Reviews by shoegaze_vulpes86

Finally, some reggae beyond Bob Marley — and a record that makes me curious to hear more. The bass has real weight, the horns sound wonderfully mournful, and the rough lead vocals give the songs an urgency I really like. The exchanges with the backing singers are especially good: I find myself waiting for those answering voices to come back in.

I’ve found the repetition tiring on other reggae albums, but here it keeps drawing me further into the songs. A repeated phrase gains force instead of simply filling another few bars, and there’s enough feeling in the performances to keep me listening closely. Apparently, the familiar rhythm wasn’t the whole problem. On this record, I’m quite happy for it to keep going.

At times, this sounds like Herbie Hancock’s 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 being repurposed for an aerobics class. There’s plenty of movement, but I’m not convinced we’re getting anywhere. The musicians certainly sound busy; whether I’m enjoying myself is a separate question.

I kept wondering: is this jazz-funk? Soul? Am I actually enjoying it, or just nodding along out of politeness? A few passages catch my attention, but I keep losing track of the songs while the grooves carry on perfectly happily without me.

And no, I’m not buying the Stevie Wonder comparisons. Jay or Kay — whichever it is — can clearly sing, but I’m missing the warmth and character that make Stevie’s voice so appealing to me. There may be an emergency on planet Earth, but my main concern here is how long we’re going to stay on this particular bassline.

This makes a pleasant companion to the Kinks’ 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘌𝘭𝘴𝘦, the Small Faces’ 𝘖𝘨𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴’ 𝘕𝘶𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘬𝘦, or the Beatles’ 𝘚𝘨𝘵. 𝘗𝘦𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳. The lovely harmonies, colourful arrangements, and slightly psychedelic touches put it in familiar territory. The Zombies certainly know how to write an appealing melody, and the wistfulness running through the songs gives the album some charm of its own.

I just don’t come away with the same enthusiasm. The songs are easy to enjoy, but I don’t get particularly attached to them, and the album doesn’t make the same impression on me as the records it brings to mind. I’m happy to hear more of this kind of British pop; I’m simply not convinced I’ve found another favourite.

Muse certainly don’t believe in understatement. On 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, everything has to sound monumental: the roaring guitars, the soaring synthesizers, and Matt Bellamy’s theatrical vocals. There’s no denying the ambition or the musicianship, but all that bombast rarely makes the songs as exciting as they seem determined to be.

I I keep hearing echoes of Radiohead and Coldplay, only with the drama turned up several notches. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but Radiohead already give me everything I want from that particular corner of alternative rock. Muse’s more extravagant approach rarely offers me anything I feel I’m missing. The album is full of grand gestures, yet surprisingly little of it stays with me.

Muse have certainly mastered the art of sounding enormous. I just wish the songs gave me something equally impressive to hold on to.

I’d put this right alongside 𝘍𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘓𝘦𝘧𝘵. The instrumentation is beautiful, with piano, strings, and brass giving the songs plenty of colour without overwhelming them. I love being able to follow the little details in the arrangements and enjoy them almost as much as the melodies themselves.

Then there’s Drake’s voice. He sounds almost as though he’s singing to himself, yet I want to hear every word. There’s a gentleness to his delivery that really appeals to me, and a hint of sadness that remains even when the music around him is bright and lively. That contrast makes the songs all the more affecting.

The fuller sound never takes away the intimacy. Instead, it gives that lovely voice a setting worth listening to just as closely. Choosing between these two albums would be difficult; enjoying both is considerably easier.

𝘖𝘭𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘢 64 makes it easy to understand why Jacques Brel was such a captivating performer. I really like his voice and the way he can turn even the simplest line into something intensely dramatic. He doesn't just sing his songs; he practically acts them out, moving between tenderness, anger, and theatrical excess.

Still, I suspect some of that magic is lost when experienced through a recording rather than from a seat in the audience. I can hear the passion and energy of the performance, but I don't always feel as involved as I would like.

And then there's 𝗔𝗺𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗱𝗮𝗺. The way Brel builds the song from quiet storytelling into an almost overwhelming climax is extraordinary. For those few minutes, I almost feel as if I'm sitting in the audience myself.

A good live album, but above all, a reminder that I would have loved to see Jacques Brel perform in person.

