prototypical jazz classic. difficult to find any real shortcomings. maybe just not as transcendently brilliant as peak miles davis/mingus.
liked it a bit more than when I first listened to it. still does not fully click for me. many banger riffs, but the more blues oriented tracks are kind of middling. not a massive fan of plant's vocals/songwriting.
as good as it gets. embraces dissonance without using it as a crutch. highly dramatic. perfect argument for the album (as opposed to individual tracks) as the unit of art. motifs emerge, withdraw, and then cacophonously barge in again totally transformed, overlapping across tracks. extracts a great deal of personality from the instrumentation, at time evoking resigned anguish, other times triumphant rebellion. has more compelling narrative structure than most lyrical "concept albums" explicitly telling a story. horns go hard. best jazz album of all time.
opening track is phenomenally dynamic, many interesting structural flourishes that I am unqualified to really decipher beyond intuitive/visceral appreciation. the piano-playing seems the engine driving the compositions. the proceeding three tracks, while pleasant in their own way, not nearly as memorable. closing track reanimates some of the opening track's virtuosity. sidenote: thelonious monk is an elite name to have by birth, big win for nominative determinism; i don't see a world in which someone named "thelonious monk" is an accountant content working a drab 9-5.
when it bangs, it bangs. heavy baselines, piercing synths, debauchedly exhilarating breakbeats. some very eclectic sounds, ie. indian classical style vocals briefly on the opening track. some songs overstay their welcome without the requisite dynamism to justify that indulgence. for better or worse, brutal subversiveness is repackaged as digestible spectacle; a sense of nihilistic hedonism permeates—which is compelling—but except for in "narayan," does not materialize into the transcendence which swans or nine inch nails have exemplified.
been dreading revisiting any pink floyd for a few years at this point. as my tastes w/r/t music (and art more broadly) have evolved, pink floyd's brand of affected "art rock" and "concept albums" feels self-indulgent; i even cringe at the kitschiness of the term "rock opera." the wall might be most likely of their albums to fall into this trap. at its worst, the album devolves into compositions intellectualized to the point of being drained of any visceral potency—stuffed to the brim with excessive sound effects and "storytelling." this approach does not play to the band's strengths. instead, seems driven by the misapprehension that the appeal of pink floyd lies in the ambitious "storytelling"/individual personality of roger waters as opposed to the well-executed vulgarized packaging of virtuosic instrumentation/sonic experimentation/psychedelic music. while the latter are still present, unfortunately usually subordinated to the former here. too often presents a veneer of artistry laboriously gestated out of a consciously rigid program, rather than one organically formed out of raw expression; feels too rehearsed. that all being said, within this puffed up melodrama, there are a handful of truly fantastic songs. the obvious standouts include comfortably numb, mother, and another brick in the wall (although i did audibly groan at the one-two punch of the school children chorus followed by a guitar solo). I also relatively liked the closing stretch of the album.
great opening track, very decadent. flaming lips resemblance; made a lot more sense when i realized they shared a producer (and actually recorded this album in the same studio that flaming lips recorded soft bulletin in). hudson line is a stinker—comically jumbled mess. the mellow instrumental palate generally works, spellbindingly atmospheric. does occasionally lumber into a lull, devolving into passive "soundtrack rock" that is too easy to tune out of. could have done without the drowsy interludes. very much enjoyed the vibrantly dynamic final track.
naturally adored the homoerotically ambiguous opening track (a theme thats revisited more explicitly on 'billy budd,' 'i am hated for loving,' and 'speedway', also alluded to in the album title). caustic wit shines through despite a tendency towards sensationalist melodrama. lyrically, a psychoanalyst's wet dream, and i do appreciate the genuine vulnerability on display. inevitably does descend into self-aggrandizement (its morrissey after all). 'lifeguard sleeping, girl drowning' is a definite lowlight. given the weight of positive associations rooted in past listening, its difficult to evaluate morrissey's vocals under any pretense of objectivity; can't help but dogmatically heap praise. without the anchor of johnny marr's banging riffs, the compositions do sometimes slide into musical theatre—not the good kind (if "good musical theatre" is even a tenable concept). ultimately, enough elite songwriting to more than compensate. sidenote: very much relate to morrissey once releasing a statement saying: "unfortunately, i am not homosexual."
