Most of the songs on this fairly short album are loose and wiry, and many tumble on longer than necessary, but the upbeat numbers have a pleasant bounce and lilt to them, and the harmonies give it charm. The title track is a sunny island in the rolling sea of this album. ‘Down by the River’ rambles for an awfully long time, but it holds water as a punchy murder ballad. It’s not an album I would go back to time and time again, but it’s really nice to hear some of the formative music of the folk rock genre that may have inspired some of the modern artists I listen to now.
I don't typically listen to live albums as I often lament that the production doesn't quite capture the full essence and intent of an artist's studio output, nor reflect the true quality of seeing the performer in a live setting oneself. This album manages to deliver on those two counts, and offers up something else altogether new entirely: a thrilling and frenetic performance in a rather unlikely setting that captures a singularly special live music experience. Many of the upbeat numbers like 'Cocaine Blues' and '25 Minutes to Go' threaten to come off the rails entirely, however Cash's baritone has such a sobering quality which helps to root this album in earnest, even in spite of the rambunctious rock'n'roll rhythms or his jocular patter with the inmates between and in the middle of the tracks. Many of his songs for this record humanise the prisoners in the audience by centering troubles like theirs at the heart of the track, and Cash's compassionate delivery and humble relatability makes songs such as 'The Wall' and 'Green, Green Grass of Home' shine. The album as a whole lulls a little in the middle but the latter half of the album sees the listener confidently home, with the rousing duet of 'Jackson' as a highlight of the piece.
Here I feel The Fab Four managed to navigate the 'difficult second album' with mixed success. In trying to break the mould and move further from the industry-mandated cover artistry that was commonplace at the time, several of Lennon and McCartney's original songs for this album lack the charm and intrigue of those on their first LP. Songs such as 'It Won't Be Long', 'I Wanna Be Your Man', 'Little Child' and 'Hold Me Tight' all feel positively rushed in their pop immediacy, and feel lyrically flat compared to some of their earliest original hits. That being said, the McCartney-led 'All My Loving' has charm in spades, and Harrison's outings on the covers of 'Roll Over Beethoven' and 'Devil In Her Heart' are a welcome breath of fresh air. Moreover, their blistering rendition of 'Please Mister Postman' benefits nicely from their Liverpudlian pluck and savvy. An album of brevity in more ways than one, but a clear sign of potential and more good things to come.
This album might be the epitome of doom-laden malevolence that bands in the heavy metal genre were celebrated and caricatured for in equal measure, but it possesses a polish and panache that allows it to truly stand the test of time. Most of the tracks have the sharpness and shine that the title proffers. 'Rapid Fire' sets the precedent as a scorching opener reminiscent of their contemporaries, Black Sabbath and Motörhead. With 'Metal Gods' steeped in science fiction grandeur, and 'The Rage' dripping with dark fantasy ambiance, both tracks offer up satisyfingly dramatic, almost glamorous and operatic ballads that sometimes seem at odds with the more radio-friendly numbers. 'Breaking the Law' holds firm as a decadent and menacing slice of punk polemicism - heavy metal with intent. 'Living After Midnight' shows out as a radio-ready hard rock chant-along, but ultimately lacks a little venom, while in a similar vein, 'United' is a run-the-numbers clarion call to action but sits a little stolidly in the middle of the record.
Lyrically and sonically, the three singles together ('Living After Midnight', 'Breaking the Law', 'United') present a clear and simple metal manifesto for freedom, rebellion, autonomy, and solidarity, yet the band almost sells themselves short fronting these tracks when the rest of the album possesses such a depth of character and more fearsome licks and solos than you can shake a stick at. This album houses an evocative trio of arena-ready, politically-minded crowdpleasers that seems almost focus-groupped in their production to simultaneously rouse and satiate baying mobs, nestled amongst a glut of fantastical rock operettas and sludgy declarations of identity, provding an altogether fascinating snapshot of Thatcherite Britain from the viewpoint of jaded stalwarts in the counterculture.
This is a truly raucous and freewheeling album nestled capriciously at the intersection of garage, punk, and blues; one that wears its roots proudly and raises hell with impunity. This is evident from the get-go with the buzzy seven-note riff and monolithic guitar solo of the album opener 'Seven Nation Army' finding the track an unforeseen yet welcome seat in pop culture as an anthem for the anguished in perpetuity.
There are pithy and acerbic hooks abound on tracks such as 'There's No Home for You Here' and 'The Hardest Button to Button'. The irreverent and bone-rattling 'Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine' is a personal highlight. Jack White also squeezes out some otherworldly despair and conniptions upon their cover of 'I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself' like a wrestler wringing a wet hand-towel.
The latter half of the A-side eschews all the previously built momentum, however, and replaces it with a slow and prickly detour into relationship angst. This earnest but coarse side of the Whites' style has found better homes elsewhere in their discography, before and after the making of 'Elephant', but here those tracks only manifest as a minor loss of footing for a frisky high-wire act on the precipice of distinction.
In an age defined by our excessive consumerism and inability to unplug from the world around us, it's hard to believe that an album of this tempo and minimalism would have set the world on fire more than sixty years ago, let alone remain relevant in contemporary music discourse. And yet, there is a distinct allure to be found in the cross-continental marriage of South American rhythms and North American blues that is front-and-centre on this showcase of the bossa nova sound, even in 2026.
While João Gilberto's forlorn whispers and coos often fail to excite the senses across the album, his then-wife Astrud's modest and nonchalant vocals are positively magnetic. The odd couple, plus a tranquil samba beat and Getz' gilded sax, somehow altogether imbue the lead track in particular, 'The Girl from Ipanema', with an understated, timeless quality.
Although this record stands as a vehicle for their partnership, Stan Getz often steals the show, filling the air with his schmoozy and nostalgic tenor sax on tracks such as 'Para Machucar Meu Coração' and 'Corcovado', recalling to mind dark, smoky cafes or sandy tree-lined promenades at sunset. The latter track slinks along in such romantic fashion that is hard to resist an armchair sway-along at least. Yet without Gilberto's melodic anchoring and Antonio Carlos Jobim's unassuming piano to provide the distinctly melancholic framework for Getz to rest upon, would the album still possess the same soul?
