There are beautiful songs beneath the gleaming sunlight. This is a masterpiece of textural art - layer upon layer. Much has already been said about these ghoulish guitars; the drumming is equally intense. Brilliant with every fibre of its being.
A set of folky blues-rock tunes with a laid-back charm. The album is anchored by the classic Bad Moon Rising, which is the undeniable - and, to be honest: sole - standout. While nothing else quite reaches that level, the rest of the album has its moments - some tasteful bluesy guitar work and a warm, rootsy vibe throughout. If you grew up in the US during the late ’60s or ’70s, this probably feels like a piece of your cultural fabric. For listeners born elsewhere, it’s an interesting snapshot of its time - maybe not essential, but worth a listen.
This feels like a restrained version of The Flaming Lips. While “Yoshimi” is a cleverly dynamic and shorter follow-up to The Soft Bulletin. Even though despite its shorter run time, it cannot be labelled concise. The album somewhat struggles to uphold the quality of its first songs in the second half and overall has some lengthier moments (In the Morning of the Magicians, Are You A Hypnotist?, It’s Summertime). Yet, for every slight dud, there is a clear standout moment: One More Robot/Symphony 3000-21, Ego Tripping At the Gates of Hell, Do You Realise?? and the overall sound and feeling of the record is cohesive and oddly upbeat psychedelic with pulsating drums and bass front and centre (cf. Are You A Hypnotist?). The production is punchy but sometimes ideas get buried in the mix (the flute and trumpet in Ego Tripping […]) and you will miss them if you’re not paying utmost attention. The lyrics cryptically evolve around motifs such as Karate, robotics/machine learning and - how could it be any different - death. It seems, however, that Wayne Coyne did not aim to make this a concept album strictu sensu, which is a good thing in this case.
Pleasant and well-executed mid-tempo songs; organ, guitar and drums sound overly lush. Album drags a bit towards the end. If you’re neither familiar with nor into the American songbook, the songs probably don’t reveal their societal and political meaning as well as the undercurrent that revels beneath their saccharine execution. Best when Nelson leaves the comfort zone and turns to more interesting vocal melodies (unchained melody). In sum, I lack to the understanding of the originals to appreciate the value of this collection of covers.
Intriguing lyrics with obscure religious motives. Music itself lacks punch; sits comfortably somewhere between Siouxsie and a post-punk tinged version of the college rock of R.E.M. (The Killing Moon, Seven Seas) - way more interesting when it gets more arty and dissonant (cf. Thorn of Crowns). Creative (and to some degree weird) string flourishes add a pleasant and a memorable touch to the melodies but let the songs seem a bit tame here and there. Superb vocal performance on the closing track.
Stevie Wonder is not hiding his message(s). Undoubtedly skilful and passionate execution. The mid tempo soul ballads (You and I, Lookin’ for Another Pure Love, …) leave me somewhat underwhelmed - partly because of their “on the nose” lyrics. Album sounds vibrant, but has too less edges for my taste; esp. those aforementioned ballads. Maybe Your Baby and Superstition have a killer, driving backbeat. While there are superb melodies and harmonies elsewhere (keys/synth on You’ve Got it Bad Girl or the vocals on Blame it on the Sun and I Believe), the record would have benefitted from some more “gut punching” uptempo sections making it a more varied, dynamic collection of songs. Sadly, the amazing final section of the album (prog-soul outro of I Believe) ends abruptly and the style isn’t spelled out over these 10 tracks very often.
Classic rock cliché monstrosity. Mostly, it’s pleasant and occasionally fun to listen to but the lyrics just fall so flat. Obviously there are guitar solos galore. Sometimes they even make up a centre motive of a song - see Hitch a Ride’s simultaneous lead guitar solo. Foreplay has got to be one of the most annoying intros ever. The one thing that is actually charming to the record is its proto power pop character in some of the songs (cf. Peace of Mind). Hitch a Ride is a song where the genres (classic rock and power pop elements) come together quite well. Overall, better to stomp your feet than to pay close attention to the tunes. Sometimes (of course, that’s my retrospective impression) the songs are just so boilerplate, it hurts (esp. rock’n’Roll Band). I feel like that the band didn’t have much to say at all. With 38 minutes, the record is still too long - it could have been trimmed and it would have probably ended up being a more concise and enjoyable experience - that holds especially true for the B-side.
