ITT: The best of Christgau

Korn [Epic, 1995]

The cover art depicts a frightened little girl cowering as the shadow of a hook-handed rapist draws near. The band loves this image and flaunts it in all of their trade ads as Sony flogs their death-industrial into its second year. They also sing about child abuse--guess what? They're agin it. But if their name isn't short for kiddy porn, then the band should insist on a music video where they all get eaten by giant chickens. C

>>70885140
well he ain't wrong

Core [Atlantic, 1993]

Once you've learned to distinguish them from the Stoned Tempo Pirates, the Stoned Pesto Pinenuts, the Gray-Templed Prelates, Pearl Jam, Wishbone Ash, and Temple of the Dog, you may decide that they're a halfway decent hard rock act. Unfortunately, once they're done setting you up with their best power chords, you realize that the type song is "Sex Type Thing" and it's attached to a rape threat. The band claims this is intended ironically, sort of like "Naked Sunday"'s sarcastic handshake with authority. But ironic critique loses its teeth when the will to sex still powers your power chords. And if that's the excuse critics, as well as MTV listeners, have reason to suspect, then the whole band should catch AIDS and die. B-

Wild Tales [Atlantic, 1974]

The title's as phony as the rest of the album, which despite the bought and paid for goodies--an intro here, a harmony there, even a song occasionally, is mostly a tame collection of reshuffled platitudes. Especially enervating--"Oh, Camille" in which Graham lets us know he is morally superior to a doubt-ridden Vietnam vet. C-

Dr. Dre -- 2001 [Aftermath/Interscope, 2000]

It's a New Millennium, but he's Still S.L.I.M.E. How Eminem survived all the misogyny conditioning to grow into the sensitive spouse we know today I'll never understand. A "family man" when he's explaining why he fled the 'hood, on the very next track Dre drips contempt for the wife he's dogging and the other husbands' wives he's sodomizing--apparently because his real-life wife told him that would be commercial, rendering him a liar more ways than Eminem himself could comprehend. For an hour, with time out for some memorable Eminem tracks, Dre degrades women every way he can think of, all of which involve his dick ("the whole eight," as this master of poetic license puts it). Best friend S. Dogg, bad speller Kurupt, and Dat 'Ho Ms. Roq are among the hangers-on who'll take his (really Eminem's) money when (and if) he writes the check. And just when you thought it was safe to discard your vomit bag he goes out on a tearjerker about a dead homey. Wottan innovator. C

Get Your Wings [Columbia, 1974]

These prognathous New Englanders prove the old adage that if a band is going to be dumb, they may as well be American dumb, and here they provide a real treat for the hearing impaired on side one. Have a pretty good sense of humor too, assuming "Lord of the Thighs" is intended as a joke. With dumb bands, it's always hard to tell. B-

OK Computer [Capitol, 1997]

My favorite Pink Floyd album has always been Wish You Were Here, and you know why? It has soul, that's why--it's Roger Waters's lament for Syd, not my idea of a tragic hero but as long as he's Roger's that doesn't matter. Radiohead wouldn't know a tragic hero if they were cramming for their A levels, and their idea of soul is Bono, who they imitate further at the risk of looking even more ridiculous than they already do. So instead they pickle Thom Yorke's vocals in enough electronic marginal distinction to feed a coal town for a month. Their art-rock has much better sound effects than the Floyd snoozefest Dark Side of the Moon. But it's less sweeping and just as arid. B-

has he literally ever been wrong?

every review is so concise, yet perfectly sums up everything good and bad about the album

Stephen Stills [Atlantic, 1970]

Steve Stills always projects an effortless swing, and his tradeoffs here with Eric Clapton are classic. There's only one thing that comes off as undefined. Oh wait, it's the songs. C+

>>70886039
See >>70886001

The older I get, the more I like Christgau.

>>70886100
he's right about that album though, and he's right to pan radiohead in general

X [Parlophone, 2007]

a special happy birthday to our favorite Aussie ingenue, who is turning 40 and can somehow still sing ("2 Hearts", "Speakerphone"). *

BB King: Subjects For Further Research [1980s]

He's seldom been terrible, and in 1978, when he stopped trying for AM ballads and disco crossovers, and moved to uptempo nightclub funk, he started making good albums again. Then again, good also means predictable and "There Must Be A Better World Somewhere" is the only of his well-made later albums I got into. Instead, I recommend "The Best of BB King", a reissue of Galaxy's 1968 best of. Now that's classic.

Ten [Epic, 1991]

in life, abuse justifies melodrama. in music, riffs work even better ("Once", "Even Flow").*

>>70886039
Naming a Lil Wayne album as the third-best of an entire decade

The Who By Numbers [MCA, 1975]

This album is a lot weaker than my dispassionate grade would indicate. Because I mean, don't we all expect better? From The Who, no less? Pete Townshend has more to say about star doubt than John Lennon or David Crosby, but the album's highlights such as "Wherever I May Booze" and "Dreaming From The Waist" merely circle the drain. I don't expect the seer to have the answers, but I do at least expect him to enjoy the question. B+

Desire [Columbia, 1975]

In the great tradition of Grand Funk Railroad, Dylan has made an album beloved by tour devotees--including those who were shut out of Rolling Thunder's pseudocommunitarian grooviness except via the press. It is not beloved by me. Although the candid propaganda and wily musicality of "Hurricane" delighted me for a long time, the deceitful bathos of its companion piece, "Joey," tempts me to question the unsullied innocence of Rubin Carter himself. These are not protest songs, folks, not in the little-people tradition of "Hattie Carroll"; their beneficiaries are (theoretically) wronged heroes, oppressed overdogs not unlike our beleaguered superstar himself. And despite his show of openness, our superstar may be feeling oppressed. His voice sounds viscous and so do his rhymes, while sisters Ronee and Emmylou sound distinctly kid, following the leader as if they're holding onto his index finger. More genuinely fraternal (and redeeming) are the pained, passionate marital tributes, "Sara" and "Isis." B-

Ringo's Rotogravure [Atlantic, 1976]

This fellow sounds as if he can use a band. Do you think Leon Russell could drum one up? C+

You Light Up My Life [Warner Bros., 1977]

Who cares if the single sold seven million? Trendsetters don't buy singles. Smart people like you and me don't buy singles, y'know what I mean? But now I hear the _album_ has gone platinum? D-

>>70885140
>That same month [August 2013], during an interview with The Wire's Zach Schonfeld, who described Christgau as "notoriously grumpy" and "characteristically cranky", Christgau said he enjoyed pornography, stating that it "performs its arousal function quite well with no outside help".[23]

Night in the Ruts [Columbia, 1979]

