Cosmo’s Factory is CCR’s bittersweet love letter to an America that’s as rough around the edges as a roadside diner at 3 a.m. Imagine walking into a dimly lit bar where the jukebox plays anthems of a generation too jaded to care, yet too spirited to stop dancing. With tracks like “Who’ll Stop the Rain” and “Run Through the Jungle,” CCR doesn’t so much deliver music as they deliver a punch of raw, unsentimental truth—a truth that slaps you awake harder than your morning coffee. It’s as if the band took the collective woes of the working class, mixed them with swampy blues and rock ‘n’ roll gusto, and then poured it into a vinyl that’s both a rallying cry and a wry, knowing smirk at the absurdity of it all. So, dust off your cynicism, spin this record, and let Cosmo’s Factory remind you that even in a tired world, there’s always a raucous melody ready to set you free.

In 1997, Radiohead detonated an emotional smart bomb and called it OK Computer. It was the sonic equivalent of realizing your toaster has been quietly judging you, your laptop is gaslighting you, and your heart is running on dial-up. It’s beautiful, it’s bleak, and it’s British in a way that makes you want to drink tea in a thunderstorm while questioning the meaning of life. Thom Yorke leads the charge with the vocals of a melancholy android—fragile, eerie, and somehow always sounding like he’s just seen something terrible on the news. “Paranoid Android,” the six-minute Frankenstein of a track, is equal parts prog-rock opera, digital tantrum, and late-night existential crisis. It’s like Bohemian Rhapsody took a philosophy degree and started microdosing. The whole album pulses with late-‘90s dread. OK Computer predicted the loneliness of the digital age before most people had broadband. Tracks like “No Surprises” lull you with lullaby vibes while Yorke softly disembowels capitalism. “Karma Police” sounds like revenge wearing a really nice blazer. And “Let Down”? That’s the moment you realize the subway is just a metaphor for your life, and you’re missing your stop. Musically, it’s lush but paranoid. Jonny Greenwood’s guitar work ranges from celestial to clinically insane, while the band’s electronic flourishes make you feel like HAL 9000 is weeping gently in the corner. Yet it never feels cold—just devastatingly human. OK Computer didn’t just raise the bar; it floated the bar off into orbit and asked us to find it through a haze of static and poetry. Nearly three decades later, it still feels uncomfortably relevant—as if the album saw the future and politely asked, “Are you sure you want to continue?”

An amazing album.

Great lyrics and beats. Let down by violence and misogyny.

Paul’s Boutique by the Beastie Boys is a dazzling labyrinth of sound that tosses hip-hop conventions aside for a wild, sonic collage. It’s not just a record—it’s a postmodern manifesto where a dizzying array of samples collide in audacious, ingenious ways. The Beastie Boys mix sounds like a mad chef combining unexpected ingredients—sometimes messy, always brilliant—delivering a record that’s both self-indulgent and irreverent. Critics may label it indulgent, but for those in the know it’s a masterclass in creative defiance and a cheeky middle finger to the pop mainstream. Decades later, Paul’s Boutique remains a daring celebration of rule-breaking and reinvention. Yeah, we salute Adam, a rebel with a righteous beat, MCA’s spirit echoes on every New Yoik street. Fought for Tibet, stood tall, never backed down, With wisdom like a lama, spread love all around, spitting rhymes like a L-l-lama - no d-d-d-rama… Karma in his verses, truth in his tone, A Bodhisattva on the mic, in the zone. From the concrete to the cosmos, his legacy lives on— Beastie Boy forever, never gone.

3/5

3/5

4/5

5/5 - harmonicatastique

3/5 - it was good in parts

Solid 5 - beautiful. The bonus of Art Garfunkel’s moustache on the cover photo just adds to the experience.

“$h1tehawks at the Diner” I want to buy the vinyl version and melt it into an ashtray apposite for this gravelly-voiced, unfunny and dull effort. Would make it onto my list of 1000001 best albums. I suppose you had to be there.

Loved this. Have heard it so many times. Moody, lovingly crafted and delivered.

Great lyrics and beats. Let down by violence and misogyny.

4/5 - great album, enjoyed it. A bit derivative at times, and the falsetto grates at times.

He was no Maya Angelou. He had some derivative tunes and some ability to rap. He rose above mediocrity by dying young. I have dropped a point for the use of gunfire as music, but more unacceptable is the glorification of the thug life and warping minds (intro to Outlaw). The backing music sounds so dated, which never is the case with great music. It could have been worse, if the Fresh Prince had been killed in a drive by shooting we would have idolised Jazzy Jeff.

Little known fact: Louis Prima invented the gen Z phrase “skibidi rizz” in 1960 as part of a scatological delivery. I love the album, it is a joy, but very much of its time. If you like trumpets and scat, this is for you.

Madonna did the cowgirl thing before Beyoncé.

Easy listening

Impressive, but I tired of this album about 2/3 of the way in.

Enjoyed this. Time will tell if it is really worthy of a place on this list.

