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

An amazing album.

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.