Reviews by cmhess98

I really like this version of Bowie. The later, more theatrical eras are great in their own right, but Hunky Dory feels more nascent and pure, like you’re hearing the ideas before they harden into personas. The songwriting is front and center here, and it holds up incredibly well.

There’s a looseness and curiosity to the record that I find appealing. The piano-driven arrangements give the songs space to breathe, and the lyrics feel playful, smart, and occasionally strange without tipping into self-mythologizing. It sounds like an artist discovering what he’s capable of in real time, rather than announcing it from a mountaintop.

What stands out most is how human this album feels. Even when Bowie is being clever or referential, there’s warmth underneath it. The songs invite you in rather than perform at you. That quality makes this one of the more immediately enjoyable Bowie records for me.

This doesn’t replace the later classics, but it complements them beautifully. It’s Bowie at a moment of clarity and confidence before the full weight of reinvention takes over, and that makes it a record I’m genuinely happy to spend time with.

I think I like this version of Radiohead more than what came later. The Bends feels rawer, more direct, and ultimately more accessible to me. The songs are still emotionally charged, but they’re anchored in guitars and melody rather than abstraction and icy distance.

There’s an immediacy here that I miss in a lot of their later work. The angst feels human rather than conceptual, and while Thom Yorke’s voice is still very much that voice, it works better for me in this context. It sounds less mannered, more urgent, and more tied to the songs themselves.

That’s not to say this is a perfect album or that it reinvents the genre, but it consistently holds my attention in a way later Radiohead often doesn’t. I can hear why people view this as a transitional record, but for my tastes, it lands in a sweet spot: ambitious without being alienating, expressive without feeling self-consciously clever.

This is Radiohead when I actually want to keep listening, not just admire from a distance.

can acknowledge that this is well executed, but it’s hard for me to get past just how self-indulgent it feels. Everything is turned up to eleven: the cavernous production, the endless drama, the unwavering commitment to mood over movement. It’s not sloppy or half-baked. If anything, it’s too committed to its own aesthetic.

There’s a certain admiration I have for how fully formed the vision is. This band knew exactly what they were going for, and they achieved it. But that vision leaves very little room for the listener. The songs often feel more like vehicles for atmosphere than something I want to engage with musically or emotionally.

I can hear why this record is influential, and I don’t think it’s bad. It just doesn’t invite me in. After a while, the weight of it all becomes tiring rather than immersive. Respect where it’s due, but this is not a world I feel any need to revisit.

I went into this expecting something far blander than what I got. Based on the reputation and some of the commentary around it, I assumed this would be forgettable, vanilla Brit pop. It isn’t that. There’s actually a fair amount of variety here, and the band clearly isn’t just phoning it in or chasing an obvious formula.

That said, it still doesn’t fully land for me. I appreciate the textures and the way the album shifts moods, but it rarely pulls me in emotionally. It feels clever and carefully constructed, sometimes to its own detriment. I can admire the craft without feeling much urgency to revisit it.

What surprised me most is that there’s more good here than I expected, even if there’s not much I truly love. This sits firmly in the “better than advertised” category for me: not essential, not something I’ll reach for again, but far from the dull misfire I was led to expect.

I’ve never fully understood why the Eagles get such a bad rap, and this record only deepens that confusion. This is a very solid debut with a few genuinely great songs and a lot of strong supporting material. “Take It Easy,” “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” and especially “Witchy Woman” absolutely earn their status. They’re well-written, memorable, and still enjoyable without leaning solely on nostalgia.

What surprised me is how well the non–greatest hits material holds up. The deeper cuts don’t feel like filler so much as part of a coherent, relaxed vision. It’s classic Laurel Canyon country-rock done with confidence and restraint. Nothing here is trying to overpower you, and that’s part of the appeal.

That said, not everything lands perfectly. “Earlybird” in particular wore on me. I found myself wishing those birds would finally stop chirping, and that’s coming from someone who’s actually taught ornithology. The vibe is right, but the execution goes a bit far.

Overall, this feels like an album that gets unfairly lumped in with later excesses and overexposure. Stripped of that baggage, it’s just a strong, well-crafted record with real songs, good harmonies, and an easygoing confidence that still works. Definitely more than deserving of its place here.

I liked this record quite a bit, but my listening experience probably says as much about me as it does about the album. I found myself letting it wash over me rather than actively engaging with it, and while that’s partly a function of being busy, it also feels intentional on the album’s part. This music isn’t demanding attention. It’s inviting presence.

