a time when I felt everything too much. Maybe that’s why I don’t come back to this album often. It’s not that I dislike Coldplay—it’s that Parachutes pulls me too deeply into my own head, to places I don’t always want to revisit. In that way, it’s akin to how some people feel about Radiohead—an inescapable emotional gravity. And while I’ve drifted from Coldplay in the years since, there’s a part of me that still holds onto this record. It’s flawed, it’s safe, but it’s also earnest and human. Maybe that’s why it lingers.

Born in the U.S.A. is undoubtedly iconic, but it didn’t resonate with me as deeply as it has with others. The lyrics are brilliant—Springsteen paints a raw, unflinching picture of a fractured, working-class America, full of broken dreams and quiet despair. But musically, it doesn’t quite hit the same emotional depths. Compared to Born to Run, this feels more polished, more designed for radio, and a bit less cohesive as an album. There are standouts, though. I’m on Fire is hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity, while Dancing in the Dark is irresistibly catchy, synth-heavy in the best way. The title track is thunderous, packed with righteous anger, but its relentless repetition can wear thin—by the end, I’m ready to move on. The production, full of 80s synths and drum machines, feels dated now, and it sands down some of the grit that makes Springsteen’s storytelling so powerful. Tracks like Downbound Train and Working on the Highway suffer the most from this. That said, Springsteen’s ability to write songs that dig into real, often ugly truths about life is undeniable. Even if the album feels more like a collection of singles than a cohesive journey, the intelligence and passion behind it still shine through. It’s a good record, but for me, Born to Run will always be the one that truly captures Springsteen’s magic.

Review for Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! Songs for Swingin’ Lovers! is Frank Sinatra at his most polished and charismatic, crooning his way through a collection of timeless standards with the lush support of Nelson Riddle’s orchestration. Released in 1956, it’s a hallmark of the easy-listening genre, with tracks like “You Make Me Feel So Young,” “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and “Pennies from Heaven” defining Sinatra’s swingin’ persona. But let’s be honest: if you strip away the classy veneer, this album is basically Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” for people who were 20 years old in 1956. Think about it—this was the soundtrack for a generation looking to sip martinis, put on their best suits, and charm their way into someone’s heart (and maybe a little more). While Trent Reznor’s version of seduction is all moody aggression and whispered promises of destruction, Sinatra’s is all winks, finger guns, and velvety smoothness. It’s the same game, just with a better haircut and less eyeliner. For those new to Sinatra, this album offers a great introduction, embodying his charm and the golden age of crooning. But for listeners who want more variety or emotional depth, it may come off as background music—great for washing dishes or hosting a dinner party but unlikely to leave a lasting impression. 3/5.. just middle of the road swing that's just inoffensive and classic but not going to listen to this again of my own free will

Stephen Stills’ Manassas double LP is as ambitious as it is enjoyable, packed with enough variety to keep you engaged while feeling like a musical journey that goes from coast to coast in the USA. It starts off slow, like someone easing into a jam session, before finding its stride with tracks like "Anyway." By the middle, the album leans heavily into country and western territory, capturing that old Appalachian charm with fiddles and banjos reminiscent of the Carter Family, Clarence Ashley, and Dock Boggs—but updated for the time. It’s the kind of pure Americana sound that might make you want to do a little jig, even if it occasionally meanders before the latter sides bring it home with lush harmonies and tight grooves. Manassas isn’t perfect—double albums rarely are—but it captures the spirit of the early ’70s with its bold ambition and variety. From the bluesy closer "Blues Man" to the layered energy of "Move Around," it’s an album full of heartfelt Americana that feels like a proper road trip soundtrack. It’s a mix of heartfelt and fun, like a long road trip with an old friend who can’t stop switching radio stations, but keeps finding good songs when he does so.

Herbie Hancock’s Head Hunters is a genre-defining blend of synth funk, jazz, and tribal influences, creating grooves that are both cool and meticulously crafted. The album’s opener, Chameleon, draws you in with its layered progression and irresistible funk, while Watermelon Man stands out with its tribal intro and playful refrains, keeping you hooked and slightly disoriented in the best way. Tracks like Sly showcase electrifying solos that blur the line between chaos and groove. The album's four extended tracks are masterfully composed, but some feel a bit lengthy or too similar, occasionally losing momentum. That said, it excels at creating an immersive experience, hitting a subtle yet deeply engaging vibe. Listening to this album on the day my uncle passed away offered a much-needed distraction, filling my crowded mind with jazzy, wordless vibes that helped me breathe. While not perfect, Head Hunters remains an innovative and timeless work of jazz-funk fusion.

I’m starting to suspect that Nick Drake might have been one of the greatest songwriters the world has ever seen. His early death robbed the world of something truly extraordinary, but Five Leaves Left is a reminder of the brilliance he left behind. These songs are heartwrenchingly beautiful, offering a glimpse into the mind of a man whose quiet sadness and poetic genius permeate every note. The blend of hushed vocals, intricate guitar work, and unique instrumentation makes this album feel like a mystic dream or a dark fairy tale. The strings on River Man are among the finest in folk music, and Three Hours seamlessly incorporates jazz basslines and understated percussion. The prophetic line from Fruit Tree, “They’ll all know that you were here when you’re gone,” Hits particually hard and it ends with 'Saturday Sun' a glimmer of warmth and hope a perfect, understated ending to an emotional but interesting journey. Drake’s influence is undeniable, even decades after his passing. Artists like Robert Smith of The Cure and Paul Weller have sung his praises, helping to bring his music to a wider audience. It’s hard to believe this wasn’t widely appreciated in his time. Five Leaves Left isn’t just a hidden gem—it’s a masterpiece. It’s an album I could listen to endlessly, each note resonating with a rare emotional depth. Nick Drake’s legacy is one of quiet brilliance, and this record deserves every bit of praise.

Tarkus is what happens when unchecked virtuosity meets a glaring lack of self-awareness. Keith Emerson dominates the album with his manic keyboard solos, scampering across the synths like a cat being chased, though you can’t help but think those keys should’ve been a guitar. The 22-minute title track is less a cohesive epic and more a disjointed showcase of Emerson’s ability to play really fast. It’s impressive in the way a juggling act is impressive—technically astounding but ultimately empty. For all their technical skill, Emerson, Lake & Palmer seem more interested in showing off than crafting something worth returning to. The album is overly polished but soulless, full of ideas that never gel. Despite its ambition, Tarkus feels half-baked—an experiment that thinks it’s revolutionary but ends up sounding both weird and generic at the same time. Listening to Tarkus is like attending a three-ring circus where the performers are undeniably talented, but the acts don’t flow, and you’re left wondering why you even came. It’s not bad enough to be offensive, but it’s not good enough to warrant a second listen. A few flashes of brilliance can’t save it from its own overblown pretensions.

Oracular Spectacular is an album that feels more like a cultural artefact of the late 2000s than anything truly memorable. It leans entirely on two monster singles, "Electric Feel" and "Kids," which admittedly still hold up as fun, catchy tracks that remind me of my first years living in Connecticut. Beyond that? The album quickly devolves into a tedious slog of dreary filler and pretentious psych-rock posturing. The non-single tracks are indulgent exercises in spacey, high-frequency noise that feel like a deliberate rehash of the worst parts of 1970s psych-rock. Instead of coming across as innovative, the production sounds washed-out, and the song writing feels half-baked. If you want an example of how it should be done, Gorillaz's Melancholy Hill from around that time shows how to mix radio-style vocals, synth-pop, and rock in a way that feels cohesive and inspired. While Oracular Spectacular gave the world a couple of hits that defined a brief moment in time, the rest of the album is a hollow, frustrating experience that reeks of style over substance. For every "Electric Feel," there’s a barrage of uninspired, screechy nonsense that makes you wonder why you’re even still listening. Two good tracks can’t save an album this bloated with filler.

It’s baffling that Aja holds such an exalted place in music history. Listening to this album feels like being trapped at a dinner party you never wanted to attend, where the conversation is polite but utterly lifeless. There’s no spark, no urgency—just a relentless stream of pristine, overthought compositions that leave you cold. Sure, there are brief flashes of guitar work that hint at potential, but they’re swallowed by a sea of sterile smoothness. This is music stripped of grit and soul, so perfectly manicured that it borders on oppressive. You can practically hear punk kicking down the door to banish this kind of indulgent, hollow perfectionism. Even when I tried to meet the album halfway, listening with fresh ears and some goodwill, it failed to deliver. The much-lauded production is a technical marvel, but it only serves to highlight how empty the music itself is. For all its technical prowess, the songwriting is lifeless, the performances uninspired, and the arrangements feel like they’ve been sanitized to the point of irrelevance. Tracks like “Deacon Blues” aim for grandeur but crumble under their own weight, offering little more than an elaborate exercise in mediocrity. It’s hard to feel anything when the music itself seems designed to avoid any confrontation with raw emotion. Music should stir something in the listener—joy, rage, heartbreak, even discomfort. But Aja does none of these. It’s the sonic equivalent of beige wallpaper in a beige room, for people who dream in beige and wake up thankful nothing in their beige world has changed. It’s music for those who fear vulnerability, wrapped in a smooth, unremarkable package that flatters itself as sophisticated. This is not an album that makes you feel alive; it’s one that dulls the senses until you forget what being alive even means. Perhaps the most damning indictment of Aja is its infamy as a tool of torture for prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. That, if nothing else, tells you everything you need to know.

The Vines - Highly Evolved Album Review The Vines’ 2002 debut, Highly Evolved, is a raw, energetic blend of garage rock, grunge, and Britpop swagger. Bursting with aggressive guitars, pounding drums, and snarling vocals, tracks like “Get Free” and “Outtathaway!” deliver catchy anthems that embody early 2000s rock revival. The band’s frenetic energy and unpolished charm make these highlights impossible to ignore. What sets the album apart is its versatility. While fast-paced, hard-hitting tracks dominate, songs like “Autumn Shade” show The Vines’ ability to slow things down and embrace melody. However, this variety also exposes the album’s inconsistency, with standout moments frequently interrupted by less compelling filler, preventing it from achieving a cohesive flow. Despite its unevenness, Highly Evolved captures the rebellious spirit of its era and helped bring guitar-driven rock back into the mainstream. It’s a thrilling, if flawed, debut that showcases a band full of potential and leaves a lasting impression with its best tracks.

Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim is a fascinating collaboration that pairs Sinatra’s iconic baritone with Jobim’s masterful bossa nova sensibilities. The album walks a fine line between genius and tension, with Jobim’s subtle brilliance often playing second fiddle to Sinatra’s commanding presence. Tracks like “The Girl from Ipanema” and “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars” evoke a dreamy, melancholic beauty, though Sinatra’s voice occasionally feels too forceful for the gentle, wistful tones that define the genre. The charm of this album lies in its lush, bossa nova-infused arrangements, which create an atmosphere that is both sophisticated and soothing. Sinatra’s ability to adapt to this style demonstrates his range as a vocalist, though some tracks feel haunted by earlier renditions from Getz and Gilberto. Despite these ghosts, the album’s overall sound is undeniably pretty, with the orchestra’s warm, breezy flow complementing Sinatra’s voice in ways that feel simultaneously nostalgic and innovative. While the album showcases Sinatra’s taste-making ability and willingness to step outside his comfort zone, Jobim’s contributions remain its beating heart. It’s a shame that bossa nova has been reduced to background music in popular consciousness, as projects like this highlight the genre’s depth and beauty. Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim is not without its flaws, but it is an eminently listenable piece of art, offering a compelling fusion of two musical titans.

Lou Reed’s Transformer is nothing short of a masterpiece, a glam-rock triumph that marries his gritty lyrical storytelling with the flamboyant sheen of 1970s decadence. Produced by David Bowie and Mick Ronson, the album captures the essence of New York’s underground scene while propelling Reed into the mainstream with its slick, genre-defying sound. From the sultry groove of “Walk on the Wild Side” to the hauntingly beautiful “Perfect Day,” Transformer is an album that feels as bold and revolutionary now as it did upon release. What makes Transformer a five-star classic is its flawless blend of art and accessibility. Reed’s deadpan delivery and vivid, often provocative lyrics find the perfect counterbalance in Ronson’s lush arrangements and Bowie’s glam rock polish. Tracks like “Satellite of Love” shimmer with wistful beauty, while “Vicious” and “I’m So Free” burst with swaggering energy. Every song on the album feels essential, each revealing a new layer of Reed’s artistry, from biting wit to heartfelt vulnerability. With Transformer, Lou Reed redefined what a rock album could be, combining raw emotion, theatricality, and cultural commentary in a way that feels timeless. It’s a celebration of individuality, a snapshot of a vibrant, transgressive era, and a showcase of Reed’s unmatched ability to turn poetry into music. Few albums manage to be this groundbreaking while remaining utterly listenable, and Transformer stands as one of rock’s most enduring achievements.

LP1 is less an album and more an elaborate test of patience. FKA twigs has a voice, sure, but she seems determined to bury it under a heap of glitchy, overproduced sound effects and falsetto acrobatics that quickly wear thin. Each track meanders aimlessly, like a dubstep song stuck in first gear, never delivering any kind of payoff. It’s music that desperately wants to feel profound but ends up feeling like you accidentally wandered into someone’s experimental college art project. The production is sterile and overwrought, stripping away any chance of emotional connection. The lyrics—if you can even call them that—are little more than breathy, disconnected fragments that float over a backdrop of beats that can’t decide if they’re coming or going. It’s like listening to an overambitious student composer throwing every effect they can find into the mix, hoping it will somehow stick together. Spoiler: it doesn’t. Artists like Kate Bush or Tori Amos could pull off eccentricity with charm and coherence, but LP1 feels more like a random collection of noise that never even tries to hit that mark. Occasionally, the album flirts with something resembling an interesting idea, but it always fizzles out before it can go anywhere. It’s not just unmemorable—it actively defies you to care about it. For an album hailed as a critical darling, LP1 is an exhausting slog of pretentious production and lifeless performances. I didn’t just dislike this album—I actively hated it. Listening to it wasn’t an experience; it was a chore. One star—for at least knowing how to hit record.

Some albums are made on alcohol some on psychedelics—this one sounds like it was made entirely on Viagra. Sign "O" the Times is Prince in full, unfiltered, permanently-horny overdrive, stretching a single album’s worth of ideas into a two-LP marathon of funk, falsetto, and feverish lust. From start to finish, it’s like he’s trying to seduce the listener, the microphone, and possibly the entire world, and Im just not interested, it gets exhausting when he just won’t quit. Like someone pestering you in a nightclub when all you want to do is have a dance. There are some nicer moments. “The Cross” is a banger of a tune, “Housequake” is just silly fun. But then there’s way too much filler, a lot of meandering, and If I Was Your Girlfriend, isn’t just weird, it’s creepy. It’s Prince at his most obsessive, whispering and crooning in a way that feels less like seduction and more like he’s watching you through the blinds. The album is overflowing with ideas, but it’s like he refused to edit anything. There’s a great single album buried in here, but as a double LP, Sign "O" the Times is a test of endurance. It’s like Prince was so in love with every idea that he refused to cut anything, and the result is something that feels less like a masterpiece and more like an overexcited teenager showing you all his unfinished demos. Iconic? I guess in a way. A great listen? Not really. Compared to Purple Rain it's just not in the same league.

In A Silent Way doesn’t ask for your attention, it grabs it, slowly and effortlessly. This isn’t jazz that swings, pops, or even really moves in the way you expect. Instead, it floats, unravelling time until you forget where one note ends and the next begins. The electric pianos hum like streetlights flickering to life in the dusk, the guitar drifts in and out, and Miles well his trumpet slipping through the mix like the wind blowing gently around you. It’s so delicate that you almost don’t realize how much tension is lurking underneath, like the calm before something either beautiful or a storm happens, and you’re just waiting to see which way the clouds are blowing. This is jazz stripped down to its very bare essence. Space, mood, and the art of not saying too much. Miles is practically daring you to slow down, to stop expecting anything, and just exist inside the music. It’s the sound of a band listening as much as playing, every note hovering on the edge of something bigger. And just when you think you’re about to drift off into some blissful, weightless oblivion, the whole thing fades out—like it was never really there to begin with. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing.

My Generation isn’t just an album—it’s a 36-minute declaration of war against boredom, authority, and anyone over the age of 30. The Who don’t just play these songs; they attack them, with Keith Moon’s drumming sounding like a caffeinated octopus having a meltdown, John Entwistle’s bass rumbling like a muscle car at a red light, and Pete Townshend slashing at his guitar like it owes him money. Then there’s Roger Daltrey, who doesn’t so much sing as bark, snarl, and, on the immortal title track, stutter his way into rock ‘n’ roll history. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it sounds like four young punks trying to smash their way through the walls of a recording studio. But beneath the chaos, there’s something razor-sharp about My Generation. The songs are tight, the hooks are undeniable, and there’s a desperate urgency in every chord. “The Kids Are Alright” and “A Legal Matter” show flashes of melody beneath the sneer, but at its core, this album is pure, unfiltered teenage frustration. It’s the sound of a band that hadn’t yet mastered their instruments but absolutely knew what they wanted to say. And what they’re saying, loudly and repeatedly, is get out of our way. Nearly 60 years later, that youthful defiance still crackles through every note. I like this album, but you can tell it’s shackled by the limits of 1965 recording technology. The Who want to be heavier, and you can hear them straining against the era’s sonic restrictions, begging for the kind of bone-rattling power that the '70s would later deliver. The guitars are crunchy but not quite feral, the bass rumbles but doesn’t roar, and Keith Moon sounds like he’s trying to punch a hole through a drum kit that just won’t let him. My Generation is a raw, explosive spark of what’s to come, but it’s clear The Who were already itching to kick the door open even wider.

There’s a calm, reflective beauty to Water From An Ancient Well, but it also feels like it’s got one foot stuck in the past. The playing is smooth, the melodies are lovely, but the whole thing has a slightly dusty, "Grandads jazz collection" vibe. It’s well put together, but it never really pushes—just sort of flows along, happy to exist. At its best, like on the title track, you get glimpses of something deeper, but too often, it leans into that overly polite, hotel-lobby sound where you’re nodding along but not exactly moved. The biggest issue? It feels a bit too safe. Ibrahim is clearly a great musician, but this album plays like a well-behaved history lesson instead of something alive and unpredictable. It’s the jazz equivalent of a really nice but wood wormed antique chair—you can appreciate the craftsmanship, but you wouldn’t want to sit in it for too long. Pleasant? Yeah as background music, Essential? Not really.

Some albums are bad, and then there’s Welcome to the Afterfuture, which isn’t necessarily bad—just aggressively, relentlessly annoying. The production alone might have scraped a 2/5—some half-decent beats, a few atmospheric moments—but the second Mike Ladd starts rapping, it’s like being trapped in a explicit lecture from someone reading out the urban dictionary and these lyrics are a hastily thrown together word salad and pointless swearing that feels less rebellious and more like filler because he ran out of things to say. The worst part is it never lets up. Every track is another round of forced edginess, scattered thoughts, and clunky delivery, all stretched over beats that deserve better. The only truly listenable track is “To the Moon’s Contractor”—an instrumental, because of course the best moment on the album is the one where Mike Ladd shuts up. And yet, somehow, despite having no lyrics, it’s still rated Explicit. Without the rapping, this could maybe be a tolerable 2/5, but with it, I’m struggling to even call it a 1. Less an album, more an endurance test. Still better than some of that Steely Dan I had to listen to, though.

Some albums aren’t just great, they go way beyond this as if they are woven into the fabric of time and music itself. Blue is one of those albums. Joni Mitchell strips everything down to its bare essentials—just her voice, her words, and a handful of acoustic instruments—and somehow creates something that feels bigger than any full-band production ever could. The songwriting is devastatingly intimate, packed with raw emotion and poetic brilliance. Whether she’s longing for escape on California, reminiscing over lost love in A Case of You, or unraveling pure heartbreak on River, every song hits like a personal confession. There’s no filter, no pretense—just unvarnished honesty that cuts deeper with every listen. Joni’s voice is a marvel, shifting effortlessly from warm and comforting to sharp and piercing in an instant. While people love to joke about Bob Dylan’s voice needing a disclaimer, no such warning is needed here. Her delivery isn’t just technically impressive—it’s so deeply personal that it feels impossible to separate her from the music. Her unique tunings and delicate, precise guitar work only add to the magic, making every song feel like it could only ever belong to her. The melodies twist and turn in ways that defy easy imitation, creating songs that feel both familiar and impossible to replicate. Plenty of artists have tried to capture what Joni does here, but none quite succeed. They all wish they could sing like Joni Mitchell can and make an album like this. But they never really can...

