Got hips like Cinderella
Must be having a good shame
Talking sweet about nothing
Cookie I think you're
Tame
#20. Pixies | Doolittle (1989)
# of Voters: 44 | Score: 2879.522
Rank in 2014: #18
AM 3000 Rank: #45
Top Fans: Spiderpig (#2), BleuPanda (#3), Michel (#4), Maschine_Man (#4), Jackson (#5), SJner (#6), BryanBehar (#9), StevieFan13 (#11), JohnnyBGoode (#12), DaveC (#12), LuvulongTIM (#13), Brad (#16), Jirin (#21), Harold (#24), Honorio (#26), M24 (#27), Nick (#28), Dudumb (#31), VanillaFire1000 (#32), Listyguy (#43), JWinton (#45), Slick (#59), GucciLittlePiggy (#65), Bruno (#88), BangJan (#95), Spiritualized (#97), DocBrown (#100)
It's so difficult to find the right words! Above all, when you have to describe crass joy. And that's what this work gets to provoke. This armoured pop, fisureless punk classic. The ultimate summit for the band of the 80s and 90s. That's what happens when you rule the barren interzone. That's what happens when you are the owner of the rough melody and the cotton wool heartbreak, the songs with no solos but full with shades that make them fresh at every listening. A planet to discover any time one explores it. It's rejoicing to play this album and lie down, yell, jump, never stop.
Pixies achieved to make themselves a name that causes an almost religious respect and devotion. And they did it by huge songs and angular, fleshy albums. With not much sense, they could express it all. A vortex of power and unconditional support. They raise all this to heaven in a both imperfect and unbeatable work. That's what happens with emotional affection. JOY in an already eternal classic...
--laranra, RYM
I'm not one who make believes
I know that leaves are green
They only turn to brown when autumn comes around
I know just what I say
Today's not yesterday
And all things have an ending
#19. Stevie Wonder | Innervisions (1973)
# of Voters: 47 | Score: 2934.053
Rank in 2014: #41
AM 3000 Rank: #50
Top Fans: SonofSamIAm (#2), Bootsy (#4), Slucs (#4), Toni (#5), Honorio (#9), Dudumb (#10), Bruno (#11), Jirin (#13), Renan (#13), Nico (#17), Panam (#17), RickyMathias (#18), Listyguy (#19), Henry (#22), SweepstakesRon (#27), Antonius (#28), Profeta (#31), BryanBehar (#32), RockyRaccoon (#35), Babydoll (#38), BleuPanda (#45), Nicolas (#49), Nick (#72), Dexter (#73), BonnieLaurel (#78), Harold (#79), DaveC (#88), Slick (#91), ChrisK (#97)
Innervisions was something of a departure because Wonder, who was previously more than content to allow his lyrics—both bitter and sweet—to apply to simple love scenarios, had discovered a desire to tap into a larger reserve of collective emotion: in this case, the disenfranchised rage of America’s Nixon era. Unlike 1972’s Talking Book, which opened with the edging-on-insipid upward whole-tone progressions of “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” Innervisions’ opening salvo, “Too High,” begins with a jangling cymbal and a bass-heavy minor-key riff that immediately segues into a frightening vocal break before repeating the cycle. Wonder enters singing the obtusely-metered phrase “Too high, I’m so high, I feel like I’m about to die,” which, incidentally, descends down the whole-tone scale in an inversion of “Sunshine.” Hobbling along, the protagonist of Wonder’s anti-drug screed finds himself (or herself) lost in a musical labyrinth that threatens to loop itself into a whirlpool of insanity. Clearly this was a different Wonder than the kid who just two years earlier had a major hit with the clap-happy “If You Really Love Me.”
The overt scare tactics of “Too High” melt into the soothing and gentle utopian ruminations of “Visions.” Wonder has frequently claimed that of all his songs, “Visions” is perhaps his favorite, and it certainly fits his personality: both politically conscious and still optimistically obsessed with a better future. A song as wispy and ephemeral as “Visions” would’ve been lost on any other album, and probably dismissed by critics as flakey. But one less-heralded tenet of Wonder’s genius on Innervisions is his intuitive mastery of song sequencing. Nestled in between “Too High” and “Living For The City,” Wonder’s fiercest moment, “Visions” has a calming effect. Wonder is occasionally targeted for being a tad too milquetoast as a funkateer, but even George fuckin’ Clinton would probably shy away from the astringency of “City,” which tells the story of a black man who grows up poor, attempts to make a life for himself in the city, is arrested immediately upon his arrival, spends 10 years in jail and winds up a grizzled, homeless, gritty-footed walking corpse. Wonder scores the man’s descent to a basic blues progression; hollow moog synthesizers and a low droning bass once again induce a surprising sort of terror (made all the more powerful following “Visions”).
