Reviews by mondo-kun

Willie Nelson is a living legend of country music. He turned ninety-three this year, marking the occasion with his seventy-ninth album (not counting live records or soundtracks) and a supporting tour. The secret, folks, is to keep your heart young!

At one point, Willie decided to try his hand at pop music, releasing this collection of ten covers of classic American hits from the first half of the 20th century. At the time, he was known for his "outlaw cowboy" persona, so no one expected the project to take off — but, lo and behold, it did!

The thing is, these songs only feel familiar, timeless, and truly touching if you happen to be an older American. If not, they just come across as pleasant, well-played, and well-sung music — but also, ultimately, quite monotonous.

With all due respect, the only setting where you could truly enjoy this album is while sitting in the lobby of a luxury hotel.

And here he is — the favorite of 99% of millennials who grew up watching MTV, whether they were into rap or rock!

On his debut, Eminem delivered the kind of standard-issue rap common at the time, for which he was trashed by both his peers in the genre and music journalists. In response, Em got angry and crafted this album through his alter ego, Slim Shady. If you didn’t know that, you’d think the guy belonged in a mental asylum: over Dr. Dre’s heavy, fat beats, he lays down lyrics of grotesque violence — with a brand of black humor so intense that, while I was listening to the album, a cop on the street actually stopped me to check my ID. Even Marilyn Manson refused to feature on one of the tracks — that should give you an idea of ​​the level we’re talking about.

Today’s generation is different; many take these lyrics at face value, crying out, "How can you listen to this? Is this supposed to be funny? Do you also find a penis drawn on a fence funny?" Well, exactly — a penis drawn on a fence is one of the funniest things on the planet!

Both critics and Genesis fans agree that this album is their magnum opus (at least as far as the 1970s are concerned).

Musically, it’s quite a pleasant listen, dominated by various keyboard textures and Phil Collins’s drum fills. Despite its 90-minute runtime, the record never feels tedious; the eight- and ten-minute suites largely give way to shorter, sketch-like tracks — and the songs themselves aren’t particularly complex, leaning more toward art-rock than progressive rock.

Things start to fall apart when it comes to the lyrics — which are, of course, essential for a rock opera with a continuous narrative. Peter Gabriel crafted a fantastical tale in which the protagonist ends up in either a parallel world or some form of purgatory, faces a series of trials, and then… it all ends in… nothing? In short, reading these lyrics is like knowing every individual letter of the alphabet but being unable to form a single coherent word.

An interesting album, to be sure, but an incredibly unwieldy one.

By the time he reached his seventh release, Elton John was already a seasoned musician with a decade of experience under his belt — experience he decided to channel into a double album.

The record is remarkably eclectic: it kicks off unexpectedly with prog-rock reminiscent of Rush, then shifts into a classic Sir Elton-style ballad, followed by glam, rock 'n' roll, and even a touch of reggae... In short, while the musical tapestry is mosaic-like, it is also quite beautiful.

The issues begin around the fifth track — even a titan like Elton couldn't quite pull off a flawless double album. Consequently, about half the record consists of fillers — some of it pleasant enough, though it pales in comparison to the standout tracks, while other parts feel entirely superfluous (such as the aforementioned reggae experiment or a song about a vagrant woman, where Bernie Taupin, Elton’s longtime lyricist, arguably went a bit too far).

It could have made for an excellent single album; then again, a very solid double album is nothing to sneeze at, either.

In the mid-sixties, cultural musical exchange flowed not only from south to north but also in the opposite direction; while Brazil gifted the U.S. bossa nova, it received a psychedelic sound in return.

The Brazilians blended this psychedelia with their own local, tropical sounds, giving rise to a new genre: Tropicália. Os Mutantes were among its earliest pioneers, weaving together all the trends of the era — jazz, blues, the avant-garde, natural soundscapes, distorted guitars (achieved through homemade pedals), and the organ. Minimalism was clearly not their strong suit.

The psychedelia here is pushed to the extreme; it feels incredibly raw and, at times, veers into the realm of circus music. Naturally, everything is sung in Portuguese.