It’s impossible to talk about Remain in Light without talking about rhythm—layered, hypnotic, unrelenting. This isn’t just an album that flirts with Afrobeat; it fully absorbs it, reshaping itself in its image. Talking Heads fully commit, building entire songs out of restless, looping patterns that never stop moving. The opening one-two punch of Born Under Punches (The Heat Goes On) and Crosseyed and Painless is pure nervous energy, while The Great Curve is a monster—Tina Weymouth’s bass and Chris Frantz’s drums locked together like a machine, with Adrian Belew’s guitar screeching and contorting like it’s trying to escape reality itself. It’s dense, intricate, and completely hypnotic. Brian Eno fingerprints are everywhere. He didn’t just produce this record; he shaped it, layering sounds in a way that pushes Remain in Light beyond post-punk into something closer to a living organism. There’s an argument to be made that this is just as much an Eno album as a Talking Heads one, but if that’s true, it’s one of the best things either of them ever put their names on. Remain in Light never loses that Talking Head weirdness though David Byrne spends the whole record sounding like a man having a crisis, ranting about political paranoia, fragmented identity, and, in Seen and Not Seen, literally monologuing about reshaping his own face through sheer willpower. And then there’s Once in a Lifetime, the most famous track here—somehow fusing pop, anxiety and existential dread into one of the greatest singles of the ‘80s. It’s a song that feels like a nervous breakdown you can dance to. This is one of those albums that was so ahead of its time that entire genres are still catching up. There is still water flowing underground...

nothing entirely remarkable about this album, some moments were nice, but this just felt like background filler/grocery store mall music. Not gonna return probably

Billy Joel might be one of the easiest musicians to make fun of, but The Stranger proves there was a time when he deserved to be taken seriously. It’s packed with big, bold melodies, sharply written working-class vignettes, and that undeniable Joel knack for crafting a tune that sticks in your head whether you want it to or not. Songs like Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song) and Scenes from an Italian Restaurant show his ability to blend storytelling with pop hooks, while Only the Good Die Young bounces along with just the right amount of rebellious charm. Even the mega-hit Just the Way You Are—overplayed to death at weddings—still holds up as a well-crafted ballad, even if it’s not the album’s strongest moment. But for all its craftsmanship, The Stranger can’t quite shake a certain glossy, overly polished quality that makes it feel just a little too eager to please. Joel’s theatrical delivery sometimes pushes things into cheesier territory, and tracks like Everybody Has a Dream try to hit big, emotional heights but end up feeling forced. Still, the production is slick, the melodies are undeniable, and even when the album leans into its more saccharine tendencies, it’s hard to deny that it’s all executed with precision. The best moments, like the title track and Vienna, show a depth and sophistication that make you wish Joel leaned into his subtler side more often. For all the criticisms Joel gets, one thing’s for sure: he’s a better version of Elton John. He may not have the same flamboyance, but his songs are sharper, his lyrics more grounded, and his music less reliant on bombast for impact. The Stranger isn’t a perfect album, but it’s proof that, at his peak, Billy Joel was more than just a pop hit machine—he was a songwriter who could hold his own, even if he sometimes played it a little too safe.

Run-D.M.C. - Raising Hell Album Review I get why Raising Hell is considered a landmark album, but listening to it now, it just feels... fine. Not bad, not great, just there. The production is stripped down to the essentials—big, booming beats, simple but effective rock guitar riffs, and that signature Run-D.M.C. back-and-forth delivery. Tracks like It’s Tricky and My Adidas still have that undeniable energy, and Walk This Way is, well, Walk This Way—a crossover moment that’s been talked about to death. It’s all solid, but nothing about it really grabs me beyond its historical significance. The problem is, once you get past the big moments, there’s not much keeping me engaged. The flows feel stiff compared to what came after, the production—while influential—sounds a little too bare at times, and some tracks just blur together. I respect what Run-D.M.C. did here, blending hip-hop and rock in a way that changed the genre forever, but I can’t say I love listening to it. It’s loud, brash, and confident, but also kind of repetitive, like they found one gear and stuck with it for the whole album. That said, I don’t dislike Raising Hell—it just doesn’t excite me. It’s the kind of album I can nod along to but not something I’d actively put on. I respect its place in history, and I get why people love it, but for me, it’s just okay. Not a game-changer, not a skip-all-the-way-through situation, just… meh.

Orange Juice - Rip It Up Album Review Rip It Up is a fun, quirky little album that doesn’t quite reach greatness but has enough charm to make it worthwhile. Orange Juice blend post-punk jangle with a funky, almost disco-like groove, creating something that feels light, effortless, and refreshingly offbeat. The title track is easily the highlight, with its bouncy, rubbery bassline and sly, knowing vocal delivery, a song so catchy it almost tricks you into thinking the whole album will be just as infectious. Elsewhere, tracks like Flesh of My Flesh and Louise Louise have a scrappy, playful energy that keeps things moving along nicely, even if they never quite hit the same highs. The problem with Rip It Up is that it never fully commits to being one thing. At times, it leans into funk and new wave, at others, it feels like a more polished version of their early post-punk roots, but it never quite locks into a distinct identity. Edwyn Collins’ deadpan croon adds character, but occasionally the album meanders, with songs like Breakfast Time and A Million Pleading Faces feeling more like pleasant background music than essential listening. The band’s decision to embrace slicker production works in some places but also smooths out some of the raw charm that made their early work so unique. That being said, Rip It Up is still an enjoyable listen. It’s got an undeniable sense of fun, some strong grooves, and enough personality to keep things interesting, even if it never fully delivers on its potential. It’s good, sometimes very good, but never quite great. A solid, enjoyable album that just stops short of being a classic.

Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not Album Review Arctic Monkeys’ debut is often hailed as a defining indie rock record, but stripped of its initial hype, it feels more like a collection of energetic yet repetitive tracks. The production is deliberately raw, matching the band’s barroom grit, but this unpolished sound causes many songs to blur together. Tracks like I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor and The View from the Afternoon burst with urgency, but their relentless pacing leaves little room for dynamics. Even when the band slows down, as in Riot Van, the stripped-back approach feels underdeveloped rather than refreshing. Lyrically, Alex Turner’s sharp storytelling captures the chaos of British nightlife with humour and wit, but the themes rarely evolve beyond drunken encounters and social posturing. Songs like Fake Tales of San Francisco and Still Take You Home are fun but ultimately feel one-note, and by the time A Certain Romance attempts some reflection, the formula has worn thin. While the album’s energy is undeniable, the lack of variety and depth makes it feel more like a promising start than a fully realized classic. There’s no doubt Whatever People Say I Am... had an impact, but its relentless speed and limited scope make it feel less timeless than some of its indie rock peers. It’s a fun ride, but one that runs out of new tricks before it’s over.

Jack White - Blunderbuss Album Review Blunderbuss is a solid, occasionally brilliant record that shows Jack White stepping out of his usual garage-rock chaos and embracing a more refined, bluesy aesthetic. It’s still unmistakably him—sharp guitar work, off-kilter melodies, and that restless energy—but with a little more polish and maturity. Tracks like Sixteen Saltines and Freedom at 21 deliver the jagged, riff-heavy punch you’d expect, while Love Interruption and Hypocritical Kiss lean into softer, more soulful territory. White’s always been great at balancing the raw and the delicate, and this album proves he’s just as compelling outside The White Stripes as he was within them. That being said, Blunderbuss doesn’t completely escape White’s tendency to wander. While the mix of rock, blues, folk, and piano balladry is interesting, some tracks feel more like experiments than fully fleshed-out songs. The production is warm and organic, but at times, the album feels like it’s searching for a stronger identity. White bounces between swaggering confidence and melancholy introspection, and while that contrast is part of his charm, it can make the album feel a little scattered. Still, even at its most uneven, Blunderbuss is an enjoyable ride. It’s Jack White proving he can go beyond what people expect from him, exploring new textures without losing his signature edge. It may not be his best work, but it’s a compelling, well-crafted album.

The Thrills - So Much For The City Album Review There are some albums that just feel like a perfect way to start the day, and So Much For The City is one of them. Warm, breezy, and effortlessly melodic, it’s a record that rolls along like a lazy drive down the coast, with jangly guitars, rich harmonies, and just the right amount of nostalgia. From the sun-drenched bliss of Big Sur to the laid-back charm of Santa Cruz (You’re Not That Far), it’s an album that captures a wide-eyed, dreamlike version of California—made all the more amusing by the fact that The Thrills are actually from Ireland. What makes this album work so well is its consistency—there are no wild shifts in tone or sudden detours, just a smooth, easy ride from start to finish. Even on the more melancholy tracks, there’s a comforting warmth that never fades, like a golden haze over the whole record. The mix of indie rock, folk, and vintage West Coast pop influences gives it a timeless quality, making it an album you can throw on in the morning and just let it carry you wherever it wants to go. I actually saw these guys at Glastonbury, and the memory that sticks with me most—aside from how effortlessly fun their set was—is them throwing a mic into the crowd at the end of the gig. Still not sure if they got in trouble for that, but it felt fitting for a band whose music sounds so free-spirited and untamed. So Much For The City might not be groundbreaking, but it’s the kind of album that makes you feel good every time you put it on, and sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

Albums like Harvest make you wonder how something so seemingly effortless can carry such immense emotional weight. It’s an album that feels as though it was plucked straight from the air, a collection of songs that existed long before Neil Young ever recorded them, just waiting to be captured. There’s a purity to Harvest—a rare combination of vulnerability, simplicity, and depth that few artists have ever achieved. From the dusty warmth of "Out on the Weekend" to the aching sorrow of "The Needle and the Damage Done," every song feels like a conversation with the past, present, and future all at once. It’s music that doesn’t try too hard, yet leaves an imprint that never fades. What makes Harvest even more remarkable is its production. Recorded in a barn in California with a mobile studio, the album has an organic, unpolished sound that only adds to its intimacy. The lush string arrangements on tracks like “A Man Needs a Maid” and “There’s a World” might feel grandiose in contrast to the album’s rustic charm, but instead of clashing, they highlight Young’s delicate balance between fragility and ambition. The production choices—using sparse, raw instrumentation, the occasional imperfections in Young’s voice, the unmistakable warmth of analog tape—make Harvest feel alive. It’s not overproduced, nor does it sound like a product of its time; it sounds like it was meant to exist in every era. That’s why Harvest is truly timeless. Decades later, it still resonates just as deeply as it did in 1972. The themes of love, loss, longing, and mortality are universal, and Young’s delivery—gentle, weary, and filled with unguarded honesty—ensures the songs never feel distant. Whether it’s being rediscovered by new generations or cherished by those who grew up with it, Harvest remains a touchstone for anyone seeking music that feels real. It’s the kind of album that meets you wherever you are in life, reflecting your joys, your heartbreaks, your hopes. Some records are classics because they defined a moment in time. Harvest is a classic because it exists outside of time.

Van Morrison - It’s Too Late to Stop Now Album Review There’s a fine line between capturing an artist in their raw, untamed glory and just throwing an entire concert at the listener with zero restraint. It’s Too Late to Stop Now stomps right over that line and keeps on going for what feels like an eternity. There’s no doubt Van Morrison’s band is on fire here—the brass section, in particular, is the real star of the show, blasting through the arrangements with energy and precision that keeps things lively even when Morrison himself starts to wear thin. But let’s be honest: this album is way too long. It’s the musical equivalent of being cornered by a guy in a pub who won’t stop telling you about the time he really got into transcendental meditation. A tight, single-disc live album could have been a triumph; instead, we get a bloated, self-indulgent sprawl that feels like a test of endurance. And then there’s Van. His voice, as always, is unique, but in this setting, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of his most extra tendencies. He sounds like he’s permanently halfway through eating a sandwich but still trying to belt out a soulful tune, gulping down syllables in between swigs of whatever keeps him going. Sure, it works for a few songs—his wild, impassioned delivery has always been his trademark—but over nearly two hours of growling, wailing, and borderline incomprehensible muttering, it becomes a lot. Tracks like Caravan and Domino bring undeniable energy, but so many others just meander, stretching out well beyond their welcome like an encore that nobody actually asked for. As a document of Van Morrison’s stage presence, it’s thorough—painfully so. There’s a great one-album live record hiding in here, but instead, we get a bloated, self-indulgent marathon that feels more like a challenge than an experience. By the end, you’re less in awe of Morrison’s talent and more just relieved it’s finally over.

Blur - Blur Album Review Blur’s self-titled 1997 album was their grand reinvention, a bold left turn that saw them ditch the knees-up Britpop anthems in favor of something grittier, artier, and—let’s be honest—a bit more American. Gone were the chirpy cockney tales of bus stops and greasy spoon breakfasts; instead, we got fuzzy guitars, existential mumbling, and a general sense that Damon Albarn had been spending a lot of time in a dark room, listening to Pavement and questioning his life choices. It was a sonic reinvention that critics ate up, and fair play—Blur is an excellent album. But let’s not get carried away. It’s not Oasis, is it That’s not to say the album doesn’t slap. Song 2 alone is scientifically proven to make any activity 64% more exciting—whether it’s playing football, Cleaning a room, or just making a sandwich. Beetlebum is a proper slinky, woozy gem that makes you feel like you’ve just woken up with a banging hangover, On Your Own is weirdly brilliant, and Look Inside America might be one of Blur's finest moments. Even the more experimental bits like Essex Dogs have a certain chaotic charm. It’s an album of textures, moods, and grungy weirdness, and the fact that Blur pulled it off so well proves they were more than just Britpop’s cheeky chappies.

Third/Sister Lovers is a fascinating mess—more a document of Alex Chilton’s unraveling than a fully realized album. The songs veer between hauntingly beautiful (Nighttime, Take Care) and outright disjointed (Kanga Roo, Downs), with the production often feeling half-finished, as if the band lost interest halfway through recording. While moments of brilliance shine through, the album’s lack of cohesion and its bleak, meandering nature make it a difficult listen. There’s an undeniable rawness here, but rather than feeling like an intentional artistic statement, it comes off more as a band falling apart in real time. A cult curiosity for sure, but not an easy or particularly rewarding experience.

Dagmar Krause - Tank Battles Album Review Tank Battles is an interesting, if slightly niche, listen—dramatic, theatrical, and steeped in a wartime cabaret aesthetic that makes it feel like it’s being broadcast from a crackling old radio in a bomb shelter. Krause’s voice is sharp and commanding, perfectly suited for the Brechtian, politically charged material, but the album’s intensity can be a bit much over a full listen. It’s well-executed and certainly unique, but unless you have a taste for Weimar-era torch songs repurposed for modern times, it might not be something you revisit often. It’s okay, just very much an acquired taste.

Some bands catch a wave, others are the wave. Document proves that in 1987, R.E.M. wasn’t just ahead of the curve—they were the curve, writing songs that would shape the sound of the ’90s before the decade had even begun. It’s an album stacked with urgency, grit, and melody, where every track feels vital, every riff purposeful, and every chorus impossible to ignore. Michael Stipe’s cryptic, commanding vocals, Peter Buck’s unmistakable chiming guitar, and the propulsive rhythm section of Mike Mills and Bill Berry all lock together into something that feels both raw and meticulously crafted. This isn’t just great alternative rock for its time—it’s the blueprint for what would come next. And then there’s The One I Love—a song so deceptively simple yet so utterly massive that it still stops you in your tracks. That iconic opening riff, the way Stipe’s detached, almost bitter delivery turns "This one goes out to the one I love" from a love song into something darker, more haunting—it’s pure brilliance. It’s the kind of song that lesser bands spend entire careers trying to write, yet for R.E.M., it’s just one of the many moments on Document that hit like a hammer. Finest Worksong kicks the album off with sheer force, Exhuming McCarthy sneers with political fire, It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine) is a manic masterpiece of lyrical chaos, and King of Birds brings in an eerie, poetic beauty that lingers long after the album ends. This is R.E.M. at their sharpest, boldest, and most forward-thinking. Document isn’t just a great album—it’s a defining moment in alternative rock history. Every track is a banger, every song feels urgent, and the whole thing plays like a warning shot for the decade to come. It’s not just a 5/5—it’s essential.

David Bowie - The Next Day Album Review When David Bowie came back after a decade of silence with The Next Day, it felt like a magic trick—one moment, he was just a whisper of a rumor, the next, he was standing there, fully formed, holding an album that nobody saw coming. And, of course, it was good. Because Bowie doesn’t do bad. He could record himself reading a takeaway menu over a drum machine, and it would still be worth dissecting. But here’s the thing—The Next Day is good in a way that’s almost frustrating. It’s sharp, full of energy, and packed with moments of brilliance, but it never quite reaches the oh my god this is a masterpiece level that Bowie has conditioned us to expect. It’s the curse of being a genius—when you’ve made Ziggy Stardust, Low, and Scary Monsters, a merely very good album feels like an underachievement. That being said, there’s a lot to love here. The title track kicks down the door with the kind of force that says, Yeah, I’m back, deal with it, while The Stars (Are Out Tonight) is pure Bowie—eerie, catchy, and slightly unhinged. Where Are We Now? is the closest thing to a gut-punch, a reflective, weary ballad that feels like a man looking back on his own myth. Meanwhile, Valentine’s Day and Love Is Lost are proof that Bowie could still craft a tune that hooks into your brain and refuses to let go. The whole album has this weird, jittery, almost punkish energy, like he’s intentionally avoiding slipping into nostalgia, pushing forward instead of looking back. But as good as it is, The Next Day never quite reaches that untouchable Bowie level. It’s like watching a legend remind you why they’re a legend without necessarily giving you something that rewrites the rulebook. A 4/5 album from Bowie is still better than most artists' entire careers, but let’s be honest—he’s competing with himself, and when you’ve spent your life setting the bar in outer space, even a great album can feel like it’s just this close to something greater. Still, if this was Bowie proving he could still surprise us, mission accomplished.

Dusty Springfield - Dusty In Memphis Album Review Dusty in Memphis is one of those albums that’s nice while it’s on but doesn’t leave a huge impression once it’s over. Dusty Springfield’s voice is undeniably smooth and soulful, and the production has that warm, polished late-60s feel, but for all its reputation as a classic, it never quite hits the way you expect it to. Tracks like Son of a Preacher Man and Just a Little Lovin’ stand out as clear highlights, but much of the album settles into a pleasant, if unremarkable, groove. It’s all very well-crafted, but there’s something a little too restrained about it—like Dusty is holding back rather than fully letting loose. The arrangements are tasteful, the instrumentation is lush, and the whole thing sounds effortlessly classy, but it lacks that extra spark to push it into great territory. It’s the kind of album that works well as background music, a mellow and easy listen, but nothing about it really demands your attention. That said, Dusty in Memphis is a fine album, just not an exciting one. It’s smooth, polished, and nice enough, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that it should be more than just nice.

There’s no denying that Kendrick Lamar is an ambitious artist, but To Pimp a Butterfly is a prime example of an album drowning in its own self-importance. It wants to be profound at every turn, stuffing itself with jazz-fusion instrumentals, spoken word interludes, and long-winded monologues that seem more interested in proving their depth than actually connecting with the listener. While it aims to be a powerful commentary on race, struggle, and the weight of fame, it ultimately feels like an exhausting lecture that goes nowhere. The album is so caught up in presenting itself as high art that it forgets to be engaging, making for a bloated and self-indulgent listening experience. Beyond the message, the biggest issue is the hypocrisy baked into the industry that produces this kind of music. To Pimp a Butterfly critiques the system, but it’s still a product of that same system, repackaging pain, struggle, and rebellion into something that record labels and streaming services can profit from. The cycle of “f**k the police” has been going on since the late ‘80s, and instead of finding a new way to break through, this album just repaints the same old message in abstract, overwrought colours. Worse still, it’s weighed down by the contradiction of hip-hop’s commercial machine—artists who claim to be against the system while thriving within it, benefiting from the very thing they condemn. Even if the message was delivered better, the music itself just isn’t that good. The production leans too heavily into chaotic, messy jazz and awkward funk grooves that feel more like an art school experiment than an album meant to be listened to. The beats lack cohesion, the hooks are weak, and even Kendrick’s rapping, is often buried under clunky arrangements or forced theatricality. Instead of being a timeless classic, To Pimp a Butterfly is an overcooked, self-indulgent, and ultimately forgettable album that collapses under the weight of its own ambition.