There’s a calm, grounded quality here that’s deeply appealing. The melodies feel rooted and patient, and the playing carries a sense of history without leaning on virtuoso flash. It’s jazz, but not in a way that calls attention to itself as jazz. More like something older, steadier, and less interested in proving anything.

That said, I walked away without a strong sense of where this lands for me in the broader jazz landscape. I enjoyed it, respected it, and felt good having spent time with it, but I don’t yet have the clarity that comes from a truly deep listen. This feels like a record that might reward that kind of focus, and I suspect a second, more intentional pass would reveal more.

For now, it sits in that space of “very good, possibly great,” with the asterisk that I owe it another listen to know for sure.

This is a solid, well-made record that I’m glad I spent time with, even if it doesn’t stick with me in a lasting way. There’s a lot to respect here: tight playing, purposeful bass lines, clipped guitar work, and a clear sense that the band is pushing beyond straightforward punk into something more textured and thoughtful.

That said, it never quite connects with me on a deeper level. I can hear the craft and intention, but emotionally it stays a bit at arm’s length. Nothing feels bad or misjudged, and there are moments that catch my ear, but very little that makes me want to come back once the record ends.

This feels like one of those albums that earns its reputation through discipline and precision rather than sheer magnetism. For me, that puts it squarely in the “good to know” category: respectable, historically interesting, and competently executed, but not something I’ll reach for again when there are so many other records that resonate more deeply.

This album is well crafted and thoughtful, even if it never quite pulls me all the way in. The production is clean and considered, and I appreciated the moments where the band deviates from its core formula and lets the arrangements stretch a bit. Those were the points where the record felt most alive to me.

The vocals didn’t fully land. They’re clearly a stylistic choice, but they kept me at a distance emotionally, and the overall softness meant the album often faded into the background unless I made a point to focus. When I did lean in, the lyrics revealed themselves as clever, humane, and quietly observant, which I respected more than I was moved by.

This feels like a record that rewards attention but doesn’t demand it, and that’s both its strength and its limitation for me. I can see why it’s beloved, especially for its writing and tone, but it doesn’t alter my musical worldview or feel essential in a personal way.

A solid high three: smart, well made, and intermittently engaging, but not something I feel compelled to return to regularly.

This album landed hard for me when it first came out, and it still holds up as a beautifully executed pivot. Sea Change strips away the playfulness and genre-hopping that defined early Beck and replaces it with patience, space, and emotional clarity. These are slow, deliberate songs that aren’t trying to be clever or ironic. They’re just honest.

The songwriting is strong throughout, and the arrangements are lush without feeling manipulative. Nigel Godrich’s production gives everything room to breathe, letting the sadness sit naturally rather than pushing it toward melodrama. It’s not flashy, and it’s certainly not fun in the way earlier Beck records were, but that restraint is exactly what makes it work.

This isn’t an album I reach for casually, and it’s not something I’d put on for background vibes. It asks for the right mood and a bit of attention. When those conditions are met, it delivers. The emotional weight feels earned, and the lack of irony makes it stand apart not just in Beck’s catalog, but among early-2000s records in general.

Not quite a five for me, mostly because of how singular and mood-dependent it is, but very close. A high four and an album I still respect deeply for its craft, vulnerability, and willingness to abandon expectation in favor of something quieter and more human.

This is not at all what I expected from the Bee Gees. Odessa is grand, dramatic, and relentlessly serious, almost to a fault. The choppy acoustic guitars, sweeping string arrangements, and heavy subject matter feel intentionally overblown, like the band is straining to prove something rather than letting the songs breathe.

There are moments that hint at a different, more appealing record. “Marley Purt Drive” stood out as something warmer and more grounded, almost Band-like in its feel, and it made me wish the album leaned more in that direction. Those flashes show that the songwriting muscle is there, but it’s too often buried under orchestration and excess.

I respect the ambition, and I can see why some people consider this an artistic high point. But wanting to like it and actually liking it are two different things. For me, the seriousness becomes exhausting, and the album’s length and density work against its strengths.

I’ll round it up to a three out of generosity and respect for the swing they took, but this is more fascinating than enjoyable. It helped me understand why the Bee Gees eventually pivoted toward lighter, more immediate music, because that’s clearly where their instincts shine brightest.

This one landed better for me than a lot of Britpop I’ve encountered along the way. The band has real energy, the songs are well played, and there’s a looseness and willingness to get a little weird that helps it stand out from the more self-satisfied or overly mannered corners of the genre.