The record is an intriguing listen, though far from an easy one — at times, it feels as if three different songs are playing all at once. It’s safe to say they had some excellent "dealers" in Brazil!

By the time they reached their fourth record, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel had evidently grown tired of playing standard folk; they craved something more ambitious, so they decided to record a concept album.

Only the first half turned out to be conceptual, and — despite lasting a mere fifteen minutes (the whole album is only half an hour long) — I could barely make it to the end. They intended to tell a story about different stages of life — a sort of "childhood, adolescence, youth" progression — but they failed to fully realize the concept, delivering instead some rather cryptic lyrics set to acoustic strumming. As for the decision to include a two-minute recording of random conversations between elderly people in nursing homes — well, I’ll leave that without comment.

The album nearly landed in the "one-star" category, but the second half managed to pull it back from the brink. While the songs there aren’t exactly masterpieces, they at least didn’t make me want to turn the record off — and the penultimate two are actually good enough to warrant a repeat listen.

So, as the saying goes: don’t take on a burden heavier than you can carry, lest you stumble while walking!

I had previously listened to Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain and was pleasantly surprised by its psychedelic edge and unconventional funk arrangements, so I had high hopes for this record — especially since it’s the band’s best-selling album.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed. For one thing, it’s a step backward compared to the previous album; there aren't many interesting flourishes here. While guitar solos do occasionally burst into the mix, the overall sound is just standard, rather monotonous funk.

That wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the second issue: the song lengths. Six minutes, seven minutes, ten... I wouldn't say I lack the patience for long tracks, but my attention wanders very quickly here, and the music — loop after loop — just fades into the background.

It’s an upbeat background, certainly — great for parties — but it just didn't really do it for me.

Not long ago, I listened Brothers In Arms by the already seasoned Dire Straits — by then transformed into something akin to stadium rockers — but now it's time to revisit where they started.

They began with so-called pub rock — music that lived up to its name perfectly: airy, country-blues guitar fingerpicking played quietly enough in pubs not to drown out the conversations of patrons enjoying a pint. Mark Knopfler’s signature style adds an extra layer of beauty: his decision to forgo the guitar pick entirely when playing electric guitar.

The problem is that the album’s cathartic peak arrives with "Sultans of Swing," leaving the remaining tracks feeling like a drawn-out, near-mirror image of the opening ones. That’s why I personally give this record only a strong three stars.

Still, releasing such an "unfashionable" album in late-70s England — sandwiched between the rising forces of punk rock, new wave, and the encroaching metal scene — was a truly bold move.

Here’s a scenario I "love": a list of 1 001 albums includes a great band, but features the wrong album.

The best work by Queens of the Stone Age — one of my favorite bands and the group that popularized psychedelic desert stoner rock — is, of course, Songs for the Deaf. Yet, instead of that one, we are offered their debut.

They certainly didn't cut corners; right from the first record, QOTSA delivered their signature sound — sludgy, robotically repetitive guitar riffs paired with Josh Homme’s (after decades of listening, I still don't know the correct pronunciation of his surname) melancholic vocals. However, the legacy of his previous band, Kyuss, was still very much alive, and some of the songs here drag a bit and feel rather dull.

I’m withholding the fifth star simply because the band is capable of — and has produced — better work, yet the editors of this book seem determined to overlook that fact.

The Pretenders' debut album marked something of a watershed moment between the decades.

It’s not just about the release timing — late December 1979 in the US versus early January 1980 in the UK. The genre mix is ​​eclectic, too: classic punk rock and new wave — defining the end of the 70s — sit alongside the nascent sounds of college rock and jangle pop.

And this is a case where the attempt to cover too much ground didn't quite work. The band veers wildly from style to style: one moment there are energetic punk guitar riffs, the next, cozy new-wave melodies; then, suddenly, an almost seven-minute reggae track, followed by a mechanical instrumental... Chrissie Hynde’s vocal delivery — bordering on spoken word — won't be to everyone's taste, either. All in all, while the playing is solid, it remains unclear exactly what the band wanted to focus on.

