98.

millions now living will never die
tortoise [thrill jockey, 1996]

hey! this collective of like-minded musical progressives doesn't reflect its namesake at all! a tortoise is a lumbering, lurching creature with limited brainpower and an impenetrable shell; this band is like this , demolishing paddocks and peasants with ballistic bass and death-rattling drums. "post-rock" is a stultifying, castrating term, conjuring up images of innocuous lounge or light, breezy free jazz. like the majority of once hip, once "of the moment" indie trends, the scene had become an awkwardly-executed punchline to a poorly-remembered joke. however, tortoise and their brethren should be exalted for having the audacity to ditch post-nirvana, post-grunge angst and simplicity and embrace tossed aside, out of left field genres like, yes, lounge and free jazz, but also dub, krautrock and post-punk. Millions Now Living Will Never Die delivers on the scene's promises of transcendence. the centerpiece, the highlight, the "opus," the meisterwerk is opener "djed:" twenty minutes of shifting basslines, plunking, finicky vibra/xylophones and electronic glitches. it's an assembly line conveyor belt at a futuristic factory where automated robots tinker and toy with blasts of noise and melody. "glass museum" and "the taut and the tame" coax free jazz into the pasture and then decapitate it with anachronistic instrumentation and pulsating rhythm. "a survey" is all slippery, rubbery bass harmonics while "dear grandma and grandpa" is a millennia old radio transmission beamed in from Alpha Centauri. in terms of influence, "along the banks of rivers" is exactly the type of dreary, dystopian death march music through charred, post-apocalyptic landscape on which Godspeed You Black Emperor! based a career. lambaste its pretensions all you want, it's rare to find an indie rock record this brutally daring.

turn this shit up! moment: this is an album from the mid-90s, after sound engineers figured out how to master a CD properly and before the loudness war made everything sound clipped and headache-inducing. turning up the volume makes not only makes the instruments sound more vibrant and alive, it also exposes previously unheard details in the mix. this isn't meant to be background music, PUMP UP THE VOLUME.

sidewalk social scientist don't get no satisfaction from your cigarette

99.

parallel lines
blondie [chrysalis, 1978]

i pity the poor singles act. Blondie topped the pops during nude wave with a string of chart-devouring hits that smashed together classic, classy '60s Spector girl-group pop, bathroom puke punk energy, and smatterings of flava: disco, dub, and whatever Fab 5 Freddy said was fly. if the singles were the pinnacle of the power and the punch of pure pop, the albums were passable yet predictably not perfect with the possible exception of Parallel Lines. you know the ubiquitous, slightly overused numbers already, i'm sure, hypocrite reader. before the Wetjet swiffed and Angelica pickled "one way or another," it was a ferocious, crazed-eyed stalker anthem. "sunday girl" is engrossing, elegant, slightly cheesy sleaze. and what kind of jackass would leave ms. harry "hanging on the telephone?" oh yeah, there's some dance song that may be the sleekest, most bubbly effervescent yet detached sexy cool ice princess ten out of ten perfect pop tracks EVER. but don't forget the ramshackle Buddy Holly hoedown of "i'm gonna love you too," the Eno avant-pop of "fade away and radiate" [yeah, that's Robert Fripp making all the fucked-up guitar noises] and the early Madonna prototype "i know but i don't know." the CBGB's pedigree may have given Blondie cred as members of some sort of musical revolution/upheaval, but Parallel Lines is timeless, sharp, helplessly stellar pop music.

awesome moment: the beginning of "fade away and radiate," where all the instruments clear the floor except cascading smack-drums and unsettling guitar percolations while debbie's voice echos into the dark and lonely night.

i'm a student of the drums...i'm also a teacher of the drums too a-heh a-heh a-heh

100.

