Certainly interesting and culturally undeniable, but it doesn’t do it for me. The language barrier is probably an obstacle, but I’ve fallen in love with albums full of lyrics I understand less. As a 60s psych album, I don’t know that there’s much that really stands out. There’s distinctly Brazilian instrumentation, but it comes off more as a curiosity than a meaningful sonic innovation that really adds something to the music. It does a lot of things really well—some of the distorted guitar tones, more ambient feel of drums and keys with lots of reverb on the vocals—that make it a good psych album. I just think there are maybe a dozen other albums with a similar sonic aim that scratch that itch better for me.
Baby is a standout track. Maybe not one I’d frequently come back to, but I really think it stands up favorably with most other similar tracks of the era—the distorted guitar really adds a lot of character.
An interesting album and one I don’t regret listening to, but, apart from the interest of the uniquely Brazilian instrumentation, just not one I think I’d come back to. There are many psych albums I prefer and I don’t have enough experience with Brazilian music post-Mutantes to appreciate their influence.
This album came out in 1985 and it couldn’t feel any more 80s than it is. It has all the requisite cheesiness and instrumentation that should be expected from the peak of the 80s. It’s not really my cup of tea, but it’s undeniable. It’s one note all the way through, but it’s so catchy. How can you pass up a song like shout? It’s so cheesy and you can’t help but give it its flowers.
A solid 3/5, closer to a 2 than a 4. An album I’m equally likely to praise and poke fun at. Its formula is easily picked apart and prodded at, but it’s done exceptionally. Not an album I’d really ever seek out, but also an album I think I’d reasonably defend. It really nails a specific sound I don’t love, but man it really nails that sound.
The eighties are strangely missing from my musical touchstone. I can wax poetic about the sixties and seventies, but 1978-93 is sort of missing. Obviously like anybody who has heard of music I can talk to you for too long about joy division, and that’s sort of where my ear goes here. The love of reverb and chorus effects, the similar strat tones, big echoes everywhere, there are noted similarities with joy division. But, for lack of better explanation, Joy Division and Tears for Fears sat on different sides of the high school cafeteria.
I’ve always known Isaac Hayes as Shaft and I have the Shaft record (or did before my parents moved and half my records disappeared). I never knew him pre-Shaft, so this is exciting just to begin with.
It reminds me a bit of Baby Huey, though Hayes’ vocals are certainly more subdued. But it’s a very aptly titled record, just dripping with soul and charisma. A great Sunday morning record, and one I’m sure I will come back to many times.
I think maybe there’s something in my (very white, very folk-inspired) upbringing that makes soul feel more distant to me. I didn’t hear really anything by black artists except maybe Stevie wonder until I was old enough to seek out my own music among my predominantly white, middle class friends. And while hip hop was around enough to form a familiar touchstone and was a genre I delved into when I had the opportunity, soul has largely escaped me, unfortunately. I mean, I love baby Huey, because anybody who has heard him sing does, and as a bassist I’ve listened to not nearly enough James Jamerson to fully appreciate how singular he was.
I think perhaps there is a chasm in my musical knowledge that makes me think of this album as a 3/5. Lyrically and sonically, I can recognize that it’s above and beyond, but it doesn’t quite scratch the itch I want it to, and I am struggling to articulate exactly why.
I love the drawn out instrumentations, the improvisational, emotionally charged feel of the whole record. But the jams feel slightly boring—the bass lines are killer, but I think I prefer more discord and attached feel than the somewhat masturbatory jams.
The lyrics are nice, in fact they’re deeply cool. Hyperbolicsyllabicesquedalymystic is fundamentally cooler than me. And maybe that’s part of the issue—I’m just not cool enough to fully appreciate this album. But lyrically it’s lacking a French you know what that’s preventing me from really latching on to this.
I give it a three, closer to a four than a two. It’s an excellent album, I believe, and one that I’m not primed to give its proper flowers.
I think I’m realizing it’s been quite a while.
It’s been quite a while since I listened to hip hop I wasn’t already familiar with, it’s been quite a while since I’ve listened to Pac. And it’s been since never that I’ve actually sat down and listened to a Tupac album all the way through (maybe I did in college, but I have no recollection). While I’m thoroughly of the west coast persuasion personally, I suppose unintentionally I’ve always favored the New York scene in the 90s and really haven’t given much thought to Los Angeles in the 90s, or Los Angeles ever, for obvious reasons. So I think all of that is to say that I don’t have a background in Tupac or west coast rap more generally, and that intimidates me.
