1001 Albums Summary

I liked this one, jangly guitars, lots of melancholy, surprisingly bouncy bass lines (and very out front in the mix). Not going to add it to my normal mix, but I appreciate it.

This is not really my style, but I recognize the brilliance. Just adore that moog bass line on What's My Name? So good.

Largely on the basis of the four hits - which are so good. I need to watch the movie. But

Amazing as expected.

Not totally my cup of tea but I respect it. Was cool to hear the little swing tune and the tower of power horns on a song.

The hits were amazing, but I don't find a lot of the other stuff all that accessible.

Almost gave it five stars - kind of a revelation for me since I haven't spent any time with these guys.

I had never heard of this but I actually thought it was quite good. You could hear a lot of the classic influences from Michael Jackson, Prince, etc.

Actually like this better than Purple Rain - groovier.

I can appreciate this, but just not my cup of tea.

I know this probably should be a five but just not as much what I love about music compared to many others.

I actually enjoyed this a lot more than I expected but still not my thing.

I know this is a "classic" but I just don't like it very much.

I have a lot of nostalgia for the Eagles, often listening to it with my mom who loved country and it wasn't as bad as some of that for me, but the songs don't stand up as well as I remember. Yes, there are some catchy gems, but I had to focus not to tune out some of the back half.

Pretty interesting that so many of these are covers. Cool to see some of their influences.

Really like this one and such an inspiration for a lot of music I like that has come out since then.

Solid, still not my thing.

This is a great record. Actually like it top to bottom better than Thriller.

I mean I respect the genre-combining aspect of this, but the material is kind of rough and I can't get past his need for shock value.

Much more solid than I expected. Liek happier Cure, but funkier and with horns.

Not their best, and kind of all sound the same, but I also like a "usual".

That electric jug was not a decision of sober people.

Hard to argue with the rhyming fluency, but the subject matter can be rather cringe at times. I think he got stronger over time and the seeds for that are found here.

I've heard this compared to Sticky Fingers-era Stones. That's a tall bar and it just doesn't match up for me.

So sad that some people consider this elevator music. It’s fantastic.

Respect for the clear talent, but the package is really difficult to get through at times.

Now I wish I would have spent more time with this artist!

I can see why this one is a landmark — the opener “Peaches en Regalia” is tight, inventive, and joyful, and the whole record shows Zappa’s adventurous spirit. That said, the extended jams start to feel a bit much for me, and the busier bass parts gave me flashbacks to playing with bass players who never quite left enough space. I liked it overall — somewhere in the 3.5/5 range — but for ranking purposes I’ll call it a 3. I wouldn’t go out of my way to spin it again, but I also wouldn’t change the station if it came on.

A strong final statement from The Police — sharp playing, ambitious writing, and singles that still hit with nostalgia. “Every Breath You Take” and “King of Pain” hold up beautifully, and the band interplay is as tight as ever. Not quite a five-star record for me — “Mother” feels like a jarring outlier — but as a whole it’s focused, memorable, and a fitting swan song.

On paper, horn-driven rock with jazz chops should be right in my wheelhouse, and the big singles — “Spinning Wheel” and “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” — are still excellent. But the album as a whole doesn’t fully land for me. Slick, well-played, and historically important, but not one I’d call a five-star record. Somewhere between 3 and 4 feels right — respect for the hits and the influence, but the deep cuts leave me less impressed.

Can’t say I will ever seek this out again but I didn’t mind it.

A strong 4-star record. Marley steps fully into his role as leader here, with the I-Threes’ harmonies adding depth and warmth throughout. The grooves are steady and immersive, the political and spiritual themes are front and center, and cuts like “Lively Up Yourself” and “Them Belly Full” really shine. “No Woman, No Cry” is beautiful here, though I still prefer the definitive live version. Not a perfect five, but a great listen and a clear milestone in Marley’s catalog.

A landmark outlaw country record, built almost entirely on Billy Joe Shaver’s songs and Waylon’s grit. Tracks like “Honky Tonk Heroes” and “Old Five and Dimers (Like Me)” balance swagger with tenderness, giving the album both barroom bite and quiet reflection. It’s lean, raw, and full of lived-in truth — a sharp contrast to the polished Nashville sound of the era. Not quite a perfect five, but a solid 4-star album that set the blueprint for generations of alt-country and Americana artists to follow.

I like it more than I love it. The two big singles—“The One I Love” and “It’s the End of the World…”—still hit, but a lot of the rest blurs into similar mid-tempo jangle for me. The sound is sharp and focused (Stipe clearer, Buck taut, Mills/Berry locked), yet the back half can feel samey. Right now it sits in the solid-but-not-ecstatic tier for me.

Young Americans is Bowie at his boldest, diving headfirst into “plastic soul.” The production is stellar, the sax and background vocals elevate every track, and Bowie himself performs admirably in this new lane. Still, for all his charisma, he’s not a true soul singer, and the album can’t quite match the depth of the real legends he was emulating. A fascinating experiment and a strong listen, but not full marks.

I feel like I’m supposed to like this more than I do. There are some clever turns of phrase and a few moments where the Hammond sneaks through nicely, but overall it didn’t grab me. It’s fine, solid even, but not something I’d find myself seeking out again. More of a respect listen than a love listen.

This one really surprised me—in the best way. A lot of the songs sound like they could have been the theme to a 70s TV show, and I mean that as a compliment. The mix of strings, funky bass, and those lo-fi drum machine grooves gives it a warm, cinematic feel that’s both of its time and timeless. Shuggie’s quirky, soulful touch keeps it from sliding into cheese, and instead it just feels smooth and inviting. Not a five-star masterpiece, but a really enjoyable listen that earns a solid four from me.

Nico’s Chelsea Girl is one of those albums I respect more than I enjoy. Her voice is unique, and I can see why it holds a place in music history, but the sugary strings and delicate orchestration clash with her stark delivery for me. By the third track I already knew it wasn’t clicking, and the vibe doesn’t shift much across the record. Interesting as a document of its time, but not one I’d return to.

LCD Soundsystem’s Sound of Silver is clever, tightly constructed, and undeniably influential — I respect it more than I love it. The grooves are solid and Murphy’s lyrical wit is sharp, but it never fully pulls me in on a personal level. Glad I heard it, but I don’t see myself returning often. For me, this lands at a solid 3 stars, with a nod to its cultural weight.

