Reviews by mondo-kun

This is Nick Cave’s most critically acclaimed album, yet it is certainly not the one to start with if you are new to his music.

I specifically say "Nick Cave" because the band's name could easily have been left off the cover — this is unequivocally a Cave record. It is not just that the lyrics deal primarily with his relationships and breakups; it is that every song follows a "vocals plus instrument" formula (usually piano). The music is sparse, quiet, and at times even fades into the background, as if the musicians were afraid of overshadowing the soul-baring narratives.

Personally, I prefer Nick Cave in his wilder — and occasionally even frightening — incarnation, but I still found this album quite good: calm and slightly melancholic. That said, the song lengths do drag a bit; given the music's somewhat monotonous nature, one could easily trim a verse or two from some of the tracks.

"What’s with that crummy-looking cover?" you might ask. Yet, it perfectly captures the album's sound: sometimes light, sometimes overdriven, but always raw and natural.

Neil Young’s output seems to swing wildly — one moment he’s making rather dreary country-folk, the next, gritty, semi-live proto-grunge. This record leans toward the latter style and is split roughly down the middle between acoustic ballads and garage-rock bangers. There are only seven tracks in total; two of them run ten minutes long and are the most compelling, featuring jams and something akin to a guitar duel between Young and second guitarist Danny Whitten.

Rumor has it that Young wrote half the songs while laid up with a fever of 39.5°C. That’s almost certainly nonsense — any man will tell you that at 37.5°C, playing the guitar is out of the question.

Artists often try to balance out monumental songs with something else. Take, for instance, the pairing of "Smoke on the Water" with "Highway Star," or "We Will Rock You" alongside "We Are the Champions." Here, however, right from the very start, you hear absolute greatness — the definitive guitar riff of the 21st century — and you realize that nothing else on the record can possibly measure up to it.

Yet the rest of the album holds up brilliantly, too! Jack White carves out fierce blues tracks — some so authentic you wouldn't immediately guess they were recorded in this century (especially the hypnotic "Ball and Biscuit") — as well as gentle acoustic numbers. The rhythm section is incredibly minimalist: if, in your youth, you didn't think Meg White couldn't play, you have no heart; if, now, you don't think she was the only one who could have played these songs, you have no head.

A magnificent work — the creative peak of a band that, alas, had only a few years of existence left.

As is well known, David Bowie moved to Berlin in the mid-1970s to battle his addictions — not alone, but in the company of Iggy Pop. During his time there, David managed to release an album "trilogy," while Iggy, effectively, produced a "duology."

And while his first solo effort was essentially another Bowie album (with David handling everything from production to co-writing every track), Iggy took the initiative on this record; the sound is punchier and less cerebral, though the influence of his old friend is still discernible in certain songs. The rhythm section provided by the Sales brothers deserves special mention: the first things to greet you when you start the album are powerful drums and a danceable bassline.

Admittedly, the second half of the album is weaker; there is a sense that the recording process was rushed (it came out just six months after the previous record). Be that as it may, it features two massive hits, and the other tracks are enjoyable — it makes for a thoroughly pleasant listen!

Without exaggeration, the kings of the New York hip-hop scene.

It’s not that Run-D.M.C. invented the genre, but rather that this album turned it into a mainstream phenomenon, propelling it onto major stages and MTV. They were welcomed with open arms everywhere — and for good reason: driving samples from rock and soul classics, skillful rapping, crisp scratching, and high-energy lyrics.

But the real highlight is that rap-rock was born here through a cover of a hit by Aerosmith — a band that, at the time, had been somewhat forgotten. And who better to bridge these two genres than Rick Rubin, whose portfolio already included work with both the Beastie Boys and Slayer? No one believed it was possible; the artists themselves initially planned only to sample Aerosmith, but the result blew everyone away. I imagine the look on people's faces when they first heard "Walk This Way" was one of sheer astonishment: "Wait, you could actually do that?"

