Reviews by 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.

Rolling Stone recently published a ranking of the best rock songs of the 21st century — the fact that Olivia Rodrigo landed in fourth place speaks volumes about its quality (the editor-in-chief clearly had to earn that suitcase of cash for his comfortable retirement). "Mr. Brightside" took the bronze, "Seven Nation Army" came in second, and as for who took the top spot — you’d never guess.

It’s "Maps", from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' debut album. It’s an incredibly beautiful song, but if you only listen to that track, it’s hard to believe it belongs to this record — the album’s gritty, garage-rock, yet danceable sound stands in stark contrast to the vibe of its most popular single.

The cover art captures the mood perfectly: it’s a somewhat crude yet vibrant concoction of sounds — delightfully primitive — over which Karen O wails in a way that sounds like PJ Harvey after having a few too many drinks on a Friday night.

A very good album, but these rankings, well...

The Newport Festival was, in its day, an iconic venue — I’ve already listened a Duke Ellington album recorded there, and now it’s time for a concert by Muddy Waters, the father of Chicago blues.

How does Chicago blues differ from standard blues? Not all that much, really, given that it was played by the very same migrants who had come up from the Mississippi Delta. Perhaps there’s a bit more piano, and the occasional jazz-inflected passage breaks through.

All of these elements are present in this concert, and the man who pioneered this subgenre of blues showcases it here at its absolute best. That said, it’s worth keeping in mind that the blues isn’t the most varied musical form; even a record that runs for just over half an hour can start to feel a bit monotonous.

Still, it’s well worth a listen to grasp its historical significance — if you were to mentally add some distortion to these guitar parts, you’d immediately hear the DNA of AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and many others.

I was surprised to learn that before the Bee Gees were conquering every fashionista on the dance floor with tracks like "Stayin' Alive," they were a folk-oriented vocal-instrumental group.

They conceived this album as their magnum opus; you can sense the megalomania the moment you pick up the record, which comes housed in a red velvet-textured sleeve. The music itself sounds like the kind played at formal dinner parties — the sort that makes you feel profoundly uncomfortable.

It is an incredibly pompous, grand-scale album with lavish arrangements, created primarily to declare: "Look what we can do! We’re just as good as The Beatles or The Beach Boys." It didn’t work — the sheer grandeur, combined with a glacial, turtle-like pace, becomes tiresome quite quickly. And, to make matters worse, it’s a double album, so you’re forced to endure it.

Thank heavens that, a few years later, disco would arrive to pull the band out of this quagmire.

This is, in every sense, a product of its time.

The mushrooms and assorted greenery on the cover might conjure up psychedelic sounds, but don’t jump to conclusions. In reality, the first thing that comes to mind while listening is an English office worker in the 90s, riding the tube on a Monday morning and playing this record to perk up — without triggering an overwhelming surge of dopamine.

The music bears a resemblance to the nascent Britpop scene — it’s energetic and urban, though notably lacking in guitars. Instead, it’s packed with pleasing basslines, layered female backing vocals, and occasional exotic touches like the saxophone and flute. They didn’t bother with the hassle of clearing samples; everything was recorded live. The vocal delivery isn’t quite rap — it’s more of a spoken-word recitation, a style that would later be echoed by The Streets.

It’s an album that hasn’t aged particularly well and leans a bit toward the monotonous, but it’s not bad at all.

Marc Bolan’s band was once called Tyrannosaurus Rex and played rather cerebral psychedelic folk.

This is a rare case where a group — by their sixth album — didn’t just venture into a new genre, but burst into it with such force that they propelled its popularity into the stratosphere. Just as the band’s name was shortened to the concise "T. Rex," their music underwent a transformation: it became stripped-back, highly danceable glam rock, anchored by a crisp, crunchy guitar that delivered everything from slowed-down, Chuck Berry-esque rock ’n’ roll riffs to sharp, bluesy passages.

The formula for every track is more or less the same — verse-chorus, repeated a few times — and while the songs sound nearly identical, they somehow never get tiresome. There’s no need to overthink it; just put on the record and relax.

A year later, a character named Ziggy Stardust would emerge, giving glam rock its definitive identity — but the entire foundation is right here.