Marvin Gaye’s Here, My Dear is a fascinating artifact — his voice is as gorgeous as ever, and the production has some inspired moments. But the songs themselves often feel less powerful than they should, with some veering into indulgence or even cheesiness. You can hear the pain he’s working through, but it doesn’t always translate into depth the way his best work does. For me, this lands at about 3 stars, though I’ll call it a 3.5 in spirit for the ambition and raw honesty, even if I’m not likely to return often.

Tim Buckley’s Goodbye and Hello is easy to respect but harder to love. His vocal range is undeniable, and the arrangements nod toward the adventurous spirit of the Sgt. Pepper era. But as impressive as the ambition is, the songs don’t fully land for me — it feels more like an artifact of its time than something I’d reach for often. Solid, but not essential in my book.

Cyndi Lauper’s She’s So Unusual is a blast from start to finish. The production is sharp, the personality shines through, and the big hits — “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” and “Time After Time” — more than earn their place as ’80s classics. What surprised me is how solid the rest of the record is, not just the singles. It’s not quite a five-star masterpiece, but it’s a confident, joyful four stars in my book.

This is a really good record. Adele’s voice is undeniable — soulful, commanding, and full of emotional weight. The production is strong throughout, and the hits feel absolutely earned rather than overblown. What really surprised me is how consistently solid the album is front to back; it’s not just the singles carrying the load here. That said, I’m trying to keep 5-stars reserved for those rare, transformative listens, so I’m landing on a very strong 4. It’s impressive how much staying power 21 has, even after all the overexposure these songs got when they first came out. For me, it’s not perfect, but it’s way too good to dismiss the way some people on this site seem to.

I know this one has its cult following and historical importance, but I just couldn’t get there with it. Kollaps feels more like an endurance test than a record I’d ever want to revisit. I respect the boundary-pushing and the influence it had on industrial and experimental music, but for me it was mostly grating noise without much payoff. I guess I’m supposed to admire it, but I just don’t enjoy listening to it. Sorry, this is a rare 1-star for me.

This record is easy to respect, but harder for me to love. I get the appeal: it’s ambitious, eclectic, and has plenty of variety across funk grooves, hard rock riffs, and psychedelic sprawl. But Perry Farrell’s voice wears on me after a while, and the whole thing tips into self-indulgence at times. There are flashes of brilliance, but as a full listen, it didn’t quite land. A solid 3 stars—worth hearing to understand its place in the era, but not one I’ll be reaching for often.

The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan is packed with fantastic songs — some of his most iconic, in fact — and you can feel why this record became such a touchstone. The writing is brilliant, pointed, and timeless. That said, the lack of variety keeps it from being a flawless listen start to finish. It leans heavily on acoustic guitar blues, and I found myself wishing for more instrumental color to break things up. Still, the strength of the songs shines through and cements its importance, even if I don’t consider it a perfect 5.

I enjoyed this one and can really hear the influence it had on later players — the Jimmy Page connection in particular stands out. The guitar work is impressive and I’m glad to have listened as part of understanding the broader folk scene of the time. That said, while I like it, I don’t love it. It’s not going to be in regular rotation for me, and I want to reserve higher ratings for albums that feel closer to my own musical core. Important in context, but for me this lands at 3 stars.

American Music Club’s California is a fascinating listen — you can hear the early seeds of alt-country before the sound was fully defined. Tracks like “Bad Liquor” point directly toward what bands like Uncle Tupelo and Son Volt would refine a few years later. The steel guitar on the opener sets a great tone, and the record carries a certain raw, pioneering spirit. That said, the vocals don’t fully land for me, and the record feels more like groundwork than the finished form. I respect it a lot and enjoyed the listen, but it stays at 3 stars for me — an important stepping stone more than a core favorite.

Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left is a graceful, haunting debut, with delicate guitar work and atmospheric string arrangements that clearly show why it’s so revered. I admire the craft and the mood he creates, but for me it stays more at arm’s length than I’d like. I feel like I should love it, but instead I respect it without being fully pulled in. A beautiful listen, just not one that sits at the core of my musical world.

This is Van Morrison at full power, and it’s hard not to get swept up in it. The Caledonia Soul Orchestra brings horns, swing, and fire, and Van leans all the way in — from delicate phrasing to full-throated shouts. It pushes a ton of my buttons: soulful, grooving, and played with real commitment. Sure, it’s a long double live album, but the energy rarely dips, and it’s easy to hear why this is considered one of the great live records. I don’t always appreciate Van the person, but this is Van the artist at his best, and it’s undeniable.

This one surprised me. Almost every track is an earworm, and that’s not just pop sheen — the songwriting holds up, as proven by Ryan Adams covering the entire album. It’s bright, polished, and maybe a little too sleek to feel like a 5 for me, but I can’t deny how strong it is start to finish. Definitely a 4, and part of me wonders if it deserves more.

Talking Timbuktu is a really solid record — fluid, earthy, and easy to get lost in. It’s full of subtle interplay and atmosphere, the kind of thing that works beautifully as background music for working or just letting your mind drift. That said, it doesn’t fully grab me the way some other records do, so while I’d call it a 3.5 in spirit, I’m landing on a 3 here for clarity. A cool collaboration and a great listen, but not something I’ll return to often.

This was a solid listen with some memorable moments, particularly the Springsteen-like urgency that creeps into a few tracks and the organ textures that add real depth. But overall, it leans a little too self-indulgent for my taste. While I can respect the ambition and understand why the album has its admirers, it doesn’t quite reach the level of connection that earns a replay spot for me. A good record, but ultimately more of an appreciation than a love.

A landmark album that blends soul, hip-hop, and R&B with real purpose and conviction. Lauryn Hill’s voice and writing are undeniable, and several tracks hit classic status. Still, the interlude “classroom” moments broke the spell for me a bit—they add concept but cost some momentum. A record I deeply respect and admire, even if it stops just short of that personal five-star connection.

This record feels like walking through a quiet landscape at dusk — beautifully arranged, deliberate, and heavy with mood. The instrumentation is rich and restrained, the kind of understated sophistication that draws you in without showing off. But while I really appreciate the atmosphere and the songwriting, Callahan’s voice never quite lands for me. It’s more spoken word than sung, which keeps me at a distance emotionally even as I admire the craft. I’m glad I spent time with it — there’s something undeniably artful here — but it’s more a record I respect than one I feel.

