i'm a thief and i dig it! i'm on a beef, i'm gonna rig it! i'm a thief and i dig it!

73.

the band
the band [capitol, 1969]

in apposite response to the wayward discord and unchecked chaos of the 'Nam era, maple-slurpin' Canadian Robbie Robertson and his Band of merry musicians scour America's past for inspiration, seeking the source of the turbulence; the origin of the discontent; the genesis of a musical heritage that stretches back to the mountains and the fields, parlors and playhouses; the roots. this is a Bande à part backstroking against mainstream currents, a group of self-aware hipsters shucking off flower-power head-trips for headlong excursions into the dark recesses of history; this self-titled record captures them at the pinnacle of their prowess. "across the great divide" is a woozy, boozy morning-after lover's lament fueled by Levon Helm's street-corner stomp, while Rick Danko's hell-raising fiddle on "rag mama rag" threatens to set the hay on fire during a barn dance. Garth Hudson's lantern-in-the-distance Clara Barton organ hovers over the opium-addled narrator on "when you awake," while Richard Manuel's barrelhouse piano gets kicked out of the saloon on "look out cleveland." with Manuel's distraught quiver and downcast, brokenhearted lyrics, "whispering pines" is the record's emotional zenith, branching out from the rollicking, drunken ruckus of "up on cripple creek," on which Hudson's Clavinette filters through a wah-pedal for that funky bayou croak later copped by Stevie Wonder. though the old folks' home creak of "rockin' chair" comes across as patronizing, the Band's obsession with the arcane is justified by the Dust Bowl fury of "king harvest (has surely come)" and the mournful Confederate elegy of "the night they drove old dixie down," which may be the fullest realization of their sepia-toned modus operandi. with shrugged-off, nonchalant virtuosity and expertly-forged, timeless songs that would make Stephen Foster blush, The Band excavates the ghosts of the past to critique the present, setting a precedent for the disillusioned and disaffected to, for better or worse, look backwards instead of treading forwards.

you talkin' to me? moment: The Last Waltz is known as the best concert film ever for many reasons - Martin Scorsese's direction [and by extension, Thelma Schoonmaker's incomparable editing], a groggy, elusive Dylan, Neil Young with blow stuck in his nostrils - but, i was impressed by just how badass the dudes in the Band dressed and acted. they were unflappable musicians, but they knew how to rock a fedora and three-piece.

i've seen your drugs and they don't look so good, suck the jaws like i wish you would

74.

you forgot it in people
broken social scene [arts & crafts / paper bag, 2002]

stylistic synthesis and grab bag eclecticism run rampant through the bushy fields of aughties indie-rock, as does the musical entity known as the "collective," an amorphous, ever-shifting conglomerate of like-minded musicians. Broken Social Scene co-founders and permanent members Kevin Drew and Brenden Canning aren't savants or savages; they're alchemists, turning the unprocessed ore of impromptu jam sessions with whoever happens to be in the studio into glittering pop gold. You Forgot It in People zigzags like an intestinal tract; it's a prodigiously diverse record with unexpected aesthetic detours down unexplored avenues. the spasmodic, herky-jerky pyrotechnics of "almost crimes" crash into the heavy-lidded hash brownie daydream of "looks just like the sun" which melts into the sun-kissed bossa nova of "pacific theme." the album is full of dazzling flourishes - the "tighten up" handclaps on "stars and sons" or Emily Haines' unsettling, broken robot vocals on "anthems for a seventeen year-old girl" - that elevate the songs above the humdrum monotony of guitar-based indie. "cause = time" may be the record's most reductive track, but it's also the most rousing - a shout-along, anti-media, anti-clerical anthem with glass smashing agent provocateur guitar freak-outs. "lover's spit" is a grandstanding, weepy Bryan Adams ballad filtered through poised detachment and winking irony, while the drum brushes and fragile guitar picking on "i'm still your fag" and the aching strings on ambient closer "pitter patter goes my heart" conclude the jamboree on a somber, quiet tone. by allowing contributions from a wide variety of individuals, You Forgot It in People achieves a sort of scattershot, paradoxical transcendence; it's sweepingly grandiose yet serenely tranquil, messily chaotic yet surprisingly cohesive, a celebration of the power of camaraderie and collaboration.

stephen dreams of pavement (another day) moment: Broken Social Scene's set at Lollapalooza in 2006 may just be the best concert i've ever witnessed. the crowd was relatively small, but completely engrossed. the band, then around ten members, was energetic and fun. and, because many of the other bands in the BSS periphery were also playing the festival, most of the guest vocalists - Feist, Emily Haines, etc. - appeared on stage. they played again in 2008, but it just wasn't the same.

do ya feel it when ya touch me? do ya feel it when ya TOUCH me?

