The usual stabby stolen punk sound with solid gold hooks and a few interesting sonic twists and turns along the way. The guitar sound here is hard to argue with. However, I have trouble with this much testosterone and all of the disingenuous middle class whinging (Did Waitrose run out of profiteroles, lads?). Difficult to fully commit really.
I admire the colourful palette of sounds. When each track ends I don't know whether to brace for horns, strings, Vince Guaraldi piano or (my personal fave) banjo. The individual parts are on par with his noughties contemps like A Silver Mt Zion, Danielson Famile, A Hawk and a Hacksaw. But, to the obvious point: someone should have come in with a pair of secateurs and cut this monster down to about half the length or less. The same suite of tracks could easily have been less... boring.
Caged animal gnashing, dirty desert atmospherics, strange American characters, spidery surf rock and a library's worth of literature. In a blender.
Tried so hard with this one. Yes, the building blocks are there for soaring harmonic vocals, guitar acrobatics and glorious camp drama. But they are still flat packed and their dad hasn’t quite figured out how to put them together yet. The last few tracks are recognisably Queen, but getting there takes the patience of several saints.
Like listening to paint dry. This album is 23 years old and I still haven’t learned to like it’s smug, saccharine, forced stadium anthems and especially that audible self-impressed grin that you can in the vocals. Coldplay have flayed the flesh from the bones of your favourite 70s soft rock acts and are wearing it as an ill fitting costume and it’s embarrassing.
Cheesy? Yep. Dated? Sure. But not to the detriment of this bundle of rainbow coloured, synth-slathered pop oddments by the manic pixie dream chipmunk and co. A product of its time and all the better for it.
It’s radio-bothering noughties indie dross really. The sort of thing you’d grab at the supermarket while buying the proverbial meat and potatoes, but I confess a soft spot for scouse bands with psychedelia running through their veins and influences up and down their sleeves. Two.
Perfect country album delivered with a marvellous Lurleen Lumpkin drawl and tight backing. Like driving through an unremarkable American small town, grabbing someone at random with your eyes closed and asking their story.
The ‘other’ enduring psychobilly band (along with Lux, Ivy and the lads). A twitching, andrenalised Alan Vega vocal sneers and yelps over frenetic, no-fi Delta blues and 50s rock and roll played at varying levels of speed and intensity. Wild stuff.
A scrapbook of ideas dense with detail. Should have been the future sound of hip-hop but sampling laws put a stop to that. There is a reason everyone adores this thing: it’s a complete blast!
Unfortunate to be served this rather cringeworthy rap staple the day after 3 Feet High and Rising. It really shows this record up to be limp, tinny and problematic. When I was fourteen this served as a stepping stone for my entire generation to Dr Dre and the universe of worthy hip-hop beyond, and for that reason it probably belongs in the 1001 Albums book. But I really don't ever want to hear it again.
Generic funk soul twoddle. There’s playing with your whole heart like the marvellous set of influences that he isn’t shy about plagiarising and then there’s cold and technical. I honestly felt the square root of F-all listening to this bloater.
Respectable piano and drum dramatics.
Overblown throaty meat and potatoes. Not my boss.
Solo acoustic record from young Brucey. Rips off early Dylan quite a lot and, surprisingly, Alan Vega's Suicide in a meandering, dull set of songs about (would you believe it?) 'the dark side of life'. He manages to dial down the horrible throaty chest-beating stuff to reveal a nice singing voice akin to the currently fifteen year old Sun Kil Moon who would go on to outstrip this at every conceivable level. Nebraska isn't bad. It isn't good either. It's just there.
Mary Chain minus the characteristic layer of beefy screeching feedback. All of their Shangri-Las and post-heroin Velvet Underground-isms laid bare. For me, the point of it was that you had to ‘find’ this stuff in the mix and I can only conjured so much enthusiasm for a dozen slow songs about rain (typical Scots, eh?).
Snoozacella. Yawnstock. Boringbury. Dullapalooza.
Currently the last living rock star, an astute music historian and undeniably brilliant in every horn honkin’, ivory-tinklin’ way. This sort of omega level virtuosity could be off-putting in the wrong hands (I’m looking at you, Kravitz) and, yes, I would prefer a sloppy, spirited sibling / possible spouse(?) on the sticks to serve as a way in to those of us with cloth ears and no masters degree in chin stroking but he channels his vast wealth of knowledge and plays with enough feeling that you can’t helping getting swept up in it.