Enjoyed this. Time will tell if it is really worthy of a place on this list.

Loved this! I wouldn’t ordinarily have gone for this album, but really enjoyed it.

Fantastic well-written songs, sung amazingly. The album hangs together well and bears repetition. Easily deserved of a place in this list.

Insipid, a bit dul in parts.

Insipid, a bit dul in parts.

Great album - a classic.

GaRlEbAuTm

You can follow, or lead like Commander Picard etc. I loved the love below, would listen again.

New to me, I liked some of this.

Imogen needs less bossa nova.

In the tender tapestry of existence, Mentalist Moomin blooms as Björk, a shimmering soul, weaving colours into the fabric of the mundane world, where joy would dwindle like a fading star without her ethereal light. The sugar cubes, those delightful morsels of sound, weaving magic in my heart's tapestry! In the kaleidoscope of my late 80s youth, they were the whimsical whispers that danced through my Walkman’s dreams. In my shimmering sanctuary, a bare spirit descends from the celestial zenith, and like sweet whispers, we feast on the luscious ruby delights of strawberry cake. In my glistening cocoon, a bare essence cascades from the starlit peak, and like tender murmurs, we savour the succulent crimson treasures of strawberry dreams.

I liked some of the lyrics, just not my cup of tea.

Quaint, quirky, quick. Quintessential.

Interesting ideas liked the vocals and novel lyrical approach. Never heard of this.

It’s a funk phenomenon! Didgeridon’t. Nonsense spoken about cultural appropriation has minimal relevance here - almost all popular music is derivative in some sense. Arguments that everyone has to remain in their cultural zone limits freedom of expression, curiosity, and creativity. So long as it is respectful and progressive is much more important. Stevie Wonder did not arrive fully formed de novo, he was influenced by Marvin Gaye and a host of others. What matters is putting your own stamp on it. That aside, while I enjoyed the musicianship, it was a bit dull at times.

Okay, next…

Enjoyed a trip down memory lane to University days.

Fabulous album - inventive and bold.

Never listened to this before. I struggle with Neil Young. Little stood out, but pleasant enough.

Enjoyable, enjoyable to her the singles, the rest is a bit same-y.

Interesting, but more challenging than normal to get hold of.

Some gems, but a curate’s egg.

Beautiful album - that I had never heard before. Great stuff.

Innovative and different / would listen again

I asked Slayer to write a little ditty about reviewers of metal: Title: “Verdict of the Damned” [Intro – Thunderous Riff] Verse 1 In the void where riffs scream out, I prowl the wasteland of brutal sound. Distorted carnage, chaos unbound— Death metal albums bleed their truth profound. Pre-Chorus My pen’s a blade, slicing through decay, Exposing venom in every vicious play. Chorus I am the reviewer, judge of the damned, Unleashing verdicts with a merciless hand. In the forge of metal, my words ring clear— Only the unrelenting survive the sear. Verse 2 In the slaughterhouse of sound, each track ignites, Guttural roars and shattered riffs fuel the nights. I rip apart pretenders, carve every scar, Forging legacies in chaos where legends are. [Bridge] Shredding silence with echoes of demise, My words tear the veil from blinded eyes. [Outro] As the void swallows the fading noise, True metal stands, forged in unyielding poise.

Third, Soft Machine’s sprawling 1970 double LP that essentially asks, “What if jazz fusion but also calculus?” It starts with the 19-minute Facelift, which sounds like a tape machine being drop-kicked down a flight of stairs before recombobulating into something resembling music. It’s equal parts exhilarating and exhausting, like being cornered at a party by a guy who really wants to explain why John Coltrane was basically the first punk. Third fully commits to labyrinthine compositions and modal spelunking. Slightly All the Time and Out-Bloody-Rageous move with the grace of jazz but the intensity of something much stranger, like they’re perpetually a few notes away from turning into a hostage situation. Robert Wyatt’s drumming is frantic yet fluid, Mike Ratledge’s keyboards sound like they’re actively conspiring against the listener, and Hugh Hopper’s fuzz bass could be classified as a controlled substance. Then there’s Wyatt’s rare vocal moment on Moon in June, a ghostly reminder that this band once wrote actual songs before deciding that chord progressions were bourgeois. For all its cerebral bravado, though, Third is one of those albums that rewards the foolishly persistent. There’s a hypnotic quality to its repetition, a perverse beauty in its refusal to resolve in expected ways. It is, in many ways, the ur-text for every jam band and experimental jazz unit that ever decided to turn one idea into a side-long odyssey. If you can handle the fact that it occasionally sounds like a high-speed chase through a music theory textbook, there’s real magic here. Just don’t expect an easy ride—Soft Machine isn’t here to hold your hand, and if you get lost, well, that’s kind of the point.

Nothing wrong with this.

Innovative and fresh.

Rather liked this.

Innovative and fresh.

