mondo-kun

Wham! disbanded in 1986, and just a year later, George Michael released his first solo album — a record that instantly placed him alongside pop music heavyweights like Michael Jackson and Prince.

Everything seemed perfect: he could have just kept making dance music, raking in the cash, and enjoying the ride. But three years later, Michael released this record — a complete departure from his debut.

The album is magnificent in every respect: the melodies, the arrangements, the lyrics, and, of course, his powerful vocals — reminiscent at times of Freddie Mercury. It’s clear that the artist poured all his ambitions into this project, exploring soul, acoustic ballads, jazz waltzes, and folk — everything, in fact, except the danceable pop-funk that had made him famous.

Precisely for this reason, the album didn’t sell nearly as well as his debut. This led to a long-running legal battle between George and Sony Music, which ultimately took a toll on his career. But at least we still have these songs!

I’ve completely lost track of the logic behind the compilers of the "1001 Albums" list.

David Ackles worked as a songwriter for the Elektra label; he was eventually signed to a five-album deal and even landed a spot as an opening act for Elton John — whose own lyricist, Bernie Taupin, ended up producing this particular record.

The result is an incredibly convoluted, piano-driven, theatrical affair. It’s hard to explain: usually, when I enjoy music, I feel as though it’s guiding me along a clear path; here, it’s as if someone is pulling you by the arm in every direction at once, leaving you with no idea where you’re actually supposed to go. It’s like the soundtrack to a bizarre musical whose plot you can’t fathom.

The album was a commercial failure upon its release — but let’s set that aside; perhaps he was just a misunderstood genius, and people simply weren’t ready for it back then. The thing is, according to streaming statistics, people aren’t listening to it now, either! Who was this album even recorded for? Why am I supposed to hear it before I die? Questions with no answers.

Arguably Kendrick’s most significant album — one that has been showered with praise by absolutely everyone — though there is a caveat: while good kid, m.A.A.d city might resonate with anyone who grew up in an impoverished neighborhood anywhere in the world, this record is squarely aimed at black americans.

Instrumentally, it’s a fascinating, complex blend — so much so that it’s hard to even label it a "rap" album. It incorporates funk, jazz, and soul — essentially the entire spectrum of "black" music from the early 20th century onward.

The sticking point lies in the lyrics. On one hand, the album explores only three core themes — "money corrupts," "stop the violence among our own," and the classic "say no to racism" — but these are presented in an incredibly convoluted, high-minded way.

It is a very dense, unwieldy record; to truly grasp it, you’d need to listen repeatedly — notebook in hand — jotting down metaphors and trying to unpack their meanings. It’s certainly an intriguing experience, but is it one you actually want?

If you were to judge this album solely by its cover — which features four architecture students in knit sweaters alongside two engineers, all set against a backdrop of autumn leaves — you might conclude that this is just another run-of-the-mill new wave record, the kind that was a dime a dozen back in the 80s.

But from the very first track, the record makes it clear that there’s more to it than that! Imagine mixing Duran Duran, War, and Oingo Boingo in a test tube — that’s essentially the debut album from Haircut 100. Unlike typical new wave, there are no keyboards to be found; instead, you get crisp, staccato funk guitar, occasional saxophone solos, and conga rhythms that drive almost every song. It’s incredibly festive, summery music — the kind that makes you want to hop into a roadster and cruise along the coast.

Admittedly, there isn’t anything truly extraordinary here, and the songs eventually start to blur into one another. Still, the album definitely earns a solid three stars.

I hadn’t heard anything about Ian Dury before, but it turns out he led a rather fascinating life.

He contracted polio as a child, yet he still managed to play a raucous brand of pub rock. He coined the phrase "Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n' Roll" — which also became the title of his biggest hit — and raised his son, Baxter (himself a talented musician), who appears alongside his father on the album cover.

His debut record sounds a bit like David Bowie during his "Young Americans" era: rich, funky basslines occasionally collide with punk-rock riffs. To top it all off, the lyrics — reminiscent of a variety-show act — are amusing but packed with profanity, obscenities, and rather cryptic metaphors.

In short, while it’s a solid record, it’s a quintessentially English affair — one that never quite achieved cult status, even after a tribute album featuring covers by the likes of Paul McCartney, Sinéad O'Connor, and Robbie Williams.