Interesting pick. Lo-fi bedroomy synth / drum machine funky pop. Very of its time and I suspect it’s trading of hooks for lyrical substance captured the hearts of loads of people in the 80s, but it’s not for me today.
The dramatic piano solo by Jools Holland which somehow combines classical and boogie woogie is more than a bit egregious but works wonders amongst the melting polyphonic ringtones and dark poetry.
Classic West Coast hip-hop. Sounds like it was made in a cumulonimbus cloud of pure weed smoke, because it definitely was. Dre provides loads of those strange whining synth earworms and a laid back Snoop pulls together the meandering elements with seemingly endless buckets of charisma, confidence and humour. Unless you are a caveman you will not want to focus on the lyrics too much. That said, knowing that Snoop would grow up to be a benign sort of fellow it doesn’t leave that bad a taste.
Understated majestic beauty. REM defined an entire era of pre-millennial mopey jangle pop and this, their lushest and least jangly period, is not as immediate as any other. It rewards multiple listens, requiring you to surrender and let the strings, keys and un-rushed melodies wash over. What a stunner.
Solid five. All scattershot drums, spasmodic piano and strange melodies. Spacious stuff.
More eclectic than the eponymous record. Has some classic riffs and bits and bobs of reggae and rockabilly. I still think that they are about as punk as Enya, but it is a good rock and roller.
A cacophonous mass of trippy acrobatic vocals and thick looping feedback, guided along by relatively skeletal bass and beats. The band draws obvious comparisons to other Scots miserablists of the time, but Liz Fraser’s inventive, barely-verbal style is what makes it unique. Her voice is strange and beautiful, providing all of the hooks and serving as the key instrument in the mix (file next to: Björk, Enya, Bush). If you fancy being instantly overstimulated and a bit depressed by a record full of small, shimmering details and labyrinthine alien structures, you could do worse.
Sick beats used very sparingly indeed and various organs humming away. If you know your Rhodes from your Wurly you’ll have a field day. Franky’s charismatic, slow-ooze vocals come from somewhere between not quite rap and not quite soul. It’s a good specimen.
RS is a good album with a few big hits on it. But it’s a bit too harmonious and feels like the label asked for something a bit like Donovan, the Beach Boys and Bob Dylan (which you won’t get from a bunch of Scousers). I like my Beatles pulling in four different creative directions to the chagrin of everyone, including each other so this MOR era Fabs doesn’t leave much of a mark. A respectable three, lads.
Hook-filled, yapping funk metal. It sounded a bit more toothy in the 90s and paved the way for some much worse examples (the Nu Metal / Woodstock ‘99 gang). Production sounds a bit flat thirty years on and Morello’s Led Zep-isms are a bit cloying but they were a unique bit of stuff overall.
Visionary stuff. Strange angular plastic post-glam on one side and gleaming, synth-slathered electronic futurism on the other. Bowie spending time in Berlin in the 70s is one of those perfect instances of right person, right time, right place and Low is a tremendous document of the moment that his credentials at the forefront of modern British pop music met the 'new' European sound (Neu!, Tangerine Dream, Faust et al). As perfect as albums come. Certainly Bowie's finest hour. And look at that sleeve art. A resounding five.
A fuzzy sonic blanket of a record from the Godfather of Grunge. If you like glorious understated guitar riffs over CSNY-effacing country slop rock this is probably the one. Is Ragged Glory a great album? Nah, not especially. But it is a cool listen.
Widdly, grunting Beavis and Butthead thrash metal with ever-shifting time signatures. Even at the time this tinny, audio cassette style production must have made it unlistenable, surely? It falls at the first hurdle for me. To quote their own track listing: ONE!
Dreary, tuneless dishwater stodge. Unless you have run out of melatonin I don’t understand the appeal at all.
This dour, shadowy modular pop is loaded with the sort of hooks that takes dozens of listens to reveal themselves and would have meant loads to its audience back in the day (the entire gay population of the Soviet Union for example). A bit goth and serious for me, but total respect all the same. Other from Numan and NIN did anybody else achieve such a ‘rock’ sound with so many prominent synthetic elements?
Knuckle-dragging neanderthal rap created by violent, bigoted idiots. They complain about the police, then waffle endlessly on open record about various crimes that they each constantly commit. The breaks on Straight Outta Compton admittedly drop like a ton of bricks from start to finish and there is a charm to the early hip-hop hallmarks of crude scratching and nursery rhyme / Rappin' Granny type vocals. Unfortunately what sets it apart is all of the aggression and swaggering attitude, the same things that render it borderline unlistenable.
