I'd Love to Turn You On #252: Kings of Leon - Aha Shake Heartbreak (2004)

            In 2004 Kings of Leon (brothers Caleb, Nathan and Jared Followill plus cousin Matthew Followill) weren’t the Kings of Leon we came to know in 2008 after MTV got their grubby corporate hands on them, made them cut their hair, take a shower and hit it big with “Sex on Fire” off their fourth studio album. In 2004 the sons of a Pentecostal preacher were dirty, long-haired dudes in their early twenties (one of them even a teenager) living in Nashville, and Aha Shake Heartbreak is their rebellion album. They wanted to make an album that just came to them, without a record label breathing down their necks. So they made Aha Shake Heartbreak, an all-out jangly garage rock album with mostly unintelligible and a little bit questionable lyrics. 

            Aha Shake Heartbreak is the only Kings of Leon album with a parental advisory label. You may not be able to understand most of what lead singer Caleb Followill is singing but believe me, it deserves that parental advisory. I had been listening to this album on repeat for years before I looked up the lyrics, I had always just sung along with what I thought he was saying. I was in for quite the surprise when looking up lyrics to some of my favorite tracks off the album. If y’all thought “Sex on Fire” was vulgar just take a look at “Soft” - never knew he was singing about perfect nipples, being “passed out in your garden” and umm…soft. Or “Rememo,” which I always saw as a swinging, twangy slow jam about nothing. Turns out it’s about the flirty girls they encountered on tour in Europe, some of which may have been young - but there was a 17 year old in the band. Or my personal favorite “Taper Jean Girl” - this song was my morning alarm for all of high school, one of the only things that would be loud enough to wake me up (the other being an air horn but that's a story for another time). It also has that word that rhymes with punt that shouldn’t be used in mixed company, which blew my mind when I found out they were saying it. If Caleb wasn’t singing, I think people would be way more in tune with just how dirty the songs on this album are, but he is and I can’t even begin to imagine what it would sound like if he wasn’t. He is all over the damn place and I love it. The rest of the band just seem to feed off of his rollercoaster singing, responding with their own out of control sound. There are many points in this album where it seems like everything is going to go off the rails, like in “Soft,” or “Razz” where you get this all-out freakout that makes you just want to just flail around, or “Taper Jean Girl,” which kicks off with a wall of sound lead by a big bass line. Even “King of the Rodeo” has such a good beat that it’s perfect for two stepping, as shown in the music video, or just flailing around, as shown in my car. All in all I love this album for the sound way more than the lyrics. I liked the chaotic noise, which I would say sounds best blasting out of a car stereo. It’s the kind of album you listen to on a road trip when you are trying to stay awake; I know this because I’ve done that with great success.

            I’ve never seen Kings of Leon live, and to be really honest, I don’t think I want to. Unless someone invents a time machine and I can go back to 2004 and see them at Exit/In in Nashville, cause I would do that in a heartbeat. It sucked seeing the Kings of Leon I knew, dirty long haired boys, get turned into a clean-shaven, cookie cutter, man-band. There was something charming about those quirky, dirty, long-haired boys that was gone not that long after Aha Shake Heartbreak came out. You can see hints of the weird on their third album - mostly in the first two tracks “Charmer” and “Knocked Up” - but they had cut their hair and started dating supermodels at that point. I’d like to think if 2004 Kings of Leon met 2020 Kings of Leon they would probably beat the crap out of them. I think it would be a fair beating.

- Anna Lathem

I'd Love to Turn You On #251: Rupa - Disco Jazz (1982)

            Rupa’s Disco Jazz didn’t gain a ton of traction upon its initial release in 1982. Born as the brainchild of the now Grammy Award-winning musician Aashish Khan, the record sold very few copies in its native country and was quickly forgotten about as the weeks passed. Rupa Biswas, the record’s titular and charismatic vocalist completely put the memory of recording the album in the rearview as the years went on. It was only after her son rediscovered the album in his mother’s attic that the family would go on to find out Disco Jazz had become a grail item for record collectors across the world. While its grooves are oriented in something that could feel dated to the average listener, its instrumental and vocal idiosyncrasies make the album an enjoyable and impactful listening experience. It’s for this reason that Disco Jazz not only stands as a testament to the talent of Rupa and the collaborators that made this record possible but also to the strange relationship of the album format and time itself.