Knotty and witty social commentary and musical gem. More messy than the Beatles, less bougie and pretentious than the Stones (amazing middle ground). Blueprint for so many Bands I love (GBV for example). Sprawling psychedelic pop marvels that don’t shy away from gritty textures. Nods to the bygone Victorian age - not only by virtue of the lyrics (perks and fall of the Empire and post-war England) but also when it comes to the feathery instrumentation (cembalo). Fades in urgency towards the end of the record; maybe it would have benefitted from a different sequencing (such as a somewhat more uptempo song to close the collection). Incredible and versatile record.
Undoubtedly iconic in every way. Even though a centrepiece, I am not particularly crazy about the It Ain’t Easy cover or Mooanage Daydream. The latter has got a great feeling to it and was probably an amazing live show staple, but I am slightly underwhelmed from a songwriting perspective given Bowie’s generational talent. It will probably grow on me… However, that’s nitpicking and the highs of this record (basically every other song), elevate this project to the top of Bowie’s - and mostly everyone else’s - oeuvre.
Damon Albarn knows how to write a song - and then to embellish it. This time, though, it’s a rather understated affair, with a close look into the rear-view mirror and a nostalgic touch. You would be forgiven for not realising that it’s Tony Allen behind the kit (but then again there are songs like Nature Springs and Three Changes. These ornate, folky dub-pop marvels take their fair share of time to blossom. There is much to disassemble while listening: for example, in Kingdom of Doom, a soaring guitar cuts through the feeling of yonder times. Or the amazing drum work. Everything sounds analogue, warm, and a bit dusty - in the most positive sense (my favorite of said sounding bunch would be Green Fields).
There are beautiful songs beneath the gleaming sunlight. This is a masterpiece of textural art - layer upon layer. Much has already been said about these ghoulish guitars; the drumming is equally intense. Brilliant with every fibre of its being.
Only By the Night starts off kinda OK – Closer is a decent opener (yes, I know… haha). But what follows is… the rest of the album. One mediocre tune follows another until it’s finally over. The production seems to be aiming for the sweeping, echo-drenched grandeur of U2, while the whole musical/lyrical approach is apparently meant to be elusive, maybe even seductive. But especially with lyrics this clumsy (frankly, bad), the result sounds equivalent to browsing for lingerie in the clearance bin at Walmart.
A set of folky blues-rock tunes with a laid-back charm. The album is anchored by the classic Bad Moon Rising, which is the undeniable - and, to be honest: sole - standout. While nothing else quite reaches that level, the rest of the album has its moments - some tasteful bluesy guitar work and a warm, rootsy vibe throughout. If you grew up in the US during the late ’60s or ’70s, this probably feels like a piece of your cultural fabric. For listeners born elsewhere, it’s an interesting snapshot of its time - maybe not essential, but worth a listen.
This is… obnoxious. I tried, I really did and squinted at it like maybe I was missing some deeper meaning. But nope: The only word that fits is pretentious. Yes, it’s well produced. And yes, it’s probably technically “well executed.” But none of that helps when the whole thing sounds like someone tried to make soul music, albeit with less soul. And then there’s the phallic Free Form Guitar - a track so aggressively annoying, it physically hurts to listen to. if you’re releasing a debut album that clocks in at around 80 minutes, you should definitely have a lot to say. These guys didn’t. Unless “we’re horny, we own pedals and we brought a brass section” counts as a message. You kind of have to admire their confidence though.
While undoubtly a transitional record, this is still Dylan at his best.
Imagine Simon & Garfunkel stripped down to their basic chords, throw in some gain, add bass and drums, and replace the angelic voice of Garfunkel with a weary, drug-addled, morning-after rasp - more Gram Parsons than Art Garfunkel’s angelic choirboy tenor - and you’ve got the sound of It’s a Shame About Ray. It’s Simon & Garfunkel via The Replacements or Big Star. Wondering if I mean that in a positive way? Hell yeah. Sometimes all you need are great, hooky tunes, an electric guitar, and lyrics about human relationships, alienation, or drugs. If it were that simple to stir up an album that works as well as this one, why don’t we have more of them? Just listen to: Confetti, the title track, Alison’s Starting to Happen, Kitchen, My Drug Buddy. The melodies are saccharine - in the best possible way. It’s A Shame About Ray is mostly pristine early-’90s Boston jangle/alt-rock/underground pop bangers, with L.A.’s sublight baked into the fabric. The tunes are insanely catchy, the runtime is concise, and it’s rough around the edges. In short: it’s pretty close to perfect.