Sweet country soul music, rough around the edges and full up with heart. Goes down more easily than a PBR tinny on a front porch in summer time. This one was the definition of a pleasant surprise.
Robust, full-throated honky-tonk mostly about failing to fill a hole with booze and women. As perfect a specimen as you’ll ever hear rendered with steel guitar and piano. It literally couldn’t be better.
Struggling to have an opinion. It’s light chart style R&B. Competent but in no danger of breaking new ground. Pleasant enough with light tones and subtle pop melodies. But every time i pressed play it fell naturally into the realm of (the dreaded) Background Music.
Swooping a 'Capella harmonies, cod highlife guitar, cajun sounds and 80s yacht rock with Simon's fragile, crystal clear vice rising to the top. It is cheesy, but everything was cheesy in 1986, and at least it was original (and yes, problematic). Back in ye olde days this was ubiquitous and would show up in everyone’s music collection as well as littering the bins of record fairs (and later charity shops) up and down the land. And - Seinfeld slap bass not withstanding - I can finally see why.
I would call it middle of the road, but the middle of the road has lines on it and those are slightly interesting. It is the featureless part of the road between the curb and the middle. And it’s the road into Surbiton. To call this plodding would suggest some sort of momentum. It comes and goes leaving quite literally no impression whatsoever for even one second. Flavourless, tuneless and soulless. A tedious, droning, chore of a record that is military-level punishing to get through and makes Coldplay sound like Crazy Frog. 1001 Albums To Die Before You Hear.
Few things in this world are truly original, but this combo of R&B, Irish folk music, amateur dramatics and leftover punk edge seems close. Starts and ends with big pop bangers and has a couple in between. The rest is strange meandering stuff from somewhere between Lloyd Webber, Van Morrison and whatever was playing at the local skinhead and soul boy discos. The band were tighter than a gnat’s chuff at this point with a new impassioned fiddler, hell for leather brass section and vaudeville piano, and Kevin had genuine soul in his voice. I love that something completely out of step with any contemporary trends or fashion can still take you straight back to a past era. It’s a wonderful thing.
Early Shakey on country mode. Some excellent guitar work on here. Cinnamon Girl and Down By The River. You can’t go wrong.
Strange sounds from another part of the world. Must have blown the minds of Westerners in the 50s (and blown them again when George Harrison adopted the instrument himself soon after). Has a quick charming spoken intro where Mr Shankar explains how to listen and then he shoves you right into the deep end into a meditative world of snaking loops, warmly ringing feedback and infinitely catchy ragas plucked out effortlessly at breakneck speed. He occasionally pops in to guide listeners along. Full marks. You can’t avoid getting swept up in it.
The best hip-hop has a lot going on while sounding simple and effortless. This is the opposite. It feels crowded and badly processed. No space for any character to come through at all. Too much head and not enough heart. Oh and it’s at least twice as long as it needs to be. Wasting such cool samples should be a crime. Just nah.
Garage rock stripped to its small pulsating parts and laid out like a carpet. Enough killer riffs and hooks to start a pit to, but long and jammy enough to really languish in. As likely to satisfy free festival grebos on brown acid, council estate punks on glue and chin-stroking prog and krautrock Heads on hashish. They didn’t have the weird Beefheart skronk sax yet, it’s all just fuzzy noise, baby!
I am trying to give all of these a fair crack, but there isn’t much of substance here at all. A single interesting track with wonky piano samples going crazy (says here it was produced by - oh wait, never mind), and a load of competent, inoffensive soul samples and slick beats beneath a nothingey rap vocal. The sort of thing you hear, for example, coming from a passing car full of NPCs. It features interesting guests such as The Last Poets and - err, nope, nobody else.
It is the sort of album where you cannot wait for it to end, quite literally from the first few seconds of the first track. Also, you have to do Olympic level ear-squinting to not pick up the endless (and I do mean endless) religious messaging. Frankly it’s like being bashed to death with a bible by Reverend Lovejoy.
