Sparks, A Steady Drip, Drip, Drip

The pandemic turned everything upside down: besides face masks and Zoom mutes, Sparks was back on the charts in what feels like the first time in decades. There's even a movie out about them. Did greater America finally rediscover these two after all those years quietly keeping their corner of L.A. weird? Twenty-four albums and fifty years later Russ Mael's range is down a storey or six and Ron's glasses are a bit thicker, but the production's better than ever and the wit still doesn't quit, and they've wisely moved away from their less approachable chamber music days to something, yes, closer to their last chart success of the 1980s. That doesn't mean they've gotten artistically lazy, mind you: "Lawnmower" feels like a zippier earworm version of "Suburban Homeboy" in all the right ways, I like the splash of insincerity in "All That" and the thinly disguised indictment of modern disinformation in "Nothing Travels Faster Than the Speed of Light," and solid pop grooves keep it moving like "Left Out in the Cold" and "One for the Ages." Not everything fires on all cylinders, such as the lurching beat and opaque lyrics of "Sainthood Is Not In Your Future," and "Stravinsky's Only Hit" is high-quality but hard to follow, while their other attempts at topicality ("iPhone" and closer "Please Don't F--k Up My World") are a bit too hamfisted to fully enjoy. Stiil, they make up for it with other entrancing tracks like "Self-Effacing," a wacky anthem of the excessively modest (lyrical highlights: "I'm not the guy who says 'I'm the guy'" and "Thank you but Autotune has been used/used and perhaps a trifle abused"), fabulous humour-infested throwbacks to their zany 70s output in "Onomato Pia" and "The Existential Threat" (a prescient COVID commentary?) and my favourite "Pacific Standard Time," a luxurious buffet for the ears that simultaneously mocks and celebrates the superficiality of southern California in devilish equal measure. Meanwhile, they're recording another album and they're actually going to tour in 2022. I, for one, blame the Delta variant. (Content: F-bombs in "iPhone" and obviously "Please Don't F--k Up My World.")

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Metallica, Master of Puppets

I'd never accuse heavy metal of subtlety; I'd never accuse the music of beating around the bush. But only the most banal of the genre would I accuse of brainlessness, and this one sure isn't that. The ornamentation is spare and some of the riffs seem recycled, but Lars Ulrich keeps the drums pounding at a frenetic pace and Kirk Hammett's circuitous solos wind around them like the most sinuous of serpents. Compositionally the skill impresses, especially Cliff Burton on the instrumental "Orion" in the second half (sadly his last great work before his untimely death). And, oh, that nihilism; a lesser, less earnest band wouldn't be able to pull it off with a straight face, but while "heartfelt" is probably the wrong word for James Hetfield's lyrics, they're direct, sincere and the sincerest of middle fingers to the society that made them that way. The sharpest knives paired with the sharpest licks are probably the title track and "Disposable Heroes," but don't think the rest of the album pulls its punches. Duplicitous televangelists, heartless politicians, Lovecraftian monsters all (but I repeat myself), line up and take your beating: in the cover's red light of righteous rage now we see the strings you pull. The digital reissue adds live versions of "Battery" and "The Thing That Should Not Be," still unfailingly energetic, but the album cuts remain definitive. (Content: some violent imagery, F-bombs on "Damage Inc.")

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Yes, Close to the Edge

Some of the best prog nonsense from any band. The lyrics are gobbledygook ("total mass retain"?) and the jams go all over the place, but it's all so earnest and played so straight that it feels like it really means something, and the beauty of art rock is that it can mean anything you like. The strongest is the long-play title track, which showcases an early riff I'd swear I've heard Phish rip off plus an astonishing array of instruments and production effects, including a haunting bridge with water drips and echo as if they were playing a subterranean stage hundreds of miles beneath the surface. It builds incredibly well, too, up to a tremendous finish, something that the other two tracks, as accomplished as they are, do not manage nearly as effectively. That isn't to say they aren't good, though "Siberian Khatru" is a little too noodly and "And You And I" is a little too spare, but their chief sin is only being lesser. The 2003 reissue includes a castrated A-side cover of Simon and Garfunkel's "America" which includes their odd vocal take and excludes the more interesting jam that follows, along with the typical tedious studio outtakes, though the distilled-down single version of "Close to the Edge" as "Total Mass Retain" is a good starter track for the casual interest. This is probably the version to look for because the so-called 2013 definitive edition is absolutely excessive in what it includes and would intimidate even the most ardent Yes-head. The audiophiles will geek out on the surround mix, though. (Content: no concerns.)