endtroducing...
dj shadow [mo' wax, 1996]

wicka-wicka wah wah sssssSSSSSRAK, DJing ain't all finger poppin' joint snappin', jet settin', scene stealin', line sniffin' relentless partyheartying. it ain't depthless bravado and unhinged debauched vacuity and trust fund decadence. no, Endtroducing... is a house of nudie cards, a layer of sonic flapjacks. wild-eyed drums bulldoze porcelain strings and throw bones with scatting horns. Shadow throws a net into the deep sea of the past and dredges up memories of sounds, ghosts of aural architecture. these noises are the forgotten and the passed-over, discarded and disassociated, melting vinyl flying in place. yet Shadow blows off the dust, gives 'em a 'lil spitshine polish, places them in an entirely new context and then - wicka wicka - transcendence. this is a self-contained musical ecosystem where David Axelrod, Grandmaster Flash, and Bjork all graze peacefully on the grass, where concepts of "genre" are discarded and every noise, every note, every vibration becomes integrated into a pulsating ball of sound and rhythm. sure, it's occasionally self-consciously arty and brazenly "cinematic," but inane TV soundbites and cornball dialogue from early morning stoned Westerns lurk beneath the grandiose surface. ultimately, by being so eloquent, so high-minded, so grand, this record proves that sample-based music - or, speaking more broadly, hip-hop in general - doesn't have to derivative, sleazy, carnal, or "it's the money." ssssKKKKRIT

awesome moment: the elongated CLANG [sampled from a swedish dude named pugh rogefeldt] and enormous, thunderous drums at the beginning of "mutual slump" jolts you into attention after the blissed-out, quietly sinister radio ambiance at the end of "stem/long stem/transmission 2."

COP OUT COP OUT COP OUT

i started something i couldn't finish. TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME.

the project is too daunting, the list itself is now over a year old and my musical preferences have shifted; i've discovered new things, abandoned the old, and re-contextualized how i view and appreciate music [sort of, at least]. and ultimately, it's difficult to write honestly, passionately, and creatively about one's 756th or 427th favorite song. AND, i haven't updated since may. so, the "1000 songs" list has been put on indefinite hiatus. i may resume it at some point, probably not.

AND.

i want to write about other topics. film. culture. politics. history. science. so, the emphasis of this blog will slowly shift away from music to the shinier, shimmering pastures of variety and diversity. maybe i'll update more frequently.

BUT.

i have a new "music nerd" list!! my 100 favorite albums! i hope to finish the list by the end of the year.

what separates the pedestrian, the average, and the mundane from the fantastic, the memorable, and the superior? i consider a variety of [esoteric?] factors when evaluating an album: coherency, cohesiveness, cojones. aesthetic qualities of sound, musicianship, lyrics. distinctiveness and singularity. context in artist's career. if applicable, influence, historical relevance, and canonical position. but mostly, overall cerebral and visceral effect. if an album moves me in some way, either on the first listen or the tenth; if it causes me to feel, to think, to move, to dance, to scream the lyrics off-key in my car, to ENGAGE, if it's something that impacts or influences my life in a meaningful way, then it's elevated to a "QUALITY" album in my twisted mind. i realize this is ultimately a intrinsically subjective approach to thinking and writing about music critically, but, you know, dancing about architecture is difficult enough as it is. pure objectivity doesn't exist in evaluation. SO.

criteria:

- one album per band/artist. i know this hackneyed, but, hey, it adds variety.
- no compilations or live albums. sorry singles going steady and live at the harlem square club.

