First Two 7"s On A 12" - Minor Threat (1981)

A combination of their first two EPs, Minor Threat and In My Eyes, this album is like a series of uppercuts to the face -- for ten minutes. Straight edge punk at its finest. I shall waste no further words. Go on and get it, however way you wish. A

The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Axis: Bold As Love (1967)

Having recently listened to the newly released Valleys Of Neptune, I thought to myself, I need to review Electric Ladyland. Then, as testament to my prolonged absences here, I realized that I had already written it. Boink. So here's to all the picked-seconds of the world, I'm rubbing you Axis: Bold As Love. Like the opening to Electric, Axis begins with a waste of my time, the insipid avant-garde emptiness of "EXP." From there, it's a smattering of musical styles: the wah wah breeziness in "Up From The Skies" -- replete with tasty brush taps. Actually, let me interrupt myself. Mitch Mitchell gets his cake and he's probably eaten so much of it, he's had massive intestinal stoppage, but everyone still talks about Hendrix first and foremost, and I'd like to say, Mitch, you were awesome. There, I feel better. "Ain't No Telling" is a my favorite non-famous Hendrix track. If you haven't heard it -- seriously? "Castles Made Of Sand" is one of those songs that you play for people when you want them to hear what Hendrix was all about. "Little Wing" is, in my opinion, one of the few perfect songs ever written. Period. If you've ever wanted to hear an album end like it was a mad flower bursting into bloom, then listen to the last minute or so of "Bold As Love." This album is sonically exquisite. I have nothing but excess verbal superfluity in making an ass of myself otherwse. Enjoy. A

Them Crooked Vultures - Them Crooked Vultures (2009)

It is indisputable and perhaps undeserving of mention that far and wide across the interwebs in forums, blogs, magazines and any other media depositories, everyone who rocks out with their cock out (or not!) invariably feels they have found something so awe-inspiring and powerful, so utterly bonkers and brilliant, so fucking genius, that they feel communally impelled to share with us that they also feel, in their most astute and clever opinions, that Them Crooked Vultures sound similar to Zep, QTSA and Nirvana/Foos. No shit, really?!?! I kind of thought they sounded like Abba on my first listen, but that's me.

But seriously, since the concert I saw them at, the subsequent streaming of the entire album on YouTube and now, the finished clarity of the real actual thing, I've been calling these guys filthy -- filthy as in fucks your face up if you're dumb enough to get in front of it. This is simply rock in all of its glorious phases, from the sophisticated time signature shifts to the filthy sludgy boozy jams to the riffs, oh beautiful bruising hammer of the gods riffs, to the fact that this band effortlessly melds classic rock and modern rock -- it's a wonder they gel so well after such short time. The album begins with "Nobody Loves Me & Neither Do I," a great opener that begins fairly innocuously -- almost as if you thought these guys were going to play it safe, stupid and sucky a la Chickenfoot , and then -- oh glorious spark of heaven -- JPJ bass nukes the proceedings. From there it never really lets up: aside from the buoyant but straightforward "New Fang," TCV burns through a litany of rockfests with the weird queasiness of "Interludes With Ludes" to break up the momentum. We get to hear some fantastic Jack Bruce falsetto imitation on one of my favorite tracks, "Scumbag Blues," which features some filthy guitar-work as does "Reptiles," my other favorite. "Elephants" begins fairly ferociously and then settles into a slow tempo throttle. "Warsaw, Or The First Breath You Take After You Give Up" is a nasty blues number that morphs into a filthy boogie jam and immediately follows "Interludes" thereby saying, more or less, that the brief break is over. "Spinning With Daffodils" ends the album and begins with a piano intro that is quickly drowned out by crunchy guitar. Oh, and "Gunman" -- this was the filthiest guitar when I saw them in concert, but yet they made the whole song funky as hell. Bad? Oh no, not at all. It's ridiculously good.