It’s a decent album, but it left me with the feeling that I’d just listened to a "lite" version of Blondie.

As we recall, the concept of the "live album" was hugely popular in the 1970s.

Thin Lizzy — one of Ireland’s premier rock bands, known for their distinctive and visionary style — also jumped on this bandwagon. Their sound blends local folk melodies and harmonica with galloping guitar riffs — the kind that Iron Maiden and Mötley Crüe would adopt only years later. In short: folk-style vocals meet heavy metal music.

Audiences still debate whether this album qualifies as truly "live." There is no doubt that some tracks were re-recorded in the studio; the question is how much was redone. According to the album's producer, only the drums and crowd noise remained from the actual concerts, though other sources — including the band members themselves — dispute this.

Ultimately, the album can be viewed as a collection of hits performed with great energy. Whether those performances took place in the studio or on stage matters less.

If you love musicals, you simply have to listen to this album. It features grand, lavish, and sprawling songs that shift seamlessly from theatrical hard rock to piano ballads and back again.

The backstory is worthy of a musical, too: songwriter Jim Steinman and the hulking, operatic vocalist Meat Loaf spent two years knocking on studio doors before finally releasing the record on an independent label. In modern terms, it’s an indie album — an indie album that became one of the top 10 best-selling records of all time, moving 43 million copies.

It’s easy to understand the skepticism of the bigwigs: it was the late 70s, minimalism was in vogue, and this music was just so over-the-top. Even the album’s producer, Todd Rundgren, initially thought he was being presented with a Bruce Springsteen parody, but he decided to take a chance — and that gamble paid off a hundredfold.

Musicals aren't really my thing, so I can't give it a top-tier rating. That said, it is a very solid record.

Following the modest success of their previous record, Echo & The Bunnymen’s manager, Bill Drummond, proposed a shift from post-punk toward pop music. Drummond was a noted occultist; in short, his plan was for the band to exist for five years, release the greatest pop album in history (as the promotional materials actually claimed), and then disband — a plan the band itself was apparently unaware of.

The album before you is the result, and it is magnificent. Here, psychedelic gothic post-punk meets baroque romanticism rich in strings — imagine The Cure adopting the arrangements of Scott Walker. The cover art perfectly captures the atmosphere; listening to it feels like drifting in a boat along a river at night.

On one hand, the ritual didn't work: the band continued on after parting ways with Drummond. On the other, they never managed to come anywhere close to this album again.

I’m not a fan of the idea that you should only judge something after several attempts; if someone tells me, "You’ll like it by the third or fourth listen," that’s just a matter of getting used to it — not actually liking it.

Yet today, after listening to this Kate Bush record for the first time — music that initially struck me as something for women going through a midlife crisis (the male equivalent being Peter Gabriel or Sting) — I felt an urge to give it a second chance. And suddenly, the album just clicked.

It opens with sensual, sex-friendly music featuring Arab-Irish folk motifs — immediately suggesting a complex, cerebral experience akin to Hounds of Love — but the album quickly sheds that persona, transforming into lavishly arranged, slightly eccentric pop music. It features strings, a Bulgarian choir, and even David Gilmour on guitar. The mix is ​​superb, with a sound that’s somewhat reminiscent of the band Heart.

So, don’t hesitate to give a second listen to something you’re unsure about!

Judging by the cover, the main artists listed are saxophonist Stan Getz and guitarist-vocalist João Gilberto; Antônio Carlos Jobim is relegated to the fine print with an "featuring" credit.

This is wild, considering he actually wrote six of the eight songs on the album. Moreover, these tracks became bossa nova standards; Jobim would later reimagine the album's biggest hits with Frank Sinatra, and the opening track is widely considered the most covered song of all time — second only to the Beatles' "Yesterday."

As for the album itself, the main drawback is Gilberto’s vocals, which sound like a computer assistant’s voice. However, this is overshadowed by the fluid, singing tone of Getz’s saxophone — an instrument granted the final, lingering word on almost every track.