...and we're off!

it's so fucked i can't believe it: 791-795

791. "connection"

elastica

1994

elastica

think of the crunched-out, self-aware artiness of post-punk/divide it by busy, overwrought '90s production/something is missing?/nothing is missing!. enough. yeah, this unabashedly and shamelessly wrenches the riff from "three girl rhumba" and transplants it to a field of gaudy studio effects and sickeningly clean distortion. but it's a raucous and exhilarating ride; justine frischmann snidely sneers and snots more swagger than a cocky college coed on cocaine. you make the connections, sailor. can't you hear both karen o and romeo void? cheap imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but this re-contextualizes that wily wire riff and kicks it to the stratosphere. you might be post-modern if...

elastica - connection

792. "perverted undertone"

prefuse 73

2003

one word extinguisher

whatever happened to guillermo! scott! heren!? he emerged early in the decade as indie hip-hop's equivalent to timbaland, inundating break beats with echo, reverb and flange; a funkier and less self-important DJ shadow. a track like "perverted undertone" thrives on its narcoleptic repetition and gnarled simplicity with a swelling, swirling, swallowing synth riff and muted, happy-go-lucky drums. this is music for late night designated driving; you silence your boozed, boisterous buddies with a "shut the fuck up" and a maxed-out sound system while the fading neon lights glisten to the beat.

prefuse 73 - perverted undertone

793. "freak scene"

dinosaur jr.

1988

bug

most of myths about '90s slackerdom arose from this ragtag crew of recalcitrant ruckus-bringin' RAWKers. j. mascis' nonchalant guitar hero pyrotechnics slam you to ground and knife you in the back - that solo is one for the ages and the masses and the records - while the half-mumbled rhymes about fuckin' up and not growin' up suffocate underneath the distortion and feedback. this is the undoubtedly the template for "grunge:" punk 'tude vs. classic rock chops. kurt cobain may still be alive strumming beat happening covers in a dank seattle coffeeshop if not for dinosaur jr.

dinosaur jr. - freak scene

794. "in the midnight hour"

wilson pickett

1965

in the midnight hour

oooo-wheeee wil-SON pic-KETT! pulse, pulse, thrust; pulse, pulse, thrust. woozy, bluesy, boozy horns that bluster and blare while the whiskey-breathed men glare at those ever so short skirts. ride it, ride it. this is quintessential (yep, used it aGAIN) stax/volt gritty throbbin' boppin' southern soul. it may not have the spit polish of motown or the smoothed-out silkiness of, say, sam cooke, but it reels and rolls and rollicks and repeats in on itself like a gesticulating elevator. who doesn't crave that giddy moment in the night between boring sobriety and puking, crying and/or awkward sexual politics?

wilson pickett - in the midnight hour

795. "silence"

portishead

2008

third

ohmigod, stranded in public with swirling insanity and an unbecoming sense of dread. the scathing keith levene guitar lacerations and tumultuous rumble of a rhythm section push you closer to the abyss and then there she is. beth gibbons - with all the world's terror, misery, heartache and chaos wrapped up in her warble - tempts you to jump. this isn't a self-congratulatory comeback or a desperate, cheap cash-in; this is the unmitigated uncertainty of twenty first century existence filtered through a pair of musicians who presumably should have floundered in a sea of muted beats, hushed vocals and pseudo morricone samples circa 1998. this is the perfect opening to what will be remembered as one of the defining albums of the decade.

portishead - silence

comme la vague irrésolue: 796-800

796. "c30, c60, c90, go"

bow wow wow

1980

the best of bow wow wow

"i want candy," i know, i know, i know. and, yeah, exploitation all around and upside down. they weren't merely influenced by african music, they plagiarized and stole. machiavellian svengali scumbag douchebag malcolm mclaren didn't merely encourage the future members of bow wow wow to leave poor old adam ant, he forced them. did you know that frontgirl annabella lwin was only fourteen when all this going on? did you know that mclaren made her pose nude for an album cover? all right, all right. but this is the beginnings of the global agit-pop popularized by m.i.a. and her imitators. making mixtapes was the contemporary equivalent to illegally downloading music and this track is a big bony, protruding middle finger to record companies everywhere. copy, share, distribute, re-copy; what's the point in paying for music? and those amphetamine drums - ripped from recordings from burundi or not - threaten to bore a hole into your brain.

