go and kill! joro jara joro. go and die! joro jara joro.

88.

zombie
fela kuti and afrika '70 [celluloid, 1977]

among many, many other things, non-Western nations got a raw deal in regards to musical representation. the gag reflex "world music" tag summons scenes of hoity-toity, lily-white liberal guilt stuffed-shirts politely clapping to Ladysmith Black Mambazo in marble-lined university assembly halls. "it's inspiring because they're repressed!" Fela Kuti demolishes any and all watered-down, tepid approximations of Third World anxiety and rage; this is bomb-throwing music for revolutions, not fashionable exoticism. drawing influence from the rhythmic ferocity of James Brown, the experimental intensity of late period Miles Davis, and the call-and-response structure of traditional West African music, Fela Kuti and Afrika '70 constructed an intoxicating hard-edged jazz-funk fusion, later labeled "Afrobeat." they released a multitude of records in the '70s, but Zombie is the most notorious. the title track is a scathing, fanged critique of the Nigerian military, comparing soldiers not to the brain-eating shamblers of Western pop culture, but to the trained-to-kill mindless automatons of Voodoo lore. a brutal, braying alto sax leads the charge while the rhythm section pulsates and throbs. after barking commands over a chorus of voices shouting "zombie, oh zombie!" Kuti fires up the organ and lets loose with a skin-burning solo. the album's other track, "mister follow follow," is a slow-burner, gradually gathering momentum towards an exhilarating refrain denouncing blind Pied Piper devotion to charismatic leaders. through his ardor and fearlessness in the face of corruption and dictatorship, Kuti makes a mockery of Western "protest" music by proving that a record could be as subversive as a pamphlet and as dangerous as a grenade.

bring down the government moment: when i say this record was dangerous, it's not just critical hyperbole. check the Wikipedia page for this album: the Nigerian military felt so threatened, they attacked Kuti's compound, destroyed his instruments, nearly beat him to death, and threw his mother out a window. it's further proof of Kuti's indefatigable resolve that he responded by recording more inflammatory music.

i shot my mouth off and you showed me what that hole was for

89.

pretenders
the pretenders [sire, 1980]

many female musicians have attempted to co-opt the unrepentant machismo, the primal urgency, the reckless abandonment of good ol' fashioned guitar-based rawk n' roll, but none have done so with the conflicting vulnerability of Chrissie Hynde. yes, she performs as the predator, the player, the peddler, and the pretender [har!], but, despite all her blue-balling bluster, she's an arch sentimentalist at her core. with the valor and vim and vigor of punk and a pop sensibility borrowed from the sixties, few debut records are as unapologetically fierce as Pretenders. "precious" and "the wait" are both chugging, after-school detention attention-grabbers, with Hynde literally telling a dude to "fuck off" in the former. the rustling drums and chiming guitars on "tattooed love boys" underscore Hynde's tale of sexual awakening. even gratuitously catchy MONSTER HIT "brass in pocket" is laden with innuendo and cocksure swagger. however, the aching sadness on the Nick Lowe-produced cover of the Kinks' "stop your sobbing," the surprising tenderness on tough-love ballad "kid," and the hopelessly melancholic "lovers of today" belie Hynde's tough girl image. though the laboriously dull reggae-tinged "private life" threatens to dilute the visceral impact of the record's second half, salvation arrives in the form of the uplifting "mystery achievement." Hynde's Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy would eventually coalesce, and, due to shifting lineups, the Pretenders would never again sound as raw and edgy, but the beautiful contradictions exposed on this record still resonate.

unsung guitar hero moment: though the Pretenders weren't as musically innovative as many of their peers, guitarist James Honeyman-Scott injects a lot of sharp-edged post-punk nastiness, especially on the spasmodic break-down in "tattooed love boys." too bad he OD'd on blow a few years after this album was released.

a dinosaur victrola, listenin' to buck owens

90.