            Disco aside, there seem to be both spiritual and psychedelic influences at play across the album and musician Aashish Khan is likely to thank for this. Khan’s performance on the sarod as well as his credits as both the producer and arranger of the record suggest he had strong creative influence over Disco Jazz’s four tracks, each of which makes an impression on the listener. His expertise on the sarod, which makes an appearance on every track, is the glue that holds the charm and beauty of the album together. The opening cut “Moja Bhari Moja'' borrows the core of its elements from standard late seventies and early eighties disco, but one doesn’t have to listen too long to be sucked in by the stark contrast of its transcendent breakdown, which slowly and brilliantly melds the sarod and Geoff Bell’s tremolo-drenched synthesizer in beautiful harmony. “Aaj Shanibar,” perhaps the album’s most well-known track, also dabbles in the realm of psychedelia with its sleek bassline and near jam-band guitar solo. The highlight of the track is the falsetto vocal from Rupa as she sings along note for note with Aashish Khan’s rhythmic, instrumental triplet. Aashish’s brother Pranesh Khan makes an appearance on this track as well as the album’s closer, complementing the track's lush production with his table playing.

            The album has its fair share of floor killer elements as well. “East West Shuffle,” the album’s bounciest and funkiest cut, is carried by the booming drum sound of percussionist Robin Tufts, whose polyrhythmic tendencies keep the track's repetitive and hypnotic bassline moving through its duration. The rock-inspired chorus of “Moja Bhari Moja” somehow fits just as much on the dancefloor as it would on any Yes album before 1972. “Ayee Morshume Be-Reham Duniya,” the album's sprawling, 15-minute closing cut, wraps up the listening experience perfectly, bringing together the best elements of side one into one epic mega track. Rupa's vocal melody over the Western funk of the Khan brothers’ instrumentation makes for some of the album’s most captivating moments. The hypnotic and pulsing refrain sucks you in and when you’re finally lost in the world the album has created for its listener, you feel as though the track could have gone on for another 15 minutes.

Disco Jazz could have been more appropriately titled Disco Psych, but the album gloriously lives up to the potential its moniker suggests. Rupa Biswas never made another album and never fully got to realize her musical prowess as the years went on, but the recent resurgence of her singular effort has revitalized her career and made her of a cult figure in some circles. If the story of Rupa proves anything, it’s that it’s never too late to make an impact and that genius is sometimes never recognized until decades later.

- Blake Britton

I'd Love to Turn You On #250: Godspeed You! Black Emperor - F#A#∞ (1997)

Godspeed You! Black Emperor (or GY!BE) are well known for their long, instrumental post-rock compositions. GY!BE has been described as cinematic in their approach to music; their songs and albums seem to tell stories and there are times when their music wouldn’t feel out of place as the soundtrack to some unconventional work of genius. Their extensive discography is also notable for the artistic statements it makes on events, politics, and ideas, which is rather impressive when you consider the fact that there are no lyrics to almost anything they’ve written (although they do include audio samples of people talking as part of songs on most of their albums). Listeners should note that the CD and vinyl versions of this album are not quite the same; the order of the music is different. In this review, I will be talking about the CD version.

What makes GY!BE stand out is that they’re able to blend innovative experimental sounds with musical storytelling and deep, powerful emotion. Emotion dominates this album; it draws you back again and again. It’s expressed in a way that can only be accomplished with music. The fact that there are no lyrics allows for an exploration of feeling that words simply can’t articulate in the same way. This is an album that will manipulate your emotions.

This album, on first listen, was very clearly made by GY!BE, but it immediately stands out from their other work because it begins with a very distinctive spoken-word segment that gradually blends into the music. "Dead Flag Blues," the first song on the hour-long, three-song album, tells a bleak story about the end of the world. It’s sad, but it’s the kind of sad that’s oddly comforting, and the story it tells feels as relevant as ever two decades after its release. Whether or not you agree with the band’s anarchist and anti-capitalist stance, you can’t deny there’s something that cuts very deep in a world like this one about the imagery of leering billboards and flags “dead at the top of their poles.” It’s eerie, it’s sad, and it’s beautiful in a pleasantly disconcerting way. It sticks with you. The melancholy music puts you at ease; it’s dreamlike and comforting, and you don’t really want it to end.

