Reviews by mondo-kun

An album with a history that couldn't be further from the truth: before its demise, two co-founders left the band, and the third, vocalist Philip Oakey, decided to replace them with two schoolgirls.

It all smelled like a fiasco, but the result was an album featuring the band's greatest hits and, arguably, electronic standards for the just beginning 1980s. While The Human League had previously produced music in the vein of Gary Numan, here they simplified it a bit, thereby "revitalizing" it. The synthesizers are still neon, the drum machines are still as combative, and everything still sounds like music from the future, but something makes it more human and dreamy, sometimes dark, sometimes romantic.

The Vogue-style cover seems odd at first, but the more I look at it, the more I like it. And with the epic Don't You Want Me, surprisingly the last track on the album, the band has secured a permanent place in the electronic music pantheon.

Elvis Costello isn't really Elvis (or Costello), which makes it all the more surprising that he had the audacity to adopt the King of Rock 'n' Roll's name while he was still alive.

And after listening to this record, I can't say he did it undeservedly. Firstly, Costello is an excellent melodist; you start humming some of the songs after just one listen. Secondly, he has a superb backing band. Thirdly, the album simply sounds good; they mixed it expertly. Fourthly, even though Elvis has moved away from his earlier punk sound, some songs could still be mistaken for, say, The Clash. Fifthly, surprisingly, his voice is somewhat similar to Lenny Kravitz, who I personally enjoy listening to.

All in all, I can recommend it! But the elephants on the cover are completely out of place and don't convey the mood of the album.

The first time I was stunned, when instead of the languid riffs I've heard the acoustic strumming, mistaking the band for the Australian grungers Violent Soho. The second time was when I heard lyrics sung in a nasal voice, the author of which would now be called an incel. The third, and most powerfully, was when I saw the year the album was released.

This is an incredibly visionary record. I don't think anyone before had thought of taking punk rock, a genre that's generally not the most overloaded, and stripping it bare of all its excess. What's left here is literally the skeleton — acoustic bass, acoustic guitar, and snare drum — and yet it all sounds much dirtier and more energetic than a distortion pedal.

Five years later, Pixies were using the band's work, ten years later, Weezer, fifteen years later, Bloodhound Gang. And forty years later, I discovered the album, and such discoveries were worth following this list.

Record label executives have now realized that confessional songs "by girls for girls" are highly monetizable, and Gracie Abrams and Olivia Rodrigo have become a cloying tide. Surprisingly, this wasn't always the case.

Alanis Morissette made a deeply personal album, combining lyrics about friendship, betrayal, parental expectations, and the ability to find joy on an empty wallet with a mix of grunge, shoegaze, country, and drum machines, and no one wanted to release it. Madonna's recently founded label, Maverick, took a risk, and it paid off — many found a personal connection in these songs, and the album sold incredibly well.

Yes, some might find Alanis's voice offensive, and perhaps the album is heavily overproduced (as was the fashion in the 90s, trying to cram too much into the sound), but it was with this album that the artists began to talk about life with their listeners. And, of course, with the female listeners.

80s rockers had a strange but common symptom of a midlife crisis: they began drawing inspiration for new songs from Africa.

Paul Simon even went so far as to dig so deep that he actually went to South Africa to record with local artists, prompting a howl from the leftist morality police, because of apartheid. This howl continues to this day, this time on the topic of "cultural appropriation" (which, by the way, doesn't exist), which doesn't prevent the album from being quite positive and danceable.

But what does Africa have to do with it? No, there are some of their folk music here, but it starts around the middle of the album and are expressed through bongos and folk chants. There's a much stronger influence of country, rockabilly, and classic rock 'n' roll here, and the African theme was explored long before this album's release by Talking Heads, and not long ago by Peter Gabriel. And they did a much better job.

The Flaming Lips are a very strange band, because the music they make was never meant to be mass-market. But by their tenth album, it had.

Listening to it, you get the feeling you've been floating inside some starship for almost fifty minutes, looking down at Earth from outer space. That's probably how ambient music is supposed to work, but ambient lulls me to sleep, and here it's just the right amount for enjoyment.

And the most incredible thing is that the foundation of this cosmic music is a completely ordinary, almost bardic acoustic guitar. It's responsible for the album's ringing sound, and the rest are just decorative add-ons: hip-hop beats and a touch of electronica.

It's a good, meditative, and beautiful record, but to avoid it feeling boring, you need to listen to it in a certain, slightly dreamy mood.

What Kate Bush and this album in particular deserves respect for is the arrangements. The sound of some of the songs is truly remarkable, and to produce an album yourself, record it in the studio you built yourself, is truly impressive. But everything else...

I think Hounds of Love appears on various "best of" lists more often than any other album. Can anyone explain why? It's certainly not because of the first side, which is almost entirely danceable new wave. So all the credit goes to the incredibly drawn-out, pseudo-philosophical second side, where ballads mingle with Irish motifs, and piano passages morph into industrial drum machine sounds? No, let the Pitchfork journalists listen to that.

