Led Zeppelin, Presence

Robert Plant observed in subsequent interviews that Presence was essentially the band's cri de coeur in a time of great turmoil. Being laid up in a roach-infested Greek hospital thousands of miles from your family would certainly qualify, but the band turned that strain into sharpness, which to me is a great relief after the excesses of Physical Graffiti. The production is high quality, but stripped down to an unadorned guitar, base and drums trio that yields an almost desperate, hungry feel to the music I'm sure Jimmy Page intended. "Achilles Last Stand" [sic]'s insistent cadence and tumultuous guitars always struck me as the deepest groans of a helpless giant drowning in circumstance, the perfect way to lead off, but it sort of goes downhill from there. Some of the Graffiti-esque Pommie blues keep popping up, unbidden and unwelcome, in tracks like "For Your Life" and (ugh) "Candy Store Rock," complete with its tedious B-side "Royal Orleans," though the former at least redeems itself by dropping the slavering sweet pretense in the second half. These detract from the raw impact not only of "Achilles" but also the other stand-out tracks, the mournful trudgery of "Tea For One" and the punch of "Nobody's Fault But Mine," where you feel the resignation in Plant's voice but the Bonham/Jones rhythm tells you he'll live. And maybe that's the album's message: the invulnerable British hard rock group made mortal, grappling with a maelstrom they'd never had to face, doing their best to make a stand of their own just as the legends did. (Content: drug references.)

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Kraftwerk, Trans Europe Express

Musical minimalism is too often used as a substitute for substance, and the first listen through I was ready to slap two stars on and be done with it, which would have been an injustice. TEE is not a perfect album, but it's a beguiling one that rewards the listener who invests in deeper study as well as realizing probably the best concept album idea they'd ever had. Having shed most of their krautrock roots by this point, TEE is the gateway to their late 1970s symphosynthotrilogy, and given their later output is probably the peak. "Europe Endless" was what finally won me over on the second listen, not only melodic and subtle and adding just enough sweetening on the theme and variations to avoid sounding repetitious, but also aspirational and hopeful — the continent enduring, the cultures mixing, forming the album's central symbolism around the now-defunct Express which might be a nice theme song to play when the EU Parliament starts getting uppity. I also found I enjoyed the refreshing wit of "Showroom Dummies," sitting around "exposing ourselves," offering some additional lyrical dimensions for a change that escaped me on a superficial scan. While the title track has some interesting quasi-musique concrète ideas (the train track motif especially) but ultimately overstays its welcome, overall TEE avoids sounding as dehumanized as some of its contemporary Eurosynth albums do because it has two things they don't: vocals, and a refreshing imperfection. If the music is formless and abstract, it sounds alien. If the music is programmed into a sequencer and unleashed on demand, it sounds robotic. The little flubs, the changes in tempo and the wavering voices all remind us there are real people singing, real people performing and real people playing, uniting themselves both body and soul in a grand idealist vision of what they hoped Europe could be. (Content: naïve European nationalism.)

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Sonic Youth, Goo

You would be foolish to expect a "normal" or "conventional" album out of Sonic Youth: they'd hate themselves for selling out, and then they'd turn around and hate you for making them. Yet if there were an album that the unwashed tragically unhip masses could grok, nay, just tolerate listening to, it would be this one. I'm not an excessive fan of atonality, even the non-gratuitous kind with the express purpose of expanding musical minds, but you can leaven dissonance with a solid groove and wisely they give you some. The gluggy production quality kind of works for them, kind of against; the muddiness gives the emotionally insightful "Tunic (Song for Karen)" a hazy retrospective quality that fits its historical subject matter, and it helps Thurston Moore's strident vocals stand out from the muck on the truly excellent "Disappearer," but on "Cinderella's Big Score" and "Dirty Boots" the vocals sink into the mire and the dynamics into the mud. That's a shame, because the best part of "Goo" is the earnest snark: when Kim Gordon asks Chuck D ("Kool Thing") if he's going to liberate "us girls from the male, white, corporate oppression" (and he replies, reflexively, "Tell it like it is! Word up!"), you know she really means it, and she knows he really doesn't. They still can't resist lapses into the inscrutable; just drop "Mote" and "Scooter + Jinx" completely off the track list, thank you, and "Mildred Pierce" is just as undeveloped as its history would imply, but you can't fault them for being true to themselves and I just want them to know we can still be friends. (Content: F-bombs, some sexual references.)

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The Alan Parsons Project, Eve

If you looked at the cover, where women in Victorian veils and merciful shadows obscure their half-ulcerated faces, you might condemn this album as misogynistic on its very face (which I suppose would be true in a literal sense). Songs like "You Lie Down With Dogs" only complete the initial impression; a cynical interpretation might find the song's fleas a metaphor for other venereal arthropods, and then David Paton piles on as he'd rather be a man "'cuz a man don't crawl like you do," while "You Won't Be There" and "Winding Me Up" repeatedly decry the feminine manipulation of the fragile male ego. However, a careful listening demonstrates just about every line on side 1 was truly subtle satire, evidenced by the sharp contrast with the second side (led by the album's low point, "Damned If I Do") as it morphs into a portrait of the courageous ("Don't Hold Back"), virtuous ("If I Could Change Your Mind", with the wonderful Leslie Duncan on lead vocals), and, I guess, mysterious ("Secret Garden"). The album's chief problem is that the concept is far more adventurous than the music: in almost every artistic dimension this album is absolutely typical of APP's formulaic 1970s output, with a couple semi-heavy tracks, a couple meditative tracks, a couple instrumentals and a saccharine closer. That doesn't make it bad, but it does take the punch out of what could have been an interesting musical commentary on the state of human relationships and gender, leaving only the syphilitic sores on the front cover as a conversation piece. The reissue adds the usual tiresome early mixes and demos, but does have one noteworthy gem, the lovely "Elsie's Theme" from The Sicilian Defence, their infamous contractual obligation album that "never was." (Content: mild innuendo.)