This one begins with a promising song about the band's career titled "No Surprize". Then they steadily inch closer to the dull tempos, flash guitar, and stupid cover versions of heavy metal orthodoxy. No surprise. C+

Street-Legal [Columbia, 1978]

Professional rock journalists invariably learn to find charm in boastful, girl-shy adolescents. Boozy-voiced misogynists in their late thirties are a straight-up drag. This divorcee seems too overripe, too wallowing in his own self-generated misery to break free of the leaden tempos that oppress his melodies. Because he's too shrewd to put his heart into genuine corn, and because his idea of a tricky arrangement is a couple of horns or singing girls behind a basic I-IV-V chord progression, a joke is what it is. But since he still commands remnants of authority, the joke is sour indeed. C+

Saved [Columbia, 1980]

This record proves that the real hero behind "Slow Train Coming" wasn't Jerry Wexler or the former R. Zimmerman or Jesus Christ, it was Mark Knopfler. May Bobby never preach to soul sisters again. C+

Superstar Car Wash [Metal Blade, 1993] :(

A Boy Named Goo [Metal Blade, 1995] :(

Dizzy up the Girl [Warner Bros., 1998] *bomb*

Christgau is the single best music critic when it comes to no-bullshit, down-and-dirty, American rock and roll and punk rock. He understands the genre and its cocksure masculine swagger probably better than any music critic ever will. He is the high chancellor of low art.

And that's where my problems with him begin, because he doesn't believe in a distinction between "high" and "low" art, which sounds good on paper, but results in Christgau becoming resentful if not hostile toward any music that has any high-melodic or baroque aspirations. So while an album like Modern Times by Bob Dylan will get an A+ and effusive praise from the man for getting that whole I-don't-give-a-shit not-really-trying brand of authenticity exactly right, only a handfull of prog albums have fared better than a C+. The more musical and complicated your arrangements are, the less Christgau likes them. Hell, he doesn't like that you even think of them arrangements. Three chords, a pair of swinging nuts, and a bone to pick are, for Christgau, the only legitimate tools of self-expression. Anything more melodic, sweeping, ambitious, or concept-laden than that is unnecessarily pretentious and (Christgau's most unforgivable sin): ultimately inauthentic.

C-

Greatest Hits [Motown, 1978]

Any funk group who scores a hit as sappy as "Three Times A Lady" proves only one thing--they ain't as funky as they used to be. Or maybe they never really were a funk group to begin with, instead merely skilled pros who understood funk's entertainment value the way John Denver did with folk. I love "Machine Gun", "Brick House", and "Slippery When Wet", but they aren't even on the same side of this depressing compilation, half of which is devoted to Lionel Richie's mealy mouth. C+

>>70887009
You're kinda right. I generally don't like his reviews but it seems like he definitely favors and understands bog standard rock and punk more than anything else.

Hot [Mammoth, 1997]

They cut their second album live to a single mike because they don't just love old jazz--they love old jazz records, which is also why Katharine Whalen thinks the way to channel Billie Holiday and Betty Boop is to scrunch up your tonsils. However sincerely they disavow nostalgia, they're not good enough to escape it--striving for the life they hear on those records, they're neither acute enough musically nor blessed enough culturally to get closer than a clumsy imitation. Mix in a soupcon of postloungecore eleganza and you end up with a band that's damn lucky to have written a couple of dandy songs. And if they purloined that calypso novelty hit they put their name on, I hope the teeth that get extruded are their own. B-

December Day [Legacy, 2014]

After the jaunty "Alexander's Ragtime Band," I was disappointed to note the tune density diminishing markedly here. Luckily, on my third and I thought final run-through, I noticed Willie emitting the bandless but far from unmusical or amelodic words "I don't know where I am today/I don't know where I was yesterday/This song has so many notes to play/I just hope that I hit them today." Thus begins the Senile Dementia Suite, which proceeds through Nelson's 2014 "Amnesia" and 1972 "Who'll Buy My Memories," pauses to dig up Al Jolson's "Anniversary Song," and then tops itself off with the inescapably tuneful 2014 "Laws of Nature": "I get my water from the rain/If it don't rain I'll die/Stormy weather saves my life/Sometimes I laugh and wonder why." There are seven songs after that, mostly remakes of self-written chestnuts he's no doubt remade before. Hell, there's another "Is the Better Part Over" on his 2013 album, although you can see how the concept fits better here, as does what is just barely or maybe not a different version of Django Reinhardt's signature "Nuages," which you'll understand when you learn that this is Willie's guitar album way more than it's Bobbie's piano album, which it also is, and yes, the rest of his band pitches in subtly when needed. My mother-in-law played Willie's Stardust on repeat in her last years. I won't be like that--I have more music in my kit. But as a senescence album this definitely tops L. Cohen's. A

Ramones [Sire, 1976]

I love this record--love it--even though I know these boys flirt with images of brutality (Nazi especially) in much the same way "Midnight Rambler" flirts with rape. You couldn't say they condone any nasties, natch--they merely suggest that the power of their music has some fairly ominous sources and tap those sources even as they offer the suggestion. This makes me uneasy. But my theory has always been that good rock and roll should damn well make you uneasy, and the sheer pleasure of this stuff--which of course elicits howls of pain from the good old rock and roll crowd--is undeniable. For me, it blows everything else off the radio: it's clean the way the Dolls never were, sprightly the way the Velvets never were, and just plain listenable the way Black Sabbath never was. And I hear it cost $6400 to put on plastic. A

>>70885140
lol his shirt can't even say boobs right

Ringo the 4th [Atlantic, 1977]

The realization that people will buy this depressing album just because it was made by a Beatle saddens me. Only they didn't because for all intents and purposes, it never finished higher than #199 on Billboard's end of year chart, which was no doubt some statistician paying his respects. C-

Piano Man [Columbia, 1973]

Joel's Cold Spring Harbor was recorded in the vicinity of 38-rpm to fit all the material on--he's one of these eternal teenagers who doesn't know how to shut up. Stubborn little bastard, too--after his bid stiffed, he worked a Los Angeles cocktail lounge soaking up Experience. Here he poses as the Irving Berlin of narcissistic alienation, puffing up and condescending to the fantasies of fans who spend their lives by the stereo feeling sensitive. And just to remind them who's boss, he hits them with a ballad after the manner of Aaron Copland. C

Bridge Over Troubled Water [Columbia, 1970]

Melodic. B

Van Halen [Warner Bros., 1978]

For some reason Warners wants us to know that this is the biggest bar band in the San Fernando Valley. This doesn't mean much--all new bands are bar bands, unless they're Boston. The term becomes honorific when the music belongs in a bar. This music belongs on an aircraft carrier. C

>>70887472
ooh he fucked up on this one

he probably got pissed off that david lee roth did acrobatics and eddie van halen knew classical music

A TELECASTER
THREE CHORDS
A WRY SENSE OF HUMOR

EVERYONE ELSE GTFO

File: hqdefault.jpg (22KB, 480x360px) Image search: [Google]

22KB, 480x360px

>mfw a hunky dark-haired American dude with a pair of blue jeans and a telecaster starts singing about his car except maybe he's singing about the human condition but nah fuck that he's singing about his car

>>70887358
lol he uses the word "melodic" the way normal people use words like "cute" or "cozy" or "pleasant"

you just know he wants to be like "yeah it sounds good but what the fuck does that have to do with american manhood"

>>70887531
Yeah, but they're from California (and not good ol' New York City, praise be upon it) so they're automatically shit

I still say he's right on the money with Aerosmith, though. That guy just gets Aerosmith.

