This was the first album the generator threw at me — and one I actually know. It used to be in my dad’s record collection. It takes me back to a short phase when I was about eighteen, around 1997, when I listened to The Doors a lot. The trigger was Oliver Stone’s The Doors movie, which I thought was absolutely mind-blowing back then. I tried watching it again in my mid-twenties with my girlfriend at the time — it didn’t age well. In fact, it felt almost embarrassing, and she hated it, which didn’t help.
These days I’m pretty indifferent toward The Doors, but I’ve always preferred their later stuff — like this album — to the earlier, more organ-heavy songs. Jim Morrison’s voice already sounds a bit worn here, which somehow makes it better. It’s solid rhythm & blues, relaxed and raw.
“L.A. Woman” is my favorite Doors track. I think it also plays over the end credits of the movie, after Morrison’s already six feet under. There’s something effortlessly cool about it — the band sounds so loose and confident.
Speaking of movies, I recently rediscovered another great Doors track, “Peace Frog,” in Licorice Pizza — shame it’s not on this record. The album closes with “Riders on the Storm,” which is, of course, an excellent song. That rain sound was perfect teenage soundtrack material — especially if you were lying in bed with your girlfriend.
All in all, it’s a good record, but not an essential one for me.
I only vaguely knew this album before — mostly because of a short piece by Wiglaf Droste, a German humorist and critic who, like Nick Drake, died far too young. I just looked it up: antidepressants, possibly suicide.
The title track is the only song I really knew before listening. It’s a beautiful, romantic piece. This is, after all, a classic singer-songwriter album — and you can clearly hear how Stewart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian borrowed from Drake’s vocal style.
The record has a very introverted, intimate vibe — dreamy and melancholic. The instrumentation is extremely sparse: one guitar, maybe two? It sounds like he recorded it alone at home and just mailed the tape to his label.
At only 28 minutes, it’s a short album — and a very beautiful one. Still, I don’t think I’ll return to it very often. The mood — a lonely, depressed young man — just doesn’t quite fit my life right now.
I didn’t know this album before, though of course I know the opener, “Tutti Frutti” — mostly from the hilarious Val Kilmer movie Top Secret!. Pre-Beatles rock ’n’ roll isn’t really my thing, but this record is pure joy. It’s music made for clapping and stomping — full of wild piano runs and honking saxophones.
It’s hard not to smile listening to it. Everything about it feels alive and raw. My favorite track: “Slippin’ and Slidin’.”
I’d never heard this album before, but from the cover and the very first note, I instantly knew — this is a five-star classic. Straight into the collection.
The opener, “Desafinado,” starts playing and I immediately recognize the melody — so that’s what this song is called! It’s an instrumental album, and I love music that leaves enough space in your head to think.
The sound is timeless, crystal clear — hard to believe it was recorded in 1962. The stereo mix is wonderful: that silky saxophone on the left, Charlie Byrd’s effortlessly confident guitar on the right. The guitar, really, is the quiet star of the record.
It’s an album that fits almost any mood — a relaxed evening on the couch, dinner with someone you love, or a solo walk through the city with headphones on.
I had to laugh when the 1001 Album Generator threw this one at me. In my head, Moby has always been filed under “not exactly essential.”
I remember when the album came out — I was 19 and doing my military service. It was the kind of record that just seemed to be lying around at every party. Total stoner music. Usually next to that red Morcheeba album everyone had back then.
Of course, I know almost every song just from hearing them so often. This record must have played hundreds of times in the background. The songs stick in your head, but never enough to make you actually get up and check who’s playing or what the track’s called.
And honestly, what is Moby? A band? Is that even his voice? “Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?” — sure, it’s all listenable, but it leaves me as cold now as it did back then. Which is saying something for music you grew up with. Sorry, Moby — still not my cup of tea.
The Kinks have always flown a bit under my radar, so I was glad this album came up — finally a chance to listen to a full one.
