Ornette Coleman “This Is Our Music” (1961)

It was over 30 years ago that I bought my first Ornette Coleman album, Free Jazz, from the second-hand record shop: it was love at first sight (first hear?). Love is inexplicable, at least to those in love, but the sound of Coleman’s alto had an immediate effect on me, an emotional connection, that continues until today. It is the early Atlantic recordings that remain at the heart of my love for Coleman. I have only been listening to This Is Our Music for the past couple of months (I feel no need to rush a love affair), but, other than Free jazz, it has become my favorite of the Coleman-Atlantic albums (but I don’t feel I have to be bound by that judgement in the future). I have heard it said that compared to other figures of the 1960s jazz avant garde Coleman now seems very tame: I think that is true, at least as far as he doesn’t howl and shout in way that threatened to blow away all our assumptions of what music should be, but then the other avant garde sax players tended to fall in behind Coltrane, in their stance of difference they tended to sound the same, while Coleman remains unique. He has created his own musical world, one I find as vivid and friendly as an Impressionist painting, and it is a world that has no successful copies. The one musician who shared this vision was Don Cherry and he is the Engels to Coleman’s Marx, the Watson to his Holmes, the Robin to his Batman – he is the lesser figure, the one who takes his imaginative world from his dominating companion, but maybe he brings Coleman closer, creating a bridge between him and us. Charlie Haden is the anchor for this music, for most of this album playing an idiosyncratic hard bop bass, it has the clear lines that stabilize the music. The exception is Beauty Is a Strange Thing where, playing with a bow, he allows the music to drift away like a cloud without any clear edges. Ed Blackwell is a unique drummer (and I much prefer him to Billy Higgins’ work on the earlier Atlantic-Coleman albums) – he is the gentlest of drummers, not giving the music the rhythmic propulsion we expect a drummer to provide, but rather a rhythmic voice responding to and answering the horns. Writing about other Coleman-Atlantic albums I have said that their great limitation is that all the tracks tend to be a bit the same – here there are two numbers that stand out for their difference: the slow and hovering Beauty Is a Rare Thing and the reinvention of Embraceable You. The latter is the only Ornette Coleman version of a standard I know – it is as though Gershwin’s melody has been replanted in a totally alien soil and it has grown in an unforeseeable way, still recognisably having the same shape, but also disturbingly different. –Nick

Kiss “Kiss” (1974)

Before the merchandising, neon spandex, and nostalgia circuit, KISS were just another hard rock band with stars in/on their eyes. Kiss, the debut, is loaded with future klassics that display the Stanley/Simmons partnership's knack for grafting pop hooks to bludgeoning riffs, sporting the likes of "Deuce," "Strutter," "Nothin' to Lose," and immortal hooker drama "Black Diamond," a vocal-shy Ace checking in with urban intoxication anthem "Cold Gin," and an overlooked gem in the simple charm of "Let Me Know." While the less said about the "Kissin' Time" cover grafted on to later pressings, the better, and ignoring the fact that a certain sluggishness drags some of these recordings down compared to their Alive! revamps, Kiss remains an auspicious debut. –Ben

The Fixx “Reach the Beach” (1983)

I remember seeing The Fixx on MTV when I was 13, there was always this dark sophistication surrounding them. Their sophomore album, Reach the Beach lives up to those first impressions. This record was quite a success for them with the hits "Saved by Zero", a complex tune with a hopeless optimism that seems to clash with the melody & "One thing Leads to Another", an almost dance track about deceit in relationships. The rest of the record follows suit with clean, chorus drenched guitar licks, snappy bass slaps, dissonant keyboards & those wonderful synthesized drums we all loved from the eighties. Cy Curnin's vocals croon like The Cure's Robert Smith trying to imitate Duran Duran's Simon Le Bon, in fact, the music could be described in the same way, new wave funkiness with a sense of melancholy underneath it all- like trying to dance when your sad. Slightly cynical lyrics with upbeat, yet complex arrangements spare this record from being another eighties novelty, the contradictions keep it real. –ECM Tim

