Reviews by cmhess98

Feels like The Byrds went electric again but with a bit more fuzz, chaos, and swagger. There’s a psychedelic edge, but underneath it are great pop instincts — big harmonies, punchy guitar interplay, and a rhythm section that drives everything forward. A few of the songs are barely over a minute, which makes some of it feel unfinished, but maybe that’s part of what makes it exciting.

The album never quite found the audience it deserved, and that’s a shame — there’s something raw and full of possibility here. Worth hearing just to get a glimpse of the alternate late-60s rock history where these guys made it big.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I really like this one — it’s just so tastefully done. The horn arrangements, the strings, the groove — everything feels perfectly balanced, never overplayed. Dusty’s voice is smoky and expressive without ever showing off, and “Son of a Preacher Man” remains one of the most effortlessly cool vocal performances ever put to tape.

What I love most is the subtlety of it all. The production feels alive but never crowded, and every player seems to know exactly where to leave space. It’s music that breathes.

I keep going back and forth between a four and a five — it’s hard to find fault with something this polished and soulful. Maybe it’s not the kind of record that grabs you by the collar, but it’s one that stays with you quietly.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️½

This is a pretty cool record — one that reminds me just how weird and wonderful the ’80s could be. It’s full of strange textures, sharp production, and that icy, hypnotic groove that only the Eurythmics could pull off. Annie Lennox is just magnetic throughout, somehow both detached and soulful at the same time.

I didn’t see that version of “Wrap It Up” coming, and honestly, it made me smile — a reminder that these songs weren’t afraid to take unexpected turns. The whole thing has this offbeat confidence that makes it stand out from the slicker pop of the era.

This is a fascinating record — ambitious, layered, and clearly a turning point for The Temptations. You can hear them stretching beyond their classic Motown sound into something moodier and more cinematic. “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone” is stunning, no doubt, and the production throughout is polished and confident.

Still, I found myself wanting to love it a little more than I did. Maybe I’m just biased — “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” came on right after this, and that raw, joyful energy reminded me what I’m looking for. I even played “My Girl” last night, so maybe that warmth is still too top of mind. All Directions feels cooler, more calculated — impressive, but not as emotionally direct.

Even so, it’s a fascinating chapter in the Temptations’ evolution, showing how far they were willing to go to stay vital and creative.

I went through a grunge phase in high school and early college, but this one stands apart — it’s not about distortion or rebellion so much as the raw power of the songs themselves. I’ve always loved when artists reinterpret their own work and let the song shine stripped to its core. That’s exactly what happens here.

“All Apologies,” “Come As You Are,” and the covers — especially “The Man Who Sold the World” and “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” — all reveal how meaningful and well-crafted these tunes really were beneath the noise. It’s haunting, intimate, and full of quiet confidence.

What’s amazing is how complete it feels in its simplicity — like you’re hearing the essence of Nirvana, unguarded and human. It reminds me that a truly great song can take on new life in almost any form.

Some fans draw a line between the gritty, Sun Records Elvis and the polished, soulful Elvis of this era — but I don’t think it has to be an either/or. Both versions show what made him special. From Elvis in Memphis captures an artist who’d lived more, lost more, and found a deeper kind of power in his voice.

The production is lush and full of swagger — those horns, the backing vocals, the groove — but it never feels hollow. Songs like “Suspicious Minds” and “In the Ghetto” are undeniable, the kind of tracks where you can hear his conviction cutting through every measure. There’s joy here, and maturity too.

This is Elvis rediscovering his magic, not by going back to the beginning, but by proving he could still evolve — and sound just as vital doing it.

With a lineup like this — Damon Albarn, Paul Simonon, Simon Tong, and Tony Allen — you’d expect fireworks. Instead, you get fog. Not in a bad way, necessarily; more in that soft, gray, London-in-winter kind of way. It’s reflective and moody, a record that feels content to hover in the background rather than demand attention.

The musicianship is excellent — how could it not be with this crew? — but the songs seem more about tone than movement. Nothing truly bad here, but nothing that grabs me either. It’s all texture and atmosphere, without much emotional lift.

A fine record to have on, but not one that keeps you coming back.

There are live albums, and then there’s At San Quentin. It’s not just a concert — it’s a moment in time, the sound of a man who had been through darkness connecting with others who were still living in it. Cash’s empathy and defiance radiate through every note. You can feel the tension in the air and the way he channels it into something human and redemptive.

I love that he plays San Quentin twice — it’s raw, unpolished, and perfectly in character for a man who didn’t care much for polish anyway. And A Boy Named Sue? Legendary. It’s one of my go-tos whenever I’ve got a guitar in my hands. The humor, the rhythm, and the way Cash tells that story — it’s everything that makes him great in one song.