Right from the opener, “The Village Green Preservation Society,” it’s clear this is a very ironic record. Lots of mockery of British lifestyle and nostalgia. As I listened, it struck me how much of an influence The Kinks must have been on Blur in the mid-’90s.
Still, the songs themselves feel a bit insignificant. The Beatles and Stones simply had stronger material — but that’s kind of the deal with ironic albums. Everything here is midtempo, polite, and detached. I just don’t know what to do with these songs — none of them feel wild, sexy, angry, sad, or romantic. Everything stays in that slightly mocking register.
By the time “Big Sky” came on, I was getting a bit annoyed. “Big sky too high to see people like you and me / one day we’ll be free” — wow, that’s deep.
No, this one’s not for me.
I had absolutely no prior exposure to this — neither the artist nor the album.
So: Cuban music, salsa. Nice.
It’s lovely to listen to. I’ve been into salsa ever since my trip to Cuba in 2016, though I mostly know the more modern recordings that blew up after the success of Buena Vista Social Club in the late ’90s.
That’s why it’s great to hear a truly classic recording for once — this album is from 1958, just a year before the Cuban Revolution. The whole thing is super cheerful and full of energy. It puts you in a good mood instantly.
Not great for working in the background, though — it’s a bit too lively for that.
Cool — after The Kinks earlier this week, yet another band I’ve always meant to explore more seriously.
It’s a bit of a shame that this pick is a live album; that’s always a slightly awkward entry point. On the other hand, it’s probably a pretty good overview of the band up to that moment. The cover is great — looks intentionally like an unofficial bootleg.
As I’m writing this, I’m wondering whether I actually know any Who songs by heart… “My Generation”? Is that them? Nice bit of noise. And of course “Who Are You?" — which I mainly remember from a scene in Louis C.K.’s brilliant show Louie, with his daughters cringing in the back seat.
Oh boy: I just opened the Apple Music version — 33 tracks, two hours. A double? Triple album? Not only is the whole thing long, but so are the individual songs; quite a few stretch past the ten-minute mark.
Here we go: nice, glorious noise. I probably like this. I jumped ahead to a song that sounded familiar — “Pinball Wizard,” of course. Very good.
But damn: I just don’t have time for a triple album right now. I’ll give it a provisional three stars and keep it on my list for later.
Here’s your English version for Björk – Debut:
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Of course I know this album — it came out right in the middle of my youth, in 1993. I still remember hearing Björk for the first time on a family vacation at Lake Garda. “Human Behaviour” sounded strange to my teenage ears, and that summer it seemed to be on MTV almost as often as 4 Non Blondes on the tiny TV in our holiday apartment.
I didn’t really get into Björk until a bit later, with the excellent Homogenic in 1997. Later I discovered her second album, Post, which is still easily in my personal Top 50.
But Debut is the one I never connected with as deeply. It might actually be the first time — 32 years after its release — that I’ve listened to it properly, lying in bed with headphones. And I have to say: it’s a great dance album.
Thanks, 1001 Album Generator — this one made me want to dive back into Björk again.
What a coincidence — I had just watched a YouTube documentary about Dummy a few days ago.
This album was definitely important in my youth. I even bought it back then — around 1997, when Portishead’s second (self-titled) album came out. The whole “trip hop” thing has sadly faded from today’s musical vocabulary — Massive Attack, Tricky, Portishead — but what was it, really? Hip-hop beats with sorrowful soul vocals?
My problem with the record has always been this: it’s unquestionably fascinating and brutally honest music — and at the time, it was extremely cool and influential — but there were almost no situations where you actually felt like listening to something this heavy, dark, and ghostly.
A few facts I still remember: the singer is Beth Gibbons (I think), and the best-known song is probably “Glory Box.” And I recall they released another album around 2008 with that incredibly harsh track “Machine Gun.”
I’m playing the album now — for the first time in maybe ten years — to see if it feels easier to listen to today.