Repost: 10cc “Sheet Music” (1974)

10cc’s “Sheet Music” may be one of my favorite pop albums of all time, lovingly crafted songs, witty, ironic and containing themes still highly relevant even today (“Clockwork Creep” is both funny yet scary when one consideres what the world has had to endure these last few years and “Hotel” nails American Imperialism down with wit and ingenuity), musically this album never fails to surprise taking in 70’s rock (Wall Street Shuffle, Silly Love, Oh Effendi), Calypso (Hotel), Latin Rock (Baron Samedi) and pure pop (The Worst Band In The World, Clockwork Creep), however the two standouts are the most cinematic pieces on the album, “Somewhere In Hollywood” brilliantly send up Hollywood and the star system, whilst “Old Wild Men” looks forward to 10cc’s eventual decline with heart and soul. –Derek

“Sheet Music” is a perennial Jive Time favorite and one of my top ten albums of all time. Fans of Sparks, late Move and early ELO will find things to love here. For those who only know 10cc from their hits; you may be pleasantly surprised when you hear “Sheet Music.” –David

Love “Da Capo” (1966)

Inhabiting a strange dimension between the Byrds-meets-the-Rolling Stones bluster of first LP and the psychedelic mariachi sprawl of Forever Changes, Love's Da Capo is a transitional album in every sense of the word. Taken together, the six songs that constitute its “Side A Suite” represent some of the best music of the 60’s, making it all the more painful that Side B represents one of the biggest let-downs in Rock History. On the opening track, “Stephanie Knows Who”, Arthur Lee not only comes into his own, but also establishes himself as one of the most unique and expressive lead vocalists of his generation. There are probably Hallmark cards that are less maudlin and sappy than the MacLean-penned second track, “Orange Skies”, but somehow, miraculously, the band’s tight playing and Lee’s delivery elevate it to greatness. The flamenco-flecked “¡Que Vida!” is a little on the fluffy side, but it’s groovy as hell. The mighty “Seven and Seven Is”, one of the few Love songs that ever charted, has been reproduced on garage compilations many times over, but hearing it here in its natural environment reveals what a massive artistic achievement it really is. Loud, fast, and intense, it could only end with the famous nuclear blast of its coda. Thankfully, respite is provided in the form of the acoustic and introspective gem, “The Castle”. Finally comes the mystical masterpiece, “She Comes in Colors”, a song so great that even the Hooters couldn’t ruin it when they covered it almost two decades later. But then there’s the meandering blues-jam, “Revelation”. Taking up that whole flipside and clocking in at almost 20 minutes, it’s perhaps unfairly maligned. On its own merits it’s not terrible, and it’s certainly not boring (live it was probably mind-blowing), but here it only detracts from the focused brilliance of what came before, and it wears out its welcome quickly. Had wiser council prevailed at Elektra, Da Capo would take its place among such giants such as Are You Experienced, Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and even its creators’ own definitive artistic statement, Forever Changes, but instead this sophomore effort has to settle for “almost great” status. However, it is still essential. –Richard

Frank Zappa “Hot Rats” (1969)

If there's one thing I'm a sucker for, it's psychedelic wah-wah guitar; Eddie Hazel's Game, Dame & Guitar Thangs, Randy California's Kapt. Kopter, John McLaughlin's Devotion. And Frank Zappa's second solo effort, 1969's Hot Rats, proudly belongs among this stellar mind-blowing company. Somewhat of a break from the high-concept Mothers Of Invention, it's divided between long guitar jams, most notably "Willie The Pimp," which re-introduced Captain Beefheart to the world in all his eccentric splendor, and fusionoid instrumentals featuring multi-reedist Ian Underwood in multiple overdubs. Interestingly, Underwood's flat intonation here takes intriguing lyrical compositions such as "Little Umbellas" and "It Must be A Camel" out of jazz wannabe Weather Report territory into a more formal "classical" direction, always the underlying goal with Zappa anyway. But, in the end, Rats is a showcase for Frank to wail and he ain't fooling around! –Singersaints