This has been a difficult album to listen to, largely because I think to give it an honest assessment requires attentive listening, reading along, and a better understanding of context than my cursory education entails, thus requiring some extracurricular reading.
This is one of the most acclaimed albums of all time, one that stakes a political position, and is muddled in layers of context. I naturally fear underrating it out of ignorance or overrating it out of ignorant deference.
Ultimately, this is an exercise for myself and myself alone, so here it goes.
This isn’t an album built on the strength of its standout tracks, in my opinion. That’s not to say that it lacks good songs. I mean that the flow of the album seems to be much more built around the whole rather than fleshing out core tracks. And that leads to an album that feels intentional, one that is exceptionally written, but also one that lacks the sort of song-to-song changes or even transitions that make certain tracks stand out. Dear Mama is the exception as the production and lyrical delivery completely change, creating the album’s most memorable song.
I think the obvious comparison here is GangStarr’s Moment of Truth and, while it’s entirely likely a case of familiarity, I much prefer moment of truth. I prefer Premier’s production and guru’s lyrics, and I think Guru has a more lyrical and, honestly, more catchy style than Tupac does on this album.
If I’m being totally honest—it’s a great album, one I probably won’t listen to again unless a specific situation compels it. Perhaps if I steeped myself in it more and willed myself to like it more, the strength of the writing would ultimately shine through. But I just don’t feel compelled to do that, and a large part of that is just an entirely subjective categorization of what I come back to and what I appreciate, but leave in the closet.
As noted earlier, my musical upbringing was very sheltered. My mother effectively only listens to Bruce Springsteen and my dad’s exploration into new music stopped around 1978 and was deeply influenced by his older brothers. So the long 80s when the talking heads, at least in the circles I’ve found myself in, largely reigned supreme are an absence in my musical upbringing. It wouldn’t be until high school that I became aware of them outside of a few songs and not until college that I’d understand their importance. A few years later, I would be kicking David Byrne out of a museum (gotta pay for your ticket, Dave) and fall in with a group of much more musically sophisticated folk. People whose musical knowledge, unlike mine, expanded beyond laurel canyon and San Francisco and who’s recent touchstones were decidedly cooler than my early teen pop-punk/hardcore obsessions.
So while it would make sense for somebody my age to think of the talking heads as the most familiar of comforts, they are in many ways new to me. I’ve heard most of this album in one way or another, everything sounds familiar, but I’ve never sat down and listened to it.
There’s part of me that dislikes the talking heads for sounding new compared to my folky loves. There’s part of me that dislikes the talking heads because I didn’t listen to them growing up and cooler people I met later seem to have them ingrained in their musical consciousness, and justifiably so. There’s part of me that is suspicious of the 80s—the drugs of choice changed with the cultural and political zeitgeist, all seemingly a marked step back from the acid and love fueled sixties. A cynical and necessary step forward that I partially resent. All to say that, for some deeply rooted psychological reason, the talking heads make me feel insecure.
What a great album! The talking heads and David Byrne are synonymous, so I’ll talk about his contributions first while noting initially how tight the band is. I don’t really care for Byrne’s style, it feels like he did stupendous amounts of cocaine and then walked into the studio in a panic. But it is at the very least interesting writing, and he is a creative director par excellence, almost in the Bowie mold. He uses his vocal talents and quirks to maximize the impact.
But let’s talk about the band. Tina Weymouth is a legend, and it’s so evident on this album. These songs have to be incredibly tight and controlled to work, and it’s her playing that holds the entire project together. Without her playing, Byrne would sound like a complete idiot. The entire band revolves around a phenomenal bass player and a drum that lives in the pocket. They create the solid foundation where David Byrne can do tons of coke and yell melodically about corporate culture or whatever and have that actually work.
Byrne’s solo work proves that he doesn’t need the talking heads to be incredibly brilliant, but this album shows the brilliance of the talking heads was far more than David Byrne.
I seem to harp on how I can’t appreciate an album fully because it’s not in my folky wheelhouse. This seems like a cop out as most of what I listen to can’t be called folky. So now, I am confronted with undeniable folkiness. What to do?
Despite my folky roots and to echo something I’ve said everyday, I’ve never listened to this album. I know Paul Simon as really one of the best acoustic guitarists of his era—his work on sound of silence solidifies that—and a more than worthy songwriter (his work on sound of silence solidifies that). But my criticism of Simon (and Garfunkel!) is that he (they!) are a little soft. They are very pleasant to listen to, but they are a little too pleasant to listen to. A little too much polish, seemingly lacking a certain authenticity that is absolutely essential in his genre.
There are Paul Simon songs that have become standards, and deservedly so, but he isn’t on my Rushmore of folk singers, he and Dylan are at the kids table for opposing reasons.