Stephen Stills 2 [Atlantic, 1971]

Steve Stills has always come on as the ultimate rich hippie--arrogant, self-pitying, shallow, sexist. Unfortunately, he's never quite reached his true level, but flashes of brilliant unease remain. The single, "Marianne", is very nice, especially if you don't listen too hard to the lyrics, but there's more on the order of an all-male chorus with jazz horns singing in unison and with perfect straightness the chorus "It's disgusting" over and over. Keep it up, SS. It'll be a pleasure watching you fail. C+

Ersatz shit.

Judas Priest

Meltdown [1970s]

Everything Rocks and Nothing Ever Dies [1990s]

Who Are You [MCA, 1978]

Every time I concentrate, I can make out some new detail in Roger's singing or Pete's guitar or John Entwistle's bass guitar. Not in Keith Moon's drums though, and I still don't relate to the synthesizer. But I never learn anything new, and this is not my idea of fun rock-and-roll. It should be one or the other, if not both. B

Paul Simon [Columbia, 1972]

I've been saying nasty things about Simon since 1967, but this is the only thing in the universe to make me positively happy in the first two weeks of February 1972. I hope Art Garfunkel is gone for good--he always seemed so vestigial, but it's obvious now that two-part harmony crippled Simon's naturally agile singing and composing. And the words! This is a professional tour of Manhattan for youth culture grads, complete with Bella Abzug, hard rain, and people who steal your chow fong. The self-production is economical and lively, with the guitars of Jerry Hahn and Stefan Grossman and Airto Moreira's percussion especially inspired. William Carlos Williams after the repression: "Peace Like a River." A+

Grand Funk [Capitol, 1969]

This group is attracting attention apparently because they play faster than Iron Butterfly. Which I grant is a start in the right direction. I saw them live in Detroit before I knew any of this. I found myself enjoying them for 10 minutes, tolerating them for 15, and hating them for 45. This lp, their second, isn't as good as that performance. C-

>>70887009
What you say is absolutely true, and Christgau has gone on record stating that he straight up dislikes certain genres of music, like prog rock or essentially every kind of metal.

That doesn't make his reviews unenjoyable or useless, but it means that they must be taken with a grain of salt.

>>70887826
yeah see he gives this one an A+ because the album is all mmmuh New York.

Van Halen II [Warner Bros., 1979]

Never let it be said that popular styles don't evolve--in the wake of Kiss and Boston, this is heavy metal that's pure, fast, and clean. No mythopoeia, no bombast, and even the guitar features are defined as just that. So how come formalists don't love the shit out of these guys? Not because they're into dominating women, I'm sure. C+

Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows: The Best of Lesley Gore [Rhino, 1998]

Depressingly boy-identified for a protofeminist icon ("You Don't Own Me," "It's My Party"). *

What was the one where the lady sung about getting raped and he rated it a C?

Closer to Home [Capitol, 1970]

What's happening to me? Maybe it's that damned billboard. Or maybe I'm learning to appreciate (note I say appreciate) their mix of youthful camaraderie, energy, and beats. After all, rock and roll has always been described as loud and its rhythms as heavy. And at least Mark Farner doesn't aspire to bluesmanship. C+

Spirits Having Flown [RSO, 1979]

I admire the perverse riskiness of this music, which neglects disco bounce in favor of demented falsetto abstraction, less love-man than newborn-kitten. And I'm genuinely fond of many small moments of madness here, like the way the three separate multitracked voices echo the phrase "living together." But obsessive ornamentation can't transform a curiosity into inhabitable music, and there's not one song here that equals any on the first side of Saturday Night Fever. B-

>>70888007
Little Earthquakes [Atlantic, 1991]

She's been raped, and she wrote a great song about it: the quietly insane "Me and a Gun." It's easily the most gripping piece of music here, and it's a cappella. This means she's not Kate Bush. And though I'm sure she's her own person and all, Kate Bush she'd settle for. C+

Crucify [Atlantic, 1992] *bomb*

Boys for Pele [Atlantic, 1996] *bomb*

From the Choirgirl Hotel [Atlantic, 1998] *bomb*

Strange Little Girls [Atlantic, 2001]

"'97 Bonnie and Clyde" *choice cuts*

Bridges to Babylon [Rolling Stones, 1997]

can still play and occasionally even sing ("Flip the Switch", "Saint of Me"). *

Boston [Epic, 1976]

When I was told that someone had created an American synthesis of Yes and Led Zeppelin, all I could do was cover my ears and say "Gosh!" C

American Idiot [Reprise, 2004]

If you're wondering what this concept album means, don't labor over the lyric booklet. As Billie Joe knows even if he doesn't come out and say it--he doesn't come out and say lots of obvious stuff--this is a visual culture. So examine the cover. That red grenade in the upraised fist? It's also a heart--a bleeding heart. Which he heaves as if it'll explode, only it won't, because he doesn't have what it takes to pull the pin. The emotional travails of two clueless punks--one passive, one aggressive, both projections of the auteur--stand in for the sociopolitical content that the vague references to Bush, Schwarzenegger, and war (not any special war, just war) are thought to indicate. There's no economics, no race, hardly any compassion. Joe name-checks America as if his hometown of Berkeley was in the middle of it, then name-checks Jesus as if he's never met anyone who's attended church. And to lend his maunderings rock grandeur, he ties them together with devices that sunk under their own weight back when The Who invented them. Sole rhetorical coup: makes being called a "faggot" something to aspire to, which in this terrible time it is. C+

Ultimate Waylon Jennings [RCA Nashville/BMG Heritage, 2004]

Beyond "outlaw," nobody ever specifies what Jennings does and doesn't do with his strained, resonant, masculine baritone--his "Me and Bobby McGee" is uglier than Kristofferson's. But on sure shots you can forgive him his pain. Highlights include the belated "Don't You Think This Outlaw Bit's Done Got Out of Hand" and the wounded "The Taker," a Kris Kristofferson gem about a lady some other slimeball done wrong. For those who think BMG's title-by-title reissue program makes less sense than the Black Sabbath box (although I've Always Been Crazy sounds sane enough)

