The lady can sing and I could see myself enjoying it when in the right headspace, but this time around it just became background noise.
I picked up the phone to get the name of Date with the Night, but none of the other songs were stand outs. Serviceable for passing the time while on a jaunt downtown for a grassy snack.
The entire album slaps, but I enjoyed particularly Gilberto's voice and the sax in The Girl From Impanema and Corcovado. Never really listened to this genre, but damn if it isn't a vibe. Tingles on the scalp and in my ribs.
This is some funky stuff. I'm pretty sure I semi-enjoyed it, but it's got some sort of anti-memetic effect that wipes a person's memory. I listened to the album twice, but can't remember anything beyond "I'm an American aquarium drinker." I think I may have just been activated or turned into a sleeper agent.
This one is already part of my rotation. If science achieves fission of the GOAT particle and is able to contain the energetic release of awe photons, so that it can be ascribed to multiple individuals without simultaneously leaving cool flash prints of their silhouettes on the laboratory walls, I feel Cobain would be entitled to 2 or 3 slices.
The guys obviously had fun and it feels like it's well made, but it's not my bag, baby.
3 Feet High and Rising? More like 6 Feet Low and Falling, by De La Damned. 👹
David Byrne's voice is both sides of the magnet, man. When it lines up right, it pulls me right in and strongly; when it doesn't, it is god-awful to listen to. Stuff like Take Me to the River and (not in this album) Psycho Killer goes hard, but the rest feels so herky-jerky that it makes me tense and nervous and I can't relax.
I enjoyed how the atmosphere recalled the hazy, midnight stupor of yesteryear, but I will not revisit any of these songs.
It's Jimi, one of the few musicians a layperson might be able to identify by the sound of their guitar. The man weaves air into steel into bioelectric impulses—musical Dhakai Muslin.
I don't remember ever having heard Third Stone From The Sun, but I agree, let's do a wipe on humanity and give it all over to the avians.
This one's a 'No' from me, dawg.
Great vibes.
It was fine, but none of the Bowie that I enjoy.
Rap still isn't my thing, but it has some alright beats.
Madame George was a banger, but the rest of the album made me feel like I'd done something to upset the man. The sound of his voice was uncomfortable for the most part, like some god of mischief's early attempt at making the world's most painful/annoying sound that he later surpassed by chance when he tripped, but was able to catch himself with his nails on a chalkboard.
Maybe Morrison is that trickster? The rest of the band played some really nice music, so it would certainly explain the marrying of such beautiful sounds and horrible, grating, plunge-your-head-into-a-garbage-disposal-to-escape inducing pseudo-musical voicings that exists in most of these songs. Maybe he's his band's own Yoko Ono?
I wish I had the language to leave an appropriately scathing review of the musical qualities of his voice, but alas I don't and the only thing left scathed is my psyche.
Some of the tunes are bops. Could use some sax.
Some good tunes in here. Nothing particularly inspiring, but easy listening.
Some of this stuff was kind of bleh, i.e Voices of Old People Talking, but for the most part I enjoyed this one; it's easy listening. I know A Hazy Shade of Winter is a cover, but I still enjoy this version and I don't know why, but I adore At the Zoo.
I think of Alanis Morissette when I hear this. Maybe it's familiarity bias, but I prefer Alanis.
Appalling, ghastly, insipid ramblings devoid of artistry and lacking wit.
I don't have anything to say about the album or the other guys' ratings though, I didn't listen to it. I'll give 1.5 stars based on group feedback and consider myself lucky for having skipped it.
Funky fresh in the way that it must feel for a goose to flap down to a warm ski lodge in a snowy town with gourmet s'mores, all chocolatey brown.
These are them boys and them boys can play. Laid back, easy listening—a balm for the soul.
Perfect background music for a sketchy, hole in the wall bar at close when the cool, intimate embrace of low lights and heavy smoke are cut through by bright lights and a harsh voice decrying your degeneracy and demanding hasty egress.
I'm not a country music guy, but Willie is an exception. Hopefully no time soon, but if ever a mortal were able to achieve apotheosis on their journey to the world after this one, it'd be this guy. I look forward to our one day minor god of music.
I dug most of the first disc.
A more evened out David Byrne? I don't know for sure, but I suspect this is a vocal doppelgänger.
The album was good. I think I'm predisposed to melancholy, so I generally vibed with tone of the album. There were a few moments that threatened to unmoor the stone and for that I'm thankful, I appreciate when music makes me feel something.
The only song I didn't enjoy on here was the cover of Iron Man. The rest of it was fun to listen to.
The Beastie Boys usually sound pretty good and this one is no exception. Solid album.
It's alright. Nothing that I'd consider a stand out.
I like the atmosphere and the vibe. I like Drake's voice, but the breathiness and quietness make him difficult to understand at times. I could probably reduce the sound pollution in my workspace to help remedy that issue, but I honestly can't be bothered to do so. Where I'm listening, the instruments punch through and the vocals take on a gentle, murmurous quality. It ends up being quite delightful. My apologies to the artist for disregarding what I'm sure are very meaningful lyrics.
River of Orchids got me pretty hyped for this one, but nothing else grabbed me in the same way. Maybe Green Man did a bit.
The title track is so good, but the album itself is just so-so. It hits the same as David Byrne's voice, a given track is either a total banger or bleh.