cosmo's factory
creedence clearwater revival [fantasy, 1970]

traditionalism is a tricky-dicked endeavor, a tightrope walk over the sinkholes of novelty kitsch and reactionary conservatism. Creedence is a shining beacon, a paragon of pop sincerity; one foot was ankle-deep in the trends of the past, but the guys weren't corny or cranky or campy, they were just fucking good. the integral element is John Fogerty's wail: slightly unhinged and tremulous, with undertones of rage and terror blemishing the all-smiles exterior. Cosmo's Factory has more hits than [insert off-color joke here]: the rambunctious "travelin' band," the ominous "who'll stop the rain," and the Vietnam-scarred "run through the jungle." there's also the slide-guitar spike in the vein of "up on around the bend," used in every buddyroadtrip movie in existence and the sweetly idiotic psychedelic imagery in "lookin' out my back door." but the record's defining moment may be in the opening track, the raucous seven minute jam "ramble tamble," in which Fogerty unleashes the finest guitar solo of his career: simple, eloquent, transcendent. the ten minute cover of "i heard it through the grapevine" may be the embarrassed elephant in the corner, but its relentless repetition gradually becomes compellingly hypnotic. from shuck n' jive barn burners to open road po' boy ballads, Cosmo's Factory is Creedence's most varied and consistent record and a testament to their quiet, unassuming artistry.

"wouldn't hold out much hope for the tape deck, though. or the creedence." moment: a lot of Creedence's songs have suffered from overexposure, either from oldies radio or incessant use in movies and television. however, The Big Lebowski undoubtedly contains the best use of Creedence's music, especially "run through the jungle" during the botched ransom drop-off.

and though our bones, they may break, and our souls separate, why the long face?

91.

ys
joanna newsom [drag city, 2006]

beneath the dimming autumn skies, amidst the soil and the weevils, the thrushes cry and the jonquils sigh, praising the toil of the beetles. see how difficult it is to write lyrics about nature without sounding like a gargantuan tool? someway, somehow Joanna Newsom makes it work, casually tossing off wispy metaphors about dangling ghosts of spiders and fabricating vivid visual poems with delicate, rustic imagery: peonies, sea brine, and the snapping teeth of hound dogs. there's her voice, a major divisive point for many people, which has more in common with the backwoods moonshine warblers on The Anthology of American Folk Music than any recognizable mainstream pop singer. the song structures are labyrinthine, with sudden breaks and unpredictable crescendos, while the bombastic orchestral arrangements - courtesy Van Dyke Parks - add an element of urgency and majesty. Ys is a difficult record to apprehend, but leave your preconceived notions at the door, you close-minded asshole, and succumb to a world where every detail is profound and beautiful and every gesture, every sideways glance and forced half-smile, has metaphysical significance. "emily," ostensibly about her sister, is a tragicomic tribute to youth and lost innocence, while "cosmia" strives to find redemption in the death of a friend. The feminist Aesop's fable "monkey & bear" displays Joanna's storytelling abilities, but the album's beating heart lies in the middle: sex, God, nature, youth, and destiny all collide in the winding, whimsical narratives of "sawdust & diamonds" and "only skin." although Joanna Newsom receives an inordinate amount of flak for her idiosyncrasies, few musicians would have the audacity to release a record so timelessly different and unspeakably brilliant.

joan and bob moment: "only skin" features backing vocals from Bill Callahan, who[m?] Joanna was dating at the time. isn't it every dude's dream to sing back-up on a song that was probably written about him? unrelated detail: Steve Albini recorded Joanna's vocals and harp. a far cry from the Jesus Lizard, eh eh eh?

doctor comes in, pops a boner, and jacks off in her cap

92.

goat
the jesus lizard [touch & go, 1991]

Diamond Dave once said, "if you put a Van Halen album in your record collection, it will melt all the rest of your records." well, if you put a Jesus Lizard album in your collection, not only will it melt all the other sniveling, whimpering records, it will pulverize, disembowel, and castrate them, and then cackle maniacally while urinating on their grave. Goat heatbutts into the party with a Gang of Four-on-amphetamines-and-testosterone rhythm section: sky-cracking drums and deep, rumbling hellfire bass. the caterwauling, flesh-eating guitar stings and screeches like a rabid wolverine. then comes David Yow: possessed witch doctor; lobotomized lunatic; schizophrenic, drunken nihilist; leering, slobbering bum. his vocals are buried in mix, heightening his intensity and fervor; he's an alien ready to burst through a stomach, or a premature burial victim desperately clawing at his coffin. from his debauched lyrical concerns - prison rape, drowning, stupid motherfuckers who don't know how to housesit - and unmistakable yowl, he's among the most captivating frontmen EVER. it helps that the songs are just undeniably fucking good. "mouth breather" could have been a "modern rock" crossover in the paws of a less abrasive, less confrontational, less weird group. "nub" edges close to post-punk agit-funk, while "karpis" adopts a hiccupping twang. this record doesn't "rock" - people think bottom-feeding, scum-eating shills like Poison and Nickelback "rock." no, this record screams, spits, swaggers, and sprays blood, establishing a new archetype for groups who want to be simultaneously smart and brain-splattering.