Great old school electronica. Endlessly charming in its simplicity and probably a gargantuan pain in the arse to put together with the technology of the day. The genius of it is that they wanted to make a proper album and understood that just transposing their live set to a CD wouldn’t cut it. So you get glimpses of the sweaty club bangers they were partial to but tempered (not unlike Burial) with long sections of twinkling ambience bordering on Hawkwind and Eno, with a proper intro and outro and a vague running theme of ‘space and stuff’. This one was made with headphones and introspection in mind and it still works a treat even now.
Understated masterpiece of scratchy funky indie. Bursting with ideas. You never know where it’s going to go next. Almost fifty years old and still packs a serious wallop.
Wonderfully weird, silky smooth John Barry / hip-hop influenced Lady In The Radiator songs full of killer hooks and BBC Drama.
A club-educated, expertly constructed set of dayglo bangers influenced by anything you’d hear coming out of a car in East London at 2AM. Serious serious skills on display here merging tribal drumming, post-punk, grime, bhangra, baile funk and loads more into radio friendly pop about (more or less) multiculturalism. She puts together sounds that were born apart (didgeridoo bass anyone?) and finds new sounds in them.
If you got a meal deal sandwich with this much filling you'd be delighted.
Massively out of step with what you expect from 1977 and that has to be applauded, but having heard later TH you can’t help hearing the elements that aren’t there yet. It is a bit middling overall.
Brass tacks brooding grunge. Earthy and flirting with trad folk. Like the Talking Heads album I had yesterday (77) you do feel the lack of flesh on these early bones but unlike that album you don’t necessarily miss it.
Not much to say about this. Radio friendly generic chart rap. A lot of work went into it and he obviously has skills but it was too preppy and toothless for me at the time and it is much the same now only with a side of mental health emergency, neo-nazism and woman hatred. Later, when Kanye was getting into weird and experimental stuff he had a few top notch production ideas but this record has zero edge. Long, lame and boring. Life is too short for stuff that goes in one ear and out of the other.
Bloody awful singing over bloody awful muzak. I appreciate its massive cultural merit, but with almost zero musical merit it should be nowhere near this list.
Only words like lustrous and sublime apply here. Rich, deep, silken sounds dripping with soul. Maximalist Motown production sweet and smooth like honey. I could listen to Marvin sing the phone book - in fact that would be pretty cool.
Dark and funny, acerbic political juggernaut moving at breakneck speed. It's a playoff between East Bay Ray's spidery, surf-influenced riffing and Jello Biafra's nasal California punk wit. Back of the net, Jurassic Park, etc.
Sunshiney 60s pop. Generic to the point that you'd think it was created by AI, but you'd have to be pretty miserable to dislike it.
By far the worst album art I’ve had so far and I’ve had such delights as Doggystyle, And Justice For All and Soul Mining.
Uncrowded arrangements all grainy and fragile. Simple melodies that will go down easy and stay with you forever. This record is stunning.
Pastoral mini suites. Very lovely indeed.
The Jam always have an unmistakable yobbo flavour but this one feels more like a football hooligan sad because their team lost again than kicking your head in for spilling their pint.
An entire album of smooth Latin guitar wanking and someone playing bongos so hard that their hands must still be blistered 55 years later. The young Santana is not the one we all have cold sweat flashbacks to from the 90s. Left me with a strange desire to go to Marks and Spencer as well.
Hardcore political roots reggae with heart and soul for days, weeks and months. The lyrics are incredibly cutting. If you were able to shut them out you'd be forgiven for thinking this was all just vintage sunshiney horns and a skanking backbone punctuated with sharp, no-nonsense drum taps. And it is that, but there is also a heap of anti-colonial, anti-slavery rheteric making it something far more substantial. It's a five.
Overblown, off-putting American swamp rock. Conjures denim jackets, rollies and petrol (sorry, gas). If you burst into patriotic tears at the sight of a flag, seek this album.
I’ve never understood this lot. They sound actively bad, especially the vocals which range from bored one note droning to something from a comedy sketch about a white rapper. You expect the turntables to start up any second. At one point in this album (not even that far in) he dispenses of even that effort and literally starts going “nying nyong nying nyong nyang” in the middle. Despite the impressive Flea and John Frusciante both being in this band for some reason, all of that plays out over a canvas of fifteen (FIFTEEN!) torturously long tracks of pure butt rock crud. Maybe the world once needed funk metal but by the turn of the century this was truly ghastly stuff. The only positive I can think of is that at least it isn’t the even more heinous follow up album By The Way. :: shudder ::
Lively cartoon carnival music. Goes on a bit, but I admire his chutzpah. Dort of like that lifeless Buena Vista Social Club album on 3X speed.
