Another 100 Best Albums of All Time List
Part 10 Megalodon: 10-1
As we marched toward the finale of this sprawling series, I reflected on Apple Music’s 100 Best Albums, which spawned the genesis of this project. Sure, their rankings alternated between a list of a 70-year-old man’s and a 15-year-old girl’s favorite albums, but any of these compilations are inherently subjective. It begs the question of how anyone can even declare any album to be the greatest of all time, as each pick that progresses toward the top spot exponentially says more about the person assembling such a list than it does about the albums at hand. As I mentioned in the opening piece of this series, these rankings are an exercise in transparency in your taste in art and entertainment that lends context to your appreciation and criticism. I’m not one to lecture about having obligatory reverence for canonical records. But if you’re going to rip on the greats, it helps to know what you appreciate, so I know whether to take your opinion seriously or not.
A friend of mine recently told me I have questionable taste in music—which is odd because I’d wager my taste in music is broader and more eclectic than most people, and anyone who digs through my library will likely find something they could enjoy. My wide-ranging preferences are value-neutral; this does not mean I have “better” taste in music, I just have more context and reference points. I vibe with weird, esoteric stuff that isn’t for everyone and there are many classic albums that I don’t personally enjoy. Anyhow, his musical expanse is mostly confined to pop-country and mainstream EDM. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with liking easy-listening mainstream music. I hate the attitude of if it’s popular then it sucks because such a disposition would preclude me from enjoying a considerable amount of music that’s in my rotation. But I will draw a literature analogy: Imagine being an adult who only reads YA fiction and then hating on Ulysses because it’s complex and you don’t understand it, so you decide it sucks and anyone who enjoys it has questionable taste in novels. There’s nothing inherently wrong with liking YA fiction on its own—although if this is all you read, I would encourage you to broaden your horizons—but swiftly dismissing something you don’t understand because you never cared to engage with it only comes from a place of ignorance.
The ear is a muscle; you train and strengthen it through exploration and experimentation. If you’re digging through albums that are considered classics, it helps to do some level of background research so you have some context as to why they have garnered acclaim and achieved such cultural impact (a cursory read through Wikipedia is sufficient). Many of these records are decades removed from the sounds that are established today, and not every album sounds like it could’ve been made yesterday. Classics can either be universal in taste or quality, timeless, influential, technically masterful, or all the above; it’s crucial to understand which type you’re listening to. You may stumble upon a classic that is displeasing to your ears, and that’s fine. But personal preference doesn’t dictate whether a piece of art is “great.” Its impact on culture, history, and other art is what makes it “great.”
Below, you’ll find my Top 100 Albums (from 10-1) and the reason why I chose them, as well as Kevin’s picks and my response to them. For Kevin’s explanations of his albums and his reaction to my picks, check out his list below (and subscribe to On Repeat!).
My #10: In Rainbows - Radiohead (2007)
I remember the run-up to the release of In Rainbows. I was in high school and while Radiohead’s follow-up to Hail to the Thief was highly anticipated, it was the first time a band seemed to acknowledge that the future of music purchasing was not going to be $20 CDs at Best Buy. I was on online messaging boards and saw people saying they were planning on paying anywhere between a dollar and $50. Since I didn’t have a credit card at the time, I resorted to snagging a burned CD from my friend to download it to my desktop, and have since spent at least 500 hours listening to it.
In Rainbows is a great intro to Radiohead: You have alt-rock set pieces, deep-breath minor-key ballads, and intense percussive grooves. It’s difficult for me to comprehend that OK Computer and In Rainbows were only released 10 years apart. There is something abstracted about the turn-of-the-millennium anxieties channeled on OK Computer that is endemic to a lot of ‘90s stuff, and these feelings take on a much more direct shape on In Rainbows.
These 10 tracks are a stimulating synthesis of accessible songs and abstract sounds, using the full musical and emotional spectra to conjure breathtaking beauty. The opening two tracks provide a stark contrast: There’s the stammering drum machine and spacey synths that kick off “15 Step” as a Kid A headfake, then the rip-roar of a sharp-elbowed guitar in “Bodysnatchers.” It’s a one-two punch that arrests momentum and demands attention. This version of “Nude,” which was 10 years in the making, is a little subtler, and the cooing is chopped up and slightly dislocated. I love coffee house Thom Yorke on “Faust Arp,” and those string arrangements are startling. There is real, albeit subtle propulsion on the back third of the album, the horniest and most human-scale: There is the oceanic “Reckoner,” the seductive groove of “House of Cards,” the threatening and spaced-out “Jigsaw Falling into Place.” Finally, the legitimately ghostly “Videotape” bumps in the whip—that is, if your whip is a Hearse.