There’s craft here, and moments where the psychedelic turns and dynamic shifts keep things interesting. It feels like a band enjoying itself and stretching just enough to avoid feeling formulaic. Musically, it’s solid and often engaging, and I can hear why this record has held up better than many of its peers.

At the same time, it doesn’t quite stick with me. Nothing here feels like it demands a return visit, even if the experience itself is enjoyable. This is a record I’m glad to have heard and glad to know, but not one I feel compelled to live with.

A high three feels right. Better than expected, better than most Britpop of the era, but stopping short of something that becomes part of my regular listening life.

This was a quietly rewarding listen. I went in expecting something darker and more overtly melancholic, and while that undertone is definitely present, Bryter Layter surprised me with its warmth. The fuller arrangements add color and a gentle sense of motion that makes the album feel more open and atmospheric than I anticipated.

I wasn’t listening with laser focus the whole time, and in a way that felt appropriate. This album works well as a companion rather than a demand. It creates a mood without insisting on attention, and the subtle jazz touches and soft instrumentation give it a lived-in, almost domestic quality. It’s introspective, but not oppressive.

That same quality is what keeps it from becoming something I’d reach for regularly. I appreciate it more than I crave it. Still, I’m very glad to have spent time with it. It expanded my understanding of Nick Drake beyond the starkness he’s often associated with.

This lands as a high three for me. Pleasant, atmospheric, and quietly beautiful, even if it doesn’t embed itself deeply in my day-to-day listening.

This album is an absolute joy. From the opening tracks alone, it’s clear you’re in the presence of something special. The grooves are deep, the arrangements are immaculate, and the whole record feels alive in a way that’s hard to fake. You can hear Quincy Jones all over this, not just in the polish, but in the confidence and musicality of every decision. The playing is world-class, with that unmistakable West Coast studio sheen, and yes, the Toto DNA is very much present in the best possible way.

What really stands out is how fun this sounds. Michael Jackson isn’t burdened by legacy or spectacle yet. He’s just singing his face off, dancing through the grooves, and letting the songs do the work. It’s disco and pop and funk, but executed at such a high level that it transcends period trends and still feels fresh.

I’m not interested in pretending the artist was flawless as a person, but this music absolutely is something to celebrate. Track for track, this is a tour de force. Whether it’s better than Thriller is a fair debate and probably comes down to taste, but there’s no question this belongs in the top tier of pop albums.

An easy five stars. Effortless, joyful, immaculately made, and still incredibly listenable decades later.

This was a pleasant surprise. Compared to a lot of the punk records I’ve encountered in this project, Eternally Yours stands out musically. The playing has real shape and intention, and the arrangements stretch beyond the usual punk minimalism. The horns on the opening track immediately set the tone and add a sense of swagger and texture that pulled me in right away.

I’m listening here more through a musical lens than a lyrical one, and on that front this record delivers. There’s groove, looseness, and a willingness to reach beyond genre constraints that makes it more interesting than many of its peers. It feels less rigid and more exploratory, which I appreciate.

That said, it’s not something I see myself returning to regularly. The discovery itself was the reward. It’s a record I’m glad to know exists and glad to have heard, even if it doesn’t stick in my long-term rotation.

This lands as a high three for me. Musically engaging, especially for its genre, and a genuinely nice find, even if it doesn’t quite cross into essential territory.

This was a rewarding listen, even if it’s not something I’d naturally reach for. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s voice is undeniably powerful, and the performances carry a sense of purpose and intensity that’s easy to respect. There’s a real feeling of being transported somewhere else entirely. This album functions almost like a cultural portal, pulling me into a musical tradition far outside my usual frame of reference.

That said, it’s not my thing in a personal, day-to-day listening sense. The repetition and long-form structure are clearly intentional and central to the experience, but they also keep me at a certain distance. I’m more aware of the artistry than emotionally swept up by it.

I’m glad I spent time with this record. It broadened my perspective and reminded me how many different ways music can function beyond entertainment or songcraft. I won’t be adding it to my regular rotation, but I recognize the mastery and the depth of tradition behind it.

A solid three stars for me: impressive, culturally rich, and worthwhile to hear, even if it doesn’t become part of my musical life going forward.

This album commits fully to its own extremity, and that’s why it works. Jim Morrison’s vocals are theatrical and unapologetic, and Ray Manzarek’s organ playing is busy in a way that feels intentional rather than indulgent. Together, they create a sound that’s hypnotic, confrontational, and unmistakably singular.