Madonna [Sire, 1983]

In case you bought the con, disco never died--just reverted to the crazies who thought it was worth living for. This shamelessly ersatz blonde is one of them, and with the craftily orchestrated help of a fine selection of producers, remixers, and DJs, she's come up with a shamelessly ersatz sound that's tighter than her tummy--essence of electro, the D in DOR. At first I thought the electroporn twelve-inch that pairs "Burning Up" with "Physical Attraction" was the way to go, but that was before she'd parlayed the don't-let-me-down vagueness of "Borderline" into a video about interracial love (sex, I mean) and a sneaky pop hook simultaneously. At one stiff per four-song side, smarter than Elvis Costello. A-

We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions [Columbia, 2006]

We shall overkill, he means. Never have his Howard Keel tendencies, or maybe now they're Paul Robeson tendencies, tripped him up so bad. The idea is to big up the music and play the jokes you don't ignore like you're working a Roman amphitheater. I'm glad to have met the anti-war lament "Mrs. McGrath" and Sis Cunningham's "My Oklahoma Home," and sort of hope young people deprived of music appreciation funding will now hear "Erie Canal," "Froggie Went A-Courtin'," "John Henry," and "Jesse James." Only are young people really ignorant of these songs? And how many of them buy Springsteen albums anyway? Amping up his strange bluegrass-Dixieland hybrid like E Street is just around the corner, he sings his lungs out. But in folk music, lightness is all--and only newbies and John Hammond Jr. lean so hard on the cornpone drawl. B

Frontiers [Columbia, 1983]

For those of you who truly thought the jig was up this time, I'll remind you of how much worse it could be--this top 10 album could be outselling Thriller or Flashdance or Pyromania. My suggestion is for Steve Perry to run as a moderate Republican from, say, Nebraska where his oratory would garner excellent press, and then, having shed his video game interests, ram the tape tax through. D+

Have You Never Been Mellow [MCA, 1975]

After checking out the competition--Helen Reddy is repeating herself, Joni Mitchell's latest was a letdown, Carly Simon is a bore--I began entertaining heathenish thoughts about this MOR nemesis. It was then that Carola gently reminded me otherwise. "A geisha." she scoffs. "She makes her voice smaller than it is just to please men." Whereupon I dropped my heathenish thoughts and went back to finishing the dishes. D+

>>70886001
wow, I'm amazed. I disliked Christgau and Radiohead, but this is very on point

The Bends [Capitol, 1995]

Admired by Britcrits, who can't tell whether they're "pop" or "rock," and their record company, which pushed (and shoved) this follow-up until it went gold Stateside, they try to prove "Creep" wasn't a one-shot by pretending that it wasn't a joke. Not that there's anything deeply phony about Thom Yorke's angst--it's just a social given, a mindset that comes as naturally to a '90s guy as the skilled guitar noises that frame it. Thus the words achieve precisely the same pitch of aesthetic necessity as the music, which is none at all. C

Definitely Maybe [Epic, 1994]

Sixties Schmixties--back when they were a tribute band they were the Diamond Dogs ("Rock 'n' Roll Star," "Slide Away") *

(What's the Story) Morning Glory? [Epic, 1995]

give them credit for wanting it all--and (yet another Beatle connection!) playing guitars ("She's Electric," "Roll With It") **

Be Here Now [Epic, 1997]

"Uncle! Uncle! Let go of my ear! Uncle, for chrissake!" ("Be Here Now," "My Big Mouth") **

Standing on the Shoulder of Giants [Epic, 2000] :(

Stop the Clocks [Sony/BMG, 2006]

One of the many things I never got about this band was where the Beatles were. Where was the ebullience, the wit, the harmonies, God just the singing, and, uh, the songwriting? Cotton Mather made me understand that when Oasis say they love the Beatles they really mean they love the post-Help!, pre-Sgt. Pepper Beatles. Since that span encompasses Rubber Soul and Revolver, many would say tally ho, but (a) not me 'cause I love the Beatles start to finish and (b) only if you're writing songs as good as, uh, "We Can Work It Out." Instead Oasis, meaning loudmouth bro Noel Gallagher, write songs that resemble "We Can Work It Out" in thickened texture and momentum but not depth or charm, then add arena size in the swagger of the drums and the bigged-up vocals themselves. This band-selected best-of--two discs lasting 87 minutes, like an old-fashioned double-LP except it's only 18 tracks--capture their sonic moment as fully as any freelance music historian needs. A 2010 package repeats 11 of these songs and adds 16 others--too many, I say. Also, it omits the opening "Rock 'n' Roll Star." If ever there were guys whose message to the world is summed up by an opener called "Rock 'n' Roll Star," it's these bigheads. B+

A Plus [United Artists, 1977]
Wrong. D+

Iron Maiden

Meltdown [1980s]

Inseparable [Capitol, 1975]

In which the daughter of the first king of crossover pop aspires to the grandeur of Lady Soul, with results that are more Chaka than Aretha and betray a soupçon and a half of Nancy Wilson. So where's Natalie? Serving her masters, ex-Independents Chuck Jackson and Marvin Yancy. B

Natalie [Capitol, 1976]

I believe good singers (which Cole is) ought to sing good songs. Of these, only "Good Morning Heartache," already defined and altered by two noteworthy predecessors, and "Can We Get Together Again," which sounds suspiciously like "This Will Be," distinguish themselves. I also believe that if your producers get to write all your material, they ought to at least provide a Sound, not the feckless eclecticism here displayed. C+

Thankful [Capitol, 1977]

Musically, her best. She moves from style to style with passion and ease, and her svengalis are writing more crisply. But I begin to muse about Herbert Marcuse when I hear the famous daughter of a wealthy singing star belt the following Inspirational Verse: "Workin two jobs to make your livin and all you do is complain well . . . You should be thankful for what you got." Docked a notch or two for oppressive ideology. B-

Unforgettable [Elektra, 1991] *bomb*

Fabulous Muscles [5 Rue Christine, 2004]
The musical parsimony, cultural insularity, moral certitude, and histrionic affectations of these lo-fi artier-than-thous promise indie ideologues whole lifetimes of egoistic irrelevance. "Why should I care if you get killed?" Jamie Stewart asks a "stupid" "jock" Iraq G.I. he makes sure remains out of earshot. He gets closer to the title sex object: "Cremate me after you come on my lips honey boy." But somehow one doubts things will end so exquisitely. C

The Joshua Tree [Island, 1987]
Let it build and ebb and wash and thunder in the background and you'll hear something special--mournful and passionate, stately and involved. Read the lyrics and you won't wince. Tune in Bono's vocals and you'll encounter one of the worst cases of significance ever to afflict a deserving candidate for superstardom. B