Felt “The Strange Idols Pattern and Other Short Stories” (1984)

"The Strange Idols Pattern..." is the masterpiece of early indiepop, although is often less considered than Felt's fifth album, the organ driven "Forever Breathes The Lonely Word". Here Maurice Deebank provides the best guitar playing I've ever heard, a constant whirl of sweet jangly picking (on a 12 string guitar I think) and sometimes classical/Spanish melodies; Lawrence encapsulates such imaginative and brilliant solo playing in wonderful three-chord songs, sung with a monotonous and subtle tone that never sounds cheesy or pathetic like Morrissey's howling. I understand that such vocals can be considered boring, but I think they're the best accompaniment for the stream of background notes that - at least for me - has to be on the frontline, while the vocals are secondary. Absolutely great album, my favourite song here is "Crystal Ball", with the best guitar work ever made by Deebank, and a constant sense of tragedy that remains subtle and never explodes, not even in the final short solo. –Gneo

Camel “The Snow Goose” (1975)

The Snow Goose is an essential experience, evocative and emotional, ambitious in it's concept and execution, but accessible as well. The band manage to sustain an entirely instrumental album by filling it with brief, memorable pieces, carried by their always measured performances. While most of the album is devoted to the familiar Camel sound, they are joined in places by a small woodwinds group, expanding the scope of the music. Although you'll want to leave the needle in place once you drop it, a few especially awesome moments are worth mentioning in particular, such as the multi-dimensional "Rhayader Goes To Town", "The Snow Goose" which features some tender, spine-tingling guitar phrases, the duo of "Preparation", with it's foreboding sequencer pattern, and it's haunting, slow-boiling partner in "Dunkirk". But this is a complete, constantly unfolding album that should be heard with the lights down low, brew of choice in hand, the world of The Goose swooping into your listening room and filling the next 40 minutes with it's sublime sounds. –Ben

Leonard Cohen “Songs of Love and Hate” (1971)

Never the most chipper of performers, Cohen seems to have stopped taking his happy pills here, but the album is all the better for it as far as I'm concerned. Songs about religion? Check. Anguish? Check. Love? Check. No sex though..must be his impotent period. But anyway, it's just fabulous from start to finish, and contains some of his best lyrics, especially "Avalanche", "Famous Blue Raincoat", and "Diamonds In The Mine". The latter track finds him nearly losing it like some angry lounge singer, his background vocalists barely keeping him in check. There was never any doubt Leonard Cohen was a poet, but both his written word and music shine perfectly in unison here. Speaking of poetry, if you're a woman in college right now and some smooth character is shooting you provocative looks from the poetry section in the library, run like hell. I know he's probably holding a copy of Cohen's "Beautiful Losers" and has a wine collection, but he's not worth it. Trust me. –Neal

David Crosby “If I Could Only Remember My Name” (1971)

Along with Gene Clark’s “No Other” and John Philips “The Wolf King Of L.A.,” David Crosby’s “If I Could Only Remember My Name” is considered another great lost seventies classic. And rightly so! It has the lore; the album was recorded shortly after the tragic death of his partner, the line up; a who's who of the West Coast in 1971 including Neil Young, Grace Slick, Graham Nash and Jerry Garcia among others. And the songs; the haunting “Laughing” (featuring Joni Mitchell), the dreamy “Tamalpais High” and the transcendental “Orleans.” Beautiful and decadent, organic and excessive, the album perfectly captures the early seventies California sound and scene while creating something entirely unique. –David

Chuck Jackson “Goin’ Back to Chuck Jackson” (1969)