This is one where Björk takes you to the club. It’s astonishing how fully formed Björk’s artistic vision was already on Debut. While she would go on to elevate her craft to sublime heights on the following three albums, this one - even though not as stylistically cohesive as Post, Homogenic, or Vespertine - contains some standout tracks: Human Behaviour, Venus as a Boy, Big Time Sensuality, Violently Happy or the closer, The Anchor Song. With Debut, Björk laid the foundation for one of the most inventive and unique bodies of work in Western pop music. Over these 11 tracks, Björk channels genres and styles (Acid House, Drum and Bass, Trip Hop and Jazz included) as if it were the easiest thing to do and her vocal performance is simply out of this world. Nellee Hooper, Björk’s producer on Debut, built her a fitting and brilliant hybrid of analog warmth and digital crunch (Roland TR 909 and sample based percussion/processed beats) to deliver her idiosyncratic vocals on top. Oh so brilliant.
Yes, Dare was hugely influential at the time of its release and helped pave the way for synth-pop to come (you can hear the Kraftwerk and Cabaret Voltaire aesthetic all over it). It’s undeniably a crucial document of the 1980s and contains some great ideas: The pulsating The Sound of the Crowd, the ska‑beat‑driven Do or Die, the dark, Krautrock‑influenced I Am the Law. However, the album as a whole doesn’t really stand the test of time (ironically, Open Your Heart deals with just that topic: “But if you can stand the test, you know your worst is better than their best”). The production sounds mostly outdated - even compared to other synth/dance/new wave records from the early ’80s - and the songwriting isn’t as sharp as some want you to believe. Maybe it’s the overuse of use of contrast (high v. low frequencies) or the Linn drum machine that occasionally annoys the hell out of me. Some of the synth sounds are outright annoying too (like the high/shrill flute imitating tones in Open Your Heart, Darkness and Seconds). And then there’s the ultra creepy Don’t You Want Me. I’m glad we now live in a time where toxic masculinity and stalking are no longer mistaken for romance. On the bright side: the Ramones name-dropping line in the opener, The Things That Dreams Are Made Of, made me chuckle.
Phew. A apparently rotten personality making a hellishly dull and obnoxious album. Every original track Clapton covers is better - and that’s by a long shot. Did he even adapt a single thing in the arrangement of his Bob Marley cover? And yet here we are, 50 years later, still pretending that white musicians “borrowing” (read: looting) from Black music are breaking some kind of artistic ground. Seriously? Looking at you too, Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears. Eric Clapton, though? Next-level shite: Not everyone has the audacity to ride to fame on the backs of others and be outright racist while culturally appropriating.
Just two years after the maestro himself peaked in his experimental late-career phase with The Drift, two British boys (barely adults and still one of them already spearheaded the new British wave of post-punk-ish indie in the mid-2000s), decided to make a Scott Walker (circa Scott 2-4) pastiche record. It wasn’t something that won me over when it was initially released. Maybe it was because I was still a teen, and anything that sounded vaguely like grandeur drenched in Morricone-style string arrangements seemed automatically like the product of some pseudo-intellectual bourgeois. But now that I’m older and wiser, I can finally correct my ignorant past self and say: this is a pretty decent record and proof of just that would be My Mistakes Were Made For You. Plus, the line “Declaring war on the underclass / Public enemy, I guess / But we’ll find out in the end” in the album opener actually speaks against my initial “bourgeoisie” suspicion, haha. Alex Turner has always been a great lyricist, and his texts work quite well in their orchestral incantation on The Age of the Understatement. The album sounded far more ambitious than his prior work with Arctic Monkeys, and in retrospect, you can tell that - rather unusual for a side project - the writing and recording of this album influenced the trajectory of Turner’s “main” career. Just play this back to back to Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino… Unlike Scott Walker’s career, I don’t love the “later” Arctic Monkeys albums. This is why The Age of the Understatement is a rare example where I think Turner’s artistic vision and crooner-style really shine in such a highly embellished musical setting. So it’s a blessing that this collection exists. By the way, Miles Kane: his voice blends well with Turner’s - especially the vocal interplay is great but it reeks like Alex Turner must be the brainchild of most of these songs. But sometimes to add vibe is just as important.