What really sets this record apart, though, is how it walks the line between rebellion and compassion. You can tell Cash isn’t performing for the inmates — he’s performing with them. There’s a shared understanding that music, for a few moments, can make everyone in that room feel free.

It’s one of those rare albums that feels both historic and personal — and it’s easy to see why it still resonates.

There’s no denying the brilliance here — Stan and The Real Slim Shady alone are enough to prove Eminem’s storytelling and rhythmic precision were on another level. You can practically hear the hours spent with the dictionary, mastering multisyllabic rhymes and internal patterns. But it’s also an album that can be hard to love; the same unfiltered honesty that fuels its genius is often wrapped in deep offensiveness and chaos. Sometimes I hate him, sometimes I’m amazed by him — and maybe that’s the point.

A confident debut that blends jazz sophistication with Amy’s smoky, magnetic phrasing. The musicianship and production are polished, and her voice is as arresting as ever — playful, cutting, and effortlessly soulful. Still, it feels more like a talented artist finding her footing than one fully in stride. I admire it more than I love it, but the brilliance is undeniable.

A lot better than I expected — blues roots, bursts of psychedelia, and a streak of delightful weirdness. “I’m Glad” could sit next to a soul ballad, and “Electricity” feels like it’s from another dimension. It’s uneven but undeniably original. I respect it more than I love it, and that’s enough for a solid 3-star rating.

Coming right after Lust for Life, this one dives deeper into the Berlin darkness — more mechanical, more restrained, more Bowie’s experiment than Iggy’s explosion. I can respect its influence, but in practice, it just doesn’t land for me. When the next songs in the queue—actual Bowie or Velvet Underground—feel like the “real” version of what this record was aiming for, that says a lot. Interesting in context, but not something I’ll come back to.

The opening kick drum alone is iconic, and “The Passenger” is one of those songs that never really wears out its welcome. The rest of the record, though, lives in a looser, rougher space — swaggering, messy, sometimes brilliant, sometimes just coasting on attitude. I like it, but I can’t quite bring myself to love it. It’s an album I respect more than I reach for.

There’s something haunting about Oar, but mostly in the sense of watching someone unravel on tape. The songs often feel like demos — fragile, uneven, and oddly mixed — more sketches of thought than finished work. There are flickers of humanity and melody (“Margaret-Tiger Rug” hints at what could’ve been), but the overall experience drifts from introspective to exhausting. I respect the mythology around this record far more than I enjoyed listening to it.

This is rebellion at its quietest and most honest. Red Headed Stranger tells a story of love, loss, guilt, and redemption — a preacher driven to violence, then condemned to wander until he finds grace again. Willie never raises his voice; the arrangements are spare, the pacing unhurried, and the silence says as much as the notes. Even when the Stranger kills a woman for touching his horse — his last link to a lost life — it feels less like cruelty than the echo of grief.

What amazes me is how much weight this record carries with so little ornamentation. It’s a Western fable, a spiritual reckoning, and an act of artistic defiance all at once. Few albums trust the listener’s patience and intelligence like this one does. True rebellion doesn’t always make noise.

From the first flute riff of ‘Sure Shot,’ this one had me. If I were walking up to the plate in a major-league ballpark, that’d be my entrance music. Ill Communication captures everything I love about music — groove, energy, experimentation, and joy. And I have to smile hearing ‘Root Down,’ knowing its DNA traces back to Jimmy Smith — the organ master behind Back at the Chicken Shack.
Then there’s Sabotage — the track and video that proved the Beasties could turn sheer chaos into art. It’s still one of the most iconic music videos ever made. I just love these guys — their blend of musicianship, attitude, and humor is unmatched.

Pure early-2000s swagger. Great beats, smart hooks, and a sense of momentum that never lets up. It’s not deep, but it doesn’t need to be — it’s just a blast to listen to. A guilty pleasure that’s easy to justify.

I honestly don’t know what to make of this one. It’s fun, theatrical, and ridiculous in equal measure — part Elton John, part George Michael, and maybe a little too over the top for my taste. The Comfortably Numb cover was… an experience. I respect the creativity, but I’m not sure I’ll revisit it often.

I respect this album more than I enjoy it. The band clearly knows dynamics and has serious chops, but a lot of it feels loud for loud’s sake. Drive stands out as the one I’d return to, but most of it just isn’t my style—too distorted and busy to pull me in, especially when I’m working.

There’s something both heavy and effortless about this set — Muddy in total command, backed by a band that swings like a hammer and smiles while doing it. You can hear the roots of so much that came after in every riff and groove. A landmark performance that feels as alive today as it must have in 1960.