At last, the cure for insomnia! Ten minutes of this and you’ll never wake up again. Music for sad dads to passionately tap their Crocs to on their drive to Home Bargains. Nothing wrong with it musically, but you could shove a load of meat into one ear and a few scoops of mashed potato into the other for a similar effect.
Iconic. From the playful intro of Welcome To The Jungle is over it’s like a bomb goes off in slow motion: all full throttle grooves, widdly diddly guitar wankery and cat-stranging vocals, not to mention hairspray, coke and money. It’s gross but impressive.
Not a fan of the rape robot though. What were they thinking?
Paul Simon is the best. In this album he lends his gentle flavour to loads of different genres from blues to tropicalia via reggae, soul music, country and folk (medieval and contemporary), successfully terraforming them all into something more Paul Simony. Nothing less than a five.
Can't do it. I have tried enough times over the decades (even went to her concert) and have had to surmise that there’s really no depth to about 90% of her meandering soft focus new age depresso-pop. Others will disagree vehemently, but for me there is only one worthy listen on this album and it is This Woman's Work.
Hollow wannabe Rolling Stones tracks with a farting synth on top. Such garbage that you half expect Oscar The Grouch to pop out of it.
Absolutely brilliant. Dark, funny electronica with a splash of John Barry and a bit of old school hip-hop and dub. Intricately detailed. Plods along in places but makes up for it in atmospherics and the variety provided by a proto-Gorillaz revolving door of vocalists.
Oh dear. Getting the strong urge to copy and paste my Culture Club comments. Very cheapo and karaoke sounding by modern standards.
From the day when certain artists felt obliged to fill an 80 minute CD comes a massively bloated album. It is very much the generic chart hip-hop you expect with an irritating interlude between every track. They are not as charming as they seem to think they are and can’t pull it off. But the guests are on point and the production is alright I suppose. I just wish that some record exec had rescued it by going mad with a pair of scissors. At least 45 minutes off.
Even a naysayer like me has to admit that Brucey had a vision of American folk stories trapped in a maximalist wall-of-sound and made it happen best during this era.
One a kind genius sprinkles creativity left, right and centre like it's nothing, hopping from jazz club to night club, honking her big old horn of a voice that comes all the from the tips of her toes. It has aged a little bit - especially some of the very early 90s beats - but even the 90s-est, beats-iest track There's More To Life Than This has been produced in a left of centre way, moving between rooms in a noisy bar, that you wouldn't get from anyone else.
Can’t wait for her later stuff to pop up.
Feels more like a bunch of songs than an album, and not especially good ones.
Sparks / Bowie tinged indie. Luke is an interesting character but this is only essential to fans.
The top top top tier of psych. Fuzzy, atmospheric, full of epic hooks and things to fire your imagination from any genre you can imagine and some that you can’t. It doesn’t get any better.
Singular stuff even all of these years later when we have bands with stream of consciousness spoken word vocalists like Life Without Buildings and Dry Cleaning coming out of our ears. She was brave AF, but I find this to be a lot less snarling and visceral than everyone always tells me it is, backed with soft sounding instruments where it needs to be noisy chaos. But if you turn the volume up, close the door and stand outside you could sort of imagine you’re arriving at CBGBs or Max’s Kansas City in the mid-70s.
Second Kanye album for me. Just as mediocre as the first one. No idea why this guy is considered a legend.
Juvenile blues / hip-hop crossover stuck in time. If you could smell an album, this would be giving smelly socks, pot noodles, Lynx and the cheapest weed available. It's value (if any) is that it is quite emblematic of the time it was made. Cinema was all about drug dealers and criminals and some good hip-hop had been kicking about. Another comment likened this to Tarantino and The Beasties. I would say it's more like one of those cheap Tarantino knockoffs like 8 Heads In A Duffle Bag or Get Shorty smushed up with the worst white rap like Bloodhound Gang or - dare I say - Insane Clown Posse. That is to say, it's lacking in any substance whatsoever, inside or out, and holds only a faint glow of nostalgia because it is old and so am I.
This one should have been left in the primary school disco.
Insipid collection of some of the worst reggae ever by the token Caribbean artist from most peoples’ collections. The likes of Dr Alimantado, Culture and The Congos piss on Marley from a great height. Gets a generic three for cultural impact and having two or three hits.
