My Favorite Albums

Ok, so today I’m reaching for a subject. But, a lot of my posts lately have been serious and angry; I like breaking the monotony occasionally. I thought reviewing some of my favorite albums might give my readership some ideas about what moves me and maybe might introduce you all to some tunes that you might not otherwise have tried.

I’m largely skipping Greatest Hits compilations; though I own a good many of them (a lot of music fans hate the concept, I don’t; I feel they’re a useful introduction to a band) I don’t really consider them “albums”. The song list usually wasn’t put together by the band, but rather by a producer, record exec or the pop charts (questionable sources at best). So, here they are, sort of in order of importance.

Jimmy Buffett, “Songs You Know by Heart” (1982): Ok, after my little speech about Greatest Hits compilations this one might seem disingenuous, but I include it because, well…damn it, I’ve listened to this album since before my balls dropped and I still love it. Buffett has a gift for writing songs you can empathize with; stuff about ordinary guys and gals, funny situations and the poignancy that real living often deals out to us. That, and the laid-back, sun soaked tunes are the best background music for chilling out that I’ve ever found. If you’re doing some serious nothing, this is your soundtrack. And “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw)” is the best pickup song EVER.

Queensryche, “Operation: Mindcrime” (1988): Written during the first Bush administration, the themes of alienation and paranoia still ring true today. Done at the apex of Queensryche’s skill and talent (Chris DeGarmo had yet to walk off with the riffs and Geoff Tate’s amazing operatic wail was still in peak form), this album is a biting piece of American political commentary wrapped up in a creepy, nihilistic rock opera about drugs and amoral skullfuckery. It’ll make you question your beliefs almost as much as bang your head. If you even remotely like 80s thrash, pick this album up and give it a listen.

Concrete Blonde, “Bloodletting” (1990): Most Goth music is reserved and antiseptically dreary (VNV nation, Cruxshadows, et. al); the artists drone on about themes of angst and depression with a stone-faced mien. Not so Concrete Blonde. Dark, edgy blues riffs grind and moan under Napolitano’s velvety alto, and gentle acoustic guitars chime in here and there to underscore the themes of lost love and faithless friends (subjects usually best confronted with a stiff drink in a dark room). Listening to this album, I can almost smell the smoke and taste the cheap tequila that inspired it.

AC/DC, “Back In Black” (1980): Ok, so I’ve heard it way too fucking much now that I work in a bar. But since I can’t stop singing along every time “Have a Drink on Me” comes on, I guess this album still counts among my favorites. Unapologetically brainless, cheerfully violent and blatantly sexual, this is one of hard rock’s finest hours. It was the first serious rock album I ever owned, and it would probably be one of the last I’d discard if some cruel soul forced me to vet my CD collection. If you want to leave your intellect on the seat next to you, just crank this fucker up and rock the hell out. Oh, and it also is great music to knock boots to.

Fleetwood Mac, “Rumours” (1977): We all know the songs on this album; you hear then every damn day on Muzak stations in supermarkets and dentist’s offices. They massive, shameless overexposure doesn’t change the fact that this is a soft-rock masterpiece. Under all the schmaltz and string arrangements, there is perhaps the greatest collection of bitter anti-love songs ever penned (listen to the lyrics of “The Chain” or “Gold Dust Woman” sometime if you think I’m wrong). Linkin Park could learn a thing or two about subtlety from listening to these guys.

Sisters of Mercy, “Floodland” (1987): These days the genre of Goth-rock is as dead as its purveyors tried to appear to be (Evanescence: Good try, but not quite). Such a shame; now, it’s all limp-wristed techno and atonal screamo (two genres I’m not especially fond of). But back in the day, this was the shit. Though Eldritch and Co. occasionally come off like the dark side of Phil Collins, licking Whidbey’s off of tattooed cleavage to “This Corrosion” remains one of my most smile-inducing teenage memories. Warning; smoking a spliff and falling asleep with “Colours” playing on repeat is a good way to have really weird dreams, especially if you do it in a cemetery (long story).