Part two of "Dead Flag Blues" begins with the sound of a train and the distinctive feeling of falling. It maintains the dreamlike feeling from the first part as it transitions into something reverb-heavy and Western-sounding, like a cowboy’s eulogy for the city that burned in part one. As long as this song is, it’s not something you’ll get bored listening to; there are clear transitions that bring each part together in a way that feels natural, like changing scenes in a movie. There’s a moment of falling in the immediate aftermath of the disaster at the beginning, then a period of mourning, and then at the end a happy and upbeat segment that gives the listener a feeling of hope; the story the song seems to tell is that the world ends, we mourn it, and then at the end we begin to recover and build something better from the ashes.

"East Hastings," the second song on the album, begins with the sound of bagpipes playing a variation of the riff from part one of "Dead Flag Blues" over the sound of a street preacher. This fades into a segment of quiet and mournful guitar played over a tense, uneasy background. The tension builds gradually along with the volume. You can feel something bigger coming, but you’re not sure what; all you know is that it’s getting closer. It’s incredible how much variety in sound can be accomplished with the relatively simply riffs and the addition of a violin and a cello; the dynamics shift constantly. Part two of "East Hastings" tells an entire story in itself. The song’s mood then shifts to something strange, like a dream dissolving in several directions at once.

As you realize you have no idea what’s going to happen next, "East Hastings" ends and "Providence," the longest song on the album, begins. There’s an audio sample that echoes the themes of the two previous songs: it’s two people discussing the end of the world and what the preacher has to say about it. Then a haziness seems to settle over the music, and it feels like a dream again for a while before something new starts. You’re left thinking about what’s been said so far by this hypnotic album.

Then a new segment begins that feels like movement and liminality; the light rhythm in the background is constant, but it doesn’t want you to stay in one place. Things are happening; the world is changing in this part of the story. Sound and tension build once more (something GY!BE are very good at) and guitar is joined by drums, horns, and glockenspiel. It ends abruptly. A ghostly, echoing voice enters unaccompanied with what fans will recognize as a melody teased in GY!BE’s 2000 album, Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven. It sounds like an old folk or gospel song; one you’re hearing in your sleep.

But then the melody ends as abruptly as it began and a militant, drum-driven segment begins. Somehow, the juxtaposition between the peaceful, ghostly folk-gospel melody and the aggression of the drumming seems to make perfect sense. But just as the drumming seems to reach a sort of climax, a haunting voice begins to ask, “Where are you going?” and a mournful droning begins that feels like the aftermath of a war. Once again, you begin to think about the story the album is telling. How did the world end? It’s never explicitly stated. But the distant sounds in the background are reminiscent of bombs and battle.

The sound fades. All is quiet for a few minutes. You have a chance to process. The album is almost over. It’s been like watching a movie, the way the scenes shifted and the tension built at various points. Just when you think it’s over, an ethereal echo begins – a hidden track, or a post-credits scene. You can hear a guitar, but it sounds distant, like something heard through a cloud. Then the drums come back. Everything is echoing but there’s a melody now. Once again, the tension builds. It all comes together at the end.

It’s strange to think of an album like this coming out in the mid-1990s. It feels so relevant to the present. As long and strange as F#A#∞ is, it’s not difficult to listen to. On the contrary, it’s deeply emotional and engaging and the long tracks are split into shorter segments that only go on for as long as they need to. With very little dialogue, this album tells a story. The details of the story aren’t important; what’s important is that the world as we know it ends, and it’s our fault, but it’s not necessarily the end of everything; there are moments of hope.

            - Madden Ott

I'd Love to Turn You On #249: Yes - The Yes Album (1971)

The Yes Album is a very hard one for me to start reviewing because there are so many things I can talk about with it. This album has not only been something I’ve been listening to since I first started playing guitar and bass; it’s not just an album that has started conversations with people who would become some of my best friends; it’s not just a weird album cover that you can stare at forever and still not understand it. This album is all that and more than I ever thought it could be. I don’t remember the first time I listened to this - it got lost in the brains of 14 year-old me - but I haven’t forgotten a note of it, and I still try to sing along to it even though I know I will never get close to Jon Anderson’s voice.