So, the entire rap-core and nu-metal scene traces its roots back to this moment. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing is for you to decide.

To be honest, I was left feeling a bit puzzled after listening to this record.

A bit of background: Mylo is a Scottish DJ who created this — his first and last — album using samples from 80s soft rock (a move that, judging by his career’s abrupt end, likely landed him in legal trouble). It all sounds quite pleasant; at times it resembles a video game soundtrack, at others it feels like driving a roadster down the highway on a warm but breezy day, and sometimes it evokes the vibe of an Ibiza club. I enjoyed it!

At the same time, the music serves mostly as background listening, and I didn't really get the sense that I was listening to a cohesive album. You could drop any track or shuffle the order without changing a thing. It’s also worth keeping the list’s title in mind: this record certainly doesn't fall into the "must-hear-before-you-die" category.

All in all, it’s neither good nor bad. It’s certainly not going to destroy rock & roll.

I’m sure longtime fans claimed that this was the album where Dire Straits lost their touch and sold out, given that there is barely a trace left of the signature fingerstyle blues found in their early work.

But for me, as an unbiased listener, this is their best album. The first half is packed with hits: the unhurried, slightly melancholic opening track; "Money for Nothing," featuring one of the greatest guitar riffs of all time; and "Walk of Life" with its upbeat synths. As for the sax part in "Your Latest Trick," I imagine saxophone dealers hate it just as much as guitar shops hate "Smoke on the Water". The songs lose a bit of momentum after that, though that’s largely due to the high quality of the opening tracks — even so, "Why Worry" remains a pleasant, meditative tune.

Some listeners might be put off by the album’s sound, which can seem a bit flat — it was recorded digitally. However, if you listen to it on high-quality equipment and tweak the audio settings a little, that issue should disappear.

This is The Who’s most divisive, transitional album: it was no longer the simple Mod-rock of their early work, yet not quite the monumental rock operas that would follow.

It wasn't actually supposed to happen; the band's management simply advertised that a new record would be ready by Christmas without consulting the band itself. Since few songs had been written by that point, they decided to take a conceptual approach: they padded the runtime with parody commercial jingles (also penned by the band) and humorous songs extolling the virtues of deodorants and acne creams — all presented as a radio broadcast. It was a piece of psychedelic rock irony aimed at bands that sold their art to major corporations in exchange for lucrative advertising deals.

The ultimate irony, however, is that no one got the joke — the album sold poorly. Oh well, they’d make up for it with the next one.

This is the second album of Bowie’s "Berlin Trilogy." Interestingly, despite the name, it is the only one that was actually recorded entirely in Berlin.

In essence, it is a continuation of Low, sharing the same structure: the first side features art-glam tracks that are somewhat avant-garde yet melodic (including the artist's most popular song), while the second side sees Brian Eno once again inserting a fifteen-minute ambient suite (I know it’s a Bowie album, but we all know perfectly well who was whispering in his ear). "Rumor had it that on this cover, Bowie is looking into a small mirror held in his palm. In reality, however, only one hand belongs to David; the other is Brian Eno’s hand, and Bowie is worshipping it." As the saying goes, there’s a grain of truth in every joke.

However, the songs themselves are more pleasant than those on Low, and the instrumental pieces aren't quite as convoluted — meaning I can give it a higher rating with a clear conscience.

If you’ve heard the album’s lead single in Far Cry 3 or Slumdog Millionaire, you already have a rough idea of ​​what to expect from the record.

M.I.A. originally planned to record it under Timbaland’s direction. In the end, only the final track remained from that collaboration — and a good thing, too: the song isn't bad, but it sounds just like any other track of his.

