REM, Green

The zenith of REM's discography is this scattershot, eclectic collection of vignettes and jangle where the cover doesn't even match the title. The best part is that they learned from their mistakes on Document: the politics persist, but more subtly, Scott Litt's production is richer and higher quality, and a solid balance of radio-friendly ("Pop Song '89," "Stand" and "Orange Crush") and cerebral ("World Leader Pretend," "Hairshirt" and particularly the heart-rending "The Wrong Child") songs make the album eminently listenable in pieces or end-to-end. 1988-me played the cassette single of "Stand" non-stop, and when I finally bought the full tape it turned me into an REM fan for life. Their later work is where they started to believe their hype, and their worthy earlier works were too often too insular, but this one was their Goldilocks — and that title might even match. The 25th anniversary disc adds another one of those live CDs which is a full example of their then-current setlist but mostly makes you want to buy the originals. (Content: no concerns.)

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Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon

There are many reasons this album loomed large for years like the Kubrick monolith over the Billboard charts, and all those explanations suffice, but the biggest is its unfailing consistency. This album radiates quality from every rainbow-tinged and inky black atom, and every member did his part, whether it was Roger Waters' restrained lyrics, David Gilmour's scintillating guitar, Richard Wright's VCS-3 soundscapes or even a rare solo credit for Nick Mason. The songs vary in style but not in theme and flow perfectly from one track to the next, aided greatly by Alan Parsons' unerring engineering and a startling world-building array of overlaid sounds. Heartbeats and helicopters? Check. Inscrutable quotes? Check. Coins and cash registers in 7/4 time? Check and double check. The technique reinforces the music; the music reinforces the concept; the concept reinforces the experience. Rarely are there true artistic unities in pop music, even when pop music was more explicitly artistic, but this album is indisputably one of them. Notwithstanding various later local maxima you might even say they would never eclipse it. Recurrently reissued and remastered, the postcards in the 20th Anniversary version were fun but to my ear James Guthrie's mix for the 30th is the superior release. (Content: a muffled F-bomb in "Speak to Me" and a single S-bomb in "Money.")

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Simon & Garfunkel, Bridge Over Troubled Water

This was the first album I ever owned, part of a four-pack of Simon and Garfunkel cassettes my parents got me in junior high, and even to this day this one is still the standout. It was more than just the folk music of their early days and even transcended the eclectic wider-world feel of Bookends, yet remained grounded in the human stories and the murmuring vocals they started with. It didn't hurt that there was much more of it, too; there are many strong tracks here, not least the opening title track with Spectoresque reverb and shimmery stings of percussion like seawater splashing on rock, plus the tortuous memories of "The Boxer" past his prime and the meditative airy B-side "The Only Living Boy in New York," though as a kid I gravitated towards the peppier ones such as the slightly salacious "Cecilia" and "Baby Driver." Indeed, the song I'm personally most fond of, even though it is by no means their best work, is the unreliable narration of "Keep The Customer Satisfied" who winds his suspect tale of persecution with a rockabilly feel and a full set of brass that is in fact just as satisfying as advertised. The live "Bye Bye Love" seems tossed in at the last moment, and "Song For The Asking" yields a wantingly wan goodbye for their last and greatest work, but precious few of their albums together or solo have ever approached its excellence and its appeal is practically universal. The 2001 remaster adds two demos, the Haitian folk song "Feuilles-O" which is engaging but far too short and too much of a throwback, and a disappointingly flat-sounding earlier take of the title track; neither are at all as compelling as the main work. (Content: mild adult themes in "Cecilia" and "Baby Driver.")

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Stevie Wonder, Songs in the Key of Life

It's a rare double album that doesn't overstay its welcome. It's a rarer double album that sets itself high goals for musicship and message, and actually hits them. There's real sophistication here, real harmonies you can feel, thick layered instrumentation you could get lost in. Songs like "Black Man" point out much we've all given to society, "Saturn" (from the original companion EP and now a well-deserved part of current CD issues) gives us the wisdom of learning from our mistakes and "Love's In Need Of Love Today" reminds us that conquering prejudice isn't a single point in time. (And don't we all, atheists and preachers alike, need to "Have A Talk With God"?) Combined with zippy songs like "Sir Duke" and "I Wish" (and the best title on the album, "All Day Sucker"), and sweet ones like "As" and "Isn't She Lovely," it deftly avoids that other curse of double albums, collapsing under the weight of their sheer pretentiousness. A product of its time yet ineffably timeless, this album is Stevie's finest. Current CD releases include everything from the companion EP, which, unlike many such tack-ons, has songs fully coherent with and just as sublime as those on the main album. (Content: mild adult themes in "I Wish.")