L.A. Woman is The Doors at their rawest and most unfiltered, ditching some of the psychedelic haze of their earlier work in favor of a looser, blues-heavy sound that suits them surprisingly well. Jim Morrison’s voice is grittier, more lived-in—half shaman, half barroom poet—and the band leans into a swampy, road-worn groove that makes tracks like Been Down So Long and Crawling King Snake feel as dirty as they should. The title track is a hypnotic, sprawling ride, Riders on the Storm is pure cinematic cool, and Love Her Madly injects just enough radio-friendly polish to balance things out. It’s an album that sounds like it was recorded in a room thick with cigarette smoke, beer bottles rattling on the floor, and that energy makes it one of their most compelling. That said, L.A. Woman isn’t quite perfect. Some tracks feel a little stretched out, and the bluesier direction, while fitting, doesn’t always hit as hard as their more mystical, fever-dream moments from earlier albums. Morrison’s vocals, while still commanding, sometimes feel more like a man on his last legs than a rock god in his prime—which, given the circumstances, makes the album feel even more like the chaotic last stand it was. Still, there’s something undeniably magnetic about L.A. Woman. It’s the sound of a band shedding the last of its illusions and going all in on instinct, and while it’s rougher around the edges than their more polished work, that’s part of its charm. A gritty, blues-soaked farewell from one of rock’s most enigmatic frontmen, and an album that—flaws and all—still deserves its place in the pantheon. 4/5

If you want to hear the birth of psychedelic rock in all its raw, unfiltered glory, The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators is as essential as it gets. This 1966 album didn’t just flirt with the idea of mind-expanding rock—it fully embraced it, throwing traditional rock ‘n’ roll into a swirling, reverb-soaked chaos of wild vocals, fuzzed-out guitars, and, of course, that infamous electric jug. Roky Erickson’s voice is a force of nature, full of manic energy and haunting beauty, while the band backs him with a mix of garage rock grit and early proto-punk intensity. You’re Gonna Miss Me remains one of the most electrifying opening tracks of the era, and songs like Reverberation, Kingdom of Heaven, and Splash 1 balance that manic energy with an eerie, hypnotic atmosphere. Of course, the electric jug is the divisive element here, a percussive, bubbling presence that either makes the album feel totally unique or grates on your last nerve, depending on your tolerance. But even if you’re not sold on the jug, the sheer conviction of this record is undeniable. There’s no studio trickery or excessive effects—just pure, raw, freaked-out garage rock that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of madness. And given the tragic yet fascinating story of Roky Erickson and the band’s history, it’s hard not to hear this as a genuine transmission from another plane of existence. At its best, this album captures a moment in time when psychedelic rock wasn’t yet a defined sound but a wild, untamed force. It’s rough around the edges, sometimes unhinged, but undeniably groundbreaking. Whether you love it or just admire its historical importance, The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators is a trip worth taking.

If there’s one thing you can always count on from Björk, it’s that she’ll never take the easy route. Medúlla is one of her most fascinatingly bizarre albums—an almost entirely vocal-driven experiment where the usual lush instrumentation is stripped away in favor of layered human voices, beatboxing, and choral arrangements. The result is an album that feels primal, futuristic, and at times, downright unsettling. Tracks like Where Is the Line and Mouth’s Cradle push the boundaries of what a song even is, while Who Is It and Triumph of a Heart bring in enough structure to keep things from feeling completely unhinged. It’s weird, challenging, and often beautiful, but definitely not an easy listen. The genius of Medúlla is in its textures—Björk turns voices into rhythm, harmony, and even noise, creating an album that feels both deeply human and strangely alien. At times, though, it can feel more like an art project than a fully realized album. The absence of traditional instruments makes some moments feel hollow, and while the vocal experimentation is impressive, it can also be overwhelming, like listening to an avant-garde a cappella group trapped in an echo chamber. It’s ambitious, but not always something you want to put on. Still, you have to admire the sheer audacity of Medúlla. It’s not Björk’s most accessible work, but it might be one of her most daring. It’s an album that sounds like it was made in a world where instruments don’t exist—just voices, breath, and raw emotion. Whether that makes it a masterpiece or a fascinating misstep depends entirely on how much you’re willing to let Björk drag you into her strange, otherworldly vision.

More Songs About Buildings and Food is the sound of a band sharpening their weirdness into something unexpectedly funky. It takes the jittery, anxious energy of their debut and injects it with more groove, more confidence, and—thanks to Brian Eno’s production—more sonic texture. David Byrne still sounds like a man having a nervous breakdown at a house party, but now he’s backed by a band that feels tighter, punchier, and more locked into rhythm. Tracks like Thank You for Sending Me an Angel and Artists Only are frantic, quirky post-punk gems, while The Good Thing and Stay Hungry show off a new level of polish and precision. And then, of course, there’s Take Me to the River, the band's unexpectedly soulful Al Green cover that somehow became their first hit. The brilliance of this album is in how it walks the line between art-rock oddness and something genuinely danceable. Tina Weymouth’s bass is groovier, the guitars are sharper, and the whole album has a kinetic, driving energy that keeps it from feeling as skeletal as their debut. That said, it still has that Talking Heads awkwardness—some songs feel more like rhythm experiments than fully fleshed-out tracks, and Byrne’s lyrics remain cryptic to the point of absurdity. But that’s part of the charm. While it doesn’t quite reach the legendary heights of what was to come, More Songs About Buildings and Food is a massive step forward—an album that proves Talking Heads weren’t just a quirky CBGB’s band, but something far more ambitious. It’s weird, groovy, and endlessly interesting, the first real sign that they were evolving into one of the most important bands of their era.

Few albums can genuinely be called genre-defining, but Blue Lines didn’t just define trip-hop—it built the entire blueprint. Everything about this record oozes effortless cool, from the laid-back, dub-infused beats to the murky, late-night atmosphere that feels both hypnotic and unsettling. The production is rich, textured, and deeply immersive, weaving together elements of hip-hop, soul, reggae, and electronic music into something that still sounds futuristic, even decades later. Songs like Safe from Harm and Five Man Army glide along with a heavy, pulsing groove, while Unfinished Sympathy is an undeniable masterpiece—so cinematic and emotionally powerful that it feels almost untouchable. What makes Blue Lines so special is how deeply it feels like a world of its own. The interplay between 3D, Daddy G, and Tricky gives the album a restless, unpredictable energy, while Shara Nelson’s vocals add a haunting beauty that elevates it beyond just beats and samples. There’s an undercurrent of paranoia and grit running through the record, but it’s never overwhelming—it’s the kind of album that pulls you in and wraps around you like city lights flickering in the rain. While later Massive Attack albums like Mezzanine would take their sound into darker, heavier territory, Blue Lines remains the purest expression of their vision—cool, controlled, and effortlessly innovative. It’s not just a trip-hop classic; it’s one of the most important albums of the ‘90s, and a perfect example of music that sounds both of its time and completely timeless.

The Pixies aren’t for everyone, and Doolittle is a perfect example of why. It’s screamy, unpredictable, and takes some getting used to, but once you tune into its weird, off-kilter wavelength, you can start to see why it’s considered so influential. There’s a rawness to it that feels deliberately abrasive—one minute you’re in a sweet surf-rock melody, the next Black Francis is howling like a man possessed. Tracks like Debaser and Wave of Mutilation hit with manic energy, while Here Comes Your Man offers a rare moment of breezy, radio-friendly relief. It’s chaotic, messy, and at times downright bizarre, but there’s no denying that it paved the way for countless alternative bands that followed. That said, Doolittle isn’t the best Pixies album, and it’s not quite a classic in the sense of being something you instinctively return to over and over again. It’s fascinating in its contrasts—loud-quiet-loud dynamics, absurdist lyrics, and that signature mix of beauty and aggression—but it’s not always an easy listen. Some songs hit hard, others feel like experiments that work more in theory than in practice, but you can’t say it lacks innovation. The way it bridges punk, surf rock, and something completely unhinged is what makes it important. For what it is, Doolittle is a bold and influential record, and you can hear echoes of it in everything from Nirvana to Radiohead to the entire ‘90s alt-rock explosion. But is it the kind of album you put on constantly? Probably not. It’s more of a landmark than a go-to, but as far as alternative rock touchstones go, it’s still a solid 4/5.

Bright Flight is an album that feels like it’s constantly teetering between deadpan humor and crushing sadness, and somehow, David Berman makes that balancing act feel effortless. His voice, as always, is more of a wry, world-weary drawl than traditional singing, but that’s part of the charm—it’s like listening to a guy at the end of the bar tell stories that are equal parts poetic, absurd, and devastating. Songs like Slow Education and Let’s Not and Say We Did are beautifully lazy in that Silver Jews way, drifting along on twangy guitars and lyrics that feel like inside jokes between Berman and the universe. Then there’s Tennessee, probably the closest thing here to a proper country song, but still laced with the kind of irony and longing that makes it unmistakably his. It’s not an album that demands your attention—it just exists, unfolding at its own pace, and either you’re on its wavelength, or you’re not. The arrangements are more stripped-down than on previous Silver Jews records, making the songwriting feel even more exposed, sometimes to the point of feeling too slow or sparse. But there’s something undeniably hypnotic about Berman’s world, where love, loss, and deadpan one-liners coexist in a way that makes you laugh right before it punches you in the gut. Bright Flight might not be as immediate or iconic as American Water, but it’s still a beautiful, melancholy trip through Berman’s singular mind. It’s sad, it’s funny, and it’s got just the right amount of existential shrug. If you’re already a Silver Jews fan, it’s another chapter worth savoring. If you’re not, this probably won’t be the album to change your mind—but for those who get it, it’s a quiet masterpiece.

For an album that’s supposed to be a grand progressive rock statement, 2112 is shockingly uninspired in its execution. The title suite, taking up the entire first half of the record, is less an ambitious composition and more a series of loosely connected musical ideas awkwardly stitched together. It begins with a blaring overture that feels like a checklist of prog clichés—pointless guitar arpeggios, bombastic drum fills, and excessive synth stabs that scream “epic” without actually earning it. The transitions between sections are jarring, lacking any real sense of development, making it feel more like a series of isolated jams rather than a cohesive piece. Alex Lifeson’s guitar work, while technically proficient, constantly veers between lifeless chugging and wandering solos that feel directionless. Neil Peart, for all his precision, overplays nearly every section, filling every available space with unnecessary complexity rather than serving the song. And then there’s Geddy Lee, who delivers every line with a nasal screech so theatrical it sounds like he’s performing an off-Broadway rock opera about Ayn Rand’s Anthem—which, unfortunately, is exactly what he’s doing. The second half of the album is where you’d hope things would improve, but instead, it just confirms that Rush had no real interest in making their music actually engaging. A Passage to Bangkok attempts to inject some groove but plods along with a rigid structure that never quite locks in, with a main riff that feels like it’s permanently stuck in first gear. The Twilight Zone tries for atmosphere but lacks any real tension, drifting aimlessly between lethargic verses and a chorus that has no sense of impact. Lessons and Tears are Rush’s idea of ballads, but they’re so bland and melodically unremarkable that they come across as filler rather than genuine attempts at emotional depth. And by the time Something for Nothing rolls around, the band just recycles their usual loud-quiet-loud dynamics with no new ideas, relying on sheer volume to compensate for the lack of actual songwriting depth. The problem with 2112 isn’t just that it’s overlong or self-indulgent—it’s that for all its technical flash, it completely fails at the fundamentals of good progressive rock. It confuses complexity with substance, theatricality with emotion, and structure with actual composition. There’s no real flow, no build-up, no satisfying resolution—just an exhausting barrage of musical showboating tied together by a clumsy concept that takes itself far too seriously. It’s an album that wants to be a masterpiece but forgets that even the most ambitious music needs something to connect with the listener. Instead, 2112 ends up as little more than a collection of overcooked ideas drowning in their own excess.

Django Django - Django Django Album Review There’s something undeniably intriguing about Django Django—it’s playful, rhythmic, and packed with ideas, even if it doesn’t always hit the mark. The band fuses surf rock twang, krautrock repetition, and electronic flourishes into a sound that feels both familiar and futuristic, giving tracks like Default and Hail Bop an offbeat, almost hypnotic energy. The percussion-heavy grooves keep everything moving, while the layered vocals and psychedelic textures create a hazy, dreamlike atmosphere. It’s an album that thrives on its quirks, embracing an almost mechanical sense of rhythm while still feeling organic and loose. That said, the album’s ambition sometimes works against it. While the production is inventive and the melodies catchy, the tracks can blur together, with the band leaning heavily on repetition that occasionally borders on monotony. Some moments feel like experiments that don’t fully evolve, leaving certain songs more interesting in concept than execution. But even with its occasional lulls, Django Django is a fascinating listen—full of charm, creative instrumentation, and enough unexpected turns to keep things engaging. It may not be groundbreaking, but it’s a solid, enjoyable debut that proves the band has a unique voice worth hearing.

If there’s an album that perfectly captures the charm of old England wrapped in wry wit and nostalgia, it’s The Village Green Preservation Society. Ray Davies crafts a world of lost traditions, eccentric characters, and simpler times, all set to The Kinks’ signature mix of jangly guitars, baroque pop flourishes, and perfectly understated melodies. Songs like the title track and Do You Remember Walter? brim with satirical longing, celebrating and gently mocking the past in equal measure, while Johnny Thunder and Picture Book inject a playful energy into the album’s wistful core. It’s less about rock ‘n’ roll rebellion and more about quietly preserving a world that’s already slipping away, giving the whole album a cozy yet melancholic feel. Musically, Village Green trades in the bombast of The Kinks’ earlier hits for something more refined and textured. Acoustic guitars, harpsichord, and brass weave through the arrangements, giving tracks like Big Sky and Animal Farm a richness that rewards repeat listens. However, it’s not an album that grabs you immediately—it’s more of a slow burn, one that reveals its brilliance in small, perfectly observed details rather than big, obvious hooks. That’s also why it never achieved commercial success at the time, but in retrospect, it’s one of The Kinks’ most enduring works. Nostalgic, funny, and beautifully crafted, The Village Green Preservation Society isn’t just a love letter to a disappearing past—it’s an album that gets better every time you revisit it.

Doggystyle is an album that practically defines the laid-back, funk-infused sound of West Coast hip-hop, dripping with G-Funk swagger and effortlessly smooth production courtesy of Dr. Dre. From the moment G Funk Intro rolls in, it’s clear this isn’t just a debut—it’s a fully realized sound, blending lush synths, deep basslines, and crisp beats into a groove so slick it feels untouchable. Snoop’s delivery is deceptively relaxed, his flow effortless, weaving between playful storytelling and hard-hitting rhymes with a charisma that makes even the most explicit moments sound cool. Tracks like Gin and Juice, Who Am I? (What’s My Name?), and Ain’t No Fun are instant classics, while deep cuts like Gz and Hustlas and Murder Was the Case showcase his knack for cinematic storytelling. If there’s a flaw, it’s that some skits and interludes overstay their welcome, but otherwise, Doggystyle remains one of the most confident and influential hip-hop debuts of all time.

If you ever wanted a jazz album that sounds like the lost soundtrack to a ‘70s spy thriller—complete with car chases, rooftop escapes, and smoky underground clubs—Kenya is it. From the very first notes, the album bursts to life with fiery brass, intricate percussion, and a groove so infectious it feels impossible to resist. The Afro-Cuban rhythms are the backbone of the record, with congas, timbales, and bongos creating an unstoppable momentum, while the horn section punches through with sharp, commanding blasts that add urgency and drama. And then there’s trumpeter Mario Bauzá, whose playing is downright electrifying, cutting through the mix with soaring, razor-sharp lines that push the excitement even further. His melodies dance over the complex rhythms, giving the music a thrilling edge that feels both sophisticated and untamed. Beyond its cinematic energy, Kenya is a masterclass in Afro-Cuban jazz, seamlessly blending tight, big-band arrangements with raw, pulsing rhythm. The interplay between the horns and percussion is mesmerizing, constantly shifting between explosive outbursts and locked-in grooves that make every track feel alive. The call-and-response moments, the driving montunos on piano, and the syncopated basslines all contribute to an atmosphere of controlled chaos—everything feels carefully arranged yet completely spontaneous at the same time. It’s vibrant, it’s exhilarating, and above all, it’s the perfect mood lifter.

What is this even doing on the list? Yes, the Theme from Shaft is an undeniable funk classic with its iconic wah-wah guitar and slinky groove, but beyond that, this soundtrack feels more like an exercise in background music than an essential album. The bulk of Shaft is made up of long, meandering instrumentals that, while slickly arranged, don’t really stand on their own outside of the film. Tracks like Cafe Regio’s and Ellie’s Love Theme are pleasant but unmemorable, often drifting into repetitive jam territory without ever really going anywhere. The few vocal moments—when Hayes finally steps up to the mic—are strong, but they’re so sparse that they feel like an afterthought. As a film score, it does its job, setting the mood with smooth orchestrations and deep bass grooves, but as a standalone album, it’s a slog. The tracks blur together, rarely offering anything as dynamic or engaging as the famous theme song. There’s no doubt that Hayes was a gifted arranger and a key figure in soul and funk, but Shaft feels more like an overlong movie cue than an album worth revisiting. If this weren’t attached to an iconic film, no one would be talking about it.

For an album with "genius" in the title, The Genius of Ray Charles is surprisingly uneven. Split into two distinct halves, the first side is an energetic big-band swing session with Charles backed by a powerhouse brass section, and the second half shifts into lush, string-laden ballads. The big-band tracks, like Let the Good Times Roll and Two Years of Torture, have a great sense of energy, with Charles' vocals cutting through the bold, punchy arrangements. The band swings hard, and you can feel the joy in every note. But once the album moves into its orchestral side, things slow down considerably, with the dramatic string sections sometimes overpowering Charles’ natural grit and soul. There’s no denying Charles' vocal brilliance, but the album never quite finds a consistent groove. The transition from the lively, swaggering first half to the more polished, sentimental second half makes for a bit of a jarring experience. While both styles showcase different sides of his artistry, they don’t necessarily complement each other in a way that makes for a truly cohesive album. It's an enjoyable listen with standout moments, but compared to his best work, The Genius of Ray Charles feels more like a solid showcase of his versatility rather than an essential masterpiece. 3/5.

Few albums sound as otherworldly as Ágætis Byrjun, a record that feels less like a collection of songs and more like a journey through some vast, uncharted dreamscape. Sigur Rós crafts an atmosphere that is both glacial and deeply emotional, with sweeping strings, ethereal falsetto vocals, and slow-building post-rock crescendos that unfold with an almost cinematic grandeur. Tracks like Svefn-g-englar and Flugufrelsarinn move at their own glacial pace, enveloping the listener in layers of shimmering guitars and soaring orchestration, while Olsen Olsen brings an unexpected warmth, carried by its lilting melody and triumphant brass section. The band’s use of bowed guitar, reverb-drenched soundscapes, and Jónsi’s otherworldly vocals—often unintelligible but undeniably evocative—creates a sense of mystery and wonder that few albums ever achieve. That said, Ágætis Byrjun isn’t an album for every mood. Its slow, drifting compositions require patience, and some may find the sheer length of certain tracks verging on indulgent. But for those willing to immerse themselves in its expansive world, the album offers a singular experience—one that feels both deeply intimate and cosmic in scale. It may not be the most immediate listen, but its beauty is undeniable, and its influence on post-rock and ambient music is impossible to ignore. Not quite perfect, but pretty close.

Few albums capture the grandeur of 80s pop like Songs from the Big Chair. It’s a perfect fusion of emotional depth, studio polish, and ambitious songwriting, proving that mainstream music could still be intelligent and deeply affecting. The album bursts out of the gate with Shout, a towering anthem that layers Roland Orzabal’s commanding vocals over pounding drums and thick, textured synths, turning catharsis into a stadium-sized experience. Everybody Wants to Rule the World is just as massive, balancing its shimmering guitars and infectious groove with lyrics that cut deeper than your average pop hit. Even the more introspective moments, like the haunting Listen or the sprawling The Working Hour, are drenched in atmosphere and carried by some of the most sophisticated production of the era. What makes Songs from the Big Chair truly special is how it seamlessly blends complexity with accessibility. Tracks like Head Over Heels and Mothers Talk are packed with intricate arrangements, but they never lose their immediacy, proving that pop music can be layered, dynamic, and still completely addictive. The band took the darker, more cerebral themes of their debut and amplified them with a newfound confidence, resulting in an album that feels both deeply personal and universally relatable. There’s no filler here—every track serves a purpose, every sound feels meticulously placed, and the production is flawless without ever feeling cold or sterile. Songs from the Big Chair isn’t just one of the best albums of the 80s; it’s a timeless masterpiece of pop craftsmanship, balancing innovation, emotion, and sheer sonic power.