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Frank Zappa, Hot Rats

Zappa's first after jettisoning the Mothers of Invention, this brash and breathtaking landmark of acid fusion seamlessly blurs the lines between prog and jazz in over forty minutes of wild-eyed bliss. (Also wild-eyed: the GTOs' Miss Christine on the cover emerging hot, pink and bothered from a concrete crypt.) All six tracks are stellar but "Peaches en Regalia" is the undisputed jewel from its infectious hooks, fascinating multi-instrument harmonies and startling production effects like buzzy reeds yipping away at double speed like kazoos; its little brother "Son of Mr. Green Genes" is nearly as good for nearly the same reasons, and Zappa even got something consistent out of Captain Beefheart for a change as the sole vocalist on "Willie The Pimp." Loses its fifth star solely for its more meandering moments not being everyone's cup of tea, and that's truly the only reason, because instrumentally and technically the album is near peerless. Hardcore Zappatistas will menacingly scrap over the relative virtues of the original LP mix (resurrected on current CD pressings) versus the 1987 Rykodisc CD, the latter largely reflected in a substantially expanded "The Gumbo Variations," but I'm not that rabid and "frankly" either is excellent. It should also be noted that Zappa himself did the 1987 remaster, so there's no use appealing to authority. (Content: mild adult themes on "Willie The Pimp.")

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Chumbawamba, Tubthumper

And they say socialists can't dance. Not nearly as tart nor as astringent as their prior post-punk incarnation, they're still topical and they're still barbed, but this time they've got a beat. The rollicky "Tubthumping" got into a lot of people's heads who'd never heard of the term, and the album shoots its wad a little quick by front-loading it with that and their other strong singles "Amnesia" and "Drip, Drip, Drip," but there's still a lot to be said for the zippy remainder. The audio clips between tracks are a little distracting (though I did enjoy the, er, thematic meditation from Rising Damp), but they're all in good fun, and the vox populi extracts really cut to the heart. Still, people dared call them sellouts? Put the pop shift aside for a moment and consider this album brought anarcho-syndicalism to a generation that couldn't even spell it. How about their comparison of a faithless union leader to Pontius Pilate in "One by One" (complete with hymn backing)? How about their sharp-as-knives criticism of lifestyle-oriented lifestyles in "The Good Ship Lifestyle," or the seductive ease of the blame game in "Scapegoat" (with a instrumental callback)? "Outsider" and "Smalltown" may not be as lyrically adept, but they're still standing up for the non-conformist. Heck, even Alice Nutter was saying people could just go nick the album off the shelves if they wanted to. Now, that's commitment to putting the products of production in the proletariat's hands. I wonder if I still have the receipt. (Content: mild expletives with more severe ones bleeped, gleeful Marxism.)

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Run-DMC, Raising Hell

Hip-hop wasn't big until this album, really. But this album made it really big and did so almost effortlessly. Dig the variety: silly stuff like "My Adidas" and "You Be Illin'" (setting the mold for later acts like DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince), beatboxing in "Hit It Run," hard beats in "Peter Piper" and "It's Tricky" and phat rock and bass in "Raising Hell," probably the most technically well-constructed track on the disc. "Dumb Girl" might hit a little too close to home for some and "Son Of Byford" is a dopey throwaway, but "Proud To Be Black" is a literate, aggressive and proud history lesson any listener of any colour can learn from. And let's not forget their new advance in sampling, where instead of just DJing the song Aerosmith came back to actually perform on their cover of "Walk This Way" and rebooted themselves in the process. That's big. The 2005 remaster includes an "acapella" version of "My Adidas" which isn't all that special and the two radio spots (one complete with outtakes and producer) are absolutely brainless, but "Lord Of Lyrics" has a solid rock backing strong enough to make the main album and the rough cuts and glitches of the "Walk This Way" demo have a strangely affable feel that puts you right in the studio. (Content: mild expletives; S- and F-bombs in the "Live At The Apollo" spot.)