R.E.M. is the kind of band that made you wonder if that cryptic fortune cookie was actually written by Michael Stipe himself. With jangly guitars that sounded like they were plucked from the secret stash of a forgotten record store and lyrics that danced between profound philosophy and “What on earth did he just say?”, they became the unsung heroes of alternative rock—like that cool cousin who never quite reveals all his secrets at family gatherings.

New York Dolls – New York Dolls (Mercury, 1973) – Review Ah, the New York Dolls. Five gutter-glam miscreants who look like they were coughed up by the Bowery after a particularly nasty bender. Half drag queens, half juvenile delinquents, they stumble onto the scene in platform boots, too much rouge, and an attitude filthier than the floor of sleazy club. And then there’s this—their debut album, a slab of scuzzy, trash-can rock ‘n’ roll that sounds like Chuck Berry and the Rolling Stones getting mugged in an alley by Iggy Pop. From the sleazy stutter of Personality Crisis to the lipstick-stained sneer of Trash, this record is a lewd, chaotic, beautifully shambolic mess. David Johansen yelps and howls like Mick Jagger’s bratty, less coherent cousin, while Johnny Thunders and Syl Sylvain’s guitars crash together in a gloriously out-of-tune car wreck of riffs. It’s primal, it’s dumb, it’s utterly brilliant. If you’re looking for subtlety, you’re in the wrong place. Frankenstein lurches along like its namesake, a sludgy, nihilistic monster of a song, while Jet Boy is pure amphetamine-fueled delirium. Producer Todd Rundgren, somehow roped into this circus, does his best to tame the chaos, but really, what’s the point? The Dolls were always more about attitude than precision, more about provocation than perfection. Of course, the critics will sneer, and the mainstream will recoil. The Dolls are too raw, too ridiculous, too New York for polite society. But here’s the thing—without this record, there’s no Sex Pistols, no Ramones, no punk as we know it. It’s a glorious, gender-bending, lipstick-smeared middle finger to rock ‘n’ roll pretension. And if you don’t get it? Well, darling, that’s your problem.

Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black seizes you from the opening bars with a raw, unapologetic blend of retro soul and modern despair, reimagining pop through vintage Motown grooves and deeply confessional lyrics that hit harder than your Monday morning coffee. With standout tracks like “You Know I’m No Good” and “Rehab,” the album channels the spirit of 1960s girl groups through a contemporary lens, delivering intimate diary-like confessions laced with defiant self-destruction. In a pop landscape awash with cookie-cutter tunes, Winehouse’s record not only cemented her as one of the most compelling voices of her generation but also proves that if heartbreak were an Olympic sport, she’d be standing on the podium with a gold medal and a cheeky smirk.

The imagery of bruising a woman’s oesophagus is not something I want in my head. It also passes up the chance to rhyme sarcophagus with “Mr Snuffleupagus”.

Interesting, new to me.

Erm, okay

A few good tracks.

Much better than what I recalled. Impressive.

Great songs, voice is a bit weedy.

Great album. Love the narrative.

Classic album by a class act.

Not heard the music of this band before. It was okay, but nothing outstanding.

Enjoyable

Like catching up with an old friend.

I quite liked this, which was nice.

Interesting, but too long. Innovative, but few standouts.

A couple of tracks were good. Not going out of my way to listen again.

I will happily listen to this album again and again. Some weak bit, but the strong tracks are just SO good!

A new band to me, I will enjoy listening to this again.

Didn’t grab me first time. Not heard of this person before. Reminded me lyrically of Elvis Costello. Will listen again.

3. Quite like dub.

Better than I remembered.

4. Natty album, ah criss record dat belongs pan dis list.

An amazing album.

3. I enjoyed this more than his earlier album (on the list), but not quite a 4 for me.

Awesome album.

Funny and entertaining. But not really my cup of tea.

Enjoyable in parts.

Good in parts.

Not a fan of drill/grime, or whatever this is.

I liked this more than I thought I would.

A great album from the nameless one. My old version on iTunes named this “Sing o’the times”, which make it sound like it is going to involve sea shanties! 😀

Paul’s Boutique by the Beastie Boys is a dazzling labyrinth of sound that tosses hip-hop conventions aside for a wild, sonic collage. It’s not just a record—it’s a postmodern manifesto where a dizzying array of samples collide in audacious, ingenious ways. The Beastie Boys mix sounds like a mad chef combining unexpected ingredients—sometimes messy, always brilliant—delivering a record that’s both self-indulgent and irreverent. Critics may label it indulgent, but for those in the know it’s a masterclass in creative defiance and a cheeky middle finger to the pop mainstream. Decades later, Paul’s Boutique remains a daring celebration of rule-breaking and reinvention. Yeah, we salute Adam, a rebel with a righteous beat, MCA’s spirit echoes on every New Yoik street. Fought for Tibet, stood tall, never backed down, With wisdom like a lama, spread love all around, spitting rhymes like a L-l-lama - no d-d-d-rama… Karma in his verses, truth in his tone, A Bodhisattva on the mic, in the zone. From the concrete to the cosmos, his legacy lives on— Beastie Boy forever, never gone.