Kraftwerk - Autobahn Album Review Autobahn is one of those albums where the title track completely defines the experience—and thankfully, it’s an absolute masterpiece. The 22-minute opener is a hypnotic, futuristic journey that feels like cruising down an endless highway, with its pulsing synths, shimmering melodies, and that instantly recognizable vocoder hook. It’s immersive, atmospheric, and way ahead of its time, proving why Kraftwerk became such a foundational force in electronic music. Kometenmelodie 2 also stands out, carrying a similar sense of forward momentum with its bright, melodic drive, but Kometenmelodie 1 feels a little too dated, more like a transitional piece than something that fully holds up. The rest of the album is solid, if not as groundbreaking. Tracks like Mitternacht and Morgenspaziergang have an eerie, almost cinematic quality, but they don’t quite reach the heights of the title track. That said, when the defining song is as brilliant as Autobahn, it elevates the entire album by association. Since it takes up nearly half the runtime, it’s hard not to let it carry the whole record on its back—which is why, despite some weaker moments, Autobahn still deserves a 4/5

Aftermath is where The Rolling Stones truly started to carve out their own identity, moving beyond their blues-cover roots and proving they could craft an entire album of original material that stands on its own. The songwriting is sharper, the instrumentation more adventurous, and there’s a sense of confidence throughout that makes it feel like a turning point for the band. Tracks like Paint It, Black and Under My Thumb are undeniable classics, full of dark energy and iconic riffs, while deeper cuts like Lady Jane and I Am Waiting show a more delicate, baroque-inspired side that adds some unexpected texture. Brian Jones, in particular, is the album’s secret weapon, adding marimba, dulcimer, and sitar to the mix, giving the record a distinctive edge that sets it apart from the standard blues-rock fare of the time. That said, Aftermath isn’t without its flaws. At 53 minutes, it’s a bit long for an album of this era, and not every track justifies its runtime—some of the bluesier numbers drag a little compared to the more inventive moments. Lyrically, it’s got that sneering, rebellious Stones attitude, but songs like Stupid Girl and Under My Thumb lean into a kind of arrogance that hasn’t aged particularly well. Still, the sheer variety and ambition make Aftermath one of the most important albums of their early years. It’s not perfect, but it’s a crucial step forward—one that set the stage for the band’s best work to come.

Songhoy Blues - Music in Exile Album Review Music in Exile is a high-energy mix of desert blues and rock, full of driving rhythms, hypnotic guitar work, and pure passion. The band blends traditional Malian melodies with modern rock influences, creating a sound that feels both fresh and deeply rooted in history. Nick and Al Hassidi Terei are standout tracks, bursting with groove and infectious energy, while Desert Melodie is a real highlight—beautifully hypnotic and rich with emotion. The guitar work is sharp and rhythmic, pushing each song forward with an unstoppable momentum that makes you want to move. Despite being inspired by difficult times, the album feels uplifting and full of life. The mix of intricate melodies and pulsing rhythms makes for an engaging listen, and even though some songs feel a little similar, the sheer energy and spirit of the music keep it exciting. Music in Exile proves that desert blues is as powerful as ever, with Songhoy Blues bringing a fresh, modern twist to the genre.

Myths of the Near Future is a mix of dance-punk, new wave, and indie rock that sounds interesting on paper but ultimately feels pretty average in execution. There’s a futuristic, sci-fi theme running through the album, both in its lyrics and electronic flourishes, but while the band clearly has musical talent, most of the songs just don’t leave a lasting impact. Golden Skans and It’s Not Over Yet are the highlights, with their smooth melodies and catchy hooks, but beyond those, the rest of the album tends to blur together. Tracks like Gravity’s Rainbow and Magick bring energy, but nothing really stands out as particularly special—it all just sounds nice without being truly memorable. The biggest issue is that while the album is polished and full of layered sounds, it lacks real depth or variety. The vocals are almost always stacked with effects, the guitars and synths fill every space, and the songs follow a similar structure, making it hard to pick out anything truly distinctive. It’s an album that plays well in the moment but doesn’t stick with you once it’s over. There’s nothing particularly bad about Myths of the Near Future, but there’s also not much to get excited about either. It’s fine, but it’s hard to see it as anything more than that.

This album is pure 60s folk-rock bliss, drenched in rich harmonies and mellow, sun-drenched melodies that practically radiate flower power. The vocal blend of David Crosby, Stephen Stills, and Graham Nash is undeniably gorgeous, creating a lush, peaceful atmosphere that makes tracks like Suite: Judy Blue Eyes and Helplessly Hoping feel timeless. The instrumentation is warm and intricate, balancing acoustic delicacy with moments of electric energy, and the production has just the right amount of polish to let everything breathe. It’s an album that feels both deeply personal and effortlessly expansive, capturing a moment in time when music was all about harmony—both musically and ideologically. And yet, something about it just feels like it’s missing that extra spark to push it into masterpiece territory. Maybe it’s the absence of Neil Young, whose grit and unpredictability might have added just the right amount of tension to offset the smoothness. The songs are undeniably beautiful, but they stay very much in the same mellow lane, never quite taking the risks that could have elevated the album further. Still, for what it is—a dreamy, impeccably crafted folk-rock record—it’s hard to fault it too much. It’s lovely, lush, and deeply soothing, even if it feels like it’s just one ingredient short of being truly legendary.

There’s no denying Brass in Pocket is a classic—confident, sultry, and effortlessly cool—but the rest of Pretenders struggles to reach the same heights. The album blends new wave, punk, and pop with a slick but slightly restrained energy, making for a pleasant listen, but one that doesn’t leave a lasting impression. Chrissie Hynde’s voice has a great balance of toughness and vulnerability, and the band is tight, but too many of the tracks blur together without much to set them apart. Songs like Kid and Tattooed Love Boys have their moments, but nothing quite jumps out in the way Brass in Pocket does. It’s not a bad album by any means—everything sounds good, the performances are solid, and the production is clean—but there’s just something missing in terms of real standout moments. It’s an enjoyable listen, but it doesn’t demand revisiting beyond its biggest hit.

This is one of those albums where you either get it or you don’t. Kollaps isn’t just music—it’s a full-on assault on sound itself, built from clanging metal, literal power tools, and raw, guttural vocals that feel like they’re trying to dismantle traditional songwriting entirely. It’s harsh, abrasive, and absolutely chaotic, but once you start thinking about what they were doing and the context they were working in, it makes a lot more sense. Coming from post-war Berlin, Einstürzende Neubauten were reacting to their surroundings—both physically and culturally—using industrial wreckage as instruments to reflect a world that felt just as unstable. Translated, the lyrics are full of bleak, existential dread, but even without understanding a word, the sheer sound of it tells you everything you need to know. That being said, it’s not exactly an album you’ll be spinning on a daily basis. The noise and destruction are the point, but it does require patience and an open mind to fully appreciate. Tracks like Tanz Debil and Steh auf Berlin feel like precursors to noise rock, industrial, and even modern experimental hip-hop—this is the OG drill music, quite literally. It’s not the worst album on this list by any stretch, but it does demand effort from the listener. If you’re willing to engage with it, there’s something undeniably fascinating about Kollaps, even if it’s more of an experience than an everyday listen.

On paper, S&M should have been something special—Metallica’s thunderous riffs combined with the grandeur of the San Francisco Symphony, conducted by Michael Kamen. But in reality, this is an absolute mess, a complete trainwreck of clashing sounds and baffling choices that somehow makes Metallica’s greatest songs sound worse. It all starts out promising enough with Ecstasy of Gold, but let’s be honest—that’s a cover, and frankly, the orchestral version without Metallica is better. Then comes The Call of Ktulu, a solid instrumental that actually benefits from the symphonic backing, followed by Master of Puppets, which is still decent. But then, as if the universe decided things were going too smoothly, the entire album falls off a cliff. What follows is nearly two hours of an orchestra and a metal band fighting each other, neither willing to give way, resulting in a sonic disaster where everything drowns in an overcooked, muddy cacophony. The biggest issue is that instead of the orchestra enhancing the music, it just gets layered on top of Metallica’s already dense sound, making everything bloated, overstuffed, and painfully overwhelming. Metallica’s music is already loud, busy, and aggressive—adding a full orchestra doesn’t add weight, it just turns the whole thing into a confusing, cluttered mess. And to make matters worse, Lars Ulrich completely ignores the conductor and plays at his own tempo, dragging the symphony along like a car trying to outrun a landslide. But that’s not even the worst part—because for some inexplicable reason, they used autotune. And not just any autotune—1999 autotune, the kind that sounds like someone is singing through a malfunctioning Speak & Spell. James Hetfield’s voice, once rough but powerful, is smoothed out into a warbling, robotic disaster that makes every song feel lifeless and synthetic. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the song choices are awful. Sure, there are a few classics, but then they load the setlist with tracks from Load and Reload, albums that were already divisive, and they somehow make them even worse. For Whom the Bell Tolls—my favorite Metallica song—gets absolutely butchered, Enter Sandman is a travesty, and Battery sounds like a Metallica cover band got trapped in an elevator with a malfunctioning orchestra. It’s bloated, directionless, and utterly joyless. S&M isn’t a grand fusion of metal and classical music—it’s an overproduced, ego-driven nightmare that drowns in its own excess. If you ever wondered what happens when no one in the room says no to Metallica, this is it.

For an album that literally tells you it wants to be darker, this feels surprisingly light on impact. Leonard Cohen’s voice is at its deepest and most gravelly, practically spoken rather than sung, which gives everything a weighty, almost prophetic feel—but the music itself is so subdued that it often drifts into the background rather than demanding attention. The title track is easily the highlight, brooding and ominous with its haunting choir and Cohen’s measured delivery, but beyond that, much of the album blends into a slow, murmured meditation that doesn’t quite stick. Lyrically, Cohen is still Cohen—wry, poetic, and full of existential musings—but there’s a sense of resignation here that makes it feel less vital than some of his earlier work. The sparse arrangements, largely built around soft keys, subtle strings, and gentle backing vocals, suit his reflective tone but don’t always do much to elevate the songs. It’s not bad, it’s just a bit meh. For a farewell album, it’s certainly dignified, but it doesn’t quite leave the impact you’d hope for.

1960s pop meets Brazil in a way that was apparently so radical it got Caetano Veloso arrested and exiled—an impressive feat for what sounds, at least on the surface, like a fun and pleasant record. Blending bossa nova, psychedelia, and tropicalia, the album is full of colorful, exotic-sounding arrangements that make for an enjoyable listen, even if it never quite grabs me in a big way. Tracks like Tropicália burst with energy, mixing Brazilian rhythms with an experimental, almost Beatles-esque touch, while softer moments like Clarice and Soy Loco Por Tí, América have a dreamy, poetic quality. It’s clear there’s a lot of artistry here, but it mostly feels like mood music to me—pleasant, well-crafted, but not something I’d find myself returning to often. That’s probably doing the album an injustice, given its historical significance and the fact that it was seen as a major political statement in Brazil at the time. The fusion of Western pop and Brazilian traditional music was bold and subversive, and Veloso’s poetic, often cryptic lyrics added to the sense of rebellion. But from a purely listening standpoint, it’s an album I respect more than I love. It’s nice, it’s exotic, it’s well put together—but it doesn’t spark much excitement for me.

Listening to Darkdancer is a lot like being stuck in heavy traffic—there are occasional moments where something catches your attention, but for the most part, it’s a repetitive, frustrating ride that just won’t end. The album leans hard into late-90s electro-funk and French house influences, but where artists like Fatboy Slim and Daft Punk make this style feel dynamic and fun, Darkdancer mostly feels like a mechanical loop of the same ideas over and over again. Tracks like Sometimes and Take a Little Time manage to stand out, offering at least a bit of melody and groove, but too much of the album feels like a relentless, monotonous beat with no real payoff. The production is crisp, and the retro-futuristic vibe has its appeal, but the sheer repetition makes it exhausting rather than exciting. The synths wobble, the basslines pulse, but everything stays in the same lane for far too long. It’s the kind of album that feels like it should be fun, but instead, it’s more of a headache-inducing chore. If you’re nostalgic for this era of dance music, there might be something here for you, but personally, I just wanted it to end.

1977 is the perfect example of a scrappy, youthful garage rock album that thrives on energy over technical precision. It’s raw, slightly grungy, and packed with infectious hooks, making it easy to see why it connected so strongly with fans of loud, unpolished rock. The album kicks off with Lose Control, a breakneck opener that throws you straight into the chaos, setting the tone for an album that never really slows down. Ash’s brand of punk-tinged power pop isn’t about complexity—it’s about capturing the reckless excitement of being young, and they absolutely nail it. Girl from Mars is the obvious standout, a perfect mix of melody and grit that lodges itself in your brain immediately. The production is just messy enough to feel authentic but never so much that it buries the anthemic quality of the songwriting. While the album is full of great moments, it’s not flawless. Some tracks, like I’d Give You Anything, feel a bit more like raw noise than structured songs, and while the vocals work within the album’s loose, garage-rock feel, they don’t always carry enough personality to elevate every track. The lyrics aren’t groundbreaking, but they do what they need to—channel the youthful spirit and reckless abandon that make the whole record feel so honest. The Star Wars nods scattered throughout only add to the charm, reinforcing that 1977 isn’t just a title, but a full embrace of the band’s influences and sense of fun. It’s loud, unrefined, and maybe a little rough around the edges, but that’s exactly why it works so well.

There’s no denying the cultural importance of What’s Going On. It’s a landmark soul album with a social conscience, smooth arrangements, and Marvin Gaye’s signature velvet voice tying it all together. But as an actual listening experience? It doesn’t quite hit me the way it seems to hit others. The grooves are mellow and often beautiful, but they can also blend together a bit too easily, making the album feel a little samey by the halfway point. The lyrics are thoughtful and heartfelt, tackling war, poverty, and environmental concerns with sincerity, but musically it stays in one gentle gear—never really lifting off or surprising. Songs like the title track and Mercy Mercy Me stand out, but the rest can drift past without leaving a strong impression. It’s an album I respect a lot more than I truly enjoy, and while it’s undeniably well made and meaningful, it doesn’t quite move me enough to call it great.

Dry is a bold and gritty debut that makes it very clear PJ Harvey wasn’t here to play it safe. Her mix of raw guitar work, emotionally charged vocals, and confrontational lyrics gives the album a sharp, immediate edge. Tracks like Dress and Sheela-Na-Gig still stand out for their intensity and clarity of voice, showing early signs of the powerful artist she’d become. But as strong as the identity is, the album as a whole doesn’t always maintain its momentum. Some songs feel more like sketches of ideas than fully developed pieces, and the lo-fi production—while intentional—can make it a slightly tiring listen over time. There’s a lot to admire in Dry, especially in its attitude and stripped-down honesty, but it doesn’t quite hit the level of greatness for me.

There’s no denying that The Piper at the Gates of Dawn is one of the most important and influential psychedelic rock albums ever made. It captures a moment when Pink Floyd, led by the wildly imaginative Syd Barrett, were fully committed to exploring the outer edges of pop and sound itself. Tracks like Lucifer Sam, Astronomy Domine, and Interstellar Overdrive aren’t just songs—they’re experiences, filled with swirling textures, playful surrealism, and a true sense of musical freedom. The album feels like stepping into a technicolor dream, and it helped lay the foundation for the entire genre of spacey, exploratory rock that followed. That said, as much as I admire what this album achieved, I can’t help but prefer the more expansive, polished Floyd that came later—Meddle, Dark Side of the Moon, and beyond. Piper is brilliant and groundbreaking, but also a little uneven in places, with a few tracks that feel more like odd little detours than timeless classics. Still, its legacy is undeniable, and the energy and creativity here are infectious. It’s not my favourite Pink Floyd, but it’s an essential piece of their story—and of psychedelic music as a whole.

Grace is one of those albums that feels like it’s reaching for something bigger than itself—spiritual, emotional, almost otherworldly at times. Jeff Buckley’s voice is, quite simply, extraordinary: delicate one moment, soaring the next, filled with passion and vulnerability. Tracks like Mojo Pin, Lover, You Should’ve Come Over, and the now-legendary cover of Hallelujah show just how far he could stretch a melody and a feeling. The instrumentation shifts beautifully between dreamy, atmospheric rock and aching, intimate balladry, and it all holds together with this restless, searching quality. But for all its brilliance, Grace doesn’t fully land as a perfect album for me. A few tracks don’t quite match the emotional weight of the highlights, and the ambition sometimes threatens to outweigh the structure. Still, it’s a stunning and singular debut that showcases an artist who seemed to be operating on his own frequency—one that sadly didn’t have the time to fully unfold. Even with its small flaws, Grace remains an unforgettable and haunting listen. 4/5.

Next... is a strange little beast of a record—part glam rock, part pub theatre, part fever dream cabaret—and while that might sound like a recipe for something exciting, it mostly left me scratching my head. Alex Harvey certainly has charisma, and the band is tight, but the whole thing leans so hard into its theatrical weirdness that it often forgets to be enjoyable. The title track, a cover of a Jacques Brel song, is impressively dramatic but also borders on exhausting. Elsewhere, songs like Swampsnake and The Faith Healer have a bit more punch, but they get lost in the album’s overall lack of direction. There’s a certain cult charm to it, and I can see how this might have hit differently in a live setting with Harvey strutting around like a rock 'n' roll pirate. But as a listening experience? It’s inconsistent, occasionally grating, and feels more like a quirky stage show than a great rock album. A couple of fun moments here and there, but ultimately, Next... is more odd than essential.

Suzanne Vega – Suzanne Vega Album Review Suzanne Vega’s self-titled debut is a quiet, introspective album that leans heavily on gentle acoustic guitar, soft vocals, and a poetic lyrical style that’s easy to admire, even if it’s not the most exciting listen. Her songwriting is thoughtful and often subtle, with tracks like Marlene on the Wall and Small Blue Thing standing out as highlights that hint at the more polished and emotionally resonant work she’d go on to make. That said, much of the album drifts by in a low, steady hum—pleasant, but rarely gripping. The sparse production suits her voice, but there’s a sameness to the tone and pace that makes it hard to stay fully engaged. It’s not bad by any means, but it feels more like a solid first draft than a fully-formed artistic statement.

Songs of Love and Hate is Leonard Cohen at his most intense—raw, poetic, and utterly unflinching. His voice is darker and deeper here, wrapped around stark arrangements that give the lyrics room to breathe, or in some cases, quietly devastate. Tracks like Famous Blue Raincoat and Avalanche are masterclasses in emotional storytelling, full of regret, longing, and hard-earned wisdom. There’s a bleak beauty running through the entire album, and even in its quietest moments, it commands attention. It’s not always an easy listen—there’s very little light to balance the shadow—but that’s part of what makes it so compelling. Cohen’s songwriting is as sharp as ever, and the stripped-down production only makes it feel more intimate and confessional. If you’re in the right mood, it’s one of his most rewarding works, but it doesn’t quite have the accessibility or variety to make it a top-tier entry for every listener. Still, it’s a powerful, haunting album that leaves a lasting impression

Seventeen Seconds is the moment The Cure fully stepped into their signature sound—cool, distant, and steeped in atmosphere. Gone is the punk energy of their debut, replaced with spacious arrangements, icy guitar lines, and a ghostly mood that seeps into every track. It’s minimalist but never dull, with each song feeling like a fogged-up window into Robert Smith’s quietly unraveling world. The restraint in the playing gives the album its power—nothing feels rushed, nothing feels unnecessary. The standout here is A Forest, a hypnotic, eerie track that captures the album’s tone perfectly. But the strength of Seventeen Seconds lies in its consistency—songs like M, Play for Today, and the title track don’t just support the mood, they deepen it. The production is stark and cold, but that’s exactly what makes it work. It’s a masterclass in doing more with less, creating emotional depth through simple repetition and carefully chosen textures. While later Cure albums would go on to be more layered and expansive, there’s something special about the purity of this one. It’s a mood piece, and if you're in the right headspace, it's completely absorbing. Seventeen Seconds isn’t just a great early post-punk record—it’s a blueprint for countless bands that followed. Quietly brilliant, deeply haunting, and endlessly replayable. Again and again and again and again...

Lady Soul is Aretha Franklin in full command of her powers, delivering a collection of songs that blend gospel, soul, and R&B with total confidence. The album opens strong with Chain of Fools and doesn’t let up, featuring classics like Ain’t No Way and the timeless (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman. The Muscle Shoals rhythm section keeps things tight, while Aretha’s voice soars, growls, and glides with unmatched emotion. Every performance feels lived-in and deeply felt, even on the lesser-known tracks. While a couple of songs don’t quite match the brilliance of the hits, the overall quality and emotional range of the album make it one of her strongest. It’s rich, powerful, and undeniably soulful, with Aretha turning every line into something personal. Lady Soul may not be perfect front to back, but it’s packed with iconic moments and shows exactly why she earned the title Queen of Soul.

This album is very 90s and very grunge—raw, fuzzy, and rough in that lo-fi, garage-band-on-a-budget way. It definitely has its moments (Let It Slide and Something So Clear come to mind), and there’s a charm to the whole chaotic mess, but it never really stands out from the pack. Soundgarden and Alice in Chains were bringing a deeper heaviness and stronger musicality to the scene, and next to that, Mudhoney’s punk-rooted style feels more like a blur of energy than something you want to sit with. Still, I get why it’s in the 1001 book—it captures a specific moment in grunge’s evolution and feels very honest to what the genre was before it broke big. That said, I’ve always leaned more toward the melodic or metal-influenced side of grunge, and Mudhoney's more scrappy, punk-leaning take just doesn’t stick with me as much. It’s fine—somewhere in the middle for me.