Starting an album with “Yours Is No Disgrace” seems so obvious - the opening hits trick you into thinking you know what’s coming on this album. Rarely do you hear all the instruments so crazily defined in the mix, with them all acting as one giant, speeding bus that they call a chord progression; but once you’re in for the ride they don’t let go because this song is just shy of ten minutes long and barely feels like it. It moves so freely that you don’t even feel exhausted by the end of it. The next song feels like it’s the complete opposite of what you’d hear on a classic prog rock album - solo acoustic guitar, courtesy of Steve Howe, with “The Clap.” It’s a piece that is just about three minutes of straight fire coming out of Steve’s fingers, a blend of classical, jazz, and traditional blues guitar styles all put in the stew of a kinda rock song - an odd choice for the second song on an album but it’s a very nice comedown from the extravagance that is “Yours Is No Disgrace.” “Starship Trooper” is really where this album takes off - that little bass part that kicks in when this song hits means as much to me as any two seconds of music ever has. Everything they were doing on the first track is executed perfectly here - the various melodies of the vocals, guitar, and bass all get stuck in your head as separate parts but you can’t have one without the others. It helps that the lyrics are inspired by the 1959 book of the same name, which was also the basis for the amazing movie of the same name (I’m still mad they never used the song in the movie). For as tight a band as Yes is, this song sometimes feels like it’s about to fall apart, but right when that moment comes they tighten up and become a much more cohesive unit, one that went on to take on the world.

Flipping the record over and dropping the needle on “I’ve Seen All Good People” is always going to be a therapeutic moment for me. It’s very clearly the first time I heard a musical Easter egg - the background choir singing “All we are saying, is give peace a chance” - that I haven’t been able to unhear since. My dad brought me up on The Beatles and Lennon, so I already knew that phrase and melodic line, but even just the simple line “Send an instant karma to me” was something I didn’t know you could do in music; it was so revelatory, and subconsciously made me interested in knowing what the bands I liked listened to. References like that make the music so much more personal, especially when some of the extreme metal bands I listen to now will have long extended solos and for a moment - blink and you’ll miss it - you’ll hear these bands do Yes riffs, ripped straight from this album, in their crazy distorted madness. It’s a moment that makes you feel connected to the band on a personal level and oddly makes some of these people more approachable, both in skill and personality. 

Outside of the music, this album has been a beacon in my life; it’s an album that my dad always said was one of his favorites ever, by one of his favorite bands ever. He took me to see what remained of Yes in 2012, far from the prime of this band, and most diehard fans wouldn’t want to see this version, but it was still so magical. This is the album that I had the cover of hanging next to my bed throughout middle school and high school - not a poster, the actual sleeve of the album with record still in it. It’s an album that I've been lucky enough to not only be able to share with the people I love, but use as jumping off points for things that some of my best friends and I first talked about, still talk about, and will always talk about.

- Max Kaufman

I'd Love to Turn You On #248: Bill Evans - Waltz For Debby (1962)

Waltz For Debby is an amazing live document of one of the best jazz trios in peak form. The trio, consisting of Bill Evans on piano, Scott LaFaro on bass, and Paul Motian on drums, was in the process of redefining and expanding the language and roles of the piano trio. Traditionally the drums and the bass would serve as a foundation for the piano to rest upon, but the trio had evolved to a band that functioned more as a musical equals than a band that allowed one player to monopolize the musical landscape. In a traditional piano trio the piano is featured very prominently with the drums and bass playing a supporting role. The drums may provide texture and comping, while the bass provides a steady pulse and harmony. This group would redefine the jazz trio for the genre, providing a new model of excellence and grace.

"My Foolish Heart" opens the record with Evans’ trademark gentle touch. LaFaro plays clear and uncluttered harmony while Motian fills the space on the cymbals and prods with gentle brush work. Part of the magic in this recording is the stereo mix, with the piano in the right channel and the bass and drums mostly cut to the left. When I listen in headphones it gives the music life. There is a tiny portion of ambient club sound but just enough to add sonic depth. The sound is immaculate and any time LaFaro adds multiple notes to flesh out harmony the recording captures it precisely. The clarity of interpretation that comes across in this take speaks to the high level of mastery by the musicians. It also communicates the intent of the ballad, which is intimacy, longing, and a warning to a foolish heart that has been fooled before.