Case File: Julian Cope—A Day in the Life Julian Cope exited his residence at precisely 07:42 hours, locking the door with a practiced flick of his wrist. The morning air carried a faint chill, but he ignored it, scanning the street with the quiet vigilance of a man who had seen too much. His target was clear: the corner café. He navigated the sidewalk with purpose, avoiding eye contact with loitering dog walkers and the occasional rogue cyclist. Inside, he ordered a black coffee—no sugar, no hesitation. The barista, a reliable informant named Lucy, handed over the drink without a word. Cope nodded his thanks. It was an unspoken agreement—they both knew he would be back tomorrow. At 08:15 hours, Cope entered the office, a beige-walled precinct of spreadsheets and unanswered emails. He took his seat, powered up his workstation, and surveyed the damage from the night before. Twelve unread messages, three flagged as urgent. He started with the easiest—a system update notice, quickly dismissed. The next was from IT: a reminder to reset his password, a task he postponed indefinitely. The third was from a higher-up, demanding a report he had yet to compile. He exhaled slowly. This was going to require precision, timing, and at least two more cups of coffee. He rolled up his sleeves. The case of the missing motivation had just begun. By 17:35 hours, Cope had closed out his inbox, filed two reports, and survived a tense 47-minute meeting that yielded no actionable intelligence. He powered down his computer and grabbed his coat, exiting the office into the fading daylight. The streetlights flickered to life as he made his way back to his apartment, retracing his morning steps with the quiet efficiency of a man accustomed to routine. Once inside, he removed his shoes with methodical care and collapsed onto the couch. The day’s work was done. But he knew—tomorrow, he was going to start a band and enter the music business.

Interesting. never heard of this group before. I love finding new stuff to listen to.

“It Takes A Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back” remains profoundly relevant to contemporary US society, serving as both a historical document and a continuous source of cultural resistance. Released during a time when racial tensions and political oppression were rampant, the album’s incisive critique of systemic injustice resonates with current debates over inequality, police brutality, and governmental transparency. Public Enemy’s incisive lyrics—such as the refrain “Don’t believe the hype”—challenge listeners to question mainstream narratives and scrutinize the power structures that shape societal norms. This call to skepticism is echoed today, as citizens demand accountability from institutions and media alike. The album’s aggressive sonic landscape and politically charged rhymes mirror the ongoing struggle against marginalization and systemic racism. Lyrics like “Fight the Power” underscore a timeless ethos of resistance, encouraging communities to stand against oppression. In an era marked by mass protests and movements such as Black Lives Matter, the album’s message finds renewed urgency. The rhetoric of empowerment and defiance that Public Enemy championed provides a framework for understanding modern social activism. Contemporary discussions about reparative justice and equity often echo the confrontational spirit of the album, which argued that the voices of the oppressed must be amplified to effect change. Furthermore, the album’s innovative production and sampling techniques paved the way for future generations of artists who use music as a medium for political expression. Today’s artists continue to build on that legacy by addressing issues such as systemic racism, economic disparity, and the surveillance state. In essence, the album functions as a cultural touchstone: its messages of vigilance, unity, and resistance continue to inspire a critical examination of authority in a society where similar issues persist. Public Enemy’s work not only chronicled the struggle of its own era but also laid down a blueprint for activism that remains relevant in the ongoing fight for social justice.

Elvis in Memphis is like watching your rock ‘n’ roll hero try to break free from a straightjacket—equal parts surprising brilliance and playful defiance. While the King still wears that trademark swagger, this album shows him trading his leather jacket for a soulful, grown-up vibe. It’s as if he took a detour from the predictable and said, “Hey, let’s shake things up a bit,” delivering tracks that are both swaggering and subtly self-aware. Sure, he might still be the King, but here he’s not afraid to laugh at himself while belting out some truly irresistible tunes. A delightfully cheeky detour from his usual antics that proves even royalty can reinvent themselves with a wink and a nod.

Verse 1 Rising from the depths of a sonic tomb, Forged in fire and twisted doom, I walk the path where the damned reside, 1001 records—my eternal guide. Pre-Chorus In every crackle, every howl of pain, The ghosts of metal whisper my name. Chorus I must endure the endless grind, The cursed albums that seal my mind, In the clash of riffs and relentless might, 1001 echoes before I fade into night. Verse 2 Through the noise and the chaos, I bleed, Each vinyl scar sows the seeds, Of ancient rage and relentless sound, In every album, my fate is found. Bridge Screams of distortion—an infernal choir, Each note ignites a funeral pyre, As I bear the weight of metal’s wrath, The record spins, leading me down a blood-soaked path. Breakdown Shredding memories, relentless and raw, No salvation in silence, only the call Of 1001 lifetimes, each a brutal test, I embrace the torment, never to rest. Chorus I must endure the endless grind, The cursed albums that seal my mind, In the clash of riffs and relentless might, 1001 echoes before I fade into night. Outro In the abyss of sound, my soul is reborn, Bound by the vinyl, tattered and worn, As the final track plays on, I rise above, A warrior of metal, forever in love.

