Kevin's Top 500 Favorite Albums

105: Vol. 4 - Black Sabbath (1972)

I’ve always had a special fondness for Vol. 4. As I delved into Black Sabbath, the first three albums were the obvious canonical foundations of heavy metal. But Vol. 4, while not obscure, is the first Black Sabbath album where all of the songs are not foundational but additions to a masterful early catalog. In other words, it’s the first Black Sabbath music for fans wanting to dig deeper than the obvious hits and albums - and there are many rewards to be had here. The first thing that struck me about Vol. 4 when I first listened to it in the early 2000s was its production. For all of their magical status, Black Sabbath didn’t seem to get a break early on with production. 1973’s Sabbath Bloody Sabbath was the best Black Sabbath ever sounded in the studio. By contrast, Vol. 4 feels like a step back in sound - as if they got demoted to a lesser studio even after Master of Reality. The sound is heavy, crunchy, and buzzy. Tony Iommi produced the album, and there are clearly limitations to his production talent at this juncture. However, like many things about Black Sabbath, the limitations lead to strengths. The unusual, crunchy sound gives the songs a heaviness that prefigures 1980s heavy metal. While Master of Reality established many metal subgenres, Vol. 4 extends the influence on doom metal, stoner metal, grunge, and hints of thrash metal throughout the 10 songs. There’s a weird feeling throughout the album of staying awake despite knowing you’re tired - the feeling of being buzzed at 3am in the morning with lights on and heavy metal music blaring. The opening, "Wheels of Confusion/The Straightener,” is one of my favorite, least appreciated Black Sabbath songs. It sets the tone with its almost numb, stiff opening riff that plods and plods. Then, the band - without increasing the tempo of the song - just digs deep and summons a heaviness to the riff that blows my mind. It’s like I can’t headbang hard enough, and Black Sabbath gets credit for blowing open yet another heavy metal door. Delightfully meandering onward, the song eventually transitions to the hypnotic “The Straightener” that takes us out to close the epic. There’s a focused, crushing, relentlessness here that, for me, features Black Sabbath at their most definitive.

Next, Black Sabbath slide in one of their best songs with "Tomorrow's Dream.” Everything about it is perfect. Killer riff, suspenseful stops and starts, and Ozzy’s tortured wail. There is also something a little deeper emotionally about the song compared to past efforts - both in the lyrics and Iommi’s atmospheric bridge. Yet, it’s also catchy and memorable like some of their more radio-friendly songs off Paranoid. While “Changes” may foreshadow the rise of heavy metal power ballads, it’s really not a good song and ruins the early momentum of Vol. 4. Purely relying on piano and strings to frame Ozzy’s voice, no matter how sincere, just doesn’t work. Yet, it’s beloved many years later, so what do I know? The album almost completely derails by following up “Changes” with “FX,” which is basically the band fucking around with sounds on Iommi’s guitar strings. Maybe this sounds cool a few times or if you’re high and jamming with friends, but it’s not well thought out. Thankfully, we next arrive at the crushingly great "Supernaut.” A wide range of artists from Trent Reznor to Frank Zappa appreciate this song, and for good reason. There’s something unique about how Black Sabbath approached this song. It’s a little more upbeat than usual while still retaining an insanely heavy riff and Ozzy’s screaming vocals. It may meander a few times but overall it’s one of Black Sabbath’s finest moments. Then...we come to "Snowblind.” This actually may be my favorite Black Sabbath song. It’s got everything I like about Black Sabbath - a heavy riff, and the plodding, the frenetic, the atmospheric, the melancholy, and the epic majesty of early 1970s heavy metal. I don’t care that it’s about cocaine - there’s something deeper about the music and Ozzy’s vocal delivery that reaches a higher plane. For me, this is Black Sabbath at their peak, where all of the magic came together perfectly. The song is stuffed and overflowing with inspiration and ideas, and it’s like the song itself can’t quite contain its magic.

It’s easy to neglect the final four songs, and I admit that many times I’ve listened to Vol. 4 up until “Snowblind” before turning it off. But while the songs may not match what came before, Black Sabbath continue to hint at the future. “Cornucopia” begins like an evil doom metal song from a 1980s or 1990s band before settling into yet another above average Sabbath song full of random tempo shifts and frenetic playing. The bridge feels like a glimpse into 1990s grunge metal and gives me goosebumps - but it’s over before it begins. "Laguna Sunrise" might pour it on a bit thick, but it’s a pleasant acoustic guitar interlude that works much better than “Changes” or “FX.” "St. Vitus' Dance" is average Sabbath by the numbers with nothing inspired or innovative about it. "Under the Sun/Every Day Comes and Goes" ends the album on an intriguing note. It opens like a Slayer song - envisioning late 1980s thrash. The main riff isn’t as heavy, but it’s up there, and the song finishes out the album on a good note. Despite my nitpicking, I love Vol. 4 because (maybe sadistically) I enjoy the moments when bands start to lose their original momentum and yet mastered a certain sound so well that they peak for a few more albums until they go down in flames or become a formulaic and watered down version of themselves. I listened to Vol. 4 a great deal during my final year of grad school, a time when I also felt like I was holding on for dear life. The simultaneous insane, OCD focus of the album coupled with the erratic diversity represented how my mind felt during late 2001 and early 2002 as I largely worked, isolated, in my apartment day after day. Because it wasn’t a well-known canonical Sabbath album, it felt like a unique soundtrack for that specific year and I even imagined my friends Dusty, Adam, and I playing similar, organic, from the basement music as I still contemplated maybe working with them on musical material. Yet, there’s also a farewell sadness to Vol. 4, one of those early signs that the original new car smell of youth was wearing off. I had been in school in some form for 20 years, and I was in my very last year. It was time to leave it behind, change up my life, and enter “tomorrow’s dream.” But to this day, Vol. 4 captures the dying, last days of my schooling youth - with the magic, buzz, inconsistency, and early momentum that all implies.

106: The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway - Genesis (1974)

This album’s ranking at #106 is a perfect example of why I intuitively ranked the Top 500 without knowing exact numbers. As a huge fan of classic Genesis, I always wanted to like The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway more than I did. Objectively, this seemed like at least at Top 75 album. But while #106 is extremely high, let me get a little nitpicky. First, I bought The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway in late 1996 as I first began to explore classic rock bands. It intrigued me that a band like Genesis who I knew primarily through the 1980s and 1990s Phil Collins era had this early, mysterious past with Peter Gabriel. I still remember getting the CD at a record show at the Radisson in Utica (on October 20, 1996) and listening to it for the first time. I had definitely found something amazing. It sounded like Genesis, but with insane amounts of depth, complexity, and youthfulness that later albums lost. Many of the songs definitely appealed to me right away. I loved the pure mid-1970s flavor with flutes, the keyboard sound, and the production. Because I enjoy epics, I loved the sprawling two album set where it seemed that Genesis had no rules and the complete freedom to be as uncommercial as possible. Truly, I had discovered one of progressive rock’s best works. And experiencing this album at age 19 was perfect. Yet...it always felt somewhat like a chore to get through. Don’t get me wrong - I enjoy most of the album, warts and all. After all, it’s one of the best progressive rock bands at a magical peak. But there were occasional songs on the first album that ruined the momentum and my attention inevitably wandered on the second album - no matter how hard I tried. No matter how much I can praise a band, album, or genre, I can’t fake these rankings. Genesis actually agrees with me probably more than fans and critics do. The reality is that The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway is a wonderful but flawed album. Gabriel may have anally fought for the lyrics and story he wanted, but he was absent twice from the recording sessions (once for a side project and once because his baby daughter almost died). In interviews, the rest of the band talks about creative frustration, remorse about how they treated Gabriel, and the fact that there was a bit of filler on the album - hinting that a double album may have been too much to chew off. Regardless of flaws, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway was the first Gabriel era Genesis album I really got to explore and digest. It opened up a whole new world of music for me and I still get chills throughout many of the best songs.