Much like Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home, Rust Never Sleeps has both an acoustic and an electric side - and it’s all the better for it. The latter even proved formative for the sound of grunge that would blossom in the ’90s. Partly tracked live and later overdubbed, these recordings sound raw and yet fantastic. Plus, the collection features some of Neil Young’s absolute finest songs (Thrasher, Pocahontas, Powderfinger, Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)). Man, does he shred on the B-side with his Les Paul. I’m not particularly crazy about Ride My Llama, Welfare Mothers and Sedan Delivery, as they pale in comparison to the other towering songs on the album. But that’s really just nitpicking. Neil Young reportedly included “rust” in the title of the previous tour as a metaphor to avoid artistic stagnation - however, if you’ve got these songs sitting around, one does wonder what exactly he thought he was rusting into.
On Foxbase Alpha, Saint Etienne manage to walk the fine line between pleasant, house-based sound washes and carefully orchestrated bliss. Don’t mistake it for mere easy listening, though — it’s not. Whether you fall for its modest, 60’s-tinged pop approach is a question of perspective. It’s club-rooted music for the after-hours and the comedowns; music for those who find beauty in the cracks of society at dawn, when most of us are still asleep. Best digested while waiting at rural bus stations in the wee hours of the morning, as dust slowly drifts in the shy sunlight across fields waiting to be plowed. But there is more than just a soft indie music/alternative dance element to it. Saint Etienne know how to write an instantly memorable melody and a catchy hook — and this is why it stands out from the pack. What’s truly engrossing about the album, however, is Saint Etienne’s playful handling of their source material. Be it the profound re-arrangement of the Neil Young classic Only Love Can Break Your Heart (ever wondered how it would sound in 4/4 with a dubby backbeat?), the looping of a Hey Jude cover (Wilson), or the Dusty Springfield sample in Nothing Can Stop Us. The scatter of odd and brief movie or audio samples strewn across the release only adds to its timeless yet melancholic feel. I was sad to learn that, after more than three decades, Saint Etienne have announced that their upcoming release will be their final studio album. They’ve been around so long that I’ve somehow taken new music from them for granted. While certainly not reinventing the wheel on their latest records, they have always managed to refine the formula they crafted on Foxbase Alpha. And that’s a feat far from common.
As much as I like The Doors’ first outing, I detest this one. Where their debut was raw, wild, inventive, and fun to listen to, L.A. Woman drags; it’s bloated, self-indulgent, and at times an uninspired blues-rock cliché (especially Been Down So Long, Crawling King Snake, and The WASP). L’America, which follows after L.A. Woman, is an extraordinarily annoying song („Change the weather, change your luck / And then he’ll teach ya how to… find yourself” - ahem, wow). Of course, there is still quality songwriting: in the moody Cars Hiss By My Window, Morrison conjures up vivid images of estrangement, longing, and ennui. However, that a largely improvised, fragmentary track stands as one of the album’s strongest is telling. In other songs, Morrison’s songwriting craft has waned significantly (he actually sounds tried), which is a pity, because he was the one who elevated The Doors from a good band to a special one. It’s also unfortunate that the group weren’t able to meet the standard set by the opener The Changeling in the following tracks. I can understand why people judge the quality of L.A. Woman based on the strength of the title track and Riders on the Storm, but this overlooks the record’s filler-heavy reality. Their producer even went so far as to call parts of the recordings “cocktail music.” He wasn’t entirely wrong…
This is (maybe) not a five-star album in the classical sense. It’s neither all killers, nor is it wildly inventive or groundbreaking. But here is the thing: my judgement is clouded. Because from a subjective perspective, this is where it all started for me personally. As a teenager growing up in a rural town, this album was hu(uuuu)ge for me. Fake Tales of San Francisco is an all-time favorite, and even today it transports me back to the cold winter of 2006, when my brain was rewired after actively hearing this melange of indie and post-punk for the first time - made by someone roughly from my own generation. Over the years, I’ve listened to thousands of different albums, genres (and of course to the godmothers and godfathers of this style) but this one still feels special. Unlike many other releases from that era, I think it has aged remarkably well (with the debuts from Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, and Maxïmo Park also standing the test of time). Alex Turner is a great lyricist, the drumming is sharp, and the whole thing carries an amazingly raw energy - youthful yet timeless.