In Rainbows is Radiohead’s Abbey Road. It reminds us that after years of experimentation, they can create a mysterious atmosphere out of vague and layered discomfort, but they can also pump out a perfect suite of songs with impeccable arrangement and production.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #10: It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back - Public Enemy (1988)
My Take:
As I alluded to last week, It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back is in my Mount Rushmore of ‘80s hip-hop albums. This is an era for hip-hop that mostly hasn’t aged well because it seems rudimentary in retrospect, but this album is the perfect synthesis of sonics and politics. Chuck D brings a fistful of lyrical righteousness that propelled him into the foremost commentator and documenter of life in America’s underbelly. As he deployed sociopolitical rhetoric, dense vocabulary, and revolutionary attitudes, the Bomb Squad delivered 80 backing tracks in a sonic assault, introducing a densely aggressive sound influenced by free jazz, musique concrète, and heavy funk as a backdrop. I may have to reevaluate my list after leaving this one off.
My #9: London Calling - The Clash (1979)
Sure, the Clash’s debut is a punk rock classic, but London Calling is one of the greatest albums ever recorded, regardless of genre. Joe Strummer and company broadened their artistry without compromising their original vigor and immediacy. The chaotic thrash-and-bash energy that defined late-’70s U.K. punk bands is largely absent on London Calling, and it was replaced with songwriting finesse, maturity, and versatility. Every track seems to cop some sonic fodder from different corners of the world: There’s rockabilly, funk, dub, reggae, dance, folk, post-punk, and new wave—and the Clash executes all these sounds masterfully.
The title track is the record’s cosmic lynchpin: Horrifyingly apocalyptic and foreboding, it is riddled with werewolf howls and Mick Jones’s punchy guitar bursts tap little nails into your skull, pushing hard for total lunacy. From “London Calling” onward, the Clash does not let go; each track builds on the last, pummeling and slapping us into submission. The tracklist is full of memorable choruses and melodies, like “Jimmy Jazz,” “Spanish Bombs,” “Lost in the Supermarket,” or “Clampdown.” There are also thick and bassy reggae jams like “Guns of Brixton,” which is one of the most menacing tunes in a catalog of blind-and-obliterate windmilling fury. There is also quite a bit of wit and social commentary in the lyrics. London Calling is a thrilling and remarkably consistent listen through 19 tracks, a big and loud and beautiful collection of hurt, anger, restlessness, and above all, hope.
Highlights: London Calling, Brand New Cadillac, Jimmy Jazz, Rudie Can’t Fail, Spanish Bombs, Lost in the Supermarket, Clampdown, The Guns of Brixton, Death or Glory, Lover’s Rock, Revolution Rock, Train in Vain (Stand by Me)
Kevin’s #9: 24 Hour Revenge Therapy - Jawbreaker (1994)
My Take:
Jawbreaker, and especially 24 Hour Revenge Therapy, is the best example of punk rock densely packed with emotion. These are life-affirming songs that will give you goosebumps. The bass is barrelling and chunky, the drumming is ferocious and precise, and the lyrical themes deal with disaster, isolation, and depression—but also persistence, stoicism, and humor. It’s easy to see why their sound was picked up and softened by pop-punk bands that came after, but none of them could replicate Jawbreaker’s mix of snarling toughness and tenderness.
My #8: Pet Sounds - The Beach Boys (1966)
It has become a bit of a totem, or even cliché, to discuss how groundbreaking and influential Pet Sounds is. Many pop-oriented bands shamelessly draw inspiration from the Beach Boys’s acid-tinged barbershop quartet arrangements. But the melodies have ultimately helped this album stand the test of time. They’re all gorgeous, sophisticated yet catchy, complex without being annoying or offputting, and perfect to deliver the heartwrenching emotional content. “Wouldn’t it Be Nice” starts as a fairly basic melody, but the direction it takes in the last two verses is so unique—even today, I can’t think of any other song that does something similar.
The word “genius” might be the most overused descriptor in music, but Brian Wilson is one of a select few musicians who deserve such praise because he had a sense for writing melodies that’s beyond just artistic talent. Pet Sounds has influenced a list of artists that transcends time and genres: The Beatles, Weezer, Death Cab for Cutie, Stereolab, Prince, Michael Jackson, Deftones, Radiohead, Questlove, Air, Yo La Tengo, Talking Heads, Car Seat Headrest, Washed Out, Animal Collective, and more.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #8: Hounds of Love - Kate Bush (1985)
My Take:
Well, you just read my take on Hounds of Love. This is the definitive art-pop album, and if you haven’t listened to it, you should change that immediately.
My #7: The Velvet Underground & Nico - The Velvet Underground & Nico (1967)
The first time I ever tried psychedelics, I was on the porch during a house party catching a breather from the clamor of a hundred-or-so people who were too drunk and obnoxious for my mental state to process. After a few tunes and some pulls from several passed-around joints, my thoughts began to settle, and then “Heroin” came on. As the tempo increased gradually and the bow kept scratching and the voila feedback became louder and the drumming got louder and the guitar strumming grew more intense, my brain melted until my psyche completely dissolved and I was shaken to the core. I had to listen to the rest of this album.