The opening title track is still one of the best progressive rock songs of all time. It’s more direct than any Genesis song that came before and sets a different tone for The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. Unlike the earlier pastoral folk feel of Selling England by the Pound, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway is more hard-hitting and nebulous in a science fiction rather than Victorian way. “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway” actually sounds like a precursor of Gabriel’s late 1970s solo work as art rock evolved into a more stripped down path a la David Bowie. On “Fly on a Windshield,” we get the first taste of some real prog. Atmospheric, wispy, and then...the “windshield” hits the fly, so to speak. When the band comes in, it’s simply awesome. I always loved the interaction between Tony Banks and Phil Collins, and here they play along to this plodding tempo with menacing excitement and creativity. Gabriel then begins to riff on a lot of cultural references from Groucho Marx to Lenny Bruce. There’s a lot of allusory depth here that I’ve never quite explored. “Cuckoo Cocoon” is short but beautiful, completely dated to the mid-1970s with its acoustic instruments and flute. It’s got that magic progressive rock sound that I love. “In the Cage” allows Genesis to stretch out fully. Again, it’s more aggressive than anything they’ve done in quite some time and another “battle” takes place between Banks and Collins that is awe-inspiring. Gabriel keeps throwing in more cultural allusions that make the dream-like story more intriguing. I consider “In the Cage” one of the peak moments of progressive rock. I like the sentiment of “The Grand Parade of Lifeless Packaging” with its anti-consumerism mentality, and the song's tone provides some whimsical relief from a heavy album. “Back in N.Y.C.” is unusually forward-looking, sounding more like Gabriel’s late 1970s solo work or even Genesis’s early 1980s work. It’s got a rigid propulsive keyboard riff that predates the feel of a lot of electronic music up to Depeche Mode in the early 1980s. Throughout the song, Gabriel almost shreds his vocals in agony as the band maintains an Abacab-like rigidity. “Hairless Heart” is a beautiful transition piece with some rare featured guitar from Steve Hackett (who sadly doesn’t have much of a presence on this album). I never much cared for “Counting Out Time” with its fixation on erogenous zones, but I suppose it’s a lighter moment to break up the heaviness. Then the first album closes with two of Genesis’s best songs. “The Carpet Crawlers” is a rare Gabriel-era song that seemed to live on into the Collins era (performed on nearly every Genesis tour). It’s got a warmth that reminds me of Collins’s softer material in the 1980s, and it’s no wonder the original lineup chose to do a new version of it in 1999 (which actually sounded really good). “The Chamber of 32 Doors” is a great Part One closer with its storytelling, suspense, mystery, and dynamic instrumentation. Gabriel shines on this song, his voice occasionally crying out into the wilderness after the band drops out. Brilliant music.

The first album is so solid that it’s nearly impossible for the second album to sustain continued interest and live up to the benchmark. It does start out with one of my favorite Genesis songs, “Lilywhite Lilith.” I always found something magical about this song that reminded me of my science fiction stories where some kind of princess helper allows my main character to escape from a dangerous situation. After this strong album two opener, even the most dedicated prog rock fan might have trouble navigating through the next few sections. This is always when I lost interest, no matter how much I wanted to like all of the album. “The Waiting Room” is crazy and atmospheric, and some kickass instrumentation occurs when the band gets its focus back toward the end. But moments like this are no more interesting than the agonizing Ummagumma by Pink Floyd - experimental at best, indulgent at worst. “Anyway” brings the focus back. It’s a clean, straightforward song with music written by Banks. Hackett’s "Here Comes the Supernatural Anaesthetist" is interesting but seems to tread water in places as if we’re not sure where to go next. While “The Lamia” features some disgusting lyrics, it’s a quite beautiful definitive prog rock song. When I think of Gabriel-era Genesis at its best, this is one of the songs I think about. At this point, we are thoroughly in a fantasy world deep within Gabriel’s imagination, and there are no breadcrumbs to get back. “Silent Sorrow in Empty Boats” gives me chills. It’s just a transitional instrumental piece but it evokes the feeling of dreaming or as if I’m deep, deep into hypnosis. “The Colony of Slippermen” features Genesis at their most indulgent. A three-part song, it involves Rael getting castrated and wearing his castrated member around his neck in a sort of hellish Alice in Wonderland world. We go off the deep end here as the song plods through a long eight minutes. By the time we arrive at “Ravine,” I’m exhausted but I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I love this little instrumental interlude. I think of Gandalf standing alone on top of some mountain, the cold wind blowing his robe, as he bears the weight of the world on his shoulders. “The Light Dies Down on Broadway” is the only song where Gabriel didn’t have a hand in it, and it serves simply to link “Ravine” to “Riding the Scree.” However, I’ve been heavily influenced over the years by the metaphor of the closing gateway back to the real world that Rael sees. In life, I sometimes encounter moments when I would lose a spiritual opportunity if I didn’t jump through the closing gate, so to speak. I always felt the end of The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway ended in a disappointing fashion. I’ve put up with so much that I had high hopes for a fantastic conclusion. “Riding the Scree” is the last great song on the album mostly because we hear one last moment of Banks and Collins battling it out. Here, we get that goosebump-inducing classic Genesis sound. “In the Rapids” presents the interesting idea of Rael finding out his brother is actually himself. We conclude with “it.” This song crushingly disappointed me and seemed rather stupid. Again, Gabriel’s allusions are intriguing and fit in with earlier songs, but I always thought of the song as a bit of a cop out. “It’s” everything. Okay. Despite my grumblings, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway’s ranking at #106 signifies we’re really getting to the cream of the crop of my favorite albums. I was lucky a few years ago to watch the Genesis tribute band The Musical Box perform The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway in its entirety. The final Genesis album with Peter Gabriel is a progressive rock masterpiece and one of the finest albums of its kind, full of limitless youthful magic, potential, and wonder that never dies.

107: The Doors - The Doors (1967)

When I was in high school, the Doors were about as popular as when Jim Morrison still lived. Everyone seemed required to own the 1985 compilation The Best of the Doors which included half of the band’s debut album. The Doors is one of the best debut albums in all of rock history, and one of my favorites. The combination of elements is so rare. When I became an English major in 1997, I often had to deal with the fact that literature felt one way and music felt another way. The Doors felt like both combined: Beat poetry that seemed to tap into William Blake and Romantic poets while also summoning up a strange concoction of blues, jazz, and psychedelic rock. Ray Manzarek’s keyboard often sounds like he’s a member of the undead playing us tunes from the underworld. Robby Krieger doesn’t offer up a pure rock guitar sound, instead weaving in classical, flamenco, jazz, and blues. John Densmore plays with a unique precision, and I can rarely guess what he will play next in any given song. And Jim Morrison. Whatever you think of him, it’s undeniable that he’s one of rock’s greatest lyricists and vocalists. I love how he never overtly used or cared about his sex appeal. He used his dark baritone to sing unnerving poetry about dark themes, and he was relentless about this mission. That’s why I think the Doors sound more timeless than other bands. They rarely write love songs or get topical. They write and perform poems using universal themes and imagery. Rather than alienate people, there is something about Morrison’s persona that appeals to both men and women. He’s the definitive dark, sexy, mysterious, and profound friend of yours who is exciting and dangerous when he’s around - even if you have to put up with drunkenness, callousness, indifference, chaos, and arbitrary behavior. For many women, he’s the ultimate bad boy. For many men, he’s someone to idolize - the philosopher-poet-partier-drunk who broke on through to the other side. That metaphor explains why the Doors remain popular decade after decade. Their music is a rite of passage, the moment when experience destroys innocence. This process usually begins in late high school or college. For me, it paralleled when I began to read classic literature as an English major. The veil had been ripped away and I began to see the ugly reality of the world. At the same time, I also began to understand its unlimited possibility. That’s the power of the Doors’s debut album.