I enjoyed this album. Never heard of the artist. A bit of a one trick pony.

CTRL by SZA is like an artfully crafted memo on modern love—sharp, introspective, and brimming with clever wordplay. While SZA’s sultry vocals and nuanced lyricism earn plenty of street cred, the album felt a bit like a highbrow conversation that I just couldn’t get into, despite knowing all the references. It’s clear she’s a master of mood and melody, but for me, the record’s intellectual swagger didn’t quite sync with my vibe. A commendable effort for the R&B connoisseur, though I’d prefer my heartbeats less annotated.

Thank you for the music, and giving it to me.

A great album. Never listened to it apart from the hits. Exactly what I hope to find by going through this list.

Cosmo’s Factory is CCR’s bittersweet love letter to an America that’s as rough around the edges as a roadside diner at 3 a.m. Imagine walking into a dimly lit bar where the jukebox plays anthems of a generation too jaded to care, yet too spirited to stop dancing. With tracks like “Who’ll Stop the Rain” and “Run Through the Jungle,” CCR doesn’t so much deliver music as they deliver a punch of raw, unsentimental truth—a truth that slaps you awake harder than your morning coffee. It’s as if the band took the collective woes of the working class, mixed them with swampy blues and rock ‘n’ roll gusto, and then poured it into a vinyl that’s both a rallying cry and a wry, knowing smirk at the absurdity of it all. So, dust off your cynicism, spin this record, and let Cosmo’s Factory remind you that even in a tired world, there’s always a raucous melody ready to set you free.

Some banger tunes, largely coherent, with quite a few lacklustre tracks.

Creative and innovative but noise really.

It remains as audacious a statement today as it was in 1967—a heady blend of art, subversion, and raw emotion wrapped in a banana sticker of irreverence.

I loved the lyrics and the singing.

The Dictators Go Girl Crazy! is a gloriously trashy, tongue-in-cheek slab of proto-punk brilliance. Frontman Handsome Dick Manitoba is equal parts pro wrestler and rock frontman, delivering lines with a bravado that flirts with parody but never quite winks. The album is packed with riffs that feel like they were ripped straight from a cheap beer-fuelled garage, and lyrics that veer between adolescent fantasy and ironic self-awareness. Songs like “I Live for Cars and Girls” and “Two Tub Man” push the macho image so far that it’s hard not to see the humour. In hindsight, Go Girl Crazy! was ahead of its time, laying down a foundation for punk while also mocking the genre’s macho posturing before it even really existed. So ridiculous it loops back around to genius.

Not keen on this. Lyrically terrible and surrounded by noise. I enjoyed the song which chants: “RE - SPECT - WOK”

This is a great album. These guys deserve more recognition.

Love some of the Cult’s tracks, but have never got around to listening to this album - loved it!

PJ Harvey’s “Rid Of Me” charges in like a bull with a pitchfork made of raw emotion and razor-sharp wit. The album’s energy is so fierce that even the most stoic listener might find themselves questioning whether they accidentally enrolled in a master class on fierce independence and untamed creativity. PJ Harvey playfully finger-wags at society’s norms while inviting you to join her in a no-holds-barred dance of defiance and exuberance. “Rid Of Me” is an album that sticks to your ribs, proves that biting sarcasm can be a superpower, and leaves you wondering if you should be taking notes on how to rebel stylishly.

Brilliant.

Interesting

An awesome album, I have enjoyed hearing again.

Easy listen, neither great nor terrible.

Fantastic album. Easy to listen to and appreciate.

Top One.

“Searching for the Young Soul Rebels” is like stumbling into a sweaty, brass-fueled revival meeting where everyone’s wearing denim vests and shouting lyrics with the fervor of a preacher convinced he’s discovered disco’s missing soul – and, frankly, you’d be hard‐pressed to leave without catching the fever. From the gravelly exhortations of “Geno” to the jittery paranoia of “There There My Dear,” Dexys Midnight Runners serve up their brand of Celtic‐punk‐soul with the precision of a detuned saxophone and the gusto of a rabble‐rouser hopped up on too much coffee.

Hot Fuss by The Killers is what happens when a synth-drenched, eyeliner-smeared fever dream crashes headfirst into a Vegas thrift shop full of second-hand New Wave records and adolescent bravado. It’s the sonic equivalent of a teenager dressed in his dad’s suit, trying to blag his way into a nightclub of musical relevance—awkward, overconfident, and somehow utterly brilliant. Brandon Flowers belts out lyrics like a man possessed by the ghost of glam rock’s past, while the rest of the band lays down glittery riffs and drum machine thumps with the kind of conviction usually reserved for hostage negotiators or dogs barking at vacuums. It’s glossy, ridiculous, and vaguely tragic in that delicious way only 2004 could manage.