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U2, Zooropa

Zoo TV, the inspiration for Zooropa, was supposed to be an exploration of sensory overload and I am relieved to report that the actual album is nothing of the sort (well, maybe the ghastly album art is, but not the music itself). True, stylistically it picks up where the highly experimental Achtung Baby left off, but it develops it and makes it more refined rather than just wallowing in it. Part of that is no doubt the expertise of Brian Eno and Flood, but part of it is also an increased understanding of how to merge their past with the future: they may have thrown it in for laughs, but the classic vocals of Johnny Cash on the final track backed by a marvelously artificial bogus cowboy riff pretty much represents the album in miniature. "Stay" and "Some Days Are Better Than Others" could have come off an earlier work, but with a little sweetening and stylistic assimilation they slot right in. They also add new tricks to their audio repertoire such as drowning The Edge's vocals in the drony mix of "Numb" to impressive effect, and while Bono's falsetto will never reach Russell Mael's it's a fun little counterpoint on that and "Lemon." Good bands mature, but great bands evolve. (Content: no concerns.)

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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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Phish, Billy Breathes

I bought this CD off the rack in Penang, Malaysia (for RM39.90, if you must know), with the "diimpot oleh Warner Music Sdn Bhd, KL" sticker still on the jewel case to this day; I'd already cut my teeth on the intricate insanity of Junta and the breathless frantic energy of Picture of Nectar, and as I sweated buckets in the equatorial humidity of that June I figured our ichthyoid jam band would be just the distraction I needed. The difference here is the production, by the great Steve Lillywhite, and the result is something a little less off in left field, a little more controlled, which makes the moments when they go off the leash jarring instead of charming: the tightness of "Free" and the mature, melodic undulations of the title track clang against the unsettling imprecision of "Taste," the drop-off-a-cliff ending of "Train Song" and the noodly meander of "Talk." And I could probably do without the last three tracks entirely, even "Prince Caspian." Fortunately, "Character Zer0" and "Theme From The Bottom" still hearken back to the energy of Nectar in the in-between moments, "Bliss" is an undiscovered delectable void of harmonious dissonance, and "Waste" is as tender and earnest as any lyrics they've written. Ostensibly, Lillywhite wanted this to be Phish's great "stoner album" (apparently except for all the other ones), and while my solicitor advises I can't attest to that I can say that his production largely made genuine order out of what had previously been serendipitous chaos. And that got me through a lot of endless, sweaty nights in Asia. (Content: no concerns.)

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Talking Heads: 77

After "Love → Building On Fire" bounced onto the singles charts we expected great things from Talking Heads' first full effort, and the first half of "77" uncompromisingly fails to achieve them. David Byrne, if you're as smart as the lead track alleges you are, then where did you come up with such patent gibblegabble like "love is simple as 1-2-3"? Did you crib notes off the Jackson 5? By "No Compassion" I'm ready to break the disc into pieces except the local shop won't take fragments on trade-in. And then, just after that nadir, just when I've started thinking about how stupid this album is sounding and how they fooled us all, then the good stuff starts. "The Book I Read" is still a little lyrically imbecilic, but I'll give him points for humour (if this was meant for a real author, then I'd love to see the restraining order) and the band for some actual musical feeling and complexity. When he talks about the laws in this country that are his favourites and the civil servants that are his loved ones ("Don't Worry About The Government") this right-wing capitalist bastard wonders if he's really serious, but if it's snark it's witty and if it's earnestness it's certainly original. And then there's "Psycho Killer," which teaches all of us the finer points of being a homicidal maniac au français. The two stars isn't (just) because half the songs are bad; it's because this should have been an EP, and given what they've demonstrated they're capable of they have no excuse. The reissue adds "Love → Building On Fire," which, being programmed onto the second half, means you can go right on skipping the first. (Content: no concerns.)

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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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REM, Up

It may be too much to say that bands who lose drummers lose their souls, but they certainly lose something. The Who was never the same after Keith Moon died, even with the very able and terminally underappreciated Kenney Jones filling in for two albums (three if you count his collabouration on the 1975 Tommy movie soundtrack retrofit); how much worse, then, when REM filled in for Bill Berry with session mercenaries and drum machines? I have conflicting feelings about this album, and I know the band definitely did while they were making it. It has some of my favourite REM tracks, including the incomparably rich "At My Most Beautiful" and "Daysleeper," and the unexpected pleasures of "Why Not Smile" and "Parakeet." But these are the slow tracks, with no beat by definition; by contrast, the supersynthetic lead-off "Airportman" is one of their worst efforts, aimless and monotonous, setting up the album for failure. "Lotus" comes off like Lenny Kravitz on Thorazine. "Suspicion"'s rhythm section sounds like my old Casiotone, and not in a nostalgic way, and on, and on, and on. The musical direction Berry's departure forced them into was not a total loss because it did gradually evolve (Reveal in particular), but they proved replacement was impossible, only succession. (Content: mild innuendo.)

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