lots of squeaky sounds—which somehow works. vocals are great; modulates between crooning romanticism, strained intensity, nonchalant cool, and infectious joy with impressive fluidity. feels like i'm missing out on some semi-essential components through language barrier on the songs designed to showcase lyrics. instrumentation is persistently lively—unleashing a barrage of funky horns, electric guitars, and varied percussion (of course, also unidentifiable "squeaky sounds"). 'taj mahal' is bafflingly good.
had not previously heard tom waits' earlier stuff. stylistically, the differences from his 80s output is striking. this seems a tom waits who had not yet subsumed the ethos of trout mask replica. here, waits is content to play the part of eccentric blues man. normally not crazy about live albums; broadly, my issue is that live albums despite the purported intention of immersing the listener—making them feel as if they were actually there—tend to fall flat by artificially refining the setlist and "flow" of the performance. what we typically end up with is compilations of inferior—albeit sometimes rawer—recordings of already released tracks. at that point, the live album merely draws attention to the fact that you are not in fact there. nighthawks at the diner transcends that trope. this is the live album executed to its prophesied intention. the recordings feel very much alive, delicately maintaining a nocturnal jazz-club intimacy. the intros are mostly great (and funny). lyrically, exactly what i'd want from tom waits. imagery is wonderfully evocative, verging on poetry. does not fully justify the 80 minute runtime, so could benefit from tighter tracklist. also can't help but crave the oddball affectations and beefheart-esque production that define his later works. at its best, feels like listening in on the ramblings of a sage drunk. sidenote: tom waits has an elite face, oddly congruent with his music (physiognomic determinism?). a face like that is not capable of making sanitized pop music. a face like that can only make music for sickos.
its fine. vaguely pleasant. chris martin is clearly a skilled vocalist with some impressive moments on here (especially on shiver). yellow is well-executed melodic pop. also liked the moody restrained distillation of britpop in don't panic. most of the rest, however, turns out to forgettable, somnolent balladry/"altpop". if banality is any heuristic for evil, then the "deep cuts" on here are the pinnacle of hitlerite music. no point in really discussing the lyrical contents much, seem more fitting to populate generic greeting cards or cocomelon nursery rhymes. from yellow, "look at the stars, look how they shine for you, and everything you do." the chorus from don't panic, "we live in a beautiful world." and these are two of the tracks i actually liked most from this album (sonically anyways). unfortunately i only have so much tolerance for the gratingly saccharine. ultimately, the merits this album might have come in the form of diluting the artistry of their much better influences (ie. radiohead, smiths, jeff buckley, britpop generally). being derivative need not necessarily be an irreconcilable deficiency—particularly if the influences are in good taste—but it can certainly lay bare the countless ways that the derived work falls short of the original.
went into this almost expecting to not like this as much as i had on earlier listens. as irrational as it is, its difficult to not have his recent output's low quality taint eminem's earlier work as well; like maybe he was a fraud all along, and now that the illusion has worn off, i can see his classics for what they actually are. to my surprise, i came out of this listen thinking i might actually have been underrating early eminem. obviously, the rapping itself is of a high quality. the elephant in the room is general obscenity/vulgarity in the lyrical content. the question of "whether the lyrics have aged well," or whether they're "insensitive" etc, is missing the point. in an industry where superstar persona and musical content have melded into one sanitized cube of pristine p.r prepped "product," with reliable marketability as the core virtue, i can't help but appreciate the courage here. although maybe i'm somewhat projecting the neurotic predicaments of modern culture, whereby lyrics are taken too literally—as something worth "cancelling" artists over (and in some cases ie. young thug, legally admissible statements) onto a different era. slim shady, as distinct from marshall mathers, is a construct of fantasy (and in fact subconscious phantasy, unrepressed id). clearly the distinction between the artist and character here is not a total and clean one; even the starkest depravities of slim shady have some unconscious root in marshall mathers—the man who grew up in squalor and really does hate his mother. this inextribality is in fact what makes the character compelling, enabling a transcendence beyond cheap shock value shenanigans. at its best, this album is about a man confronting his darkest perversions and desires. the tension culminates brilliantly on the final track. beneath an admittedly entertaining facade of irony/obscenity/humor, there is a surprising level of vulnerability on here. slim shady would fit right in as one of the droogs from clockwork orange. and like those treacherous droogs, he represents the alienated subject at large. i might be overthinking this, and there are some gratingly sensationalist moments on here that make me question myself—but i do see a bit of like iggy pop in the songwriting here. far from a perfect album though. wouldn't be eminem without atleast a handful of stilted choruses. could also do without the winkingly self aware skits, repeating ad nauseum how offensive i'm supposed to find the album. that sort of contrived metatextuality should be beneath this album. let the actual songs do the work.