Not that easy to listen to. Found it hard to persevere.

First Band on the Moon is the sonic equivalent of a Swedish smorgasbord—cool, eclectic, and deceptively sweet until the existential meatballs hit. With syrupy vocals from Nina Persson that sound like they were filtered through a snowflake, and melodies that dance like ABBA in a dark alley with a Velvet Underground record, the album lures you in with sugar-pop charm before delivering a sly slap of melancholy. It’s as if IKEA decided to start a band: everything fits together neatly, but there’s always one piece missing just to keep you awake at night. A quirky, catchy, and cunning slice of Swedish pop alchemy.

Not keen. I mean it is okay… this guy has FIVE albums in this list (in the edition I am reading. I am trying to appreciate this.

Great album, a classic - which feels weird having played it a lot when it came out originally.

I enjoyed parts of this album.

Channel Orange by Frank Ocean is widely regarded as one of the greatest albums ever made by people who enjoy music that feels like a memory of a swimming pool. It’s an exploration of heartbreak, wealth, and lying very still on a leather sofa while thinking about metaphors. The first track is called “Start,” which is helpful if you’re new to albums and didn’t know where to begin. The title Channel Orange is supposed to represent a colour Frank saw when he was in love, which is strange because most people just see hearts or feel a bit sick. Also, why orange? Oranges are famously the least romantic fruit. They squirt you in the eye and smell faintly of bathroom cleaner. If love feels like that, you might be dating incorrectly. There’s also the television meaning of “channel,” so possibly Frank is suggesting that emotions are like telly, which makes sense, because sometimes you want to change them but the batteries are dead. In summary, Channel Orange is a moving, complicated work of art that reminds us that emotions are confusing, love is sticky, and oranges are difficult to peel unless you’ve got very long nails or a special tool, which nobody ever has because they think they’ll just “use their fingers” and then regret it immediately.

In 2005, American man Sufjan Stevens decided to make an album called Illinois, all about the state of Illinois, which is a place in America famous for having Chicago in it, and also for being mostly not Chicago. The album contains songs about things like Superman, serial killers, and Abraham Lincoln, which makes you wonder if Stevens had actually been to Illinois or if he just Googled it the night before. Listening to Illinois is a bit like being given a very elaborate history lesson by someone who’s forgotten the main facts but remembered all the feelings. The album is part of Stevens’s so-called “50 States Project,” where he promised to make an album for every state in America, before immediately giving up after two. It’s a bit like saying you’re going to read every book in the library and then stopping halfway through the first one because you realised you’d rather have a biscuit. Nevertheless, Illinois is considered a masterpiece, although no one can really agree why, apart from that it has lots of instruments in it and makes you feel a bit like you’re either ascending to heaven or shopping for organic vegetables.

Born Marigold Clifford Joseph Price MBE, better known as Goldie, is an English music producer, DJ, and thespian, with frequent TV appearances as the Blue Peter dog. Goldie was a Golden Retriever who was a Blue Peter dog, appearing on the show from 1978 to 1986. She was owned by presenter Simon Groom and her name was chosen by Blue Peter viewers. Goldie was known for being a sweet and friendly dog. After finishing her TV role she forged a path in music. When people think of the 1990s, they usually think of important cultural milestones, like Gladiators, or Mr. Blobby’s harrowing rise to power. But tucked away among all that chaos was another event almost as significant: Timeless by Goldie, an album that changed music forever, or at least for about an hour and a half. Timeless is described as a “drum and bass” album. “Drum and bass” is a type of music where the drums go at roughly the speed of sound, while the bass hums away underneath like a very relaxed cow. Goldie, who is not made of gold and probably isn’t even called Goldie in real life, took these ingredients and stirred them together into something that sounds like the future, if the future was mainly made of really fast drums and dolphins crying. The album opens with the track Timeless, which is confusing, because that’s also the name of the album. This makes it difficult to know whether you’re listening to the song, the album, or just the inexorable passage of time. The music swooshes around your ears like you’re trapped inside a washing machine that’s fallen in love with you. Goldie apparently made Timeless as a tribute to breakbeats, inner-city life, and possibly to people who enjoy having a minor existential crisis on a dancefloor at four in the morning. There’s singing from Diane Charlemagne, who has a voice so powerful it could probably knock over a horse from fifty feet away, which is why she mainly stuck to singing and not equestrian sports. One of the standout tracks is Inner City Life, which sounds a bit like sadness trapped in a rave. It’s about living in the city, which is like living in the countryside, except there’s less mud and more chance you’ll be mugged by a fox. Throughout the album, the beats get faster and the bass gets deeper, until eventually it feels like you’re being gently chased by a swarm of bees made entirely of sound. Some tracks last for fifteen minutes, which in dog years is roughly a whole day. By the end of it, you’re not sure if you’ve just been listening to music or if you’ve accidentally been uploaded to the internet. In conclusion, Timeless is a very important album because it proves that music doesn’t have to make sense to be brilliant. Goldie showed that you can take any sounds you like—drums, bass, whales having an argument—and smoosh them together into something people will call “groundbreaking,” mainly because it makes their floors vibrate. If you only listen to one album in 1995 (and can time travel), you should probably listen to Timeless, unless you hate loud noises, feelings, or the concept of time itself. In which case, maybe just stay in bed. The Outhere Brothers, “Don’t Stop (wiggle wiggle)” provides an alternative aural treat, but only fails to make this list as it is a 7” single, rather than the 45” extended drumular bass standard.

