Reviews by shoegaze_vulpes86

I never had a personal connection to 𝘋𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦 back in the 90s or 00s, but if I had stumbled on it then, I probably would have played it endlessly. Listening now, this kind of pop-punk just doesn’t grab me anymore. 𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘦 is easily the standout track — and no surprise it became Green Day’s signature song until 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵 came along a decade later. An important album for the genre and for 90s alternative/indie history, sure, but one I can only appreciate from a distance.

The first half of this record is fairly disposable psychedelic rock — competent but forgettable, the kind of late-60s filler you’d expect to find in any bargain-bin psych compilation. Then comes the second half: the infamous 17-minute epic 𝘐𝘯-𝘈-𝘎𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘢-𝘋𝘢-𝘝𝘪𝘥𝘢, supposedly a drunken slur of 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘥𝘦𝘯. It lurches forward on a massive organ riff, fuzz guitar, and a pounding drum solo, equal parts hypnotic and absurd.

Pop-culture sealed its legend when 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴 reimagined it as the church hymn 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘌𝘥𝘦𝘯 by I. Ron Butterfly in 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭. That joke sums up the track perfectly — it’s overblown and ridiculous, but also undeniable fun.

As an album, it’s lopsided: one iconic jam surrounded by mediocrity. Still, that jam alone secured Iron Butterfly a place in rock history.

Without 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦’𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥, the Icelandic music scene with bands like Sigur Rós, múm, or Of Monsters and Men might never have made it past Reykjavík’s record shops. Björk Guðmundsdóttir had already cut her first solo album in 1977 at the age of eleven (a collector’s holy grail today) and played in bands like Tappi Tíkarrass and Kukl, but this is where her voice truly exploded onto the international stage.

The Sugarcubes sound like nothing else: jagged post-punk colliding with eccentric pop, half naïve, half unhinged. 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 drips with surreal innocence, 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩 turns a grisly accident into gleeful absurdity, and 𝘔𝘢𝘮𝘢 is both tender and unsettling. Einar Örn’s half-shouted, half-spoken vocals are chaotic, sometimes maddening, but they give the record its crooked charm.

Weird, playful, and unforgettable, 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦’𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 is a debut that made Iceland more than just volcanoes and geysers — it put Reykjavík’s weirdness on the world map. The press only wanted Björk, but the chaos was the whole point.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about Eric Clapton: as the host of 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦 he left a positive impression, but his careless political remarks do the opposite. Musically, he’s often hailed by magazines (and even casual listeners — someone once coined the phrase “Clapton is God”) as one of the greatest guitarists of all time. Yet what he really delivers is safe, academic blues. If you wanted to learn the basics of blues guitar, Clapton could teach you a few solid lessons — but that doesn’t make him a visionary songwriter.

𝟦𝟨𝟣 𝘖𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘥 proves the point: aside from a couple of originals, it’s mostly covers, played with competence but little spark. His laid-back approach is pleasant enough, yet the album feels more like a collection of interpretations than a true artistic statement.

𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘰𝘭 may not have the universal aura of 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘉𝘭𝘶𝘦, but it’s a landmark in its own right. Miles Davis and his nonet trade the frenetic energy of bebop for elegance, subtlety, and carefully arranged textures. The result is a cooler, chamber-like jazz that still feels fresh in its restraint — a pivotal step in Davis’s evolution and in modern jazz history.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 is smooth, elegant, and clearly an important moment in 70s soul-funk, but outside of 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳 little really sticks. It flows nicely as background, yet feels more like atmosphere than substance.

𝘚𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 drifts between jazz, folk, and dreamlike ambience, carried by Robert Wyatt’s fragile voice and gentle eccentricity. It’s atmospheric and often beautiful, but also meandering, with stretches that feel more like sketches than fully formed songs. A curious late-career work, rewarding in mood if not always in momentum.

With 𝘓𝘦𝘥 𝘡𝘦𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯 𝘐𝘐𝘐 , the band pivoted from pure hard rock into a daring mix of thunderous riffs and folk-psychedelic textures. The opener 𝘐𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨 is pure power, but much of the album finds Zeppelin exploring acoustic guitars, mandolins, and trippy atmospheres on songs like 𝘎𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘦 and 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘯-𝘠-𝘈𝘶𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘱. It’s not flawless, yet the blend of weight and whimsy makes this one of their most adventurous and rewarding records.