bow wow wow - c30, c60, c90, go

797. "kill for peace"

the fugs

1966

the fugs' second album

listen up hippie apologists and wannabes. take your flowers, take your lysergic acid diethylamide, take your free love, take your patchouli, take your beards and beads and bikes, take your acoustic guitars and drum circles. it's all meaningless without satire, self-deprecation, self-awareness, art. these guys epitomized the real counterculture of the 1960s. yeah, they did drugs, they grew beards, they played folk clubs and strummed guitars. but they didn't do it because it was fashionable, because it was cool, or to rebel against their parents. no, they did it because they didn't buy into the mass hypocrisy and rampant stupidity of western values and western society. "kill for peace" mocks and taunts and tears apart the contradictory ideologies that led to the vietnam war in particular, but could easily be applied to any conflict between nations that threaten lives., of course the phrasing is awkward, of course it's ramshackle and clunky. but it's hilarious ("the only gook an american can trust/is a gook that got his yellow head bust") and sharp as whittled twig. a spoonful of the funny helps the political go down in the most delightful way.

the fugs - kill for peace

798. "come into my world" (fischerspooner remix)

kylie minogue

2002

boombox

kylie knows how to pick her remixers. this was 2002, when electro-clash was the NEXT BIG THING and goofy, goopy geared fischerspooner were the icons, the eyeliner-ed faces, the big league. they add squelched out, heavy bass and spray reverb and echo all over kylie's vocals, transforming her into a spacey, icy, distant, sex and x fueled siren to the bleary-eyed rhythm machines thrusting violently on the dancefloor. the innuendo wasn't very subtle anyway, but the boys add some "uh, uh, uh, uh, uh" repetitions just slam the point into your dopamine-addled cerebrum. this is raunch for the digital age; groping, gyrating, grinding. it's meaningless, it's self-destructive, it makes you feel awful afterwards, but it's fun while it lasts. right?

kylie minogue - come into my world (fischerspooner remix)

799. "je t'aime... moi non plus" (feat. jane birkin)

serge gainsbourg

1969

jane birkin et serge gainsbourg

this is the only song covered by both donna summer and einsturzende neubaten, fo' sho. it attempts to replicate pillow talk between lovers, but this ain't sweet, this ain't no love story, this ain't no monogamy, this ain't no boyfriend/girlfriend. despite all the "i love you"s, this is no-strings-attached, casual, animalistic coitus. thrilling, disgusting, amazing, unsatisfying, soulless, gratifying. pervy ol' sergy captures all the mixed, conflicted emotions that come with that type of interaction. the strings and soft organ complement the melancholy of the melody. jane birkin's moans and gasps aren't sexy, they're desperate and hollow. the thrill of sex is replaced by pangs of regret and self-disgust. the french thought this was scandalous, i find it depressing and bittersweet.

serge gainbourg - je t'aime... moi non plus

800. "assassins"

lightning bolt

2003

wonderful rainbow

i admit to caring little about noise-rock. i admit to be a pansy who usually doesn't like to be constantly pummeled, pulverized and punished by what i'm subjecting my ears to. i admit to succumbing to belief in the probable misnomer that most noise-rock is aimless, repetitive, masturbatory "noodling." but i can also admit that everything time i play this track, i need to max out my volume. i need to feel the rumble, the chaos, the fervor, the NOISE. "assassins" may work for me due to the elements that least conform to the restrictions of the genre - brevity, rhythmic variation - but it's ultimately the brain-splattering build-up and the full utilization of the power, passion and potential of volume that keeps my eardrums red and my neck sore.