Rather enjoyed this. Will listen again.

Good album, a bit linear, with few surprises.

This crab was Keith Flint’s spirit animal. This album transports me to a time when I had vim and vigour.

I enjoyed this one loads more than I thought I would.

Not half bad.

“The Stranger” – Billy Joel Let me tell ya somethin’—The Stranger ain’t just an album, it’s a whole freakin’ mood. Billy Joel, our piano man from Long Island, comes in hot in ’77 with a record that’s smoother than a fresh bagel and sharper than your Aunt Rosie’s tongue. First track? “Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song).” And lemme tell ya, if you grew up with an Italian uncle screamin’ ‘bout hard work and Cadillacs, this one hits like Sunday sauce—rich, loud, and a lil’ bit tragic. Now, you got “Just the Way You Are”—forget Sinatra, this is the real soundtrack for slow dancin’ in a Queens diner after midnight. But don’t get too cozy, ‘cause right after that comes “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” and hoo boy, that’s a whole damn Broadway show packed into seven minutes. You got Brenda and Eddie, heartbreak, meatballs, and sax solos—all the good stuff. Billy don’t sing songs; he tells stories, like that one guy on the corner who somehow knows everybody’s business, only with better hair. By the time “Only the Good Die Young” and “Vienna” roll around, you’re startin’ to think this guy’s not just a singer, he’s a freakin’ philosopher with a piano. He’s talkin’ ‘bout temptation, time, and takin’ it easy—stuff your Ma yelled about while throwin’ slippers. The Stranger ain’t perfect, but it’s real, it’s gutsy, and it’s got soul. Just like New York. Forget what the critics say—this album’s a classic, capisce?

Interesting and innovative.

Ever heard a record that makes being middle-aged sound like a sneaky badge of honor? LCD Soundsystem’s Sound of Silver walks that line. It splashes glossy disco melodies and brittle punk-funk all over James Murphy’s world-weary ruminations, but somehow keeps them toe-tapping. The album’s production is a riot of shiny contrasts – chugging analog synths and slab-handed drum machines collide with guitars and honky-tonk piano – polished enough to soundtrack your next after-hours party, but warm enough to still feel lived-in. Murphy’s vocals drift between deadpan monotone and falsetto yelp, serving lines that shuffle between existential dread and one-liners. There’s biting wit in tracks like “North American Scum” (a manic punk-parade of political ennui) and genuine ache in “Someone Great” (an elegy disguised as a cathartic rave-out). “All My Friends” stands out as that eight-minute mantra of monotony and minor-chord drama – think Joy Division churning out disco – an anthem for realizing you’ve graduated from scruffy kid to sleep-deprived adult. By the last track, it feels less like a party mix and more like a carefully staged memory. The result? A record that seems meticulously manicured – you can practically see the studio walls decked in reflective tin foil – yet somehow lived-in, like your favorite sweat-stained club T-shirt reissued on vinyl. Nearly two decades on, Sound of Silver still outlasts its contemporaries. Its blend of retro throwbacks and deadpan sincerity basically dared every future band: mix your vintage synths with some self-awareness and see what happens. Today it’s the kind of record that smug hipsters name-drop to prove they were ahead of the curve – and honestly, who’s going to argue? In short, Sound of Silver is basically gospel for the disillusioned dancefloor – granting permission to age so long as the disco ball’s still spinning. Heck, it’s cocky enough to admit that blasting this album might make you as insufferably cool as it pretends to be.

Okay in parts.

In 1997, Radiohead detonated an emotional smart bomb and called it OK Computer. It was the sonic equivalent of realizing your toaster has been quietly judging you, your laptop is gaslighting you, and your heart is running on dial-up. It’s beautiful, it’s bleak, and it’s British in a way that makes you want to drink tea in a thunderstorm while questioning the meaning of life. Thom Yorke leads the charge with the vocals of a melancholy android—fragile, eerie, and somehow always sounding like he’s just seen something terrible on the news. “Paranoid Android,” the six-minute Frankenstein of a track, is equal parts prog-rock opera, digital tantrum, and late-night existential crisis. It’s like Bohemian Rhapsody took a philosophy degree and started microdosing. The whole album pulses with late-‘90s dread. OK Computer predicted the loneliness of the digital age before most people had broadband. Tracks like “No Surprises” lull you with lullaby vibes while Yorke softly disembowels capitalism. “Karma Police” sounds like revenge wearing a really nice blazer. And “Let Down”? That’s the moment you realize the subway is just a metaphor for your life, and you’re missing your stop. Musically, it’s lush but paranoid. Jonny Greenwood’s guitar work ranges from celestial to clinically insane, while the band’s electronic flourishes make you feel like HAL 9000 is weeping gently in the corner. Yet it never feels cold—just devastatingly human. OK Computer didn’t just raise the bar; it floated the bar off into orbit and asked us to find it through a haze of static and poetry. Nearly three decades later, it still feels uncomfortably relevant—as if the album saw the future and politely asked, “Are you sure you want to continue?”