“Living For The City” is the album’s centerpiece, and remains one of the only moments in Wonder’s career as a politically-minded pop star where he allows himself to come face to face with utter pessimism and caves in to it wholesale (check the avant-garde, atonal parody of patriotic leitmotifs that underscores his final howl of “No!”). The sweet reward of following Wonder down the path of his own personal hell is “Golden Lady”—the light at the end of the tunnel, the rebirth of Wonder’s optimism, whatever cliché you wish to attach to it. What can’t be denied (even if you’re put off by the bi-polar bait-and-switch routine that characterizes Side A, and find yourself cynically alienated by the song’s joyful denouement) is that the rich, gorgeous chord progressions of “Golden Lady” make it a soul sister to Songs In The Key Of Life‘s unparalleled “Summer Soft,” and both remain the best case for giving in to Wonder’s uniquely charming brand of joie de vivre.
--Eric Henderson, Slant
The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grisly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller
#18. Michael Jackson | Thriller (1982)
# of Voters: 49 | Score: 2989.277
Rank in 2014: #33
AM 3000 Rank: #26
Top Fans:
Bruno (#1), Nico (#1), BonnieLaurel (#1), Renan (#1), Felipinho (#2), Profeta (#3), Victor.Marianoo77 (#4), Bootsy (#6), Schaefer.tk (#6), Georgie (#8), JohnnyBGoode (#11), Dexter (#12), Babydoll (#13), Jirin (#14), LiveinPhoenix (#16), SweepstakesRon (#17), M24 (#19), Karla (#20), Slucs (#26), Nick (#29), PlasticRam (#49), Honorio (#52), Whuntva (#57), ProsecutorGodot (#73), EmilienDelRey (#74), LuvulongTIM (#75), Listyguy (#78), BryanBehar (#79), RockyRaccon (#91), Nicolas (#93), Dudumb (#97)
To be honest, he never really registered in my consciousness as being a person; Michael Jackson was the androgynous sexual panic of "Billie Jean," the breathless seduction of "P.Y.T.," the thrilling kitsch of "Thriller," the chattering afro-popisms of "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'." The idea that he had a human body, one that needed food and air and sleep, never really clicked in my mind. But then again, I guess that's to be expected. I mean, how can a mere human being really be thought to be capable of creating something as monstrous, as mechanical, as all-encompassing, and as awesome as Thriller? This kid wasn't the king of pop; he was the whole damn kingdom. And we, the audience, are not his loyal subjects; we're just reading the travel brochures.
The point is, Thriller is one of the greatest moments in the history of pure pop. Which is to say, it's plastic, mass-produced, jugular-grabbingly commercial, and completely unconcerned with originality, artistic merit, or honesty. And goshdarnit, I wouldn't have it any other way! With songs and performances as irresistible and ecstatic as the ones found here, artfulness will only get in the way. Because when you have a song as swooping, as ethereal, as hypnotic, and as unashamedly romantic as "Baby Be Mine," there's really no need to question its validity. Just let those labyrinthine keyboards and yearning vocals carry you away to a shiny place. And when "Beat It" comes roaring out of the gates, it does so with such force and brutal eloquence that you completely forget how absurd it is for Michael Jackson to take on the role of a street-smart hoodlum. As a vision of ghetto reality, it's a nonsensical failure; but the important thing to remember is that, on a purely visceral level, it sounds more convincing and more immediate than its more authentic counterparts.
And then there's "Billie Jean," whose lyrics are either shockingly amoral or completely uneventful, but which still manages to be one of the most magical, irresistible, and emotionally charged moments in the history of music. And if we found ourselves getting annoyed by the idea of having to root for a child-abandoning father, then we can just remind ourselves that it's only a pop album. An stunning pop album, to be precise.