Chuck Jackson must have been a really weird fit for Motown. Kind of like the Yankees acquiring Michael Schumacher; top brand aquires top talent, despite the obvious apples/oranges implications. His tenure at Wand was mainly filled with well-done Iceman ballad stylings with the odd Northern track (“Chains of Love”) thrown in for giggles. But just like the Iceman himself making a pair of brilliant albums in Philly, this album works extremely well. I would have to imagine that Chuck did something wrong in his interview with Berry Gordy. Maybe he didn't seem too thrilled at the prospect of putting two white teenagers kissing on a beach on the album cover. Maybe he went on and on about how much he liked the new Isley Brothers single on T-Neck and how they're doing so well now. In any event, Berry did not stack this album with songwriting talent. Two Smokey songs, one H-D-H, one Ashford/Simpson, one Stevie Wonder, and then some other guys. No producer's credit either. Needless to say this does not sound like a 1969 Motown album.

The album starts off well enough with a Bert Berns song but then sidesteps into a big heaping pile of Jimmy Webb. There are a lot of Jimmy Webb fans out there; I am unequivocally not one of them. I like bits of the first Fifth Dimension album. Other than that, I think his songs are firmly in the schmaltzy pathos category and one of the worst things to happen to soul music (other than Bobby Womack) was the endless assembly line of "Witchita Lineman" covers. (Oh, you're a lineman for the county? Shut up already and fix the power lines then.) Things pick up with a solid version of "Cry Like a Baby". Side 2 is the real stormer, however. An interesting cover of Tyrone Davis' "Can I Change My Mind" is great, even if the trademark jangly guitar is slightly buried. "I'd Still Love You" follows and, whoa, fuzz guitar! Ominous spoken intro leads into the best production on the album. Again, I would love to know who produced this cut, as it's definitely not Norman Whitfield territory but it's close. "The Day My World Stood Still" is a wonderful little sleeper that opens up into a dramatically darker bridge featuring swirling strings and woodblocks with an ersatz flamenco feel and a Chuck Jackson vocal that is certainly up for the challenge. It's the kind of staggeringly effective minor key bridge that was more common to UK psych (just replace the ersatz flamenco with ersatz Middle Eastern). A baffling little excursion that I can't get enough of.

Motown may not have given a lot of effort and attention to Chuck Jackson, but you should. Plus he looks pretty suave in that turtleneck. He certainly looks better than I do in them. –Mike

Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band “Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band” (1976)

This self-titled debut (!!!) album is one of my all-time favorite records. I've played it thousands of times and know it by heart. Too jazzy for Disco fans, too "trivial" for Jazz fans, too remote from "roots" for the Soul/Funk division, this album was and is a dream-come-true for all those who don't wear blinkers when it comes to music. All seven songs are jewels, and together, they're a string of pearls. No matter from which angle - the compositions, the arrangements, the singing, the performance - always five stars. I can't think of or play this album without fits of rapture. –Yofriend

Todd Rundgren “A Wizard, A True Star” (1973)

Nothing could have prepared audiences in '73 for the brain scrambler that is A Wizard, A True Star, a double-album's worth of ideas crammed horizontally (in the brevity of the songs) and vertically (in the impenetrable layers of sound) onto one album, albeit a long one. Was this the same guy who released Something/Anything a year before? But start peeling A Wizard back, and that pop-rocker is still there, most notably on the impassioned "Sometimes I Don't Know What to Feel," space age soarer "International Feel," oddly beautiful cabaret of "Zen Archer," hard rock/lush pop hybrid "When The Shit Hits The Fan/Sunset Blvd.," and the first of a new recurring theme for Todd, the uplifting anthemic "Just One Victory." But the distinguishing characteristic of A Wizard is the 1 to 2 minute slices of "real" songs and outright weirdness that disorient the listener, to the point that a few tracks into this one you've either been totally seduced or completely given up, placing it as one of those polarizing efforts of either genius or bullshit, depending on your view. An easy five stars, of course. –Ben

Bob Dylan “Blood On The Tracks” (1975)