I consider "Break On Through (To the Other Side)" one of my all-time favorite anthems that influences me to this day. I often use the song as a metaphor when I feel that artists aren’t breaking through. Great art requires bursting through a barrier that creates a mess but is necessary for truly connecting with your audience. I always feel when I’m living life or creating art that I need to break on through. There’s a danger in that, too. Everything can’t be amazing, and so it can also lead to a weird form of perfectionism. But the spirit remains. I don’t much care for art that hasn’t broken through. "Soul Kitchen" is definitive Doors - great groove and awesome lyrics. I love the line, “I light another cigarette and learn to forget.” "The Crystal Ship" is one of my favorite songs of all time. It reminds me of Anne Rice’s vampire novels, as if Lestat is singing the song while dancing with a beautiful woman in some castle in Europe. This song also encapsulates the “brief immortality” of youth. I often felt like this song’s vibe on various nights in college when it seemed that a definitive hangout with friends would never end. It’s youth incarnate, and I can only listen to the song now from a great distance. "Twentieth Century Fox" is more conventional but I love the off-kilter verses and straight ahead hard rock chorus. "Alabama Song (Whisky Bar)" (originally written by Bertolt Brecht in 1927 and set to music by Kurt Weill in 1930) was never one of my favorite Doors songs but it does perfectly evoke barhopping. The Brecht-Weill connection also gives the Doors an exotic flavor that other rock bands wouldn’t often touch.

Side one ends with "Light My Fire.” Not as anthemic as “Break On Through,” it’s still a definitive rite of passage song. Full of sex, danger, and desire, it’s about dark thoughts and more experience destroying innocence. The long instrumental passage is absolutely essential. These are moments when the Doors push the boundaries of rock forward and make us explore areas we’ve never explored before. Manzarek again sounds like he’s playing from the underworld and Krieger plays some eerie counterpoint to all of the madness. In the meantime, the song’s momentum never slows as if we’re being carried down the river Styx. Listening to “Light My Fire” in the dark with headphones is an essential rite of passage and I feel bad for anyone who hasn’t experienced those seven minutes. The rest of the album keeps the momentum going but rushes through the next four songs. “Back Door Man” contains some of the creepiest lyrics delivered in the creepiest way that I’ve ever heard. When Morrison sings, “You men eat your dinner, eat your pork and beans. I eat more chicken, than any man ever seen, yeah, yeah,” it’s truly disturbing. “I Looked At You” is almost negligible, not really adding anything to the album but not bad either. “End of the Night” is like a poor man’s “Crystal Ship,” trying to do the same thing. It does embody that mysterious night atmosphere that the Doors captured so well. “Take It As It Comes” is okay but again almost negligible compared to the other songs. I always appreciated “The End” more than actually enjoying it, but I think it’s significant in the history of rock for destroying more barriers of self-expression. Morrison takes us through a dream-like poem about Oedipal desires with the band washing us in soft and loud music perfectly attuned to Morrison. On a first listen, it’s not surprising to feel different at the end than when you entered the song. Morrison sang about things in popular music that hadn’t been sung before. And that’s really the essence of The Doors. It’s like reading Hamlet, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, or Steppenwolf for the first time and getting it. You know more about life, and the doors are opening. The freedom of adulthood beckons, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating. And once the doors are blown open and you break on through, there’s no going back.

108: A Night at the Opera - Queen (1975)

Despite thriving in the album era, Queen is mostly remembered for their individual songs. In the Top 500, I gave a few nods to Sheer Heart Attack at #384 and The Game at #465 but overall I haven’t been too overly effusive about Queen’s albums. A Night at the Opera is the glaring exception - and it was the exception for most other people too. Named after the 1935 Marx Brothers movie, A Night at the Opera takes itself just as seriously. It’s one of those defining 1970s albums released on the cusp of the beginning of rock’s segmentation into isolated, marketable subgenres. There were no real boundaries in 1975, and Queen celebrated the freedom of early rock and roll by assembling one of the most eclectic batches of songs ever released. What ties them together is an exuberance, joy, and distinct tone that immediately identifies each song as a Queen song. It’s a shame that this kind of diversity is still hard to find as we now dig deep into the 2010s. I remember after Freddie Mercury died in 1991 and after Wayne’s World re-popularized “Bohemian Rhapsody” in early 1992 that Queen became almost as popular as they were in the 1970s. Everyone in high school seemed to own Classic Queen and Greatest Hits. Today, Queen appears to have been largely forgotten. During the brooding, indie 2000s, Queen’s grandiose, showy, flashy, good times music ran counter to the reigning snob aesthetic. And even today as bands and artists loosen up and put on better shows, they fail to take inspiration from Queen’s unadulterated, direct, honest connection to an audience. From Taylor Swift to Arcade Fire, everyone just takes themselves too damn seriously even when they’re appearing to generate fun. Queen showed you can be artists and still not give a crap about seriousness. For me, A Night at the Opera encapsulates my college years, those days when I thought everything was possible. The music encompasses all of my feelings from those days - from grand ambition to female friendships. Those were the days when I recorded a lot of CDs to save money, and I wore the cassette out upon which I recorded A Night at the Opera. Unlike every other Queen album, A Night at the Opera became one of my defining youthful albums.

"Death on Two Legs (Dedicated to...)" opens the album with a jolt. While much is made of the bitter lyrics (basically Freddie Mercury bitching about music industry folks stealing Queen’s money) I think they help give the song a gut punch feel that gets everyone’s attention. The riff is genius, interweaving with Mercury’s vocals. “Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon" is one of a handful of songs on A Night at the Opera that feel like 1930s movies or British music hall. It’s funny how rock sounded so badass and modern in the 1970s but that was also a decade during which people watched a lot of classic Hollywood movies out of nostalgia. The 1970s introduced so much social chaos and complexity that I’m sure these older songs and movies evoked much simpler, innocent sentiments about love and fun. Roger Taylor nails "I'm in Love with My Car.” Despite the awkward metaphor, there’s a nostalgic majesty about it that also taps into a great early 1970s glam rock vibe. John Deacon’s "You're My Best Friend" is one of my favorite songs of all time. I remember thinking of female friends during my late college days who I absolutely adored. And while I may have had crushes on these women, the friendship was ultimately more important. Maybe that makes me a weak man in the eyes of others, but I’ve always prized my friendships with women even when romance doesn’t work out. “You’re My Best Friend” is like an anthem to that feeling, and the song today makes me ache with nostalgia. "'39" is a shockingly effective song from Brian May because it’s a rare folk song that tells a science fiction story. Yet, the story is emotionally powerful - the idea that traveling at light speed and coming back after a year may mean that 100 years pass on Earth and everyone you love is dead. May’s vocals are quite powerful and emotional, and I love the song’s unusual approach. "Sweet Lady" is a classic, kickass hard rock song similar to “Keep Yourself Alive” or “Stone Cold Crazy.” Glad to hear at least one of these fast-paced songs on the album. Similar to “Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon,” “Seaside Rendezvous" provides the same 1930s nostalgic silliness and fun.

