What a sweet, jammy trip. I’m shocked this wasn’t in my Daddy’s vinyl stash. It should have been. I’d never even heard of Shuggie, but he’s in my rotation now. From what I read, the album didn’t make much of a splash on release. There was a 2001 reissue, but somehow, I missed that too. This album blends a lot of sounds that I really enjoy, including psychedelic soul, funk, R&B, and even some gentle electronic textures, into something uniquely mellow and forward-thinking. My research indicates that Shuggie was only 21 when he made this album in 1974, and it shows in the best way. There’s a wide-eyed curiosity in every groove, paired with the control and craftsmanship of someone years ahead of his time. This hazy, intimate soundscape still feels fresh over fifty years later. Most of the songs sound effortless, but the more I listened, the more I found them slyly complex. The opener, “Inspiration Information,” eases you in with a loose, hypnotic rhythm and a laid-back groove laced with drum machine and wah-wah guitar. It’s like a warm-up stretch for the rest of the album. From there, the vibe floats: laid-back, textural, almost underwater in parts. The instrumental tracks are lush and dreamy, soaked in atmosphere. “Pling” feels like sipping a perfect cup of coffee on a foggy morning, and those keys are butter. “Sparkle” shimmers just right. “Sweet Thing” floats along like a warm wave. “Island Letter” is also a standout. Dreamy and cinematic, spacey and serene, it sounds like proto-lofi waaaay before that was even a concept. And “Aht Uh Mi Hed” delivers the closest thing to a pop hit, but even that’s soaked in melancholy. I had to look up why the intro to “Strawberry Letter 23” sounded so familiar. It was later covered by the Brothers Johnson, but it's been widely sampled and featured in various media, including commercials, lo-fi beat samples, and is referenced in other funk and R&B tracks. Most notably, in: • OutKast - “Ms. Jackson” (2000): The overall vibe and layered guitar sounds were heavily inspired by the Brothers Johnson version. • Dr. Dre - “Keep Their Heads Ringin’” (1995): Subtle use of the melody. • (AMThriller, this is for YOU!) Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown (1997): Features the Brothers Johnson version, which uses the same structure and feel as Shuggie’s original, especially the intro. Had no idea this was all originally a Shuggie sound. Pretty neat. The other tracks did not disappoint in the slightest. I thought “Freedom Flight” was the best unique track I had heard in a while, but then hazy “Purple” came on, and it is hands-down my favorite song on this album. Just pure mood. Kinda slippery, a little strange, and somehow both chill and urgent. The guitar sound is woozy and seductive, and the rhythm just barely holds together, as if it's swaying in a breeze. It sounds like a memory and clearly cements Shuggie's legacy as a lost genius. I didn't intend to make this review so long, but by the third listen, Shuggie’s talent is pretty staggering here: guitar virtuosity, silky vocals, soulful songwriting, and an experimental streak. This album feels timeless but also like it came from a slightly alternate universe where soul took a weirder, more introspective path. It’s not a flashy album. It’s subtle, spacey, and soulful. You can easily put this on in the background while doing laundry or making dinner, pair it with a medical cannabis sesh, or listen more intently to the layers of sound, in order to analyze each dreamy component. Either way, once it sinks in, it lingers in the mind, like the last notes of a song that never fully leave your head.

I grew up listening to Harvest and I have loved this album for years, but listening to it again through the lens of this project reminded me why it’s such an enduring part of the musical canon. Released in 1972, it easily became the best-selling album in the U.S. that year and introduced Neil Young’s fragile, aching voice to a broader audience. My understanding is that folks were just pretty damn tired after the craziness of the late '60s, and they were looking for music that was a little more palatable. This blending of country, folk, and rock captures a specific moment in time when people were feeling restless, disillusioned, and raw. It’s an album that feels weary but honest, offering comfort without pretending everything’s okay. And even though Harvest is mired in the cultural and social upheaval that marked that time in history, it still manages to feel timeless. What sets Harvest apart isn't just its sound but its emotional directness. There’s a sense of weariness and sincerity that underpins even its quietest tracks. The recording process was famously scattered, with some songs tracked in Nashville, others in London with a full orchestra, and some recorded live on the spot. That mix of polish and imperfection works in the album’s favor, adding a feeling of intimacy and vulnerability. It was really interesting to revisit some of the themes of these songs and the album’s cultural context. The standout moments for me are “Heart of Gold,” “Old Man,” “Alabama,” and especially “The Needle and the Damage Done.” The latter is a devastating, stripped-down reflection on heroin addiction. Young wrote it about his friend and Crazy Horse bandmate Danny Whitten, who would die of an overdose later that year. Captured in a live acoustic performance, the song's rawness was striking in 1972 and remains so today. It was one of the first major rock songs to confront the cost of drug addiction so directly, paving the way for future artists to deal openly with loss and substance abuse. This song will strike a chord with anyone who has dealt with addiction in any context, especially opiates. One of the most significant cultural moments surrounding Harvest came from the backlash to “Alabama.” Along with his earlier track “Southern Man,” Young was openly criticizing racism in the American South. This didn’t sit well with some Southern audiences and prompted a now-famous response from Lynyrd Skynyrd in “Sweet Home Alabama,” with the line: “I hope Neil Young will remember, a Southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” But instead of escalating the conflict, the artists expressed mutual respect. Young admitted that “Alabama” lacked nuance, and Skynyrd’s Ronnie Van Zant often wore a Neil Young shirt onstage. That quiet reconciliation is one of the most interesting and respectful musical conversations of the era. Harvest doesn’t always land perfectly, but that imperfection is easily part of its charm. It’s emotional and sincere, a record that captures personal and cultural unease without ever losing its melodic heart. And it sounds so great on vinyl!