Quite simply, Blood On The Tracks is my favourite Dylan album. In one of those too few illuminating moments, I knew the first time I heard it that this was something special and through the years it has sustained me through some really bad times: divorce, depression and my Dad's death. When written, Dylan himself was experiencing the traumas of a marriage break-up and all the muddled feelings that engenders are in evidence - sadness, bitterness, anger, relief and regret. But, even with this background, Blood On The Tracks is not a depressing album. "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go", "If You See Her, Say Hello", "You're A Big Girl Now" and "Tangled Up In Blue" expose a man unsure of his feelings but striving to make a good fist of it. I could, and still can, identify with that. Even though his turbulent emotions must have been a dominating factor, Dylan also managed to pen a couple of wonderful morality tales: "Simple Twist Of Fate" and "Shelter From The Storm", and a brilliantly inventive novella: "Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts." Blood On The Tracks will remain an album I will return to again and again. –Ian

Black Sabbath “Never Say Die!” (1978)

This was a pleasant surprise because I'd heard so many bad things about this album both from critics and the band themselves. Stories of being too drugged up to continue in the studio don't seem to gel with the final product, which sounds crisp and well mixed to me, the spectacular drumming up front and Ozzy's vocals not sounding in the least druggy. I guess there's a lot to be said about post production. But the songs to me sound better and more musically adventurous than those on Sabotage or even the Dio era albums that followed. Particular highlights are the psychy, wah wah feel of Junior's Eyes and Iommi's riffage on Shock Wave. All in all, I really don't think it was a bad album for Ozzy to bow out on. –Neal

The Incredible String Band “The 5000 Spirits or the Layers of the Onion” (1967)

Yes, I think this is even better than The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter. The difference is while that record gets its strength from its total weirdness -- it meanders in the best sense -- this one has actual songs: great, great songs that will move you, make you laugh and make you think. "First Girl I Loved" alone is enough to get you seeking out this record, but add to that the prescient sarcasm of "Back In The 1960s" (which foresees the death of the hippie ideal before it had even begun), the Wind In The Willows on acid of "Little Cloud" and "The Hedgehog Song" (The Archbishop of Canterbury's fave ISB number!) and the simply beautiful "Painting Box". Plus I love the way Williamson sings. For those of you who wonder what "The Fool On The Hill" would have been liked if Lennon had written it. –Brad

Terje Rypdal “Odyssey” (1975)

Producer Manfred Eicher's ECM label has been a mixed bag over the years. Much of the output has been criticized for being homogenized, self-indulgent & dull as well as being praised for genius production, adventurous artists making groundbreaking recordings, with an inner fire underneath the slick recordings. Love it or hate it, there is a definite sound environment that Eicher has created, it's simply known as the "ECM sound". The use of space in music, as loud as silence, free improv without a million notes, composed chaos that whispers screams. When it works it is timeless & innovative, when it doesn't, it can sound like elevator music that was thrown aside because it sounded too much like, well, elevator music.

Odyssey is guitarist Terje Rypdal's fourth record for ECM & it works. A double album of low-fi fusion intertwined with progressive rock string interludes, distorted organs, hissy snare fills, groovy bass lines , ethereal horns, & of course, Rypdal's guitar playing, which sounds like a cross between Jimi Hendrix & an avant garde cello player. The melodies are dark, cold & funky as hell. Rypdal was definitely channeling Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" on this record but only softer, all the groove & dissonance, but less crowded, like someone whispering a hurricane in your ear. The record opens with "Darkness Falls". Rypdal's guitar screeching like an injured space bird along side organ stabs & chattering drums with the bass searching for a cohesive rhythm: a gentle panic within the group forms but slowly subsides as the sound fades & flows right into the second track, "Midnite". Warm, pulsating bass & drums lock into each other & they begin to groove with Rypdal's wah pedal over the top of moaning trombones & snaky organ lines in the background, holding it all together; quietly. Odyssey has it's heavier moments as well- "Rolling Stone" a twenty-five minute rock-funk gem that sounds as if Sly Stone & crew ran into the boys from Black Sabbath & said, "Let's jam". "Over Birkerot" would be perfectly comfortable on a mid- seventies King Crimson record. It does bog down a bit with a couple of almost contemporary classical string/synthesizer drone marathons that can get a little sleepy, but there's just enough smolder in there to keep the listener curious. The tracks heard on Odyssey still sound relevant. Manfred Eicher's production stamp make these tunes sound as if they could be on any modern down-tempo electronic record from today. –ECM Tim