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David Bowie, ★ (Blackstar)

What album would you write knowing it would be your last? That, posthumously, you could rest in the grave, the recording done, your sensibilities preserved and your artistic vision unfettered? Every musician should hope God grants them a last word on their own terms, and David Bowie got one: no compromises, no concessions to the pop charts, an eccentric, eclectic self-elegy shipped under the noses of a public unaware he was even ill. And, two days after its release, we have this album yet we have not him. Eternity suffuses the unfiltered emotions in the lyrics, from a man saved from his own execution by another ("★") to Lazarus in heaven against us collective Divëses below ("Lazarus"), even as he reassures Sue — or maybe us — that the clinic called and the X-ray's fine ("Sue (Or In A Season Of Crime)"). Was he telling us all along he was "dying to[o]" ("Dollar Days")? Was he trying to? Every style he wanted he played: there's Nadsat and Polari ("Girl Loves Me"), earthy baroque ("'Tis A Pity She Was A Whore") and symphonic pop along with classic Bowie at the end with "Dollar Days" and the album's heartfelt closer "I Can't Give Everything Away" — a presumably deliberate irony as he gave us this very treasure to remember him by, its brilliance and unyielding intransigence even extending to the unreadable black on black of the liner notes. Everything about this masterpiece is sumptuous and unsullied, daring you to take him as he was and rewarding you with its sophistication when you do. Even a jerk music critic like me can't pierce the grave with my sharp wit nor effusive praise, but for an album as incredible as this one, let this summary be my attempt to try. (Content: sexual themes in "'Tis A Pity She Was A Whore," F-bombs in "Girl Loves Me," mild language in "Lazarus" and "Dollar Days.")

★★★★★

Radiohead, OK Computer

There is sheer genius here behind that incomprehensible title. It starts right away with gritty violins and the grungily insistent, meandering backbeat of "Airbag"'s intro, giving way to its exalted trilling guitars that nearly submerge Thom Yorke's vocals. There is also the satiny undulation of "Subterranean Homesick Alien," the plaintive stripped down "Exit Music (For A Film)," the mournfully lyric "Let Down," the quaveringly upbeat "No Surprises" and the luxurious sweeping floataways of the closer "The Tourist." Less accomplished, but no less worthy, are the distortion-drowned "Electioneering," the morose if expressive "Climbing Up The Walls" and the sluggish though still fascinatingly contrastive "Lucky." Yet these only comparative lesser moments are swept away by this album's triumphs, the menacingly beautiful "Karma Police" (compare with Cheap Trick's "Dream Police") and its artistic peak "Paranoid Android," a possibly unintentional prog rock throwback with distinct movements, discrete tempos and some of the most layered and complex audio construction since Alan Parsons. Its small faults make it greater; its great moments make it matter, and it is arguable if any of its contemporaries come close. The reissue "OKNOTOK 1997 2017" might as well be an entire second album: besides remastering the original such that it's never sounded better, it leads off with three brilliant unreleased tracks ("I Promise," "Man of War" and "Lift") and eight B-sides. Unlike many shovel-ons these tracks are almost as high quality as the album they didn't make and if I had a six-star option I might even award it. A little over much is the bonus cassette (!) in the boxed set, mostly short odds and sods in progress, though even these not-fully-cooked treats are nearly as tasty and old-school ZX Spectrum owners should put the cassette in their system's tape player for a bonus. (Wait, is that where the title comes from? I had a Commodore 64, you see.) (Content: no concerns.)

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Rush, Moving Pictures

Quite possibly one of the finest progressive rock albums ever recorded, and certainly the best work by the Toronto trio of their discography. Part of it is the level of restraint: compared to their prior output Neil Peart didn't go too crazy with the lyrics or nuts with the themes, Geddy Lee didn't shriek too loud and Alex Lifeson just kept on doing what he does. But most of it is the level of skill: from the very first note of the dazzling synthesizers on "Tom Sawyer" all the way to the reggae-esque "Vital Signs," the recording is flawless, the music is fascinating and the depth of production is enthralling. I rank "Tom Sawyer" highest because of its unmistakable mix of pounding synth and crashing guitars, and the band thoughtfully picked that highest of high points to lead off with, but "Red Barchetta" positively wraps you up in the lyrics with its breathless storybook denouement, and the amazing long instrumental intro of "The Camera Eye" sets you right in the middle of the thematic action. There are relative low points — "Witch Hunt" gets a little tedious, even if its political overtones are a timeless warning to any generation, and both "Limelight" and "Vital Signs" are technically accomplished but noticeably more ordinary than the rest — but they are indeed just relative and don't really drag the album down any. Combine that with an amazing triple visual pun from the art department and you have something Canada can be rightfully prouder of than Kraft Dinner. And I really like Kraft Dinner. Probably Tom Sawyer would too. (Content: no concerns.)