75.

fun house
the stooges [elektra, 1970]

lock up your daughters, stash away the drugs, and pour out the booze, Iggy Pop né Stooge né James Osterberg is out of his mind on a Saturday night. he's the unhinged, wild id; a spewing, blood-spurting hot mess; the puck-like prophet of punk; an unruly lunatic throwing punches and pissing his pants in the backseat of a cop car. the Stooges outstripped, outshone, and upstaged every ragged group of no-gooders and long-hairs bangin' on three chords in garages and dimly lit bars across the country; Fun House is evidence of their dominance, a whirling dust devil of sound and fury. the blazing heat from Ron Asheton's ferocious electric storm guitar could melt glaciers, while Dave Alexander and Scott Asheton pulverize the rhythm into a bloody pulp. then, of course, there's Iggy, the preacher from Hell espousing the sins of flesh, wailing above the clangor, fighting to be heard. the clanging stomp of "down in the street" scrounges the gutter for dropped change and revels in the depravity of the puke-stained pavement, while Iggy growls and Ron's guitar howls on the gigolo blues meltdown of "loose." "tv eye" is stalker-dodging, alley-hopping amphetamine paranoia, while the "troglodyte groove" of slow-burning monster "dirt" hypnotizes its prey before pouncing at the jugular. Steve Mackay's bleating, lecherous saxophone bulldozes into the mix during the eviscerating finale of "1970" and refuses to leave the party during the shit-faced stomp of the title track. the revelry concludes with "l.a. blues," a formless cacophony of noise and indignation. primal, urgent, and savage, Fun House eschews the fat, the padding, and the bullshit, targets the viscera and exposes the bleeding, palpitating core of what made rock n' roll so fucking subversive in the first place - threatening, sexual raw power.


street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm moment: not to detract from its glory, but fun house is really the best Stooges record by default. their self-titled debut has a few incendiary tracks, but is littered with throwaways and the plodding dirge of "we will fall." the otherwise incredible raw power is plagued by production quality issues: the original Bowie mix is muddy and dull and Pop own 1997 remaster is just too fucking loud and clipped. if a decent-sounding mix was ever released, it would fight with fun house for the prime spot.

RECAP + totally RAD mix

i'm one fourths complete with the list! this is the farthest i've gotten on any such endeavor.

recap of 100 through 76:

100. endtroducing... [dj shadow, 1996]
099. parallel lines [blondie, 1978]
098. millions now living will never die [tortoise, 1996]
097. getz / gilberto [stan getz & joão gilberto, 1964]
096. untrue [burial, 2007]
095. q: are we not men? a: we are devo! [devo, 1978]
094. blood & chocolate [elvis costello & the attractions, 1986]
093. chelsea girl [nico, 1967]
092. goat [the jesus lizard, 1991]
091. ys [[joanna newsom, 2006]
090. cosmo's factory [creedence clearwater revival, 1970]
089. pretenders [the pretenders, 1980]
088. zombie [fela kuti & afrika '70, 1977]
087. paid in full [eric b. & rakim, 1987]
086. aja [steely dan, 1977]
085. untitled (led zeppelin IV, zoso) [led zeppelin, 1971]
084. dazzle ships [orchestral manoeuvres in the dark, 1983]
083. sweetheart of the rodeo [the byrds, 1968]
082. ramones [the ramones, 1976]
081. astral weeks [van morrison, 1968]
080. ready to die [the notorious b.i.g., 1994]
079. music has the right to children [boards of canada, 1998]
078. third [portishead, 2008]
077. disintegration [the cure, 1989]
076. maggot brain [funkadelic, 1971]

breakdown by decade:

60s: 4
70s: 8
80s: 5
90s: 5
00s: 3

there is currently a five-way tie between 1968, 1971, 1977, 1978, and 1996 for most represented year with two albums each.

and, to commemorate the occasion, a totally awesome mix, with a track from each album. i tried to avoid the big hits and well-known songs for the sake of variety.

TOTALLY RAD MIX!!!!

check it out!

more power to the people! more pussy to the power! more pussy to the people! more power to the pussy!

76.

maggot brain
funkadelic [westbound, 1971]

with an acid-fried gleam in his eye and a tie-died pot, peace, and pussy manifesto, George Clinton has based a long, wild career on his bizarreness; he's pop's manic poet-shaman, a mystic starchild, reveling in earthly good times with his head in outer space. as leader of the Parliament/Funkadelic collective, he solidified the foundation of funk and blasted it off into the stratosphere, brought the grit, the dirt, the piss, and the vinegar to spotless sheen of disco, and on Maggot Brain injected an intravenous drip of soul into hard rock's clogged bloodstream. Hendrix may have rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible the year before this record was released, but Eddie Hazel proves that the electric guitar wasn't buried with him in a rapturous ten-minute solo on the title track. the origin myth dictates that Clinton told him to "play like [his] momma just died." the result is incendiary: a multi-dimensional pilgrimage through the incomprehensibly vast sprawl of space and the cruel tragedies of time. using a wah pedal and echo effects, Hazel makes the instrument scream, cry, laugh, and sigh like it never has before or since. "can you get to that" is a boot-stomping folk-soul campfire shout-along, while "hit it and quit it" and "you and your folks, me and my folks" are massive funk juggernauts fueled by a subatomic organ and flanged interstellar drums, respectively. the botched drug deal parable "super stupid" takes the Black out the Sabbath and transforms it into a bacchanal celebration, while the raucous party on "wars of armageddon" persists until daylight breaks and beyond. the cover artwork on Maggot Brain encapsulates the tone of the record: ostensibly ecstatic and celebratory, yet rooted in muck; embracing decadence and excess to rise above and not drown in its own shit.

