Reviews by z_e_q

any major dude will tell you it’s a five.

she wrote sister morphine and apparently inspired wild horses. i want to like it. i even do sometimes (brain drain, guilt, lucy jordan, why’d you do it, most of the keyboards). but some voices resonate, and some go right through you. some are intense; others are exhausting.

a chill, mostly enjoyable ride. the two tracks with earnest love pop vocals are cringe duds (sorry beth) that keep it from a 4. skippers. if you’re going to take me on a magic pillow blanket picnic through sunny skies, don’t bring your trite earthbound treacle.

you hear let’s get it on and it’s great and you wonder if he can keep it up, if he has the stamina to last. he does, and it’s good, but it’s all basically the same song.

they do more with more and don’t lose themselves or me…yet. they’re still my guys on this one.

pff. undeniable. part of me thinks it’s annoying. it consistently shuts that part of me up.

has the hooks to have on in the background, and the arrangements for a deeper listen.

i may prefer them later as good-time party boys over the shambling psychedelic village green outfit here (i’ve got the kinks, after all), but pre-rod and still-small faces still kick. and you can hear the party in there thrashing around, ripping it apart at the seams from the inside, especially on the first half. but when it bursts out, it’s more humble pie than “nod to a blind horse.” still good though innit.

side two furthers the great old british tradition of psychedelia via full blown fairy tale and/or rock opera. it’s charming and fun, but it’ll keep you from letting side two rip at any social gatherings anytime soon.

good, weird, fun record.

enter a randy, howling rod stewart.

elvis costello is annoying, so without hooks (THIS YEAR’S MODEL, but here: “beyond belief,” “tears before bedtime”) to properly channel that cornball nasal tone, to give it shape and purpose, he wears out his welcome.

some of the playing is good here and the arrangements are meticulous, but those only carry so much water. every time i listen to elvis costello, i’m on the edge of not liking it. even the records i do like. this doesn’t tip the right way.

and “town cryer” can go pound salt. (i don’t want to) listen to him whine.

you can’t listen to this as you. gotta embody someone else. i’m a high school junior in 1981. i’ve got a face full of zits, a wispy strawberry blonde mustache, a shitload of pent-up sexual frustration, and an IROC Z28.

with me, i’ve also got my best friends Scooter and Mud Lungs, a pack of Marlboro lights, and a case of Hamm’s. we’re tearing ass down a county road on our way to Susie Greenfield’s, whose parents are out of town and where there’s a party with so many hot chicks. so there’s hope tonight. “yyz” is playing. Mud Lungs just nailed every bit of Peart’s drum part on the dash. it gives way to the righteous opening chords of “limelight”. and it sounds like a 5, baby.

then perhaps i’m transported back to my own body. “more a 4?” i think haughtily as i sip coffee, jet-lagged and up too early in a kitchen not my own in copenhagen. “hooky but shallow? low hanging fruit? did it lose some focus and momentum around ‘witch hunt’? a fantasy, but fun while it lasted, right?”

but then, lost in my thoughts, i feel the steering wheel in my hands, the summer air pouring in through the t tops, Geddy’s voice streaming behind us like a flag, a banner. i grin at Scooter in the rearview mirror (he’s always had such fucked up teeth), spark a marlboro, and hit that five star button so hard that everyone at the Greenfield place feels it.

first half: mmmm, nice. i'm enjoying this. it's moody but has undeniable grooves and melodies. the lyrics aren't half as smart as i'm always hearing or expected, but still, am i gonna be a radiohead guy? is it happening?

"we suck young blood": my wife, who claims to like this album but who i suspect only really listened to "there, there" before seeing them at coachella in high school, walks into the room and says, "what is this. this is terrible." not as big a radiohead guy as she thinks she is, eh? i concur at the time.

then i listen to it again and don't hate it. but THEN i read that thom claims it's a "slave ship tune" that satirizes hollywood culture and "is not to be taken seriously." lol okay. i didn't think he could sound like a bigger butthole than he did on the song itself, but he went and outdid himself. now i hate it more than i did the first time.

side two is a mixed bag with some good (“there, there”; “myxo”), some inoffensive (“punch up”), and some bad (“i will”, which can go pound salt).

maybe i’m like half a radiohead guy now?

welcome to mass. come, let us worship.

war's destruction, human weakness, nuclear winter, the inevitability of death (and what comes after), fairy footwear. sometimes wrapped in biblical, druggy, and fantastical metaphor, sometimes straight up. says more than most other albums and does so in a revolutionarily heavy way. throw in a heady dose of space travel, killer tone shifts, and an all-time sci-fi archetype, and you've got yourself one of the greatest rock albums ever.

it came out in 1970 when lots of artists were shaping blues to fit their own visions, and this is no exception. it makes sense that doom was born of a genre obsessed with sadness and death, but also obsessed with expressing it in tones that extend beyond melancholy.

the genesis of stoner and doom, and of so much more that has come since. a great record with a phenomenally stupid and absolutely perfect album cover.

it's fine for what it is: a dated disco album with a first track we've heard at every wedding we've ever attended, only faded out after three of its eight minutes. which probably tells you something about it.

inoffensive for the most part, a few songs running too close to syrupy smooth for my taste, and a few others running too long.