lightning bolt - assassins

finding it easier to laugh out loud: 801-825

801. "loser"

beck

1993
mellow gold

this is that wild, wacky, woolly moment post-grunge, pre-"post-grunge" in mainstream popular rock music when a slack-jawed, slack-eyed, red-eyed transient troubadour influenced equally by mississippi john hurt and chuck d could crack the billboard top 10 with a self-deprecating ode to post-modern malaise. musical intertextuality, people. this is psych-folk-"stoner"-rap, when "alternative" signified something more than "pearl jam sound-alike." beck went on to greener, brighter, hipper pastures, but all the elements that made mr. hansen a vital figure (for a decade or so) are here. check the grab-bag musicality (props to the son house-d slide guitar grinding with shankar sitars) and impressionistic, "ironic" lyrics culled from the vast wasteland of american popular culture fighting in the back seat while beck's own incomparable nonchalant, detached charisma threatens to turn the whole damn car around.

beck - loser

802. "all i have to do is dream"

the everly brothers

1958
the definitive pop collection

this is "dream-pop" when elizabeth fraser was just a gleam in her daddy's eye. if the soft chiming guitar reverb doesn't melt your heart, don and phil's harmonies will. gee whiz! longing, fragility and hopelessness like this shouldn't belong in a number one POP SMASH. this tracks excels due its simplicity; there are no weepy strings nor a crassly brassed out bridge. no, it's just two good ol' country boys pining for a long lost love found only during REM sleep. i wonder if they were lucid dreamers?

the everly brothers - all i have to do is dream

803. "ghost town"

the specials

1981
the singles collection

the early 80s thatcherite united kingdom must have been a ridiculously unpleasant place to live, but it certainly inspired buckets of amazing music. this is the spooky, spacey soundtrack to unemployment, riots and throngs of pissed-off, disillusioned individuals. too much fighting, not enough work. too much starving, not enough dancing. the "yah-yah-yahs" during the chorus sound like rabid cats, the horns sound like laughing spirits and the whole thing sounds like it was recorded six feet under in a well, abandoned bunker or grave. the upbeat, exuberant, nostalgia-fueled bridge adds a nice contrast to the dirge-y dread of the rest of the track. this is music for lost souls and pissed-upon dreams.

the specials - ghost town

804. "over and over"

hot chip

2006
the warning

whatever. i don't care about any of your noisy punk or punky noise shit or your sprawling, proggy multi-tracked guitar-based indie rock or your bearded folk. i just want to cavort and gambol (yes!) maniacally, drunkenly and embarrassingly around the room to "dance" music made by and for nerdy, self-aware white dudes. the mantras are undeniably clever: "like a monkey with a miniature cymbal," "the smell of repetition really is on you," "k-i-s-s-i-n-g s-e-x-i-n-g c-a-s-i-o p-o-k-e y-o-u m-e i." hell yeah. hell you. 'ell you. tell you. the cowbells and handclaps are relentless, the synths soar and percolate and then there's that fuzzed-out bass (or maybe a detuned guitar?) underneath it all keeping the party going for hours. fuck your uptight posturing; dance, motherfuckers, dance.

hot chip - over and over

805. "shop around"

the miracles

1960
the ultimate collection

MAMA: stay away from whores and boozy floozies and trollops and tarts.

SMOKEY: but ma, i'm gonna be a singer.

MAMA: with all your travelin', you's a 'bound to do some trampin', but don't marry before you find a good, decent woman.

SMOKEY: but, ma, mr. gordy here says i'm gonna be a big star. he says i'm gonna save his record label.

MAMA: jus' don't let any hack singers steal your songs, boy.

captain and tennille, david archuleta, YOU DISAPPOINTED MAMA. for shame; go jump off a cliff, go drown in a river, go walk headlong into oncoming traffic. let's keep smokey's pure, smooth, honey-hammed voice sacred.

the miracles - shop around

806. "cheeseburger"

gang of four

1981
solid gold

hey there, american. how do you think the rest of the world perceives you? what or who do they associate with your culture and heritage? washington, lincoln, jefferson? twain, faulkner, hemingway? apple pie, baseball, hippie pussy? no: coke-a cola, lucky strikes and the golden, flashing, blinding arches. big food. fast food. cheeseburgers, cheeseburgers. the gang of the four sprightly lads from leeds are well regarded for their inflammatory political commentary and here jon king spews anti-capitalist rhetoric like a resurrected eugene v. debs. andy gill's guitar grins at you with melodic distortion. how could one band be so arty, politically engaged and musically brutal yet remain entirely accessible?