All in all, Dave Grohl was a manic beast in concert and that energy isn't quite up to snuff here, but he's still pretty amazing. JPJ is everywhere and lets you know it, and Josh Homme basically wants to pound every riff he can think of into your head. The result? Best album of the year and maybe for the past few years. It's that good.

Oh, and go see them any chance you get!

Them Crooked Vultures - Roseland Ballroom - October 15, 2009

For a band with no album, singles and with only a rumored release date of November 23rd, you would think that seeing these guys would be as exciting as seeing an opening band you've never heard of. But this is no ordinary band. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, Them Crooked Vultures is a supergroup consisting of Josh Homme (Queens Of The Stone Age, Kyuss) on guitars and vocals, John Paul Jones on bass and keyboards, and Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters). To say that the show was awesome would be a gross understatement and I actually took the day off today because I am still reeling from the absolute fucking magnificence from last night. Dave Grohl, from where I was standing (which was right in front of JPJ) looked like Neo from the Matrix -- which is to say that he was playing so fast he looked like a blur the whole night. Josh Homme was churning out riff after solo after riff after solo -- and JPJ -- my god man -- he used numerous basses, plunked at them on some songs, picked at them on others, played slide on a special inclined model -- yes he played slide! -- played his portable key-tar, synths, and a beautiful piano outro. Oh, and the mandolin. It was awesome, purely fucking awesome. Mark my words, this is going to be one of the best rock albums to come out in a very long time. While they are technically a supergroup, they don't play like they're out to impress you with their outsized egos (re: Bono, Chris Martin, et al). They're goal was to play some rocking music, have a good time and seem very humbled by any and all applause. Aside from the weird "Interludes With Ludes" and the strangely melodic "Highway One," I can't single out any particularly strong tracks because they were all incredibly meaty boozy sludgy riff-a-fucking-delic rocking monsters. Lies! Ok, "Scumbag Blues" is tops for me. And "Gunman." And the fifteen minute holy shit jam to end the show. I would see them again in a nanosecond. I am starved for more. I pity those who haven't heard them yet. I am going to sleep now. If you love music -- not the media of music, the image of music, the corporate pandering that is currently dominant in music -- you will love this band, I assure you will love this band.

Setlist:

Elephants
Dead End Friends
Scumbag Blues
Gunman
Highway One
New Fang
Caligulove
Bandoliers
Mind Eraser
Daffodils
Interlude With Ludes
Reptiles
No One Loves Me And Neither Do I
Warsaw

Grand Funk Railroad - Caught In The Act (1975)

They've been revered on the Simpsons, broke the Beatles attendance record at Shea Stadium and had the chutzpah to imply that they were America's band. Meanwhile, critics loathed the lilies out of them and their rapid ascension to superstardom deflated just as quickly. So why, pray tell? Well, because these guys -- musically -- are pretty bad. Like many bands, past and present, they had a dozen great songs scattered across amazingly awful albums; but where other bands fizzled, Grand Funk proved that it really is all in the timing. For one, they had a genuine raw energetic live act; secondly, they unabashedly positioned themselves as not-British Invasion; and furthermore, they wrote a fucking ton of songs and released a gazillion and one albums within a few short years. Like the pop bands of today, they realized that constant exposure, for good or for bad, will give you perhaps a few more miles out of the galllon. Mix it all up, swish it around in your mouth and pick only the choice morsels from your teeth, and what you get is this live gem, Caught In The Act.