There’s a reason this record feels eternal. Everyone knows the title track — one of the most perfect soul songs ever recorded — but what makes the album great is how effortlessly the rest of it glides around that centerpiece. The grooves are deep but unhurried, the arrangements are immaculate, and Al Green’s phrasing turns every line into something lived-in and human. It’s an album built on restraint and taste — the kind of mastery that doesn’t need to announce itself. Even the deep cuts have that Hi-Records warmth, all pocket and emotion. This isn’t just background music or nostalgia; it’s a master class in feel. Sometimes greatness doesn’t shout — it just sings.

There’s no denying the sheer musicianship on Tarkus — the playing is phenomenal, the organ tones are wild, and the opening suite is ambitious in every sense. But somewhere between the dazzling runs and conceptual excess, the soul gets lost. It often feels more like “because we can” than “because we must.” I respect the scale and execution, but it’s not something I’ll reach for often.

A beautifully fragile record. Either/Or unfolds like a late-night confessional — hushed, melodic, and disarmingly honest. Even though this isn’t my usual lane, I found myself really drawn in by the songwriting and atmosphere. The little instrumental touches — especially the subtle organ moments — add warmth beneath the melancholy. It’s understated in all the right ways, and easy to see why it’s so revered. Listening takeaway: Sometimes restraint says more than grandeur.

I understand why Goo is important — it’s noisy, experimental, and helped shape an era — but it’s really not for me. There are a few moments of energy that break through (“Kool Thing” and “Dirty Boots”), but too much of it feels self-indulgent, like noise for its own sake. The two-minute feedback stretch at the end of “Mote” was my breaking point. I respect what they were going for, but I won’t be revisiting this one.

There’s no question Bitches Brew is a landmark. The musicianship is staggering — Miles leading this controlled chaos of groove, texture, and experimentation — but it’s not an easy listen. Some sections are brilliant, others feel like a fever dream in sound form. It’s definitely not the Miles record to throw on in the background or to unwind with, but when it clicks, it’s electric. I respect the sheer audacity and the talent on display too much to go lower than a four, even if I can’t see myself reaching for it often.

Joni sounds completely at ease here — her melodies flow so naturally it’s hard to tell where she stops and the music begins. Jaco’s fretless bass tone is the perfect counterpart: fluid, conversational, and endlessly expressive. There’s a real beauty in how unforced the whole thing feels. That said, it’s easy to see why some listeners find this cold or self-indulgent — it’s more about subtle mood than emotional catharsis. Still, it’s hard not to admire how effortlessly Joni makes complexity sound simpl

There’s no denying the influence or the conviction behind Horses. Patti Smith sounds fearless, defiant, and fully in control of her art. But for all its power and poetry, it’s not something I connect with deeply. Some tracks land beautifully, others feel more like endurance tests. I respect it more than I love it — a touchstone album, but not one I’ll return to often.

What a blast. The energy, the humor, the imagination — it all feels alive. The beats are fresh even decades later, and the interludes actually enhance the concept rather than bog it down. 3 Feet High and Rising pulls off something rare: it’s both playful and technically sharp. I’m not always drawn to hip-hop concept records, but this one works start to finish.

I respect what Kate Bush is doing here — the production is lush and thoughtful — but it mostly washes over me. It’s artful and layered, yet feels detached, more like atmosphere than something I emotionally connect with. I know I’m supposed to be swept away, but it just never quite grabs me.

As someone who plays the Hammond, this record hits me right in the soul. The tone, the phrasing, the interplay — it’s everything I love about the instrument. Jimmy Smith and company settle into a pocket so deep it’s impossible not to feel it, whether you’re a jazz fan or not. Back at the Chicken Shack just has a vibe — late night, low lights, a beverage of your choice. It’s warm, unpretentious, and alive.

I want to like this more than I do. There are moments where the bass grooves hard and the call-and-response female vocals almost edge toward a B-52s vibe, but the mix feels heavy and claustrophobic. I respect the attitude and the off-kilter energy, but it never quite grabs me. Interesting, occasionally fun, but more curiosity than connection.

A perfectly pleasant listen — polished, mellow, and surprisingly restrained. I respect what Urban Hymns is going for, but “Bitter Sweet Symphony” towers over everything else here. The rest fades into a kind of agreeable background hum — nice, but not especially memorable.

I actually liked this a lot more than I expected. I’d somehow forgotten that “Cars” was Gary Numan, and it’s just as cool in the context of the full record. The synth tones are fantastic—icy, futuristic, and surprisingly varied across the album. He’s not winning any vocal awards, but that’s not really the point here. This feels like the blueprint for a whole era of electronic music, and it still holds up.

A glam-punk romp with big attitude and even bigger hair. The energy’s undeniable and the sax cameo is a delight, but the songs blur together and it never quite transcends its genre trappings. Fun, not great.

There’s something both heavy and effortless about this set — Muddy in total command, backed by a band that swings like a hammer and smiles while doing it. You can hear the roots of so much that came after in every riff and groove. A landmark performance that feels as alive today as it must have in 1960.

I respect this album more than I enjoy it. The band clearly knows dynamics and has serious chops, but a lot of it feels loud for loud’s sake. Drive stands out as the one I’d return to, but most of it just isn’t my style—too distorted and busy to pull me in, especially when I’m working.

I honestly don’t know what to make of this one. It’s fun, theatrical, and ridiculous in equal measure — part Elton John, part George Michael, and maybe a little too over the top for my taste. The Comfortably Numb cover was… an experience. I respect the creativity, but I’m not sure I’ll revisit it often.

Pure early-2000s swagger. Great beats, smart hooks, and a sense of momentum that never lets up. It’s not deep, but it doesn’t need to be — it’s just a blast to listen to. A guilty pleasure that’s easy to justify.

From the first flute riff of ‘Sure Shot,’ this one had me. If I were walking up to the plate in a major-league ballpark, that’d be my entrance music. Ill Communication captures everything I love about music — groove, energy, experimentation, and joy. And I have to smile hearing ‘Root Down,’ knowing its DNA traces back to Jimmy Smith — the organ master behind Back at the Chicken Shack. Then there’s Sabotage — the track and video that proved the Beasties could turn sheer chaos into art. It’s still one of the most iconic music videos ever made. I just love these guys — their blend of musicianship, attitude, and humor is unmatched.