...And Justice For All [Elektra, 1988]

Problem isn't that it's more self-aware than Puppets, which is inevitable when your stock-in-trade is compositions rather than songs. Problem is that it's also longer than Puppets, which is inevitable when your stock-in-trade is compositions rather than songs. Just ask Yes. C+

>>70887197
lol what a faggot

the ramones were and always will be fucking boring, Sabbath "unlistenable"? l o l

Wisconsin Death Trip [Warner Bros., 1999]

horrorshow in stereo--they mean it, man ("Wisconsin Death Trip", "I'm With Stupid"). *

The Scream [Polydor, 1978]

Hippies were rainbow extremists; punks are romantics of black-and-white. Hippies forced warmth; punks cultivate cool. Hippies kidded themselves about free love; punks pretend that s&m is our condition. As symbols of protest, swastikas are no less fatuous than flowers. So it's not surprising that Siouxsie Sioux, punks' exemplary fan-turned-artist, should prove every bit as pretentious as model-turned-rocker Grace Slick or film-student manqué Jim Morrison. Nor is it surprising that while the spirit is still upon her she should come up with a tunefully atonal, modestly sensationalistic album. B+

Once Upon a Time/The Singles [PVC, 1981]

Like Jim Morrison, greatest of the pop posers, Siouxsie Pseud disguises the banality of her exoticism with psychedelic gimmicks most profitably consumed at their hookiest, and voila. Although two of the four unavailable-on-album 45s on this compilation go nowhere, most of these nightmare vignettes are diverting placebos, of a piece even though they span three years of putative artistic development. B+

>>70889039
Twice Upon a Time--The Singles [Geffen, 1992] *bomb*

Subjects for Further Research [1980s]: She has her cult--an army of black-clad college students eagerly waiting for the world to end. But though many Johnny Rotten fans proved smarter than Johnny Rotten, Siouxsie Pseud wasn't one of them. Since like Jim Morrison she disguises the banality of her exoticism with psychedelic gimmicks best consumed at their hookiest, the nightmare vignettes on her 1981 best-of were of a piece even though they spanned three years of putative artistic development. After that I kept waiting for Siouxsie to end. But she left a lot of product in her wake, and for all I know it conceals another best-of.

>>70885140
>>70887009

Ever heard the saying "Those who can't do, teach. Those who can't teach, critique"? Christgau was never a musician--unless I'm overlooking something--probably because he lacks the ambition and creativity to be one. So what's the natural next step? Well, to make a career out of shitting on those of whom he is jealous: bona fide artists. Nick Cave is a million times more talented and has moved more people with his music than Christgau ever has with his low-effort reviews. F

>>70889069
At least Lester Bangs tried a musical career, even if it didn't pan out.

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>>70887943
he's always been a nuthugger about new york

>give's the strokes first album, as overrated as it is, the most overrated album of the 2000s, an A
>reviews the first kyuss record, bombs it, doesn't review any more
>bombs two QOTSA records
>C+ to Turn On The Bright Lights

he's trash, consistent trash, but trash

Ozzy Osbourne

Distinctions Not Cost Effective [1980s]: I have no interest in his albums, but I do enjoy how he mooned the PMRC every chance he got. And his egg-frying scene in Penelope Spheeris's "The Decline of Western Civilization: The Metal Years" is a classic.

Street Talk [Columbia, 1985]

The head Journeyman's USA for Africa cameos were so discreetly intense and discreetly tossed off they made me wonder what I'd been missing. Now I know--musical gastroenteritis. Pat Boone didn't understand, so why should Steve Perry--oversinging signifies not soul and inspiration but will and desperation. Upped a notch for good intentions, and just in case Sam Cooke has finally taught him a lesson. C

Born to Run [Columbia, 1975]

Just how much American myth can be crammed into one song, or a dozen, about asking your girl to come take a ride? A lot, but not as much as romanticists of the doomed outsider believe. Springsteen needs to learn that operettic pomposity insults the Ronettes and that pseudotragic beautiful-loser fatalism insults us all. And around now I'd better add that the man avoids these quibbles at his best and simply runs them over the rest of the time. If "She's the One" fails the memory of Phil Spector's innocent grandeur, well, the title cut is the fulfillment of everything "Be My Baby" was about and lots more. Springsteen may well turn out to be one of those rare self-conscious primitives who gets away with it. In closing, two comments from my friends the Marcuses. Jenny: "Who does he think he is, Howard Keel?" (That's a put-down.) Greil: "That is as good as `I Think We're Alone Now.'" (That's not.) A

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>the amount of As and Bs

it's sad desu

Dressed To Kill [Casablanca, 1975]

I feel schizy about this record. On the one hand, it rocks with a brutal, uncompromising force reminiscent of a slicked back, heavied up Dave Clark Five or MC5 and the songwriting is very much improved over albums one and two. On the other hand, the lyrics dimly recall the liberal fantasy of rock concert as Nuremberg Rally, with sexism at its cruelest hinted at in songs like "Room Service" and "Ladies in Waiting", a situation made all the more ominous by the band's refusal to bare the grinning faces beneath the makeup. That may be just the effect they intend, although for the worst of reasons. You damn well know if they didn't have their eye on maximum commerciality, they'd call themselves "Blowjob". B-

Sheik Yerbouti [Zappa, 1979]

If this be social satire, then how come its only targets are those individuals whose peculiar weirdness happens to diverge from that of the retentive gent at the control board? Makes you wonder if Frank's primo guitar solo on "Yo Mama" is as spiritually arid as he is. Or are we to take his newfound fixation on buggery as a sign of approval? As if there was any question after all these years. C+

Rocks [Columbia, 1976]

The teen crossover of the year has been compared in some circles to a Buick Roadmaster--sleek, powerful, yet refined. I wish I had a lyric sheet so I knew what the bit about J. Paul Getty's ear meant. Warning to fans: Led Zeppelin peaked with their fourth album, so don't expect more from this lesser group and enjoy it while you can. A-

The Stranger [Columbia, 1977]

Having concealed his egotism in metaphor as a young songpoet, he achieved success when he uncloseted the spoiled brat behind those bulging eyes. But here the brat appears only once, in the nominally metaphorical guise of "the stranger." The rest of Billy has more or less grown up. He's now as likable as your once-rebellious and still-tolerant uncle who has the quirk of believing that OPEC was designed to ruin his air-conditioning business. B-

Mariah Carey [Columbia, 1990]