"can't stand to love you" is cool because they let nile rodgers bust a little bit, and he basically invented a style of playing the guitar, which puts him in rarified air. but alas, i want more nile rodgers busting a little bit.

the "less electric guitar" album. blood cells, elephant, and de stijl may be superior, but this was still realer, weirder, and better than most music coming out at that time, and frankly, most since. they still had the juice, baby.

plus, we know what not having the juice sounds like because we have jack’s solo work since, oh, let’s say, lazaretto. his most recent album got some plaudits, but it didn’t stand up to my bullshit detector.

the shambling piano, acoustic guitar, vibraphone, and mandolin of side one make the midpoint "instinct blues" hit harder. then these two sisterbrotherhusbandwives put all that innate satanic horniness behind them (“even the strawberries get it, so why don’t you?”) with a side two collection of mostly sweet and mostly acoustic songs, the relapse of "red rain" excepted.

i don’t care that this has been dropped from the list because this list is sometimes dog crap, and i don’t care that there are perhaps better white stripes albums on here. this wasn’t some death knell where they outpaced meg’s abilities. every song hits, and it’s nice to have a fully formed change of pace from one of the greatest bands in my lifetime.

third time’s a charm. despair has basically never been my go-to tone, but here i am having added a cure album, a smiths album, and now this to my melancholy quiver, all in the last month.

to be fair, it’s not all a dirge. some gear shifts. a fully formed weirdo statement. rough-hewn and raw, and better for it. classic rock songs hacked away at and turned haunted and shot out the other side. also gets better as it goes.

4 for now, but with all the makings of a grower, so this could be a 5, stat.

occasionally vivid storytelling from a gifted writer. i like his poetry when he lets his guard down. i like his voice best when it cracks and gets wacky, gets a little weird. but this isn't consistently clear, vulnerable, or weird enough for me.

it also lacks anything that gets me out of my seat. not surprising: dr. dre was executive producer. "m.a.a.d. city" probably comes closest to something funky when it morphs into a different song at 2:35 (boom boom bap), even with the squiggly high chronic synth that worms its way in near the end.

apparently "backseat freestyle" is supposed to be kendrick's teenage self showing off for his buddies after one of them hits record and prompts him to rap, providing the backdrop for the juvenile eiffel tower dick stuff. but i listened to it four times, and i don't know how i'm supposed to get all that context.

i also don't give a shit for skits or songs about someone's dick or sexual prowess (dr. dre, repeat offender: doctor's office / pause 4 porno). tryhard shortcut stuff. you're a good writer. find a metaphor. maybe that makes me a puritan, or maybe i just like wordplay when i know the artist is more than capable of it (kendrick, not dre). make it clever, not obvious, not crass, not boring. god it's boring.

on the other hand, a song like "the art of peer pressure" is great. drop the posturing, peel back the production, give us something honest and biographical and retrospective. full of little details -- backseats and his boys and super nintendos and close calls. his voice is right there, too. go figure it's one of the least-listened-to songs on the album on spotify.

count "good kid" and the aforementioned "maad city" in the same boat. more of that.

i like some things about kendrick lamar, mainly tearing drake a new asshole before, during, and after the super bowl halftime show, but this sounds made for the masses. it's an autobiographical album, but the plot isn't clear enough and the beats aren't infectious enough to hold my attention for long enough to tell its story.

this is sweet, it really is.

lenny loved prince, the beatles, jimi, and stevie so much that he self-produced this loving macaroni art tribute.

it's sweet, but it's not good.

did these guys forget that ramones records are 29 minutes long? that if you’re going to take us on an odyssey, you need the clash’s versatility or television’s meandering, exploratory mastery? or, y’know, raw power?

we've all either received or given a blowjob by now, guys. fucking get over it and say something.

more costumed posturing. lord have mercy we need a good authentic punk album this week.

"high energy" "punk" "rock". just because you put the words together doesn’t mean it is. puts on the costume and thrashes around, tries to convince you. gnashes its teeth. is fast. has horns. says little.

i found myself doing strange things while this was playing. put a monster energy sticker on my truck. stashed my sunglasses on the back of my head. grew a soul patch.

sounds like san diego. like french fries in your perfectly good burrito. empty calories.

there are impulses here that i appreciate more than on the albums i’ve rated as 1, but not by much. this is empty sound and impotent fury.

if this is your thing, i’m sure these guys are coming to a desert or riverboat casino near you soon. keep stingin' em fellas.

pretty fun actually. the reggae thing is a platform for some catchy breakdowns. runs the gamut from good (deathwish; the big singles; bring on the night; contact) to inoffensive (regatta; the bed's too big) to cornball (it’s alright for you; on any other day).

it's mostly good and tight and low stakes. even the corn made me drum along with it. some surprising atonal guitar stuff and effects use.

my first time through a whole smiths album. i like this more than i thought i would.

no one really likes steve morrissey as a guy, but his lyrics are jarring and vivid. plus, the johnny marr hype is worthy.

tonally, 80s sadboy/goth has never been my thing, but it's growing on me. marr's guitar helps it along. he kinda does everything here. snarling rhythm, chiming rhythm, dreamy fingerpicking, wailing single notes, bo diddley slapback. autoharp.

it's also funnier than i expected. "unhappy birthday." petty as hell.

"paint a vulgar picture" has that sweet vocal hook that i crave. and who doesn't love a song shitting on someone's boss? the smiths and johnny paycheck. this one just has a dead guy.

a silly death-obsessed blues song and another petty, jealous one to end it.

yeah, this is all right.