I wouldn’t exactly call A Night at the Opera progressive, but side two definitely serves up some of their more experimental tracks. "The Prophet's Song" is one of the most overlooked Queen songs (if you consider any song on this classic album overlooked) probably because it’s overshadowed by “Bohemian Rhapsody.” At over eight minutes, it’s definitely epic. The flow of the song is spectacular - spiritual and almost fantasy-like. It reminds me of the various fantasy-ish tracks on Queen II and is a nice throwback. And then come Mercury’s delayed a cappella vocals. Stunning. Just stunning. I remember playing this at my friend Todd’s cabin in 2001. Other friends were in the room also visiting. This section of the song shut everyone up and we all had to listen. Perhaps the Beach Boys could stun like this at times, but there was no other Freddie Mercury. The things he could do with vocals, as heard on “The Prophet’s Song,” were just captivating. He had technical mastery but also injected emotion, charisma, and danger into his operatic vocals. After this strange epic, we transition into the absolutely beautiful "Love of My Life.” It’s the kind of song that Queen (especially Mercury) weren’t afraid to sing and deliver unironically. So many bands and artists cannot write and perform simple love songs, I think for fear of looking silly or vulnerable. Also, I think these kinds of songs are harder to write and perform than it seems. It’s a throwback to direct, lovely, emotional Tin Pan Alley songwriting that didn’t try to hide behind a Dylan-like hip obfuscation. "Good Company" was always one of my least favorite songs on the album but I gained more appreciation for it after hearing Brian May show the George Formby influence and discuss how ALL of the parts are guitar. Amazing how he replicated the sound of so many jazz instruments through a guitar. It also has a distinct McCartney White Album feel. And finally, "Bohemian Rhapsody.” What can I say that a zillion others haven’t thought or experienced? I still remember not knowing about this song at all and hearing it on Top 40 radio in early 1992. Not knowing that it was from 1975, I immediately fell in love with the song and wondered how something so brilliant popped out of nowhere. Eventually, I discovered that it was a 17-year old song as popular as “Stairway to Heaven” but I like the fact that it won me over when I had zero knowledge of classic Queen. Despite getting sick of it at times over the years, the song always wins me back if I haven’t heard it in a while. It’s hard to analyze because it’s our song - we all know it, we’ve all memorized it, and we all own it. That, ultimately, is what I think Freddie Mercury wanted us to get from Queen. Despite Queen’s eclectic strangeness, they were a people’s band. Things could be fancy, stylish, and sophisticated, but Mercury believed we could all partake in it. No alternative or indie scene was meant to preclude even the most humble working class person from enjoying Queen. A Night at the Opera encapsulates that feeling on the highest level - some of the best art rock ever created that’s accessible to everyone.

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109: Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen (1975)

Born to Run begins and ends like a Broadway musical turning rock into myth and yet still relating to the gritty poetry of our lives. So much about rock’s survival hinged on the promise of Born to Run, and so much has been written about Springsteen that I’m not going to attempt blathering on about this album’s historical importance. Many historical albums got left in the dust on my Top 500 because they didn’t reach my heart. Born to Run’s reputation doesn’t matter to me. It always reached my heart, and did so immediately. Through it, I recount my own “Born to Run era” - with its own subjective experiences and objective adventures. If The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle (#472) celebrated the characters and adventures in one’s hometown, Born to Run signifies that it was time to leave these characters behind and chase bigger dreams. It’s a painful rupture, but necessary. I had two moments like this in my life. The first was the decision to go to grad school - from the time I made the decision in early 1998 to actually leaving in late 1999. It created a divide between me and many of my friends that signified I had a specific ambition that I was going to chase. The second was my decision to move to Atlanta, the closest parallel I have to the feeling of Born to Run. When Springsteen made Born to Run, it was his last chance. If Born to Run failed, his music career was over or forever derailed. Similarly, Atlanta was my crap shoot. It was do or die, burning all of my bridges behind me. I succeeded. And so did Springsteen. There’s something in the act of youth that’s both exhilarating and sad to chase your dreams like this. Your act automatically stirs up hostility by reminding some people that they gave up on their dreams and also acknowledges the reality that some people went for it but did not succeed. Life is harsh, Darwinian, and unfair. But that crap shoot matters, despite the indirect judgment it implies on those you leave behind. That’s the story of Born to Run.

On the opener, “Thunder Road,” we see magic and reality confronting each other for the first time. I listened to this album a lot in the 2002-2003 timeframe. This was the post-grad school, post-Jenny Lewis, post-9/11 era in which I still had hopes, dreams, and desires for romance. In the song, we hear that Mary ain’t a beauty but she’s all right. Is it compromise? No. It’s letting go of magical wishes in order to extract actual meaning and life experiences from our reality. Women are not supermodels or princesses. They’re imperfect, like you and me. And it’s about creating your own magic despite your circumstances. There’s always a “thunder road” no matter what you look like, where you live, or what your finances look like. But it’s also about wanting someone you love to join you on your adventure. One of the harshest lines in all of rock and roll, “It's a town full of losers, and I'm pulling out of here to win,” is exactly how I felt when I moved to Atlanta in 2003. In hindsight, of course that’s harsh. But it’s more about the desire to win rather than actually thinking of people as losers. I wanted to be special and “do something.” Atlanta offered me that promise but I had to leave my hometown behind. Perhaps that reactionary anger is necessary to prompt us to chase our dreams. The music builds up perfectly until the point when the drums slam a door on the past and the saxophone comes in with the promise of the future. It’s beautifully constructed, the music accentuating the lyrics. After such a literary, majestic intro, we chill out a bit on “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” It’s a fun song about how the E Street Band formed, and we groove along with the best bar band in the world punctuated by Clarence Clemons’s sax. “Night” is a stark song about the tension between a grueling job versus the magic desired in the night. As I chased my dreams, I noticed many friends in the early, early days of a dangerous spiral. It works (sort of) in your mid-20s to work your shitty job alongside friends in college or building careers. After all, you’re all making about the same amount of money. You’ve got your evenings free, you can drink in freedom, and you can party. But it’s not sustainable and you eventually notice the college and career friends economically separating from you. There’s a horrible foreboding to this song that Springsteen would later explore directly on later albums. It’s an echo of the Wall of Sound feel of “Born to Run,” as if “Night” is a shadow song. “Backstreets” concludes side one by looking at some of the friends I left behind - many of whom still struggle to this day. 12 years ago, those struggles still had magic and myth attached to them. Springsteen, who I consider at times a poet, gives these characters a full voice, story, and epic narrative. They are people too, and they want the same things as those of us who leave for bigger and better things. Their stories may turn out tragic but their stories still have value, meaning, and literary quality.

Side two begins with one of my favorite songs of all time and one of the greatest rock songs of all time: “Born to Run.” Where do I begin? I have other favorite songs, but no song captures the myth and feel of 1970s rock than this song. It feels like the culmination of decades of rock and roll evolution, and everything peaked here. The song is perfect - every damn second. I feel Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison, and Phil Spector all through the song. “Born to Run” is a song for all of the dreamers who made it and broke free, and for those who still desire to break free. Springsteen is very cautious about balance here. His vocals are mumbled, unpretentious, and blue-collar while the lyrics skirt between nitty-gritty details and lofty concepts. When he sings “Baby, we were born to run,” it’s important to note that it’s a subjective feeling of specialness. I’m sure many of us can remember moments in our mid-20s like that. For me, I have to admit that the song divides two eras forever. I feel with the mention of “Wendy” that I’m leaving behind the Jenny Lewis myth for good, and I’d often listen to the song around the time I moved to Atlanta as if saying goodbye to the mythical Jenny for the last time. The first two verses and choruses establish this mythic desire to run and break free. The bridge quiets down and we take a final look at some of the people and the environment we’re leaving behind. After some frenetic playing by the band and a huge crescendo, we arrive at one of my favorite ever moments in a song. In this last verse, the moment arrives. All of the dreams and desires of my first 26 years seem distilled into just these few seconds. And there’s that moment, almost like the feeling when Will and Lyra have to part in The Amber Spyglass. There’s something mystical I experienced here, as if in some dreamworld I had to finally say goodbye to Jenny. Her mythical self perhaps helped me to survive the 1990s and early 2000s, but I didn’t need her anymore. She let me go, urging me to make a life for myself in Atlanta. But although I gained something in my new life, something was lost. That’s what this song means to me. It rests on the razor’s edge of youthful dreams and moving forward to enact them, and I experience the loss and joy of those feelings simultaneously. While I’m coming close to explaining my feelings, there’s still so much more that goes unsaid. “Born to Run” is a song that contains magic and captures something very special about life. “She’s the One” is an inevitable comedown, a more typical song about a hard-to-get woman backed up by a Bo Diddley beat. “Meeting Across the River” is like a little short story, and I like the mood and atmosphere. The album concludes with “Jungleland,” another densely detailed short story with some achingly beautiful moments. A line like “Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain” is so vivid that it brings the memory of similar barefoot girls from decades back in an instant as if 10 or 20 years haven’t passed and they’re still sitting there, waiting for me to hang out with them. Metaphorically, the entire song evokes the feeling of life in my hometown and the things I left behind. The stories, the people, and the details. While certain songs peak more than others, Born to Run tells the tale of the joy and cost of achieving my dreams, of living in a city like Atlanta, and of thinking often about what I left behind - both in terms of geographical distance and the ever-increasing distance of time as life marches on for all of us. And that feeling is encapsulated by those saddest of sad piano chords near the end of “Jungleland.”