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The Beatles, Abbey Road

There is no more perfect Beatles album than this one. Think of every high point of their previous output, and you'll find it's all here in one place: a rich George Martin production, Lennon-McCartney whimsy ("Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), some of George Harrison's best songwriting ("Something," "Here Comes The Sun") with even a Ringo cameo ("Octopus's Garden"), and not least a range of musical style from hippie idealism ("Come Together") to proto-metal ("I Want You (She's So Heavy)") to even progressive rock (the "suite" of almost the entire second half), all the way through to the magnificent conclusion of (what else?) "The End." It cannot be improved upon. It cannot be eclipsed. In a like manner it's fitting that this was actually their last recorded work chronologically, even as the (comparatively) weaker Let It Be followed it, because every single one of their albums before was just a stop on the road to greatness leading up to this. If there is no other Beatles album in your cabinet, then let it be this one (ahem). (Content: no concerns.)

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The Who, Who's next

This was the new bang, the big one. No tarted-up noodling around with R&B, no residual mod trappings (though see Quadrophenia): a fresh, penetrating sound for a tumultuous new decade. My colleague Michael remembers how his mind was blown the first time he threw it on the turntable. Was this the same band that did "Tommy" and "Magic Bus"? Where did this come from? Where could he get more? There is no bad song on this album, none. The order and the lineup could use a little work, evidence of the internal turmoil from the aborted Lifehouse that yielded this glorious vinyl salvage yard, and "Behind Blue Eyes"' harsh arrangement doesn't really correct its unfocused thematic vacuousness, but balance that against the exuberant "Baba O'Riley" with its sparkling, almost mathematically precise synthesizer line, the deeply emotive "The Song Is Over" and "Getting In Tune," Entwistle's cartoonish kneeslapper "My Wife" and, last but hardly least, the cynical and irrepressibly energetic "Won't Get Fooled Again," devastating as a critique of demagoguery, incomparable as an artifact of rock. Even the lesser-known tracks sparkle, including my particular favourite, the simple yet irresistable "Going Mobile," its unerring musical capture of the freedom of the road something everyone should play on any roadtrip anywhere. This was Townshend's high point, his musical peak, unmatched at any other point in his writing career ironically by preventing him from bloating it further into what he thought prog should be. Art thrives on limit and this album proves it. You can blame this album, in fact, for why the band's later works never eclipsed it, not least because it's so good, but more importantly because its success ensured he would be given more artistic freedom than he could be trusted with and for that their later 1970s output suffers greatly by comparison. The CD reissues add various unreleased tracks, most notably the intriguing works-in-progress "Pure and Easy," "Too Much of Anything" and "I Don't Even Know Myself," but also several tedious live tracks which the 2003 release turns into an entire second disc. I like a Who concert as much as anyone but I'll buy a ticket, thanks. (Content: no concerns, though some reissues have sexually provocative inside artwork.)

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Aerosmith, Toys In The Attic

I don't think the now more (they could hardly have been less) mature and, at least comparatively, refined incarnation of Aerosmith would agree, but ... they really need to get back on drugs. Because those drugs brought us this, even finer than Rocks (oh, the irony), more developed than Walk The Line, and, well, better than just about every other album they've done, stoned or sober. Of course, the drugs are what made the later '70s albums worse, because they always do, but at least for a time the cocaine made incredible magic. There's the breezy nonsense of "Walk This Way," still unequaled after all these years despite Run-DMC's iconic hiphop refurb; snarky, raunchy blues in the thinly disguised double entendre "Big Ten Inch Record," a surprisingly weighty yet brisk ballad on child abuse in "Uncle Salty" and even some soulful, if admittedly silly, moments in "You See Me Crying," my favourite guilty pleasure on the whole album for its syrupy hokiness. Plus, yes, plenty of heavy cut-it-with-a-razor-blade rock, running all the way from the title track to "Adam's Apple" to concert favourites like "Sweet Emotion" and "Round and Round," with the blase "No More No More" being the only weak cut in an album of sheer, unadulterated, white clouds of bliss. I hope it's obvious how fully in my cheek my tongue is saying this, but look at what a couple well-placed lines will do for your creative output. If being drugged out would have prevented them from releasing Just Push Play, I say bring back the mirrors. The CD reissue adds "Dream On" as a bonus track, a tremendous mitzvah, because then you don't need to buy that other unmentionable album just to get their first great single. It was the grass that was responsible for the rest of that dreck, you see. (Content: adult themes, a couple mild expletives.)