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Queensrÿche, Empire

It's a rare band that puts the progressive in progressive metal, though politically that wouldn't be the title track where Geoff Tate's officious voice-over bemoans the relative dearth of local law enforcement funding. Still, tracks like "Best I Can" and "Resistance" hit hard in all the right ways, and even if this album does sit right on the transition from hair metal to grunge (hear those synth hits in "The Thin Line") "Jet City Woman" and "Another Rainy Night (Without You)" mostly avoid sounding too dated. But the slower, meatier and more deliberate pieces ("Della Brown", "Hand on Heart," "One and Only") have real art and a rich sound fostered by the environmental effects throughout the album and even a cameo from an answering machine; oddly, the otherwise beguiling "Silent Lucidity" may have the most ornate prog trappings but wears the least well in authenticity, almost a cynically deliberate attempt at a metaphysical "Comfortably Numb" (Michael Kamen's presence wouldn't be a coincidence, either). Nevertheless, you could do a lot worse for hard rock, and much of the pretense of lesser art metal bands is refreshingly absent. The 2003 reissue added three ill-advised B-sides, including a disastrous cover of "Scarborough Fair," and the 20th anniversary second disc is another lazy pack-in all-live recording not sufficiently interesting to seek out on its own. Just buy the original; you can probably find it cheaper too. (Content: adult themes in "The Thin Line.")

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Al Stewart, Modern Times

For my money this remains his finest work: Alan Parsons' production is tight in the right places and sumptuous when it matters, and Stewart didn't lay it on too thick with the lyrics or his usual obscure historical fetishes. (They're still obscure, mind you, but this time around at least he doesn't wallow in it.) While "Next Time" is a bit wan and is easily the album's one weak track, "Not The One" is a moving story of relationships with a strangely satisfying twist, "Apple Cider Re-Constitution" has a peppy beat against a benignly apocalyptic setting and the title track is a deft, musically complex comparison of nostalgia's simultaneous pleasure and pain. There's also the character study "Carol" with useful neologisms such as "a cocaine holiday," and besides being great to sing along with "Sirens of Titan" rewards you with just enough literary indulgence to feel sophisticated without feeling stuck-up, which is always a solid balance to strike. The 2000 and 2007 reissues add various B-sides and retreads; they're neither as compelling or memorable as the main album, though the pleasant Beatle-esque charm of "Elvaston Place" does stand out. (Content: mild adult themes in "Carol" and "Modern Times.")

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Cake, Pressure Chief

Danceability is not the typical descriptor I would give a Cake album, but this one gets your boogie bouncing. It's not just the horns and John McCrea's vocals, though those persist and flourish; it's also the newly phattened backgrounds with Xan McCurdy's heavier bass and Moogy synthesizers, all of which are so expertly paired that none of it comes across as gimmicky. The lyrics have sharpened up, too: "Wheels" captures the exile inherent in a relationship on the rocks (favourite line: "muscular cyborg German dudes"), "No Phone" could apply to any introvert anywhere desperately trying to escape, and while it's a Bread cover "The Guitar Man" paints the perfect picture of a flawed man who just wants to jam. It's still more evolution than revolution; "Take It All Away" is clearly inspired by their earlier cover of "I Will Survive," light songs like "She'll Hang The Baskets" and "End of the Movie" are really stylistic throwbacks and while "Carbon Monoxide" is sassy it's just a little too on the nose. But it's the groove and sheer exuberance of songs like "Dime," "Palm Of Your Hand" and particularly the album's finest moment "Waiting" that simply make you swing and sing, and not a track on this disc feels like a pop sellout in the end. (Content: F-bombs on "Carbon Monoxide.")

