Incredible to think there was a time before this album. Listening to Paranoid today is to be immersed in the broad, sadly now-clichéd sounds of modern metal and hard rock contemporaries in one ~40 minute listening session. Deviating from the bright atmospheric rock of the 1960’s, the contrasting nature of Sabbath’s sophomore release blends jazzy melodies with claustrophobic, dark blues; this album is wall of lush sounds and a testament technical skill. From the classic heavy sludge of Ironman to the atmospheric dreamscape of Planet Caravan, Sabbath reigns supreme and infinitely influential. If a 5-Star album exists, it must be judged on a scale defined in its extremes by Paranoid.
You WILL funk whether you want to or not. You’ll never be the same after 45 minutes at the altar of George Clinton and Funkadelic. Their religion is Funk and this is unabashed indoctrination extolling the values of, and how to, when to, and why to funk. Clinton and crew display unmatched harmony and skill, serving to beat your ever-funking mind to pieces with a groove that can’t be ignored, thrashing guitars, and a choir that knows the assignment. Through repetitive mantra-esque lyrics, a single listen to any of the 6 tracks on the original LP will have you committed to the funk. By the end you’ll be pledging allegiance to the groove just like all of your favorite artists already have. A fantastic ride - get this thing on streaming services!
Everything about this record is contradictory - even the album art would make one assume that this is some kind of heavy metal sonic escape from hell, not 45 minutes of over-the-top theater filled with glimmering percussion and maximalist over-done doo-woo inspired teenybopper “kissin tunes”. Our bat, on his way out of Hell, is Meatloaf, himself. He’s a motorbike riding, show tunes-singing goofball in a leather jacket and his record is a testament to not judging a book by its cover - even if it’s sometimes for the worse. That being said, Paradise By The Dashboard Light is pretty epic, despite content that has not aged well.
This listening experience is a testament to an album as a complete work of art. Come for the music, stay for the banter. Cash sings songs of made-up death, sadness, and general prison woes while commenting on his lost set list “idiot sheet” and falling in and out of giggle-fits recounting the dark dank world of coal mining and the deep sadness of a widow at the gravesite of her dishonest dead husband. He pleads for water before introducing love ballads about the bathroom of his ex-lover’s heart and that egg-sucking dog of his that won’t stop killing his chickens. All of this occurs as the listener experiences, first-hand, the operations of the prison with interruptions for inmates to report to reception. Cash receives a gift from the prison presented by an assistant warden; the booing as he makes his way on stage is immortalized in the final moment of this legendary performance. While misfortune led them there, the prisoners of Folsom Prison were blessed with two nights of dark, sardonic musical pleasure with Cash, through his lyrics and commentary, humanizing the whole, oddly hopeless experience.
In 2005, I saw a Stones cover band in college and they said that, “back in the day, you were either a Beatles fan or a Stones fan.” As someone who has always prided themselves on a lover of music in general, I called this crazy. However, try as I might, I have never been able to find myself as enthusiastic about Mick, Keith, and the Boyz as I wish I did the Fab 4. When I woke up this morning to find Let It Bleed as my assignment for the day, I was excited to challenge my bias. The record starts off like a rocket with Gimme Shelter, an objectively phenomenal track full of passion and purpose. Unfortunately, after that, it kinds of slogs through song after song that I can only describe as …fine… With lyrics ranging from the overly lascivious to forgettable and dull. The album ends on another classic You Can’t Always Get What You Want which cannot be denied for its impressive arrangement. While it’s technically impressive and nice to listen to, I can’t help but think that this record benefits from first impressions and recency bias. Not much else to share. It’s safe to say that I am whelmed.
There’s a lot going on here. And it’s being done without much. This is (for the most part) stripped back, folky, jangly rock. Tracks like Candy Says and Pale Blue Eyes are so simple, accessible, empathetic, and lovely while a track like “Murder Mystery” is basically inaccessible between overlapped spoken multi-channel lyrics and crashing piano. I appreciate any risk an artist is willing to take and sometimes, as is the case with The Velvet Underground (self-titled), that risk is taken in attempting to appeal to the masses. I’m never opposed to the “you just don’t get it, but there’s nothing to get”-edness of some music. This album does the opposite when, at times, it is so on the nose, it comes off as dull for the sake of being dull like on Jesus and Beginning To See The Light. This project has moments that are delightful and genuine, bonkers, and silly. I just wish it held off on some of the self-aware irony.