I was thinking of adding a third star for "Running Up That Hill," but even that one was better with Placebo.

Honestly, I wasn't feeling particularly energized the first time I listened to this album today, so I fell asleep during the first song...

But there's nothing surprising or bad about that! The opener here really does sound like some kind of lullaby, only a strange one — something gothic, some psychedelic, some trip-hop, but definitely dark. This electronic-guitar medley continues, though not bad, like a GIF of a truck driving toward a pole: the anxiety builds, but catharsis never quite arrives... Until "Aisha," where a screaming Iggy Pop tries on the role of a serial killer. After that, the tension eases, though I'd slightly rearrange the song order and put "Aladdin's Story" last.

If The Chemical Brothers had evil twins, they'd definitely be called Death in Vegas. Anyone who enjoys unconventional electronic music should pick this up.

"I'm sick to death of talking about how we've released 11 identical albums. In fact, we have released 12 completely identical albums." — said Angus Young. You can't argue with the maestro; all AC/DC music is about killer guitar solos and screeching vocals on one side, and schoolboy lyrics over a very standard rhythm section on the other.

So why did this formula only started to work for the band on their sixth album? I don't understand. They say the change of producer helped here — I wouldn't say so; the next album, Back In Black, is much more different from the older albums. Perhaps people were simply in a time in the late '70s when they wanted relaxed yet energizing music.

Nevertheless, the monotony hasn't gone away, and AC/DC's studio recordings quickly become boring. Their concerts and live albums are a different story! So if your soul is craving for some energy and fun, it’s better to turn on AC/DC Live – an album that, in its title itself, conveys the band’s clarity and straightforwardness.

Once again, the album cover says a lot about itself.

The sleeve features a barefoot Cyndi Lauper in a bright dress with an equally bright mullet, performing a strange dance against the backdrop of a closed, yet still bright, building. The music is an equally vibrant mix of genres: new-wave synthesizers, a synth-pop drum machine, and harsh, even punk-rock vocals.

It's no surprise that these songs resonated with American teenagers of the time. Instead of the standard two or three singles, the album was supported by six, the last of which was probably just for kicks, like, "Let's see if this one will really take off." Once five singles from one album entered the top five of the Hot 100, there was no time for jokes — only Michael Jackson had previously managed that.

I always knew this record had two big hits, but to my surprise, the rest of the songs weren't bad either. Eighties at their best!

While punk rock had only just emerged in the mid-1970s, by the end of the decade it wasn't exactly dead, but artists had grown tired of its classic format and began trying to diversify the genre.

Sometimes this was completely unnecessary, as was the case with The Only Ones. Their debut album follows a clear rule: if a song is built on a few quickly played chords, it's not bad; if it's layered with prog, jazz, oriental music, or psychedelia, it becomes overloaded, like an Art Deco column stuck in the middle of an IKEA-decorated apartment.

But the weakest point here is the voice. It feels like the singer slept for an hour and a half before recording and was then dragged into the studio with a noose around his neck.

Objectively, the album doesn't reach a three stars mark, but I'll push it up, because for some reason I'm sure (although I can't prove it) that without this album there wouldn't have been the wonderful band called The Libertines.

Let's start with the fact that Joanna Newsom's discography isn't available on Spotify, as she considers the platform "cynical and musician-hating."

And for once, I can envy those who use Spotify, since God has spared them from this pretentious bleating over a cacophonous medley of classical instruments. You think you can't ruin a harp and a harpsichord? You can!

The artist talks, squeals, creaks, and chirps here, but it's hard to call it singing, and that's the first reason I want to turn the album off. The second is the length of the songs — there are only five, but each one averages ten minutes (it gets tough by the third).

Joanna Newsom is that artsy classmate who tries to write poetry, yet is convinced that it should be interesting to everyone, and whose voice you can't shut up about out of politeness.

Over the first ten years of his career, Beck tried his hand at everything. He made albums in the styles of country, lo-fi folk, funk, and even chamber pop, but on Guero, he returned to what made him famous: a mixture of all of the above.

And the album itself is decent, but somehow awkwardly disjointed. The upbeat opener, based on a sample from the Beastie Boys' "So What'cha Want," and the rhythmic toms of "Black Tambourine," are mixed with strange hip-hop about vegetable men in a vegetable van and country riffs played so poorly they could only have been done on purpose.

It might seem like the artist simply doesn't know what he wants — the record is as resourceful as it is tedious and hokey. Another thing is that, most likely, this is exactly what Beck wanted when he decided to release one more album as if it were assembled piece by piece, among which there are both gems and trash.

The worst thing for an artist is reaching a status where "your record starts working for you": you can do anything, journalists will approve, and the public will go wild.

