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.

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.

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.

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.