This is rebellion at its quietest and most honest. Red Headed Stranger tells a story of love, loss, guilt, and redemption — a preacher driven to violence, then condemned to wander until he finds grace again. Willie never raises his voice; the arrangements are spare, the pacing unhurried, and the silence says as much as the notes. Even when the Stranger kills a woman for touching his horse — his last link to a lost life — it feels less like cruelty than the echo of grief. What amazes me is how much weight this record carries with so little ornamentation. It’s a Western fable, a spiritual reckoning, and an act of artistic defiance all at once. Few albums trust the listener’s patience and intelligence like this one does. True rebellion doesn’t always make noise.

There’s something haunting about Oar, but mostly in the sense of watching someone unravel on tape. The songs often feel like demos — fragile, uneven, and oddly mixed — more sketches of thought than finished work. There are flickers of humanity and melody (“Margaret-Tiger Rug” hints at what could’ve been), but the overall experience drifts from introspective to exhausting. I respect the mythology around this record far more than I enjoyed listening to it.

The opening kick drum alone is iconic, and “The Passenger” is one of those songs that never really wears out its welcome. The rest of the record, though, lives in a looser, rougher space — swaggering, messy, sometimes brilliant, sometimes just coasting on attitude. I like it, but I can’t quite bring myself to love it. It’s an album I respect more than I reach for.

Coming right after Lust for Life, this one dives deeper into the Berlin darkness — more mechanical, more restrained, more Bowie’s experiment than Iggy’s explosion. I can respect its influence, but in practice, it just doesn’t land for me. When the next songs in the queue—actual Bowie or Velvet Underground—feel like the “real” version of what this record was aiming for, that says a lot. Interesting in context, but not something I’ll come back to.

A lot better than I expected — blues roots, bursts of psychedelia, and a streak of delightful weirdness. “I’m Glad” could sit next to a soul ballad, and “Electricity” feels like it’s from another dimension. It’s uneven but undeniably original. I respect it more than I love it, and that’s enough for a solid 3-star rating.

A confident debut that blends jazz sophistication with Amy’s smoky, magnetic phrasing. The musicianship and production are polished, and her voice is as arresting as ever — playful, cutting, and effortlessly soulful. Still, it feels more like a talented artist finding her footing than one fully in stride. I admire it more than I love it, but the brilliance is undeniable.

There’s no denying the brilliance here — Stan and The Real Slim Shady alone are enough to prove Eminem’s storytelling and rhythmic precision were on another level. You can practically hear the hours spent with the dictionary, mastering multisyllabic rhymes and internal patterns. But it’s also an album that can be hard to love; the same unfiltered honesty that fuels its genius is often wrapped in deep offensiveness and chaos. Sometimes I hate him, sometimes I’m amazed by him — and maybe that’s the point.

There are live albums, and then there’s At San Quentin. It’s not just a concert — it’s a moment in time, the sound of a man who had been through darkness connecting with others who were still living in it. Cash’s empathy and defiance radiate through every note. You can feel the tension in the air and the way he channels it into something human and redemptive. I love that he plays San Quentin twice — it’s raw, unpolished, and perfectly in character for a man who didn’t care much for polish anyway. And A Boy Named Sue? Legendary. It’s one of my go-tos whenever I’ve got a guitar in my hands. The humor, the rhythm, and the way Cash tells that story — it’s everything that makes him great in one song. What really sets this record apart, though, is how it walks the line between rebellion and compassion. You can tell Cash isn’t performing for the inmates — he’s performing with them. There’s a shared understanding that music, for a few moments, can make everyone in that room feel free. It’s one of those rare albums that feels both historic and personal — and it’s easy to see why it still resonates.

With a lineup like this — Damon Albarn, Paul Simonon, Simon Tong, and Tony Allen — you’d expect fireworks. Instead, you get fog. Not in a bad way, necessarily; more in that soft, gray, London-in-winter kind of way. It’s reflective and moody, a record that feels content to hover in the background rather than demand attention. The musicianship is excellent — how could it not be with this crew? — but the songs seem more about tone than movement. Nothing truly bad here, but nothing that grabs me either. It’s all texture and atmosphere, without much emotional lift. A fine record to have on, but not one that keeps you coming back.

Some fans draw a line between the gritty, Sun Records Elvis and the polished, soulful Elvis of this era — but I don’t think it has to be an either/or. Both versions show what made him special. From Elvis in Memphis captures an artist who’d lived more, lost more, and found a deeper kind of power in his voice. The production is lush and full of swagger — those horns, the backing vocals, the groove — but it never feels hollow. Songs like “Suspicious Minds” and “In the Ghetto” are undeniable, the kind of tracks where you can hear his conviction cutting through every measure. There’s joy here, and maturity too. This is Elvis rediscovering his magic, not by going back to the beginning, but by proving he could still evolve — and sound just as vital doing it.

I went through a grunge phase in high school and early college, but this one stands apart — it’s not about distortion or rebellion so much as the raw power of the songs themselves. I’ve always loved when artists reinterpret their own work and let the song shine stripped to its core. That’s exactly what happens here. “All Apologies,” “Come As You Are,” and the covers — especially “The Man Who Sold the World” and “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” — all reveal how meaningful and well-crafted these tunes really were beneath the noise. It’s haunting, intimate, and full of quiet confidence. What’s amazing is how complete it feels in its simplicity — like you’re hearing the essence of Nirvana, unguarded and human. It reminds me that a truly great song can take on new life in almost any form.

This is a fascinating record — ambitious, layered, and clearly a turning point for The Temptations. You can hear them stretching beyond their classic Motown sound into something moodier and more cinematic. “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone” is stunning, no doubt, and the production throughout is polished and confident. Still, I found myself wanting to love it a little more than I did. Maybe I’m just biased — “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” came on right after this, and that raw, joyful energy reminded me what I’m looking for. I even played “My Girl” last night, so maybe that warmth is still too top of mind. All Directions feels cooler, more calculated — impressive, but not as emotionally direct. Even so, it’s a fascinating chapter in the Temptations’ evolution, showing how far they were willing to go to stay vital and creative.

This is a pretty cool record — one that reminds me just how weird and wonderful the ’80s could be. It’s full of strange textures, sharp production, and that icy, hypnotic groove that only the Eurythmics could pull off. Annie Lennox is just magnetic throughout, somehow both detached and soulful at the same time. I didn’t see that version of “Wrap It Up” coming, and honestly, it made me smile — a reminder that these songs weren’t afraid to take unexpected turns. The whole thing has this offbeat confidence that makes it stand out from the slicker pop of the era.