Ever wonder why Homer says, “You guys don’t know Grand Funk? The wild shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner? The bone-rattling bass of Mel Schacher? The competent drumwork of Don Brewer?” Well, this is the album for you. I personally think Mel Schacher is the main attraction; he plays the bass like he's the lead guitarist. But otherwise, this album is all about heart. No one is ever going to put Mark Farner on a list of even the 100,000 greatest guitarists, real or fictional; and no one is going to practice their chops over Don Brewer's simplistic drum lines? But who cares? This is simplistic, soulful rock in perhaps its greatest setting: a live concert. How else could these guys do a better version of "Gimme Shelter" than the Stones? Its fucking meaty, that's why, whereas the original is just a touch stilted. So gather all ye round, my fellow rock 'n' rollers, play some "Footstompin' Music," eat yourself some "Black Licorice" and come on and ride the railroad, one more time. Oh, and do not, I repeat, do not defer to the studio equivalents. You will be sorely disappointed. A

The Doors - The Doors (1967)

There are those that find Jim Morrison to be a flimsy poetaster, Robby Krieger an egregious six-stringed nightmare, Ray Manzarek a dawdling hunchback of a keyboardist and John Densmore a lifeless militaristic percussionist, but together they were The Doors, and together they were fantastic. This, their debut, is particular striking for its uniqueness as much for its variance in style, not to mention that it sounded nothing like the flower power summer of love kaleidoscope folk music then-currently being peddled. This is not to say it's a dark album -- in fact, I've heard music tailored to sound dark (minor keys, moodscapes, et al) and this album isn't so much dark as it is exploratory. (Run away, kitty cat.) So if you've been living under a tofu plant or you like safe, pleasant music -- this album isn't for you. But I'm sure it is because I don't think I've attracted too many pop fans here. If I have, I've scared them away -- the exception being Chuck, who still likes the Killers, despite my insistence that he please stop. In fact, most reading this probably love this album, sans one person I am quite aware of.

So who's with me in saying that the instrumental they criminally lop off for FM radio in "Light My Fire" is exquisitely awesome; or that "Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)" is deliciously unsettling in a Brechtian sense; or that, despite your current or past penchants, you vote unanimously that if you were to do drugs, "The End" would be the song that you do them to? I love the drugged feel of "End Of The Night" nearly as much as I love the silliness of "Twentieth Century Fox." Oh, and "Crystal Ship" -- if everyone anyone has a second, please leave a comment if you don't like this song. I'm really curious -- really. I really love that song. Otherwise, maybe they really didn't break on through to the other side, but they did make a helluva great album. And even though I will most assuredly give all their albums (maybe except Morrison Hotel) the same grade, this one is the most deserving. A

The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Electric Ladyland (1968)

I remember very distinctly standing in the middle of the road of just about nowhere in complete darkness in some desertous region of Iraq on our way to Baghdad with my paranoid eyes hidden behind my Wiley X's and my weapon at-the-ready waiting for some potential human snuffing when, out of some perverse defensive mechanism, "1983...(A Merman I Should Turn To Be)" began playing with extreme prejudice in my head.

Nothing happened otherwise, and we continued on, but I'd figured I'd let you know.

Non-musical matters aside, this is an amazing album. The fractured majesty in "1983" continues to remain indelibly etched in my sonic consciousness. But one of the real strengths of this album is its musical flow. What I love is how it just ramps up on you -- this is not to say that the first track "...And The Gods Made Love" is weak, it's just that by the time Hendrix begins ripping through "Come On (Let The Good Times Roll)," if you haven't already fastened your seat-belt, you're fucking screwed. There is simply no room for whatever is otherwise. When Hendrix sings about chopping down the mountain with the edge of his hand, I believe him. The guitar swaggering is monumental, the psychedelic grooves flail at full tilt, the feedback shapeshifts like an embryo in chaos. Oh, I'm beside myself. Surely, if you aren't a Hendrix fan, or could care less for this album in particular, you can't possibly love the electric guitar -- which in my opinion remains the greatest testament of its usage by a man who played it better than anyone before or since. A

The Police - Reggatta De Blanc (1979)

Despite my frequent protestations concerning reggae's lack of discernible musical oomph in general, I am quite the sucker for it on Reggatta De Blanc, my favorite Police album. Master Cianan, also a reggae-hater, will become roiled if I even describe this album as being reggae-tinged, but the music speaks for itself; and besides, the album is called "White Reggae." Kiss my sharries, dude.