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Alice Cooper, Billion Dollar Babies

Who puts snakeskin on an LP gatefold? The same kind of man who would sing about necrophilia, that's who. But don't let that scare you off, necessarily: there's also a fabulous reworking of an earlier track as "Elected" (whose snark and brass section deserve airplay every November), tables turned with male sexual harassment in "Raped And Freezin'" and no doubt a vignette of Cooper's daily life in "No More Mr. Nice Guy," which really must be simultaneously experienced in the so-tacky-it's-great Pat Boone cover. But, yes, the creepy stuff. If you have the stomach for this sort of satire, what's notable is how, uh, tactfully it's approached: there's just enough menace in "Billion Dollar Babies" (and Donovan on guest vocals) to get the point across, just enough implication in "I Love The Dead" to hint not all is platonic. Only "Sick Things" gets a little too literal and "Generation Landslide"'s topical content gets boring and preachy. Nevertheless, do remember this album's not for everyone; there's even a song about the horrors of the dental chair, complete with groans and drill ("Unfinished Sweet"). Sir, at long last, is it safe? (Content: adult themes.)

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Tony! Toni! Toné!, Sons of Soul

What a revelation: an R&B act with actual instruments and actual musicship where the samples serve the tracks instead of just being them. And they built on what they learned in the tropics of Trinidad to turn out a unique album that's clearly of its genre but still stands alone in its quality. Lightfooted lead-off "If I Had No Loot" deserved all the airplay it got, and the throwback soul moments of "What Goes Around Comes Around," "Tell Me Mama" and "Leavin'" brilliantly fuse styles both old and new, yet there's no shortage of new jack swing ("Dance Hall," "Fun") and slow jams ("I Couldn't Keep It To Myself" and the knowingly corny "Slow Wine," with honey-on-biscuits vocal advising "let me explain") to round out the cycle. Some aspects aren't so positive: "My Ex-Girlfriend" is misogynistic schadenfreude with a beat, "(Lay Your Head On My) Pillow" is just a little too transparent, the drudgerous "Tonyies! In The Wrong Key" is probably on the wrong record too, and the otherwise dazzlingly smooth "Anniversary" and its 9-minute running time exemplify the album's other collective flaw, that it drags on just a little longer than it ought to. But most of their contemporaries were content to rely on overproduction and undercreation, and many still do, so let this be the analogue antidote. They're truly the offspring of the magic of soul, and I suspect soul overall is pretty darn proud of them. (Content: adult themes.)

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Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops

Oi! The most your typical Septic has ever heard off this album is admittedly its best, the knowing "I Got Your Number," run sped up in Jackass 3D while the team commits hijinx and at least one bodily injury in the exhaust from a private jet. But the punk is fun and the quality isn't suss, and if they lack some of the political awareness of their contemporaries that also means they lack some of their obnoxiousness (and outlasted them too, as "Where Are They Now" did prove). That doesn't mean they won't take prisoners in the process ("Take 'Em All") and it doesn't mean they fail to be topical ("Working," "Secret Army"), but if they're smart enough to know revolution is just replacing one type of oppression with another ("Watch Your Back") then they're smart enough to be more than attitude. As proof, at the end and out of left field comes the atmospheric, almost meditative naval story of "Out On An Island" that easily matches the best output of more outwardly cerebral bands. Even if that didn't sell many records to any audience, this one's still a keeper. The later reissues correct its chief flaw of brevity with even more great tracks; most, including the easily available Captain Oi! CD release, include "Argy Bargy" and the wacky B-side version of "Colonel Bogey" (with a spoon solo!), but the 18-track Taang! release throws in five more as well. All the contemporary reissues also include their only other notable single "England Belongs To Me," which became infamous as an anthem for skinheads who mistook its pride of country for white supremacy. These guys just can't catch a break. (Content: S-bombs on "Take 'Em All" and "Droogs Don't Run.")

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Daft Punk, Random Access Memories

In the aftermath of the electronica duo's breakup, let's look at their last, probably greatest work. There's something inexcusably pretentious about liner notes that prominently state "Starring (in alphabetical order)" and not all of those guests are the album's high points (Paul Williams' "Touch" disappointingly in particular), and the obvious pop single moments are fatally obvious pop singles ("Lose Yourself to Dance" and the Pharrell Williams hit "Get Lucky" are cute but ultimately disposable). But the shift to richer orchestration and a more expansive style really delivers, with real meaningfulness here in a genre generally fixated on throwaway beats. I have never heard a more heartfelt, human vocal out of a vocoder than "Within," I enjoyed the U2 feel of "Instant Crush," "Fragments of Time" adds wistful nostalgia without being cloying, and while "Beyond"'s orchestral lead-in is a trifle overwrought it's still thrilling. However, while there are many such quality instrumental interludes, the album's three official instrumentals are its finest moments and indisputably the best tracks they've ever done: "Motherboard" and the tingly wonderous glow of first "Contact" deliver a solid punch, though it's their interview with disco deity Giorgio Moroder that hits it out of the park, rendering his insightful, introspective self-summation of his career and life over a wonderfully realized throwback beat in "Giorgio by Moroder." This album may be almost eight years old now but it is so suffused with atmosphere it will forever be timeless. Perhaps they took Fatboy Slim's advice: if this is the greatest, why try harder? The deluxe edition adds "Horizon," a fourth prog-styled instrumental as strong as the three on the main album and well worth picking up. (Content: mild adult themes on "Get Lucky.")