bombastic intro moment: this record was produced/engineered/whatever by Steve Albini, which means each instrument is loud, crisp, and bone-rattling. though his two bands - Big Black and Shellac - didn't make the cut, through his production work, he was involved with more albums on the list than anyone: five out of the one hundred, or, 1/20th of the list.

she wants another scene, she wants to be a human being

93.

chelsea girl
nico [verve records, 1967]

o Nico! demure melancholic, wanton femme fatale! warbling siren of ennui and hopelessness! with the defeatist longing of an Old World aristocrat, the deadpan sexuality of a courtesan, and the glazed-eyed fragility of a junkie, Christa Päffgen cultivated an impressive cult of personality. she gallivanted around an abandoned castle in La Dolce Vita, fraternized with the scenesters and freaks at the Factory, and briefly fronted the Velvet Underground. she didn't conform to any presubscribed roles for female musicians; she wasn't an earth mother, a self-righteous folkie, or a wide-eyed innocent teen temptress. if anything, she was an ur-goth, an artist plagued by darkness and haunted by her insecurities. Chelsea Girl, her debut as a solo artist, is Nico at her most vulnerable and sad. with her inimitable near-baritone, baroque orchestral accompaniment, and help from talented songwriters (mainly former bandmates Lou Reed and John Cale, and also a pre-California Jackson Browne), she inhabits emotions rarely explored in pop music: heartbreaking, immobilizing indecisiveness in the soaring "the fairest of the seasons," world-weary detachment in "these days," and seasonal affective despair in "winter song." the most explicitly experimental track - "it was a pleasure thing" - is a Celtic death ritual with Nico moaning ethereal high notes over a din of feedback and lacerating guitar. Dylan's "i'll keep it with mine" - one of the few tracks with no minor chords - serves as a rousing counterpoint to the dour misery mire that surrounds it. though Nico would later delve into more abstract territory, this record captures all the tragic, twisted beauty that defined one of pop's most compelling figures.

should i stay or should i go? moment: "the fairest of the seasons" was the last song i played on my farewell show at my alma mater's radio station. the song really epitomizes the ambivalence that comes when leaving somewhere or someone.

he's acting innocent and proud still you know what he's after, like a matador with his pork sword while we all die of laughter

94.

blood & chocolate
elvis costello and the attractions [columbia, 1986]

gotz 'dem ol' mean woman blues again, brother? sometimes when the fairer sex brings you down into a pit of despair and world-is-crashing helplessness, you gotta put down that never-ending bottle of Jameson and saunter into the studio with your best dudes and pulverize that anguish into something worthwhile. this is Declan Patrick at his most vitriolic, spewing venom and catharsis, ripping apart low-down, no-good rotten women while his uncharacteristically raw sounding, yet always reliable Attractions whip up a frenzy. the record is admittedly top-heavy, but what a fucking tremendous Side A, from the vindictive, organ-fueled anthem "i hope you're happy now" to the drunken 3 a.m. sad-sack ballad "home is anywhere you hang your head." but it's all foothills to the Mt. Everest of Costello's career: the caustic, languishing, incomparable "i want you." this one track, with its slow build-up and quietly intense vocals, captures all the contradicting feelings of anger, disgust, disillusionment, and futility, and the searing, unrelenting pain that comes with that horrible, carnal knowledge: yep, it happened, and yep, it was THAT asshole. and the most horrifying part: it ends not in murder or heartbreak like other paeans to adultery, but in begrudging and hopeless acceptance. perhaps because "i want you" raises the bar so exponentially high, what follows pales in comparison and is almost entirely forgettable, though "poor napoleon" has one hell of an addictive chorus. to me, an idiosyncratic artist with a long career is always the most compelling at his or her meanest and nastiest, and this record - at least the first half, anyway - exposes all the darkness stirring underneath that bespectacled veneer.

stop attacking my viscera! moment: "i want you" is the emotional companion piece to the Velvet Underground's "heroin," but instead of narcotics, costello's focal point is the nagging suspicion and the "stupid details" of the infidelity. it makes my skin crawl and my stomach retch. it's draining, it's demanding, and it's certainly something you can't "enjoy" on a daily basis. but what a fucking perfect piece of pop catharsis.