I really like this one — it’s just so tastefully done. The horn arrangements, the strings, the groove — everything feels perfectly balanced, never overplayed. Dusty’s voice is smoky and expressive without ever showing off, and “Son of a Preacher Man” remains one of the most effortlessly cool vocal performances ever put to tape. What I love most is the subtlety of it all. The production feels alive but never crowded, and every player seems to know exactly where to leave space. It’s music that breathes. I keep going back and forth between a four and a five — it’s hard to find fault with something this polished and soulful. Maybe it’s not the kind of record that grabs you by the collar, but it’s one that stays with you quietly. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️½

Feels like The Byrds went electric again but with a bit more fuzz, chaos, and swagger. There’s a psychedelic edge, but underneath it are great pop instincts — big harmonies, punchy guitar interplay, and a rhythm section that drives everything forward. A few of the songs are barely over a minute, which makes some of it feel unfinished, but maybe that’s part of what makes it exciting. The album never quite found the audience it deserved, and that’s a shame — there’s something raw and full of possibility here. Worth hearing just to get a glimpse of the alternate late-60s rock history where these guys made it big. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

You can hear the blueprint for a lot of future sounds in here — post-punk, alt, even riot grrrl — but the record itself is more fascinating than it is enjoyable. The rhythm section has real drive and imagination, but the vocals and overall execution feel raw in a way that sometimes undercuts the songs instead of elevating them. It’s one of those albums that’s easier to admire than to love, more important than essential for repeat listening. ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Fleetwood Mac – Tusk (1979) It’s hard not to judge Tusk through the lens of Rumours. That record is so tight, so perfectly sculpted, that anything following it was bound to feel a little unmoored. Tusk isn’t trying to recreate that magic—it’s what happens when a band at the top of the world decides to dismantle the machine just to see what makes it tick. There’s brilliance in the chaos. The title track is wild and unhinged in the best way—marching drums, manic vocals, the feeling that the whole thing could fall apart at any second but somehow doesn’t. It’s a reminder that Lindsey Buckingham was chasing something raw and alive, even if it wasn’t always pretty. Sara, on the other hand, is Stevie Nicks at her most hypnotic—hazy, poetic, and wistful. You don’t understand the song so much as drift through it. It’s the emotional heartbeat of the album. The rest of Tusk meanders between the inspired and the indulgent. There are great moments scattered throughout, but the record doesn’t hit the same emotional through-line as Rumours. It’s a fascinating, ambitious work, just not a cohesive one. Still, you can’t help but admire the audacity—it’s Fleetwood Mac refusing to become a museum piece, choosing restlessness over repetition. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I wanted to like this more than I did. There are flashes of something real — clever lyrics, interesting keyboard ideas, and that unmistakable sense of 1967 energy — but the whole thing never quite gels. The mix is rough, the tambourine and organ dominate everything, and the songs often sound more like good demos than finished work. I can see how this would’ve felt revolutionary at the time, but compared to other San Francisco records of the era — especially Jefferson Airplane — the contrast is stark. It’s a fascinating listen historically, just not one I’ll come back to. ⭐️⭐️

This one surprised me in the best way. I don’t mind pop when it’s done well, and Melodrama is pop that’s built with intention instead of cheap thrills. The production is stellar — Jack Antonoff gives everything this strange neon glow — and Lorde’s voice, while never a showstopper in the traditional sense, fits the emotional landscape perfectly. She cracks, she murmurs, she pulls back when most singers would push forward. It all feels deliberate. What really stands out is how thoughtful the writing is, especially for someone as young as she was. These songs aren’t disposable; they’re self-aware without being pretentious, emotional without turning into melodramatic sludge. “Supercut” is ridiculously catchy, the kind of track that feels like heartbreak in motion, and “Liability” hits harder than it has any right to, especially with those layered vocals unraveling at the end. I don’t think it hits that rare air of a five-star record for me, but it’s a very solid listen from front to back — cohesive, smart, and full of moments that linger. This is pop with a pulse. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

This one was a bit of a mixed bag for me. I respect Jazmine Sullivan’s talent — she can clearly sing, and there are moments on this album where the production and vocal performances really click. But the album’s structure and framing ultimately pulled me out more than it drew me in. The spoken-word interludes are the biggest hurdle. They’re meant to tie the themes together, but for my ears they broke the musical flow and leaned too hard into shock value. Tracks like “Donna’s Tale” — complete with churchy organ underscoring a monologue about sleeping with husbands — were more distracting than illuminating. And songs like “Price Tags” just didn’t land for me stylistically. There’s good work here, and I can appreciate what Sullivan was aiming for, but the combination of the interludes and the subject matter pushed this one outside what I genuinely enjoy. It didn’t quite work as a complete listening experience. Rating: 2/5

This one lands right in that sweet spot where weird, clever, and stylish all overlap. Lou Reed has never been what you’d call a “good” singer in any traditional sense, but somehow his talk-sing, half-shrug delivery works better here than it has any right to. It’s like he bends the entire album around his voice instead of trying to bend himself to the songs, and the whole thing ends up feeling intentional, even cool. The big tracks are undeniable. “Walk on the Wild Side” is one of those songs that feels like it’s always existed, and “Perfect Day” hits that strange emotional tension only Reed can summon: tender, ironic, and unsettling all at once. But what really surprised me were the deep cuts. The tuba drop on “Make Up” is the kind of off-kilter choice Tom Waits might pull — grimy, theatrical, oddly perfect — and “Goodnight Ladies” is a fantastic closer, all horns and late-night swagger, like the band is sweeping the floor around you as the lights come up. It’s not a flawless album, but it’s a fascinating one, full of personality and sharp writing. Reed commits to every eccentric choice, and Bowie and Ronson’s glam production somehow ties it all together without sanding down the edges. Not quite a five for me, but a rock-solid classic that I’m glad to have fully absorbed. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Lana Del Rey – Chemtrails Over the Country Club Rating: ★★★★☆ Lana Del Rey has always lived in that liminal space between dream and memory, and Chemtrails Over the Country Club might be her most weightless drift through that world. This isn’t an album that grabs you by the collar. It’s more like someone opening a window on a warm evening and letting the curtains breathe—soft, slow, unhurried. And somehow, the melodies stick anyway. What struck me most is how beautiful this record is without trying to be monumental. These songs don’t go for the jugular; they don’t even pretend to. Instead they shimmer at the edges, setting a mood that sneaks under your skin only after you’ve stopped paying attention. Her vocals sit like fog over a quiet landscape, and the whole thing floats in this hazy, late-afternoon light. It’s perfect for focused work or a calm walk when you need your brain to downshift. Is it a deep, soul-stirring, life-reorienting album? No. And that’s fine. Not every record needs to be a revelation to earn its keep. This one excels at atmosphere: calming, cohesive, borderline hypnotic. It’s an album I’ll keep close for the times when I need something steady and beautiful in the background—when I want the world to feel just a little softer. A four feels exactly right: lovely, absorbing, memorable in its own quiet way… but not quite a five, which is reserved for the rare records that shake something loose inside you. This one doesn’t shake. It glides. And it glides beautifully.