--telephone_junkie, RYM
There's a feeling I get
When I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who standing looking
#17. Led Zeppelin | IV (1971)
# of Voters: 45 | Score: 3038.871
Rank in 2014: #15
AM 3000 Rank: #28
Top Fans:
RedAnt (#1), Listyguy (#1), Jirin (#2), Dexter (#5), Slick (#5), Whuntva (#5), Luis15Fernando (#6), Acroamor (#6), JWinton (#7), Bruno (#8), RockyRaccoon (#10), Profeta (#13), GabeBasso (#14), Victor.Marianoo77 (#15), Bootsy (#16), Nick (#22), OrdinaryPerson (#25), Harold (#28), Andyd1010 (#30), Nicolas (#34), DaveC (#35), Spiritualized (#37), Honorio (#47), M24 (#49), Brad (#49), VeganValentine (#54), LiveinPhoenix (#55), ChrisK (#56), Panam (#59), Spiderpig (#69), ProsecutorGodot (#90)
There are only eight tracks and Zeppelin never put out singles but at least half of these songs play such a fundamental part in the soundtrack of our times that they would be immediately identifiable by most listeners from just a few bars. Has there ever been a greater opening phrase in rock history than Robert Plant’s wail over the hum of warmed up amps on Black Dog? “Hey, hey mama, said the way you move / Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.” It is a threat and a promise that the album resolutely keeps.
Black Dog is an ultimate riff, the driving sexual impulse of blues based electric rock boiled to its essence, a crowd baiting call and response between Plant’s keening, crowing stud and Jimmy Page’s sinuous guitar-slinger, the lock tight rhythm section of bassist John Paul Jones and drummer John Bonham pushing that truncated riff as hard as it will go. And you don’t have a moment to recover before dashing into the thrilling high speed drum roll of Rock And Roll, in which Zeppelin reimagine the already nostalgic style of their youth with the most urgent, exuberant, utterly thrilling 12 bar blast ever heard. “It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled,” roars Plant as the band put that to rights in a brash flash of a track featuring a ridiculously dumb, sloppily brilliant solo.
And then there’s Stairway To Heaven. I won’t hear a word against Zeppelin’s epic anthem, though there was a time in the late Seventies when it became synonymous with rock’s bloated journey into pretension and excess. In a way the song has been a victim of its startling originality and intense emotion, overplayed on rock radio, badly imitated by legions of lesser bands and worn out by ham fisted buskers. But clear your mind of cliché by association and it’s still a mind-blowing piece of music, building from delicate folksiness to urgent rock intensity and spiralling upwards into a symphonic guitar fantasia, with a message of mythic truthfulness at its core.
And what else? The overall sense of Led Zeppelin IV is of swaggering, heavy rock by a band of alpha musicians in full flow, and they certainly riff it up over the percussive shuffle of Four Sticks and let it all hang out on the funky trip of Misty Mountain Hop. But there are other dimensions to the sound that ensure the listener’s ear is not dulled by relentless attack, the strange folky yearning of The Battle Of Evermore and the wistful beauty of Going To California, where mellifluous acoustic guitars and mandolins frame one of Plant’s most touching and expressive vocals. And then it all comes to a fantastic, stomping, grinding, earth shaking conclusion with their reinvention of Memphis Minnie’s When The Levee Breaks, built on Bonham’s half tempo thud, Jones’s rolling bass, Plant’s hyperventilating harmonica. By the time Jimmy Page cracks open his solo and Page wails about going down, you feel like this is the sound of a dam actually crumbling before your ears, washing everything away.
Led Zeppelin IV sounded amazing in 1971 and it sounds amazing now. It has an essential purity, four towering musicians locked together, making music that is setting their spirits free. It arrived at a moment in pop history when rock was reconfiguring itself. The Beatles had broadened the scope of popular music to such an extent that it is not really possible to consider them purely as a rock band but, in their wake, there were a lot of bands trying both to get back to the more primal drive of the original electric music that had inspired them and to carry it into bolder, more adult places. Jimi Hendrix was pushing the guitar towards the sonic outer limits, Pink Floyd were concocting lush space age soundscapes, The Who were adding keyboards and sequencers to their gobsmacking hard rock crunch, The Rolling Stones were digging down into the music’s bluesy roots, David Bowie and Mick Ronson were waiting in the wings with their glam sci-fi inventions. But when it comes to the absolute essence of power, sexiness and rhythmic attack of guitar, bass, drums and voice, Led Zeppelin were the band in the driving seat. They had essentially already invented the genre of heavy rock and were at the height of their confidence, creativity and youthful ambition. Led Zeppelin IV threw down the gauntlet for a whole generation. Even when punk came to knock down everything that came before, this album was left standing.