2/6. Am I in a doctor's office? No. Because what they play is more interesting than this schlock. I hadn’t heard of this album until it came up in the project. Maybe there is a reason. There's nothing super about this Supergroup. As it played, I kept waiting for the moment that would justify its spot on the 1001 list. It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just…inert? Boring? Understimulating? Trying waaay too hard? There’s atmosphere, sure, but it all feels too mannered, too self-consciously moody to leave any real impression. The band is made up of heavy hitters, but instead of alchemy, we get polite, meandering songs with clink-clink piano and vague muttering about British decay. Nothing grabs or challenges or sticks. Some of the electronic soundscapes feel like they’re trying way too hard to be eerie or innovative, but just end up feeling forced and empty. I found myself waiting impatiently for the moment I could turn it off. I could name five other British albums off the top of my head that do this sort of thing better. I’m still waiting for the banger. I don’t even know what Blur sings, but evidently it wasn’t that memorable either.

Everything But The Girl's "Walking Wounded" is a masterpiece of mid-90s sophistication that perfectly captured the band's evolution from indie folk into electronic territory. The album feels like a late-night conversation in a dimly lit room, Tracy Thorn's voice floating over Ben Watt's intricate programming with an intimacy that's both vulnerable and controlled. What makes this record so compelling is how it balances melancholy with groove. Songs like "Walking Wounded" and "Wrong" have this underlying pulse that draws you in, but the emotional weight never lets you get too comfortable. Thorn's vocals are stunning throughout, delivering lines with a conversational directness that cuts straight through any pretense. When she sings "I want you to shut your mouth, that would be enough," it's not just a lyric, it's a moment of brutal honesty wrapped in the most elegant delivery. The production feels both of its time and timeless. The electronic elements never overshadow the songwriting; instead, they create these atmospheric spaces where the melodies can breathe. There's a restraint here that's incredibly appealing, like they knew exactly how much to give and when to pull back. This is music for adults dealing with adult complications, relationships that have weight and history behind them. It's sophisticated without being cold, electronic without losing its human center. The fact that I've been returning to it since my teens speaks to its lasting power. Some albums reveal themselves slowly over years, and "Walking Wounded" is definitely one of those records that grows more beautiful with time.

3.5/5. The production holds up impressively well. Dre’s beats are sharp, layered, and purposeful, giving the album a sense of momentum and precision. "My Name Is" still grabs attention with its strange charm, and "Guilty Conscience" plays out like a short film. "Rock Bottom" is a standout for its honesty and restraint. But revisiting the album now, the violent and hateful lyrics overshadow much of what works musically. The talent is obvious, but the content makes it a tough listen today.

Garbage (1995) is an easy 5/5 for me. I was 15 when it came out, and it instantly became one of those albums that helped shape my taste and outlook. It was sleek, dark, sarcastic, and seductive, capturing the exact mix of rebellion, emotional intensity, and self-awareness I was beginning to explore. My best friends were obsessed with it too, and we kept it in rotation well into our university years. The production is pristine but gritty, full of layered loops, grunge guitars, and trip-hop textures that made the entire sound feel addictive and slightly dangerous. A huge part of that is Butch Vig. As both producer and drummer, he built the album with obsessive attention to detail, blending grit with polish in a way that gave it lasting edge. Shirley Manson’s presence is magnetic. She moves effortlessly between icy detachment and raw confession. At the time, she was everything: smart, tough, sexy, and completely uninterested in being likable. The lyrics struck a nerve, walking a line between nihilism and vulnerability. Lines like “Do you have an opinion? A mind of your own?” felt like a direct challenge. The sound doesn't stay in one lane either. It pulls from alt-rock, industrial, shoegaze, electronica, and pop, blending them seamlessly. This was moody music you could dance to, scream to, or just get lost in, and that emotional versatility is exactly why it still resonates.