"Message In A Bottle" is possibly the Police's best-known song, but it holds a special little place in my head as evidenced by the multiple indents on my steering wheel (thanks Stew!) Anyone who thinks that drums should be relegated to the background obviously haven't heard hi-hat syncopation at its finest; that and Andy's repetitive guitar sequence in this song is mesmerizing at worst. The other well-known song, "Walking On The Moon" is so fucking good I wish it would materialize in tangible form so I can eat it. And I'm always hungry.

Otherwise, if you're still reading, it's because you're still interested. Populism is unfortunately a hacking bitch who never stays off my heels and I've got to appease those who only listen to FM radio and buy compilation albums. Actually, that's a lie; I just wanted to see if you were paying attention -- it's been awhile since I've posted. "Reggatta De Blanc," for those real Police fans out there or those who want to indulge mightily, is a loose rocking instrumental with an unforgettable groove; I dig the shit out of this one, especially since it follows "Message." Does anyone think Andy's guitar lines on "Bring On The Night" are amazingly beautiful? I love how his presence is quietly understated and yet he completely controls the song. "On Any Other Day" is a fun little number that sounds like a leftover from Music Madness From The Kinetic Kid that Sting somehow permitted to be on the album -- you know, before they fucking imploded with internal strife and split. All in all, this one is a doozy of a listen. If you love the Police, this may top your list as well. A

Guns N' Roses - Appetite For Destruction (1987)

When I first heard this album, I was arguably at a point in my life where I could not consistently produce coherent, rational thoughts -- after all, I was eight! -- but the fact remains that this was, indeed, my first taste of rock 'n' roll. The above artwork is somehow a preserved relic from my stubborn little days as a child artiste. I'm not sure why I still have it, but it's kind of interesting. Even more interesting, in retrospect, is why my parents let me listen to this, of all albums. I suppose this accounts for my omnipresent devilish grin in all matters unholy and my sincere lack of decorum in anything regarding social order.

Ok, so the album -- nostalgic waffle aside -- is exceptionally good, despite the soon-to-be ridicule I already anticipate receiving from two otherwise splifficated musical fiends. This is where Slash the guitar god makes his first entrance and more notably, where GNR totally snorts rock and roll from off a table and trashes your living room. But enough of its historical import -- this album rocks. You know when an album starts with a doozy such as "Welcome To The Jungle" that awesomeness is in store for your ears. Hell, that's all you need to hear, I think, with its brazen taunts and indomitable menace -- how could this not be the future of rock? And who said rock was dead? Ok, this was 1987, the year of the mush, the long scuttlebutt and dreck accumulated from an otherwise useless and musically soulless decade (Fuck you Depeche Mode! Fuck you Tears For Fears!). Just as well, this is a mite better than the homogenized rock we have posing as the real thing today, where classic rock rip-offs like The White Stripes are actually refreshing.

Sidetracked again. "Nightrain" is delicious. "You're Crazy" is fucking crazy. "Sweet Child O' Mine" is positively fucking sick. If Slash's guitar tone hadn't been burned into your consciousness by this track, it surely is now. Super fucking tasty. "Paradise City" -- OMFG! These guys never did anything like this again, so cherish it. Granted, I dig some of the stuff from Lies; but nothing was ever as brutal, bombastic, fresh and irreverent as this. Those who believe that this album contains weak riffs, I think, are misguided, as they may be mistaking the Use Your Illusion I and II monstrosities instead. A

Pink Floyd - The Wall (1979)