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The Manhattan Transfer, Vocalese

I have fond memories of this album as a kid because my local library had it on cassette. (You know, those places with books that people visit now for the free Wi-Fi.) It's not aged wholly without tarnish — the synths and drum machines are definitely products of its time — but the hook of vocalists singing those florid stratospheric jazz solos, squeals and squeaks intact (sometimes together with the very instruments they're mimicking), never gets old. And not just vocables and scatting, though there are some, but the witty, wacky Jon Hendricks lyrics sung to their usual high quality by the members and an ensemble cast of guests including Hendricks himself. While you'll get the joke better if you know the originals, as a fascinated young listener who didn't know a Grammy from my granny I did know the sounds in my headphones were gold. The songs are less compelling when they're less formed (particularly "Another Night in Tunisia," with guest Bobby McFerrin beneath his talent), and it loses its fifth star for being a cover album at its core, but good golly, man, what covers. It would have almost been worth the fine to keep the tape. (Content: no concerns.)

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Nick Lowe, Jesus of Cool

What is it with snarky rockers and G-d complexes, anyway? (Maybe that's why Columbia chickened out Stateside and called it Pure Pop for Now People, like that really explained the album better.) But no matter what it's called, it's a gas: right on the terminal gasp of glam and the cusp of new wave, with just a dash of doo-wop and soul, the style defies categorization while it simultaneously delights. It's well programmed with a lot of zip (dig the wacked-out Motown riff in "Nutted by Reality" and the rollicking chaos of "I Love The Sound of Breaking Glass") and a little slowness ("Tonight"), and, wow, a heavy helping of humour, like a knowing indictment of the recording industry in "Shake and Pop," the ghoulish "Marie Provost" and of course the Führeriffic "Little Hitler." A precious few songs don't fire on all cylinders (the live pub rocker "Heart of the City" feels an afterthought and "36 Inches High" meanders a bit too much), but there sure aren't many. But wait, there's more! the 2008 UK reissue makes a great album even better by not only reverting to the superior European tracklist, but also adding almost double the music with the different American tracks, surprisingly worthy alternate takes, some B-sides (including the hilarious "I Love My Label") and even the Brinsley Schwartz version of "Cruel To Be Kind." Another overwhelming victory for the Poms! American reissuers should be ashamed. (Content: A couple S- and F-bombs, adult themes and drug references.)

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John Farnham, Whispering Jack

This album is a novelty in America (except for occasional runs of "You're The Voice" on knowing 80s stations), which doesn't make sense, because it's an absolute beauty. It's so beloved in Australia as an icon of contemporary pop that my Aussie wife bought it for me a second time forgetting I'd already bought it before. It could be that Farnham's distinctive vocals sounded too much like his time in the Little River Band when they flopped in the States, or it could be that his career had just slid that far since his teen idol days, which to be sure never took off Stateside either. So call it a comeback album if you like, but the sheer exuberance of songs like "Going, Going, Gone," "Love To Shine" or the album's best track "Pressure Down" could make one think he hadn't ever had a care in the world. While the slow moments ("No One Comes Close," "Touch of Paradise") are no lyrical titans, the emotional heft bursts through his every note and you can't help but exult in an album that just feels so wonderful to listen to. Cursed to remain a staple of record stores down under for as long as they exist, I have no doubts I'll get another copy in a few years, and it'll still be that good; in these polarized times we could all stand to take the pressure down as well. The CD reissue adds the extended version of "Pressure Down" which is merely longer rather than better. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Very Best of The Stone Roses