Buffalo Springfield “Buffalo Springfield Again” (1967)

Just a little over 30 minutes long, and it goes in about as many directions. Neil Young's songs don't seem to belong on the same record as those of Stills or Furay; actually, they don't seem to belong in the same universe. Yet the record as a whole doesn't seem messy at all, but powerful, even focused, by its diversity. I used to love the Young songs -- even the psychedelic weirdness of "Broken Arrow" -- but these days I find myself attracted to the Stills songs, which are some of his best. "Bluebird" in particular manages to seem both sleek and cryptic at the same time, and the Stills-Young guitar team is a wonder (take that, Yardbirds!). Really, the only clunker is the Dewey Martin-sung "Good Time Boy", a fairly terrible Otis parody (but at least it adds soul to the band's armory). Everything else works, even "Mr Soul", on which Neil borrows a riff from the Rolling Stones. And not for the last time, either. –Brad

Pink Floyd “Relics” (1971)

This is a terrific collection of early Floyd stuff, some of it before Syd Barrett was catatonic, but most of it afterward yet well before Gilmour was growing so. Anyone interested probably has Piper at the Gates of Dawn (and thus roughly a quarter of this LP's contents), and anyone getting this for "Careful With that Axe, Eugene" should be made aware of a superior version on Ummagumma. But non-LP single "See Emily Play" alone is worth springing for this set, and nearly everything else is uniformly excellent. (Check out "The Nile Song" for evidence that the group could've gone in the direction of Heavy.) While anthologies don't usually work as albums, this one works better than most albums—even better than many Pink Floyd albums, which were generally very consciously made to work as albums. Just goes to show how consciousness can get in the way –Will

The Mahavishnu Orchestra “The Inner Mounting Flame” (1971)

Fusion has become a dirty word in most jazz circles these days, which have been thoroughly Marsalis-ised to the point of declaring that the only good jazz is acoustic jazz. And yes, there were a lot of crimes committed in the name of jazz-rock (I'd rather have my fingernails pulled out than have to listen to a Lenny White LP again) but a handful of classics did emerge from it. This is one. I'm tempted to say this is THE one, which wouldn't be correct, but you do tend to get carried away listening to McLaughlin and the boys in full flight. As opposed to their subsequent albums, the emphasis here is on virtuoso playing that still comes from the heart. And the all-acoustic "A Lotus on Irish Streams" is quite simply one of the most beautiful pieces of music to come out of the 1970s. In some ways Birds of Fire is a better, more ambitious and fully-conceived album than this one, but it just misses out on the questing spirit and beauty that makes The Inner Mounting Flame such a compelling listening experience. –Brad

Muddy Waters “Electric Mud” (1968)