This album rings as an old man recounting the great joys and greater regrets of his life. The simple music contains and grounds David Berman’s less-than-serious-yet devastatingly-sentimental words and deadpan vocal delivery, allowing the few moments of inflection to punch through and deliver. Transylvania Blues is a brief moment where David and his dense lyrics take a breather. The simple timekeeping and melody of the rest of the album transitions to a musical inflection where percussion and ghostly guitars swirl around each other before soaring off in the final moment. Berman and Silver Jews have one love and it’s everything. David’s gift of wit and storytelling keeps the listener at the edge of whatever aural equivalent there is to a seat, constantly aware of the fact that we aren’t always promised tomorrow. There passion, panic, and sagacious care placed in every word and note of this album.
This is the first I’ve ever heard of Fishbone! Truth and Soul is a protest record of everything - ska, hard rock, reggae, punk, funk, 80’s-insert-wave-here. This is important social commentary. This is an uprising playing on the sun deck of a Carnival cruise ship. Maybe that’s the intent; the band swings to the tune of fighting fascism in a way that you could passively sip a frozen daiquiri to. Each member is incredibly talented and their ability to switch between styles is done with impressive fluency. My one criticism is that Bonin’ in the Boneyard, albeit a wild funky ride, feels out of place with the rest of these powerful tracks. The album closes with a full 180 with the thoughtful, hopeful acoustic guitar ballad, Change. Fishbone has made rebellion accessible
This is the soundtrack of after-church car rides with my dad. There’s a unique nostalgia I get from Crosby, Stills & Nash. This record starts off with epic Suite: Judy Blue Eyes and later includes the alliterative masterpiece Helplessly Hoping. The middle is a lot of, now considered cliché calls to leave the stressors of life (read: work, public service, and haircuts) and other counterculture tropes about hiding drugs and ingesting questionable berries while transcending planes of existence. There’s so much more bluesy psychedelia than I anticipated. Admittedly, the constant overlapping of vocals does start to grate on me, but I think that’s a me thing; I can only take so much organ and swirling vocal harmonization before I need a break. A lot of modern heady folk music can draw its roots to this album. I also can’t ever help but to yen for some “Y” when I listen to CSN. Hide your drugs and get in, folks. The late 60 had something for everyone. I appreciate options. One major criticism is the lack of an Oxford comma.
I woke up with this recommendation today and my first feelings were of apprehension - a fear of having to experience this record again. Short of the fact that I can confidently say that Closer is the song I have heard the most times in my entire life, my first listening experience of The Downward Spiral was overwhelming. This unrelenting buzz saw of a record recounts the torture of drug addiction and the horrors of mental decline, culminating in the desperate attempts of the protagonist to end their suffering. There is technical wizardry here - Reznor’s skillful brilliance in creating a suffocating listening experience shines in the transition from The Beginning as a soft acoustic guitar fades out of the left channel while the torturous mechanical din of I Do Not Want This oozes it’s way into the right channel with the grace of a dumpster being dropped over and over in your right ear. Sonically, each track is enough to rattle your soul, begging someone to release you. A Warm Place is the short-lived atmospheric reprieve you’ve earned after 40 minutes of suffering - that’s until the flies of Eraser begin and you’re suddenly headed back down into Hell. The real terror and sadness is that this record is someone’s lived experience. To pull it apart into singles or tracks is not appropriate and denies the sufferer the dignity of their suffering. While it’s not nice and it’s not graceful and it’s not pretty, the Downward Spiral is beautiful. Not in a classical, aesthetic way - it’s a masterpiece of hopelessness that must be listened to in its entirety to fully appreciate - because, if nothing else, it’s real.
Not a fan. This record feels so generic. Instrumentally it’s milquetoast classic rock station/VFW jukebox music and, vocally, Tom can’t seem to figure out whether he is playing an SNL Californian or slurring his way through some forgotten night at the bar. The hits, Breakdown and American Girl, save this otherwise completely forgettable album from itself. Despite being only 30 minutes, it felt like a lifetime of a listen. While it’s not awful, this collection, as a whole, is far from essential listening.
