EMF, Schubert Dip

I like this more than most alternative dance in that you can, you know, dance to it. Now, do also be advised that the lyrics are throwaway, the music doesn't really go anywhere and the beats are generally indistinguishable from track to track; there were only really two songs (the twisty thumping hit "Unbelievable" and the new wave-NRG four-on-the-floor of "Children"), maybe three ("Girl of an Age"'s unattainable subject) that seriously hooked me in. That suggests an obscured talent not well demonstrated on the remainder but that doesn't mean the album's bad, just not what it could have been. Other than the ill-advised Mark David Chapman cameo on "Lies" ("that's the way destiny works") and the obnoxious live hidden track "EMF," it's something energetic you don't have to listen to very closely, and I'll never condemn an album solely for that. (Content: F-bombs in "EMF.")

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The Beach Boys, Smiley Smile

The chief sin of this album is being the castoffs of Smile instead of actually being Smile, but Smile has solely achieved its legend by not existing such that it becomes the tabula rasa justification for every pre-meme meme about Brian Wilson's genius. (In these later, more enlightened times, we have Wilson's own 2004 attempt, as well as the actual early recordings as The Smile Sessions. By also not being Smile, they enable Smile to continue being better than any album that ever existed.) This is not to say, however, that Smiley Smile is an unappreciated jewel cursed by cultural circumstance. The production is largely lo-fi home studio quality, and not in a good way, and the intentionally simplified nature of the recordings comes off more as lazy than inspired. Yet the damnedest thing about this profoundly unprofessional work is how earwormy some of it is: tracks like "Heroes and Villains" and "Vegetables" (crunch crunch) — and of course "Good Vibrations" — are so inventive and audacious they'll sit in your auditory tract for days, and you'll like it, as they're so appealingly original that the unapologetic technical faults (like, notoriously, the control booth's "good" in "With Me Tonight") end up just being part of the magic. That said, an album this haphazard is bound to throw more than a few duds, and it does; the "W. Woodpecker Symphony" probably sounded better as an idea than the actual track, "Wind Chimes" is unpleasant and particularly unfocused, and worse still for the baffling "She's Goin' Bald" and vaguely creepy "Gettin' Hungry." But it ends well on an atmospheric note, most strongly the gauzy, trembling first love story of "Wonderful" but also the amiable "Whistle In." The verdict still stands: not Smile, and the myth remains undefeated, but enough rough elements of it exist that the fans can still what-if with conviction. Capitol paired this album in CD reissues with the less adventurous but also less gonzo Wild Honey, also not Smile, and not nearly noteworthy enough to stand even with its unrefined predecessor. To fix this, they threw in a radically different "Heroes and Villains" with a differing bridge and ending, along with a couple good quality B-sides (especially their acapella version of "Their Hearts Were Full of Spring") and one of the longest versions of "Can't Wait Too Long" from the Wild Honey sessions. Unfortunately, the "various sessions" and early take of "Good Vibrations" are at best intermittently interesting, but I do like this two-for-one idea. (Content: mild adult themes on "Gettin' Hungry.")

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Pearl Jam, Ten

No alternative band likes to be a prototypical anything because everyone's a special snowflake, but this album set the aesthetic a billion acts consciously aped for a decade to follow and arguably none of Pearl Jam's own follow-ons transcended it either. Despite the fact contemporary listeners might find it comparatively sedate or maybe even slow, and the production isn't always dynamically adventurous, the album delivers with weighty themes, McCready/Gossard's skillful guitar riffs and the bassy, groaning vocals of Eddie Vedder. The grind is good when it's hopping ("Even Flow," "Deep"), and there's a surprising amount of philosophical thought ("Alive") mixed with genuinely tender, raw emotion (from the conflicted eroticism of "Black" to the aspirational nostalgy in "Release"), at least when it doesn't devolve into amorphous angst ("Once," to its detriment). In fact, that accessible level of emotion is the strongest part of the album, translating unobstructed by artifice even when the band's stylistic reach gets past their grasp (the harmonic ambiguities of "Oceans" get an A for effort but an incomplete for melody). It's why a single like "Jeremy" succeeded: despite, or perhaps because of, the childlike lyrics and the disturbing subject matter, you could feel the buried anger fume in every string and syllable, and for five minutes we were all that tortured kid together. Indeed, exactly that sort of effortless auditory transference is why this album still succeeds today. The 2009 reissue adds a few Mookie Blaylock demos from the interregnum between Mother Love Bone and this incarnation; they are inferior to the worthy B-sides and session outtakes that are also included (especially "Brother," which really should have been included to start with). Although the iTunes re-release's live bonus tracks make for a solid show, the physical reissue is really the one most fans will enjoy more, though the replica cassette and LP inclusions might be a little much. (Content: F-bombs, adult themes, violence.)

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Tangerine Dream, Optical Race

Sterile and formulaic, but it's the right kind of sterility and formula, and the album even brags about it, too: in the CD liner notes, on the other side of the flap from the die-cut cover, it proudly states it was produced on an Atari ST complete with the fuji. (No doubt Jack Tramiel didn't pay a dime for that plug, either.) Birthed in the midst of their more approachable, synth-heavy 1980s phase, they still take too long to get to it — nearly all of the first four tracks are well-produced but uninteresting — but persistence rewards you with gentle beats ("Cat Scan" and the title track), some precision melody weaving that makes the most of the algorithmic approach ("Turning Off The Wheel") and an appealing slow closer ("Ghazal (Love Song)"), even if the saccharine's a little heavy to the taste. For formulaic, sterile new age fusion you could do a lot worse. (Content: pure instrumental.)

