The Manhattan Transfer, Brasil

The Transfer's, uh, transfer of Brazilian rhythms wallpapered with their own special brand of lyrics ("We always save some art nouveau / for special patrons") makes for one of the most unique albums of 1987. The synthesizers haven't aged so well, but the music is peppy, the vocals are always outstanding, and impressively even the political pieces are even-handed and earnest (especially "The Jungle Pioneer," which could have been an environmentalist bludgeoning but instead is a fair analysis of ecology versus economic progress, though "Metropolis"' assault on crumbling urbanization lays it on a little thick). Besides "The Jungle Pioneer," my personal favourite for its sophistication, other great gems are "Soul Food To Go," its saucy, simmery lead-off track, and the gently lyrical "Agua." Including the original Brazilian Portuguese song titles is a nice touch, one of many on this 80's jazz classic. (Content: no concerns.)

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Def Leppard, Hysteria

Rick Allen wasn't going to let a little thing like losing an arm stop him from smacking skins, even though the skins were MIDI and the crash was digital, and the band wasn't going to let a little thing like going through two producers stop them from making another hit album. So let this review document what happens when you'll make sure you'll get what you want at any cost. Mutt Lange built a classic hair-metal album with every track a potential single, every song a "Thriller" in miniature, and incredibly he largely pulled it off. At no time is the music, at least, ever less than good, and some of them are in fact remarkable in their musical staying power ("Don't Shoot Shotgun" and the wickedly wacky "Excitable" are still favourites of mine years later, "Hysteria" remains one of the best glam anthems ever recorded and the audio clips of Ronald Reagan in "Gods of War" echo presciently in these terrorist times). Here's where it loses its fifth star: the appalling sound quality. I may be a dweeb audiophile, but Allen's 8-bit low-sample-rate synth-o-drums were just the beginning; when Lange starts layering the sound becomes murky and tinny, and even Bob Ludwig's mastering mojo can't rescue recordings with the dynamic range of a toaster on Top Brown. The strongest tracks are those he didn't muck around with much and the limitations of early 1980s multi-generational recording really kick the legs out from under the first three tracks or so, especially "Animal," a double tragedy because of how painstaking its recording process was. In the end, they got their hit album, and Rick mostly got his drums back, but there was a price to pay to make it possible; compare with Pyromania. Ten years later, in a proper digital studio, we might be arguing about their use of Auto-Tune instead. (Content: mild innuendo.)

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Daft Punk, Discovery

They may be incredibly reticent about public appearances and live out their concert existences in ventilated robot helmets, but it's the weird ones that come up with the cool stuff. I love all of the disparate pieces they pull together on their one and only truly great album, the party music ("Crescendolls"), the technofunk ("Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger"), the smooth introspection ("Nightvision," "Veridis Quo"), the caressing romance ("Digital Love," "Something About Us"). Inexplicably this was allegedly also the soundtrack to their bespoke anime outing, but that's just them being weird again. Just misses five stars for not being everyone's cup of tea, though even the disco detractors will find their body grooving in spite of themselves. Fresh, funky and fabulous, if this is the French answer to Kraftwerk, the Frogs are ahead of the game. (Content: no concerns.)

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Faith No More, The Real Thing

Eclectic, fresh and sharp, running the gamut from hip hop to headbang with some prog and jazz sandwiched inbetween. The best decision the band ever made was ditching Chuck Mosley for Mike Patton, because his delivery and his lyrics glue what could have been a very disjointed effort into a cohesive blend of related styles. It helps that none of them are antipodal. Isn't every raspy headbanger, shouting out rapidfire lyrics to an insistent beat assault, just a stone's throw from rap? Isn't every prog anthem just a guitar amplifier setting away from metal? The genius here was recognizing what they all have in common, which is why the jump from "From Out of Nowhere" to the trend-setting "Epic" to the basher "Surprise! You're Dead!" and the gritty progger "Zombie Eaters" (what a hateful child!) never seems forced or sudden. And if they end on the jazzy "Edge of the World," well, it's just because they can. Heck, let's throw in a Black Sabbath cover too, because with an album this infectious, even a retread still sounds like The Real Thing. (Content: violence, innuendo.)