This may be the most polarizing album ever to come out of the Chess empire (unless that Rotary Connection Christmas album really drives you batty); it's telling that they chose to release this on the more daring Cadet Concept subsidiary. It's funny to think that this album was intended to update Muddy Waters' image to appeal to the younger people and, 42 years on, that's exactly what it did for me, who currently fits the original demographic they were after: I have no quarrel with traditional blues, I even enjoy it when the mood strikes me, but this is the only Muddy Waters album that I beat the proverbial door down to acquire. And this album is ferocious! There's no session information given but I would have to imagine that it's the usual Chess/Cadet session crew backing him up. The bass rumbles along louder than I've ever heard John Paul Jones' or John Entwistle's. The drums, in particular the bass drum, are louder than those in any psych group I can think of other than maybe the Move. The most surprising aspect may be that, despite the fact that Muddy reportedly hated this album with a passion, his electric guitar playing is phenonmenal. I suppose this is expected from a great bluseman, but he also knows how to use its new-found volume and distortion to great effect. He growls through each monster track, achieving what Jimi Hendrix was clearly after in his formative days. As it is a late 60s Cadet Concept album, the ace in the hole is the arrangement, this time from the great Charles Stepney, in the midst of arranging the hell out of those Rotary Connection and Ramsey Lewis albums (the latter along with Richard Evans). Stepney actually displays quite a bit of restraint here, with his patented complex string and brass parts lurking way in the background, the exception being when "She's Alright" brilliantly morphs it's coda into the string-laden bridge from "My Girl".

Most blues purists decry this, which I suppose is understandable, but you have to admit that this is as convincing a psychedelic-blues album as anything Cream or Led Zeppelin could hope to come up with. Still underrated by most critics, this is truly a left-field masterpiece. –Mike

The Stooges “Raw Power” (1973)

“The raw power of Iggy Pop predated punk.” An anonymous quote I heard from some time back that sums up the very essence of what Iggy and the Stooges were about. And with their 1973 release, Raw Power, their muscle is in full-flex-mode. Famously produced by, David Bowie, and the band in a state of disorder - the combining couple crafted an album that, not only became a trailblazer, but also set the tone for what would come next, punk. Because of this, Raw Power, was molded into the blueprint of how rock ‘n’ roll should always be: dark, dangerous, and full of filth. The out of ordinary sound for its time has still never been equaled, many imitators came and went, struggling with the crass intensity, but they were all failed attempts. Iggy made a point to declare conventionalism was out, and in its place -- sleazy drug-fueled globs of noise. The Stooges remain one of my all-time favorite bands. And it has a lot to do with Raw Power. Some hipsters might declare, Raw Power, the weakest out of the holy trinity, due to its heavy praise, but there’s no denying its incendiary explosive strength. And on more than one occasion, I have been known to declare it my favorite album, ever. –Jason

Caetano Veloso “Caetano Veloso” (1971)

Ironically enough, Caetano Veloso's almost entirely English language album is one of the most misunderstood of his classic 60s/70s period amongst English-speaking audiences (first place goes to Araca Azul, but that one at least gives you fair warning of its polarizability by the Caetano-in-bikini cover). Recorded while in exile in London, the album marks a dramatic musical departure from his first 2 solo outings that he would continue to explore up through 1977 or thereabouts. I must confess I don't know too many details of Caetano's (or Gilberto Gil's) exile in London. It seems like a bit of a missed opportunity on the part of the British, though there was probably no reason why anyone there should've known who he was. Apparently some Traffic members were big fans, and even helped out on Gil's sessions but if I were George Harrison or Twink or Jimmy Page or Bill Wyman or Jack Bruce or Marc Bolan or Mike Heron and someone told me that the leading light of Brazil's new underground rock movement was in my midst, I would totally be over there asking if he wanted to go bowling or split an appetizer or something. Or if I was Jimmy Page, I would ask if I could steal his guitar line from "Irene".