What a sweet, jammy trip. I’m shocked this wasn’t in my Daddy’s vinyl stash. It should have been. I’d never even heard of Shuggie, but he’s in my rotation now. From what I read, the album didn’t make much of a splash on release. There was a 2001 reissue, but somehow, I missed that too. This album blends a lot of sounds that I really enjoy, including psychedelic soul, funk, R&B, and even some gentle electronic textures, into something uniquely mellow and forward-thinking. My research indicates that Shuggie was only 21 when he made this album in 1974, and it shows in the best way. There’s a wide-eyed curiosity in every groove, paired with the control and craftsmanship of someone years ahead of his time. This hazy, intimate soundscape still feels fresh over fifty years later. Most of the songs sound effortless, but the more I listened, the more I found them slyly complex. The opener, “Inspiration Information,” eases you in with a loose, hypnotic rhythm and a laid-back groove laced with drum machine and wah-wah guitar. It’s like a warm-up stretch for the rest of the album. From there, the vibe floats: laid-back, textural, almost underwater in parts. The instrumental tracks are lush and dreamy, soaked in atmosphere. “Pling” feels like sipping a perfect cup of coffee on a foggy morning, and those keys are butter. “Sparkle” shimmers just right. “Sweet Thing” floats along like a warm wave. “Island Letter” is also a standout. Dreamy and cinematic, spacey and serene, it sounds like proto-lofi waaaay before that was even a concept. And “Aht Uh Mi Hed” delivers the closest thing to a pop hit, but even that’s soaked in melancholy. I had to look up why the intro to “Strawberry Letter 23” sounded so familiar. It was later covered by the Brothers Johnson, but it's been widely sampled and featured in various media, including commercials, lo-fi beat samples, and is referenced in other funk and R&B tracks. Most notably, in: • OutKast - “Ms. Jackson” (2000): The overall vibe and layered guitar sounds were heavily inspired by the Brothers Johnson version. • Dr. Dre - “Keep Their Heads Ringin’” (1995): Subtle use of the melody. • (AMThriller, this is for YOU!) Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown (1997): Features the Brothers Johnson version, which uses the same structure and feel as Shuggie’s original, especially the intro. Had no idea this was all originally a Shuggie sound. Pretty neat. The other tracks did not disappoint in the slightest. I thought “Freedom Flight” was the best unique track I had heard in a while, but then hazy “Purple” came on, and it is hands-down my favorite song on this album. Just pure mood. Kinda slippery, a little strange, and somehow both chill and urgent. The guitar sound is woozy and seductive, and the rhythm just barely holds together, as if it's swaying in a breeze. It sounds like a memory and clearly cements Shuggie's legacy as a lost genius. I didn't intend to make this review so long, but by the third listen, Shuggie’s talent is pretty staggering here: guitar virtuosity, silky vocals, soulful songwriting, and an experimental streak. This album feels timeless but also like it came from a slightly alternate universe where soul took a weirder, more introspective path. It’s not a flashy album. It’s subtle, spacey, and soulful. You can easily put this on in the background while doing laundry or making dinner, pair it with a medical cannabis sesh, or listen more intently to the layers of sound, in order to analyze each dreamy component. Either way, once it sinks in, it lingers in the mind, like the last notes of a song that never fully leave your head.

I listened to Sister a few times yesterday. Sonic Youth walks a careful line between chaos and structure, and that tension gives the album its power. The distortion and noise are constant, but they feel deliberate. This isn’t just feedback for its own sake. There’s something thoughtful underneath it. Sister is often seen as the point where Sonic Youth began to shape their sound into something more focused. It bridges their early experimental work with the more refined songwriting they would develop on Daydream Nation. You can feel them pulling things into place without sanding down the edges. “Schizophrenia” is the clear standout. It’s eerie, hypnotic, and somehow both distant and intimate. Other tracks, like “Pacific Coast Highway” and “Tuff Gnarl,” push deeper into disorientation and darkness without losing control. The literary influence of Philip K. Dick adds another layer. The title is a reference to his twin sister, Jane, who died in infancy. Her death haunted him for the rest of his life, and themes of fractured identity, loss, and shifting reality show up throughout his work. While Sister is not a concept album, that mood lingers over everything. I can only take so much noise rock before I need a break, but Sister makes the chaos feel meaningful. It’s an essential piece of the underground-to-mainstream pipeline that shaped alternative music in the late 80s and beyond. Solid 4 out of 5. It earns its place.