So you knew I would leave this one for last. Master Cianan is certain to be verily pleased that, indeed, there will be no more Floyd albums. So here we go. The Wall, as Bob has said, is rotten; but not in a musical sense. It's rotten in its megalomania, its bitterness, its complete and utter soullessness. In a way earlier alluded to on "Welcome To The Machine," Waters himself had become increasingly distant from his audience -- hence, his Wall. And as one would expect, the music itself is a kind of detached emptiness. Rotten? Thematically, yes. But that's the point. This is no longer the Oberon Miranda and Titania of yore where one of these days I'm going to cut you into little pieces pieces even if I still need a damned Leer jet to seek shelter from pigs on the wing. This is pure technical musical execution done in the strictest sense; and that is precisely why Floyd is wonderful -- they have transformed their entire career: "Lucifer Sam," "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast," "Echoes," "Time," "Sheep," "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," "Run Like Hell," & etc. The music changed, the themes changed, they changed; and yet, they still sound like Pink Floyd, no matter what album it is. From the crazy days of psychedelia to the epic virtuosity of their golden years to this album, where there is nothingness. Syd is gone; they can't fucking stand each other, and they will soon cease to be, despite subsequent albums.

Furthermore, this is a double album. Such ambition always comes crashing down. Such ambition cannot be sustained. Such ambition is nothing more than wish-fulfillment of hubris. But yet, tell me, other than this album and maybe London Calling, what double album really strides from start to finish? The bloated Tommy opera? Charles Manson's Nightcap? It's simply criminal to not listen to this in its entirety, double album or not. Sure, everyone's heard "Comfortably Numb," "Run Like Hell," "Another Brick In The Wall," "Hey You," etc. a million or so times -- but, no excuses. Secondly, you must be coked the fuck out if Gilmour's guitar work doesn't make you want to run around jumping oh lordy and whammer jammering on your air guitar, especially to his immaculate solos on "Comfortably Numb." Thirdly, this is it. Don't go out and find The Final Cut and think there's more to come; this is it, the proverbial 'hitting a brick wall.' So go out, have a listen or forty, remember not to shit where you eat, and don't listen to Bob, ever. A

Pink Floyd - Animals (1977)

Pink Floyd is ubiquitous; the reasons of which are fairly obvious: Dark Side Of The Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall established enough of a fanbase to last an eternity; but what of the other records? If the aforementioned albums are considered the Golden Era of Pink Floyd, we must remember that Animals, released right before The Wall, is placed squarely in its midst. (Disclosure: Pink Floyd is my favorite band and I am unabashed in any kind of praise I will undoubtedly bestow upon them.)

Drawing inspiration from Orwell's Animal Farm, the album's lyrical content revolves around a series of anthropomorphic depictions of pigs, sheep and dogs in a not-so-favorable manner. Lyrics notwithstanding (even though I think they're great), the music is amazing. The album's bookends, two short pieces entitled "Pigs On The Wing (Part One) and "Pigs On The Wing (Part Two)", are interesting insofar as they're almost identical except for the tone they impart. Part One is more introductory and matter-of-fact, whereas Part Two is darker and more sarcastic in tone. The album's set-pieces, though, are where the greatness begins. "Dogs" is a monstrous 17-minute mini-epic replete with blistering acoustics and even dog howls; it's like an overly focused and possibly too-structured band jam except that it paints bleak caricatures of businessmen. "Pigs (Three Different Ones) is a politically scathing ode to, I suspect, some specific individuals, one of whom is named Whitehouse (my British politics in the 70s is not up to snuff, sorry). The song, as expected, also features a throng of pig noises. "Sheep" is my favorite track; a nasty romper of a song with some very delicious bass and an ever-present ominous sort of feeling -- as if wolves were encircling a poor little herd of sheep. The little sheep sermon is fantastic, especially the part where the sheep rise up against the dogs and threaten them with karate. Favorite line: "Bleating and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream. Wave upon wave of demented avengers march cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream." All in all, a very essential, very wonderful little long player that is as bleak and nasty as the animals it portrays. A

The Clash - London Calling (1979)

For London Calling, the release dates in the UK and US (December 1979 and January 1980, respectively) signify a kind of bridge between what many believe to be different epochs of music -- all of which matters very little in retrospect considering the album's affinity for complete fusion of many styles. This album has been called one of the greatest of all time (I disagree heartily); it is also used as evidence that The Clash were, in a sense, the Only Band That Matters; but for all its exorbitant praise and nonsense, London Calling is one amazing double album, and is definitely situated high atop my list.