The album’s core sound is perfectly captured by its cover art — explosive, pixelated, slightly psychedelic, and resembling a patchwork quilt. The artist blends Indian, Sri Lankan, and Western sounds here: the former two are represented by wildlife sounds, traditional drums, and Bollywood music, while the latter comes through in grime, samples from The Clash and New Order, and nods to the Pixies. With Diplo and Switch on production duties, it comes as no surprise that they would go on to create Major Lazer, a project equally rooted in eclecticism.

An excellent piece of work — noisy, vibrant, and arguably unique.

This is a case where the album cover perfectly captures the sound: strange, shamanistic, and psychedelic motifs that are nonetheless compelling.

Even a decade before the album’s release, its creator, Malcolm Rebennack, was already a highly regarded session pianist; however, he later became fascinated by Voodoo and mind-altering substances. Adopting the persona of "Dr. John" — named after an African witch doctor — he essentially crafted his own musical universe rooted in a languid, slightly eerie brand of psychedelic blues. Listening to the record evokes the feeling of attending a ritual around a sacrificial fire near the muddy swamps of Louisiana; indeed, the album is named after a protective amulet.

As was often the case back then, this unconventional blend won critical acclaim but failed to sell — hardly a surprise, given that the music is, at times, rather rough around the edges. Still, it absolutely nails the atmosphere.

It’s been a while since I’ve come across music from the South! A mambo album has already been featured; now it’s salsa’s turn. And not just any salsa — this is the first "platinum" album in the genre and, in fact, the best-selling one of all time.

In a way, salsa is the Latin American equivalent of country music: stories about life set to a fairly repetitive musical backdrop. The difference lies in the temperament: while country tends to sound calm and measured, salsa — as you might guess — is incredibly high-energy. Brass instruments kick in periodically, causing the rhythm to shift and flirt with jazz, yet it never loses its danceability.

And when you learn that Rubén Blades is the most successful Panamanian musician and Willie Colón is one of South America’s premier trombonists, the record's massive sales figures come as no surprise.

It’s an enjoyable album; the only thing I didn't quite get was why it opens with a funk rhythm that has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the music.

When people hear the term "rock opera," Tommy or Jesus Christ Superstar usually come to mind.

However, the only thing this album shares with a classic rock opera is its length — it runs for just over an hour and a half. There is no single, linear plot either: while the story of Lynyrd Skynyrd — from their early rehearsals to the plane crash — runs like a common thread through the record, it never turns into a standard biography. Instead, it is more of a story about the character of the American South and its inherent duality, torn between a love for freedom and deep-seated prejudices.

As you’ve probably gathered, it’s worth reading the lyrics while listening to these songs. Musically, it’s excellent too: three guitars and multiple vocalists whose style occasionally brings to mind Tom Petty or the Eagles.

If I were American, I’d probably give it five stars — but that’s because Southern rock resonates with me personally. It’s an album that appeals to a specific taste.

If, like me, you primarily associate Kraftwerk with Krautrock (a logical connection given their name), this album might catch you off guard, as the sound here is best described as "proto-synth-pop."

The Germans were already churning out the very elements that Depeche Mode would adopt a few years later: cold synth lines, minimal lyrics (the second half of the album is essentially one long instrumental), and deep — albeit processed — vocals.

The album’s title, however, fits it perfectly: it delivers a minimalist electronic sound that evokes the experience of a train journey. Yes, the songs are musically quite simple and drawn-out, but then again, rail travel is a slow and rather repetitive affair.

It all sounds very dated now, of course, but it is definitely worth a listen if you want to understand the roots of both 80s synth-pop and 90s techno.

Daily Discovery column: it turns out the sound many call "sex music" actually has a name: quiet storm. Luxurious, unhurried songs, without the slightest sharp edges, perfect for driving in a business-class car.

This album by Anita Baker, whom I'd never heard of before (despite selling eight million copies), is practically the epitome of quiet storm. Classic jazz vocals meet soul sounds and funky bass guitar, resulting in nearly forty minutes of romantic ballads. The album was surprisingly both late (Motown's heyday was long gone) and ahead of its time (Boyz II Men and Toni Braxton wouldn't reach their peak until ten years later).

