John Frusciante is such a great songwriter, he somehow makes Anthony Kiedis barely tolerable
Funny how all the even-numbered tracks are passable, verging on dated 70s hard rock, but all the odd-numbered ones are too damn iconic and heavy to ignore.
First track is as straightforward as perfection gets; everything else is also equally perfect if you aren't filtered by a 20-something genius at her creative peak
The only thought that goes through my head when Johnny Winter improvises on guitar, or when John Cotton shrills his loud-ass harmonica, is simply "this fucks"
I can't say this holds up to most other singer/songwriter albums, but it does have a few obvious standouts. The fact that you can listen to an album with so many unusual production calls and out-of-sight songwriting decisions and only muster disdain is truly baffling to me, though. Not unwarranted, but just baffling.
The only way not to enjoy this record is to listen to the stereo version. "Respect" has the most locked-in backup vocalists in all of musical history, and I hate myself for not loving this entire thing even more than I already do, quite frankly.
The best way to honor an elder statesman of amped blues would probably be to pick one of his golden-era albums instead of a late-era mishmash of collaborations, but the cover is pretty cool
Elliott is an undeniably positive personality, and she pulled some of the biggest rappers and R&B singers into the mix. Ultimately, though, it all does little more than entertain me for the moment. "Work It" is incredible, though.
It's one thing to make guitars, bass, and drums sound heavy and badass. It's another thing to make the fucking vibraphone sound badass, borderline rivaling Lemmy's bitchin' chainsmoker voice on half these tracks.
Her first of many slam dunks, and actually really accessible by Björk standards
I was going to hate on this, but the saxophone on "Jungleland" somehow transformed me into a full flag-waving American.
You can occasionally hear the Queen we know and love desperately trying to escape under the many layers of fantastical prog and glam rock. Conceptual and theatrical, but not quite bohemian or rhapsodic.
The angel on my shoulder is trying to focus on how neat the weird stuff is, but the devil on the other is laughing at how funny this record is.
This must have been the legal equivalent of crack for Orange County skate punks in the 90s.
You'll think Sting is such an intellectual when you study the lyrics on this thing, but then you listen to the bonus joint, and he's resorted to spelling his ABCs
A hard rock record that embraces vulnerable love, Big Star's debut proved to future alternative rock bands that you can have your cake and eat it too.
The first two tracks sound like they were lab-grown to appeal to prog heads like me. Being catered to has never sounded so good.
For an influential album that everybody takes seriously, the second half sure sounds very unserious a lot of the time.
I'm not trying to be mean, but the thought of someone over the age of 25 cranking this gives me psychic damage.
Blood, sweat, and tears went into the A side, but it's only on the B side where the fruits of their sacrifice and labour start to show.
You need to imagine Big Boi flying spread-eagled in the sky while 3 Stacks is positively down to earth for this album to make sense.
Only her talent and charm make this three-hour dirge of homogeneous traditional pop slightly bearable. There HAS to be a better Fitzgerald album from this period than this.
Butthole Surfers make music that should only be judged based on how violent it makes you in the moment.
If only this could do more for me than be soft and leering, but alas, it's just fine.
90s American alt-rock with UK trip-hop undertones is a total gimme.