Led Zeppelin, “II” (1969): Though most people prefer the “symbols” album (also called IV, Zoso and a host of other names) this one is my favorite slice of Zep. I will forever be grateful to the Plant-obsessed hippie chick who introduced me to this album (though her personality annoyed the shit out of me). I play it whenever I need either a boost of energy (“Living Loving Maid”, “Ramble On”) or a good chill-out moment (“Thank You”). And “Whole Lotta Love”, of course, when I’m about to go looking to get laid. No, I didn’t boink the hippie chick.

Atmosphere, “Seven’s Travels” (2003): Rap was never one of my favorite genres (except for a little mid-90s West Coast hip hop now and then from my weed-smoking days), but this guy makes hip-hop literate and relevant. He doesn’t brag; he confesses. His intricate screeds of tortured poetry (set to icy jazz samples and wistful acoustic guitar) and snarky commentary about fame and fortune (check out the songs “National Disgrace” and “Reflections”) make him one of my favorite rappers. And this album contains the best song (“Lift Her Pull Her”) about a slowly disintegrating, never-should-have-taken-this-long relationship that’s been conceived yet.

Black Sabbath, “Paranoid” (1971): Often imitated but never duplicated (go learn some Robert Johnson, you cock-rocking ripoff artists!), Black Sabbath basically invented stoner metal; this is their shining moment. Tony Iommi scrapes the mucky bottom of the blues barrel with his guitar playing, his Gibson SG vomiting up the most toxic, addictive sludge imaginable (fuck, the riff from “Electric Funeral”, played at high volume, sounds downright cancerous). Today, the songs are a little dated to shock, but imagine the look on some proper British lady’s face (circa 1972 or so) when she heard “War Pigs” coming out of her son’s bedroom. Though many since have sounded ominous and dark, none have pulled off the skanky undertone that Sabbath managed here. And no one, NO ONE, is crazier than Ozzy. Period.

Monster Magnet, “Powertrip” (1998): As can be seen from the other entries on this list, I like the old stuff. These guys do a good job of sounding like the musical heroes of yore, while still managing to come off as new. Monster Magnet wasn’t afraid to dip into rock’s roots; sex, loudness and string-bent riffs. “See You in Hell” in particular is my favorite; it sounds like someone replaced the Doobie Brothers’ doobies with a crack pipe. Listening to this CD makes you feel like you’re 12 feet tall (with a dick to match) and ready to take on anything. Oh, and for the ladies, you can dance to some of it.

Whitesnake, “Slip of the Tongue” (1984): Oh boy, I can hear the smothered snickers from here. Does anyone still like Whitesnake (legitimately, not ironically; tight-panted hipster snarks need not apply) anymore? Other than me? Ah well, fuck you all, I do. This big slice of hair-metal cheese is best appreciated when inebriated and aroused, preferably with a pretty girl in your lap who’s not averse to having her neck chewed on. Just don’t listen to “Wings of the Storm” while driving unless you like speeding tickets.

Guns n’ Roses, “Appetite for Destruction” (1987): Ok, so most anyone who even casually likes hair metal likes this album. I do too. Sue me; it’s popular because it kicks ass. Maybe these days Axl Rose just needs to go away (at least he finally finished “Chinese Democracy”…and boy, did it suck); still, this perfect fusion of glammy sleaze and punk attitude more than occasionally finds its way onto my stereo.

Kid Rock, “Devil Without a Cause” (1998): So this entire album is one big ego-trip. Who gives a fuck? It’s an AWESOME one. This is rap-metal the way it should have been done all along; no protesting, no whining, no angst, no bullshit. Kid’s machine-gun delivery, cheerful fuck-you braggadocio and old-school rock riffs (with occasional dips into funk and laid-back blues territory) make this one of the best party albums of the decade. The middle finger on the front of the CD says it all. Now if he’d just stop trying to be the Second Coming of Skynyrd…

As you can see, I like a lot of older music. I guess the days when the whole album actually had to be good are gone (with a few notable exceptions; more on this to come). It does occasionally make me sad that the only music I really connect with was made when I was only 2 feet tall (or, in some cases, before I was born). I suppose it means I’m getting old.

Oh well, I still like it loud. Guess that means I haven’t grown up yet.