I am at a total loss as to how I should approach this review and I have been sweating it all day. On the one hand, this is something completely foreign to me in an age where nearly every worldly experience is at my fingertips. On the other hand, I feel wholly unqualified to judge this listening experience as a result of it being curated randomly to me. This record of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, an all-male South African a capella group creates a soft, pure, atmospheric listening experience. There are no instruments. There is no “production” - just the human voice and some foot stomping (at times) to accompany the organic structure of the music. This is so outside of my world that I can’t judge it on anything but my experience which is passive. Does it do what it sets out to do? Yes. Does it scratch some baseline human itch? Yes. Is it particularly memorable for me? No. Is it the best version of what it is? I can’t even begin to determine… primarily because 100% of my listening experience with South African all-male a cappella music is contained in this single album. I appreciate it for what it is and I can say nothing more. As a side note, having to listen to this music be broken up by toilet paper ads on YouTube (because it’s not on Spotify) was distracting.
I think the most The Smiths thing I can say about this album is that I get it. It’s Morrissey singing cripplingly sad songs about love lost and words and dirt and pubs and stuff. That’s until you pull it apart and realize that none of it is meant to be taken seriously and the joke is on you. Johnny Marr and the band provide a jangly undercurrent for the one-named-wonder and his painfully self-aware lyrics. The intro to the closing track even fades in and out to start as if they aren’t ready to play the joke on the listener yet. The Smiths hate the aristocracy and can see through the phoniness of your quoted poetry because they have done their research. Their tunes are catchy and fun. They leave you asking yourself, “what made that seem so important?” At the core, they make great music and it’s a joy to listen. Now you need to tell everyone. The Smith are the brilliant barstool poet and you’re lucky enough to post up next to them for a pint. They’re better than you and you know that because they told you so. And you can’t stand it, but they’re right
A 20 minute epic of keyboard prog rock describing the volcanic birth of a tank-armadillo hybrid and subsequent life, battles, death, and water rebirth as Aquatarkus, opens the record. The composition sounds like a blur between a college drum line and the bumper music from The Price Is Right (prog, dude) The unpegged time signatures and shifting between the left and right channels makes the listener feel off balance. The track contains all the sounds and the messaging can’t help but seem ripped from This Is Spinal Tap. This is big, over-the-top sound. There’s also a side B full of questionable lyrics and messaging, but it’s… fine.
While Soukous, or the very specific version of Congolese dance music (or any dance music for that matter) on this record may not be my particular style, you can definitely feel the rhythm here. There is no denying that vibes are soaring through this. On a day like today with the forecast projecting snow and freezing temps across a huge swath of the country and anxiety everywhere, maybe we needed some bright uplifting tones. There is dense musicality in this record led by Olomidé and his passionate vocals.
Beck takes you on a ride with Odelay. While I’ve heard a few of these track, namely Devil’s Haircut, Where It’s At, and The New Pollution, the rest of this album was fairly new to me. This record is paint splatter as music. It moves from hip hop to electronic to country to folk and back again, rounding out with the subtle acoustic Ramshackle, which even in the final moments is followed by the noisy Computer Rock. At around 54 minutes, there’s no denying this record is a moderate lift, made more fatiguing by the whiplash of genre work and sampling. It’s fantastic and fun. For its time, Beck took some major chances here. I feel like my recency bias would be perfectly positive without the unnecessary inclusion of the hidden track. Overall, a fun experience!
Cold cuts is an electronic dance music duo and their work is not on streaming services. There is no doubt that they are an early influence for what would ultimately be the 90s dance music scene (one I am not particularly fond of). They benefit from features, including Queen Latifah on this record, but the music ultimately is dated, and you can tell. There are sections of scratching and sampling that, since this record has been released, have been honed and perfected. There’s no denying their influence as pioneers in the genre, but this simply was not for me.