Abbey Road is The Beatles at their most polished, playful, and quietly profound—a perfect final statement (even if it wasn’t the last released) that manages to be both a greatest hits package and something entirely new. The production is pristine, the songwriting is sharp, and the band feels united in a way they hadn’t for some time. Tracks like Come Together, Something, and Here Comes the Sun are absolute standouts, each a masterclass in mood, melody, and arrangement. George Harrison, in particular, steps fully into the spotlight here, delivering two of the most beloved songs in the entire Beatles catalog. But what really sets Abbey Road apart is Side B—the legendary medley. It’s an ambitious, seamlessly woven patchwork of song fragments and ideas that somehow fits together into one of the most satisfying musical journeys on record. It’s clever, moving, surreal, and oddly hopeful, ending with the perfect final note: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” Abbey Road isn’t just a Beatles album—it’s one of the finest examples of a band saying goodbye at the absolute top of their game. 5/5.

Talk Talk Talk is where The Psychedelic Furs really hit their stride—still raw and edgy like their debut, but with more colour, mood, and a clearer sense of direction. There’s a great mix of sneering post-punk and glam-tinged melodies, with Richard Butler’s raspy, cigarette-soaked voice tying it all together. Tracks like Pretty in Pink (before its cinematic fame), Into You Like a Train, and All of This and Nothing stand out as perfect examples of that early ‘80s art-rock cool, combining energy and atmosphere with just the right amount of attitude. What makes this album work so well is its balance—jangly guitars, saxophone swells, and tight production make it more dynamic than the debut, but it still keeps that scrappy edge. It’s not as slick as what the band would do later, and that’s part of the charm. Talk Talk Talk isn’t trying to please anyone—it’s stylish, cynical, and oddly romantic in its own ragged way. A high point in their catalogue, and one of the stronger post-punk records of its time. 4/5.

Night Life is a well-regarded country classic, but it didn’t do much for me—and a big part of that comes down to Ray Price’s voice. He’s got that smooth, polished crooner style that leans more towards Nashville’s big-band country than the rough-edged honky-tonk sound I tend to prefer. The arrangements are lush, the pedal steel is lovely, and the songwriting (especially the Willie Nelson-penned title track) is strong, but I just couldn’t connect with the vocal delivery. It all sounds a bit too clean and controlled, which takes the edge off songs that are supposed to be about loneliness and barroom heartbreak. I can see why the album is respected, but for me, it lacked that emotional grit. Just not my kind of country.

Protection is a smoother, more introspective follow-up to Blue Lines, swapping the raw grit of their debut for something cooler, silkier, and more refined. It's an album that moves like a slow-motion dream—lush, moody, and full of space to breathe. Tracks like the title song (featuring Tracey Thorn's ghostly vocals) and Weather Storm wash over you in waves, while Karmacoma and Spying Glass bring a more playful, off-kilter energy to the mix. The production is immaculate—every beat, sample, and subtle texture feels carefully placed, building a sound world that’s as emotionally rich as it is rhythmically hypnotic. While it might not hit with the same revolutionary force as Blue Lines, Protection is arguably the more cohesive listen—less raw, but deeper in mood. It's also a more collaborative album, with vocal contributions from Thorn, Tricky, and Horace Andy adding real character across the tracklist. If there’s any reason it doesn’t get a full 5, it’s only because a couple of tracks feel like palate cleansers more than essentials. Still, this is Massive Attack at their most elegantly brooding—a near-perfect balance of soul, dub, electronica, and atmosphere.

The Bends is where Radiohead truly found their voice. While Pablo Honey hinted at their potential, this follow-up throws off the post-grunge tag entirely and embraces something far more expansive and emotionally resonant. The album walks a perfect line between raw guitar-driven power and delicate introspection, with Thom Yorke’s voice shifting effortlessly between wounded vulnerability and explosive frustration. It’s packed with unforgettable moments—Fake Plastic Trees aches with fragile beauty, Street Spirit (Fade Out) closes the album with haunting grace, and High and Dry delivers one of the most perfect sad-pop melodies of the '90s. But it’s not all melancholy—Just is pure chaos bottled up in a four-minute track, with spiraling guitars and a frantic energy that still sounds electrifying. Bones, too, is a hidden gem: gritty, compact, and full of grit and anxiety, offering a jolt of urgency in the album’s midsection. Even the deeper cuts (Bullet Proof..., Black Star) are layered and thoughtful, never filler. There's a confidence running through every track that shows just how quickly the band was evolving, pushing themselves into deeper emotional and musical territory. The production is big and bold without being overbearing, and the songs are sequenced so well that the album flows effortlessly from start to finish. The Bends feels like the moment Radiohead fully stepped into their greatness, laying the groundwork for everything to come. It’s one of those rare albums where every track holds weight, and if 5 stars is the limit, this one’s pressing hard against it.

The Pleasure Principle is cold, sleek, and utterly iconic. With this album, Gary Numan swapped out guitars almost entirely and dove headfirst into icy synths and mechanical beats, helping define the sound of synth-pop before it even had a name. Tracks like Metal, Films, and of course Cars are sharp-edged yet strangely emotional—robotic on the surface, but filled with alienation, paranoia, and vulnerability underneath. It’s music made for a future that never quite arrived, and it still sounds remarkably fresh today. What makes this album so impressive is how complete the aesthetic is. Every sound, from the clipped electronic percussion to the droning synth layers, serves the same cold, dystopian mood. But even in all that steel and circuitry, Numan’s presence is unmistakable—detached, yes, but full of character. His voice, flat and distant, somehow makes the loneliness more real. The Pleasure Principle isn’t just a landmark for electronic music—it’s a masterclass in how to build a world with sound. It's minimalist yet cinematic, strange but incredibly catchy. The fact that this was released in 1979 still feels kind of unreal. A true 5/5

Rio is glossy, vibrant, and packed with big hooks—but it’s also very much a product of its time, and not always in the best way. There’s no denying the charm of tracks like Hungry Like the Wolf and the title track Rio—they’re punchy, catchy, and made for MTV. The band knew how to craft pop with a slick, fashionable edge, and the production is polished to a mirror shine. But dig beyond the hits and the album starts to feel a bit thin. The over-reliance on style sometimes leaves substance behind, and a few of the deeper cuts feel like filler dressed in shoulder pads and eyeliner. It’s fun, sure, and there's a playful energy throughout—but it doesn’t quite hold up as a front-to-back classic. Enjoyable in small bursts, but not essential.

This album feels like stepping into a Technicolor Western—dusty saloons, lonely deserts, and gunslingers with tragic pasts. Marty Robbins has a rich, warm voice that brings these cowboy tales to life, especially on the iconic El Paso, which is still a masterclass in narrative songwriting. The arrangements are simple but perfectly suited to the storytelling—acoustic guitars, gentle harmonies, and that classic Western shuffle that makes the whole thing feel like it’s playing over the end credits of a movie. While a few of the songs blend into each other and lean a bit too far into sentimentality, there's a charm and sincerity that carries it through. It's not trying to be cool or clever—it’s just really well-crafted cowboy music, full of heart and wide-open landscapes. Not quite perfect, but a high-quality slice of Americana that still sounds lovely today.

Moondance is often praised as a smooth, soulful classic, and while it’s certainly well-made, it doesn’t quite pull me in. The title track and Into the Mystic are lovely, and the musicianship throughout is slick and polished—but maybe a little too polished. The album glides along on jazzy grooves and warm tones, but it starts to feel a bit samey, like it’s playing in the background of a very tasteful dinner party you weren’t quite invited to. Van Morrison himself is a bit like a pint of Guinness—rich, iconic, and undeniably Irish, but if you're not in the mood, it can feel like a heavy task to get through. His voice has soul, sure, but there’s a hint of self-satisfaction that can make it hard to fully connect. Moondance is pleasant and classy, but for me, it doesn’t leave much behind once it’s over.

This album is full of chaotic charm—part punk, part traditional Irish folk, and completely unmistakable. Shane MacGowan’s slurred, ragged vocals are both a strength and a stumbling block depending on the song, but there’s no denying the band’s energy and spirit. The title track is a whirlwind, and Fairytale of New York has earned its place as a bittersweet Christmas staple. There are flashes of brilliance and storytelling throughout, but it’s a bit uneven as a full listen. When it hits, it really hits—but when it doesn’t, it can start to blur into a drunken stomp of tin whistles and accordion. There’s definitely heart here, and the band’s wild, unpolished sound is part of their appeal, but it doesn’t always translate into a consistently gripping album. Rough around the edges, with a few standouts, but more hit-and-miss than great.

Power In Numbers is a solid, often impressive display of what Jurassic 5 do best: tight group chemistry, feel-good beats, and a throwback to hip hop’s golden age without sounding stuck in the past. The flows are smooth, the lyricism is clean and clever, and the production, especially from DJ Nu-Mark and Cut Chemist, gives it real polish. Tracks like What's Golden, A Day at the Races, and Freedom hit hard and stand tall among their best work, mixing sharp rhymes with seriously fun energy. But as a full album, it doesn’t always maintain that momentum. Some of the midsection blends together a little too neatly, and while it’s consistently listenable, it lacks the bold standouts or surprises that could’ve elevated it even more. Still, there’s a lot to enjoy here, and Jurassic 5’s chemistry and skill carry it well. It’s clever, smooth, and easy to like even if it doesn’t quite hit classic status.

Amnesiac often gets treated like the shadowy B-side to Kid A, and in some ways it is—but it’s a fascinating, ghostly companion piece that stands up surprisingly well on its own. It shares the same experimental, electronic spirit, but feels murkier, colder, more fragmented, like you're tuning into strange radio frequencies from some parallel world. Tracks like Pyramid Song and Knives Out are standouts, full of eerie beauty and understated intensity, while I Might Be Wrong gives the album a much-needed groove and swagger. It’s not as cohesive or groundbreaking as Kid A, and a few tracks feel more like art installations than songs you’d revisit often, but there's something compelling in its disjointedness. It leans more heavily into mood and texture than structure, which can make it feel emotionally distant at times—but also weirdly hypnotic. A slightly less essential listen, but still a rich, rewarding one.

High Violet is often praised for its moody atmosphere and emotional depth, but for me, it lands with a bit of a thud. The slow tempos, muted instrumentation, and Matt Berninger’s deadpan baritone all blend into a grey blur that never really lifts. It's the kind of album that feels like it’s building toward something... but rarely gets there. There are moments of beauty in the arrangements, and the band is clearly polished, but the overall effect is just a bit too dreary and self-serious. Nothing sticks, and by the end, it’s hard to remember what stood out—because nothing really did.

Underwater Moonlight is a wonderfully strange record that manages to be both catchy and completely off its rocker. It takes classic pop songcraft—verses, choruses, melodies you can hum—and runs it through a post-punk, psychedelic filter where everything sounds just slightly wrong in the best way. The guitars jangle and buzz, the rhythms twitch and tumble, and the whole album has this scrappy, urgent energy that keeps it constantly moving. It’s bright and abrasive at the same time, like a sunny day with a looming thunderstorm. What really makes it work is how it balances accessibility and oddness. Songs like I Wanna Destroy You and Kingdom of Love are loud, fun, and immediate, but they also have that slightly deranged edge that makes them hard to pin down. Even the slower moments feel slightly unhinged, like they’re about to spiral off somewhere surreal. There’s a real sense of forward motion in the album’s pacing too—it never lingers too long in one space, and even its stranger moments feel purposeful. It’s a smart, nervy record that still sounds fresh, full of colour and chaos.

Pearl isn’t just Janis Joplin’s best album—it feels like everything she was building toward finally came together. There’s raw power, yes, but also a sense of clarity and control she didn’t always have on earlier records. Her voice is ferocious and vulnerable in equal measure, full of cracks, growls, and aching soul, and on songs like Cry Baby, A Woman Left Lonely, and Me and Bobby McGee, she tears right through you. Each track feels lived-in, emotionally charged, and completely her. The production is tighter, the arrangements are richer, and the band—Full Tilt Boogie—gives her just the right platform without ever overshadowing her. Even the fun, loose moments (Move Over, Mercedes Benz) have that unmistakable Janis grit and charm. It’s a tragic triumph in some ways, released just after her death, but it’s also a lasting reminder of her brilliance.

Melodrama is a sleek, emotionally sharp pop album that dives into heartbreak, loneliness, and self-discovery without ever feeling heavy-handed. The production is clean and bold, full of echoing synths, piano stabs, and shifting rhythms that give it a dramatic, almost theatrical feel—fitting for its title. Songs like Green Light, Liability, and Supercut show off Lorde’s talent for turning personal turmoil into grand, relatable moments. It’s a well-crafted album that manages to be both intimate and stadium-sized, but a few tracks don’t quite stick the landing and feel more like thoughtful sketches than fully realised songs. Still, it’s smart, stylish, and filled with interesting choices, proving Lorde wasn’t just a one-album wonder. Not quite a masterpiece, but definitely a bold and rewarding step forward.

Copper Blue is a big, warm wall of guitars—fuzzy but melodic, aggressive but always tuneful. Bob Mould took his Hüsker Dü instincts and polished them just enough to let the hooks shine without sanding off the emotional edge. Tracks like Helpless, If I Can’t Change Your Mind, and Hoover Dam blend power-pop with a grunge-era crunch, giving the album a kind of bittersweet energy that never feels forced. It’s one of those records where nearly every track delivers something memorable—whether it’s a killer riff, a clever lyric, or just that soaring sense of momentum. The sound is dense, sure, but it never gets muddy, and the melodies are strong enough to cut through the noise. It might not get talked about as much as other ‘90s alt-rock landmarks, but Copper Blue holds up remarkably well—equal parts catharsis and craftsmanship.

This is the sound of Billy Corgan being handed the keys to the studio, the universe, and probably a mirror he never stopped gazing into. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness is not so much an album as it is a sprawling monument to self-indulgence. Across two discs and 28 tracks, Corgan tries to be everything at once—angry teen prophet, fragile poet, guitar god, misunderstood genius—and ends up being mostly exhausting. There are a few good songs scattered in the mess (1979, Tonight, Tonight), but you have to wade through a lot of overblown, melodramatic sludge to find them. Corgan’s voice, never the band’s strongest asset, is everywhere—whining, whispering, shouting, often in the same song—and it wears thin fast. There’s no editor in sight, and no one seemed willing to tell him that maybe not every idea needed to be a track. The album jumps from orchestral ballads to punishing riff-fests like a teenager flipping through outfits before a prom they didn’t want to go to in the first place. It’s ambitious, sure, but ambition without focus turns into bloat. For all the grandeur, the emotion feels more performative than profound. It wants desperately to be important, to be the statement of a generation, but the result is something closer to an endless diary entry—loud, overwrought, and full of feelings, but ultimately lacking clarity. A shorter, sharper album might’ve been great. This, instead, is Billy Corgan’s endless guitar solo of a personality on double vinyl.

In Rock is where Deep Purple stopped dabbling and fully committed to being loud, fast, and gloriously over-the-top. From the thunderous opener Speed King to the screaming chaos of Hard Lovin’ Man, the album is a nonstop showcase of raw power and wild instrumental fireworks. Ian Gillan wails like he’s trying to set off car alarms, and Ritchie Blackmore’s guitar work is equal parts razor-sharp and theatrical. It’s aggressive, energetic, and absolutely helped lay the groundwork for what would become heavy metal. That said, it’s not always the most refined listen. The band’s intensity sometimes spills over into indulgence, with songs stretching a bit longer than they need to and solos that feel more about showing off than serving the song. But honestly, that’s part of the charm. In Rock isn’t trying to be subtle—it’s here to shake the walls, melt a few amps, and leave you slightly dazed. It might not be perfect, but it’s undeniably iconic

Hot Shots II is one of those rare albums that sounds completely effortless while being quietly brilliant from start to finish. The Beta Band take their oddball experimentalism from earlier releases and rein it in just enough to deliver something far more focused, but still totally unique. It’s mellow, strange, soulful, and groovy in all the right ways—like Beck, if he’d grown up in Fife and spent more time inside his own head. Tracks like Squares, Human Being, and Gone blend woozy electronics, off-kilter beats, and warm, understated melodies into a sound that feels both handmade and futuristic. The pacing is spot on, drifting between hypnotic chill and low-key funk without ever losing its sense of cohesion. It’s rich in texture but never cluttered, with just the right amount of weirdness to keep things interesting without derailing the vibe. This is an album you fall into—an odd, soft-edged world that makes total sense once you’re inside it. There’s nothing quite like it, and few records from the early 2000s have aged so gracefully. Hot Shots II is not just the Beta Band’s best work—it’s a quietly perfect gem.

The La’s is one of the most beloved one-album wonders in British music, and for good reason. It’s packed with chiming guitars, wistful melodies, and that unmistakable sense of longing that gives it emotional weight far beyond its modest runtime. There She Goes might be the big, timeless hit, but the whole album has that same understated charm—tracks like Timeless Melody and Way Out are just as infectious, and everything flows with an effortless, classic pop feel. That said, the band’s perfectionism in the studio (and Lee Mavers’ well-documented frustrations with how the album turned out) do slightly show—there’s a sense that this could’ve been even more. But as it stands, it’s still a beautifully simple, emotionally rich debut. Not flawless, but close.

Born to Run is Springsteen’s leap from local hero to myth-maker, and it sounds every bit like someone swinging for the fences. It’s grand, romantic, and bursting with that restless energy that only comes from being young, broke, and dreaming big. Every song feels like it’s trying to capture the whole American experience in a single breath—Thunder Road and Jungleland especially, with their winding stories and cinematic scope, are practically novels set to music. The production is dense, almost overwhelming at times, but it suits the album’s larger-than-life ambition. The E Street Band brings a wall of sound that somehow never drowns out the emotion behind it, and Springsteen himself sounds desperate, determined, and utterly alive. It’s a record full of drama and heart, and even decades on, it still feels like a bold, urgent call to chase something bigger than yourself. An all-time rock essential.

Bummed is pure, messy, late-80s Manchester chaos—equal parts sleaze, swagger, and genius. It’s not an easy album to love on first listen, but once you tune into its shuffling, drugged-out rhythm and Shaun Ryder’s surreal mumblings, it clicks into something strangely hypnotic. The grooves are deep and grimy, with loose funk and post-punk riffs held together by just the right amount of acid house weirdness. It’s an album that shouldn’t work as well as it does, but there’s an undeniable charm in the madness. Producer Martin Hannett gives everything a foggy, haunted-space feel, while the band stumbles through songs like Wrote for Luck and Mad Cyril with irresistible confidence. Bummed is grubby, chaotic, and strangely brilliant—a true Madchester milestone.

Hail to the Thief often gets overshadowed by the albums that came before it, but it’s one of Radiohead’s most underrated works—restless, layered, and full of quiet brilliance. It feels like a hybrid of all their past selves: the anxiety of OK Computer, the electronic abstraction of Kid A, and the rawer rock edge of The Bends, all stitched together into something sprawling and uneasy. Tracks like There There, 2 + 2 = 5, and Where I End and You Begin show just how well they can juggle atmosphere, melody, and paranoia in equal measure. It’s not as conceptually tight as some of their other records, and the tracklist could probably lose a song or two, but its messiness is part of the charm. There’s a real sense of urgency here, both politically and emotionally, and the sonic palette shifts constantly—from glitchy synths to eerie lullabies to crunching guitars—without losing its grip. It may not be their defining masterpiece, but Hail to the Thief is far more than a transitional album. It’s bold, bleak, and strangely beautiful.

Urban Hymns is a sweeping, emotionally heavy album that wears its heart firmly on its sleeve. While it’s best known for the massive hit Bitter Sweet Symphony and fair enough, it’s a great track. The rest of the album digs deeper into late-night melancholy and psychedelic-tinged introspection. Tracks like The Drugs Don’t Work and Sonnet show Richard Ashcroft at his most vulnerable, while Catching the Butterfly and Weeping Willow expand the soundscape with moody textures and layered instrumentation. It's an ambitious album that straddles the line between Britpop and something more spiritual, even cosmic. There are moments where it meanders a bit, and it could’ve done with a slight trim, but the highs are undeniable and often deeply moving. It’s both a product of its era and something timeless, achingly sincere, beautifully produced, and easy to get lost in. A high watermark for late-'90s British rock.

The ArchAndroid is an ambitious, wildly creative album that refuses to sit still for even a second. Janelle Monáe blends funk, soul, hip hop, rock, orchestral pop, and even touches of folk into a sci-fi concept record that somehow feels both futuristic and timeless. Songs like Tightrope, Cold War, and Locked Inside burst with energy and invention, while the suites and interludes tie everything together with an operatic sweep that’s rarely seen in modern pop. It’s a dense album, packed with ideas, but it never feels bloated—Monáe’s charisma and vision guide you through every twist and turn. Even when it risks getting a little too sprawling, the sheer imagination and musical craftsmanship win you over. The ArchAndroid isn’t just a debut album, it’s a full-blown mission statement, and one that still feels thrillingly ahead of its time.