--Neil McCormick, The Telegraph
You're just a sinner I am told
Be your fire when you're cold
Make u happy when you're sad
Make u good when u are bad
I'm not a human
I am a dove
I'm your conscious
I am love
All I really need is 2 know that
U believe
#16. Prince | Purple Rain (1984)
# of Voters: 45 | Score: 3042.806
Rank in 2014: #23
AM 3000 Rank: #43
Top Fans: StevieFan13 (#3), Slick (#3), Felipinho (#4), JiriN (#5), M24 (#6), SonofSamIAm (#6), RockyRaccoon (#6), ProsecutorGodot (#9), NotBrianEno (#14), JohnnyBGoode (#14), Romain (#14), Dexter (#15), LiveinPhoenix (#15), Nico (#19), Bruno (#21), Profeta (#22), Slucs (#23), Bootsy (#29), Moonbeam (#32), Nick (#33), Honorio (#36), ChrisK (#39), JWinton (#39), Whuntva (#40), VanilaFire1000 (#41), SweepstakesRon (#41), BryanBehar (#49), EmilienDelRey (#49), Harold (#49), Babydoll (#63), Nicolas (#72), Spiderpig (#76), Toni (#77), BleuPanda (#87)
Prior to Purple Rain, the backstory Prince had created for himself was that of a sex-obsessed R&B groove superstar, a multi-instrumentalist and prodigious musical upstart who used his considerable powers for the sole purposes of getting the club lit the fuck up. He presented himself as a kind of raunch alien bringing the divine soundtrack to your coke-fueled, crushed velour orgy, the musical equivalent of a fog machine and a black strobe light. He refused interviews and shied away from press profiles. He famously stonewalled music press royalty—even kingmaker Dick Clark on his own show. You were not to know who he was or where he was from. You were not to fully comprehend his race nor his gender. You were not to find pictures of him in Teen Beat buying apples and milk at the grocery store in sweatpants and a baseball cap. He was most decidedly not just like us. He was from some alternate dimension where it was always 2 a.m. on a misty full moon. You were to believe that he was as mysterious as god, something conjured, perhaps from your fantasies, a magical apparition descending from funk heaven, arriving on a cloud of purple smoke and adorned in little more than a guitar, a falsetto made of glitter, and a deeply intractable groove.
But as the wildly creative are wont to do, by 1983 Prince was looking to switch that whole thing up. Despite his acute talent, he was still viewed by the industry at large as little more than an extra-funky urban novelty act, someone in league with the likes of Rick James and Lipps Inc. His most successful song to date, “Little Red Corvette,” had peaked at number 6 on the Billboard Hot 100, which simply was not good enough for the man who once described the musical training he received at the hands of his father as “almost like the Army.”
In 1982, Bruce Springsteen was devastating the country with the spare and stark depictions of a bankrupt American Dream on his darkened opus Nebraska. Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet band were doubling down on white-man soul with the basic but wildly popular “Old Time Rock & Roll,” and Michael Jackson was re-wiring the industry with an album composed almost entirely of number 1 pop hits that spent 37 weeks lording over the Billboard charts. Prince’s keyboardist, Dr. Fink, recalls that during the 1999 tour, his band leader asked him what makes Seger’s music so popular. “Well, he's playing mainstream pop-rock,” Fink told him. “If you were to write something along these lines, it would cross things over for you even further." Prince had already been carrying a purple notebook with him on the tour bus in which he had been scribbling the ideas, notes and images that would become his next movement. (Prince didn’t make albums, he made environments) and he was looking for something new.
That “something new” was Purple Rain, a sonic and visual experience that cracks open the shell of his reclusive sex alien persona to tell something of an origin story, one slightly more than loosely based on Prince’s real life. The film, directed by an unknown, produced by first timers and starring a bunch of people who had never acted in a movie before, has become an astronomical and enduring success against overwhelming odds. But it does so because it’s a film about America, about revolution and youth and anger and fucking. About not being like your dad. That is to say, it’s about rock'n'roll. It’s the tale of a kid from an abusive home in a cold, working-class city who has a shitload of talent and a dream. And he has to figure out, through tortuous trial and error, exactly what he needs to destroy in order to achieve it. Purple Rain is rough and vulnerable, common and funny, and at times even cute. It is the exact opposite of everything Prince had been before it.
With Purple Rain, Prince bursts forth from the ghetto created by mainstream radio and launches himself directly onto the Mt. Rushmore of American music. He plays rock better than rock musicians, composes better than jazz guys, and performs better than everyone, all without ever abandoning his roots as a funk man, a party leader, a true MC. The album and film brought him a fame greater and more frightening than even he imagined and he would eventually retreat into the reclusive and obtuse inscrutability for which he ultimately became known. But for the 24 weeks Purple Rain spent atop the charts in 1984, the black kid from the midwest had managed to become the most accurate expression we had of young America’s overabundance of angst, love, horniness, recklessness, idealism, and hope. For those 24 weeks at least, Prince was one of us.
--Carvell Wallace, Pitchfork