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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
God level.
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!