Nothing special, just a pleasant record to clean the house to, cook dinner, have a date at home, and, of course, finish it off in the bedroom.

One of the few albums whose cover bears neither the band's name nor the album's title, but instead features the signature of the well-known artist, who was also... Well, probably not the producer, but rather the band's artistic director.

The record itself is considered influential on a huge number of guitar genres, but I didn't get it at all. Clearly, almost no one was making music like this at the time (or even any longer), but only about a third of the songs are truly impressive. Another third is unremarkable, monotonous rock with monotonous vocals (and equally monotonous in both Lou Reed and Nico), and the rest is downright cacophonous in places (I really wanted to turn off the final seven-minute track).

Thanks for the musicians this album inspired to form their own bands, but a light three is enough for it.

It might seem like all country music sounds the same, but the more you know: today I discovered that there are at least two schools of country music.

Buck Owens is one of the most successful artists of the Bakersfield school, characterized by a more rock-and-roll, rhythmic sound — a stark contrast to the lush, sometimes even orchestral, classic Nashville style. To put it simply: the Nashville sound evokes fancy receptions in Southern mansions, while the Bakersfield sound conjures up images of Western prairies and saloons. Another point in the Bakersfield camp's favor is that they aren't shy about using slide guitar solos.

All in all, listening to this album leaves you with the distinct impression of cheap whiskey and a card game played against — albeit highly respected — cardsharps and scoundrels; the artist’s lavish suit on the cover hints at this vibe right away. It is a delightful, concise record featuring a style of music not often heard in our neck of the woods.

Britpop feels like one of the most multifaceted musical genres out there.

It encompasses both the quintessential acts — Blur, Oasis, and The Verve— who built their sound on the foundation of the 1960s "British Invasion," and bands like Elastica, for whom the "Britpop" label seems to be just a name. Their influences weren't The Beatles or The Kinks, but rather Wire and Blondie (people say they copied Wire wholesale, though I’ve never listened to Wire myself, so I can’t confirm that).

On their incredibly energetic debut (and penultimate) record, sixteen songs fly by in forty minutes; the structure is classic punk-rock — verse-chorus, no guitar solos. Add in some traditional 90s production, and you get a fantastic-sounding album — one that even today some Olivia Rodrigo wouldn't hesitate to borrow a melody or two.

It’s a shame the band is now only occasionally remembered by enthusiasts; they could have gone far had they not burned out so quickly.

Frank Sinatra once called Ray Charles the only genius in show business. Ray didn't shy away from the label — in fact, the word "genius" appears in the titles of no fewer than six of his albums.

The tradition began with this record; though, to be honest, I struggle to see what exactly is so "genius" about it. Ray Charles is undoubtedly a master of the genre — he’s practically responsible for the birth of several new ones, after all — but here we hear fairly standard (albeit decent) big-band jazz alongside lyrical piano ballads (there’s a clear divide: the first side of the record is livelier, the second more laid-back). As was the norm back then, every track is a standard; there are no original compositions whatsoever.

Still, the album isn't bad — especially if you listen while imagining yourself sitting in an old cabaret or casino.

Do you know what a sequencer is? In short, it’s a tool that lets you input sounds of various pitches and arrange them into a repeating pattern.

Well, this album by the avant-garde electronic group Tangerine Dream was the first to be recorded using sequencers; in essence, it pioneered the so-called "Berlin School" of electronic music.

That’s an impressive distinction, yet the record ultimately sounds like the soundtrack to an old Soviet space movie. In fact, the whole thing feels just like one of those films: it was probably incredible back in the day, but now the sets look dated and the special effects seem laughable.

You might assume that appreciating this music requires a brilliant mind, but when the artists themselves admit that certain melodies sound the way they do because the sequencer’s settings kept drifting, you have to wonder — can this even be called music?