“Break On Through” and “Light My Fire” are deserved classics, but what really elevates the record is how strong the so-called secondary tracks are. There’s very little filler here. The mood stays immersive, and even when things veer into excess, it feels like excess in service of a clear artistic vision rather than lack of restraint.

Yes, this album probably hits even harder in an altered state of consciousness. But it doesn’t require one. The atmosphere, the groove, and the sense of danger are already baked in. This is music that was designed to feel different, to push past comfort, and to stake out its own territory.

Some records age into politeness. The Doors doesn’t. It still feels strange, dramatic, and a little unhinged, and that’s exactly why it holds up. A full five stars: bold, immersive, and confident enough to embrace its own extremes.

Seventh Tree is pleasant and carefully made, but it never quite rises above that for me. The softer, more pastoral direction is clear, with gentle electronics, acoustic textures, and a dreamy, inward-facing mood that’s consistent throughout. Nothing here is grating or poorly executed.

At the same time, very little truly sticks. The atmosphere is nice, but it stays diffuse, and the songs tend to blend together rather than assert themselves. I found myself appreciating the restraint and tone more than feeling emotionally pulled in or musically surprised.

This lands squarely in the middle for me. It doesn’t offend, and it works fine as background listening, but it also doesn’t invite deeper engagement or repeat focused listens. A straightforward three stars: competent, calm, and ultimately not very memorable.

Drunk is fascinating, frustrating, and undeniably talented. The yacht-rock DNA is obvious, and knowing Thundercat’s reverence for Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins helps make sense of what he’s aiming for. This is clearly an homage to that smooth, melodic tradition, filtered through modern production, absurdist humor, and elite-level musicianship.

The problem is balance. The album constantly wobbles between sincerity and self-awareness. At times it feels heartfelt and affectionate; at others it veers into being a little too clever for its own good. The humor sometimes undercuts the emotional core instead of sharpening it, and the hyper-fragmented song structure makes it hard to settle into a groove for very long.

Musically, there’s nothing to question. The bass playing is ridiculous, the harmonies are rich, and the talent level is off the charts. But some of that virtuosity borders on excess, and the modern touches don’t always integrate as smoothly as the concept promises. I often found myself admiring what was happening more than actually enjoying how it felt.

I respect this album a lot, even when it leaves me slightly cold. It’s ambitious, strange, and deeply personal, but also uneven and occasionally absurd in ways that don’t fully land for me. A high three feels right: impressive, interesting, and admirable, but not something I’m fully at peace with or eager to live inside for long stretches.

This album makes its case early and confidently. “Tiny Dancer” and “Levon” are absolute gems, the kind of songs that justify an artist’s reputation all by themselves. The melodies are generous, the arrangements are rich without being suffocating, and Elton sounds fully locked into that sweet spot between intimacy and grandeur.

After that opening stretch, things get more uneven. A few tracks feel like they’re reaching a little too hard for epic status. “Holiday Inn” and “Indian Sunset” have ambition but don’t quite land, and while “Rotten Peaches” works musically, some of the lyrical imagery veers into territory that feels more awkward than evocative. And yes, “All the Nasties” is one of those moments where you can almost hear someone needing to tell Bernie Taupin to maybe put the pen down for a second.

Still, the highs here matter. When this album works, it works beautifully, and even the missteps come from a place of excess rather than emptiness. This is an artist swinging big, sometimes overreaching, but often connecting.

For me, this lands at a solid four stars. Not flawless, not consistently great front to back, but anchored by songs strong enough to keep the whole thing standing tall.

his album is inseparable from a moment in my life, and it earns that weight without needing nostalgia to do all the work. Blood Sugar Sex Magik is long and a little bloated, no question, but the highs are so high and so frequent that it barely matters. When this record hits, it really hits.

The groove-first approach is what makes it last. Flea and Chad Smith lock into something physical and undeniable, and John Frusciante’s guitar work brings both restraint and melody in a way that transformed the band. Songs like “Under the Bridge,” “Give It Away,” and “Breaking the Girl” show real range without losing identity. Even the funkier, dirtier tracks feel purposeful rather than indulgent.

Yes, it could be trimmed. Yes, not every idea is essential. But the sheer volume of great songs, combined with how confidently the band inhabits this sound, makes it hard to argue against its stature. This is the album where everything clicked, artistically and culturally.

For me, this is a five. Flawed, sprawling, and occasionally excessive, but packed with timeless tracks and anchored to a sound and feeling that still holds up. Some records define an era. This one also defines a relationship with music, and that counts.