3 Feet High and Rising is a hugely important album in hip hop history, and you can hear why—it’s playful, inventive, and completely unlike anything else that was around in 1989. Instead of leaning into aggression or bravado, De La Soul built a colourful world full of quirky samples, light-hearted skits, and offbeat rhymes. Tracks like Me Myself and I and The Magic Number are infectious and clever, with an easygoing charm that's hard not to like. That said, the album’s constant skits and chaotic pacing can sometimes make it feel a bit bloated and uneven as a front-to-back listen. The creativity is undeniable, but a little trimming would have made the overall experience tighter. It’s a landmark album for sure, but it doesn’t always hit as hard emotionally or sonically as later hip hop milestones. Still, it’s a brilliant, joyful piece of work that changed the rules for what hip hop could be

Tres Hombres is ZZ Top hitting that sweet spot where blues, rock, and a little bit of Texas swagger all collide perfectly. The riffs are huge but still groove effortlessly, with Billy Gibbons' guitar tone sounding as thick and dirty as a summer dust storm. Songs like La Grange and Waitin’ for the Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago are stone-cold classics, mixing boogie rhythms with a raw, unpolished energy that keeps the whole album lively from start to finish. There’s a looseness to Tres Hombres that makes it so fun to listen to it never feels like it’s trying too hard. It’s straight-ahead, beer-soaked blues rock played with just the right amount of grit and flair. Maybe not revolutionary, but it’s rock solid and full of life, and it shows ZZ Top doing exactly what they do best.

Joan Armatrading’s self-titled album is a pleasant listen, blending folk, soul, and soft rock into a sound that's easy on the ears. Her voice carries a lot of natural emotion, and songs like Love and Affection show real flashes of brilliance in how she delivers simple feelings with genuine warmth. The arrangements are tasteful and well played, giving the album a smooth, steady flow without any real missteps. That said, while it’s undoubtedly well made, it doesn’t always spark to life. A lot of the songs tend to blur together in tone and mood, and the album can feel a little too careful at times, missing the punch that would have made it truly memorable. It’s a nice record, but it never quite pushes into great territory—solid, well-crafted, but not the kind of album that sticks with you long after it's over.

Chemtrails Over the Country Club feels more like a delicate sigh than a full statement. The mood is dreamy and hushed throughout, with Lana leaning heavily into her ethereal Americana aesthetic—but the songs mostly blur together in a mist of whispered vocals, gauzy piano, and barely-there melodies. There are glimmers of beauty in tracks like White Dress and Tulsa Jesus Freak, but too often the album drifts without really landing anywhere. It’s not that it’s poorly made—if anything, it’s too carefully crafted, to the point of being emotionally distant. The lack of variation in tone or tempo makes it feel like one long, melancholy lullaby, and the poetic imagery sometimes crosses the line into self-parody. There’s atmosphere in abundance, but not much else to hold on to.

Teenager of the Year is sprawling, strange, and stuffed with ideas in the best way possible. Frank Black throws genre rules out the window, hopping between punk, surf rock, college radio pop, and spacey weirdness, all held together by his unmistakable voice and offbeat charm. It’s an album that feels like flipping through a brilliantly unhinged comic book, with standout tracks like Headache, I Want to Live on an Abstract Plain, and Thalassocracy showcasing both his pop instincts and his knack for the bizarre. It’s not always easy to follow.22 tracks is a lot, and not everything lands. but even the weaker moments have a certain eccentric appeal. The sheer range of styles and tones on display is impressive, and somehow it never completely falls apart. It’s messy, creative, and packed with personality, exactly what you’d want from a post-Pixies solo record.

Bat Out of Hell is one of the most over-the-top albums ever made—part rock opera, part Broadway show, part fever dream. Jim Steinman’s theatrical songwriting paired with Meat Loaf’s full-throttle vocals creates a sound that’s big, bold, and totally unapologetic. Tracks like Paradise by the Dashboard Light and the title track are undeniably entertaining, full of drama and bombast that feel more like stage performances than rock songs. But for all its flair, it’s also exhausting. The album rarely lets up, and its sheer theatricality can feel a bit much if you’re not fully bought into the vision. It’s ambitious and unique, yes—but also loud, long, and not always in control of itself. A fun, chaotic listen, but not quite the masterpiece it’s sometimes made out to be

Stand! is a bold, joyful, and politically charged blend of funk, soul, and psychedelic rock that helped define the late '60s. With tracks like I Want to Take You Higher and the irresistible Everyday People, Sly Stone and his band deliver messages of unity and empowerment without ever losing the groove. The rhythms are tight, the hooks are massive, and the energy is infectious from the first track. That said, the album does lose a bit of momentum with the 13-minute jam Sex Machine, which feels more like a studio workout than a fully-formed idea. Still, the rest of the album is so strong, so alive with creativity and spirit, that it's easy to forgive a few indulgences. Stand! captures a moment in time with style and soul to spare. 4/5.

A Walk Across the Rooftops is a quiet stunner—an album that doesn't shout for your attention but slowly pulls you into its late-night, rain-soaked world. With just seven tracks, it crafts an atmosphere of reflective melancholy and urban romance, built on sparse electronics, delicate arrangements, and Paul Buchanan’s warm, aching vocals. Songs like Tinseltown in the Rain and the title track feel cinematic without being grandiose, intimate without ever sounding small. The production is beautifully restrained, each element given space to breathe, and that patience pays off in mood and emotional depth. It's not an album packed with hooks or flash, but it lingers long after it's over. Understated, elegant, and quietly haunting—A Walk Across the Rooftops is a glowing example of how less can truly be more.

I liked the willie nelson stardust album much more than i thought I would tbh it's just him diving headfirst into a collection of American pop standards. It sounds like it shouldn’t work, but it really does. His gentle, weathered voice brings a new kind of honesty to songs like Georgia on My Mind and Blue Skies, making them feel lived-in rather than polished. Just some really nice takes on some classic songs and I've always loved the sound of trigger his guitar it really does have a very unique sound which i like The arrangements are soft and understated, letting Willie’s phrasing and guitar do the talking. It’s a warm, mellow listen that somehow manages to feel entirely his own. Stardust proves that great songs, and a great interpreter, can put something into these classic songs and make them sound 'new'.

Blood on the Tracks is Dylan at his most emotionally raw and poetic, delivering a collection of songs that feel deeply personal without ever being plainly autobiographical. Whether it’s the aching If You See Her, Say Hello, the winding heartbreak of Tangled Up in Blue, or the quiet devastation of Simple Twist of Fate, every track is steeped in reflection, regret, and the complexity of love lost. Musically, it’s stripped down and intimate, letting the stories take centre stage. The arrangements are warm and organic—acoustic guitars, soft drums, and the occasional splash of organ—perfectly framing Dylan’s worn, expressive vocals. There’s a quiet power in how understated it all is. Blood on the Tracks isn’t just one of Dylan’s best albums—it’s one of the greatest singer-songwriter records ever made. Honest, wise, and full of beautifully bruised melodies, it’s the sound of someone trying to make sense of their life and inviting you to do the same.

Armed Forces is a clever, well-crafted album that shows Elvis Costello refining his sound with more polish and pop sensibility, but it doesn’t always hit as hard as it wants to. The hooks are strong—Oliver’s Army and Accidents Will Happen are undeniably catchy—but the album sometimes feels a bit too slick for its own good, losing some of the rawness and urgency that made his earlier work stand out. There’s plenty to admire here: smart lyrics, tight performances, and a sharp ear for melody. But for all its intelligence and energy, it occasionally slips into sounding a little too controlled, a little too calculated. It’s a solid, enjoyable record—but not quite the knockout it often gets credit for.

Fear of a Black Planet is undeniably an important album—culturally, politically, historically. But musically? It just doesn’t work for me. Public Enemy’s third album is loaded with sharp social commentary, touching on everything from systemic racism (“911 Is a Joke”), to the stigmatization of Black identity (“Who Stole the Soul”), to the empowerment of Black women (“Revolutionary Generation”). Tracks like “Brothers Gonna Work It Out” and “Pollywanacraka” even dare to push positive messages about unity and acceptance, including the then-controversial topic of interracial relationships. At the time, Public Enemy’s refusal to soften their message shook up the white establishment—and that’s commendable. But message alone doesn’t make a great album. Sonically, Fear of a Black Planet is mired in the early '90s—noisy, cluttered, and not in a way that holds up. The Bomb Squad’s chaotic production style may be revolutionary to some, but to me, it sounds dated and abrasive, without offering enough melodic or rhythmic payoff. There are few engaging hooks, beats, or samples that stick. As for the vocals, Chuck D’s booming delivery is iconic, sure, but not particularly enjoyable to my ears. I get that hip-hop leans more toward spoken delivery than singing, but even within that realm, there’s little nuance or variation here to keep me engaged. Flavor Flav’s contributions are even more grating, especially on tracks like “911 Is a Joke,” which feels more like shouting than performance. What also can’t be ignored is the presence of some problematic content. For an album that positions itself as socially conscious, it’s jarring to hear moments that come off as homophobic or antisemitic. Some might argue it's satire or cultural expression—but I don’t think the intent was clever irony. It feels crude and mean-spirited, which undercuts some of the very justice-oriented themes the album champions. In the end, Fear of a Black Planet is a landmark in hip-hop history, no question. It challenged power structures, sparked conversations, and gave voice to a segment of America that desperately needed to be heard. But for me, appreciating its historical importance isn’t the same as enjoying it musically. Culturally significant? Absolutely. But sonically? Hot garbage

Fuzzy is one of those rare debut albums that feels fully formed—ambitious, heartfelt, and sonically rich without ever overreaching. Grant Lee Phillips' voice is a revelation, warm and aching, perfectly suited to the sweeping, cinematic Americana that defines the album. From the haunting title track to the soaring Mockingbirds and the thunderous Dixie Drug Store, every song feels like a dusty epic, grounded in melody but charged with emotion. The arrangements are lush yet gritty, blending folk, rock, and a hint of grunge into something that sounds both timeless and entirely its own. There's a dreamlike quality to it all, but the lyrics cut deep—poetic and vivid without ever turning opaque. Fuzzy isn’t just a strong debut, it’s a near-masterpiece that too often flies under the radar. Stirring, mysterious, and packed with heart, it’s the kind of album that stays with you long after it ends

Led Zeppelin I kicks the door in with a sound that felt massive for 1969—heavy, bluesy, and dripping with attitude. From the thunder of Good Times Bad Times to the sprawling Dazed and Confused, the album wastes no time showing off the band’s raw power and musicianship. Jimmy Page’s guitar work is inventive and biting, John Bonham’s drumming is seismic, and Robert Plant’s vocals are already soaring into rock legend territory. That said, while the highs are undeniable, not every track hits with the same force. A couple of the blues covers meander a little, and the album can feel like a band still finding their exact identity. But as debut statements go, it’s loud, confident, and laid the groundwork for what was to come. A strong start to one of rock’s most iconic runs

Tuesday Night Music Club has a couple of radio-friendly highlights (All I Wanna Do being the obvious one), but as a full album it feels a bit like flipping through someone else’s scrapbook—pleasant enough, but not especially gripping. The laid-back, rootsy sound aims for charm and relatability, but often lands in safe, mid-tempo territory that blends together without much impact. Crow’s voice has an easygoing appeal, and the production is polished, but the songs rarely dig deep or do anything particularly memorable. It’s not a bad listen, just a very forgettable one. A few nice moments, but not enough to make you come back for seconds.

Dig Your Own Hole is like a thick, crusty loaf of sourdough—hearty, loud, a bit rough around the edges, and likely to leave crumbs all over your brain. There’s a lot of flavour packed into it, from the distorted thump of Block Rockin’ Beats to the swirling psychedelia of The Private Psychedelic Reel, and when it hits right, it’s satisfying in that primal, carb-loaded way. But eat too much at once, and it starts to get heavy. The album leans so hard into its own pounding, looping intensity that it occasionally becomes more of a background throb than an engaging listen. It’s big and bold, sure, but sometimes you just want something with a bit more variation than repeated slices of sonic toast. Enjoyable in bursts, but not the most balanced musical diet.

Darkness on the Edge of Town is Springsteen stripped down and sharpened up—less wild-eyed dreamer, more weary fighter. There’s no big sax solos or cinematic escapes here; instead, it’s blue-collar grit, frustration, and resilience wrapped in tight, no-frills rock songs. Tracks like Badlands, The Promised Land, and Racing in the Street burn slow but hit hard, driven by conviction rather than glory. The sound is leaner than Born to Run, but there’s power in the restraint. The album trades grandeur for honesty, and while it might not be as instantly iconic, it carries a depth that sinks in over time. It’s the sound of someone choosing to stand their ground instead of run—and making that feel heroic in its own right

Woodface is the sound of effortless songwriting meeting just the right amount of quirk. Neil and Tim Finn’s harmonies are rich and playful, and the album dances between melancholy and brightness without missing a beat. Tracks like Weather With You and Four Seasons in One Day have a timeless, gentle charm, while songs like Chocolate Cake add a wink of weirdness and humour to keep things interesting. I mean what a way to start an album with those lyrics... It’s a melodic, well-crafted album that feels lived-in and warm, with lyrics that are both clever and quietly emotional. Maybe a couple of tracks don’t quite reach the same heights, but overall Woodface is a reminder that pop music can be smart, subtle, and full of heart.

The debut Gorillaz album is a fun, genre-blending ride that still feels fresh in its ideas—hip hop, dub, rock, and cartoon madness all mashed together in a way that only Damon Albarn and Dan the Automator could pull off. Tracks like Clint Eastwood and Tomorrow Comes Today became instant classics for a reason, and the album’s laid-back weirdness is part of its charm. That said, it’s a bit looser and less focused than what the band would go on to do with Demon Days. Some tracks feel more like sketches than fully realised songs, and as part of the 1001 albums journey, this doesn’t quite hit the top tier. Still, it’s inventive, playful, and very cool—it just feels like the start of something bigger rather than the main event.

Leftism is a landmark in 90s electronic music—dark, pulsating, and built for both headphones and dancefloors. It blends house, dub, trance, and tribal rhythms into a sprawling, atmospheric journey that feels mechanical and human all at once. Tracks like Release the Pressure, Open Up, and Song of Life show just how wide Leftfield’s range is, while keeping the groove locked in tight. It’s a little long in places, and not every track hits with the same impact, but the overall vibe is immersive and ahead of its time. Even now, it sounds like the blueprint for much of what followed in progressive and big beat electronica. Not perfect, but a bold, bass-heavy classic that still holds up.

A Girl Called Dusty is a perfectly pleasant listen—smooth, polished, and full of classic 60s pop charm—but it rarely feels like more than that. Dusty’s voice is, as always, warm and expressive, but the album sticks pretty firmly to safe, straightforward arrangements that don’t leave much of a lasting impression. That said, 24 Hours from Tulsa stands out as a clear highlight—melodic, emotional, and a glimpse of the more dynamic material she’d tackle later in her career. The rest is fine background listening, but it doesn’t demand much attention. Nice enough, but not exactly essential.

Juju is a masterclass in tightly wound tension and dynamic post-punk songwriting, where atmosphere and precision collide in stunning fashion. The album opens with Spellbound, which immediately sets the tone with Budgie’s frantic tom-heavy drumming driving the track like a heartbeat in panic, while John McGeoch’s guitar is the real scene-stealer. He slices through the rhythm with chiming arpeggios and angular riffs that feel both melodic and aggressive. Siouxsie Sioux’s vocals rise over it all like an incantation, measured and hypnotic, then veering into near-mania at just the right moments. What stands out structurally throughout Juju is how meticulously arranged each track is. The band balances repetition and contrast brilliantly, especially on Arabian Knights, where Middle Eastern-inspired modal guitar lines wind over a taut, circular bassline. The vocals dance between seductive and scathing, and the guitar work refuses to settle into anything predictable. McGeoch often abandons traditional solos in favour of cascading motifs and eerie textures. The rhythm section is mechanical yet expressive, underpinning songs with an almost krautrock-like insistence while still allowing moments of eruption and drama. Then there’s Night Shift, one of the most disturbing and beautifully crafted tracks of their catalogue. It creeps in with ghostly harmonics and slow-building tension, building on drones and a sparse bassline until it erupts in bursts of discord and release. Siouxsie’s delivery here is haunting, edging into theatrical horror without tipping into parody. Across the entire album, there's a remarkable control of dynamic range. Quiet passages feel ominous, not restful, and loud moments hit with full weight. Juju isn’t just stylish goth rock. It’s architecturally sound, emotionally raw, and musically fearless. An absolute peak in their discography and the genre at large.

This album is a fascinating mess. Don’t Stand Me Down sounds like a band so determined to make something Important that they forgot to make it enjoyable. The tracks are long, talky, and oddly theatrical—Kevin Rowland often seems more interested in rambling monologues than in actually singing. You’re not so much listening to songs as sitting in on slightly awkward rehearsals for a musical no one agreed to write. There are flashes of charm—lovely instrumentation here, a nice melody buried there—but they’re stretched to breaking point over bloated arrangements and an exhausting sense of self-importance. It’s not unlistenable, but it feels like hard work for what should be soul-infused pop. A brave failure, perhaps, but still a failure.

In the Court of the Crimson King is not a debut, it is an arrival. From its very first note, it presents itself as something complete and untouchable. “21st Century Schizoid Man” bursts open with a ferocity that still sounds dangerous. Saxophones wail, guitars rip through time signatures, and the lyrics howl like prophecy. Then, as if to prove it can speak every language of music, the album glides into the serenity of “I Talk to the Wind,” where flutes drift and Greg Lake’s voice becomes a soft, drifting thought. It moves effortlessly from chaos to stillness without losing intensity. This is not a band searching. This is a band revealing. The emotional peak comes with “Epitaph,” a slow-burning elegy that feels like it was written on a crumbling cathedral wall. The mellotron swells like mourning itself, and Lake sings with the weight of someone trying to hold the world together. “Confusion will be my epitaph” is not just a lyric, it is a cold, clear truth. The drums sound like distant thunder, the atmosphere is thick with dread, and yet it never feels hopeless. It simply stares into the dark without blinking. Even “Moonchild,” with its drifting, sparse second half, has a purpose in its refusal to conform. It exists in the space between composition and dream, pulling you into a place where time is irrelevant and sound becomes thought. The final track, “The Court of the Crimson King,” brings it all together with grandeur and weight. It feels ancient and futuristic at the same time, with layered mellotrons and marching drums evoking a myth that was never written but always remembered. This album doesn’t just play music, it creates atmosphere, history, gravity. Every choice feels earned. There is no filler, no fluff, no compromise. It asks a lot from the listener, but what it gives back is a reminder of what music can do when it refuses to settle. This is not background sound. This is music that stops you, holds you, and stays with you long after the final note.

Green Onions is lean, mean, and endlessly cool. This is groove-based instrumental soul at its finest, built on tight rhythm playing, warm organ tones, and simple-but-effective hooks that get under your skin and stay there. The title track alone is a stone-cold classic—gritty, swaggering, and instantly recognisable, like the musical equivalent of a well-worn leather jacket. The rest of the album rides that same effortless vibe, never showy but always sharp. The band locks in with that rare kind of chemistry where no one overplays, and every note counts. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but it polishes it to a glorious shine. Smooth, soulful, and always in the pocket.

Ray of Light is the sound of reinvention done right. Trading in her earlier pop sound for shimmering electronica and spiritual introspection, Madonna dives headfirst into ambient textures, trance beats, and personal reflection without losing her pop instincts. Tracks like Frozen and the title song feel expansive yet intimate, layered with swirling synths and beats that pulse with life, while still offering some of the most emotionally resonant performances of her career. The production—helmed by William Orbit—is lush, futuristic, and incredibly detailed. Songs like Drowned World / Substitute for Love and Swim build slowly and beautifully, showing a patience and maturity that wasn’t always present in her earlier work. There are a couple of moments where things stretch a bit long or blur together, but overall, this is Madonna stepping into a new era with ambition and surprising vulnerability. A bold, stylish pivot that still holds up.

You are not Goth until you’ve sat in the dark listening to the B-side of Low, wondering if your radiator is broken or if that’s just Warszawa humming through your bones. This album isn’t just ahead of its time—it sounds like it’s been beamed in from a cooler, lonelier dimension. The A-side gives you jagged, fractured art-pop: clipped drums, synth stabs, and vocal lines that feel like half-remembered thoughts (Sound and Vision is both catchy and existential). But then the B-side descends into ambient introspection, and suddenly you're floating through a grey Berlin morning with nothing but fog and feeling. The production from Brian Eno and Tony Visconti is genius-level. The drums have that signature Eventide-reverb punch, the synths ooze atmosphere, and Bowie’s voice becomes just another layer in the haze. It's a cold album, but in a strangely comforting way—like an emotionally intelligent robot patting your shoulder. Experimental but never pretentious, Low is Bowie at his most forward-thinking and quietly devastating

Smash is loud, fast, and very of its time—full of snotty attitude, crunchy guitars, and hooks that punch first and ask questions later. It captures that mid-90s pop-punk energy that somehow sounds both bratty and cathartic, with tracks like Come Out and Play and Self Esteem delivering big, dumb fun with just enough bite to stick. That said, the album's relentless pace and nasal vocals can start to wear thin, and some of the deeper cuts feel more like filler than fire. The energy is undeniable, but there’s not a huge amount of variety or depth underneath the shout-along choruses and chugging riffs. Fun in short bursts, but not something that invites deep replays.