While I had heard of Miriam Makeba, I had never taken the time to actually listen to her music until this album came up in the project yesterday. I knew her name, her reputation, and her role as a political figure, but not the sound of her voice or the emotional weight of her songs. Released after her exile from apartheid South Africa, Miriam Makeba is a culturally significant debut that introduced many listeners to African languages, rhythms, and traditions at a time when most Western audiences had never heard anything like it. The album blends South African folk, spirituals, and a few international selections with minimal instrumentation, keeping the focus squarely on Makeba’s voice. My favorite track was “Olilili,” a playful song about a nasty little flea. It’s catchy, weird, and full of charm. “The Click Song” and “Mbube” also stood out, the former for its unique vocal delivery and energy, the latter for its emotional weight and cultural legacy. That said, this isn’t an album I would revisit for pleasure. While it was enjoyable and interesting, it doesn’t fit my personal taste enough to land on any regular playlist. Its value lies more in its historical and cultural importance than in repeat listening. Still, I’m glad the project pushed me to hear it, because it holds an undeniable place in music history.

I grew up listening to Harvest and I have loved this album for years, but listening to it again through the lens of this project reminded me why it’s such an enduring part of the musical canon. Released in 1972, it easily became the best-selling album in the U.S. that year and introduced Neil Young’s fragile, aching voice to a broader audience. My understanding is that folks were just pretty damn tired after the craziness of the late '60s, and they were looking for music that was a little more palatable. This blending of country, folk, and rock captures a specific moment in time when people were feeling restless, disillusioned, and raw. It’s an album that feels weary but honest, offering comfort without pretending everything’s okay. And even though Harvest is mired in the cultural and social upheaval that marked that time in history, it still manages to feel timeless. What sets Harvest apart isn't just its sound but its emotional directness. There’s a sense of weariness and sincerity that underpins even its quietest tracks. The recording process was famously scattered, with some songs tracked in Nashville, others in London with a full orchestra, and some recorded live on the spot. That mix of polish and imperfection works in the album’s favor, adding a feeling of intimacy and vulnerability. It was really interesting to revisit some of the themes of these songs and the album’s cultural context. The standout moments for me are “Heart of Gold,” “Old Man,” “Alabama,” and especially “The Needle and the Damage Done.” The latter is a devastating, stripped-down reflection on heroin addiction. Young wrote it about his friend and Crazy Horse bandmate Danny Whitten, who would die of an overdose later that year. Captured in a live acoustic performance, the song's rawness was striking in 1972 and remains so today. It was one of the first major rock songs to confront the cost of drug addiction so directly, paving the way for future artists to deal openly with loss and substance abuse. This song will strike a chord with anyone who has dealt with addiction in any context, especially opiates. One of the most significant cultural moments surrounding Harvest came from the backlash to “Alabama.” Along with his earlier track “Southern Man,” Young was openly criticizing racism in the American South. This didn’t sit well with some Southern audiences and prompted a now-famous response from Lynyrd Skynyrd in “Sweet Home Alabama,” with the line: “I hope Neil Young will remember, a Southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” But instead of escalating the conflict, the artists expressed mutual respect. Young admitted that “Alabama” lacked nuance, and Skynyrd’s Ronnie Van Zant often wore a Neil Young shirt onstage. That quiet reconciliation is one of the most interesting and respectful musical conversations of the era. Harvest doesn’t always land perfectly, but that imperfection is easily part of its charm. It’s emotional and sincere, a record that captures personal and cultural unease without ever losing its melodic heart. And it sounds so great on vinyl!