gloriously illiterate. easier almost to write in terms of what the ramones were not; seems natural given that at this point "punk" was more an ethos rooted in wide-ranging negation, as opposed to anything resembling a genre with an affirmative set of musical/aesthetic criteria (which "punk" ironically developed into over time). the ramones don't employ neverending solos going nowhere; they avoid jazz fusions that are worse than the sum of their parts; they have no ambition for composing art rock sanitized of any artistry. can only imagine the cathartic reprieve an album like this provided from the barrage of overproduced, overthought, overindulgent music at the time. the sound itself is uncomplicated: a bombardment of cascading guitars, playing barbarically primal chords, all accompanied by the most demented room-temperature iq ravings for lyrics. the choruses are simple and energetic. never strays from the breakneck pace or indulges itself. longest song is 2.5 minutes. the effect is one of urgency, raw expression formed through stripping out any stifling redundancy. succeeds in parody as well. in 'i wanna be your boyfriend' the band plays a caricature of saccharine teen pop, which in context of the album achieves a compelling uneasiness (these sickos talking about "sweet little girls"). other tracks mock the self-serious tough guys populating the punk ranks. all the while, banger after banger.
pretty different from what i expected. more soul and jazz-oriented than the stripped back acoustic sound on blue. some great choruses, surprisingly acute pop sensibility. of course, its joni mitchell, so the writing is really at the core of the appeal for me. thematically, its more-so a loose connection of vignettes than a cohesive concept. the lyrics are as fantastic as you'd expect—wit, earnestness, sentimentality. the depth of frank introspection gives the songs a diary feel. her diction when delivering those lyrics is also impressively dense; occasionally manages to fit in an absurd amount of syllables in each line, with considerable melodic complexity. sonically, almost sounds like a proto-fiona apple, which i can't really complain about. the elaborate compositions generally work, especially on the opening three track stretch. not without its failures though. occasionally the instrumental extravagance buries the raw expression underneath. the rhythmically rowdy "raised on robbery" felt especially out of place. jazz fusion is a fragile balancing act between kitsch and sophistication–one that this album almost always succeeds at.
like cosmic surf rock. reaches peak extraterrestrial vibe on the opening track populated by eerie sound effects. assimilates a lot of the 60s pop tradition, with a heavy dose of disco and funk. belongs to the tarantino school of art creation, repurposing pop/genre junk in a triumphant collage of time periods and aesthetics. very post modern in its approach, reinterpreting these inspirations with an emphasis on the bizarre core. particularly, beyond the surface level novelty of the fusion, the band embraces a sort of deliberate detachment—robotic vocals, syncopation, technically tight compositions—quite similar to devo. also like devo, heavy on the mongoloid irony, both sonically and lyrically. the imagery and chanting is engrossingly surrealist. for the most part, enjoyed vocal variety–mix between male and female vocals. however, cindy wilson's vocals sometimes fall short of their ambitions. starts with a bang; opening track, and especially rock lobster, are bangers. loses momentum on the b-side when the novelty wears off–also fewer bangers.
radiohead, premier savants of the faux avantgarde. with ok computer, they mastered the art of making music that seems experimental, but is beneath the hood driven by clear pop sensibilities. in kid a, they took a new step, renouncing some of their prior pop inclinations, assimilating well-crafted, complex electronica (still maintaining some songwriting conventions). in many ways, radiohead are the musical descendents of pink floyd (far more so than they are of say velvet underground)—for better or (sometimes) worse; their music is more driven by its intellectual qualities than any real raw expressive or visceral capacity. on here, they maintain the trajectory from kid a. the band deploys a varied arsenal of loops, distortions, glitchy sound effects. conversely, there is not much guitar on here. this synthesis of the compositional complexity with the emotionally facile electronics works surprisingly well, mesmerizingly framing thom yorke's vocals. like pink floyd, radiohead has the tendency to overintellectualize certain aspects—particularily w/r/t the formal/structural choices they make, occasionally at the expense of the songwriting. so, a few songs do feel like hollow vessels, well-crafted for the sake of it, but lacking any substantive expression. "pulk/pull revolving" is a definite low. the sequencing of tracks on this album is also frankly confusing, abrupt, and incoherent. there are tremendously high highs. notably: "pyramid song," a dramatic ballad; the horn driven "life in a glasshouse"; "you and whose army."