gang of four - cheeseburger

807. "walk on"

neil young

1974
on the beach

why didn't cantankerous ol' shakey want people to hear on the beach? it's one of his best and it opens with this tribute to being a cynical, bitter, detached individual. they may be talking shit, they may hate your guts, no one may like you, but fuck 'em, walk on. "walk on" isn't a messy, jammy affair like most of the rest of album. instead, it's a springy, jaunty, little zip of a tune with a typically youngian harmonic chorus and sputter-stop, chimey guitar. the man could squeeze so much emotion out of so few notes with such little technical ability. no wonder he influenced lydon and cobain, et al, et cetera, etouffee.

neil young - walk on

808. "cause = time"

broken social scene

2002
you forgot it in people

shoulda been a hip-hop song at this position. damnit, stephen, ya fucked up your own list, how do you expect to succeed in life? are you the cause of your own demise? be the cause. FUCK the cause. this is why broken social scene are one of the few "indie rock" bands that matter, that ooze relevance and reliability. tight, compacted verses with big ol' guitar hero instrumental break-downs. gradual build-up, orgasmic release. this is the sound of a congregation of dudes who know how/what/where/why to play. incendiary.

broken social scene - cause = time

809. "where did our love go?"

the supremes

1964
gold

holland-dozier-holland. ross-wilson-ballard. the funk brothers. could this holy motown triumvirate ever hit a sour, dour note? the supremes' first big hit. handclaps and footstomps. bells and chimes. saxophone break. heartbreak. woe and worry and loneliness. teenage love gained and teenage love lost. "burning, burning, yearning." hear how diana coos and pleas and begs you to stay, you heartless, cruel bastard of a jerk. how could anyone resist? fuck you, beatles. the supremes were the best pop band of the '60s.

the supremes - where did our love go?

810. "we've been had"

the walkmen

2002
everyone who pretended to like me is gone

saturn ion commericial; but what is this emotive, straining dylan wanna-be-like and this tinkly, rinky-dink toy piano? and what the fuck are these poignant, clever lyrics? life is full of let-downs, disappointments, hurt, pain and desolation. the american dream? "one day you'll change things for the better, boy. you'll be rich, the girls will be clamoring for your cock and the world is your oyster, go grab a bib." then you wake up, you're in your mid-twenties, fat, balding, friendless, jobless, as insecure and self-pitying as ever and you haven't gotten laid in six months. it's all lies, it's all jargon. we've been had. here you have it, third official SHOULD BE HIGHER designation from the listmaker.

the walkmen - we've been had

811. "picture book"

the kinks

1968
the village green preservation society

ray davies, you rascal, "a picture of you in your birthday suit." he's a sentimentalist at heart, obsessed with all things lost, forgotten and tossed away into the trash heap of memory and the passage of time. he could also write one hell of a pop song. listen to the interaction between the winding bassline and twisting guitar riff - consider yourself warned, green day. backing vocals, "scooby-dooby doo." debate how "selling out" threatens artistic integrity as much as self-righteousness dictates, but at least a semi-obscure kinks track is ingrained into the public consciousness due to a HP commercial. (THANKS KATRINA!!!!!!!!1111)

the kinks - picture book

812. "bees"

animal collective

2005
feels

it may sound like a repetitive, spaced-out harp-laden ambient track that lulls, lurches and levitates into oblivion. avey tare may sound like a caterwauling derelict. the vocal effects may seem misguided or laughable. but. But. BUT. after smoking a bowl. during the appropriate post-coital moment. "the bees, the bees, (lower) the bees, (lower) the bees, (incomprehensible muttering)" is the voice of god, of love, of understanding, of harmony, of unity with nature and the universe. i never bought into the the twin maxims that drugs and sex make music better until feels. thanks for altering my perspective, ac.