The opening title track, "London Calling," not only blows the hinges off the door for the album, it also sets the political tone. The bass throbs; the drums chop in strict fashion; the guitars plead with the world to end; Joe crows at the apocalypse. It's amazing, and it's only the first song. As a double album, I have no desire to trek through each track, but I will offer a brief summation, to give you a sense of the various styles on the album: "Rudie Can't Fail" is a nod to reggae; "Clampdown" sounds like a Nazi rejoinder filtered through a punk song; "Train In Vain" is the Clash basically showing all the subsequent 80s poseurs how to write a good pop song; "I'm Not Down" is a chipper but churlish up-tempo song; "Brand New Cadillac" is an intense rockabilly cover; "Wrong 'Em Boyo" is an upbeat ska number; "Hateful" and "Death Or Glory" are just pure, vintage Clash; and tell me, who's ever been "Lost In The Supermarket?"

Double albums usually indicate that a band has attained a certain bloated sense of craftsmanship and are going for the artistic nuts, be it of epic quality, rock opera bust or, in the Clash's case, a way of simply giving its fans double the songs for the price of one by tricking its record company and such a gift having been the family jewels. On "London Calling," Joe sings, commenting on the probable death of the punk movement, that "Phony Beatlemania has the bitten the dust." He was right; good thing London Calling wasn't a punk album. A

Radiohead - In Rainbows (2007)

For those unfamiliar with the current state of affairs, Radiohead -- unwitting bearers of the mantle of Only Band That Matters -- is without a label and a distribution company. Ergo, rather than peddle to corporate filth and delayed the release of their album In Rainbows, they've decided, just as they have musically with each of their albums, to turn the music industry on its head and release the album themselves -- except that you decide what price you would like to pay. A conventional release is expected sometime next year, and a special box set (priced at £40) will be shipped in December of this year; the box set includes the actual album and a bonus CD as well as accompanying vinyl records and artwork. As of October 10, 2007, the album has been available for download at www.inrainbows.com, if you haven't gotten it already -- again, at whatever price you wish to pay, to include zero. (I paid $10 and it's been worth every beautiful Abraham Lincoln.) Not only is this one of those most brain-splitting ventures we've seen in quite awhile, it's also one of the most brilliant. You think people are going to pay nothing? Absolutely. But venture over to Amazon and check out the obvious increase in the sales ranks from everything in their back catalog and tell me, honestly, who do you think those new customers are? Not me. I already own every LP, EP, b-side, etc. that you can think of. How's that for major-revenue producing exposure in the least possible time?

Onwards. This long player, Radiohead's seventh, is simply amazing. If you are expecting something remotely bearing any kind of resemblance to their previous albums, then go listen to those albums again, because In Rainbows won't do it for you. Thom's voice is cleaner and clearer (like on The Eraser), and the music is layered only inasmuch as it needs to be. Rabid Radiohead fans will immediately recognize "Nude," a hanger-on of a song dating back as far as the OK Computer sessions that has finally met the expectations of the band -- and what an otherworldly performance! Thom's voice is beyond beautiful; but like past Radiohead releases, there is a sense of menacing disquiet that undercuts the overt and perhaps superficial feeling evoked musically from the song. (Think "Pyramid Song" from Amnesiac.) In fact, before I continue, I would like to counter much of what is being written about this album; that Radiohead's music has become more accessible; that it seems happier; that it is more mellow. At first listen -- perhaps; but there is something far more sinister at work during In Rainbows than meets the ear. I believe we must take Thom at his word when he states that the lyrics are more terrifying on In Rainbows than on OK Computer. Is it no coincidence that "Videotape," the last song on the album, sounds like a suicide note left to someone, replete with its mournful piano and eerie drum tapping? For all you happy-sayers, ask yourself if the joy of a glockenspiel or if an uplifting acoustic guitar really overpowers Thom's real and very fragile voice bleatings of collapsing infrastructure, being eaten by worms; or, my favorite line from "Nude" -- "you'll go to hell for what you dirty mind is thinking." Sound likes the "we hope that you choke" at the end of "Exit Music," right? You know, that romantic little love ditty about Romeo and Juliet? Or perhaps "we can we wipe you out anytime" from "Sit Down. Stand Up" was more your cup of romantic tea?