Keith Jarrett – The Köln Concert Rating: 5/5 It’s hard to overstate what Keith Jarrett pulls off on The Köln Concert. Improvised solo piano albums aren’t exactly rare, but nothing else in the genre feels this alive, this inevitable, this impossibly whole. Jarrett walked onstage exhausted, annoyed, and saddled with a subpar piano… then delivered an hour of music so coherent and emotionally rich that it feels like it must have existed long before he touched the keys. The opening section alone is a bit of a miracle. It’s mesmerizing, full of looping vamps that bloom into long, lyrical arcs. Jarrett stretches ideas until they glow, then lets them melt into something completely new without ever losing the thread. What should sound like an improvised maze instead comes across as a fully realized composition unfolding in real time. As the concert moves through its later movements, the emotional colors shift—sometimes meditative, sometimes earthy and rhythmic, sometimes weightlessly melodic. The whole performance somehow balances vulnerability and command. It’s spiritual without being precious, virtuosic without showing off. Just a guy at a piano, channeling something bigger than technical skill. I put this in the rare category of music that feels like it rewires your brain a little. It’s both maddeningly inspiring and completely humbling. And it earns its reputation: this is one of the greatest solo piano records ever made, full stop. A stone-cold five.

This one is a classic case of sky-high peaks surrounded by a whole lot of pretty forgettable scenery. When We Are Family kicks in, it’s obvious why the song became immortal. That bass line really is one of the greats: bouncy, confident, and just showy enough without slipping into the “look at me” trap that plagues plenty of disco-era players. It’s the sort of line that feels like it’s levitating the whole arrangement. He’s the Greatest Dancer keeps the magic going—a slick, stylish groove with enough personality to stand on its own. Between those two tracks, you get a great reminder of what the Chic/Nile Rodgers machine could do when it was firing. The rest of the album, though… it’s hard not to hear it as padded. The charm dips, the songwriting blurs together, and it ends up feeling like the singles are doing all the heavy lifting. There’s nothing offensively bad here, just a lot of material you forget as soon as it ends. In the end, it’s an album carried by two absolute killers surrounded by filler that keeps it squarely in “good, not great” territory. A solid 3—worth knowing, worth revisiting for the hits, but not something I can bump up in good conscience.

Nanci Griffith delivers a warm, gentle slice of mid-80s folk-country that’s easy on the ears and light on surprises. Her voice is graceful, the pedal steel glistens in all the right places, and the whole record has that soft-focus sincerity that made her beloved in songwriter circles. The problem, at least for me, is that it never really rises above “nice.” The melodies float by, the stories sit politely in the corner, and before long the album blends into a kind of pleasant haze. Solid craftsmanship, zero fireworks. A respectable listen, but not one that’s likely to stick to the ribs.

A strange inclusion in the 1001 list, and one I just couldn’t warm up to. Punishing Kiss is clearly crafted by talented people, and Ute Lemper’s theatrical delivery isn’t without charm, but the whole thing feels like it’s aimed at an audience I’m simply not part of. The art-cabaret vibe has moments of intrigue, yet they’re buried under melodrama that never quite earns its weight. Some tracks drift into outright weird territory (“If sex were an Olympic sport, we’d have won the gold…” over marching drums and strings?), and the emotional tone swings between overwrought and unintentionally humorous. It’s not poorly made. It’s not unmusical. It’s just… not likable, at least not to my ears. A respectable swing at something distinctive, but not something I’d ever revisit. Solid musicianship, no connection. 2/5.

This one sits squarely in the “solid background groove” category for me. Connected opens with its strongest hand: the title track, which is instantly recognizable and still ridiculously fun. That first hit sets expectations for a certain kind of ’90s UK trip-hop/breakbeat experience, and the rest of the album mostly delivers that… just without ever climbing to the same height again. There’s a clear musical lineage here that overlaps with what Gorillaz pulled off a decade later. You get the same blend of hip-hop, dance beats, dub-ish bass lines, and laid-back spoken vocals. The difference is that Gorillaz sharpened it into something more hooky and atmospheric, while Stereo MC’s stay closer to their acid-jazz/club roots. It’s eclectic, it’s loose, and it’s almost always groove-first. As background music? Totally enjoyable. It keeps a vibe going without asking much of you. As an album I’d deliberately sit with? Probably not. Nothing is outright bad, but very little reaches beyond “cool track, nice beat.” A good listen, not an essential one. Solid 3.

This is one of those albums where the historical weight is impossible to miss. Fats Domino isn’t just playing songs here—he’s inventing a whole vocabulary. The left-hand feel on “Blueberry Hill” alone became the blueprint for decades of New Orleans piano players, and the easy swing of his band shows how ahead of the curve he really was. And yet, despite all the brilliance and lineage on display, the album didn’t hit me as hard as I expected. I love so many artists who built directly on Fats’s foundation, so I assumed I’d fall head over heels for the source material. Instead, I found myself respecting it more than loving it. The ideas are groundbreaking, the playing is rock-solid, and you can hear the future taking shape—but the emotional connection didn’t fully land for me. It’s still essential listening, both as a snapshot of a key moment in American music and as a masterclass in feel and groove. But for me, the legacy shines brighter than the experience of the record itself.