Their hype may have exceeded the actual Second Coming (never mind that their second, weaker album was actually called the Second Coming), but at least briefly this inventive alternative act put Manchester on the map, and at least briefly they sparkled like no one else in the process. This disc is a far better survey of their work than their other collections as it features all the songs that mattered from their first self-titled album (most of them), their second (not many of them) and their early singles. For me, the finest moments of the band were the glistening "Waterfall," "Made of Stone," their elevated, ethereal single "Elephant Stone" and honourable mention to the jangle-pop mumbler "Sally Cinnamon;" while I am less enamoured of the dopey pop religious namedrops in "Love Spreads" and others, and "This Is The One" has a great feel but its lyrical content couldn't fill a thimble, my quibbles with this entrancing collection are slight. I am, and remain, a huge fan of their first effort, but this gives you almost all of it and some bonuses besides, and spares you the dreck this influential group shoveled out beneath their talent afterwards. (Content: no concerns.)

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Lakeside, Fantastic Voyage

They weren't exactly a one-hit funk wonder but this was their one funk hit, and it was a big one. Naturally it has the party pleaser title track, an exceptional single by itself, but there's a lot of other great beats on this album like "Your Love Is On The One" and the slow jam delights "Say Yes" and "I Love Everything You Do." The lyrics are a bit transparent ("I Need You" especially), the last track is a throwaway and the otherwise entertaining "Eveready Man" owes as much to James Brown's "Sex Machine" as it does to the battery manufacturer, but you'll have a good time all the time just the same. But wait, there's more! The Cherry Red Robinsongs UK reissue combines this, several 7" mixes and their preceding two albums into an inexpensive two-disc set which is just perfect for any devotee of the genre. Shot Of Love, their second release, is almost as strong as this one with the standout "Given In To Love" [sic], and their third album Rough Riders may overdo the cowboy motif but still has its moments. How is it that the Poms know how to do funk reissues right and we have to import them in the States? Who screwed that up so badly? (Content: no concerns.)

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U2, Achtung Baby

If the cultural zeitgeist of the early 1990s could be etched into a disc, it would end up sounding a lot like this one. No coincidence, then, that it was recorded in Berlin and Dublin where their worldly tumults just ooze into the album's every moment by osmosis. No more the chastened Irish youth of Rattle and Hum, they now bring to their listeners the novelty and the weight of new frontiers for a generation that chafed just as much from constriction. There is introspection, self-examination, romance, regret and loss, and a just a touch of humour, but through it all the unavoidable impression that change has come with infinite possibilities that loom and bloom all at once, and the world through our eyes would never be the same. The music captures the same lyric feel as the words, the chiming guitars of "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses," the wistful musing beat of "One," the biting saunter of "Mysterious Ways" and the mournful dirge of "Love Is Blindness." Few musical time capsules are more complete: as Bono's distorted vocals correctly call out in "Zoo Station," in those heady days every single one of us was ready for what was next. (Content: mild language in "Acrobat.")

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Brass Construction II

Their first effort, innovative as the jazz-funk fusion might have been, was indelibly marred by their intentional use of words solely as colour to yield an album both musically sophisticated and thematically sterile. Good thing they didn't make the same mistake twice. For sure there's no ambiguity about the themes this time around, such as "Screwed (Conditions)" and "Get To The Point (Summation)," and the slightly charged "Sambo (Progression)," but for however affected or blunt the titles and exhortations are the message of social improvement is solid and the music is funky. The stylistic variations don't distinguish the tracks as much as I'd like and a couple overstay their welcome a bit, but the disco bridge on "Screwed" livens it up, the album's single slow track ("Blame It On Me (Introspection)") is a welcome groovy change and the party atmosphere runs all the way through to "What's On Your Mind (Expression)" at the end. Still, as good as the other songs are, the standout is the incomparable "The Message (Inspiration)," ignominiously familiar to younger generations as the core sample for N.W.A.'s "I Ain't Tha 1," whose unmistakable piano bassline, horn flourishes and honeyed vocals remind us through nearly five minutes of pure joy that "everything is going to be all right." The second time around is always better. (Content: no concerns.)

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