Brian Eno has a famous quote in which he says that not many people bought this album “but everyone who did started a band.” While it’s a bit of a banal statement now, VU&N might be the most prophetic rock album ever made. It was released in the dead-center of the psychedelic movement and it boldly went in the other direction to create a mold-busting, genre-spawning, scary motherfucker unlike anything before it, birthing punk and avant-rock. The Velvet Underground were ahead of their time sonically while preserving elements of the 1960s pop sound; their music is simultaneously dated and timeless. TVU&N is a powerful collection of songs that are a full-fledged attack on the ears and brain, and it introduced Lou Reed’s decidedly urban infatuations for street culture and an amorality that borders on voyeurism.
A junkie in a motorcycle jacket, schooled in surf music and doo-wop but fascinated with the decadent Warhol Factory demimonde, Reed led his gang of art punks into a transgressive kinky-druggy menace. They turned the big bad city into the pleasant jingle of “Sunday Morning” and the sublime noise of “Venus in Furs.” Rockers like “I’m Waiting for the Man” and “Run, Run, Run” leap out from the speakers with aggression. “Femme Fatale” presents a romantic vision of big-city nightlife over music that’s tough enough for gritty realism. Born-to-be-dead chanteuse Nico adds her creepy charisma to the ballads “All Tomorrow’s Parties,” and “I’ll be Your Mirror.” The street narratives of “Heroin” ride on ruthless guitar clatter, stopping and retorting time at will, all glamor and danger. “The Black Angel’s Death Song” is oppressively noisy, but pleasurably so.
It would be fruitless to attempt to list the artists who have been directly inspired by the Velvet Underground. Their first four albums are all masterfully crafted, but The Velvet Underground & Nico is the most influential recording in their discography because its sonic scope and innovation make it the rock music Bible. Almost every sound and idea on the album was unlike anything done before, but everything made since then sounds a little bit like The Velvet Underground.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #7: Ten - Pearl Jam (1991)
My Take:
Pearl Jam is another one of those bands that I understand their place in rock history and respect their significance in the grunge movement, even if I preferred Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and Soundgarden. All the singles off Ten pretty much dominated my childhood; any time the local rock radio station was playing, you could bet “Jeremy,” “Alive,” or “Even Flow” would be on rotation. Although, it is undeniably fun to do the Eddie Vedder voice when you’re drunk and “Even Flow” comes on.
My #6: Purple Rain - Prince & The Revolution (1984)
Purple Rain may be an obvious pick, and maybe some of you reading this will prefer the groovier and more robust 1999, or the versatile and forward-thinking tracklist of Sign “O” the Times, which was a premonition of how pop music would sound into the ‘90s. But Purple Rain deftly threads the needle between a dazzling array of genres: Tongue-wagging hair metal, dark R&B, hip-swinging fun, disaffected synth-pop, and pleading soul. The result isn’t a perfect combination of genres as much as it is an effortless transcendence of the very idea of genre itself. It’s a gigantic musical presentation, incredibly layered and funky and colorful, an extravagant pop music parade.
I’m convinced Prince is a magical apparition who descended upon us from an alternate funk dimension where it is always 2 AM on a misty full moon, arriving on a cloud of purple smoke and adorned in a suede blazer, a guitar, a falsetto made of glitter, and a deeply intractable groove. This flamboyant, charismatic personality pours through his vocals like a violently erupting volcano of sexual energy. Purple Rain doesn’t blaze a new trail, but is an elusive North Star beaming a blinding light signal from a part of the forest no one will ever find because no one will ever make an album like this.
The opening salvo, “Let’s Go Crazy” is a church sermon-inspired hyperactive backbeat that features Prince ripping out an ostentatiously speedy Van Halen-esque guitar work that became the MTV aesthetic. “Take Me with U” is distinguished by a stellar intro and bridge played only on tom-toms and strings. “Computer Blue” begins with a cryptic spoken exchange and the ensuing song is a club jam about the common ’80s theme of existential technological alienation. “Darling Nikki” is thick and dark, finding the link between burlesque and thrash metal double bass, and rumbles along as a fuck song about getting dirty with and getting played by the timeless femme fatale. On the confessional “When Doves Cry,” Prince delivers some of his most pointedly affecting lyrics, and the ensuing groove provides a bouquet of rococo keyboard arpeggios that capture the helpless confessional pleading of a man trying to figure out who he is and why it hurts so damn much. “I Would Die 4 U” is a bonafide party jam that is celebratory and morose, distinguished by a vast swath of new wave synth, an insistent high hat, and a deep bounce. The title track has Prince playing the part of a preacher and guitar god performing a sonic baptism; the vast arrangements, the grandiose soloing, the pleading vocals. Close your eyes and you can picture someone pouring ten bottles of Soul Glo into a smoke machine, and out comes this purple glittery cloud of magic.