110: American Beauty - Grateful Dead (1970)

I’ve always liked the Grateful Dead, but they’re not one of my favorite bands. I know very little about their music other than their most obvious material. However, American Beauty is the great exception. Whereas albums like Live Dead or Workingman’s Dead seem to emphasize the sides of the Grateful Dead I don’t like as much (the long jams, the communal vibe, or the overly folksy elements), American Beauty just guns for my heart. It helps that American Beauty begins with one of my favorite and most inspiring songs of all time: “Box of Rain.” I cannot tell you how many times this song has comforted me in dark, dark times. In my late 20s in 2006, the wave of awesomeness and daring that I had ridden for the last 10 years suddenly got pulled out from under me. Overnight, I felt like a failure at life - that my dreams of writing fiction were bullshit, my career was a fraud, and my social life destined me to be alone. I struggled for quite a few years digesting my “new normal” - a wounded version of myself that may not have been fueled any longer by bullshit but now had lost his spark and his way. One day, “Box of Rain” just opened up to me on the right day and I started to cry when I heard lyrics such as:

Look out of any window
Any morning, any evening, any day
Maybe the sun is shining...

Phil Lesh sings about possibility in a very therapeutic, pragmatic, and spiritual way.

Walk out of any doorway
Feel your way, feel your way
Like the day before
Maybe you'll find direction
Around some corner
Where it's been waiting to meet you…

The band captures my exact feelings during this time.

Maybe you're tired and broken
Your tongue is twisted
With words half spoken
And thoughts unclear...

And with the thought interwoven that “this is all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago,” we get really profound on a quantum physics meets spiritual level. Perhaps everything that ever was has always existed, and our lives are just one of many dreams within the mind of God. Most importantly, this song gave me hope during a dark time. It helped reinforce that I’ve survived this far, and I can survive another day. And that I should continue to hope. Looking back at my life, I realize that unexpected surprises always lurked around corners that I never realized were there at the time. And I need to continue to hope that those surprises await and that my creative blockage will eventually unblock.

After such an introduction, American Beauty would not make it to #110 if “Box of Rain” was the only impactful song. The rest of the album evokes an ideal blend of rock, country, folk, and bluegrass that I like and reminds me of times I’ve spent in Colorado or listening to country and bluegrass bands. It’s the feeling of anti-fame and anti-status. Communal friends and living, mountains surrounding you, a house that’s earthy and humble, lots of friends eating dinner together, and nights sitting out on a porch with a beer listening to the night sounds outside. My travels return to my memory when I hear “Friend of the Devil,” another one of my favorite songs. It contains everything I like about country rock and bluegrass (even though it’s not a proper bluegrass song). The lyrics literally talk about an outlaw, but the metaphor hits a raw nerve with me. It takes me back to my rootlessness from 1999 to 2005 off the radar screen of society, adventuring off the beaten path during those days when any couch was a satisfying home for me. It feels mythic, mysterious, rural, youthful, and non-urban - like a glimpse of lives we never see. I feel that feeling of being chased by internal demons and pressured by the external world. It’s that classic American tension between freedom and responsibility that never fully gets resolved. “Sugar Magnolia” is one of those fun, definitive Grateful Dead songs that’s closer to what I imagine when I think about the band. I still like it, but it’s that playful side of the Grateful Dead that can get cloying upon repeated listens. “Operator” almost sounds like a countrified Jim Croce song, and it’s a rare song written by Pigpen. It keeps the fun momentum going from “Sugar Magnolia” and feels very rootsy and authentic. “Candyman” offers an extremely laid-back side of the Grateful Dead that’s perfect for lounging around on a rainy Sunday afternoon. It doesn’t vary much in over six minutes, but that’s okay.

Side two offers up a set of equally fine songs, even if none match the heights of “Box of Rain” and “Friend of the Devil.” “Ripple” is an incredibly spiritual song with a country-bluegrass base. Musically, it reminds me of songs I used to see performed in Cleveland when my friend Robert introduced me to alt-country and bluegrass bands, or watching sets performed by the Barrow Boys in Atlanta. I love the mandolin in the song, which I always enjoy hearing in a live setting. Lyrically, the song describes that creativity and the spiritual life have foundations not stemming from men but from God. And my path is my path alone, implying that we all have our own spiritual paths to walk. We can interact with and see other people along the way, but our walk with God is individual, personal, and unique. “Brokedown Palace” is more vague but reminds me of the same themes as “Ripple,” that we need a place to rest our weary bones. This song reminds me a lot of The Band with its ragged, communal harmonies and loose, rural feel. “Till the Morning Comes” taps into the “Sugar Magnolia” vibe with its spritely energy and fun. The Grateful Dead offer up some dark, eerie harmonies that creep within the overall fun. “Attics of My Life” opens itself up to me in many, many ways. I almost don’t want to analyze it because it’s so personal, but it represents every moment that the dreams in my mind sustained me over the course of my life - from daydreaming about Jenny Lewis in high school to contemplating God today. From all of my fictional and comedy ideas to all of my deepest, darkest thoughts about life. These are the attics of our mind. I used to make fun of “Truckin’” in high school, thinking it was one of those old fogey, Baby Boomer Deadhead songs. Over time, the song resonates more and more with me. I remember reading an Onion article many years ago mocking high schoolers who talk about their life up until graduation as a “long, strange trip.” That’s true - high schoolers can have an inflated sense of what they’ve lived through. But now, at 38, I can absolutely say, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.” And I’m not saying it in any smug, gloating way. It has been a long...strange...trip. One that I can’t believe some days as I operate in the headquarters of my humble apartment. The travelogue lyrics also resonate with me as I recall my travels across the country: Chicago, New York, Detroit, Houston, and New Orleans. The song also talks of times when everything goes right and when everything goes wrong. Of women who derailed because of drugs. Of the adventure and monotony of travel. It’s all there - one of those songs that magically and accurately captures the feel of a restless life. For someone like me who has now lived it, I understand its light and dark sides. And that’s American Beauty - an album for real people with no bullshit, flash, or stylish pretensions. It’s an album about losing and finding hope, about how life’s relentless nature always hounds you, and about finding some kind of spiritual hope and peace to get you through it. Listening to American Beauty always feels like the comfort of God and a respite from the darkest things that life can throw at me. And I’m sure it will continue to serve that role as I get older.