Well, get on with it if you haven't already. The fury of "Bodysnatchers" -- the lush arrangement of the perfectly brief "Faust Arp" -- the skittish electronica of "15 Step" -- the funk-laden groove of "All I Need" -- the wonderful arpeggios in "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi." The album is just brilliant -- like a tender hand hopeful of redemption scouring through the blackness and shit. It's Radiohead people. Relish it. A

Black Sabbath - Vol. 4 (1972)

I'm choosing to comment on Vol. 4 for the following reason: back when I was of a lesser musical pedigree, Master Cianan and I used to frequently mull over our favorite Sabbath tunes. Every time, he would mention "Supernaut" with its spectacular opening riff and asked me if I had it. No, I always replied, consequently disappointing him, and leading me to inquire from what album this legendary song came. This ritual continued unchanged every time, and neither could he ever remember the name of the album, nor could I feign attempts to having tried to find it. This is strangely fitting, considering that Vol. 4 seems to be the black sheep among their first five albums, perhaps for its lack of 'popular' tracks, but certainly not for its lack of menace or musical maturity. Even the album title is short of frills, denoting little that is particularly memorable. Hell, Supernaut would have been a great album title; if I had a child, I might name them Supernaut. I'm serious -- just not the part about having children.

So ado without much further of it, let's commence: "Supernaut" is not the only reason you should buy this album, but yet, it really is the reason you should buy it. The main riff is otherworldly, a testament to Iommi's terrific knack for sublime riffage. SUPER FUCKING TASTY is another way of putting it.

Otherwise, the album features vintage heavy tracks: "Snowblind," the album's original title that was changed due to the cocaine allusions; "Cornucopia" and "St. Vitus' Dance" are some wicked numbers indeed; and most importantly, for contrast, "Changes" is a purely piano-driven ditty with my favorite-instrument-which-is-not-the-guitar, the Mellotron, as well as "Laguna Sunrise" being a nicely sequenced track with overlaying acoustic guitars. Overall, though, the album is frenetic, heavy and downright scrumptious. One problem: "FX" is stupid. Supposedly, the sounds are achieved through an echo effect made by Iommi's crucifix banging up against his guitar. How novel, but it's a silly addition to an otherwise flawless album. Still, I won't hold it against the lads. A

Steely Dan - Countdown To Ecstasy (1973)

If you're still in a fuss over what albums to bring to a desert isle, this beauty from our favorite steam-powered dildo is certain to confound all rational thought processes. Why? Because pound-for-pound, Countdown To Ecstasy may not be Steely Dan's most solid or consistent album, but it is certainly the most essential, and I would argue more essential than The Royal Scam or Pretzel Logic, despite my undeniable love for them as well. Truth be told, you do yourself a grave and mortal disservice by excluding this album just on merits of fluidity or consistency. The fact is that "Bodhisattva," "My Old School" and "King Of The World" are the band's three greatest songs, from any of their albums, and to have them packed neatly in congruence with each other is more than blissful coincidence. The licks on those three songs alone are so indelibly riveting that the term SUPER FUCKING TASTY must have been created just to describe them. In fact, I personally have to listen to one of the three every few days lest I get musical scurvy, scab and spot over and need topical medicinal remedies to alleviate such an otherwise avoidable misfortune.