The GOAT of dry-witted indie at the peak of his miserablist powers serving epic classics left right and centre. Marr deserves his due, but loads of Moz’s most epic guitar compliments came way after The Smiths. Suedehead, for example, beats them all for HUGEness. And the lyrics to Every Day Is Like Sunday better than most Smiths lyrics. The raw self-pitying emotion laid bare on November Spawned A Monster flattens The Sm- (well, you get the point). Is he a dick? Probably, yeah, but certainly not worse than Kanye West and I’ve suffered two of his cruddy albums already. This is a classic in my world.
Another great Paul Simon album. By this point I know what to expect - quirky little distractions all gentle and mild with subtle influences from far and wide. Never an obvious choice made. This one loses a star for the heavy reliance on very cheap, dated synthesised sounds, but it’s still charming as heck. He’s a total one off.
Nervous, twitchy caterwauling voice over similarly twitchy yowling sparse indie instrumentation. Unique.
Walks the line between skiffle and bubblegum pop. Two minute tracks that do their thing and end rather unceremoniously, usually on a fade out. Simple songs of love with Buddy the prototype Milhouse / Moss nerd up front doing that rockabilly thing where they add loads of extra syllables and double up the guitar and kick drum with them. The backing vocals are glorious: Beach Boys if you bought them from Wish. This stuff is a bit basic, but it was the foundation that everything from SOPHIE to Cannibal Corpse is now built upon. Full marks for the lads.
Gotta like them Lips. They are either incredibly good at faking it - like Jim Morrison - or they carry the genuine spirit of psychedelia into the age of squelchy synths and jangle pop. This album (not even nearly their best) is filled with all sorts of random detail. Odd choices that gives rainbows of colour - like United States of America - and - like Paul Simon - the whole parade is led gently by a soft spirit in the form of one Wayne Coyne. You come out of this album with the precious feeling that you've been somewhere and experienced something.
Like having honey drizzled into your ears. In a good way. Five.
Guitar string and pedal porn from kids who base their idea of cool on the spoken word parts of Shangri-Las songs and teenagers in pop culture. This is gloriously atmospheric but not the full blown storm you get from Goo and Dirty.
Feels half baked like early Queen albums do. Not that interesting to listen to a band who would go on to be incredible, being not quite there yet. Yes, it’s like Oscar Wilde dropping wit and wisdom over meandering, wind-swept King Sunny Ade guitar and ‘recorded on a potato) soul boy rhythms, but not with the essential unabashed confidence that was to come.
It is a matter of perspective, but I am the sort of person who doesn't want to see what they could have won, so this a painful listen. Other than the spectre of Brian Wilson - who I highly suspect was being puppeteered at this point in his life - there isn't a crumb of genuine Beach Boys magic to be found here really. It's too clean, too slick, too boisterous and feels hollow. If you consider No Way Sis, Antarctic Monkeys, Lez Zeppelin, Non Jovi and Joanne Joanne to be just as good as the real thing I would suggest you grab Surf's Up and Pet Sounds and dream of what Smile could have been instead.
The daddy of all art rock projects. The Velvets changed everything with this window into the world of the seedy and after-dark. Has twinkling ice cream van music, scraping viola, droll poetry, driving R&B drums and the husky, dusky voice of Nico (admittedly an acquired taste you all have to develop to enjoy the other stuff). Nothing short of perfect.
For want of a less disgusting metaphor, this one went in and out without touching the sides. Is it a thing? Yes, it sure is.
Got this the day after the unfortunate passing of Brian Wilson, so it is all the more poignant. But Beach Boys always packed a massive emotional wallop. Soaring harmonies (the best ever produced by man, surely) and dramatic wall of sound production disguised as wholesome little pop songs. Don't be fooled - this is some of the best stuff ever produced in any art form and came right from the depths of the human soul.
A surprisingly good listen. Eighties synth pop. There is an ambitious variety of sound here and it only occasionally veers into John shuttleworth territory.
An unmitigated masterpiece. Like tiki jazz, psych and classic pop had a cosmic baby. The melodies, the tone, the harmonies, the production - everything somehow bypasses logic, hitting you squarely in the heart. If you are not a quivering mess by the time that damn train pulls out something is wrong with you.
The ugly result of real artists not being able to afford being in bands is you get these dead eyed trust fund kids sloshing cash about on slick gear and production who can’t produce a single worthy second and get released anyway because there is no viable alternative. I hate this.