I swear I didn't know her mama was an opera singer, but I'm embarrassed that I didn't guess. She gets too political in her brave, young, idealistic attack on "war, destitution and sorrow": "Couldn't we accept each other/Can't we make ourselves aware." Elsewhere she sticks to what she doesn't know--love. Debbie Gibson, all is forgiven. C

Making Movies [Warner Bros., 1980]

If any up-and-coming rock-and-roller aspires to auteur status it's Mark Knopfler, and among those with a taste for his rather corny plots (Romeo and Juliet, fancy that) this establishes his claim. Me, I note that this third album closes with his second gay-baiting song, and that I wasn't surprised . Better he should work on somebody else's stories--his guitar has emerged from Eric Clapton's shadow into a jazzy rock that muscles right past Larry Carlton and ilk. Steely Straits, anyone? Or would that be Dire Dan? C+

Hi Infidelity [Epic, 1980]

I'm not saying they deserve the biggest selling album of their crummy era, but these boys have always known a thing or two about the hook and the readymade. Best song--"Tough Guys", which will never make the radio because it features this inspirational verse--"They think they're full of fire/She thinks they're full of shit". B-

Distinctions Not Cost Effective [1970s]: Once the banality achieved a certain density, I figured that rotational velocidensity no longer mattered. Then they began to score hit ballads.

Distinctions Not Cost Effective [1980s]: Pioneers of AOR schlock pop schlock rock, let history record that they got better--by the time of Hi Infidelity, they were honoring Fleetwood Mac and the Doobie Brothers. Let history also record that they got worse.

Everything Rocks and Nothing Ever Dies [1990s]

Rumours [Reprise, 1977]

Why is this easy-listening rock different from all other easy-listening rock, give or take an ancient harmony or two? Because myths of love lost and found are less invidious (at least in rock and roll) than myths of the road? Because the cute-voiced woman writes and sings the tough lyrics and the husky-voiced woman the vulnerable ones? Because they've got three melodist-vocalists on the job? Because Mick Fleetwood and John McVie learned their rhythm licks playing blues? Because they stuck to this beguiling formula when it barely broken even? Because this album is both more consistent and more eccentric than its blockbuster predecessor? Plus it jumps right out of the speakers at you? Because Otis Spann must be happy for them? Because Peter Green is in heaven? A

Going for the One [Atlantic, 1977]

The title track may be their best ever, challenging a formula that even apologists are apologizing for by now with cutting hard rock guitar and lyrics in which Jon Anderson casts aspersions upon his own "cosmic mind." But even there you wish you could erase Rick Wakeman, who sticks strictly to organ pomp and ident noodles throughout, and elsewhere Steve Howe has almost as little to say. C

Storm Front [Columbia, 1989]

Instead of going Broadway with his cautionary tales and cornball confessionals, he hires the man from Foreigner. And it makes no difference--even in arena mode he's a force of nature and bad taste. Granted, the best songs are the ones that least suit the mold--the tributes to Montauk and Leningrad, the lament for the working couple, the quiz from Junior Scholastic. And even the worst maintain a level of craft arenas know nothing of. B

Backless [RSO, 1979]

Whatever Eric isn't anymore--guitar genius, secret auteur, humanitarian, God--he's certainly king of the Tulsa sound, and here he contributes three new sleepy-time classics. All are listed on the cover sticker and none were written by Bob Dylan. One more and this would be creditable. B-

Dazed and Confused [Medicine, 1993]

But it's really great junk. Seventies AOR as hard-rock utopia, with all the El Lay wimp-out, boogie dumb-ass, and metal drudge-trudge surreptitiously excised, enabling the escapist to bask in history without actually encountering any Montrose or Outlaws records. A few of the selections are ringers--unjustly, neither the Sweet's "Fox on the Run" (too pop) nor the Runaways' "Cherry Bomb" (too chick) ever gained much stoner credibility. Most are by major artists (Skynyrd, War, Alice Cooper, ZZ Top) or indisputable legends (Sabbath, Kiss, Deep Purple, Ted Nugent). But only someone who suffered his first nocturnal emission between 1970 and 1975 will be motivated to collect the catalogue it implies. For the rest of humanity, this is an ideal way to enjoy what for all its high volume, guitar excess, and muddled longueurs remained a pop sensibility that harked back to the '50s. Jim Dandy to the rescue indeed. A-

Brothers in Arms [Warner Bros., 1985]

"Money for Nothing" is a catchy sumbitch, no getting around it, and the first side moves with simple generosity, not a virtue one associates with this studio guitarist's ego trip. But it's too late for the old bluesboy to suck us into his ruminations of the perfidy of woman and the futility of political struggle, and "Money for Nothing" is also a benchmark of pop hypocrisy. We know Mark Knopfler's working-class antihero is a thicky because he talks like Randy Newman and uses the same word for homosexual that old bluesboys use, a word Knopfler has somehow gotten on the radio with no static from the PMRC. I mean, why not "little nigger with the spitcurl" instead of "little faggot with the earring," Mark? And while we're at it, how the hell did you end up on MTV? By spelling its name right? B-

>>70886423
Lil Wayne was the best rapper of the 2000s

The Red Hot Chili Peppers [EMI America, 1984]

As minstrelsy goes, this is as good as it gets (and minstrelsy it had better be). The reason it doesn't quite come off as good-natured can be found in this mysterious observation from spokesperson Flea--"Kurtis Blow and Grandmaster Flash have great raps, but not the great music to go along with them." Coming from a bassist, that's serious delusion. B-

Chinese Democracy [Geffen, 2008]

Story of the year--notorious rock recluse spends 10 years and a huge chunk of his ill-gotten fortune creating the perfect album. Succeeds (sort of) on his own irrelevant terms. Since he can no longer lead young white males astray, the effort is noble--touching in a way. I didn't think he had it in him. B+

Pieces of You [Atlantic, 1995]

Worth ignoring while she was merely precious, she must command our brief attention now that she's becoming overvalued as well. With the possible exception of Saint Joanie, who at least has stature, this is the bad folkie joke to end all bad folkie jokes. Between her breathless baby doll sexuality, abiding love of her own voice, and useless ideas about injustice and prejudice, she may well turn out to be the most insufferable hollow body guitarist yet to crave the world's attention. End of story, I hope. C-

>>70890194
he actually gave it a b+ L O L

holy shit he's so bad

Dirt [Columbia, 1992]

A heroin album, take it or leave it--"Junkhead" certainly isn't "ironic" and probably isn't "fictional" either. Crunch crunch crunch, riff riff riff--way harder, louder, and more metallic than Soundgarden ever will be. But the price of this power is that it's also uglier and stupider--the sound of hopeless craving. Sitting here with my "books and degrees" (well, degree), I very much doubt that if I "opened my mind," as resident sickman Layne Staley suggests, I'd be "doing" like him (er, the narrator of the song). I'll wait for my own man, thank you. B