Look at the band’s name. Then at the album title. Then at the cover art. If, after all that, you still haven’t grasped that this is going to be a schizoid record, then I honestly don’t know how else to drop a hint.

It all begins with a father-son dialogue about regret, which abruptly shifts into a Black Sabbath parody, then into something that would be labeled "grunge" a few years later, followed by a brief bout of cacophony. Around the middle of the album, there’s a single track that actually resembles a proper song — but after that, it veers into full-blown avant-garde territory: the sound of balloons being twisted, some very poorly recorded speed metal, Thai folk motifs, and a woman calling into a radio talk show.

Amazingly, it all holds together as a cohesive record! If you’re the kind of edgy kid who prides themselves on being "not like the others," there’s a good chance you’ll really dig it. If you’re a bit older, it’s still worth a listen — but proceed with caution.

I don’t understand the cult status of the band with the short name X within punk circles. Social Distortion wears their merch, Dave Grohl plays covers of their songs at concerts, and critics have fawned over every one of their albums — including those from their recent reunion.

They released their debut when punk was on its last legs; yet, on this list, they’re represented not by that record, but by their follow-up — an album that seems to embody every possible flaw. First of all, it’s not really punk rock — it’s more of a strange take on rockabilly. Secondly, while both the male and female vocalists might enjoy singing, they simply don’t know how to do it well. Thirdly, the record sounds like it was recorded inside a bucket; perhaps Ray Manzarek of The Doors wasn’t such a great producer after all. In the context of "true" punk, these things might actually be considered assets, but listening to the album was simply uninteresting.

At first, I thought about giving it two stars, but then I remembered that another band named X — one I actually like — had to change their name to X Japan because of these guys. One star is enough.

Given the philosophical hip-hop Kendrick Lamar creates today, it’s hard to believe that back in the early 2010s, gangsta-rap legends Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg tapped him to be the torchbearer for the genre.

Yet, that is exactly what happened — it’s no coincidence that the album cover bears the label "A Short Film." This, the artist’s second record, is a semi-autobiographical tale of growing up in an impoverished, predominantly black neighborhood — a place where the local youth have only two primary pastimes: drugs and robbery. Through a mix of dark, aggressive beats and a lush, almost orchestral G-funk sound, Kendrick explores whether a young delinquent can break out of a vicious cycle to become someone like him — and what it actually takes to make that happen.

But the true power of this album lies neither in its lyrics nor its production. It lies in its ability to draw the listener in; if you pay close attention, the hour-long experience leaves an impression much like that of a compelling dramatic film.

Many consider this one of the best rock albums in history. That’s open to debate, but arguing that it’s The Who’s finest work would be entirely pointless.

It’s a solid five-star record — a collection of stadium rock anthems featuring catchy synth motifs, compelling basslines, and drums that, while sounding somewhat flat, pack an incredible punch. There is a catch, however: the beginning and the end are so strong that the middle section suffers by comparison. The songs in the middle are perfectly decent, but they simply don’t measure up to the opening and closing tracks. The pacing is quite uneven; the eight-minute finale never feels like it drags, whereas a six-minute track in the middle definitely does.

I could mention that the album — much like Tommy — was originally conceived as a rock opera, but that’s not particularly interesting. What is interesting, though, is that I’ve spent my whole life looking at the cover, seeing four stylish musicians, only to realize just now that these stylish guys are actually pissed on a wall.

In the early 20th century, there was an American singer named Woody Guthrie. He played a distinctly "proletarian" style of folk music, which quickly made him a favorite among many. He passed away in 1967.

Thirty years later, his daughter Nora — by then well into adulthood — discovered a vast collection of song lyrics that Guthrie had written but never released; some even included notes on how the music should sound.

Nora asked folk-punk musician Billy Bragg and the indie-rock band Wilco to complete some of these songs, resulting in a delightful blend of country and folk. The artists split the work roughly down the middle, which is why some tracks feel more upbeat, while others lean toward the melancholic. They ended up finishing so many songs that they couldn't all fit onto a single album, leading to the release of a second installment.