I was happily surprised to hear Chassagne in Sprawl II. She has such a fun voice (see Sprawl II and Electric Blue).
I dig the vibes. I don't identify so much with the trappings of suburban life it is presented in, but I enjoy the liminality of it all the same.
I like Nirvana.
It was fine, but not inspiring.
The first half of the album was inane drivel. Kuntz and 22 Going On 23 in the second half were standouts.
22 Going On 23 got me choked up a bit. The heaviness of the first radio clip, the bass, and the second clip giving a hint of something like 'the problem with no name' described by Betty Friedan. Makes one consider the weight and impact of one great trauma against a lifetime of little traumas that you are shamed for discussing and chided for not being more greatful. Makes me sad for my grandmothers. They didn't suffer any great traumas like the first caller, but both are 22 going on 80 and have missed out on things they shouldn't have due to the expectations placed on them and the needs of those they care for. They would probably consider the scale balanced, but my heart still hurts for them.
Probably not a chord that will be struck in many, but it was in me. For moving me so, I grant Locust Abortion Technician by Butthole Surfers a solid 3. I hate you, I love you.
This one worked on me like the Wilco album: I can't recall any of what I listened to after having heard it, but I feel like some sort of subliminal message was etched into my brain. Overall, I enjoyed it.
Now excuse me while I go buy a cardigan, a frappe, and a fall scented candle.
Pleasantly surprised after Astral Weeks and a live album to boot.
I enjoyed this a lot. No idea what it was about, but it was nice to listen to.
Not my bag. Some of it was fine.
Bleh.
Not bad, but not particularly inspiring.
They had a nice sound and for the most part I enjoyed it.
These guys are THEM. If the first them went for a picnic at the bottom of a lake and the second them tripped stepping out of an airplane lavatory, accidentally caught the emergency release on the exit door, fell through, were caught by the third and fourth them, and they all fell to their deaths like some macabre barrel of monkeys.
The album is good. Some real classics.
Not my preferred music, but not bad.
I think there is an attempt to convey some interesting emotions, but it's not being transmitted on my wavelength.
I was positively tickled to discover the connection between Rufus and Loudon. Rufus' music is alright, but doesn't evoke either the whimsy of his father or any other compelling emotion.
This was pretty solid. You can feel that he was putting everything into this one.
Classic.
Not bad!
I really enjoy songs that tell a story and Robbins spins some good ones. There are a few on here that I wouldn't listen to on repeat, but none that I dislike.
Not bad. Good energy.
It's an album.
Not bad.
I don't understand the logic, but I understand a beat that moves and lightens the soul. Was my soul lifted into those light, white marshmallows in the sky? No, but I could see the top of my fridge without jumping.
I can see why people enjoy him, but those people have horrible taste.
It's aight. Doesn't hit like it used to rolling around in a lime green Pontiac Sunfire with a long grass high high.
I come to in a small dinghy, alone. Mentally and physically unmoored and drifting, the wind guides my gaze to the East, toward where land should be. Nothing. I look then to West, the horizon wavers and is lost. Panic.
I jerk my head back to the East. There too it is gone. Still waters and a uniform gray sky become one, a great and terrible vista unto nothing. Void.
In the quiet I hear a thumping, my heart. A tug at my hair. I scream, but realize I am pulling at my own hair. I let go, rest my head in my hands, close my eyes, and laugh.
I open my eyes, at my feet a disc player and headphones. I pick it up, pop it open. Tres Hombres by Led Zepplin. I put on the headphones and begin listening, praying that the gods of rock will at least save my soul, if not my person. I quickly begin dozing off.
A familiar tune causes my foot to start tapping, pulling me out of the daze and into a different oblivion. La Grange. Not bad. I press pause before the last song on the album finishes, take off the headphones, tidy up the cord, take them and the disc player in hand, and toss them into the water to the East. After nearly 44 minutes I realize there will be no salvation.
I take my phone and wallet, place them beside me on the bench on which I woke, I stand, take an unsteady step onto the bench, onto the railing, almost trip, smile at having caught myself, and then trip into the water to the West. I do not surface.
Later that afternoon, an amusing byline appears on the evening news, authorities have found a recently reported as stolen dinghy resting on a sandbar a mere 100 yards from the dock where the owner had kept the small boat. The owner is an 80 year old alcoholic who frequently loses their glasses. He insists that it was stolen and that the thief left their phone and wallet in it. Authorities note the photo ID in the wallet belong to no known resident of the town or to anyone in any database that they searched.
That night, the old drunk wakes up in a cold sweat. His heart is racing, he claws for his phone, calls the local emergency line. "He stole my disc player and Tres Hombres! It's the greatest rock album of all time." On the other end of the line, a pause. The operator sighs, "Hank, that shit is mid at best. Stop calling this line or we'll have to actually file charges."
Perfectly serviceable for miscreants and misanthropes, the dastardly and deranged, the ill-humored and delirious. I currently identify as a deranged, delirious misanthrope.
I wasn't big on Pearl Jam in my youth, but age has wizened me to its subtle complexities and the gripping narrative it shares. Also, Jeremy is a banger.
Great music.
RIP Ozzy.
The Stones put out some good stuff. This is alright.
It was alright.
This a motley collection of zaniness. I love it.
Not horrible.
It was fine.
This album slaps. The title track never gets old.