The opener, “Mysterons,” immediately sets the tone: ominous, eerie, thick with atmosphere. Was this ever played in clubs? What are you supposed to do with this music? Dance? Get high? Probably just listen to it alone at night with headphones.
“Sour Times” follows, built on that vaguely ’60s spy-movie sounding sample — “Nobody loves me, it’s true.” Great song.
And then comes the one I always forget about until it hits me again: “Roads.” The saddest track on the album — maybe the saddest one in my whole collection. Brilliant, devastating. That magical moment at around 1:40 when it opens into the second verse and somehow gets even sadder:
“Stoned in the morning light / I feel no more can I say / Frozen to myself / I got nobody on my side / And surely that ain’t right.”
No, I don’t have to revise anything — I feel exactly the same as I did back then. An excellent, five-star deluxe album that I rarely ever feel emotionally prepared to listen to.
I had absolutely zero desire to listen to this album. Megadeth is just nowhere near my territory — I think I only even know the band because Beavis once wore their T-shirt.
I actually considered skipping it altogether, but decided to at least give it a try.
The cover alone is ridiculous: some robot skeleton holding… a glowing orb? A lightbulb? Whatever it is, it’s not helping.
Then the album kicks off with “Holy Wars – The Punishment Due”:
“Brother will kill brother, spilling blood across the land
Killing for religion, something I don’t understand.”
Oh boy. No. This is simply not something I can take seriously. If you didn’t think this was cool at fourteen, you’re definitely not going to have the patience for it at forty-six.
One star. I’m skipping the rest.
Highway 61 Revisited is such an immortal classic that it almost feels like sacrilege to just jot down a few casual album notes — especially since I don’t have the time right now to write a proper, dignified review. Not that one is needed; this album has been analyzed, praised, dissected and re-dissected more than enough, and I doubt I have anything genuinely new to add.
Just a few observations: I love the camera in the background on the cover — a Nikon SP rangefinder. A lovely detail.
Highway 61 was one of the records in my father’s collection. Throughout my youth I explored many of those albums, but I wasn’t ready for Bob Dylan yet. It wasn’t until my late twenties, during a brutal heartbreak, that I finally entered the Dylan universe — through Blood on the Tracks, of course.
Two weeks into the 1001 Albums challenge and already the second Doors record — fitting, since I actually mentioned this album in my notes on L.A. Woman. Morrison Hotel contains my second-favorite Doors song: the wonderfully funky “Peace Frog.”
“Roadhouse Blues” is a great opener. In my older age I’ve come to prefer the later, blues-rock era of The Doors over their more psychedelic early years.
“Waiting for the Sun,” “You Make Me Real,” “Maggie M’Gill” — all nicely heavy, rough-edged tracks.
The Doors will never be at the center of my musical taste, but the next time I’m in the mood for them, Morrison Hotel is definitely the one I’ll return to.
I was on a long camping trip through Scotland with my girlfriend at the time. One evening we treated ourselves to dinner in a restaurant — very romantic, somewhere on some cliff, candlelight, deep conversation. At some point I said, “What is this wonderful music they’re playing?” Neither of us knew. So I asked the waitress. And I can still hear her answer today, in a thick Scottish accent: “It’s David Gray.”
It wasn’t White Ladder we heard that night, but his later album Live in Slow Motion. Still, that moment sparked what has now been, for almost 20 years, a lasting… not exactly fandom, but a steady affection. I love David Gray. I return to his albums again and again.
White Ladder is, of course, a classic. Sadly, shortly after that trip, my girlfriend and I broke up — so David Gray has always been tied to a sense of heartbreak for me. I only discovered the songs on White Ladder after the breakup. Almost every one of them is familiar now. “Sail Away,” near the end of the album, is an absolutely fantastic song.
It’s the perfect album for being in your twenties and deeply in love. Sadly, I’ve never shared that same affection for David Gray with any partner since.