animal collective - bees

813. "chapel of love"

the dixie cups

1964
the complete red bird recordings

yay monogamy! yay marital bliss and domestic fulfillment! who came up with the band name? look at the other girl groups: shangri-la's, supremes, crystals. all sublimity, otherworldliness, purity. but, little paper receptacles in which kids spit and pee? c'mon. i mean, i know they're from louisiana, but, c'mon. "chapel of love" is more bluesy and swingy and jazzy than most contemporary girl-group tracks because 1) the girls were from naw owlins and 2) spector the rector wasn't heavily involved. but why'd ya have to go and ruin all our fun, bette?

the dixie cups - chapel of love

814. "fox on the run"

sweet

1975
desolation boulevard

all those flashy, trashy, seventies-obsessed "hipster" girls into blow, blowjobs and blow-drying must love this song. it's raucous, it's rowdy and it has an IQ of 80. but the hooks come faster than a frightened virgin. the bra is stuffed with squealing synths and big, crunchy, overdubbed glam guitars. peel off the panties and that explosive, ten miles high chorus slaps you across the jaw. this could make a mennonite buy into the decadent vaingloriousness of the rock and roll lifestyle.

sweet - fox on the run

815. "5 years"

bjork

1997
homogenic

artists as singular, as defiantly idiosyncratic and as unabashedly non compos mentis as bjork guomundsdottir are as rare as the steaks at applebee's. homogenic is her crowning achievement - a daunting juxtaposition of the organic and the synthetic. "5 years" waits patiently at the midpoint, playing a gameboy and ranting to itself about defective lovers and inept boyfriends. those hyper-digitized drums sound like something out of richard d. james' wet dreams. when bjork starts taunting and growling about cowards and the strings sweep in like the angel of death, the track achieves immortality in your memory.

bjork - 5 years

816. "rock & roll woman"

buffalo springfield

1967
again

here's some more mom-rock for ya. this is indeed the first collaboration between stephen stills and david crosby. this is indeed indicative of an enviable, intuitive grasp of song craft and melody. this is indeed full of pleasant harmonies and reverb-ed guitar. this is indeed unfortunately lacking any contribution from neil young. this is indeed an example of that blurry space between folk-rock and psychedelia. this is indeed why buffalo springfield were one of the best bands of their time. rest in peace, dewey martin.

buffalo springfield - rock & roll woman

817. "4"

aphex twin

1996
richard d. james album

why is it always the opening track that grabs and bags me the most effectively? it's time for a misty-eyed recollection: i was sixteen and had bought richard d. james on the recommendation of the rough guide to rock music. i popped the CD into my walkman and "4" proceeded to rip my feeble young mind apart. it sounded like metroid battling a hydraulic ram; aliens and industry, fantasy and labor. no one complicates the utopian promises of digitally-created music with such jarring, apocalyptic, dystopian sounds.

aphex twin - 4

818. "rise"

public image ltd.

1986
album/cassette/compact disc

hey, thanks, rules of attraction. even if he's a bombastic, overwrought, attention-whoring twat of a human being, john lydon remains an unmistakably compelling frontman and persona. that nagging, penetrative yowl may be buried underneath the murk of those enormous, shea stadium drums and steve vai's soaring guitars, but it's still as confrontational and demanding as always. even if he was attempting to "sell out" to gain mass appeal here, lydon was always too bizarre and too disorienting (check the self-contradicting lyrics about racial differences) to win the public's affection. steve vai? really?

