The Clash - Sandinista! (1980)
A 36-song triple-LP with a duration of 144 minutes is undoubtedly a daunting proposal, but recollect that this is The Clash we're talking about -- yes, the same Clash who just a year prior had unleashed arguably the most brilliant double-LP of all time while making it sound like it went down without a hitch to boot. So also yes, the very same Clash that don't just modestly churn out 36 good-to-great tunes like no one's business, but do it with barely a lull in those 144 as well. Punky heritage is seldom visited here, most often taking on some form of experimental-ish dub-centric sparkly disco-rock that forays into any genre-combo imagined+yet-to-be-imagined at the time and kids-n-women vox/radio bits/unadulterated 'what the's to keep things lively. A shortage of 'hits' is a fair-enough swap to behold that same ol' sharp-n-adamant Clash use their most excessive juncture to get weirder and funner than ever all-the-while allowing for much musical+textural exploration. 8.5/10
Dirty Projectors - Bitte Orca (2009)
Prog-guitar could be befitting for extreme metal if not played trebly-thin and fuzzed out and/or on what sounds like multiple miniature harps, slightly-androgynous weirdo frontman finds companionship in would-be choir girls who mostly harmonize in yelps and chirps, philosophical queries made during a makeshift-percussion strings-laden r&b smash: in a world they can call their own, these talented quirkoids can nail both fun+complex and sincere+serene with flying colors, often during the same song. With unmistakable character, too: when they extend the invite to live in "a space for you in the basement, yeah", I get the notion that upon accepting, no matter who it is, would end up helping them with handclaps or hitting a bell -- that kind of character. 9/10
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes (2008)
With artwork that sports painted scenes from 1559 and songs frequently referring to the skyward wonders of the natural world, Fleet Foxes gave themselves some pretty lofty imagery to live up to. Not only does the music all-too-swimmingly hark back to those irretrievable+cherished days of old, it in itself BECOMES a wonder of the natural world. A touch of polite hokum is fair when organic magnificence is at hand -- and their timeless mix of near-spiritual jubilance and grave haunters is the kind of earthy escapism that requires a studio-banter tidbit to get snapped back into the deficiency of present-day reality. Listen to it during a wilderness excursion, or at least while chopping firewood -- not the outdoorsy type, you say? A drive at dawn should suffice. 8.5/10
The Housemartins - London 0 Hull 4 (1986)
Sunny-faced societal grudges and xtra-effortless singalong jangly pep give them a dorky+fervid edge against the ambiguous R.E.M.s and sad-sack-poetry Smiths of the world, expressions of rich vs. poor dilemmas and attempts at inciting upheavals are more articulate and venomous than most anarcho-punx can muster, as are the two impassioned-piano-balladry tracks (one of which is a "Lean On Me" cover of all things). And nearly 30 years later, the grouses still hold up, some have even seemed to gain significance -- take the man that just can't choose a side; who "strokes his twenty beards" and "only drinks real ale". 9/10
Michael Jackson - Thriller (1982)
Most of this should go without saying - #1 selling album of all-time by a large margin, culture-dominating smash, simultaneously hugely commercial and high-caliber, plays like a greatest hits collection, silky-smooth and deliciously detailed whether it be inescapable+dancy funk-lite benchmarks or non-schmaltz r&b soothers. But really now, what would it be without its wonderful-and-somehow-timeless novelty guest spots? Where else can you find the King of Pop in a back-n-forth with Paul McCartney over a girl while the latter matter-of-factly calls himself "her forever lover"? How about a horror-themed title-track dance-craze with a life of its own and creaks/howls/Vincent Price for effect? Or anti-machismo hard-rock flirtation with a fiery solo via Eddie Van Halen? 9.5/10
Lil Wayne - Da Drought 3 (2007)