It’s quite remarkable: although I had never heard this record before, some of the songs felt as though I had known them for a very long time. Perhaps that is precisely how music becomes "folk" music — music of the people.

In the third part of "Back to the Future", Doc tells Marty: "No wonder this circuit failed. It says 'Made in Japan'."

At the time, the "Made in Japan" label was synonymous with cheap, flimsy goods. Deep Purple chose this title for their live album simply because they viewed the project as a bit of a lark — back then, neither record labels nor bands had much faith in live albums. It was the Japanese promoters who requested the recording, which naturally took place during shows in Japan.

As it turned out, this "lark" became one of the most technically accomplished, best-selling, and arguably greatest live albums in history. It’s said that absolutely nothing was overdubbed in the studio — and I, for one, believe it; the band was in peak form at the time, having just released Machine Head. The hits from that record — along with other tracks — were interspersed with solid, high-quality jams.

Since then, a live album has become a staple in any band’s discography, yet almost no one has ever managed to surpass this one.

Man, I love the Wu-Tang Clan! Here they are, from left to right... and so on.

Their debut album is considered a hip-hop classic for good reason — its dark sound, built on a wild concoction of rap, soul samples, snippets from martial arts films, references to chess manuals, and much more, stood in sharp contrast to both the politically charged messages of groups like Public Enemy and the braggadocious G-funk of Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. The rapping is sharp, the sound is great — it’s a solid record, a four star one.

So why do I only give it a three? Because the interludes — conversations between the group members that take up a total of ten to fifteen minutes of the runtime — drive me crazy. There’s no music, no beats; they’re just talking.

And if I wanted to listen to a bunch of black guys talking, I’d probably just put on a compilation of the best cutscenes from Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas instead.

After listening to this album, I decided to look up the band’s biography — and was immediately surprised to learn that they were American.

The surprise is understandable; to paraphrase a common saying, if a band uses vocal harmonies like The Beatles and guitar arrangements like The Rolling Stones, they’re almost certainly British. Nevertheless, Paul Revere’s decision to lean into the "British Invasion" sound — which was massively popular at the time — paid off; for a period, the band ranked third in U.S. record sales (trailing only the two aforementioned groups).

What’s most striking, however, is just how impressive this album is, even if it is essentially a copy. It has aged remarkably well — a modern-day garage punk band could have recorded it just a year ago and fit right in. The melodies are simple yet memorable, and the whole thing — clocking in at a brisk half-hour — never wears out its welcome.

It’s not a masterpiece, but it is a very solid record; I enjoyed it enough to hit "play" again the moment it finished.

This record was intended as a return to U2’s guitar-driven roots, following the success of the experimental, dance-oriented Achtung Baby and the failure of Pop — a record that was less experimental, yet still leaned into a dance sound.

The band’s vision was for listeners to put on this album and experience a sense of scale on par with The Joshua Tree. Instead, the opening track feels less like an epic statement and more like a commercial for mineral water — we’re greeted by a sterile, radio-friendly brand of pop-rock.

Even so, the first three songs are solid hits; but what follows is the musical equivalent of bland chicken and rice — the kind of stuff that would make a band like The Calling look inspired by comparison. At one point, I got distracted, and three whole tracks flew by without me even noticing. Every now and then, an interesting idea would surface, but it did little to change the overall picture.

It’s a rather lackluster comeback — especially for a band of this stature — earning, at best, a light three.

Upon learning that Robert Wyatt was a founding member of Soft Machine, I approached this album with a great deal of caution — his former band’s music was, after all, notoriously convoluted and difficult to digest.

However, the opening track suggests that, over the course of thirty years, the old man has mellowed; there’s not a trace left of those frantic leaps between musical intervals and chords. Just as the listener begins to relax, he hits them hard with the second track, where gurgles, clicks, and all manner of cacophony return in full force.

Nevertheless, I found myself enjoying the album — it is undeniably complex, yet surprisingly easy to listen to. It features progressive passages and jazz saxophone, alongside simpler ballads and blues-inflected tracks. At times, the listening experience even induces a trance-like state.

It is certainly a pretentious record, yet I wouldn’t go so far as to dismiss it as mere "art for art’s sake."