public image ltd. - rise

819. "you ain't goin' nowhere"

the byrds

1968
sweetheart of the rodeo

i don't know, man. it took a lot of balls for such a popular, successful band to make such a drastic aesthetic shift. folksy whimsy to psychy whimsy to country whimsy. ooo-whee! it helps that they chose such a delightful dylan tune to kick off sweetheart of the rodeo. makes the pill easier to swallow, makes the hide easier to skin, makes the bed easier to wet. ooo-whee! dig those steel pedals, cowboy. and the clippity-cloppity drumming, pardner. genghis khan, what are you doing here, ya wacky barbarous heathen monster. ooo-whee!

the byrds - you ain't goin' nowhere

820. "michael a. grammar"

broadcast

2005
tender buttons

yeah, so i like music that sounds like video games. i grew up on rpgs and superscopes and extra mario mushrooms, what do you expect? is this an anti-dance song? "i hate that my feet are dancing so much." michael musta got trish all worked up and hot n' bothered and snot n' smothered. this track works because of the underlying current of dread and resignation. shiny happy synths wash out all the darkness and discomfort. let go!

michael a. grammar - broadcast

821. "negativland"

neu!

1972
neu!

it opens with a jackhammer. it's going to be noisy, it's going to be abrasive and it ain't gonna be a fun ride. but, michael rother's throbbing, pulsating, lub-dub lub-dub bass? and, a little somethin' somethin' called the "motorik" rhythm, courtesy the one and only klaus dinger? as white noise sweeps back and forth between your left and right headphones, that nasty rhythm section keeps on putting and puttering, goofing and golfing. and then, it stops. butthenit comes back, twice as fast and you brain goes wacko jacko attempting to keep up. kraut-rock, pshaw, scrimshaw. this is post-mechanical post-industrial post-rock before "industrial" even thought to exist as a genre.

neu! - negativland

822. "birthday"

junior boys

2003
last exit

JUNIOR BOYS: hey, instead of emphasizing the upbeat, jolly-roger drugssexrockn'roll side of dance music, let's be sad-sacks.

and it works. this track is about having your loved one miss your birthday. does it get any more pathetic? the synths are spooky and sparse, the bass is mechanical and off-putting and the drums sound like they've had a few. this is dance music for people who are too depressed to get up and prance and prattle around like the rest of the unruly, godforsaken dirty leviathan of a crowd.

junior boys - birthday

823. "follow the leader"

eric b. and rakim

1988
follow the leader

eric b. goes nutty with the production here with wet, sloppy, frothy bass, copious ghost story synth strings and chase scene sax breaks. it's sinister and unsettling and speaker-rattling and head-splitting. rakim, rakim, rakim. are you the best rapper of all time? maybe. maybe. no one before or since has been as smooth and smug and smart. you drop one-liners like breadcrumbs and your metaphors are ridiculously, brilliantly simple. "the tempo's a trail/the stage is a cage/the mic is a third rail." you smarmy bastard.

eric b. & rakim - follow the leader

824. "bunk trunk skunk"

be your own pet

2006
be your own pet

it may be all bluster and braggadocio and bullying, but is not a refreshing blast of retarded punk fury floating in a sea of plodding, prodding indie-rock? does it not make you wistful for long-lost, carefree youthful arrogance and flippant rebellion? nah? just breathe in and let jemina pearl scream into your earlobe and then maybe you'll get it. it may only have three chords and three brain cells, but it's impossible to ignore the opening line: i'm an independent motherfucker!

be your own pet - bunk trunk skunk

825. "fight test"

the flaming lips

2002
yoshimi battles the pink robots

cat stevens, kenny rogers, dumb "inspiring" lyrics, big dumb stageshow, overrated over-hyped band. but. enormous poignant singalong chorus, solid instrumentation and, uh, enormous poignant singalong chorus. i mean, objectively, the lips are a great band, but i've always been perturbed and disturbed, frightened and uptightened by their unabashed whimsy and sugary frivolity. this is undeniably an excellent track, though, because...ENORMOUS POIGNANT SINGALONG CHORUS.

the flaming lips - fight test