After 17 days, I am finally blessed with the voice of a woman. Debbie Harry and Blondie have a number of hits and most of them are featured on this record. A collection of power pop, disco influence, punk, mixed with notes of hard rock this record offers a diverse collection of songs ranging from the doo wop loveliness of Sunday Girl to the tension building and never-ending crescendo of Heart of Glass, the broad spectrum of feelings and musical presence of the band supporting Debbie Harry’s vocals makes for a phenomenal listening experience. There’s a reason why many of these songs are considered classics. To have them all on one album is phenomenal.
You don’t need Prince and MJ. We have Prince and MJ at home.
There was a time before this album came out. It was a better time
Just yesterday I was talking about the fact that I couldn’t wait until I had a Bob Dylan album to listen to. This past summer I saw Bob Dylan perform because I felt it was important for any music lover to experience a legend like Bob Dylan in person at some point in their life. During his performance, the camera stayed at a steady 2000 miles away, and there was no indication as to whether the hat that bobbed behind a too-tall piano, surrounded by too-close musicians, singing too-murmured words was truly Bob Dylan or not. I left frustrated and confused about the infatuation our world has with this seemingly arrogant and distant, inaccessible character. I was frustrated by the mystique and performance as a whole - how insistent upon itself it was. I questioned what I missed about this character, but left it there. Today I had the opportunity to listen to this album and upon hearing his songs, a new question arose in me as to how an entire generation that was motivated by the words of Bob Dylan toward social justice and peace and progress could be the same generation that, today, hordes wealth and whose leaders act and govern in a way that prevents younger generations and different communities enjoying the very progress and peace that Bob Dylan yearned for. The words of this album celebrate the American Dream and demonize war and those who promote it. While there is filler and some frustrating self-referential aspects of the album that I didn’t necessarily appreciate there’s no denying that tracks like Blowin’ in the Wind, Masters of War, Oxford Town, and I Shall Be Free are brilliant and relevant today, as ever. This record is not perfect but it serves as evidence of Dylan’s influence in a time when poets understood the struggles of common people who fought for progress rather than preservation of their own place of privilege. If only it persisted.
This is the first record that I actually own on this list which is kind of exciting for me. I got to listen to it and it’s original form - on vinyl, through headphones and in stereo. It’s perfect. While the individual tracks may be not as memorable as the title track or the singles, the album, as a whole, was meant to be experienced as a singular song cycle piece and listening to it in that way is how to experience the smooth interplay of the vocals, the musical backing, the messaging, the atmospheric arrangement, and what is ultimately the encapsulation of Motown in its most perfect form. The only downside to this album is that while it was released over 50 years ago its messaging is still relevant today.
This album blasts off. Find me a more iconic opening track than Hotel California. Off like a shot, this trip through the dark underbelly of California - not the sunny care-free surf side of the summer of life, but instead a depraved journey of sex, drugs, and rock and roll through the first three tracks, ending with Life in the Fast Lane. The album seems to fizzle after that. While Wasted Time and its Reprise are good, the back 2/3 of this album leaves some energy to be desired. Don Henley is a trash can of a person and continues of a trend of iconic rockers who have somehow shaken the public shame of their history of otherwise bad behavior.
Finally some hip hop and I lucked out with an all time classic! There’s a reason Run DMC are in the Pantheon of rap and hip hop. This is groundbreaking music combined with the expert production and blend of rock that comes with Rick Rubin collab credits! This thing is non-stop action and energy, deserving of all of its flowers! A true classic. Take a moment and appreciate the greatest Adidas advertisement in history! Also, this is the record with Walk This Way.
Not much to say today and I’m otherwise exhausted. This record is not good, only saved by Karma Chameleon and that song is fine.
This is fantastic. Each track explores different genres and executes wonderfully. The jazzy bass of the opening/title track, the bluegrass of Over the Hill, a bluesy swing here and there and a spacey guitar. I’m not one, typically for a saxophone… but THAT SAXOPHONE! The surprise of Solid Air is one of the reasons I am so happy to embark on this musical journey. There is absolutely no reason I would ever find myself listening to John Martyn’s work aside from a once-in-a-while dabble into the work of Nick Drake, who’s tragic death is the inspiration for this record. There’s sadness and emotion. There’s a fever of the human experience apparent in Martyn’s lyrics, accompanied magically by musicianship that invites you in and buries you. A truly incredible listen. Take a half hour and experience this.
Simple Minds Simply Put Simply Stinks.