won't you come see me? moment: "can you get to that" is one of the many songs my girlfriend has declared as her "favorite of all time." i've been trying to get her to make a top 10/20/50/100 songs list for a long time and she promises that she will someday, though i doubt that. maybe my obsessive habits will rub off?

crying for sympathy, crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd, and three cheers from everyone

77.

disintegration
the cure [fiction, 1989]

though he may despise and disdain the term, Robert Smith, with his pot kettle black eyeliner, moussed, tousled hair and dour almost-dopey mopiness, will always be the archetypal goth, the poster boy for bedroom gloom and overwrought, affected misery. the Cure was far from a one-trick pony with a limp, but ANGST and DEPRESSION are stamped repeatedly on the forehead of Disintegration, the crowning achievement of Smith's career. his moody contemplation and inner turmoil goes Technicolor Cinemascope on this record; the guitars, flanged and phased beyond recognition, chime and soar, the vocals and drums reverberate through the cavernous bunker of the production, while layers of synthesized strings and weeping keyboards supplement the texture. these songs are sweeping and tenaciously grandiose - stadium-sized music for sun shy shut-ins and poetry scribblers. opener "plainsong" announces the record's sound, with Smith's voice echoing desperately across the freezing Wuthering Heights moor, while the "shimmering" [definitely among the most overused words in pop criticism] bells on "pictures of you" underpin the longing of the tea-soaked madeleine cake lyrics. the straightforward, sullenly heartfelt "lovesong" is the most accessible track, while "lullaby" is the sexiest, with a near-funky stop-start rhythm, punctured guitar jabs and whispered vocals. the desolate essence of the album can found within the watery twins "prayer for rain" and "the same deep water as you:" plodding, winding requiems of remorse and reprehension. though it nearly runs out of momentum by the time the wistful pump-organ of the untitled final track materializes in the haze, Disintegration is an elegy to loneliness, a bombastic display of histrionic pomp and the uncontrollable circumstance of just feeling sad, a true fucking epic blurred by flowing tears.

i felt like i could die/it made me want to cry moment: as much as i love this record's scope, tone, sense of space, and quintessentially 80s production, i can't help but mention that i think that Smith is kind of a trite lyricist, darkening the "moon/June/spoon" tradition of simple rhyming with "eye/cry/die." as far as "mope-rock" [i hate that term] icons, he lacks the wit and self-deprecation of Morrissey and the sinister morbidity of Ian Curtis. maybe that's why i could never wholeheartedly embrace the Cure and also why they were much more popular than the Smiths or Joy Division - Smith's lyrics are broad enough to appeal to the masses.

i struggle with myself, hoping i might change a little, hoping i that i might be someone i want to be

78.

third
portishead [island, 2008]

this record is an abomination against the invisible hand of musical evolution; like a two-headed calf, a blobfish, or Andrew WK, the forces of nature dictate that it shouldn't exist. Portishead was driven to extinction by the changing cultural tides, another case of a group defined by and constricted within the context of their time - the mid '90s - and sound - "trip-hop." yet, like a lazarus taxon, on Third they rise from the ashes of obscurity with a record that captures the numbing dread and stultifying uncertainty of twenty-first century existence. Beth Gibbons is a harbinger of doom, an angel of annihilation, a priestess of post-modern anxiety; her reluctant, wounded wail radiates anguish and defeat. she quavers with trepidation on the throbbing "nylon smile," wrestles with desire on the swirling arabesque "magic doors," and confronts her debilitating self-doubt on the cathartic dirge "threads." the apocalyptic, ominous production by multi-instrumentalists Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley complement Gibbons' laments of despair with battering ram PiL guitar abrasions on "silence," whirring Silver Apple oscillations on "we carry on" and Battle of the Bulge percussive earfuckery on the minimalist "machine gun." Gibbons finds temporary redemption in fanciful equine-derived escapism over the purring pulse of "the rip," the album's emotional focal point. Third is a disheartening, depressing, and yes, slightly melodramatic record, yet its timelessly timely lyrical concerns, the unassailable production, and Gibbons' piercing yowl dispel the foul odor left by the concept of the "comeback" and demonstrate how to gracefully embrace a new aesthetic without sounding like a hack or a has-been.

i love the aughties/statistics moment: Third is the most recently released record on the list and the only one from 2008, which was among the worst years for music this decade. fifteen of the hundred albums on this list were released in the aughties.