One aspect of Veloso's exile period is quite clear: he did NOT like it. The cover is amazing. Caetano looks like he's 50, he's cold, and you just told him a mildly offensive joke. One would assume this album is as bleak as Pink Moon but the first couple of songs might surprise you. "A Little More Blue" opens with a laidback, meandering acoustic figure that sounds a bit mellow but certainly not conducive to soul-bearing. The lyrics are about events that have made him sad, even though at the present moment "I feel a little more blue than then". Along the way he peppers in references to his own exile and some truly vivid lyrics ("her dead mouth with red lipstick smiled"). An odd, dichotomous opener. "London, London" is for me the clear standout. And, oddly enough, it's the jauntiest track, replete with playful flute like Donovan's 67-era acoustic sides. It's one of the most exquisitely beautiful songs I've ever heard concerning alienation, loneliness, and, above all, homesickness. In this respect, it can be seen as the post-traumatic counterpart to the desperate "Lost in the Paradise" from his previous album. And while I hold that song to be one of the best songs ever written, period, "London, London" offers the beautifully resigned flipside of that coin. And all this from a song whose refrain is "My eyes go looking for flying saucers in the skies". Things start to get a bit darker with the more-produced "Maria Bethania", a plea to his sister. "If You Hold a Stone" is an expanded, highly repetitve reworking of "Marinheiro So" from the previous album. I'm not going to pretend to know what he's talking about here (even though it's in English and he repeats it like 30 times) but I could listen to it all day long. The last song "Asa Branca" is the only Portuguese-language track on the album and as such it's an emotionally powerful return to relatively familiar territory for Caetano. The song, written by Luiz Gonzaga and Humberto Teixeira, is about a native farmer (presumably) of Northeastern Brazil having to leave the land and his wife during one of the droughts that often occur in that part of the country because he is unable to make a living. At the end he promises to return. Amazingly, if you really try to live inside this album, you don't really need to know Portugese to understand what this song is saying. A haunting, ethereal way to end perhaps the most personal album in Veloso's storied career.

This album is notable for several reason. Firstly, it marks a dramatic change in musical direction for Veloso. I've never heard an album with a greater sense of space. There is a lot of silence on this album and it itself is utilized almost as an additional instrument, a "symphony of silence" (mental copyright) if you will. His first solo album was lush and sprightly and full of subtle sonic experimentation. His second album made the sonic experimentation much more explicit and combined this with a panoramic feeling that made that album at times feel tense and murky (not a bad thing in this case). This album does a dramatic about-face with its spare, acoustic lines, occasional bass-and-drum backing, and lyric-centric approach. This formula would reach full fruition on Transa and continue up until 1977's African-influenced Bicho. The second notable aspect of this album is how well Veloso's poetry translates into English. That's no mean feat. Gil's more awkward English makes his equivalent album difficult to decipher emotionally but Caetano's only slightly accented English is perfectly suited to his prose that, though economical, are undeniably evocative and effective at relating emotional depth. Certainly not a place to start for Caetano Veloso, but you should try to find yourself here if you are willing to acquire more than 3 of his albums. –Mike

Jackson Browne “Late for the Sky” (1974)

One of those artifacts that sort of sum up the 1970s for me, along with the films Annie Hall, Nashville and Three Women. Like those movies, Late for the Sky deals with the aftermath of a romance in dreamy, almost surreal style. If you're looking for rock, look elsewhere; but if you lean to the Nick Drake/Tim Buckley end of the singer-songwriter spectrum and you've been put off by Browne's reputation for cloying navel-gazing, then put your prejudices aside and listen to this record. –Brad

Tears For Fears “The Hurting” (1983)

Even though I was well past the teenage angst phase when The Hurting was released it still managed to strike a mighty big chord. If you thought that electronic pop was nothing more than lightweight froth, then this album will come as something of a shock. This is as close as music gets to defining the nightmare that is adolescence. It is amazingly depressing yet musically uplifting. The melancholic atmosphere is palpable especially on gruesome downer tracks like "Watch Me Bleed" and "Start Of The Breakdown" which are perfect fodder for manic-depressives. For my money this is the only Tears For Fears album worth owning. Here they revel in an unrefined talent combined with a pristine sound which would later be soiled by over production on the likes of Songs From The Big Chair. All the songs on The Hurting have been penned by Roland Orzabal and I read somewhere that the album is a reflection of his troubled childhood. So, while I could relate to this from a teenage perspective, Orzabal was suffering through this at a much younger age – which gives the album an even more harrowing edge. As he says “memories fade but the scars still linger”.  –Ian