 

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111: Animals - Pink Floyd (1977)

Animals is like a Pink Floyd masterpiece from a parallel universe. In this universe, we all celebrate Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall. But everyone except hardcore Pink Floyd fans seem to acknowledge Animals. When I first listened to it, I knew their three most popular albums and so Animals both feels like and unlike their other work. It’s like a shadow Pink Floyd that exists outside of our rock universe, like looking at a negative. Upon repeated listens, it became one of my favorite Pink Floyd albums. While Roger Waters spent a lot of time on the lyrical concepts, they don’t really stand out much in any way. Animals is driven by the music, and the music is amazing. I think that’s why the album is mostly appreciated by hardcore Pink Floyd fans. The songs are too long for the radio, there are no relatable lyrical concepts (like “money” or “welcome to the machine”), and there are no memorable hooks. But for fans of peak era Pink Floyd who just want to geek out over the playing, the production, and the sound, it’s a fantastic listen. Animals (and I mean this in a good way) is a great album to play while falling asleep. Every time “Dogs” starts up, I just want to close my eyes and get carried along for a while. Unlike Pink Floyd’s pre-Dark Side of the Moon material, Animals is meandering and jammy without becoming boring or losing my interest. In a rare moment, I agree with Pitchfork that this is a 10/10 album. The Pitchfork author, too, had an extremely subjective experience with the album and I think that’s ultimately the best way to appreciate Animals. It’s clearly not a masterpiece like Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall. But it’s more like why despite having favorite memories of my life shared with others (climbing Mt. Marcy in 1997, going to my friend Todd’s wedding in 2002, performing my first standup comedy routine in 2011) I might also have an equally favorite memory that’s precious because it’s subjective, out of sight, and nebulous (like crashing on a friend’s couch after coming home from grad school or driving back from Phoenix to Tucson one late night while listening to a classic rock station). That’s how Animals feels - like a peak moment that takes place out of people’s sight, during the night, and in my own head. It’s dreamy, mysterious, and shadowy, like it doesn’t really exist.

Animals is framed by the acoustic “Pigs on the Wing.” I sense it’s a dry run for The Wall and you can sense that album on the horizon. “Dogs” is one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs. It has a mystery to it that gives me goosebumps. I can’t quite call it nostalgia, but it reminds me of listening to it in some out of body experience in 1977 as if I was 17 in that year rather than 1994. The song evokes some kind of classic rock utopia where Pink Floyd created a masterpiece in some parallel universe that no one but me can access. The song just keeps getting better and better and better as it proceeds. When it slows down and become laid-back, “Dogs” becomes ultimate Pink Floyd. Chill, stoic, majestic, and stoned. And then five minutes in, the dogs bark in the background and we only hear Gilmour’s acoustic guitar. I want to sit with this moment forever. It’s just perfect. I think back to so many chill moments with friends or by myself, crashing on couches, late night conversations, and just the silence that lingers in a friend’s house where the environment is strange, and I’m just laying there on the couch listening to comforting yet unusual sounds, feeling safe and cozy yet completely out of my reality. THIS is the essence of Animals for me and why it’s ranked so high. (I also love how WKRP in Cincinnati made fun of this section, which adds to the nostalgia.) Another killer moment is the echoed vocal (“stone...stone...stone…”) eight minutes in. This loop makes the album feel shadowy and dream-like, and I shiver when I hear it. It’s one of the creepiest things I’ve ever heard in a rock song - and the loop even pops up for a rare moment in “Sheep.” Most of my love of Animals focuses on “Dogs,” but the rest of the album maintains the atmosphere. “Pigs (Three Different Ones)” sounds like “Have a Cigar” on Wish You Were Here with a Lennon-esque undertone. “Sheep” opens with one of Richard Wright’s greatest moments. I’m exaggerating, but I can listen to this keyboard intro and feel the entire 1970s distilled into just these few moments. I listen to it and want to close my eyes and pop up somewhere in 1977 when music like this was regularly released. Pink Floyd handles the magic of their peak in an undisciplined way, and it’s almost frustrating to hear how they almost fuck it up so many times. Once “Sheep” fully kicks in, it weirdly seems to have the same beat and rhythm as “100,000 Years” by KISS. And then the album ends where it begins. Most of my essays extend to three paragraphs, but I think I’ve said enough about Animals. It’s like explaining a dream. The more I explain it, the more I lose the original feeling. So let’s keep Animals a dream - a dream that stirs up the memories that remain purely a part of my own subjectivity, not shared with any other human being.

 

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112: Déjà Vu - Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (1970)

Déjà Vu represents the peak of hippie idealism and hubris as it reached a transcendent moment with David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young. Crosby, Stills & Nash’s (#358) effortlessness accidentally revolutionized music by defining the singer-songwriter template. That template became a part of Woodstock, but Woodstock created a rare moment of immortal mythos that led a few hippies to feel that they could transform society through their gentle philosophy. When the more purposeful, grandiose Déjà Vu came out on March 11, 1970, the Beatles had yet to announce their breakup (April 10, 1970), Kent State had yet to happen (May 4, 1970), Jimi Hendrix had yet to die (September 18, 1970), and Janis Joplin had yet to die (October 4, 1970). Everything seemed possible, and the subsequent solo albums from Crosby, Stills, and Nash in the wake of Déjà Vu suggested that these guys truly believed they would keep creating great music effortlessly forever, living out the hippie dream and staying politically relevant. Man, how wrong they were. After Déjà Vu and the quick burst of solo albums, Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s output has been sporadic and mostly negligible. Neil Young survived, but it's more accurate to say he hijacked Déjà Vu, using it as a gravity assist to propel him into quite an anti-hippie career. So, what many of us feel through the magic of Déjà Vu isn’t a perfect album (it’s not) or the beginnings of a rich career for CS&N like Bob Dylan or James Taylor. Instead, we hear heady cultural forces swirling together through three vessels and a rebel. And yes, for a moment, the dream WAS possible. But man, I’ve lived through my own version of this. For me, Déjà Vu is July 2002. Boulder, Colorado. The final four days I was there. It felt like Déjà Vu. During those four days, I embodied staggering ambition, admiration of my friend’s domestic life, raging mid-20s freedom, and laid-back nights drinking whiskey and Cokes as I nodded off to sleep after an epic, life-changing late night conversation. I was unstoppable. I had left grad school, Atlanta lay ahead, my creative dreams lit me up, and I found everything about life funny and awesome. I HAD IT FIGURED OUT. That’s the feeling of Déjà Vu. These three fuckers had it figured out, didn’t they? And that’s what the music sounds like. I recall reading a Rolling Stone interview with David Crosby from around this time, and I can really sense that attitude in his answers. Crosby was a go-to hippie sage, and he basked in his youthful wisdom. But like my own experience in Boulder, Déjà Vu is simply a spiritual glimpse of what’s possible combined with “youthful maturity” in one’s mid-20s. And as I’ve learned, it’s just a glimpse of God for a brief moment before realizing you have to return to Earth and toil in a world where your creativity isn’t always going to fire on all cylinders and people aren’t always going to give a shit about you.

Déjà Vu begins with one of my favorite songs of all time, “Carry On.” It’s everything you want Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young to be. The acoustic intro, the pristine harmonies, and the loose jammy vibe are things that so many similar bands tried and failed to capture. After this amazing intro, we get a heart-stopping a cappella moment before the song goes into some sort of spacey jam. I remember my friend Jon playing this song for me in high school just because that switch to the spacey section was so amazing. “Carry On” still gives me goosebumps no matter how many times I play it. Nash’s “Teach Your Children” is deserving of any praise it’s received over the decades. During 2002 through my friend Todd’s son, I began to become aware for the first time that a new generation would soon arrive. My friends indeed started having babies in the 2000s and 2010s, but I still remember those first achingly beautiful moments in 2002 watching Todd and his wife taking care of their son as I lounged around their cabin in my mid-20s hubris and self-satisfaction. The song captures that rare, beautiful moment in life when you’re still super-young but you can acknowledge the beauty of a normal, domestic life in your friends for the first time. Jerry Garcia’s pedal steel guitar is what makes the song, giving it a rural, rustic feel that’s perfect when considering such themes. Crosby’s “Almost Cut My Hair” is the first of two songs that show him unintentionally both chasing the hippie dream the hardest while also documenting its demise. The song captures the dark side of the hippie life while also prophesying through the song title that the hippies’ hair would soon be literally and symbolically shorn. Baby Boomers would quickly grow older, the hippie ethos would be all but drained out of music by 1975, and Haight-Ashbury would eventually get replaced with Silicon Valley. Crosby’s music more accurately predicted the downfall of the Woodstock generation, no matter what he said in interviews.