This was a fun listen. Back in the day, a few friends of mine were obsessed with it, so for me this record works a bit like a memory machine. It doesn’t quite have the wit, the sharp political edge, the dazzling rhythms, or the mind-bending production of, say, Stereolab. But then again, who can match their brilliance? Still, Microshift is definitely worth revisiting: its neo-psychedelic, krauty vibe feels (positively) familiar/nostalgic and the well-placed bursts of noise (Hookworms wearing their Stereolab fandom pretty openly here) give the whole thing enough punch to keep you hooked (haha, no pun intended) right up to the last track. Some lengthier synth-y interludes create a sense of seamless sequencing and give your mind some room to drift (see first section of Opener, which is oddly enough, situated at the centre of the album), before the krautrock-style repetition pulls you back to earth. Checks a lot of boxes of what you’d expect from a nostalgically tinged music project.
A whole bunch of excellent punk songs here. It’s basically impossible not to love “I’m So Bored with the U.S.A.”, “White Riot” or “Career Opportunities” - these are absolute bangers, as is the rest of the album. Unless, of course, you prefer your music (and your private life) as boogie as hell… haha. And already, you can hear the Clash planting little seeds for their genre-hopping exeperimentations to come (see “Remote Control”, “London’s Burning” or the „Police & Thieves“ cover). You can tell that they always had a London Calling in them (even though, imho, their self titled one is a lot better in terms of consistency and sequencing). Musically, the Clash outsmarted most of their peers from day one - and this debut still kicks… like a steel-capped boot. Period. Mark Perry, punk publisher and writer, nailed it: “The Clash album is like a mirror. It reflects all the shit.” Hell yeah; what an apt description. And sadly, a lot of that very shit is still hanging around today, just as urgent as back then.
This is it. The finest band in hardcore punk - the most important the very least. And yeah, I get it - the website is technically an album generator. But everyone knows this spot really belongs to Minor Threat’s complete discography (which is still shorter and crisper than most bloated ’90s records, from a time when labels pushed artists to cram as much music - be it good or be it terrible - possible onto a CD). Minor Threat might not have the swagger of Bad Brains or a frontman with the raw charisma of Henry Rollins (of course, Ian MacKaye is an icon in his own right), but they wear their hearts on their sleeves and they’ve got these sharp f@*king hooks and riffs. I mean, if you don’t instantly wanna yell along to lyrics such as „we don’t care, we don’t pose, we’ll steal your money, we’ll steal your shows” (Cashing In) it’s your bad. This record still hits hard and hasn’t lost any of its magic in those nearly 45 years. If you listen to just one hardcore punk band, make it this one. And if you think this iteration of hardcore punk isn’t your cup: “Think again, think again … ignorance, it sets your standards“ (Think Again). Man, I wish I’d been in D.C. during the heyday of Dischord Records.
Confession time: I am a sucker for the ’90s Pacific Northwest music scene. In a way, it was raw, unhinged and at the same time as beautiful as the Oregon coastline. The number of great musicians and bands from that time and place is just mind-blowing. And yet, Elliott Smith managed to stand out from the highly gifted and wildly creative pack. So much has been said about Either/Or, and I don’t really have anything new to add. Only this: when I look at the cover now, I’m reminded that I loved this album so much back in the day that my adoration for Either/Or overshadowed his entire discography. Today, I’ve finally come to terms that Figure 8 at least matches (if not surpasses) the brilliance of Either/Or. Elliott Smith was a truly unique songwriter: Someone whose kind doesn’t roam the earth or grace our ears and hearts very often. Even though many of his recordings come from dark places, the songs on Either/Or bring an unlikely sense of comfort; the lush, restrained arrangements can really lull you in. I’m so glad we had Elliott Smith among us, and that he chose to lay his idiosyncratic songwriting and angelic melodies to tape. Too bad his life ended so abruptly and far too early. We miss you, Elliott - and there are hardly any better voices to turn to in the search for solace than yours.