Innovative, ahead of its time, but prone to repetition.

Björk’s Debut opens with Human Behaviour, questioning the chaos of mankind with tribal beats and wide-eyed wonder. From Crying heartache to the sensual sigh of Venus as a Boy, she dances through moods like a glittery emotional gymnast. There’s a party in a toilet with There’s More to Life Than This, a dreamy detour in Like Someone in Love, and full-throttle joy in Big Time Sensuality. One Day offers calm, Aeroplane soars, Come to Me seduces, and Violently Happy spins out in euphoric madness before The Anchor Song gently tethers you back to Earth. In short: alien pop perfection, one drumbeat away from divine.

Enjoyable album to listen to. A pivotal career moment (but so many).

If I have to listen to this again before I die, I will be gratefully dead.

This was a refreshing change. Never heard of this album, nor would I have considered it, but will listen again and explore similar work.

Some great tracks, some filler though, and not keen on weak vocals at times.

Not a fan.

Never heard of this group, in spite of their apparent influence on others. It was intriguing and I would probably listen to them more.

Enjoyed this album. Thanks.

Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On is often described as a “landmark album,” which is confusing because it’s not a building, a statue, or even a hill. But metaphorically, it’s a hill—a big soulful one where Marvin stands at the top shouting, “Guys, the world’s on fire!” Released in 1971, at a time when America was knee-deep in war, smog, and moustaches, the album was Marvin’s way of asking, “What’s going on?”—a bold question considering nobody’s really known since about 1842. The songs are smooth and sad, like a dolphin weeping into a velvet cushion, and they tackle issues like environmental collapse, inner-city poverty, and people generally being a bit rubbish to each other. One track, “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)”, is basically Marvin apologising to the planet, which is impressive because most people don’t even say sorry when they hit a pigeon with a Segway. Listening to the album is like attending a very funky United Nations meeting, where every delegate is Marvin Gaye and they all brought bongos. It changed the way people thought about soul music, turning it from “Let’s dance and fall in love” to “Let’s sit down and have a serious think about systemic injustice while still dancing a little bit.” Marvin went rogue from Motown’s usual policy of singing about sugar and heartbreak and instead created a sonic tapestry of concern, sorrow, and flutes. The album still sounds fresh today—like it was recorded in the future and sent back to warn us, which would explain why it’s so eerily accurate about everything we’re still ignoring. In many ways, What’s Going On predicted the modern world: rising inequality, environmental disaster, and the constant sense that nobody knows what they’re doing—including, probably, Marvin himself, who at least had the decency to ask.

Okay, some great tracks. Not enough for me to rate much higher.

This was a bit of a let down to be honest.

Five Leaves Left, Nick Drake’s debut album, is a hauntingly beautiful blend of folk, jazz, and classical influences. It introduced Drake’s delicate fingerpicking, melancholic lyrics, and ethereal voice. The album is richly orchestrated, with lush string arrangements that complement rather than overpower his introspective songwriting. Poetic lyricism and quiet intensity. There’s a sense of fragile, timeless elegance throughout, as Drake explores themes of loneliness, nature, and fleeting moments. Five Leaves Left is a stunning, immersive listen that rewards repeated plays with new layers of meaning.

Catch a Fire is the album where Bob Marley and the Wailers went from gritty Kingston rebels to polished reggae diplomats—thanks, in part, to Island Records slapping a rock gloss on it for Western ears. It’s reggae with a passport and a leather case. Sure, the messages hit hard—“Slave Driver” doesn’t pull punches—but don’t be fooled: this was carefully packaged revolution. Peter Tosh smolders, Marley preaches, and the guitar solos say, “Hey, white folks, this is safe to like.” Still, even with the commercial shine, it’s a powerful, infectious collection that kicked down doors for Jamaican music worldwide—with style.

Jazzzzzz

From Sputnik review: The government's reaction to Zombie was swift and violent. Troops set his compound ablaze; destroying his music studio, all of his recordings, and the makeshift club at which he regularly performed. Also during the raid, Fela's mother was thrown from a window, and later died of the resulting injuries. Fela continued to stir up controversy with his politcal music and larger than life persona until his death from AIDS in 1997, most notably marrying twenty-seven women, mostly his background singers and dancers, in a massive ceremony in 1982.

Not an unpleasant album, but I am not chomping at the bit to listen to it again.

Interested in hearing this again.like most double albums it is almost twice as long as it needs to be.