𝘕𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦 is a polished mix of pop, folk, and blues that showcases Bonnie Raitt’s warm voice and tasteful slide guitar. It’s solid and heartfelt, with moments of real charm, but it doesn’t quite reach the heights its reputation suggests.

Liz Phair’s 𝘌𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘎𝘶𝘺𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦 doesn’t always live up to its towering reputation. Her voice may be unpolished, but that’s part of the indie ethos, and when the lo-fi edge hits, it works beautifully. Still, too much of the record drifts into generic territory, leaving only half of it truly compelling.

𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘰 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘰 is a fascinating snapshot of Afro-Cuban percussion, with Sabú Martínez leading a fiery session of congas, bongos, and call-and-response vocals. It’s historically important and rhythmically engaging, but Blue Note’s early experiments with stereophonic sound haven’t aged well — hard panning and “ping-pong” effects make the listening experience more distracting than immersive today.

Sam Cooke’s 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘮 𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘶𝘣 captures him in raw, fiery form, but the recording quality leaves a lot to be desired — understandable given the limited means of taping a club show in 1963. Had he performed this same set a decade later, it might have sounded entirely different, but history didn’t allow for that. What remains is a fascinating glimpse of Cooke’s power on stage, even if the sound doesn’t do him full justice.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘊𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 aims for timeless stadium rock but ends up sounding like a generic early-2000s record. The production is polished to a fault, the songs feel formulaic, and while there are flashes of the band’s anthemic power, the overall effect is safe and uninspired.

A warm and soulful blend of folk, rock, and pop, carried by Joan Armatrading’s expressive voice and sharp songwriting. Intimate yet powerful, it’s the record that firmly established her as a singular talent of the 70s.

𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘚𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘚𝘦𝘹 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘬 showcases a band playing tightly together, and tracks like 𝘎𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘐𝘵 𝘈𝘸𝘢𝘺 and especially 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦 prove they could write genuine classics. But at over 70 minutes it drags, bloated by the urge to fill an entire CD. The real weak link is Anthony Kiedis, whose nasal, often grating delivery quickly wears thin. In the alternative landscape of 1991, there were far stronger albums to spend that time on.

𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭 shows Fishbone at their most adventurous, fusing ska, funk, punk, and soul with wild energy. It’s undeniably interesting and influential, but the chaotic genre mix doesn’t quite click for me.

𝘓𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 is the second byproduct of David Bowie’s Berlin trilogy, though it only partially bears his sonic fingerprints. The record is rawer and more straightforward than Bowie’s own work of the era, with Iggy Pop’s charisma front and center on classics like 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 and the title track. Energetic and iconic, but not as consistently compelling as its reputation suggests.

𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘺 is a serene and evocative journey through the sounds of Kashmir, performed by three masters: Shivkumar Sharma on the shimmering santur, Hariprasad Chaurasia on bansuri, and Brij Bhushan Kabra on slide guitar. For many western listeners, the santur will be a revelation — its crystalline tones, blended with flute and guitar, create a soundscape that feels both timeless and fresh. While rooted in classical ragas, the music flows gently and accessibly, making it one of the most inviting introductions to Indian classical music. A beautiful and meditative record, deserving of its reputation.

𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘳 𝘓𝘢𝘴 𝘝𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘴 feels like the provisional peak of the dream pop/shoegaze scene — though the towering classics that would follow soon after might overshadow it, this record still radiates timeless beauty. Liz Fraser’s voice is so otherworldly she could sing a cookbook or a gardening manual and it would still sound transcendent; on photos she may look unassuming, but here she’s simply luminous. Robin Guthrie’s shoegazey, dreampoppy guitar textures complete the spell, making this one of the genre’s most enchanting records.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘉𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯 is lush, ambitious, and often breathtaking, with orchestral arrangements and Wayne Coyne’s fragile vocals giving it both grandeur and intimacy. Frequently hailed as a masterpiece, I hear it more as a remarkable step on the way to what many consider their true peak. Still, it’s a beautiful and moving record that defines late-90s alternative.