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Prince, Welcome 2 America

A posthumous release of a 2010 recording, this newly released gem from his estate is one of the better outings and certainly the best release so far since his unfortunate demise. The funk and R&B are solid but sufficiently updated for the modern taste, and while his self-production is a little stingy with the dynamics, its live jam feel is blessedly free of booth diddling; both he and his skillful backing mercs play like he never left this earth. Lyrically it's a mixed bag, some great uplifting semi-gospel ("1000 Years From Here," "One Day We Will All B Free") and thoughtful topicality (title track, "Born 2 Die") undermined by puerile manstrutting ("Check The Record," "When She Comes," snicker snicker nudge nudge), but the insta-singles are fun ("Hot Summer") and the slow moments burst with soul ("Stand Up And B Strong"), and his now almost nostalgic use of single character words means you won't have to spend a lot of time texting the track names 2 ur friends. (Content: adult themes.)

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Billie Eilish, Happier Than Ever

Or more likely the title's just one big snarky troll. Her repertoire has expanded and the breathy-girl vocals mellowed and refined (with the intentionally ironic exception of "Male Fantasy") and it goes well with the slinkier, smoother initial tracks, even the harshy "I Didn't Change My Number." (Stand-out: "Billie Bossa Nova." Yes, literally. You can almost imagine the stage show.) The slower, more introspective moments show real maturity ("my future" and "Halley's Comet" in particular), even if "Getting Older" doesn't quite wash with her age ("NDA"'s interesting power reversal reads more like it), and a little bit of grit doesn't harm "OverHeated" or at least doesn't harm "Therefore I Am" fatally. Still, "Oxytocin" is annoying and even a little thuggish, "GOLDWING" doesn't have enough of a hook to overcome the weak writing and the half-hearted angsty R&B in "Lost Cause" comes off even worse. The accuracy of the title notwithstanding she's still got growing up to do and the bad habits of her prior art die hard, but this album shows growth for sure, and those unmoved by her earlier efforts might find more to like in this one. (Content: F- and S-bombs, adult themes.)

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Badfinger, Timeless ... The Musical Legacy

This band suffered, at times unjustly, and they suffered bad. Their compilation producers aren't doing them any favours either. The obvious and deserving hits made it ("Day After Day," "Come and Get It" and "No Matter What") plus at least one worthy B-side ("I'll Be The One"), and the group's (well, more) Beatlesque days as the Iveys are at least somewhat represented by "Dear Angie" and the beguiling "Maybe Tomorrow." Unfortunately their irritating original version of "Without You" shoots itself in the head early (any of the covers are superior), "Baby Blue" was a dopey choice for a single (the George Harrison-produced tracks from that album like "Name of the Game" and of course "Day After Day" are better) and "Believe Me" is as good as it is only because it's actually interpolating "Oh! Darling." Still, this collection gets the nod over 2000's The Very Best of Badfinger for completeness, especially the inclusion of Ass, though there was probably good reason in earlier attempts to leave off the aimless "Apple of My Eye" and the dreary, overstuffed seven-and-a-half-minute excess of "Timeless." Two of their Elektra tracks also made it, paragons neither one, but they're here ("Dennis" from Wish You Were Here takes a little while to get where it's going, while Airwaves' "Love Is Gonna Come At Last" never does). The most accurate compilations capture a group's aesthetic clearly, and while listening to this one it's hard to shake that as unfair as life was to the members of this band, they weren't entirely blameless for it either. (Content: no concerns.)

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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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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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The Veronicas, GODZILLA

Certainly other electropop acts could learn a thing or two from these ladies. While it's still got the faux annoying grit that says I'm only dangerous in a studio, and their dynamic range varies exactly from tortuous to inaudible with nothing inbetween, the autotune isn't obvious (if it's there, it's judiciously applied), the melodies are more thoughtful and the arrangements and production more sophisticated than this genre's usual fare. And hey, no problem double-tracking the vocals, right? The title track has a harsh grunge vibe that grows on you, the vocals weep especially authentically in "Silent," and I was pretty impressed by the well-realised retro strut in "Stealing Cars." That said, it's still very much an album of its type: "101" has nice backing but recycled sentiment, "In It To Win It" is the same post-modern pep rally you've heard a thousand times and "In My Blood" has possibly the worst metaphor for anatomy and turntables I've ever encountered in pop music. (I've also sincerely got my doubts they themselves remember arcade machines or Atari ("High Score").) On the other hand, the cliché breathy little girl voice is my only major quibble with "Kaleidoscope" and "Catch Fire" could easily be an over-credits theme from the next Hollywood blockbuster. Although it remains irredeemably embedded in a genre not noted for breaking molds, it doesn't take a lot of innovation to stand out either. (Content: adult themes, an S-bomb.)

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Zapp

The world did not need a third P-Funk clone after the artificial bifurcation of Parliament and Funkadelic, nor did said clone need to be produced by Bootsy. The music's good enough in a basic sense, I suppose, but notable mostly in its quantity than their quality ("Coming Home" in particular could have been twice as good if it were half as long) and its repetitiousness drags the 40 minute runtime out into six sometimes interminable tracks. I like a 12" as much as the next guy, but give me something new to listen to. Still, "Funky Balance" on, er, balance manages to exceed its unnecessary length with a legitimate if repetitive groove, "Be Alright" is a solid R&B outing, and of course the classic "More Bounce to the Ounce" — almost stylistically out of place with its enthusiastic new wave funk — starts the album off strong. The chief issue is that it goes downhill from there; no amount of juice can save it from its own self-cannibalization. (Content: mild adult themes.)

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