Jar of Flies [Columbia, 1994] :(

In Through the Out Door [Swan Song, 1979]

The tuneful synthesizer pomp on side two confirms my long-held belief that this is a real good art-rock band, and their title for the first ten minutes or so, "Carouselambra," suggests that they find this as humorous as I do. The lollapalooza hooks on the first side confirms the world's long-held belief that this is a real good hard rock band. Lax in the lyrics department, as usual, but their best since Houses of the Holy. B+

Goats Head Soup [Rolling Stones, 1973]

Except for the spavined "Dancing With Mr. D," and the oxymoronic "Can You Hear the Music," these are good songs. But the execution is slovenly. I don't mean sloppy, which can be exciting--I mean arrogant and enervated all at once. Mick's phrasing is always indolent, but usually it's calculated down to the last minibeat as well; here the words sometimes catch him yawning. Without trying to be "tight" the band usually grooves into a reckless, sweaty coherence; here they hope the licks will stand on their own. Only on "Starfucker," the most outrageous Chuck Berry throwaway of the band's career, does this record really take off. B

New York Dolls [Mercury, 1973]

At least half the white kids who grow up in Manhattan are well off and moderately arty, like Carly Simon and John Paul Hammond. It takes brats from the outer boroughs to capture the oppressive excitement Manhattan holds for a half-formed human being the way these guys do. The careening screech of their music was first heard in the Cooper Union station of the Lexington IRT, and they don't stop there. Mixing early-'60s popsong savvy with late-'60s fast-metal anarchy, they seek love l-u-v from trash and bad girls. They go looking for a kiss among the personality crises. And they wonder whether you could make it with Frankenstein. A+

A Farewell to Kings [Mercury, 1977]

The most obnoxious band currently making a killing on the zonked teen circuit--not to be confused with Mahogany Rush, who at least spare us the reactionary gentility. Imagine a power trio Kansas or Uriah Heep with the vocals cranked up an octave. Or two. D+

Metallica [Elektra, 1991] *bomb*

Dirty Mind [Warner Bros., 1980]

After going gold in 1979 as an utterly uncrossedover falsetto love man, he takes care of the songwriting, transmutes the persona, revs up the guitar, muscles into the vocals, leans down hard on a rock-steady, funk-tinged four-four, and conceptualizes--about sex, mostly. Thus he becomes the first commercially viable artist in a decade to claim the visionary high ground of Lennon and Dylan and Hendrix (and Jim Morrison), whose rebel turf has been ceded to such marginal heroes-by-fiat as Patti Smith and John Rotten-Lydon. Brashly lubricious where the typical love man plays the lead in "He's So Shy," he specializes here in full-fledged fuckbook fantasies--the kid sleeps with his sister and digs it, sleeps with his girlfriend's boyfriend and doesn't, stops a wedding by gamahuching the bride on her way to church. Mick Jagger should fold up his penis and go home. A

Souljaboytellem.com [ColliPark Music/Interscope, 2007]
Boy do the haters get busy on this 16-year-old. But scrutinize the "superman" matter (look it up) and you'll see that even if he thought he was sneaking something outlandishly filthy onto a pop record, his fans thought he was inventing a dance that involved flying, thus furthering the presumption of innocence so crucial to his cute. Unlike his crunk forebears, he's not into pimping or dealing or even strip clubs--"Booty Meat" is as explicit as his carnality gets, and not only is he looking not touching, he's hoping an amateur will "turn around just like a pro." He's still boy enough to worry about those F's, and the most winning of his many winning songs was written to, and on, his Sidekick 3. There are enough sonic strokes here to keep the wrong bizzer in ringtone rappers for a year. But Soulja Boy's spiritual secret is that with less subcultural support than, say, Be Your Own Pet, he's reached the top of his world on a few tips from ex-partner Young Kwon and the loyalty of human sidekick Arab. You can hear how tickled he is about it. A-

Hot Rats [Reprise, 1969]

Doo doo to you, Frank. When I want movie music, I'll listen to Wonderwall. C+

Endless Wire [Polydor, 2006]

This album is unlistenable for a simple reason--Roger Daltrey. Now 62, he is incapable in body as well as mind of navigating through The Who's first album of all-new studio material since 1982's dreadful It's Hard. Gesturing futilely towards high notes, he tries to remember his acting lessons as he squeaks, squawks, clicks, creaks, and bollockses his way through lessons he's sure are profound. Therefore, it comes as a relief when the leader spells him 7 songs in and the slight uptick in modesty comes as a relief. But it was the leader who decided that prog rock was a peachy idea as he proceeds to designate a 5-song cycle, and it's the leader who gives the orders around here. Thus, this album is also unlistenable for a complicated reason--Pete Townshend. C+

Pure Guava [Elektra, 1992]

It's to the half-credit of these Bucks County wise guys that the studio amenities of their major-label debut impel them toward fucked-up sounds, which come hard, rather than fucked-up songs, which they write without thinking (and how). But I don't buy the claim that they'll do anything for a laugh. Ever since they went on about pussy for nine minutes (good idea) in a Princey blues-minstrel drawl (bad one), I've assumed they were the kind of rec-room gigglefritzes who enjoy a good nigger joke when they're sure their audience is sophisticated enough to enjoy it. And to be perfectly honest, I don't hear one of those here. C+

Albert King: Subjects For Further Research [1970s]

I've somehow never been moved by Albert King's wide-beamed take on BB's blues, although I suspect that isn't Albert's fault. It is however generally agreed that the man cut his best stuff for Stax in the '60s--he spent most of the '70s trying to go pop with predictable results. For an eloquent defense, see Robert Hunter's liner notes in "Live at Montreaux".

Lou Reed Live: Take No Prisoners [Arista, 1978]

Partly because your humble servant is attacked by name (along with John Rockwell) on what is essentially a comedy record, a few colleagues have rushed in with Don Rickles analogies, but that's not fair. Lenny Bruce is the obvious influence. Me, I don't play my greatest comedy albums, not even the real Lenny Bruce ones, as much as I do Rock n Roll Animal. I've heard Lou do two very different concerts during his Arista period that I'd love to check out again--Palladium November '76 and Bottom Line May '77. I'm sorry this isn't either. And I thank Lou for pronouncing my name right. C+

Bad Moon Rising [Homestead, 1985]

They're sure to disagree--what else are they good for?--but despite all their apocalyptic integrity and unmediated whoziwhatsis, the achievement of their first halfway decent record is strictly formal: simple, rhythmic songs that neither disappear beneath nor get the better of the clanging and grinding of their brutal late-industrial guitars. Whatever credibility the guitars lend to their no doubt painful but nonetheless hackneyed manic depression is undermined by their usual sociopathic fantasies, and in the end the music isn't ugly or ominous or bombs bursting midair. It's just interesting. B

Filth [Neutral, 1983]

With percussion techniques borrowed from the scrap industry and a guitar bottom that lows like mechanical cattle and howls like the wind in a zombie movie, this is no wave with five years of practice, too messy for mysticism and too funny for suicide. In the great tradition of their live sets, it gets wearing, and lyrics are available to suckers on request. Not only isn't it for everybody, it isn't for hardly nobody. I think it's a hoot. B+

Kool and the Gang: Subjects For Further Research [1970s]

Amelodic hitmakers, jazzbos who couldn't improvise, these primal funksters were too funking primal for me in the early '70s, their artistic heyday. Looking back at their various best-of collections, I can see now that it was arcane rhythms and silly novelty hooks that got them onto (black) radio. But the dance floor is obviously the best place to figure such music out, and I'm unlikely to make much sense of it unless a DJ sweeps me off my feet.