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Pink Floyd, Atom Heart Mother

This is the album every Floydian loves to hate. This is the album the band members themselves disowned. But every scorned object of derision has its apologists, and if there's not yet an Atom Heart Mother fan club, then let it begin with me. This was the album in high school that my contemporary Gary described as having "that wacky breakfast song." This was the album I listened to incessantly on vinyl in the university basement while pretending to study. No one, not even your humble jerk critic, will disagree that the title track is a luxuriant exercise in the most pompous sort of art rock; I will even concede that the linking vocal tracks between the two primary instrumental suites are wan and uninspired. But no one else ever made this kind of crap sound good. A true classical composition with a full orchestra, drum beat, guitars and Farfisa organ you could listen to. Actual movements and themes, by G-d, not some atonal meandering tarted-up acid trip. Mannerism for Music! And finishing it up with the most melodic roadie's breakfast you've ever listened to, gulps of tea and crunches of corn flakes and an infinite number of flaring matches opposing a gentle, aspirational three-parter that elevates his banal morning rites into the heavens. Every time I listen to this album I discover some new musical detail I've missed, some little tidbit that makes it all the more rich. The most galling part is that the remaining members of Pink Floyd know exactly what they're missing out on, and they reject it still. (Content: no concerns.)

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Fleetwood Mac, Tango In The Night

"Little Lies" was the first Fleetwood Mac song I ever remember listening to on the radio, despite the fact that everyone cited Lindsey Buckingham's earlier works as their better. I paid it no mind; Tango In The Night may not fully manifest the verve of, say, Rumours, and the 80s pop stylings have not aged so well, but as the last album from the band's classic lineup I can think of worse notes to end on. My biggest quibble is that it was made for singles and relies on their tried and true formula, and indeed six of its twelve tracks were singles, so by being purpose-built for airplay there's nothing especially experimental or revelatory to be found. But this incarnation, anyway, of Fleetwood Mac knew its audience and delivered uncompromisingly, and in addition to the 45's the album does have some unexpected pleasures such as the wistful longings of "When I See You Again" and the synthetic Eastern twang of "Mystified." You may have heard it all before, and I suspect the way most people will hear the album today is still in those cuts and singles, but I won't lie if I tell you I like hearing the tracks again together all the more. Not even a little. (Content: no concerns.)

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Pink Floyd, Animals

If George Orwell had played bass in an English rock band, he'd probably have written this album instead of Animal Farm, but instead we have Roger Waters ripping him off. Pigs, dogs and sheep all, it's the oligarchs versus the proletariat split into three lengthy tracks that the solid prog rock backing somehow avoids making self-indulgent, plus the two bookends serving as prelude, epilogue and afterthought all at the same time. Waters has never shied from wearing his politics on his sleeve, part of what made his later solo output often dreary, but if the album is merely a thinly disguised excuse to bark at the exploitation of the working class and the scheming of puritanical censors (especially "Pigs: Three Different Ones") it mostly manages to avoid beating people over the head with it. David Gilmour is hauntingly soulful and almost sympathetic to the people's erstwhile oppressors in "Dogs," and the sheep ("Sheep") even triumph over them; only "Pigs" gives Waters a bit too much lyrical leeway, though his grinning delivery and the closest thing this album has to a groove save it from breaking down into reverse moralizing. Less gritty than The Final Cut and less narratively constrained than The Wall, Animals is a uniquely transitional album that manages to be relevant and thought-provoking without being painfully transparent or losing sight of its musical goals. (Content: some stylized violent content and an F-bomb.)

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The Who Sell Out

Although many fans of the Who say their first great album was A Quick One, I disagree; I think their first outstanding album was this one, suffused with humour, commercial snark and a solid collection of great tracks. Pete Townshend has always had trouble with concept albums with a plot as shown by Quadrophenia and Tommy, which musically trapped him within their inflexible libretti and strict narratives which were only coherent in, uh, concept. Not so here where delightful commercials for real products (standout: "Odorono") share airplay with real Radio London jingles and some of Townshend's best output lyrically until Who's next (standouts: "Our Love Was," "Tattoo"). If the concept was just to capture 1960s AM radio on vinyl, then the concept obviously worked, and the relatively light topical constraint allowed the band freedom to explore the musical complexity they had only hinted at in earlier efforts. Plus, something novel: the bonus tracks on the CD reissues don't suck! Without a bad track to be found anywhere, this gem nevertheless misses the five-star mark for two apparently insubstantial but nevertheless significant faults: the tracking, which breaks up songs and jingles mid-verse and really stinks without gapless playback, and the album's cheerful banality which is obviously its salvation but simultaneously its major stylistic blemish. (Content: no concerns.)

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