Neil Young follows up with “Helpless,” a song that perhaps feels like the aftermath of Woodstock. It’s one of Young’s most beautiful songs and it feels like the very end of a late night preceded by one of the best days you’ve ever lived. Of course, the band wanted to cling to the dream so they covered Joni MItchell’s “Woodstock” in a way that removed all of her nuance. CSN&Y make it sound like an anthem celebrating Woodstock, not wanting it to die. It’s the mentality of wanting the vibe of Woodstock to last forever. I understand that feeling too, but it’s an impossible dream. The title track features Crosby as prophet again. Here, we get deep. Just the repetition of “We have all been here before” does many things to me. Life at time feels predestined to me, with the understanding supported by modern physics that space and time don’t exist. Instead, they are concepts that give us anchor points during our life’s existence. In a sense, I’ve heard physicists argue that everything - past, present, and future - all exists like data stored on a CD or hard drive. Can we be “played” over and over again? Have we all been here before? Are those peak spiritual moments really what life is all about? Do we always think that the transcendent moment is in the future, when instead it already happened? Are there moments like in July 2002 for me when I achieved some spiritual peak of communication with the universe, and now my mission is largely done? We have all been here before. There is something in those lines that terrifies me and creeps me out, like I’ve missed some giant important spiritual point that I once grasped and then lost. Crosby’s jazzy, mystical, free-form structure adds to the lyrical mystery. “Our House” represents Nash this time grasping at domesticity rather than simply enjoying it on “Teach Your Children.” It’s a masterful song, equaling many of Paul McCartney’s late 1960s Beatles songs. And it does capture the “magic in the mundane” perfectly, but I also detect that “Our House” is a dream of a happily ever after relationship that I watched many of my friends attempt in the early 2000s. Hey, we’re so happy together now that I can imagine us doing this forever. It’s that frustrating life paradox - the feeling that because you’re happy and got things figured out now means that you’ve figured out all of life. But that relationship will soon pass like so many other things. “4 + 20” is a rare dark moment on the album, with Stills capturing a short story about a man so distraught over his life and wife that he kills himself. The album concludes with Young’s messy “epic” “Country Girl.” He unintentionally shows the collapse of hippie ambition as the song tries to grasp for what it cannot attain. And we end with one last desperate plea of hippie love: “Everybody I Love You.” While I’ve criticized Déjà Vu’s failures as well as celebrated its successes, I rank it #112 because it both purposefully and accidentally captures the feeling of youthful arrogance and idealism perfectly. If we’re lucky, we all experience our own Déjà Vu moment. I did, and it felt as awesome as this album feels. And it’s sad that it’s only a moment before life eventually comes rushing in to destroy the cloud you float on and bring you hurtling back down to Earth - expelled from the Garden of Eden so that you can toil like everyone else for the rest of your life. We’ve all been here before.

113: Live at Leeds - The Who (1970)

Whichever version (original, expanded, deluxe, complete) you listen to, Live at Leeds is easily one of the best live rock albums of all time. There are quite a few reasons why this is the case. First, The Who were promoting Tommy, the album that solidified their identity and differentiated them for the first time. You can feel the head rush of their newfound massive fame, as if their heads were still spinning from the world they now inhabited. As Pete Townshend once observed, they had become the kind of band that Jackie Onassis would go see. Tommy had given the Who that kind of stature - quickly. Second, 1970s hard rock was starting to take shape for the first time after Woodstock. After experimentation in the 1960s, the Who began to formulate the essence of what we know as hard rock. It’s still not all there, as the Who’s various early singles and the erratic nature of Tommy shows. But many moments such as “Heaven and Hell” and “Young Man Blues” sound like the birth of modern hard rock. Third, the Who themselves had all but fully transitioned from their siller 1960s rock songs to a more serious 1970s mindset. Again, they weren’t fully there because Tommy had a few silly moments. But Tommy’s overall themes were so philosophical and spiritual that it helped transform the Who into the serious 1970s band they would become. Fourth, the Who had also not grown too jaded or overly heavy yet. They still sounded like their mid-1960s young punk selves - with maybe just a bit of success and perspective to ground them. Throughout Live at Leeds, their stage banter sounds like kids in their mid-20s just enjoying whatever is happening around them. They sound tired but giddy, enjoying the moment. Fifth, the novelty of this fresh, new sound resonates with the audience. People were still digesting “modern rock” and the crowd sounds thrilled but respectful, staying quiet throughout most of the songs. It was a rare period of rock and roll between 1967 and 1974 when people would watch certain rock bands as if they were watching jazz or classical music. It’s amazing to “hear” the crowd’s lack of constant cheering that has been on every live rock album since 1974. Sixth, the Who were at the peak of their playing. All of their years of gigging and hard work combined with the musical development of each of the four’s rare talents led to phenomenal playing. Roger Daltrey sounds like a rock god, Pete Townshend seems to ascend to heaven multiple times with his versatile guitar playing, John Entwistle plays his bass like a lead guitar, and Keith Moon drums like a mad keyboardist. A few of the songs arguably offer up some of the best live rock performances ever. And finally, Live at Leeds was the perfect album to release after Tommy as it brought the Who right back down to Earth the minute they seemed to become pretentious. Live at Leeds is the sound of a meat and potatoes working man’s band, even with the inclusion of Tommy’s entirety. As one of my favorite all time live rock albums, Live at Leeds delivers some of the best hard rock I’ve ever heard.

Let’s start with the original 1970 version. “Young Man Blues” might just be the best live hard rock performance ever. The Who take this Mose Allison song and inject it with the most thunderous hard rock possible. It’s absolutely brutal. Putting most of Led Zeppelin’s similar efforts to shame, Daltry belts out the lyrics like a tougher Robert Plant. Townshend both delivers up the riff like a sledgehammer but also rides out the song with solos that sound like he’s kayaking down dangerous rapids. Entwistle holds the fort with some of the most complex rock bass playing ever laid down. Moon injects a frantic energy and chaos throughout, stirring up the pot constantly. This is the Who at their best as players. Despite the instrumental excursions, there is not a wasted second. This is the first Who song ever released that I can actually headbang to. They show a nod to the past with “Substitute” and add some extra aggression to it while also cutting it short. They lay down another definitive modern hard rock track with the cover of Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues.” Many bands had a strange fascination with this song, and I think that fascination remains because of the Who’s version. They retain the spirit of the original song while also making it LOUD. Just the SOUND of this song thrills me and I’m sure inspired many bands to dig into rock’s past to turn old classics into modern hard rock classics (e.g. Van Halen). While I prefer the BBC session version of “Shakin’ All Over,” the Live at Leeds version is still mighty and worthy. The original Johnny Kidd song was way ahead of its time and the Who make it their own here. During the guitar solo, Townshend just rips shit up while Entwistle and Moon match his crazy energy. Live at Leeds closes out with a wonderful long version of “My Generation” that also takes the band through some Tommy-like extended improvisation. They even repeat some Tommy themes before going into some interesting jamming that show the range of their power in 1970. “Magic Bus” is a nice conclusion, the Who stretching it out, joking around, and getting the crowd clapping. Arguably, the original 1970 version of Live at Leeds distills the best material and most people would be fine with just these songs.