GI is often hailed as a landmark of American hardcore punk, but listening to it outside of that context—just as an album, without the mythology—it’s a rough ride. Produced by Joan Jett, the record captures the Germs in their most coherent recorded state, but that still amounts to a lot of messy energy and deliberate chaos. The playing is loose to the point of falling apart, with Pat Smear’s guitars buzzing and collapsing over Lorna Doom’s simplistic but relentless basslines. The songs fly by in under two minutes each, giving you just enough time to register a riff or a hook before the next one slams in. Darby Crash’s vocals are the biggest hurdle here. His guttural delivery is more of a drunken spoken-word performance than traditional singing, with lyrics often buried under the noise or barked in a way that makes them unintelligible. That might be part of the appeal for some—the rawness, the unfiltered aggression—but it can also be exhausting. There’s little dynamic variation between tracks, and the whole album can feel like being locked in a room with someone angrily pacing in circles. You can sense the influence this had on later punk and hardcore bands, but influence doesn’t always equal enjoyment. Ultimately, GI is a piece of punk history that’s probably more important than it is listenable. If you're deeply into punk as a movement, the Germs’ only studio album is a chaotic document of rebellion and collapse. But if you’re looking for tight songwriting, emotional variety, or even just songs that feel fully formed, this isn't likely to do much for you. It’s not without its visceral charm, but for me, it’s just not a sound I connect with beyond the historical value.

There’s no denying the raw, visceral energy of Kick Out the Jams. It grabs you by the collar and yells directly into your face from the first second. The guitars are wild, the drums unhinged, and the vocals often sound like they’re being broadcast through a megaphone with a dying battery. This is proto-punk in its most feral form, and the MC5 clearly meant every sweat-drenched second of it. The infamous opening call to arms doesn’t just set the tone, it is the tone: aggressive, unfiltered, and ready to blow the roof off. But while the energy is undeniable, the listening experience today is… well, mixed. The recording is messy to the point of being chaotic, with instrument separation nearly non-existent. The vocals are often buried or distorted beyond recognition, and several tracks melt into each other like one extended jam session with no sense of restraint. You can hear the passion, but it sometimes feels like you’re stuck at the back of a venue with blown-out speakers and a ringing in your ears. Still, there’s something infectious in its madness. It’s a document of a moment, more than a polished performance. Songs like Ramblin’ Rose and the title track have real fire, and you can see the outline of punk and garage rock to come. But as a whole album, it’s a rough, uneven listen that relies more on its attitude than its execution. Historically vital, sonically shaky. A spirited mess worth experiencing once, even if you don’t revisit it often.

This isn’t just an album, it’s a lightning strike caught on tape. Here's Little Richard is pure, unfiltered rock and roll in its most joyful, explosive form. Every track is delivered with a level of energy that feels genuinely dangerous, even today. The screaming vocals, the pounding piano, the slamming backbeat — it all bursts out of the speakers like it’s trying to outrun itself. Songs like Tutti Frutti, Long Tall Sally, and Rip It Up aren’t just classics, they’re blueprints for everything that came after. The real power of this album lies in its balance of rawness and control. Richard was a master showman, but he knew exactly how to pace a performance. His piano playing is fast and fierce, but never messy, and the band behind him — including future legends like Earl Palmer on drums — is tight and responsive, giving every song the propulsion it needs without getting in the way. There’s a sweaty nightclub feel to the whole thing, like the band is two minutes away from setting fire to the stage. Here's Little Richard isn’t just important, it’s exhilarating. It sounds like someone threw rhythm and blues into a blender with gospel fire and teenage rebellion. Even the slower tracks like Can’t Believe You Wanna Leave have grit and flair. This is what it sounds like when music is alive. It’s a definitive rock and roll debut, and it still hits like a freight train in full swing. Essential, iconic, unstoppable.

This legendary concert is as much historical document as it is live album. It captures Bob Dylan at the height of his controversial transformation from acoustic folk hero to electric prophet, complete with the infamous "Judas!" heckle from the crowd. The first half, just Dylan and his acoustic guitar, is stark and poetic, full of the pointed lyricism that made him a household name. Tracks like Visions of Johanna and It's All Over Now, Baby Blue have a haunting, brittle quality, and the stripped-down delivery lets the language shine. But it’s also quite dry in places, with long, winding verses that require your full attention — and patience. The second half, backed by The Hawks (who’d later become The Band), is where things get noisy — both musically and atmospherically. The electric set roars to life with Tell Me, Momma and Like a Rolling Stone, but not every song hits. Some feel bloated or dragged down by the tense energy in the room, as if Dylan’s defiance to go electric has him playing at the audience rather than for them. There's brilliance here, no doubt, but also a sense of exhaustion — from both the performer and the crowd. It’s a fascinating concert, and for fans of Dylan or rock history, essential listening. But musically? It’s uneven. The tension that gives it mythic status is also what makes it a slightly uncomfortable listen. Revered, yes. Enjoyable all the way through? That depends how much you love mid-song mumbling, feedback, and awkward applause.

This album is the sound of Metallica pushing themselves to the brink structurally complex, brutally cold, and unapologetically heavy. It’s also the last time they really earned the “metal” in their name before things got, well, lets just say radio-friendly. There’s an urgency and anger running through these tracks, from the relentless gallop of Blackened to the towering, doom-laden sprawl of One, all held together by relentless riffing, labyrinthine arrangements, and the kind of songwriting that dares you to keep up. The production is shocking though the infamous near-absence of Jason Newsted’s bass still raises eyebrows (or blood pressure), and Lars Ulrich’s drums sound like someone hitting a wet cardboard box. But somehow, that dry, abrasive sound suits the atmosphere: there’s no warmth here, just machinery grinding through themes of corruption, control, and the breakdown of justice itself. The title track and Dyers Eve in particular stand out as brutal showcases of technical thrash, loaded with vitriol and precision. It may not be their most accessible album, but it’s arguably their most ambitious. You can feel the band teetering on the edge of collapse under the weight of their own intensity and that’s what makes it so captivating. After this, the sharp edges start to smooth out, and Metallica shifts into stadium-rock territory. But here, they’re still snarling, still complex, still uncompromising. The last truly great Metallica metal album before they start to suck and their “rock band” era begins.

WHAT. IS. THIS? Is it jazz? Is it rock? Is it a bus route? No one knows! What it most definitely is... is a lot. This debut from Chicago (back when they still had a full name and presumably dreams of restraint) hits like a brass section got drunk and kicked down the studio door yelling “WE’RE IN CHARGE NOW.” There's a guitar solo? Swamped. There's a melody? Drowned. There's vocals? Somewhere under the trombone avalanche. At times it’s thrilling—like watching a marching band invade a rock concert. But often, it's just like watching. And the tracks go on! “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” Me, I do. It’s too long. “Free Form Guitar” sounds like someone attacking a jet engine with a cheese grater while high on wood varnish. The rhythm section's tight, and when they lock in (Beginnings, Questions 67 and 68) it’s like a funk-rock Voltron. But you have to dig through several metric tons of horn-based exuberance and improvisational indulgence to get there. It’s loud, it’s brash, it’s occasionally brilliant, but mainly it’s what happens when no one tells the seven-piece band, “Hey fellas… maybe not all at once.”

his is the Stones at their most swaggering, soulful, and apocalyptic — a band right in the messy middle of growing up and burning out. From the opening gospel stomp of “Gimme Shelter,” it's clear this isn’t just another bluesy Stones record. It’s a siren song for the end of the ‘60s, soaked in dread and swagger. That haunting opening riff might be one of the greatest ever recorded — dark, dirty, and completely captivating. And when Merry Clayton wails that her voice is cracking on “rape, murder — it’s just a shot away,” it sounds like the world teetering off its axis. The album lurches between the decadent and the divine. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” is the hymn of disillusioned youth dressed up in choirs and french horns, while “Midnight Rambler” creeps and struts like a blues monster with a knife in its boot. Even throwaways like “Country Honk” and “Live With Me” add colour to the grimy mosaic. Mick Jagger sneers, Keith Richards bleeds soul into every riff, and the whole thing feels like a band dancing on the edge of collapse — and loving it. A glorious, chaotic, blues-drenched masterpiece.

Abraxas is one of those albums where I can appreciate the musicianship without ever really feeling all that moved by it. Santana’s guitar tone is iconic, and the blend of Latin rhythms with rock is undeniably unique, but for me, it all starts to blur together after a while. The percussion work is tight, and there's a real sense of groove across the whole album, but the emotional pull just isn’t there for me. I do enjoy "Black Magic Woman/Gypsy Queen" and "Oye Como Va" — they’re great showcases of what Santana does best, with a strong sense of rhythm and a guitar voice that’s instantly recognisable. But once you get past those tracks, it feels like the album slips into a kind of background vibe that doesn’t demand much attention. It’s pleasant enough, technically impressive in parts, but I can’t say it’s something I’m eager to revisit often. Just a solid, but not particularly essential, listen.

Kala by M.I.A. is one of those albums that feels like it’s trying to do everything all at once — and sometimes it works, but often it just ends up a bit messy. The production is undeniably bold, pulling in sounds from all over the world, and there’s a restless energy to it that’s interesting on first listen. Tracks like "Paper Planes" definitely stand out, with that instantly recognisable sample and laid-back groove, but much of the rest of the album feels more chaotic than cohesive. There’s a lot of noise and clatter in the name of rebellion, which can be exciting in short bursts but also gets tiring over the full runtime. It’s not that the ideas aren’t there, it’s just that they don’t always land, and the delivery sometimes leans more on attitude than actual impact. I appreciate the ambition, but for me this album feels more like a collage than a proper picture. Some striking moments, but not one I return to often.

This album is the musical equivalent of a gilded trash fire. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy sounds like what would happen if someone handed a malfunctioning ego a billion-dollar budget and told it to paint its feelings in JPEGs. It’s overproduced, overwrought, and undercooked — a monument to indulgence where actual musical ideas go to get buried beneath walls of noise, guest verses pretending to be profound, and vocal takes so bloated with self-importance they may as well arrive via gold-plated parachute. “Runaway” is nine minutes long and somehow manages to say nothing except “I’m awful, but make it art.” “Blame Game” turns into a voicemail. “Power” is catchy in the way migraine auras are visually interesting. The production is technically impressive, sure, but so is a fireworks display at a landfill — doesn’t mean you want to sit through it. Everything here is trying to be cinematic and mythic, but it ends up sounding like an expensive identity crisis broadcast through a distortion pedal. It’s an exhausting slog of operatic narcissism, where every good idea is smothered by five worse ones. The features are dragged into the quicksand one by one, forced to shout platitudes into the void. By the end, it feels less like an album and more like a cry for help from someone who thinks help is beneath him. A bombastic, baffling, and utterly joyless monument to a man who thinks he's a misunderstood genius, when really he just needed someone to say "no."

All Hope Is Gone sits in a strange pocket of Slipknot’s discography. It’s a record caught between fury and accessibility. The heaviness is still present, but it’s polished, processed, and shaped into something more radio-friendly. The band seems like they’re reaching for something bigger while still clinging to the chaos that defined their earlier work. That tug-of-war gives the album a slightly uneven feel, but also a fascinating one. Tracks like “Gematria (The Killing Name)” and “Sulfur” still hit hard. The drumming is sharp, the riffs cut deep, and Corey’s vocals keep that trademark aggression front and center. But there are also more melodic moments like “Dead Memories” and “Snuff,” which explore a different emotional space. Those tracks show a band testing new ground without quite abandoning who they are. For me, it’s not their best, but it’s far from boring. I hear a group experimenting and trying to evolve, even if the results aren’t always smooth. Some songs feel timeless, others feel like stepping stones. But I still come back to it when I want something a bit different from Slipknot that still carries weight

Boy in Da Corner may be hailed as a landmark in grime, but for me, it’s a difficult and frankly unpleasant listen. The production is harsh and claustrophobic, which might be the point, but it doesn’t make for a compelling musical experience. The beats sound like they were made on a broken Casio in a room with no ventilation, and while that might give it a unique atmosphere, I found it grating more than groundbreaking. Dizzee's flow is fast and aggressive, but the delivery feels exhausting. The lyrics are intense and personal, which I can respect, but the overall tone rarely lets up. It feels like being barked at for an hour straight. There's energy here, sure, but I didn't enjoy being on the receiving end of it. The hooks are minimal or just not there, and it left me cold rather than impressed. I can see why it might have made an impact when it came out, especially as a raw debut that helped define a scene. But this isn’t something I’d ever want to return to. It’s just not for me, and I struggled to get through it. One of the hardest albums I’ve had to sit through on this list.

Elephant Mountain by The Youngbloods is a laid-back slice of late-'60s California folk-rock with a gentle psychedelic shimmer, but for me it never really moves beyond being background music. There’s a soft, jazzy looseness to the arrangements that at times feels pleasant and easy-going, and I did enjoy the warm instrumental moments here and there. But overall, the album just sort of drifts by without anything truly grabbing hold. I kept waiting for a standout song or a spark of energy to lift it, but much of it blends together in a haze of mellow vibes. It's all very competently played, and the musicianship is clearly there, but it lacks a sense of urgency or identity. There are no real missteps either — just a gentle ride that doesn’t leave much of a mark. Not a bad album at all, but one that, for me, is more forgettable than essential.

The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is clearly an important and deeply personal record, with moments that shine in both its lyrical honesty and musical confidence. Lauryn Hill’s voice is rich and expressive, and when everything aligns — like on “Doo Wop (That Thing)” or “Ex-Factor” — it really does feel special. The blend of hip hop, soul, reggae, and R&B is distinctive and ambitious, and there’s no question the album meant a lot to a lot of people when it came out. That said, for me, the album doesn’t fully hold up as a start-to-finish experience. The interludes feel a bit forced and can break the flow, and there are stretches where the pacing drags. While the peaks are great, the rest of the album feels uneven, with some tracks feeling more like sketches than fully realised songs. It’s a solid record, and I respect what it represents, but as a full listen it sits in the middle for me.

I really wanted to like Tragic Songs of Life more than I did. I can hear the tight harmonies and the raw emotion in the performances, and I understand why it's seen as an important early country/folk album. But for me, it just didn’t connect. The songs blur together after a while, and the unrelenting sadness, paired with that very traditional twang, starts to wear thin. There’s no denying the Louvin Brothers could sing, and I respect the sincerity behind the storytelling. But I found it more exhausting than moving. I think if I had more of a love for old-school country or gospel-style ballads, I might have gotten more out of it. As it stands, it just didn’t speak to me.

Live Through This is raw, loud, and drenched in emotion. I think what really works here is the way it straddles the line between punk fury and something much more vulnerable underneath. Courtney Love’s voice isn’t polished, but that’s the point—it’s messy, furious, grief-stricken, and strangely powerful. You can hear every scream and every lyric clawing its way out. I really do think this album captures something that feels genuinely unfiltered. Songs like “Miss World,” “Violet,” and “Doll Parts” stand out as real moments of intensity and feeling—equal parts rage and heartbreak. There’s a definite grunge feel, but with its own cracked-glamour edge. For me, it’s one of those albums that burns bright, even if it’s a little chaotic around the edges.

Hard Again is exactly what I want from a blues record—raw, full of swagger, and played by people who clearly live and breathe this music. I think what makes it hit so well is the energy; it doesn’t feel like an old legend going through the motions, it feels alive and kicking. That’s probably thanks to Johnny Winter’s sharp production and the band behind it, who are all firing on every cylinder. Right from the growl that kicks off “Mannish Boy,” you know you're in for something fun. I do like how the album balances grit with groove. Tracks like “I Want to Be Loved” and “The Blues Had a Baby and They Named It Rock and Roll” feel playful, confident, and full of charm. It’s not reinventing anything, but it’s bringing the blues back with teeth, and I think that’s what makes it so enjoyable. For me, it’s one of the better late-career records out there—just a joy to play loud.

Private Dancer is a bold, confident, and very '80s comeback record that really lets Tina Turner show what she can do with the right songs behind her. I think what makes it stand out is how varied it is—some tracks lean pop, others feel more rock or soul, but her voice holds it all together. “What’s Love Got to Do with It” is the obvious highlight, but I also really like the title track for how haunting and subtle it is. For me, this album feels like someone reclaiming their power. It's polished, but never cold, and it has that mix of vulnerability and strength that Tina was so good at. A few of the songs don’t stick as much as others, which is why it’s not quite a perfect score in my book, but it’s still a really solid album that deserves the praise it gets.

This one really didn’t land for me. They Were Wrong, So We Drowned feels like an album caught between wanting to be an unsettling art piece and actually crafting songs worth revisiting. I get that it’s meant to be chaotic, tribal, and thematically steeped in witch trial hysteria, but for me, it just came across as noise with little payoff. There’s ambition in the concept, but the execution left me cold. I can appreciate experimental music when it still offers a hook or some atmosphere to latch onto, but most of this just felt like being stuck in a room full of clattering pans and cryptic shouting. Tracks blur together in a way that isn't immersive, just exhausting. I’m sure some will defend it as bold or challenging, but I personally found it more frustrating than fascinating. A few interesting textures, but not enough to make me want to go back.

The Beach Boys Today! is a transitional album, and you can really hear it. On one hand, you’ve got that early surf-pop charm still bubbling through songs like “Do You Wanna Dance?” and “Dance, Dance, Dance” — catchy, fun, and full of youthful bounce. But then the second half slows things right down and hints at something more thoughtful, more emotionally layered. That shift is what makes the album interesting. For me, the more introspective songs like “Please Let Me Wonder” and “She Knows Me Too Well” are where things get properly engaging. You can feel Brian Wilson beginning to explore deeper textures and arrangements, planting the seeds that would later blossom into Pet Sounds. But it doesn’t quite get there yet. The album is caught between two worlds — the sunny, simple innocence of the early 60s and the richer, more complex pop to come. I enjoyed it, even if I wouldn’t rush to call it a masterpiece. It’s like a polaroid of a band mid-transformation. Not all the songs stick, but there’s just enough here to show the potential and charm that kept The Beach Boys at the forefront. A solid listen that hints at something greater just around the corner.

Bookends is one of those rare albums that feels like it’s speaking directly to you, even decades later. I’ve always found something so comforting in the way Simon & Garfunkel balance melancholy with melody, and here they absolutely nail that mix. The first half flows almost like a short film, touching on themes of youth, aging, and memory the “Bookends Theme” in particular has this gentle, wistful quality that really gets to me. It’s simple, but it feels timeless. For me, the real emotional punch comes from “America” and “Old Friends.” “America” builds slowly and beautifully into this soaring blend of longing and hope, while “Old Friends” is quietly devastating in its stillness. You can practically see the park bench and the worn faces. And then there’s the second half songs like “Mrs. Robinson” and “A Hazy Shade of Winter” still sound so sharp and smart, adding just the right jolt of energy to the album’s reflective tone. What makes Bookends such a standout is how personal it feels, even when the lyrics are abstract or poetic. It’s an album about growing up, losing people, and holding on to fleeting moments. I come back to it whenever I need something familiar, something human.

Tom Petty's debut with the Heartbreakers is one of those albums that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. Right from the opener “Rockin’ Around (With You),” you get that easy, confident swagger that would become Petty’s trademark. The production is lean and punchy, the guitars are crisp, and the whole thing has this raw, no-frills charm that feels very American — like driving down a dusty road with the windows down. I’ve always thought “American Girl” is a perfect closing track, full of bright, jangly energy and that unforgettable urgency in the chorus. But it’s not just that one song — “Breakdown” has that cool, slinky groove that sneaks up on you, and “Hometown Blues” keeps things grounded. There’s a simplicity to the whole album that works in its favor; it doesn’t overreach, it just plays to its strengths with honesty and style. For me, this album feels like the start of something big — not perfect, maybe, but definitely full of promise. It’s packed with heart, and it knows exactly what it is.

16 Lovers Lane is one of those albums that feels like it was made for a warm evening walk just before the sun goes down. It’s delicate but never flimsy, full of gentle acoustic textures, glistening guitar lines, and soft but bittersweet vocal harmonies. The production is clean and open, letting the emotion in each song really shine through without feeling forced. There’s a confidence here, like the band finally found the right balance between polish and poetry. For me, it’s the songs like “Streets of Your Town” and “Love Goes On!” that really capture the heart of this record — light on the surface, but with a bit of a sting underneath. There’s something quietly devastating about the way the lyrics mix the mundane and the tragic, all while sounding as pleasant as a breeze through an open window. Every track feels connected, like pages from the same diary, unfolding in a way that makes the whole album feel cohesive and lovingly crafted. It’s a record that wears its heart openly and rewards you for listening closely. Not every moment hits with the same weight, but the highs are so good they carry the rest along with them.