Yesterday I bemoaned Chvrch=@#s inability to put out anything of substance using all the gear money can buy. Today Violent Femmes turn up to prove my point, gutting every bit of heartache and emotion, every ounce of rock’n’roll, punk, rockabilly, surf, blues, country and folk rock spirit out of what sounds like a load of broken jug band instruments recorded on a potato. This unassuming album doesn’t look like much at first, but it will take you on a massive journey.
This is pedantic but it isn’t really an album. It is excellent though. Interesting that a band famed for squalling guitar noise did acoustic stuff and still sounded like themselves. Some revealing choices for song covers too.
The sort of kaleidoscopic perfection you can only achieve by collecting hours and hours of incredible audio clips over an lifetime and knowing how to slot them all together with immense skill, humour and imagination. Bravo to the lads.
Quite an oddment. Comes from some netherspace between high camp vaudeville and classic glam rock. Has a track that goes from sounding like Twisted Sister, turns into someone having their teeth drilled then off into a long surf rock middle eight, some widdling prog, ends up back where it started ready for a backmasked psych rock double fade out. If you feel that you’d like to listen to the same sort of music as Otto, the school bus driver from The Simpsons, get this.
This is a big claim, but grunge has a very pleasant texture - like a flannel shirt I suppose - and for whatever reason, the bands with a female element (Hole, L7, Babes In Toyland, Sonic Youth perhaps) managed to get that across. Live Through This doesn’t have particularly great songs but it has a remarkable and timeless sound.
I came into this wanting to find flaws and I just can’t find them. Is it a five star album? Not quite, but it is bold as hell, bursting with freak folk, free jazz, glitch, soul and post rock influence that doesn’t feel forced and featuring some highly affecting lyrical hooks that certainly push it to a four even if you push the heavy context out of your mind.
Trim off about 75% of this and I might have been able to get through it in less than ten sittings. Absolute pants.
My usual defence of ‘a product of its time’ for things played endlessly on the radio in the 90s just won’t do here. This is - and always was - completely lacking in edge. Cornier than the Kellogs, Butterkist and Green Giant.
Madge's masterpiece. A sweeping, glitch-lined stunner that sat perfectly alongside the likes of Björk and Portishead. Practically perfect in every way.
Prog was a dirty word to those of us who grew up in the wake of punk. And Yes was the band that would get held up as an example of the self-indulgent and excessive. And usually poor Rick Wakeman in his cape was the pinup to aim that hatred at.
But - culture politics in the bin where they belong - prog bands ruled, hacking and slashing genres in bonkers time signatures and strange tunings and dropping elephantine riffs (Heart of the Sunrise!). And this album is particular shows off new organist Wakeman’s incredible virtuosity.
I can’t find a fault in it, so it’s a five.
Alright if you like melancholy 80s alt country a la Giant Sand. A slew of people became huge in the proceeding decades doing the same thing at about the same level.
Interesting baroque take on rock’n’roll packed with the sort of English eccentricity you’d get later from Pulp and Blur. Forgettable songs, but still fun times three.
Absolutely crazy stuff. Like the music you might expect to hear in a cartoon about a psychedelic rock guitarist from outer space. Every line he draws out is huge and filled with insane detail. These days you’d expect to see an encyclopedia of effects pedals in the liner notes but this shit is all for real(!).
Only gripe for me is the nasty Rod Stewart type vocal. That was about a star’s worth of unpleasant.
I could go on and on about this. I have been finding new details folded into it’s rich mix of jazz, avant garde electronica and general cosmic wonders since it first came out (a whopping £16 from Woolies for me). Hitting play - ready for indie guitar rock like The Bends - and instead being hit with this beautifully textured alien classical / club music was the most sudden musical turning point of my life (probably loads of lives).
Kid A opened the gates to the electronic underground while standing tall inside it.
Rattles along like a runaway train from second one, all chugging riffs, stop-start rhythm and throaty poetry. As the genre post hardcore suggests they took the aesthetic of hardcore punk, cut and shut it into something brand new a la Slint, Brainiac, Unwound. After a few plays you’ll have bits of John’s hooks and Rick’s lyrics going round your head at random like mantras. The only downside is that once you’ve heard DLJ and Hot Snakes no other rock band ever sounds as good.
More full throated honky tonk with clip clop beats, weeping steel guitars and someone delicately tinkling the ivories. If you liked the Ray Price album (like I did), you're gonna like this one.