I suspect I’m more forgiving of 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥’s eccentricities than some listeners, simply because experimental rock is familiar territory for me. Soft Machine certainly tests that tolerance right from the start. The opening of 𝗙𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗳𝘁 sounds almost deliberately designed to scare people away. Give it some time, though, and the music gradually becomes surprisingly absorbing.

And if that opening hasn't frightened you off, the track list might: four pieces, each running for roughly eighteen or nineteen minutes. Not exactly an invitation to casual listening. Fortunately, I rather enjoy this kind of musical exploration. Jazz, improvisation, psychedelia, and progressive rock blend into something unpredictable, with the band occasionally wandering so far from conventional song structures that the distinction between jazz and rock almost disappears.

Not every minute is equally fascinating, but I rarely mind the detours. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 is demanding, adventurous, and wonderfully eccentric. A fine example of the Canterbury scene, where musical boundaries seem to matter very little.

Not exactly easy listening, but that's part of why I like it.

When people debate Bob Dylan’s greatest album, his legendary mid-60s records inevitably come up. 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐𝘵 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝟨𝟣 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥, and 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 are all understandable choices, but for me, 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴 beats them all. The songwriting is extraordinary, full of tangled relationships, painful memories, and emotions that feel more personal and immediate than ever.

Dylan’s famously nasal voice is still unmistakably there, but by 1975 it has developed a warmth and maturity that suits these songs beautifully. And then there is the harmonica. On some of his earlier albums, it occasionally tested my patience, but here it fits the music remarkably well. These are probably my favourite harmonica performances of his so far. For once, I’m not waiting for him to put the instrument down. Quite the opposite.

His mid-60s masterpieces may have been more revolutionary, but 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴 moves me in a way they never quite managed. The melodies, the storytelling, the atmosphere, even that harmonica — everything comes together perfectly. If I could keep only one Dylan album, there would be no contest.

I suspect 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 earned its place on the 1001 Albums list more for its unusual sound and atmosphere than for its individual songs. The murky, futuristic production is intriguing at first, and a handful of tracks made me curious about where Mike Ladd was taking all this.

Unfortunately, the longer the album goes on, the less interested I become. What initially feels inventive gradually turns repetitive, and the atmosphere alone isn’t enough to sustain such a lengthy record. There are interesting ideas scattered throughout, but far too much time spent waiting for the next one.

The afterfuture might be worth a visit, but I certainly wouldn’t book an extended stay.

I sometimes wonder whether Jack White had any idea what he had written when he came up with the riff to 𝗦𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗿𝗺𝘆. Plenty of songs have great riffs; very few escape the song itself and end up being chanted by entire stadiums. It is hopelessly overplayed by now, but it was also the reason I bought 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵, so I can hardly complain too much.

What matters is that the album around it still holds up. The guitars are raw and enormous, the arrangements are stripped down without ever feeling empty, and Jack and Meg manage to make very simple ideas sound exciting. There is enough variation in mood and texture that 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵 never feels like one famous single surrounded by filler.

Most importantly, it still sounds to me the way it did when I first bought it: immediate, loud, strange, and ridiculously fun. I came for 𝗦𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗡𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗿𝗺𝘆 and ended up with an album I still love.

The 13th Floor Elevators put “psychedelic” in the album title, but to my ears the music still sounds closer to raw garage rock than the psychedelia I associate with 1967. The electric jug adds a strange bubbling sound, and the band certainly has energy, but I kept expecting the songs to take me somewhere a little more peculiar.

There’s charm in how rough and eager it all sounds. Still, having heard what other bands would do just a year later, I find this less adventurous than the title suggests. That may be an unfair expectation to bring to an early record, but it’s where I end up: happy to hear the beginnings, more excited by what followed.

Apple Music note: Look for this debut on the 1998 compilation 𝘐𝘯 𝘢 𝘋𝘰𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦.

The jangly guitars and rough-edged indie-pop sound are appealing, and there’s enough going on to make this an enjoyable listen. What’s missing for me is a song that really stays with me once the album ends. I like what I’m hearing without getting particularly attached to it.

Perhaps I’ve heard too many similar records by now, but this one doesn’t do much to separate itself from the pack. I don’t need every debut to reinvent guitar music; I’d just like a stronger reason to return to this particular one.