A mostly strong collection of well-crafted songs on this one. You can tell that Michael Kiwanuka is a versatile (and by the time of his 2019 self-titled release, also a veteran) songwriter. Kiwanuka is as cohesive and mature an outing as it is “retro”-sounding. However, even with it’s analogue buzz and glow it doesn’t sounds like it’s coming from and living in the past. Topics such as anxieties, racism, and police brutality are, sadly, as pressing as they have ever been. And the record itself works like a prism, channeling a myriad of artists and styles. In doing just that, Kiwanuka manages to deliver a condensed version of his record collection and - this is no easy feat - makes it feel somehow timeless. So mind you, it’s far more than cheap pastiche. Take Living in Denial, which partly sounds like an uptempo soul classic, borrowing some of the vocal processing elements that also defined Portugal. The Man’s Evil Friends (which, just like Kiwanuka, was produced by the retro enabler and maximizer himself, Danger Mouse). I can’t help but think that this list spot might be better suited for Sault’s 2020 twin outings Untitled (Black Is) and Untitled (Rise), helmed by none other than Kiwanuka’s co–sound alchemist, Inflo. On Black Is and Rise, the political message is just a tad sharper, and the songwriting more adventurous and uptight. Kiwanuka, on the other hand, is a much more mellow affair — a real crowd-pleaser, if you will. It’s easy to see why people were spinning this heavily in the weird and upsetting early months of 2020. All this could speak for - and at the same time against - the quality and lasting impact of Kiwanuka. It certainly helps that there are some amazing tunes on it, such as the opener “You Ain’t the Problem,” “Hero,” and “Rolling.” Unfortunately, the interludes don’t do much for me aside from slowing the record down. Sometimes I’m left wondering whether this album, with a shorter runtime, might have maximized its effect even more.
The Eagles accomplish a rare feat on their debut. Despite being among the early figures in L.A. country-rock, they somehow managed to create its most generic iteration right out of the gate. Chapeau. You’ve got to give it to them. While not everything here is actually bad (if you’re under the impression that the “better” parts sound a lot like Jackson Browne, it’s because he (co-)wrote two songs and seemingly was a strong influence), all in all it’s just boilerplate, utterly boring songwriting and downright awful lyrics. A well-deserved 1.
Yesterday, I was having a rather obnoxious listen to the Eagles’ debut (absolutely hated the record). And I know, this generator is an algorithm - but honestly, it couldn’t have done it better if it had deliberately “chosen” to follow the Eagles up with the Grateful Dead. American Beauty is country rock done right, dear Eagles. It’s a blessing to have the grace of this genre restored in an instant. Still not really my thing (a genre that often feels like denim set to music), but at least American Beauty explains why people could possibly love this kind of music. Cannot really get into the opener but the following “Friend of the Devil” (what a tune) and “Sugar Magnolia” are both amazing songs.
Whoa, this was a wildly mixed-bag, rollercoaster listening experience. Some of Arrival’s production choices and songwriting turns are absolutely brilliant (the soaring chorus of “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” the build-and-release tension of “That’s Me”); others are downright annoying (the synth squiggles of “Dum Dum Diddle” - especially post-chorus - or that deeply questionable sax line in “Why Did It Have to Be Me?”, not to mention the flanger-soaked vocals on “Tiger”). And what’s up with the title track? That one feels completely out of place after the previous glam rock excursion in “Tiger”. Plus, a lot of the topics seem like they’ve fallen out of time, and sometimes the lyrics are just overly cringey (“When I Kissed the Teacher” and “Dum Dum Diddle” being the most obvious examples). Actually, if I think about it… most of the lyrics are simply terrible. Still, regardless of how you feel about ABBA, it’s impossible to deny that Benny and Björn sure as hell knew exactly how to write instantly memorable pop songs. To add to my opening statement: to some degree, listening to Arrival felt like hearing some tracks for the first time again: Foe example, paying close attention to the brick-wall-like wall of sound on “Dancing Queen”… I still have a hard time coming to terms with it. I never loved ABBA (quite the contrary), but giving it some time and deliberate attention, I can now see more clearly why Sid Vicious and Joe Strummer were kind of into this Swedish Eurodance powerhouse. Leaning heavily into the disco sensibilities of the early ’70s, ABBA took some risks - and a lot of them paid off (while just as many didn’t). Too bad the record is such a mess and tries to be all over the place.