Madonna’s Ray of Light has a reputation as The Great Reinvention, a forward-looking electronic pivot that supposedly reset her artistic compass in the late 90s. Listening now, it’s easier to hear the ambition than the impact. The production is sleek, global-club-ready, and unmistakably tied to its era; you can practically feel the glow sticks and hear the lingering echoes of big-room trance. It’s polished, confident, and perfectly engineered for the kind of nightlife where you shout-sing your feelings at 1 a.m. on a sticky dance floor. But stacked against her earlier work, the emotional core is thinner. It doesn’t have the melodic punch of her prime, nor the raw pop instincts that made her a generational force. The record aims for transcendence but often lands closer to “pleasant vibe,” which is fine—just not the kind of thing that defines a career. Still, there are flashes of something deeper: moments where the electronics, the vocals, and the shift in attitude click. It’s a thoughtful and well-executed reinvention, even if it doesn’t reach the highs of the records that made Madonna Madonna. A solid listen, and a respectable artistic turn—but not peak-era material.

I wouldn’t call myself an alt-rock zealot. I don’t carry the torch for every jangly guitar and murky lyric from the early 90s. But Automatic for the People has hit the mark for me for close to thirty years now, and at this point it’s pretty clear that isn’t nostalgia talking. It’s just a genuinely great record. What floors me is how confidently it leans into quiet, reflective spaces without ever turning dull. “Try Not to Breathe,” “Sweetness Follows,” “Nightswimming,” “Everybody Hurts”—these songs go straight for something human and vulnerable without slipping into melodrama. There’s a sincerity at the core of this album that most bands would break trying to reach. Even the bigger moments, like “Man on the Moon,” feel earned rather than showy. The whole album radiates that strange little R.E.M. magic trick: they sound completely relaxed and somehow world-weary, but they never lose their footing. It’s gentle, melodic, and deeply emotional without ever begging for attention. For me, this is one of those rare records that becomes part of the internal landscape. Sunday night reflection, long drives, quiet mornings—you drop it in, and suddenly you’ve got a companion that doesn’t demand anything but gives you a lot in return. That’s the territory of a five.

Odessey and Oracle – Review There’s no denying the charm baked into Odessey and Oracle. The Zombies were clearly reaching for the same kaleidoscopic universe their peers were exploring in the late sixties, and you can hear the ambition in the harmonies, the baroque touches, and the whole pastel-psychedelic glow of the record. But for all its color, it never hits that upper stratosphere of songwriting or invention that the era’s greats managed to bottle. Most of the album drifts by as pleasant, slightly blurry sunshine pop. It’s enjoyable, sometimes even lovely, but rarely gripping. The melodies are nice; the ideas are there; the execution just doesn’t quite push hard enough to make the songs stick in the long run. Then comes “Time of the Season,” which frankly operates on a different level. That hypnotic bass line, the air and space in the production, the call-and-response—it’s a moment of pure lightning. The problem is that the rest of the album never gets within shouting distance of that magic. In the end, I respect the record more than I love it. It’s a fascinating artifact from the psychedelic era, and it has its charms, but outside of its one undeniable classic, it doesn’t leave a deep imprint. A solid, perfectly fine listen… just not a life-changer. Rating: 3

This one lands squarely in the “glad it exists, don’t need to evangelize it” zone for me. Billion Dollar Babies is undeniably well-made, and it’s impossible not to respect the ambition behind Alice Cooper’s glam-horror pageantry. You can hear the money, the polish, and the full commitment to the bit. But even with all that, I didn’t find myself falling in love with the record. “Elected” is a highlight—a sharp, swaggering satire that still works—and “No More Mr. Nice Guy” earns its long-term spot in the classic-rock rotation. The band is tight, the production is crisp, and the theatricality, for better or worse, is fully dialed in. The rest of the album, though, sits in a space where I appreciate the craft more than the content. It’s not weak enough to drop it to a two, but it never gives me the emotional or musical punch that would push it to a four. It’s a solid, competent, culturally important rock record that I’m glad to have heard… and I’m equally glad I don’t have to pretend it changed my life.

There are albums that demand your attention, and then there are albums that politely ask if you wouldn’t mind sitting down for a moment while they smooth the wrinkles out of your soul. Trio is firmly in the second camp. It’s gorgeous, gentle, and completely uninterested in proving anything to anyone. The harmonies are as immaculate as advertised, and the whole thing drifts by like sunlight through a kitchen window. Nothing here challenges you, and frankly, that’s the point. This isn’t a record you wrestle with. It’s a record you allow—the musical equivalent of a deep breath after hosting too many relatives for too many hours. And in that setting, it shines. Listening to it while the world around you settles—a fire pit outside, a new puppy asleep on your chest, the post-Thanksgiving haze still hanging in the air—feels about as on-brand as this album can get. It’s serenity in harmony form, a soft landing pad when you didn’t know you needed one. Beautiful? Absolutely. Essential? Probably not. But sometimes “pleasant and nice” is exactly the right medicine.

Dance Mania turned out to be a blast. I had it spinning in the background on Thanksgiving, and it immediately pulled me back to that feeling I had the first time I heard the Buena Vista Social Club record—music so alive and locked-in that it stops you in your tracks. Tito Puente’s version of that world is different, though. Where Buena Vista hits with depth and soul, Puente is all forward motion: high-energy, hyper-tight, and built to get bodies moving. The playing is outrageous. The horns snap, the percussion sprints, and the whole band feels like it’s operating on some higher rhythmic plane. But the emotional weight isn’t really the point here. This record is about joy, movement, and pure rhythmic adrenaline. It’s infectious, it’s impeccably executed, and it’s a lot of fun—just not something that lingers with the same emotional resonance as those Cuban masters. Still, in the right moment, it absolutely shines. As holiday-week background music, it was perfect.

Going into The Wall, I assumed reputation alone would carry this straight into four- or five-star territory. It’s one of those albums that gets treated like holy scripture, the kind of thing people insist you must experience front to back. And sure — the high points absolutely earn their place in the canon. “Comfortably Numb,” “Hey You,” “Run Like Hell,” and, yeah, “Another Brick in the Wall Part 2” are as good as advertised. When this band locks in, the combination of atmosphere, melody, and sheer emotional weight is undeniable. But living inside the full double album is a different story. The talky interludes, theatrical detours, and narrative filler start to feel less like essential storytelling and more like Roger Waters workshopping his rock opera ambitions in real time. I respect the scope and the craft, but it doesn’t always translate into something I want to sit with. I kept waiting for it to grow on me beyond the big tracks — it never really did. There’s a lot to admire here, but admiration isn’t the same as love. The hits remain untouchable; the rest reminds me why actually listening matters more than buying into reputation. A solid, sometimes brilliant record that ultimately just isn’t my classic.