And suddenly, The Byrds have gone country. After the jangly folk rock and psychedelia of their earlier records, 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘰 feels like a genuine break with what came before.

The shift is bold and the band commits to it completely, but I still find myself missing the sound I normally associate with The Byrds. The country material is well played and often charming, yet it never pulls me in quite as much as their earlier work.

An important change of direction, certainly, but not the Byrds album I would reach for first.

𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘳 is a filmi album, written for an Indian film rather than conceived purely as a standalone record. There are some interesting melodies and colourful arrangements here, but the recording quality keeps getting in the way for me.

Much of it sounds thin, distant, and slightly murky, which takes away some of the impact the music should have. I often get the feeling that the ideas are more appealing than the way they actually reach my ears.

As an introduction to Indian film music of the period, it is interesting. As something I would actually want to hear again, much less so.

For me, the real centre of 𝘐 𝘈𝘮 𝘢 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘕𝘰𝘸 is Anohni’s voice rather than the band around her. The arrangements are tasteful and often beautiful, but they can also feel a little too cautious. I sometimes wish the musicians would take more chances instead of staying so firmly in the background.

Anohni, on the other hand, is impossible to ignore. That trembling, fragile delivery gives even the simplest line enormous emotional weight, and I find myself listening closely to every small shift in her voice.

The band could give me more, but Anohni gives me more than enough reason to keep listening.

I loved 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 when I first heard it, and I still do. Portishead could have returned with a safe update of their old sound, but instead they made something harsher, stranger, and more restless. The electronics are rougher, the rhythms feel almost mechanical, and Beth Gibbons sounds as fragile and haunted as ever.

What makes the album so good is that all this unease never gets in the way of the songs. There are still strong melodies underneath the noise and tension, and Gibbons’ voice gives the whole record a human core. It sounds unmistakably like Portishead, just pushed into a darker and more abrasive place.

It is a shame that Barrow, Gibbons, and Utley never followed it with another full album. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 showed that they could disappear for years, come back completely changed, and still sound like themselves. Eighteen years later, I’m still waiting.

𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 has a dark, worn-down atmosphere that suits the material well, but Marianne Faithfull’s voice never quite works for me. I understand why its roughness is such a defining part of the album, yet her delivery often feels too flat and limited to keep me engaged.

The production is much more interesting, with its cold new-wave edge and electronic touches giving the songs some tension. Unfortunately, I keep wishing the vocals had the same range and movement.

A distinctive record, but one where the voice at the centre is also the main reason I struggle with it.

Those sweeping strings certainly give away the album’s age. Then Billie Holiday starts singing, and suddenly that seems beside the point. Her voice is rough and fragile, but I love how much expression she finds in a single line. Sometimes it’s a word she holds onto; sometimes it’s the way she lets a phrase trail away. I find myself hanging on those little details.

The orchestra gives everything a grand, romantic setting, while Billie makes it feel painfully personal. Her voice doesn’t blend neatly into the arrangements, and that contrast is what gets me. I might find all those strings rather sentimental with another singer, but she gives them something much harder to dismiss. Old-fashioned, certainly — but it still gets under my skin.

The cover gives a fair warning: Dr. John sounds just as strange as he looks. His gravelly voice, the chanting, and all that percussion make for a murky, slightly unsettling take on psychedelia. It’s an interesting sound, and I like that he never seems tempted to make it more respectable.

Whether it holds my attention for a whole album is another matter. Some passages pull me in, but others leave me waiting for something beyond the atmosphere. I remember the character and the mood much more clearly than the individual songs. An interesting encounter with the doctor, though I’m in no hurry to book another appointment.

𝘒𝘢𝘭𝘢 leaves me with much the same impression as 𝘈𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳. The restless beats, insistent vocals, and constant activity are all familiar, and I struggle to hear what gives this album a character of its own.

That doesn’t make it a bad record. There are moments I enjoy, and M.I.A. certainly isn’t short of energy. But whatever the differences between the two albums, they haven’t changed my reaction very much. I’m still interested in parts rather than won over by the whole thing.

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧: While I respect M.I.A.’s influence as an artist, I don’t share or endorse her later political views, including her statements about COVID-19 and support for Donald Trump. My assessment here is focused purely on the musical and cultural aspects of the album.