Prince is a singular musician whose artistry and ideas floated above culture and genres. That’s why he has such a profound impact on people from Janelle Monáe to Trent Reznor to Beyoncé.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #6: Thriller - Michael Jackson (1982)
My Take:
My only issue with Thriller is that, while the highs are essentially the greatest pop songs ever written, Michael Jackson has delivered more consistent front-to-back album experiences with Off the Wall and Bad. Regardless, this is the King of Pop, so I’m just nitpicking between the most essential pop albums of all-time. Thriller is iconic, from the music videos, to the pop-soul crossover, to the high watermark it set for all of pop music. It was ahead of its time in many ways, from popularizing MTV and bridging the gap between “white music” and “Black music.”
My #5: Songs in the Key of Life - Stevie Wonder (1976)
Crazy Fact: Stevie was 26 when he released this album.
Crazier Fact: This is Stevie’s 18th Studio Album.
Stevie’s whole output in the ‘70s is untouchable, truly god-tier. But Songs in the Key of Life is easily his most far-reaching album in terms of the stylistic bases it covers, the plethora of guest musicians that contributed to its material, the influence it had, the boundaries it pushed, and the deeply profound and emotionally compelling songwriting. There are more than 130 musicians listed in the credits, but Songs from the Key of Life never strays from the singular, blazing vision of Stevie Wonder. It’s one of those rare upbeat records that feels like a genuine celebration of life, as the hooks pile on top of hooks, tucked irresistibly and unerringly into breaks, fills, and intros. I’m usually cynical when it comes to broad messages of love and unity and togetherness but that skepticism melts away when Stevie is on; his joy and belief in a better world is infectious.
Any complaint about the excess seems to miss the point. Any great double-album—e.g., The White Album, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, The Wall, Exile on Main Street—could easily be paired down into something tighter and more consistent. But the all-encompassing aspiration was the idea behind Songs in the Key of Life, a desire to contain multitudes during a revved-up creative groove. For a record this sprawling, it’s breezy because it is packed with highlights. I will list them in bullet form because there are so many:
The smooth and gorgeous soul of the opener, “Love’s In Need of Love Today,” is proof of Stevie’s angelic voice and jazzy melodic sensibilities.
“Have a Talk with God” is some very ominous synth funk with all of these murky key layers and metallic ringing tones.
The balladry on “Village Ghetto Land” takes a surprisingly baroque turn, as the refined strings contrast heavily with the images of desperation and destitution painted in the lyrics.
“Contusion” is unrelenting hard-rocking jazz fusion that does not let up and shows how much instrumental muscle is behind the great playing on many of the gentler songs here.
There’s a smooth transition into the “Sir Duke,” a bright and joyous expression of love for music.
“I Wish” is a groove machine with spicy bass and horns, and Stevie playfully reminisces about getting up to no good as a young boy and wishing those days could come back. This song was essentially reworked to make the Wild Wild West theme song.
“Pastime Paradise” became known as the instrumental backbone to Coolio’s classic “Gangsters Paradise,” and while it sticks to the dystopian vision of Stevie’s original rendition, it doesn’t capture the subtle Latin influences on the beat that collides with some gospel style group vocals and classically influenced strings.
The lovesick “Knocks Me Off My Feet” is lovely and sweet, and the chorus is bright and soaring.
“Summer Soft” draws great lyrical metaphors between love and seasons and months.
The breakup anthem “Ordinary Pain” closes off the first record with a big funky finish, and this track ends Disc One on such a bang, that this could have just been the album.
“Isn’t She Lovely” is a celebration of love and faith, the magic of birth and family—emotions shared by all, but never to be taken for granted in Black lives. I’m blown away with how Stevie played almost every instrument on this song—plus he rips into an epic harmonica solo in the latter half.
There’s the dreamy and choked-up “Joy Inside My Tears” before a hard-hitting “Black Man” whose message of racial equity in America and the world fed through a historical lens is powerful but sadly still relevant today.
The last leg of the tracklist moves in a Latin Direction with “Ngiculela-Es Ina Historia-I Am Singing,” which soars triumphantly in Zulu, Spanish, and English, with melody easily uniting all languages. It’s followed by the delicate voice-and-harp duet “If It’s Magic,” and then the transcendent, spiralling rise of “As.”
“Another Star” brings Side D to a grand and soaring finale: The group vocals, horn sections, and hand drums are intoxicating, and there’s an intensely bittersweet quality to Stevie’s singing and lyrics.
There’s an additional EP with some great tunes, like the synth-heavy “Saturn” with some interplanetary commentary as Saturn is depicted as a place to escape the horrors of Earth.