I’ve listened to The Downward Spiral more times than I can count, and it remains one of my favorite albums, not just by Nine Inch Nails, but overall. It’s the kind of record I return to when everything feels frayed and heavy, not because it offers clarity or relief, but because it reflects those internal wreckages so accurately that I don’t feel as isolated in them. This isn’t background music or something I put on casually. It’s intense, immersive, and deliberately uncomfortable. There’s beauty buried in distortion, and a strange sense of honesty in the way it refuses to sugarcoat pain. “Closer” is aggressive and grotesque. “Hurt” is stripped down and resigned. Tracks like “March of the Pigs,” “Piggy,” and “Ruiner” all seem to push into emotional collapse without trying to pull back. One memory I’ll never shake is riding in a ninth-grade carpool with some honors kids; we were quietly singing along to the radio, “I want to f*** you like an animal," while someone’s mom drove us to our IB high school. We were probably all still virgins. It didn’t even register as shocking at the time. The 90s were like that. There’s no way that song would get the same airplay now. So I can’t say for sure where I first heard the rest of the album. What I do know is that I’ve played it over and over for years. My favorite Trent Reznor track is actually “Down In It” from Pretty Hate Machine. But that song feels like the seed that bloomed into something dark and unraveling, in The Downward Spiral. The recording process adds another layer to the album’s intensity. Reznor built a studio inside the house where the Manson murders happened, and tracked most of the album there using a mix of analog tape, digital sampling, broken instruments, and found sounds. The atmosphere feels claustrophobic and unstable, like the walls themselves are vibrating with pressure. There’s no clear storyline across the tracks, but the structure still feels intentional. It’s not about progress or resolution. It’s a slow and deliberate descent. When the album finally closes with “Hurt,” it doesn’t reach upward. It just stops. This album has echoed across genres in ways that still surprise me. You can hear it in the emotional violence of early Slipknot and Korn, and in the fractured layering of artists like Burial, and Health. In hip hop, artists like Kanye West and El-P borrowed its aggression and minimalism. It didn’t just shape industrial rock. It helped reframe what emotional intensity could sound like in music, whether filtered through distortion, silence, chaos, or pure static. The Downward Spiral isn’t about rebellion, catharsis, or healing. It’s about collapse. It’s about sitting in the wreckage without pretending there’s a way out. That’s what makes it so necessary.

2/6. Am I in a doctor's office? No. Because what they play is more interesting than this schlock. I hadn’t heard of this album until it came up in the project. Maybe there is a reason. There's nothing super about this Supergroup. As it played, I kept waiting for the moment that would justify its spot on the 1001 list. It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just…inert? Boring? Understimulating? Trying waaay too hard? There’s atmosphere, sure, but it all feels too mannered, too self-consciously moody to leave any real impression. The band is made up of heavy hitters, but instead of alchemy, we get polite, meandering songs with clink-clink piano and vague muttering about British decay. Nothing grabs or challenges or sticks. Some of the electronic soundscapes feel like they’re trying way too hard to be eerie or innovative, but just end up feeling forced and empty. I found myself waiting impatiently for the moment I could turn it off. I could name five other British albums off the top of my head that do this sort of thing better. I’m still waiting for the banger. I don’t even know what Blur sings, but evidently it wasn’t that memorable either.

I’ve heard Loretta before, probably this exact album, but I never really listened until now. And there is a lot going on beneath that classic country polish. Let’s start with the obvious. The title track is iconic for a reason. It’s bold, pissed off, and refreshingly direct. She’s not asking. She’s telling. If your man comes home drunk and expects affection, this is the anthem for slamming the bedroom door in his face. The steel guitar punches the message home with a perfect twang. But the deeper cuts are what really got me. “I Don’t Really Want to Know” stopped me cold. Her voice is haunting here. Soft, aching, and precise. There’s a little vocal trill at the end that just kills. It’s not showy, just real. Same goes for “Tomorrow Never Comes,” which manages to be beautiful and gutting without any vocal theatrics. That lilt in her delivery feels like the sound of hope deflating in real time. And then there’s “Get What ‘Cha Got and Go.” It’s under two minutes, but it comes out swinging. No wasted breath, no emotional hemming and hawing. Just pack your stuff and get out. It’s fabulous. Musically, it’s old-school Nashville. Clean arrangements, no clutter, with plenty of steel guitar (which I love) tucked in all the right corners. It’s twangy without being hokey, traditional without feeling dead. The melodies are catchy but don’t overshadow the message, which, in Loretta’s case, is usually some variation of “I’ve had enough of your bullshit.” Final track? “I Got Caught.” Not exactly a grand finale, but it fits. It’s matter-of-fact, slyly humorous, and leaves you with a smirk instead of a tear. I get now why this one is on the list. It’s not just historically important. It’s emotionally sharp, sneakily complex, and a little dangerous if you’re not paying attention.