The beginning of this album was entirely unexpected and so welcomed. Hell yeah. Paul Simon is relentlessly gifted at playing the guitar and the rest of the band is fervent here. I am just shocked by the statement that save the life of my child is—I might have to listen to this five more times before moving on to the rest of the album. The bass is unrelenting and the tone of the crashing cymbals adds so much to this song. It just feels so unexpected from Simon and it’s executed so well. I did not expect this album to start so aggressively and it works so well.
And it just keeps going. America is so different from its predecessor, but it’s a banger as well. We get to dive into Simon’s ability as a storyteller, where few can compete. The rest of the band, the production on this album take this from some good songs to a stellar album. Simon can play truly beautiful acoustic lines that occupy so much space as he is wont to do, but the bass forces the issue in a way Simon’s guitar can’t and the (Hammond? Whatever keys) play a beautiful accent. It also makes it that much more poignant when you do get situated in songs like Overs or old friends that absolutely showcase Simon’s voice and playing, both of which are impeccable as ever here.
And we must talk about voices of old people. This album is stuffed with the unexpected, and I did not expect field recordings of elderly Americans used as a framing device for the song’s accompanying it, but wow does it work. This is an album that seems shockingly considerate in its arrangement, between having (and reprising) a theme and including a recording like voices of old people.
This album is so strong and cohesively resonant that, while Mrs. Robinson is probably the most listenable standalone track, the album would be just as good without it. It’s a classic that I don’t much care for, and it doesn’t really belong here (I wonder what the conversation was to put the song on the album as obviously it wasn’t recorded for this release).
I walked into this listen fully expecting to go against type and criticize a folk album. I walked out not even positive this is a folk album and fully comfortable with giving my first 5. It’s certainly not perfect or remotely close to contending for my favorite album, but what a stellar album front to back. I think I would’ve liked to see another reprise of the theme to tie the whole piece together, having the reprise appear fairly early in the album and disappear was something of a disappointment. I also think Mrs. Robinson, while a standout track, should’ve been left off. In such a conceptually driven album, I think a nonsequitur track like that detracts more than it should. But, while far from perfect, it deserves its flowers and then some.
Who among us doesn’t at least appreciate bittersweet symphony? It’s genuinely a pretty song and nothing more needs to be said. The same could be said about the rest of the album. It’s generally pretty and inoffensive. I won’t listen to it again because I found it boring.
Much like everything I encounter, I am in entirely uncharted territory here. Do I know bittersweet symphony and the weird lawsuit drama with the Rolling Stones? I was born in 1996. Could I tell you that the verve was the band behind that song? Maybe, I do love trivia. Have I ever intentionally listened to this album or anything by the verve? Absolutely not.
But getting past the one song I am too familiar with, there are a dozen other songs here for better or worse. As I’m listening to it, I am mildly aware that I am listening to it. It sounds like 2000s mall music and I just can’t force my brain to be interested in whatever this is.
I cannot force myself to care about this album. Ultimately, it is just very boring. I’ve had to remind myself that I’m listening to it just because it hardly registers above white noise on the ears.
An hour into the first eleven minutes of the opening track, I’m reminded of how much I love the moody blues’ days of future passed and how much I would rather listen to that. I don’t necessarily hate prog rock, but if I do, this is why.
It’s a seemingly distilled version (though, unfortunately, not nearly distilled enough) of everything I don’t like about prog. The musicianship is excellent and there’s at least interest there and some of the more experimental synth/key elements. But it’s excellent and interesting to what end? So that I know they’re talented musicians and well-studied in their classical influences? It’s just an absolute chore to listen to, and it’s not endearingly cheesy in the way it could be.
Which brings this to the lyrics—another insufferable hallmark of prog. They are not cheesy or campy, though it seems those are the heights they strive towards, but rather just bad. The scale of bad ranges from eye-rolling to genuinely offensive. It sounds like a 14 year old who has read Chaucer and loves fantasy and thinks they are deeply profound writing their rhyming dictionary magnum opus. For eye-rolling, I submit: ‘somewhere a hill/where things are still/ just rainwater spill/just rainwater spill/sleep in a dance/ of buttermilk cream/ you dance on a beam/ dancing on a beam’
For offensive, I submit: You must believe in the human race / can you believe God makes you breathe/ why did he lose six million Jews?’ Followed by several minutes of tedious piano masturbation, because that’s appropriate.
I don’t want to give an album a 1 unless it’s really, offensively bad. This album is bad enough that I’m certainly not opposed to revisiting it and giving it a 1.