“Ebony Eyes” is some quirky piano pop with lots of silly and somewhat flirty solo passages and lyrics and
“All Day Sucker” has an incredible low-down, dirty funk groove with some chaotic instrumental layering that gives the track some real bite.
“Easy Goin’ Evening” is a slow and syrupy instrumental where Stevie shows off his harmonica skills and it's a very lovely simple sendoff jam.
Songs in the Key of Life never gets old, never gets on my nerves, never grows tiresome. Its infectious passion makes this beyond a masterpiece: It is the culmination of all the potential Stevie Wonder showed since his days as a child prodigy and it is the fulfillment of the musical, cultural, and political promise of Motown and the ‘60s soul revolution. Stevie achieved his goal of covering all aspects of life—whether it be the past, the present, the future, the great before, and the great beyond.
I love this album, and it loves all who listen to it.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #5: Stop Making Sense - Talking Heads (1984)
My Take:
I have no context of seeing the original, but watching the A24 version of Stop Making Sense in theaters last fall was an incredible experience. I wish I could’ve seen Talking Heads perform live in their prime, because this album and The Name of this Band is Talking Heads translates their earlier studio work into some incredible renditions. Stop Making Sense—along with Johnny Cash’s Live at Folsom Prison and Allman Brothers’s Live At Fillmore East—are the best live rock albums put to record.
My #4: To Pimp a Butterfly - Kendrick Lamar (2015)
Kendrick Lamar’s albums up to this point play out like Spike Lee films in miniature: Crowded with conflicting ideas and arguing voices, the stakes are unbearably high, the characters’s motives are unclear, and the morality is knotty, but you can feel Kendrick speaking to you directly through this narrative trajectory. The follow-up to good kid, m.A.A.d city doesn’t explicitly bill itself as a movie, but the network of interlocking dramas and expansive character exploration plays out like a series of separate but connected vignettes. It’s like watching an elaborate stage show of fiery outrage, deep jazz, and ruthless self-critique. The loose concept of self-love and personal responsibility is tied together by a poem that Kendrick reads at the beginning or end of each song, and with each attempt, he progresses further into the passage until it culminates into a full rendition at the end of the album. The closer “Mortal Man” ends with a lengthy, unnerving fever-dream interview with the ghost of Tupac about politics, money, and success.
Kendrick tackles an expanse of hot-button issues, including Black artists blinded by money and fame as the music industry exploits them, living up to musical and political heroes, the struggle of being a prominent entertainment figure trying to stay in touch with his roots, Black pride, racism vs. the Black community, and the Black community vs. the Black community. While he addresses topics that are considered overarching and political, he makes them personal and relatable, or at least something to sympathize with.
“Wesley’s Theory” kicks off the album with appearances from George Clinton, wailing G-Funk synthesizers, Thundercat’s bass wizardry, and a fantastic sample from Boris Garder—and it turns the downfall of action-star-turned-convicted-tax-dodger into a Faustian parable. The mood is wry, theatrical, chaotic, ironic, and mournful, and it’s followed up by “For Free (Interlude)” that’s psychedelic and dreamy and features this independent woman ticking off a laundry list of material demands before Kendrick snaps back that “This dick ain’t free!” and thunders through a history of Black oppression in a spastic spoken-word style. “King Kunta” is a P-Funk/James Brown concoction with zany background vocals. “These Walls” is a creamy, sexy neo-soul track about abusing fame to get laid, which the third verse references a bit of the poem and Kendrick says he’s sleeping with a woman whose man is currently in jail. Snoop Dogg drops by on “Institutionalized” to deliver this syrupy Slick Rick flow while Bilal quips on the chorus: “Shit don’t change until you get up and wash your ass, n***a.”
On the chaotic free jazz excursion “U,” Kendrick turns a mirror on himself, screaming, “Loving you is complicated!” and tears himself apart because his fame hasn’t helped his loved ones back home, and the second half spirals into drunken sobs where you can hear bottle sounds and lip-smacking and swishing. The theme of being there for close one continues on “Mama” and “Hood Politics,” and in the latter, Kendrick mocks himself for getting famous for making grand commentary on where he’s from, but whenever he returns home, he feels increasingly alienated and anxious from survivor’s guilt. The tracklist is dotted with a surreal grace note, a parable, as God appears in the guise of a homeless man in “How Much a Dollar Cost.” Then, “Complexion (A Zulu Love” is a tender note of appreciation for women of all skin colors with the help of Rapsody. Kendrick’s lack of comfort in his skin is put at ease through the effecting lilt of a caring mother on “You Ain’t Gotta Life (Momma Said,” where he concludes that he can be himself while being almost this messianic cultural figure. The conflict between self-doubt and self-love pivots on the sunny soul pep of “I” and the rawer, live version of this track plays out as the beating heart of the matter: The end of the song is derailed when Kendrick tries to plead with a restless crowd.