What a long day. I'm so tired. But this album? Totally worth staying up for. I fucking love it. Pretty much every single song. I first put Stardust on this morning while getting ready. Then on the drive to work. Then on speaker in the office kitchen while everyone was grabbing coffee, because it’s just that good. And a few more times after that. It carried me through the chaos with grace. The covers are legendary. Elvis? Ella Fitzgerald? Louis Armstrong? Gershwin? Hoagy Carmichael? Duke Ellington?? Ray Charles?! This tracklist reads like a syllabus for American musical greatness. And somehow, Willie makes each one his own without losing the soul of the original. There’s something about his voice on this record. It’s direct and evenly paced, never rushing. That bit of vibrato on the longer notes? Just enough to feel it. He’s never in a hurry to get to the next word, and that patience works. His delivery feels like ease. Like peace. Like sitting on a porch swing, letting the light shift while the sun hangs low. Making an album of mostly covers can be risky. But Stardust proves that if you have the artistry, the taste, and the sheer soul of Willie Nelson, it’s not just possible. It’s genius. These aren’t just renditions. They’re interpretations that stand alone. Everyone should love something about this album. It’s warm. It’s masterful. It’s palatable on so many levels, and absolutely brilliant on others. It’s a quietly perfect album, timeless in its simplicity and essential in its place among the great American recordings.

This album is just flat-out excellent. No filler, no fluff. Every track is tight, clean, and built to move. Some of the best tracks, like “The Kid from Red Bank,” “Splanky,” and “Whirly-Bird,” don’t drag or meander. They snap, swing, and stay out of their own way. Basie’s piano barely says a word, but it still leads with total authority. The brass section is razor sharp, the rhythm section feels effortless, and Neal Hefti’s arrangements know exactly when to hold back and when to punch. It’s not loud for the sake of it. It’s precise. Confident. Stylish. I played a few of these in jazz band, which partly explains why I connect with this album so much. That experience adds something personal, but even without it, this is a clear 5 out of 5.

This album doesn’t try to dazzle you with tricks or volume. It moves with quiet certainty, unfolding piece by piece until you're completely surrounded. From the first track, it settles into a groove that feels both effortless and exact. The playing is tight but never rigid, the pacing deliberate, and Van’s voice never pushes harder than it needs to. “Moondance” swings with an ease that masks how precise it really is. The walking bassline underneath does more than just support. It drives, anchors, and dances all at once. “Into the Mystic” feels like breathing, expansive and grounded, while “Caravan” brings heat without chaos. “Crazy Love” strips everything down and still feels full. I was always aware of this album growing up, but it wasn’t until the 90s that I started to really hear it. As a teenager, the structure and restraint became clearer. The warmth, the pacing, the control all clicked into place. Some albums fade over time. This one just keeps getting better.

Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound turns this album into a sonic tomb. Whatever raw honesty Dion may have been trying to bring is buried under layers of reverb, sludge, and lifeless pacing. I usually love emotionally heavy music. I seek it out. I live in it. But this? This is not that. This is a dirge with no payoff. The production doesn’t enhance the message. It strangles it. “Your Own Back Yard,” a song about addiction and recovery, somehow ends up sounding upbeat, which makes the whole thing feel dissonant and awkward. “Make the Woman Love Me,” the second track, features a hideous warbling vibrato that was painful to sit through. “Only You Know” wants to be the emotional centerpiece, but it’s so bogged down in echo it barely registers. “In and Out of the Shadows” just plods, offering nothing new in sound or sentiment. And the cover of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”? Laughably bad. With twenty tracks on this album, it seems like I should be able to find one that works for me. The closest is probably “Good Lovin’ Man.” It’s still rough, but at least there’s a little movement in it, a little grit. It almost sounds like Dion coming up for air before the mud pulls him under again. Lyrically, this album doesn’t offer much either. As a writer, lyrics hold a special place in my heart. It’s extremely rare for me to like a song purely on musical merit when the words fall flat. In this case, they absolutely do. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say they barely show up. I get that Dion is trying to express emotion and vulnerability, but most of the lyrics are repetitive, shallow, and painfully uninspired. Even on “Your Own Back Yard,” which tackles a serious subject like addiction (something Dion personally went through), the writing is flimsy. He briefly hints at something more thoughtful with “I got a friend / His name is Richard Grands / He says you don't need / To get stoned to grow a friend,” but then tosses in “drinkin’... thinkin’... blinkin’” and sinks the moment. It’s uncomfortable to listen to, like watching someone bare their soul and trip over every line. And “If I Can Just Get Through Tonight” goes straight for the lowest-hanging lyrical fruit with “sorrow” and “tomorrow,” which aren’t helped by the equally limp arrangement. I’ve renamed it “If I Can Just Get Through This Album.” I’ve learned that Spector’s Wall of Sound involved massive instrumental layering, echo chambers, and mono mixing to create a dense, immersive feel. In the early 60s, it made songs like “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” iconic. Here, it results in death by overdub. The more they added, the less you could feel. It’s like putting too much makeup on a vulnerable face. You lose the expression underneath. While Spector deserves plenty of blame for how this sounds, Dion himself doesn’t do much to save it. The lyrics, the delivery, the pacing. None of it connects. Everything is just so cringey. I know it was the 70s. But the 70s also gave us actual great music. This isn’t one of those cases. This is a bloated, soggy mess of unrealized intent. Some people call it a cult classic. I call it a cautionary tale.