There’s something gloriously weird and wonderful about Nilsson Schmilsson. I came into this album not knowing quite what to expect, and it still managed to throw me off in the best way. Harry Nilsson’s voice is buttery smooth but he’s clearly a bit of a mischief-maker underneath it all. Tracks like “Coconut” feel like he’s taking the mick, while “Jump Into the Fire” is a proper sweaty freak-out jam that somehow fits right alongside the gentle, heart-wrenching “Without You”. I really enjoyed the mix of playfulness and sincerity here. It bounces between genres like it’s got somewhere better to be, and even when it veers into novelty territory, it’s still clever, catchy and hard to fault. You get the sense Nilsson was doing exactly what he wanted, and it just so happens that what he wanted was to make something both cheeky and timeless. Not every track is perfect, but when this album hits, it really hits. It’s got heart, hooks, and just enough chaos to keep it from ever feeling safe.

Fisherman’s Blues is the sound of a band cracking their knuckles and throwing out the rulebook, for better and for occasionally worse. It’s a sprawling, shambling blend of folk, rock, and Celtic soul that sometimes feels like a drunken jam session in a pub at closing time—and I don’t mean that as an insult. When it works, it really works. The title track and “And a Bang on the Ear” are joyous and rich, full of fiddles, longing, and big open-hearted energy. I do think the looseness of the record works both for and against it. There are moments of real magic, but also patches that drift or feel like they belong on a different record entirely. It’s like a treasure hunt, but some of the gold turns out to be just pretty convincing brass. Still, it never fully loses its charm. For me, this album lives in that middle zone of being great company, even if it’s not always sharp. It’s a grower, not a showstopper, and sometimes that’s exactly what you want.

Tusk is one of those albums where ambition sort of outpaces enjoyment. It’s certainly bold there’s a lot of experimentation, a big budget, and a band clearly trying not to make Rumours again. But for me, that ends up being more interesting on paper than it is through the speakers. A lot of it just feels... flat. Not bad, but not gripping either. Lindsey Buckingham’s attempts to push the band into weirder territory are admirable in theory, but a few too many of the tracks wander into clunky, jagged spaces without a big payoff. Christine McVie’s songs are often the warmest, and Stevie Nicks adds her usual magic here and there, but even they seem like they’re holding back compared to past glories. I wouldn’t say it’s a bad album just a frustrating one. It’s like being promised a wild party and turning up to find people rearranging furniture in silence. Some moments shine, but too often, it plods.

Surfer Rosa is one of those albums I really wanted to love more than I did. It’s raw, it’s noisy, it’s definitely influential and I get why it matters. But as a listening experience, it often felt more like a blast of cool ideas than something I’d return to for pure enjoyment. There's a real scrappy charm to it, but also a lack of flow that left me drifting in and out of attention. The production is brilliantly abrasive, all echoing drums and jagged edges, and the songs bounce between creepy, funny, and flat-out chaotic. "Where Is My Mind?" is obviously a highlight eerie, catchy, and weirdly hauntin but too many of the other tracks blur together in a whirlwind of yelps and fuzz. I appreciate the energy, but I didn’t connect with much of it emotionally. I think if I’d heard this at a certain age or time, maybe when I was feeling more rebellious or wanted to annoy the neighbours, it might’ve hit harder. As it stands, I respect it more than I enjoy it.

There’s something so gloriously raw about this debut. It’s scrappy, urgent, and full of that pub-gig energy where everyone’s trying to prove something. I love how rough around the edges it is. The production isn’t slick and the performances sometimes teeter on the edge of falling apart, but that’s part of the charm. You can hear the hunger in every track, like they’re kicking the doors down to let the world know they’ve arrived. Paul Di’Anno’s vocals have this punky sneer that fits the vibe perfectly. He doesn’t try to be operatic, just snarls and belts through the chaos, and it works. The twin guitars from Murray and Stratton are already a defining feature. You’ve got harmonies flying in and out, sharp little runs, and those galloping riffs that would become their signature. Phantom of the Opera is the obvious standout. It’s wild how ambitious that song is for a debut album – full of tempo shifts and ideas, and it all somehow sticks together. Running Free is a total street anthem, while Charlotte the Harlot brings a bit of cheeky character into the mix. For me, this isn’t their best record, but it’s one of their most important. It laid the groundwork. There’s a youthful grit to it that never comes back quite the same way again. Later albums got more polished and operatic, but this one punches you in the face and then buys you a pint.

I really enjoyed this one. It’s the kind of album that doesn’t rush to impress you with flash, but instead quietly wins you over with solid songwriting, mood, and variety. From the first track, I could hear that Stephen Stills had a clear vision for what he wanted this solo debut to sound like. It’s warm, rich, and confidently blends rock, folk, blues, and even a touch of Latin rhythm here and there. The arrangements feel thought-through without being overstuffed, and the guitar playing is consistently tasteful. There’s a sort of easy swagger to it all that makes it feel like he knew exactly what he was doing. I liked how Love the One You’re With kicks things off – sure, it’s the big hit, but it’s also genuinely good. Catchy, smooth, and full of laid-back energy. But it was the deeper cuts that stood out more for me. Black Queen is a highlight – that one’s raw and bluesy, just Stills and a guitar, recorded in one take and sounding like he’d had a drink or two beforehand. I love how unpolished it is. Do for the Others is another favourite, with that melancholy acoustic feel and lovely vocal harmonies. There’s also some impressive guest appearances if you go digging – Clapton’s on guitar, Hendrix even shows up briefly – but the album never leans too heavily on them. It’s still very much Stills in the driver’s seat. I think what makes this work so well is that it feels like a personal album, even though it’s polished and filled with guests. You get the sense that these songs actually meant something to him. There’s pain in the ballads, a touch of humour in places, and a clear love for the craft. For me, this is one of those albums that might not blow you away on first listen, but if you let it sit with you, it slowly becomes something you return to again and again.

This one’s got a cool vibe. I like it, but I’m not blown away. It’s solidly in that laid-back, late-night groove territory where everything just sort of coasts along – good company, good drinks, and nothing too demanding on your attention. Jimmy Smith’s organ tone is as smooth and smoky as ever, and there’s a real ease to the playing here. I appreciate that kind of looseness – it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to dazzle you, just settle into a nice swing and vibe out. I think the title track is easily the standout. That slow, bluesy stroll it takes feels like something that would be playing in a dimly lit bar around midnight. It’s warm, slightly cheeky, and has a great sense of space. The rest of the album, though, doesn’t quite rise to that same level for me. Everyone’s clearly great at what they’re doing – you’ve got Kenny Burrell on guitar and Stanley Turrentine on sax, and their parts are tasty – but it all just feels a bit... samey after a while. The grooves are nice, but they don’t really build to anything or surprise me. It’s a pleasant listen, but I did find myself drifting off a bit.

I know this is one of those albums people treat like sacred text, but honestly, it just didn’t land for me. I get that the production is supposed to be classic, and sure, there’s some solid beat work going on here, but it all started to blur together for me pretty fast. It’s very of-its-time, and maybe if I’d heard it back in the 90s I’d feel differently, but as a first-time listener now, it just felt more like a historical document than something that actually moved me. The flow is technically strong, but I struggled to stay invested. Lyrically, I could see what he was going for — snapshots of street life, coming-of-age realism — but I found a lot of it hard to connect with. Some of the bars are clever, but there’s also a fair bit of posturing, and I didn’t really feel like I got to know the person behind the words. It was all scene-setting, no real heart. N.Y. State of Mind was probably the standout for me, and Life’s a Bitch had its moments too, but the rest just left me a bit cold. I didn’t hate it, I just didn’t care, and that’s maybe worse. I think the main thing is that I came into this expecting something mind-blowing and instead found something that felt like background music with an occasional pulse. I can respect its place in music history, but for me, Illmatic is more admired than enjoyed. It’s not bad, it’s just not one I’m ever going to reach for again.

I can absolutely see why this album mattered. It’s got that no-frills, stripped-back style that clearly kicked a door open somewhere in hip-hop’s early years. The beats are raw and punchy, the rhymes barked rather than delivered, and there’s a sort of punk energy in how aggressive and minimal the whole thing feels. It’s practically anti-funk in places, just hard-edged rhythm and shouty declarations, and I get how that must’ve felt like a shock to the system back then. This is the blueprint, and you can hear echoes of it in about a hundred other albums that came after. That said, for me, it was more interesting than enjoyable. Once the initial thrill of the sound wore off, I started noticing how repetitive it all was. The flows barely change, the beats loop endlessly, and the lyrical content often just feels like variations on the same theme. It’s not bad exactly — there’s a charm in its confidence — but I did find myself zoning out a few tracks in. Songs like Hard Times and It’s Like That still pack a punch, and I liked Rock Box for throwing in that guitar riff out of nowhere, but most of the rest felt like filler to me. I’m glad I listened to it, if only to hear where so much of what came later started, but it’s not something I’m likely to revisit often. I respect it more than I love it, and I think unless you’ve got a real nostalgia for early 80s hip-hop or a deep interest in the genre’s history, it might feel a bit like homework. Interesting homework, but still homework.

This one really surprised me. I went in expecting the usual Madness ska-pop bounce, and sure, there's some of that, but The Rise & Fall goes way deeper than just cheeky fun and nutty boys larking about. It’s way more melancholic and reflective than I thought it would be. There’s a strong thread of nostalgia and sadness running through it that really gave it more weight for me. The title track especially set the tone — wistful, a little gloomy, but still catchy in that very British way. It’s like the musical equivalent of flicking through old school photos and realising everyone moved on without you. I think what struck me most is how confident they are in flipping moods. Our House is obviously the big hit here, and yeah, it’s a brilliant single — instantly recognisable, a perfect little slice of suburban joy. But around it you’ve got these strange and experimental moments, like Primrose Hill and Blue Skinned Beast, that lean more into art-pop territory than straight-up ska. I really liked Tomorrow’s (Just Another Day) — it’s got that resignation baked into it that hits just right when you're in the right frame of mind. This album feels like Madness growing up a bit, and I found that shift really compelling. There’s still fun to be had here, but it’s bittersweet fun — the kind where you’re laughing with friends but also feeling the pull of everything that’s changed. For me, this is where they became more than just a singles band. It doesn’t all work, but when it does, it’s properly affecting in ways I didn’t expect.

This album just floats. I don’t know how else to describe it. Listening to Lazer Guided Melodies feels like being gently pulled out to sea by something warm and benevolent, like the tide wants you to have a nice nap and forget about your obligations. It’s spacey without being sterile, psychedelic without being showy. Every sound feels lovingly placed, each guitar loop or drone or string wash lingering just long enough before melting into the next. I think what got me was how natural the whole thing feels, like the songs aren’t trying to impress you, they’re just there, existing in a kind of sleepy, blissful state. I really love how the tracks bleed into each other, which makes the album feel like a single piece. There’s structure here, but it’s so fluid that you don’t notice the seams. Shine A Light is probably the moment I keep returning to — the way it grows, slowly but surely, from this spaced-out murmur to something almost symphonic is just beautiful. And Run with its lazy, half-conscious groove really caught me off guard the first time. I was expecting something much messier, but this is so precise in its looseness — if that makes sense. For me, Lazer Guided Melodies is about surrender. It’s not an album that demands attention, but it rewards it deeply. I can put it on in the background and let it colour the room, or sit down with headphones and get properly lost. Either way, it always feels like it’s taking me somewhere I need to go

I’ve lived with this album for so long that it’s hard to even think about it clearly sometimes. It’s like an old friend who’s weird, unpredictable, sometimes a bit much, but always welcome. I don’t listen to The White Album for consistency or flow. I listen to it because it’s one of those albums I know that actually feels like real life. It’s messy. It’s brilliant. It has dead-ends and detours and moments of beauty that sneak up on you. I used to skip certain songs when I was younger, but I’ve grown into most of them. It’s that kind of album — one that shifts with you over time. I’ve always loved how this record refuses to be one thing. One minute you’re in the middle of something as beautiful as Blackbird or Dear Prudence, and the next you’re thrown into chaos with Helter Skelter or Yer Blues. It doesn’t care if you’re ready or not. That’s part of the charm for me. It’s like the Beatles opened up all the doors in their heads and just let everything pour out. Some of it’s nonsense, some of it’s genius, some of it is both at once. I find something new to like almost every time I put it on. The songs I didn’t understand as a teenager like Long, Long, Long, Mother Nature’s Son, even Revolution 9 (ok maybe not that one ) but they have grown into more listenable favourites along the way and time. If I’m really honest, I think this Beatles album is the least controlled and it's one of the things that makes it such a good album. It feels human but in away where the seams are showing, but that just makes it more real. You can hear them pulling in different directions, filled with idea after idea in multiple genres and somehow it still works. I love how it doesn’t try to be perfect but somehow just is. It just throws everything at the wall and lets you decide what sticks and then after maybe a few listens or a few years you notice everythings stuck to the wall. I’ll always be grateful for how generous this album is how much it gives you to dive into. It’s long, it’s flawed, but it’s alive and there's a lot of artists who could still learn a lot from this album about keeping things organic and gimmick free and let your music do the talking for you. No flashy cover, no massive pile of story led lore or mysterious personnel. just 4 lads a bunch of instruments and the ability to write catchy interesting songs...

I really wanted to like this one more, because I usually admire Cohen's writing even if I don’t always enjoy it. But this album was a slog for me. The biggest issue is the production — it's like someone challenged themselves to see how much canned keyboard and fake sax they could cram into a single record before anyone noticed. It’s drenched in this late 80s sheen that robs everything of intimacy, and for a guy like Cohen who lives on intimacy, that’s a real problem. The beats plod, the synths are all air and no substance, and even when the lyrics cut through, they’re wearing a very cheap suit. There are still flashes of something real. Everybody Knows is a dark little triumph, grimy and cynical in a way that suits the plastic production. Take This Waltz has a weird charm, even if it feels like it's been drowned in syrup. But overall, the whole thing feels like an uncomfortable compromise between Cohen’s poetic instincts and a very bad idea of what being “modern” sounds like. It’s all a bit smoky nightclub lounge, but not in the cool Tom Waits way — more like a budget hotel bar on a Tuesday night. I get that this is one of those records some fans defend to the death, but for me, the sound is just too dated and clunky to take seriously. The lyrics are still clever in places, sure, but they’re buried under too much synthetic sludge.

This album hit me at a strange time, and I think that’s part of why it stuck. I remember putting it on without much expectation, and suddenly this voice just floored me — warm, broken, funny, bitter, vulnerable. It felt like someone had taken a scalpel to their own emotional history and decided to sing about it without flinching. There’s humour in the lyrics, sure, but it’s the kind of humour that hides in dark corners and mutters insults when no one’s looking. I really like that. It’s not often you find a record that manages to sound beautiful and cutting at the same time, but this one pulls it off. I was drawn in by the softness at first — those piano melodies and warm arrangements courtesy of Midlake make everything feel gentle — but then the words start sinking in and you realise it’s not gentle at all. JC Hates Faggots and Where Dreams Go to Die hit like a punch to the gut. For me, Sigourney Weaver is the real gem though. There’s something about the imagery, the campy defiance, and that soaring chorus that just does it for me. It makes pain sound glamorous and weird and oddly comforting. I think what I admire most about this album is how honest it feels without being desperate for attention. John Grant doesn’t dress things up unless it helps him get closer to the point. And even when he’s singing about total humiliation or loneliness, there’s strength in it. I come back to this album when I want to feel less alone in how absurd and exhausting life can be. It’s one of those records that seems to hold you by the shoulders and say, "Yeah, me too."

I think this album is a bit of a mixed bag for me. On one hand, I really like the overall mood — that late-night, post-club comedown feel. There’s a sleekness to the production, all that polished drum and bass and trip-hop, that feels very of its time but still holds up in places. Tracey Thorn’s voice really carries a lot of it. There’s something cold and detached about it, but it works perfectly with the kind of stories she’s telling — lonely city nights, emotional numbness, trying to hold yourself together under fluorescent lights. I found myself zoning into tracks like Single and Before Today, which both hit a nice balance between melancholy and groove. But I do think the album starts to blur a bit as it goes on. The beats become a little too clean, the emotions a bit too controlled. I respect what they were trying to do, and for what it is, it's very well-crafted. I just found myself drifting in and out of it — appreciating the atmosphere more than actually connecting with it. It’s a record I’d play when I’m walking at night with my thoughts elsewhere, but not one I’d reach for when I really want to feel something. I like it, but I don’t love it.

I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for some prog, and The Yes Album definitely has its charms, but for me it sits somewhere in that middle ground. Not quite mind-blowing, not quite forgettable. I admire the ambition and the musicianship, no question. There are moments on this record that feel expansive and brilliantly weird, especially on Starship Trooper and Yours Is No Disgrace. I actually really like how they build tension and layer parts in those songs. It feels like you’re getting taken on a trip, even if sometimes it’s a slightly overlong one. Steve Howe’s guitar work is great throughout. I think he’s the standout for me here. That said, I also found myself checking the time more than once during the longer tracks. There’s a fine line between being adventurous and just noodling for too long, and this album dances on that line a lot. Vocally it’s a bit marmite too. Sometimes Jon Anderson’s voice floats nicely over the music, but other times it feels like it’s floating off in its own direction entirely. I get why this record was important for them and for prog fans in general, but I’m not fully swept up in it. I like it in parts, respect it overall, but it doesn’t pull me in emotionally like some other records from the era do.

I really wanted to love this more than I did. There’s no question Sam Cooke’s voice is one of the all-time greats, and this live performance captures a rawer, sweatier, more impassioned side of him than the polished studio stuff he’s often known for. You can feel the energy coming off the crowd, the way they scream and shout at every little vocal run like he’s setting the place on fire. And I do like hearing that rougher version of Cooke—it’s like catching him loosen his tie and just let it rip for once. But for me, the recording itself doesn’t quite do the performance justice. It’s a bit murky, and at times the balance feels off, like the band’s buried under the noise of the room. I also found some of the song choices a little safe. I get that this was Cooke reaching back to his gospel and R&B roots, but I guess I was hoping for a setlist that surprised me more. It’s a really solid live record and has its moments

This one’s always felt like slipping into a battered armchair in a wooden cabin, warm light spilling through the window, and someone handing you a drink before launching into a story. It’s earthy, rich, and timeless, and I find myself really sinking into the details each time. The album feels like it’s lived a full life before I even pressed play. “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” still hits like a freight train — I don’t even need to be American to feel that loss. “Up on Cripple Creek” has that swampy, playful groove that I can’t help but hum later, and “Whispering Pines” just quietly guts me. It’s understated in all the right ways. I think what keeps me coming back is how much care is packed into the arrangements. Everything feels like it’s been placed there with intent, but it never feels overcooked. The voices blend like old friends passing the mic around a fire, and the whole thing carries this worn-in honesty that’s hard to fake. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but it doesn’t have t

I don’t say this lightly, but In Rainbows means a lot to me. It’s the kind of album that doesn’t just sound good — it feels like it knows you. From the moment “15 Step” kicks off, there’s this pulsing nervous energy, but it’s weirdly welcoming. I love how this one balances sharp, experimental sounds with warmth and real emotional weight. “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi” always gets me. That build, that underwater dreaminess — it just hits the sweet spot every single time. I think what really makes this album stand out is how vulnerable and human it is. “All I Need” feels like someone quietly breaking down in front of you, and “Reckoner” has this soft beauty that never wears off. Even the stranger corners like “Faust Arp” and “Videotape” feel essential. I keep coming back to this one, not just because it’s clever, but because it connects. For me, In Rainbows isn’t background music — it’s a place I go to.

You know when you’re just curious and decide to try something a bit darker, a bit heavier than what you’re used to? You think, how bad can it be? You dim the lights, put it on, and suddenly boom you’re in deeper than expected. You’re sweating a little. It’s intense. It's not exactly fun in the traditional sense, but you’re strangely compelled to keep going. There's this primal throb underneath it all, and by the time you're halfway through, you're like, “This is messed up... but maybe I’m into it?” The pacing is relentless. It doesn’t give you room to breathe. It keeps whispering in your ear with those muffled voices and echoey moans, dragging you from one shadowy corner to the next. You might feel ashamed at first, like you shouldn’t enjoy something this grim or twisted... but then, somewhere around track four, you surrender. It’s hypnotic. Filthy, yes but sort of beautiful in its own tortured way. The kind of thing you wouldn’t admit to your mum you listened to, but deep down you know it’s exactly what you needed. And just when you think it can’t get any more depraved, it reaches that final climax and leaves you lying there, a bit broken, a bit confused, and totally wrung out. Five stars, no question. One of the Best The Cure albums ever