Ten years out, it doesn’t seem like To Pimp a Butterfly has had a prominent influence on the soundscape of modern hip-hop, but this is a singular and definitive artistic statement from one of the greatest MCs in the genre. This is a daring project that sets Kendrick Lamar apart from other rappers: While fixing the world through artistic expression may seem futile or impossible, it is a worthy cause even if the boulder of problems in front of you only moves an inch. While Kendrick articulates a philosophy about the tiny quality of life improvements made in the face of systemic police abuse and judicial inequality or other seemingly impossible odds, he never skimps on the music. If the music under the message is garbage, then the music is garbage, so Kendrick graced his messages, his point of view, and personal tales on an album with detailed and wonderful bits of jazz and funk. Underneath the tragedy and adversity, To Pimp a Butterfly is a celebration of the audacity to wake up each morning to try to be better, knowing it could all end in a second for no reason at all.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #4: Disintegration - The Cure (1989)
My Take:
Well, you just read my take on Disintegration. It’s the pinnacle of goth rock, ‘80s rock, dream pop, whatever you want to call it. Listen to it if you haven’t.
My #3: The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill - Ms. Lauryn Hill (1998)
Listening to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill from beginning to end was one of the most beautiful and impactful moments of my life. This is a declaration of independence. This is a breakup letter that spells out the universal interconnectedness of heartbreaker and victim in plain terms. This is a love letter to the liberated self, the maternal self, and to God. Musically, it arrives as the conceptual confluence of three of the most powerful musical ideas in all of Black artistry: Motown-era soul, reggae, and hip-hop. Miseducation also put the entire genre of hip-hop on blast. The mid-’90s had seen Bad Boy Entertainment help ascend the genre to corporate-level sales numbers with their disco samples and unrepentant tales of jewelry, gunplay, expensive cars, and ménage à trois. Regional acts like N.W.A. introduced incidental violence so extreme that it mutated into horrorcore, inspiring even the likes of Nas to rebrand himself as “Esco” and spin elaborate drug tales and heist raps. Lauryn Hill basically re-educated the entire hip-hop community.
This album walks a series of tightropes specific to young Black women: Be vulnerable and fearless, tell the truth but be beautiful, be driven by love and be ready to fight. These conflicts also manifest in the album’s versatility. Lauryn’s flow has this raw, smoky rhyme delivery and authoritative tone, while her singing is angelic and sweet. Some cuts have head-bobbing beats, smooth flows, gritty lyrics, and soul-enhancing soaring instrumentals. Other tracks have reggae rhythms or jazzy piano embellishments. “When It Hurts So Bad” boasts these wonderful harp runs, Santana delivers killer acoustic licks on “To Zion,” the closer “Tell Him” is lush with a flashy bed of pianos and strings, and there’s the sassy hook-enhancing saxophones on “Doo-Wop (That Thing).” The doo-wop harmonies and flushed distortion of voices are cast over taut snares, hard boom-baps, and thickly muzzled baselines. The lo-fi production and warm grooves recall a vintage vinyl on a rainy Sunday afternoon, striking a balance between finely tuned and freewheeling. This creates many surreal and beautiful moments, like the vocal harmonies with Mary J. Blige on the affecting “I Used to Love Him.”
For the first week it was released, Lauryn Hill outsold Jay-Z, went eight-times platinum in the U.S., and received 10 Grammy nominations—which was a record at the time for female artists. Miseducation straddled so many genres and eras, that it is impossible to pigeonhole it into any category of music. This isn’t just a great hip-hop record or a great neo-soul record, it’s just a great record. It transcends both the moment that birthed it and is also a landmark moment for the genres that inspired it.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #3: Pink Flag - Wire (1977)
My Take:
Pink Flag is an easy 10-out-of-10 album that I regret not including on my list (actually, Wire’s first three albums are all amazing). This is probably the most original debut album to come out of the first wave of British punk—instantly recognizable and unlike anything that has preceded it. This 21-track suite is electrifying or exploratory or challenging. Wire dredges up imagery of beat poetry, with rawness and detached irony both grim and frightening. There is no easy structure or meter, manipulating the classic rock song by condensing them into brief fragments and intense explosions of energy. Pink Flag’s enduring influence is still found in hardcore, post-punk, alt-rock, and Britpop and it remains a fascinating, highly inventive rethinking of punk rock and its freedom to make up your own rules.
My #2: What’s Going On - Marvin Gaye (1971)
During the pandemic, I went home to Connecticut, and I squaded up with some pals and had an epic beach day; we closed out the festivities chilling on the couch of my friend’s place listening to What’s Going On on vinyl and eating some Sally’s clam pizza. We were talking about how this album has not gotten the GOAT status it deserves, and a month later, Rolling Stone released their second revision of their 500 Greatest Albums of All Time—and they placed What’s Going On in the #1 slot. We felt vindicated.