I imagine everyone's heard "My Old School" with its brass incantations and punctuating guitar solos à la Denny and Skunkmeister about Mssrs. Becker and Fagen's shitty college travails in upstate New York -- but, need I say more? You've heard it, you love it, you'd kill before you let anyone take it away from you. So let's move on because "Bodhisattva" and "King Of The World" don't receive nearly as much attention as they deserve. "Bodhisattva" is not only a guitar player's sine qua non, but musically it should be everyone's. Hell, that song would sound great on a kazoo. Seriously. Not one, but two otherworldly guitar solos, each unique in tone and execution; and when Skunk lays down that funk, I just want to bounce. In fact, during that last minute, begat by Becker's bravura of a boom thump, I wish I were temporally suspended in a kind of repeat, ooh-ing and aah-ing towards my own bodhisattva. Yes, I'm serious. Go fuck yourself.

The album closes with "King Of The World," a ferociously understated beauty with monstrous lyrical undertones of a post-apocalyptic nature in typical Dan fashion. But forget the lyrics, Denny is the man! A plodding little wah, a slicing solo from nowhere -- is there anything he can't do? It's absolute perfection.

As for the rest of the album: "Showbiz Kids" and "Boston Rag" are damned fantastic; get a Steely Dan T-shirt already. "Your Gold Teeth" is good, too, but isn't as focused because of the off-kilter noodling -- which isn't unwelcome considering the Dan's otherwise taut musical inclinations. "Pearl Of The Quarter" is decent as well, but nothing spectacular or immensely memorable. "Razor Boy" is the only track I truly dislike, and mainly for its light soft jazz marimba feel. No thanks.

Oh, the grade. Uh, duh. It's the Steely Dan, and whatever. A

Go Jerome Aniton!

Love - Forever Changes (1967)

Who, you may ask, is Love? Up until recently, I would have asked the same question. Such is the greatness of discovery in life. Led by Arthur Lee, a highly volatile singer/composer, Love created a unique blend of psychedelic, folk, Latin-tinged melodies of a darker contrast than what their band name may have suggested. Yet, for inexplicable reasons, Love never took off, despite endorsements from The Doors and Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd, to name a few. Perhaps it was due to their self-destructive behavior, their drug addictions, their unwillingness to play gigs outside of L.A. All of this matters little, though, to the fact that not only are Love's first three releases absolutely solid, but that their 1967 effort, Forever Changes, is perhaps one of the greatest albums to come out of the 60s, and equally deserves a nod in a hat as one of the better records of our time.

Wait a second, who is this again? Love. You know, that band with an album full of that grand, almost perfected sense of melody, interweaving acoustic riffs and Mariachi horns, sweeping but still understated orchestral string flourishes with an almost poetic numbness; and behind the helm, the dark wordsmith himself, providing wonderful vocal contrast with the swelling around him. In "Live And Let Live," as the seeming harmony of the music plods forward, a few minor keys rise, and Lee begins to sing, "Oh, the snot was caked against my pants; it has turned to crystal. There's a bluebird sitting on a branch; I guess I'll take my pistol. I've got it in my hand, because he's on my land." And if "Live And Let Live" showcases Lee's vocal maturity, "Maybe The People Would Be The Times Or Between Clark And Hilldale" bends it, allowing his range to slide in and out of verses to the barrage of horns and intricate acoustic layers.

Or what of "Red Telephone" in which Lee is "sitting on a hillside, watching all the people die"? In "The Good Humor Man He Sees Everything Like This," it seems that the Summer of Love itself is dying to a close. Other equally astounding tracks: "A House Is Not A Motel," "Bummer In The Summer," "Alone Again Or." Do yourself a favor, put past your apprehensions about how you've never heard of these guys and buy it now. A