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The Clash, Combat Rock

Their finest hour. The one where longtime fans accused them of selling out, and new, yet to be indocrinated fans, said, "who?" An unjustified assessment on both counts, because make no mistake: their bleeding hearts are just as proudly fixed on their torn T-shirts as ever in their long corpus of works (this is, after all, the band that brought you the questionably excessive Sandinista!), as evidenced by the unerring, unvarnished demands for social justice from the very first track ("Know Your Rights" even) and the sick, provocative confrontation of postmodern British and American racism in "Straight To Hell." ("Lemme tell ya 'bout your blood, bamboo kid," whitesplains a venomous Joe Strummer to his putative half-breed offspring. "It ain't Coca-Cola, it's rice.") No, you don't need to share in their brand of aggressive progressivism to enjoy classics like "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" (though Spanish helps) and "Rock the Casbah," or for something a little less overplayed, the bleakly funky "Atom Tan." Every such A-side is a jam in this truly triumphant return to chaotic form. But even the minor moments shine, such as a musical example of Poe's law in the darkly satirical "Red Angel Dragnet," the rappin'-trappin's of beat icon Allen Ginsberg's monotone behind "Ghetto Defendant" and my personal favourite, the sparkling violent menace of "Death Is a Star," a critique of the public appetite mixing lounge lizard sensibilities with mass murder. Something for everyone. (Content: stylized violence, mature themes, some harsh epithets.)

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Sparks, Kimono My House

It's the American invasion: the faux-Anglos from that bastion of Britaindom, Los Angeles. That's only the beginning, because what they've wrought, besides a great long-playing Memorex ad that shatters glass at twenty paces, is an amazing, enjoyable, innovative infusion of humour, art and intelligence into glam rock. It doesn't hurt that Russ Mael's rafter-raising vocals make the songs instantly identifiable, but the knowing lyrics, unpredictable styles and thoroughly original subject matter make it fun. They took a cowboy cliché, for crying out loud, complete with gunshots and a charging guitar line, and made it into a metaphor for serial relationships ("This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us"). Albert Einstein's formative years from his parents' perspective are dissected in "Talent is An Asset." The globe becomes the distance between a man and woman who can't meet in the middle on "Equator." Get the picture, gaijin? The production values are strong, even if the sound is occasionally a little muddy, and the consistency of Ron Mael's songsmanship and the occasionally danceable rhythms are head and shoulders above their uneven earlier works. Two reissues exist; the original reissue adds two great B-sides, "Barbecutie" (guffaw and kneeslaps) and "Lost And Found," while the second adds a live version of "Amateur Hour" from a later incarnation of the band which is admittedly inferior. Never mind that. Enjoy these wackjobs' first truly great album no matter where you find it, because you won't find any other album that simultaneously achieves its goals for art, intelligence, quality and humour anywhere else in the world. (Content: innuendo, sexual themes.)

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Supertramp, Breakfast in America

My best friend had this album on eight-track, and it was a revelation; prior to that time we'd never even heard of them. Who was this band who named themselves after the itinerant homeless, and more to the point, where had they been all our lives? There's not a clinker anywhere, not a bad song to be found. We listened enraptured from start to finish, with "Gone Hollywood"'s incisive commentary on fickle stardom, "Logical Song"'s indictment of conformity and "Breakfast in America" deconstructing the social implications of what's on the menu. And permit me to wax lyrical on "The Long Way Home" — rapturous wistfulness over choices not taken and roads not explored becoming more and more relevant the older I get. No band ever fused pop and prog rock so artfully as this album did, and no collection of songs came off so vibrant, alive and intellectually stimulating. Our later explorations demonstrated that while they'd had some great albums before, they'd never reached this peak. And sadly, they never would again. (Content: no concerns.)

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Queen, A Night At The Opera

Not so much revolution as incredible evolution, A Night At The Opera was just a more sophisticated incarnation of the quirkier style first introduced on Sheer Heart Attack — but that doesn't take away from it any. Impossible to categorize and captivating in its variety, "Opera" starts off with one of their most vitriolic rockers ("Death on Two Legs") and immediately veers into bubbly vaudeville with "Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon," setting the refreshingly dichotomous and almost satirical feel of the album as riff and rollick alternate all the way to the climax in "Bohemian Rhapsody." Along the way we touch silly gems like "I'm In Love With My Car" and "Seaside Rendezvous," heartfelt offerings like "You're My Best Friend" and "Love of My Life," and even a cerebral slow thinker with "'39." If the album has a sour note anywhere, it's "The Prophet's Song," a heavyhanded 8-minute bender that recalls their early and now understandably less popular quasi-prog days by badly overstaying its welcome; skip that, you lose nothing. Slickly produced and artfully programmed, there's nothing quite like this masterwork in breadth of style or peak of quality, and there's no surprise as to its critical and commercial longevity. God Save the Queen. (Content: harsh language and content in the opening track.)

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