Much has been made of the socio-political bent of What’s Going On because it served as a perfect soundtrack to the turmoil of 1970s America. The music was partially inspired by Marvin’s brother who had returned to the U.S. from a three-year tour of Vietnam, along with the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the Kent State shootings. The opening two tracks express a war veteran’s helplessness upon returning home, which shows Marvin Gaye’s dismay toward his country and government. But this album is more than a protest time capsule; its enduring appeal is also captured in his true-to-life resignation. His personal life was also filled with compounding depression, as he lost his duet partner and friend Tammi Terrell, his marriage was violently breaking down, and he was being tailed by the IRS for unpaid back taxes. This sets the stage for an LP that promotes the ideas of love, togetherness, and anti-war, while focusing on how all this turmoil affects the individual.
Marvin drifts away from this portrait of a soldier to pull out the track “Flyin’ High,” and it takes an interesting turn of mood by dealing with drug addiction. It segways into “Save the Children,” which pinpoints to a specific American melancholia—a mix of world-saving power and funereal inevitability. “Who’s willing to try to save a world / That's destined to die,” he sings. Upon my first listen, I laughed when he belts “Save the children,” but as Marvin kept singing, it was clear how serious and genuine he was about how we should live today by considering how the world will look tomorrow, and I started to cry. This album wrecks you. The production makes the message feel heavenly and beautiful. “Save the Children” cleanses the soul—it has the potential to tear every shred of hate out of a person. The tracks “God is Love” and “Wholy Holy” reveal the religiously inspired sentiments behind this album while “Mercy Mercy” takes on an environmental angle. One notable change in sound is the 7-minute “Right On,” which brings a Latin flavor to its rhythm section.
I typically find heavily arranged and string-kissed pop and soul music to be a bit stiff, but the grooves here are fluid. The vast atmospheric reverb on Marvin Gaye’s vocals is complemented by the soothing background singers. There are warm and nimble basslines, light percussions, smooth saxophone flourishes, and these mutating, percussion-fueled rhythms, majestic strings, and jazzy horns, and it gives the affair levity. It all flows into one another as if this is one free-flowing 35-minute song. For such a short runtime, its emotional range is seemingly limitless.
What’s Going On is a fantastic piece of soul, a seminal record for the ‘70s. It is uplifting and righteous. It’s been sampled so much in hip-hop that most people have heard parts of this album without knowing it. It’s the most socio-political masterpiece of an album ever made, and albums like To Pimp a Butterfly wouldn’t exist without it.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #2: Power Corruption, and Lies - New Order (1983)
My Take:
Last week, I predicted Power, Corruption, and Lies would crack Kevin’s top 10, and I was convinced this would be his top album. This is probably my favorite New Order album, as it is a quantum leap past Joy Division’s morose discordance and into a gentle and melodic journey through a world of sequencers. The second I heard the opening bassline to “Age of Consent,” I was mesmerized. The remainder of the tracklist is a stellar and blissful ride through ambient postindustrial polyrhythms. This is the peak of synth-pop.
My #1: Abbey Road - The Beatles (1969)
One night, I sat down in my friend’s living room as he was showing off his recently set-up turntable with surround sound, and when the sliding bassline and persistent percussion of “Come Together” pummeled my eardrums, I was immediately convinced I needed to start a vinyl collection. Collectively, the Beatles had so many ideas, made so much music, affected so many people, and inspired so much pop music, that they were necessarily bigger than life. Writing about an album like Abbey Road is a bit daunting because the Fab Four has amassed so much cultural currency, that it feels almost pointless to talk about them. Their presence and influence are so omnipresent that it’s difficult to say anything novel or profound about their cultural imprint, like describing the taste of air. There is a lot of context that goes into Abbey Road: George Martin solidified his reputation in rock history by producing this album to perfection, the studio this was recorded in was renamed “Abbey Road” in the mid-70s to reflect this LP’s iconic popularity, the game-changing album cover has been remixed and memed throughout the culture, and there’s the mysterious lore surrounding Paul McCartney’s rumored death.
At this point in their career, the Beatles were no longer the cohesive songwriting operation they once were in the early- to mid-60s when their overall sound and vision were much more singular. Creative disarray led to the death of this band—when they returned to the EMI studios on Abbey Road in the summer of 1969, they weren’t getting along, their musical interests were diverging, John Lennon didn’t really want to continue with the Beatles while Paul McCartney did but only if he set the pace and got what he wanted. This lack of creative control led to the pleasantly schizophrenic White Album, and it helped Abbey Road lay out its terms precisely and assemble these disparate parts harmoniously.