I walked into this expecting a train wreck, or at least something I’d have to grit my teeth through. Instead, it turns out Live Through This is way more solid than its reputation for chaos suggests. Courtney Love is never going to melt faces with pristine vocals, but that’s not what this album is selling. Her ragged delivery, pushed to the edge of cracking, somehow fits the band’s tight, punchy quiet-to-loud songwriting better than a “better” singer ever could. There are real hooks buried under all the distortion, and the band holds the whole thing together with a sense of purpose that surprised me. This isn’t going on my daily rotation or anything, but it’s unquestionably better crafted—and more cohesive—than I expected. A well-earned three: flawed, fiery, and far more compelling than I thought it would be.

This one snuck up on me in the best way. War builds a whole atmosphere here, drifting between funk, soul, Latin grooves, and long-form jams without breaking a sweat. Not every moment hits with the same intensity—there are definite valleys—but the peaks more than justify the journey. “City, Country, City” is the highlight for me. The extended instrumental stretch feels alive, with the Hammond solo sliding in like it’s been waiting the whole album for its moment. The band plays with such looseness and confidence that the whole track ends up being one of those rare jams that earns its runtime. The better-known songs (“The Cisco Kid,” the title track) still shine, but it’s the overall vibe that really carries this record. It’s warm, rhythmic, human music—easy to sink into and surprisingly durable. Not quite a soul-shaker in the five-star league, but absolutely a strong and rewarding listen. A solid four that earns its place.

This one hits that sweet spot where the musicianship is almost annoyingly good. Ernie Isley’s guitar work is the highlight — effortless right-hand firepower, liquid phrasing, and tone that feels like a force of nature. “That Lady” alone earns the record a reserved parking spot in the funk-soul hall of fame. The band as a whole sounds dialed-in, polished, and confident enough to bend genres without breaking a sweat. But here’s the catch: there are a lot of covers. Really good covers — inventive, soulful, classy — but still covers. That keeps the album from becoming one of those capital-C Classics that feels completely singular. Instead, it lands in a different but still valuable category: a consistently enjoyable, beautifully executed showcase of a band at peak expressive power. I’d absolutely spin this again for the grooves, the musicianship, and that unreal guitar work. It doesn’t rewrite the universe, but it does make it sound a whole lot better for 40 minutes.

I get why Cross became a big deal. It’s bold, stylish, and packed with the kind of distorted electro-funk that must have blown the doors off clubs in the late 2000s. There’s a fun, crunchy swagger to the production, and some of the grooves flirt with being genuinely funky. But as much as I respect the creativity and the energy, this isn’t fully my lane. The blown-out synths and maximalist textures wear on me after a while, and I don’t feel the same pull to come back to it that I get with records I truly love. It’s fun in the moment, sure, but it’s not something I see myself returning to often. Bottom line: notable, occasionally thrilling, ultimately not essential for me. A solid three

This one landed in an odd spot for me. It’s clearly thoughtful, clearly influential, and definitely easier on the ears than the abrasive distortion-fest of Cross. There’s a sense of patience and architecture here, like Orbital were actually trying to build something instead of just bludgeoning you with synths. But the problem is time. In 1993, this probably sounded futuristic. In 2025, it mostly sounds like the DNA of every electronic track that came after it. A lot of these textures feel like “default patches” now—not because Orbital were boring, but because everyone has borrowed their vocabulary so heavily. I respect the craft, but it doesn’t feel novel anymore, and it’s hard to un-hear that. Still, it’s a more enjoyable listen than I expected. The atmospheres are pleasant, the grooves are steady, and when the melodies peek out (especially on the famous Halcyon + On + On), you can absolutely hear why this left a mark. I just don’t love it as a full album in the present day. It’s a solid, respectable listen—good background immersion, historically important—but not something I’m going to reach for regularly. A comfortable three.

This album sits at a strange crossroads: universally recognizable yet frequently misunderstood. Born in the U.S.A. may have been packaged in 80s bombast and churned out radio hits like a machine, but underneath the sheen is one of Springsteen’s most pointed and humane bodies of work. It’s a protest album wearing a headband, a critique smuggled inside stadium anthems, and the contradictions only make it richer. The title track is the obvious example—famously misread—yet the whole record hums with the same tension. Bruce writes about people quietly losing ground: the veterans displaced, the workers discarded, the dreamers squeezed by a country they’re trying to believe in. And he sets all of that to songs so sturdy and melodic that you could build a highway on top of them. The run of hits borders on surreal: “Dancing in the Dark,” “Glory Days,” “I’m on Fire,” “No Surrender,” “My Hometown,” “Cover Me,” “Darlington County.” Most artists would call it a career if they wrote one of these. Springsteen put them all on a single record like it was nothing. What elevates the album beyond cultural artifact is how deeply lived-in these songs feel. There’s sweat, longing, stubborn hope, and the sense that Bruce isn’t just observing these lives but carrying them. Even when the production edges toward glossy excess, the emotional impulse stays grounded, almost humble. Listening to it now, decades later, the thing still hits with unnerving clarity. The themes haven’t aged; the country hasn’t changed as much as it pretends; and Springsteen’s voice carries the same wounded defiance it did in ’84. Iconic isn’t even the right word—this album is practically part of the national nervous system. For me, this lands firmly in the five-star tier. Not because it’s flawless, but because its impact, craftsmanship, and emotional truth are impossible to deny. This is Springsteen at his most accessible and still somehow at his most pointed. The rare blockbuster that earns every bit of its legend.

Leonard Cohen’s debut is a quiet gut punch, a record so stark and intimate it feels like he’s reading secret letters aloud in the next room. The lyrics are breathtaking, the mood unmistakable, and the whole thing radiates that Cohen mystique people spend their whole lives trying (and failing) to imitate. But for all its beauty, the album is also monochromatic. Once you settle into its dusky palette, it doesn’t really shift. No real valleys, but not many peaks either, just a steady, unbroken current of solemn, poetic murmurings. It’s moving, admirable, iconic even, but it doesn’t reach that transcendent tier where every track feels essential. In the end it’s a gorgeous listen and an important one, but not a five-star experience for anyone who occasionally likes variety in their melancholy.