I didn’t know Michael Kiwanuka before this album. By the end of KIWANUKA, I felt like I had been listening to him for years. It’s soulful, textured, and immersive in a way that doesn’t feel performative or retro for the sake of it. The production feels warm and lived in, rich with analog grit and subtle emotional pull. It’s the kind of album you can sink into or leave running in the background without losing its impact. There’s this fusion of vintage soul, psych-rock, and modern grime that somehow works beautifully. Danger Mouse and Inflo produced the whole thing, and the result is a slow-burning, cinematic soundscape that’s as much about mood as melody. You get hiss, fuzz, layered strings, haunting choirs, and loose, tactile percussion. Nothing feels shiny or polished. Every sound feels hand-built and worn in. Lyrically, it deals with identity, anxiety, and self-doubt without wallowing in them. Kiwanuka questions his worth, his place, his name, but it all feels grounded and human. In “Piano Joint,” he asks, “Am I good enough for you?” and it lands like someone whispering in the dark. “Rolling” sounds like it’s crawling out of a stormcloud with its teeth bared. “You Ain’t the Problem” manages to sound uplifting without feeling shallow or forced. Some tracks bleed into one another with instrumental interludes that stretch time. It moves like one long thought. Critics went wild for it, and the praise is entirely warranted. Mercury Prize winner, universal acclaim, year-end lists, all of it deserved. I’ll probably go back to his earlier albums, but this one feels definitive. Like someone finally saying their name the way they were meant to say it.

I used to think I was a Peter Gabriel fan. Turns out, I’m mostly a fan of what he represents: a bold, technically brilliant innovator, a champion of global music, and a deeply admirable humanitarian. But musically? At least when it comes to this album, I’m just not feeling it. Peter Gabriel 1: Car is ambitious, theatrical, and inventive. I can fully respect why it holds a place in the rock canon. It’s daring. It tosses genres around like juggling pins. The opening track, “Moribund the Burgermeister,” felt like I was trapped in a bad LSD trip with that dying mayor. The album makes no effort to be palatable or pretty. And that is exactly why some people love it. I’m just not one of them. Solsbury Hill is fine. I’ve heard it a million times, and I associate it more with Vanilla Sky than anything else. It is interesting to note that it’s written in 7/4 time, which gives it an off-kilter, slightly floating feel that mirrors the emotional tension in the lyrics. The only song I actually replayed on purpose was “Waiting for the Big One.” That one worked for me. It has a slinky, bluesy vibe that gives Gabriel room to breathe without crowding the space with too many ideas at once. The lyrics, though, are kind of ridiculous. “Hope Moses knows his roses”? Come on. I get the theatrical irony, but it veers into parody. “Down the Dolce Vita” also caught my attention. It opens with a massive orchestral fanfare performed by the London Symphony Orchestra, then slams into a gritty, theatrical groove. The transition is abrupt and almost absurd, but that chaotic scale shift gives it a weird, thrilling energy that stands out from the rest of the album. Bottom line: I respect Peter Gabriel. I admire the risks he takes. But I didn’t connect with this album, and I don’t plan to revisit it. Just because something is innovative or important doesn’t mean it’s something I want to hear again.