David Bowie also succumbed to this sin. While the first half of this album is short, somewhat understated, but still pleasant songs, typical of the glam-funk Bowie, the second half begins the "Experiments" section: oppressive ambient interspersed with throat singing in an invented language, sounding like the soundtrack not just to a film, but to a David Lynch film. As expected, Brian Eno "did a favor"; he'll still confuse many good artists with his gimmicks...

And yet, years later, the album is considered practically the peak of Bowie's creativity! Basically, Low is Kid A for boomers. Both decent albums, but would anyone have praised them so much if the artists' names weren't on the covers? Of course not.

If you believe the saying "you judge an album by its cover" is true, then Pet Shop Boys have gone above and beyond on their fifth full-length. It's not evident on streaming services, but the original CD (https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4241/34963398184_9564852deb_o.jpg) was released in an all-orange case with a rubberized top adorned with embossed letters and "Lego-like" bumps.

And the first song here sets the tone for the next fifty minutes of good synth-fueled new wave. Alas, what we hear is monotonous gay-club electronica with a straight kick drum. While the duo's previous work sounded unusual and even luxurious, here the sound is extremely commercial and mainstream. It's unsurprising, albeit sad, that this album became Pet Shop Boys' best-selling and the only one to reach number one in the UK charts.

No, maybe I'm missing something, and the album sounded mega-innovative for its time. In that case, let it stay there.

The list of "1001 Albums..." was compiled by blessed people; otherwise, I can't explain the logic behind the fact that it doesn't include EPs or greatest hits collections, but does include live albums and, wait for it, soundtracks.

And while the Earth, Wind & Fire album I came across earlier, while technically a soundtrack, is perfectly listenable without the film, this double album by Isaac Hayes is just a complement to the events unfolding onscreen.

Not only is the album long, it's also almost entirely instrumental. Vocals are found on only three songs, one of which is Hayes's signature twenty-minute psycho-soul jam. It's all a bit of a challenge, and I generally don't understand how people listen to instrumental film music without the film itself (or why Hans Zimmer sells out his concerts).

It's not bad as a background, but as a position for such a list, it's a complete failure.

Did everyone at school ever show a short film about the consequences of drug use? I propose a more innovative solution: students should simply listen the segment of this album from "Junkhead" to "Angry Chair," with lyrics and a biography of Layne Staley printed. If they're smart, they won't even think about drugs again.

Even though Alice in Chains is probably my least favorite of the grunge big four, this album is the quintessence of the genre. Slow, heavy, as if mired in the dirt, Jerry Cantrell's doom metal riffs overlaid with bluesy lyrics. The cover is also perfectly chosen: while listening, your consciousness seems to melt, hallucinating on your subcortex, as if you're in the middle of an endless desert.

An extremely dark and, at times, depressingly oppressive album — and, surprisingly, equally beautiful.

I'd heard, of course, that Gary Numan was practically the father of synth-pop and electronica, but I knew nothing of his work beyond his biggest hit, "Cars." So, when this record came up today, I was really curious to see what else the artist would have to offer.

Bottom line: you don't need to listen to the whole album; every song on it sounds like "Cars," only worse. The cold, robotic sound turns this music into pure background music for me. There's background pop for shopping at H&M, and this background electronica for a tour of some car factory (pun intended) or production facility. I don't understand how anyone can listen to it consciously now; obviously, in 1979, after all the blues and other psychedelia, this was a novelty, but now the album sounds like AI-slope.

Nevertheless, "Cars" is still a good song with a pleasant melody — it's the only thing that saves the album from a one-star rating. You need to be more humane!

My favorite column, "Good Albums with Weird Covers." What is this? Who approved this photo? Why does the artist look like he's stoned?

Okay, let's move on to the album's sound. It sounds like... the Rolling Stones, Sticky Fingers era. Seriously, half the songs are "Brown Sugar," the other half are "Can't You Hear Me Knocking." The playing and singing are all good, but there's a persistent feeling of something derivative.

That's probably why the album was such a hit in England, while in Tom's native USA, it remained largely unheard for another year. But then again, no prophet is accepted in his own country.

I really like Tom Petty. He's a great musician, and this is just the beginning of a long journey, during which he would go on to write his greatest hits with The Heartbreakers, solo, and as part of the supergroup The Traveling Wilburys. It's all the more surprising that this is his only album on this list.

The Smashing Pumpkins took a huge risk when they decided to release a double album, and I'm sure they didn't expect how much it would pay off.

This is the band's magnum opus, and the crown jewel of '90s alternative rock, a multi-genre masterpiece that ranges from tender piano and orchestral ballads to screeching grunge riffs, from Floyd-esque art rock to new wave drum machines. It's a tome filled with stories of love, life, death, self-discovery, growing up, and infinite sadness. On first listen, you'll never guess what awaits you on the album, and that's its strength, making these epochal two hours fly by.

I could go on and on about how magnificent this album is, but I recommend you don't waste your time reading it and just listen to it — it's the perfect introduction to the band.