Nobody's Daughter [Mercury, 2010]

Most people don't like her, and actually, I don't either. So I can't claim you owe it to yourself to enjoy Courtney Love's much-delayed first-album-since-2004. Nor even that these songs cast a revealing light of her scabrous persona--beyond "Pacific Coast Highway" ("I'm overwhelmed and undersexed") and "Never Go Hungry" ("I don't care what I have to pretend"), they're typical wails of punk-schooled rage from "Skinny Little Bitch" to "Letter to God." Thing is, I can use some new punk rage in my life, and unless you're a fan of Goldman Sachs and BP Petroleum, so can you. What's more, better it come from a 45-year-old woman who knows how to throw her weight around than from the zitty newbies and tattooed road dogs who churn most of it out these days. I know--for her, BP Petroleum is just something else to pretend about. But the emotion fueling her pretense is cathartic nevertheless. A-

Nothing's Shocking [Warner Bros., 1988]

The Dream Syndicate in the age of metal worship, a/k/a Alice Cooper revisited. Of course, Alice didn't get this good until album three. Then again, album three had "I'm Eighteen" on it, and the new guys aren't humble enough to try for one of those. Or lucky enough to get one--as Alice has spent his life proving, talent didn't have much to do with it. But if they stick at it like the pros they'll be, they might land an "Only Women Bleed." B-

Ritual de lo Habitual [Warner Bros., 1990] *bomb*

Kettle Whistle [Warner Bros., 1997]

As its current projects crumble from irrelevance to negative cash flow, a band that never made music or money commensurate with its myth bestows upon a shock-sated marketplace outtakes, demos, live tracks, and four proofs of physical reunion. Chutzpah has never been Perry Bernstein's problem. C+

Come in and Burn [DreamWorks, 1997]

Speaking as someone who enjoyed Rollins' spoken word twofer "The Boxed Life", which recalls a lab assistant's job among other homely pursuits, it should come as no surprise that this thrash-and-churn is his metalest metal yet. It's all the more surprising that Spielberg and Katzenberg should choose to make him their flagship rocker--for all his corporate clout and cult cred, he was off the charts in a couple of weeks. As pathetic as it is for aging Spinal Taps to fabricate an adolescent despair they remember mostly from groupies and fan mail, it's even more pathetic never to feel anything else. C-

Soul-Crusher [Caroline, 1987]

The lyric sheet that comes with this consumer object in spite of itself makes a promise--"Out of chaos comes reason". Not so for the consumer object itself, an inedible noise rock omelette distinguished from the competition by drawling vocals and droning guitars. People consent to fascism because they think it will be more fun than this. They could be right. D+

Astro-Creep: 2000 [Geffen, 1995] *bomb*

Through the Fire [Geffen, 1984]

Calm down, it's only corporate metal. No need to get upset at these four grizzled dildos. Still, you'd at least hope their initials would make a good name for a law firm. D-

Pyromania [Mercury, 1983]

Fuckin' right new heavy metal is different from old heavy metal. The new stuff is about five silly beats faster. And the "new" metal singers all sound free, white, and more-or-less twenty one. C

>>70891792
What's with Xgau and white guys, anyway? My dad grew up in the East Village and I still don't really get it

In the Court of the Crimson King [Atlantic, 1969]

The plus is because Peter Townshend likes it. This can also be said of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Beware the forthcoming hype--this is ersatz shit. D+

>>70891851
He projects his personal issues from getting his ass kicked in high school by football jocks.

The River [Columbia, 1980]

All the standard objections apply. His beat is still clunky, his singing overwrought, his sense of significance shot through with Mazola Oil. He's too white and too male, though he's decent enough to wish he weren't; too unanalytic and fatalistic, though his eye is sharp as can be. Yet by continuing to root his writing in the small victories and large compromises of ordinary joes and janies whose need to understand as well as celebrate is as restless as his own, he's grown into a bitter empathy. These are the wages of young romantic love among those who get paid by the hour, and even if he's only giving forth with so many short fast ones because the circles of frustration and escape seem tighter now, the condensed songcraft makes this double album a model of condensation--upbeat enough for a revery there, he elaborates a myth about the fate of the guys he grew up with that hits a lot of people where they live. A-

Californication [Warner Bros., 1999]

new age fuck fiends ("Scar Tissue", "Purple Stain"). *

Carole King: Writer [Ode, 1970]

I liked these musicians better when they called themselves the City--seemed to protect them against string arrangements, folkie jazz, and other exurban excrescences. Must admit, though, that the first side is a lot more eloquent, confident, and tuneful than the nice little album the City put out in 1968. Now if only the Drifters cover on the second side had some company--the reason I'm listening, after all, is that she also wrote hits for the Chiffons, the Shirelles, Little Eva, . . . B

Volunteers [RCA, 1969]

No matter how many times I listen to this record, I can't connect--every time Grace Slick belts out "Up against the wall, motherfuckers", a phrase that's a little overused by now, I want to laugh out loud and I don't find the instrumental cuts very inspired either. It's hardly a bad album of course, and everyone seems to dig it a lot, but they could be wrong. B+

Long May You Run [Reprise, 1976]

Like the tour, the album (recorded in Miami, where many of the songs take place) is a profit-taking throwaway, but that's not necessarily a bad thing--Young is always wise to wing it, and the less Stills expresses himself the better. Also, there's an expotential advantage in hearing Steve sing lead only every other cut. His "Make Love to You" ("you're such a lady") does inspire "Midnight on the Bay," Neil's stupidest song in many a moon. But most of the time Neil's in a droll mood--title song's a riot. Not bad for California rock. B

The Magician's Birthday [Bronze, 1972]

Thirdhand heavy metal fantasies borrowed from Led Zeppelin and hooked to some clean, powerful arrangements. Okay stuff. B-