However, the 1995 reissue also holds up well and I include its songs in what factored into my #113 ranking. The 1970 version is great but I wanted more. And thank goodness the Who provided it on this reissue. Some of the extra songs are phenomenal. The show begins with Entwistle’s “Heaven and Hell,” an absolutely fantastic hard rock song with that hard-to-describe unique Entwistle humor and melancholy. The Who dig back to the beginning with the eternal “I Can’t Explain” which translates well into a loud hard rock setting. Benny Spellman’s “Fortune Teller” is given a rousing cover. It’s got a wistful, nostalgic 1970 feel, as if the Who had grasped immortality in this moment. The cover morphs into one of my favorite songs from The Who Sell Out, “Tattoo.” It’s appropriate here as “Tattoo” is a song about the pain of growing up, which the Who were doing quite fast. After “Substitute,” the Who perform two more “hits” (which Townshend jokes about in a long self-depreciating prologue): “Happy Jack” and “I’m a Boy.” Perhaps they already warned us, but they seem to go through the motions here. I’ve always been sick of "A Quick One, While He's Away" but it’s almost worth it here for the long rambling prologue in which Townshend and Moon crack hilarious risque jokes back and forth. On the 2001 deluxe edition, we finally get the entire Live at Leeds concert that includes the entirety of Tommy. While I wasn’t that kind to Tommy on the Top 500 (#282), it’s essential listening at least once to hear the Who perform Tommy while they were touring behind it. The rock opera was massively important to the development of rock history, and so it’s fascinating to hear how the Who performed it in its entirety with just vocals, guitar, bass, and drums. No keyboards, no French horn. The performance here of course doesn’t beat the studio album, but I find it gives me goosebumps to imagine being at Leeds that night as the Who delivered this live performance in its time when Tommy was still new - especially at the end during the transcendence of “We’re Not Gonna Take It.” Whichever version of Live at Leeds you listen to, you can’t go wrong. It’s a rare live album that captures one of the best bands in rock history at both a historically important and emotionally important peak. One of the best live rock albums ever.

114: Sticky Fingers - The Rolling Stones (1971)

While I have six other Rolling Stones albums on my Top 500, most of them academically fell somewhere between 250 and 500. Nothing other than Sticky Fingers cracked the top half of the Top 500 - and this album made it to the incredibly high #114. Why? The Rolling Stones were always more a band that I appreciated academically. I know they’re important to the history of rock and roll for many objective reasons. Learning about them is like reading Homer or Shakespeare, and I appreciate the talent and innovation they brought to rock as they helped shape it. But appreciation doesn’t mean it gets to my heart. Unlike every other Rolling Stones album, Sticky Fingers hits me emotionally. Along with L.A. Woman (#120) and Get Your Wings (#116), it’s one of those late night, boozy, jaded albums that feels like the dying days of youth - with one last supernova to send it all off. It’s completely an album of the 1970s, defining much of its weary grit and tone. When I listen to it, so many memories emerge: nights out drinking in grad school, late nights during the magic summer of 2002 in Boulder, Colorado, or the weddings I went to in 2005 that marked the end of my youth as I watched lifelong friends get married. Drinking, chaotic hilarity, and the feeling of slowing time down to enjoy moments with friends. That’s Sticky Fingers. For me, it’s also the Stones at their best - the way I imagined they would sound when I first got into them. Their legend never quite caught up with my listening experience except for this album. They sound loose, dangerous, weary, boozy, jammy, and even melancholy - with some of the most jaded ballads I’ve ever heard. Closing my eyes, the album sounds like partying going full blast at 2 a.m. in the morning - showing no signs of stopping. It also combines a lot of different styles that were impacting rock in the early 1970s: hard rock, blues, country, and even Santana-style jamming. The trick to rock and roll is that it works best when it sounds unplanned and spontaneous, even when it’s not. Sticky Fingers sounds like the Rolling Stones just made it up one drunken night on a whim. And that’s why it’s a masterpiece - and why it captures so many of my own memories.

“Brown Sugar” of course is an eternal classic rock song, and one I’ve heard that many folks who grew up in the 1970s got sick of. Because I didn’t live in the early 1970s, I have some distance from the song and can appreciate its definitive feel. It’s a song that doesn’t feel like the 1960s at all and helped establish the tone for the 1970s. It’s nasty, sleazy, and badass, with Mick Jagger snarling out vocals about God knows what and Keith Richards establishing yet another classic riff. The chorus is disgusting and yet rocks harder than nearly every other rock chorus ever, the vocals, guitars, bass, and piano all swirling together in decadence, the sax exploding out like cheers at a party, and Charlie Watts holding it all together. “Sway” presents an unusually slow-paced wistful feel. Neither a ballad nor a rocker, it feels like taking a self-aware breather in the middle of a late night party to acknowledge the fact that I feel young and alive - and that the time is now! It’s a song that only could have been written by young men who had yet to turn 30, as if this feeling would last forever. We then move into the stunningly beautiful “Wild Horses.” It’s another drunk song, but this time the kind of sad drunk moment where I’m feeling everything. I remember a few of these moments during the early 2000s, just sitting alone, watching magical moments transpire that I know would soon pass, and reflecting on loss and rejection in the midst of festivity. I’m outside, breathing in the cool night air, smelling cigarette smoke from those smoking outside. Perhaps riding in a car down some dark road, the song on the radio intertwining with my now sleepy eyes as I want to nod off. “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” sounds unlike anything else in the Rolling Stones catalog. It starts off like a typical Stones song, and then the famous “accident” happens when the tape kept rolling and they caught a magnificent, one take jam for posterity. Bobby Keys first kicks ass on the sax, and then Mick Taylor plays a Santana-like solo that feels steeped in the early 1970s. I love this era when all of these different styles roiled together, with few rules and subgenres to corral rock into something identifiable and safe. One of the Rolling Stones’s most spontaneous, brilliant moments.

The rest of the album doesn’t match the brilliance of these first four songs but still keeps the mood and momentum going perfectly. “You Gotta Move” is faithful to Fred McDowell’s version and features the Rolling Stones playing masterful pre-1950s style blues. “Bitch” is one of my favorite hard rock songs of all time. It’s one of those definitive “Kevin songs” and not a coincidence that it inspired KISS’s song “Deuce.” The horns, riff, and drums all kick energy into the song like an injection, and Jagger again delivers dangerously obscene lyrics. “I Got the Blues” is one of those classic late-1960s flavored songs that sounds like an Otis Redding song. Slow, drawn out, and completely of its time, it’s a great late night song as the party begins to end. “Sister Morphine” is a sad song that reminds me of women who blazed early but ended up decaying fast due to drugs, alcohol, and too much partying. It’s the dark side of youth, the underbelly of youthful recklessness that I also saw back in the early 2000s. “Dead Flowers” is another song that doesn’t fit the typical Rolling Stones style but ends up as one of my favorites. It’s beautiful country rock but dark as hell. The line, “And I won’t forget to put flowers on your grave” gives the sense of a youthful imagination about death with limited knowledge but a lot of romantic wistfulness. The song serves as a precursor to my later interest in country rock but still fits into the late night feel of the other songs. Sticky Fingers ends with the enigmatic “Moonlight Mile,” serving as a farewell to the night before going (or collapsing) to bed. And not only for one night, but for youth itself. I’d be overstating it to say that this song or even the entire album had such an impact on me. It didn’t. But Sticky Fingers serves as one of a handful of albums that allowed me to capture, deal with, and say farewell to my 20s. It forever captures the feel of the mystery, drunkenness, and chaos of late nights where I’d let everything go. In those fuzzy, heightened, buzzed moments, everything feels perfect, like the party will never end. But it does end. That’s why I love how Sticky Fingers serves as a perfect snapshot of this feeling, forever captured in these ten songs. Perhaps other Rolling Stones get more acclaim, but I find that Sticky Fingers captures the band, the era, and the feel of late nights better than almost any other album.