It’s sad that a bit of the magic of “Come Together” has been lost through its dominance on the airwaves because it is one of the most cold-blooded blues rock songs ever written, and the groove has an iconic swagger. There is a discernable tone shift as Geroge Harrison’s “Something” follows suit, as Frank Sinatra has called it the greatest love song of the past 50-100 years. The sound is timeless: The strings are gorgeous, subtle, atmospheric, heavenly; meanwhile, the vocals, the watery slide guitar and the organs are charming and a tad psychedelic. It’s a refreshing alternative to many other love songs of the ‘60s as the infatuation carries some questions and uneasiness; George gives this romantic interest the option to stick around, and even after his massive and extravagant romantic display, there are no guarantees this relationship will last. Then there are flashes of weird detours and indulgences on the following track, “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” a theatrical and jaunty McCartney piano tune about a man who goes on a killing spree with a hammer. “Oh Darling” is another Paul ballad, a big soul number where he’s yelling his brains out.
Then, it’s Ringo time with “Octupus’s Garden,” a silly, charming, childlike song in a long tradition of silly, charming, childlike Beatles songs. Given his most famous song is about a yellow submarine, it would be understandable if Ringo had reservations about penning another nautical-themed tune, but the dude really wants to hang out under the ocean in the shade, hiding away from storms. It’s a sweet, precious escapism with sunny vocal harmonies, bright pianos, bubbles, and an almost country-twang finish.
“I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” made me realize how revolutionary the Beatles were. It starts as a very sensual, moody blues-rock tune and progresses into these heavier, darker, sinister passages that lumber and expand until these sections take over and undergo extreme repetition until it balloons into an epic three-minute coda that gets heavier and thicker and louder and more crushing and more suffocating and more oppressive and the guitars and bass are getting bigger and bigger and bigger with more layers and more volume and more reverb and Moog synthesizers making all of this windy staticky noise and now it’s looming and monolithic and droning—then it just cuts off. After, you’re greeted with the beautiful opening chords of “Here Comes The Sun,” something that is plucky and dazzling and sparkling, a quintessential Beatles song with its vocal harmonies and hopeful energy, almost like it’s welcoming you out of the abyss that “Heavy” was dragging you into.
Then there’s the legendary suite that runs from “You Never Give Me Your Money” through “Her Majesty.” Gathering scraps of material that had piled up, McCartney and Martin pieced together a song cycle bursting with light and optimism, very progressive in nature. From the atmospheric rip of Fleetwood Mac in “Sun King” to the sharp pair of Lennon fragments, “Mean Mr. Mustard and “Polythene Pam,” through the explosive, one-climax-after-another run of “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window,” “Golden Slumbers,” and “Carry that Weight,” the nine fragments add up to 16 minutes of pure art-pop bliss.
Though Let It Be was then still unreleased, Abbey Road was the last album the Beatles would record together. Their first album Please Please Me had come out just six and a half years earlier. In that brief timeframe, they released 12 studio albums and a few dozen singles, with a sound that transformed from earnest interpreters of Everly Brothers and Motown hits to mind-bending sonic exploration and with so many detours along the way. I have no time or patience for Beatles contrarianism—whether you personally enjoy them is up to your subjective taste in music, but by any objective measure, these four men forever changed and expanded the possibilities within pop music.
Highlights: Everything
Kevin’s #1: Aja - Steely Dan (1977)
My Take:
Aja is a record for audiophiles, a progressive jazz record with backbeats. Steely Dan created a new relationship between jazz, pop, and rock—and in its best moments, Aja is all three and none of them. Before my first listen, I had the idea that precise and studied music was limp, clinical, and bloodless, but Steely Dan taught me that you can both be virtuosic and rebellious. Aja is full of strange, unprecedented, disorienting idiosyncrasies. Because Becker and Fagan weave together genres so seamlessly, it’s easy to overlook how brazen and surreal the performances are. This LP is full of melodic and harmonic complexity, and it’s a very specifically over-engineered and over-complicated kind of easy listening. It is both pretentious and unchallenging at the same time. This one just missed my cut, but Aja is an all-timer.
And that’s it for this week! Next Wednesday, we’ll be recapping this sprawling madness on what we learned and where this musical journey will take us.
Kevin and I also created a Spotify playlist of one song from each of our album picks. Check it out!
Our 20-11:
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I’ve already commented on On Repeat but I just wanted to say thank you, Sam for introducing me to Norman Fucking Rockwell. It’s genuinely been my find of this series. Also for actually featuring a few albums I already know and love! I’ve really enjoyed reading yours and Kevin’s takes separately and you have modelled beautifully how music lovers should respond to each other’s preferences. It’s been a lot of fun.
A big thank you to you and Kevin. Very happy to see The clash and the top 10 as well as Kate Bush and Marvin Gaye. Thanks to you two. I have a lot of albums to go back and revisit and some new albums to check out.