Two full discs without much space wasted -- a fun, contemporary-beat stealing, generally ridiculous ride. It's seemingly endless lyrically, jam-packed with classic lines, prodigious references, numerous non-sequiturs -- yet one of my favorites simply goes: "Beef, yes / chest, feet / tag, bag / blood, sheets / yikes, yeeks / great scott!". He's just that good, and the fact is a lot of it sounds like just fuckin' around. His skill tends to get obscured by accusations of (lack of) subject matter, obnoxiousness, extreme use of "bitch", etc.: I see a wordsmith with an uninhibited personality who loves rhyming for the sake of rhyming, and again, is probably just fuckin' around. 9/10
Naked City - Naked City (1990)
Their collectively limitless virtuosity+versatility allows them to genre-weave with ease, often at times in the blink of an eye: in and out of jazz-rock both lavish and raunchy, refined-hardcore-grind-clamor, film-score re-workings -- bandleader John Zorn's trademark squawking-and-gurgling-like-a-flock-of-tortured-birds alto sax can just as easily be steadied into smooth+sweeping traditionalism. The mid-section turns the controlled-chaos up a notch with a salvo of sub-minute ditties featuring Tazmanian-devil vocals from the Boredoms' Yamatsuka Eye, while towards the end a rip-roaring James Bond theme (with fake gunshots and all) is sure to gratify -- particularly for those who took opener "Batman" as a red herring. 8.5/10
Prince - 1999 (1982)
Five albums deep, Prince finally found the throbbing arrangements that properly correlate with his sex drive in the form of indefatigable drum machine malleation -- rigid repetitions are gleefully prolonged and teased out and before-U-know-it exorbitant sagas are suddenly borne from mechanized mania-pop, squeak-toy/cheeky-synth melodies and corybantic funk keep the party alive and weird, an acronymic title is unveiled as a cardinal Prince motto while the non-acronymic title that follows gets hypnotically half-spelled out. And given the pairing of our character-at-hand with more-than-ever room to get down and let loose, it's inevitable that ambition and whimsicality reach new heights: car-n-horse-metaphor-laden night-cruise cock-rock, ad-libs only a chosen few could get away with ("I'm not saying this just to be nasty / I sincerely wanna fuck the taste out of your mouth"), girls weeping beneath wailing guitar solos, a goddamn freedom ballad, finale-promulgation of his very own come-hither aircraft ("The Seduction 747") with sly double-entendres aplenty slithering out the cockpit ("This plane is fully equipped with anything your body desires", "We are now making our final approach to satisfaction"). And really, what better way to vent political+personal frustrations than some aggressive mattress-squeaker fuck-thrusts? 8.5/10
The Rolling Stones - Exile on Main St. (1972)
This very well could be the Stones at their best: its loose, sprawling nature plays a definite contributing role there, but that is just a bonus to how well it covers all the bases while still throwing you some curveballs. Many tracks give the impression of cock-rock/punk predecessor anthems for ruckus, gambling and sex, only to have just as many be the most touching and effective songs of their career. Others find nice niches as being welcome little oddballs that are still a far throw from being throwaway -- and it's all done with so much raw, soulful, old-timey-drunken energy; it can only be recognized as pure, unadulterated rock n' roll. 10/10
Sun Kil Moon - Benji (2014)
This death-laden nostalgia-fest collection of possibly tall tales coming from a 47-year old folkie Ohioan is one of the most moving and haunting albums I've heard in some time. Comes complete with an everyday all-American cast of friends, relatives and neighbors falling under many a misfortune (all while Richard Ramirez anticlimactically dies of natural causes), the merging of a 70's rock fandom childhood with the all-too-current Newtown/Panera Bread/"drunk kids staring at their cells" world of today, disturbingly graphic confessions of early sexual ventures and nonchalantly forgiving ones of child abuse, plainly stated yet profound realizations of growing old ("The Sopranos guy died at 51 / That's the same age as the guy who's coming to play the drums"), and perhaps at its most hair-raising, the powerful reminder you that a mother's death is inevitable ("When the day comes for her to leave / I won't have the courage to sort through her things"). 10/10
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