It is a bossa nova classic — the kind of music you might often hear in a coffee shop on a Sunday morning: somewhat repetitive, yet completely relaxing.

When this work comes up online, the audience generally splits into two camps: "It’s genius" and "It’s a cacophony." Matters are complicated by the fact that it’s a double album; many say it’s impossible to get through the whole thing.

It might well have been impossible to get through in 1969 (even though free jazz already existed), but not today — not with bands like King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, Viagra Boys, and so many others around.

Listening to this jagged, unhinged "schizo-blues," you might initially think the musicians don't know how to play. But once you learn the backstory — the fact that they rehearsed for twelve hours a day, eight months straight, just to achieve that specific sound — you start to view it as an art project: a slap in the face of public taste and a giant middle finger to the rock, folk, and psychedelia that dominated the era.

I certainly won’t be listening to it again, though.

Do you know what a honky-tonk is? If not, that’s fine — after all, you probably aren’t American. It’s an inexpensive bar featuring live music that mostly attracts working-class folks — a dive bar, basically. Later on, the term was also applied to the genre of music played in these establishments.

And do you know who Joe Ely is? If not, that’s understandable; even not all Americans know him. It turns out he’s a country artist who played exactly that kind of honky-tonk music. To put it simply: imagine rockabilly without the upright bass and keyboards. That’s roughly what this album sounds like. The occasional, unexpected appearance of an accordion adds a bit of variety to the mix.

I haven’t the faintest idea why this record made the list of essential albums. The songs are decent, soulful Texas tunes, but there’s nothing particularly special about them. Presumably, the people who compiled the list were simply surprised that, by the late 70s, someone was still capable of bringing something new to country music.

I have a colleague who designs concert posters featuring consistently bright, neon-acid backgrounds. When asked "Why?", he gives a logical answer: "Because the human eye is automatically drawn to that kind of outdoor advertising."

The B-52's debut album grabs your attention for the same reason, but it’s not just about the cover art; inside, you’ll find an equally vibrant blend of rock 'n' roll, surf rock, punk, and new wave. When it leans into surf rock, the riffs are among the genre's best; when it hits the punk notes, the women are screaming just as fiercely as the likes of Bikini Kill. All of this plays out against a backdrop of absurd lyrics, creating a wild, high-energy atmosphere that would later be echoed by bands like Eagles of Death Metal and The Hives.

There is one annoying catch, though: for some reason, the album has been hit with regional blocks across all streaming platforms, so you likely won't be able to actually listen to the music there. In that case, YouTube or good old RuTracker will save the day.

When discussing classic prog-rock, Jethro Tull is one of the first bands that automatically springs to mind.

It is all the more interesting, then, that their most popular album bears only a tenuous connection to prog; instead, it is essentially blues-tinged, heavier folk-rock featuring vocalist Ian Anderson’s signature flute solos.

At the same time, the music leans slightly toward the classical: while the traditional verse-chorus structure remains, the rhythm and composition can shift multiple times within a single track. Yet, the album avoids the primary pitfall of art rock — the songs are genuinely memorable. Foremost among them, of course, are the opener about the vagrant nicknamed Aqualung and the reflections of a down-and-out soul in "Locomotive Breath."

This was the band's last album with a truly accessible entry point. What followed was avant-garde material and folk music worthy of a hobbit tavern.

One of the most successful supergroups in history, it brought together former members of major bands of the era: Free, Mott the Hoople, and King Crimson. Drawing on their experience and class, these four guys recorded one of the decade's best albums in just ten days. Each of their mothers could rightly exclaim, "Son, you’ve fallen in with a bad company!" — to which the son could proudly reply, "Mom, I founded it."

The music here can be described using the term "dad rock" — a label that is simultaneously complimentary and disparaging. It consists of country-tinged blues and ballads — mostly mid-tempo, though some tracks even have a danceable groove. Listening to it evokes the feeling of riding a Wild West steed — only that steed is galloping down a highway.

If your dad listens to old-school rock 'n' roll, he’ll like Bad Company. If you like Bad Company, you might want to consider becoming a dad yourself — if you haven't already.