The Beastie Boys completely reinvented themselves on their second album, abandoning the juvenile party rap of Licensed to Ill for something far more sophisticated. Working with the Dust Brothers, they created a dense sonic collage built from hundreds of samples that blend funk, soul, rock, and TV soundbites into something entirely new. The album was a commercial flop when it came out in 1989. Too weird, too layered, too experimental for hip-hop audiences at the time. But it's since been recognized as one of the most important hip-hop albums ever made, capturing a unique moment before sampling laws made this kind of wholesale musical borrowing financially impossible. The production is incredibly dense but never feels cluttered. Tracks like "Shake Your Rump" and "Hey Ladies" showcase the group's evolved wordplay over seamless sample transitions that feel like controlled chaos. "B-Boy Bouillabaisse" is an ambitious nine-minute suite that proves their artistic growth, while "Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun" explores darker territory. What makes the album special is how it rewards repeated listening. Each playthrough reveals new samples, new jokes, new moments of brilliance hiding in the mix. The cultural references span everything from Curtis Mayfield to Gilligan's Island, creating a fever dream of American pop culture. Paul's Boutique stands as proof that the most important art is often misunderstood in its time. It transformed three party rappers into genuine artists and created a template for adventurous hip-hop that remains unmatched. A brilliant, essential masterpiece.

Everything But The Girl's "Walking Wounded" is a masterpiece of mid-90s sophistication that perfectly captured the band's evolution from indie folk into electronic territory. The album feels like a late-night conversation in a dimly lit room, Tracy Thorn's voice floating over Ben Watt's intricate programming with an intimacy that's both vulnerable and controlled. What makes this record so compelling is how it balances melancholy with groove. Songs like "Walking Wounded" and "Wrong" have this underlying pulse that draws you in, but the emotional weight never lets you get too comfortable. Thorn's vocals are stunning throughout, delivering lines with a conversational directness that cuts straight through any pretense. When she sings "I want you to shut your mouth, that would be enough," it's not just a lyric, it's a moment of brutal honesty wrapped in the most elegant delivery. The production feels both of its time and timeless. The electronic elements never overshadow the songwriting; instead, they create these atmospheric spaces where the melodies can breathe. There's a restraint here that's incredibly appealing, like they knew exactly how much to give and when to pull back. This is music for adults dealing with adult complications, relationships that have weight and history behind them. It's sophisticated without being cold, electronic without losing its human center. The fact that I've been returning to it since my teens speaks to its lasting power. Some albums reveal themselves slowly over years, and "Walking Wounded" is definitely one of those records that grows more beautiful with time.

I thought this was a random generator lol RIP Brian Wilson 6/20/42 - 6/11/25

I went into Meat Is Murder thinking I liked The Smiths, but I’ve realized that what I really like is a single song on a different album (“How Soon Is Now?”) and not much else. This album feels bloated with wordy, whiny monologues set to jangly guitars that never give you room to breathe. The song titles alone are exhausting, and Morrissey’s delivery feels more like a lecture than a performance. It’s all very self-serious, and while I get that it was groundbreaking for its time, it doesn’t land with me at all. If this is proto-emo, I’ll take actual emo instead. At least that genre knows how to channel emotion without sounding like it’s writing a dissertation.

I’d never heard All Things Must Pass before, and honestly, I kind of wish I still hadn’t. Phil Spector’s production is completely over the top, with layered choirs, orchestras, reverb, and enough guitars to bury anything personal or reflective. It feels like Harrison handed him a journal and Spector turned it into a Broadway finale. Even George admitted later that it was too much and tried to remix it. I get why some people love the grandiosity, but to me it smothers whatever sincerity might have been here. This project was supposed to reconnect me with music. Instead, it has drained my enthusiasm. If this is what “important” albums look like, I’m out.

Classic and apropos.

I didn't intend to listen to the entire album. Every song was familiar, so I guess I digested all of it at some point in my childhood. This is one that you can actually listen to, straight though. I put it on in the background and ended up listening to the twice. I don't think it is meant to be an intellectually deep record, but it's perfect for what it is. Every damn song is excellent!

Not a chance in hell I am voluntarily listening to this. Meatloaf is right behind Darius Rucker in my list of least favorite vocalist. Yuck. This list really has some of my least favorite music on it. Which is funny because I really like an ENORMOUS variety. But really? More fking Phil Spektor production influence, on top of Meat Loaf's cringe-inducing voice, on top of the fact that it's impossible to take a musician named 'Meat Loaf' seriously... 🤢 I can tolerate "I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)" from 1993, but only as a fking joke, because that long-ass music video used to come on VH1 constantly when I was young and my brothers and I would sing it as a complete parody when we could not find anything else to watch on TV. I can't say enough how much I dislike Michael Aday. Not as much as Darius Rucker, but close. I'd rather listen to fking Nickelback than either of them.

I love Radiohead as much as the next 90s kid, but really? The 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die list includes five Radiohead albums. Five. On a list supposedly covering the greatest albums in popular music? I’d really like to know which four other great albums didn’t make the cut because of this. If I didn’t already think the list was a joke, I do now. Hail to the Thief is good. But it’s not monumental.