"Waltz For Debby," the song, is a great illustration of the kind of innovation that the trio was enacting. In the left speaker you can hear Scott LaFaro playing in the high register to complement Evans' piano playing. It is not until the after the one minute mark that he moves down to play a more traditional bass role. He is using notes that are harmony and color tones, tones that are not the standard designated function of bass players. Because of the range he is playing them in they are functioning as melodic tones rather than bass fundamentals, giving a new advanced melodic freedom and expressiveness to the bass that the instrument had been lacking before. On Evans' part he is as ever is treating us to the smooth voice leading that is one of the hallmarks of his style. This is to say that within the harmony between two chords he either kept common tones or found the shortest distances between notes so that the transition was not jarring, and that the overall effect sounded smooth and effortless. This is especially evident in a song like "Waltz For Debby" where the overall harmony is quite complex but the effort that it takes to play it seems minimal and graceful. One of the features of the song is a series of cascading chords which descends down and then circles quickly back up to repeat the cycle. Paul Motian drops in around 1:20 and the group starts to play more like a traditional trio. LaFaro is still hitting all kinds of upper color notes fleshing out the harmony during Evans' piano solo. Motian is laying down solid brushwork, and doing occasional cymbal splashes. He switches to a light cymbal ride pattern under LaFaro’s acrobatic solo. Evans returns to play the melody before the brief coda of the tune. "Detour Ahead" is a ballad-ish tune. Evans and LaFaro demonstrate how familiar they are with the song by playing spaciously around each other. LaFaro will cover the bass harmony and dart into the high register to add some melodic interjection over Evans’ chordal approach. Motian backs them up with stellar brush work. Evans takes the first solo, although LaFaro is so active it might be considered a duet. LaFaro takes the next solo, and then they return to the melody. I think what you can glean from an interpretation of a song as rhythmically interactive as this is how much synergy the trio was working with. Something with as many layers as this has to be developed by working on group interplay and communication, and this group was an amazing example of that kind of work.

"My Romance" features a lovely Bill Evans solo introduction. It is a simple run through the melody but it once again gives us insight into his voice leading approach. Evans has an economical approach that results in a gentle sound, one that utilizes common tones and close neighboring tones to minimize unnecessary movement. Once Motian and LaFaro enter, the song becomes a more swinging number rather than another ballad. The group interplay displayed during Evans’ solo is hard to match, and furthermore the bass solo might be the most virtuosic on the record, with LaFaro dazzling and flashing unbelievable technique. Listening to the way this trio treats time - stretching it, leaving empty spaces for other members to occupy - it is evident just how much of the ground work they have laid for modern groups' rhythmic concepts. Listeners can see the influence of this trio all around the jazz genre, but you really see the influence in groups like the Keith Jarrett Standards Trio with Jack DeJohnette and Gary Peacock, or Brad Mehldau’s trio.

"Some Other Time" is a beautiful ballad with a minimal approach that lets the melodic content do the work. Evans’ classic voicings really shine in this song. The harmony in the first part of the tune allows LaFaro to back up Evans with harmonics, an effect that produces a higher pitched portion of a note by partially applying pressure on a specific part of the string. Jaco Pastorius would later become famous for using harmonics extensively on the electric fretless bass. Scott LaFaro can be heard using harmonics to accompany Evans all throughout the song, providing a shimmering, high-pitched accompaniment on the double bass.

"Milestones" is a fast uptempo tune and a real showcase for Evans and LaFaro. Although I haven’t mentioned his name tons in this review let me take a moment to celebrate Paul Motian. As a player, he is what the music calls for, which is the kind of egoless playing that makes these records so great. It prevents it from being excessively technical. Scott LaFaro was a technical master and this was balanced by Motian whose technique was present but understated. Motian prods uptempo swing numbers like this with crisp, light, cymbal work that keeps the song buoyant. It is light and delicate so you can still hear the details of LaFaro's playing which is also light. It is the opposite of a heavy thunderous drummer like Elvin Jones.

So many things about this group are amazing. Tragically, Scott LaFaro died in a car accident in 1961 bringing this group’s growth to an abrupt halt, and stopping Bill Evans from even playing for a period of time. I always wonder what the group concept would have evolved into if Scott LaFaro had not passed away. Bill Evans went on to work with a number of great bass players that played amazing music, not confined to the rigid structures of bebop or traditional jazz. I just happen to think that this particular group was the pinnacle. I hope you enjoy Waltz For Debby!

            

- Doug Anderson

I'd Love to Turn You On #247: Bob Dylan - Time Out of Mind (1997)

             The final song on Time Out Of Mind, Bob Dylan’s 30^th studio album, is the 16-minute “Highlands.”  It begins with what sounds like a world-weary sigh exhaled in unison with an opening guitar figure. The result is that the music presented feels as natural as breathing, as opposed to a contrived or constructed work. This central metaphor pretty well defines the mystery and magic of Bob Dylan. His best work feels like the musings of a naturally inquisitive and discerning mind, thus they are rewarding to the discerning and inquisitive listener. He asks and speaks for all of us. “Highands” is one of a very few songs in Dylan’s catalogue that breaks the 10-minute mark (“Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands” and “Brownsville Girl” being the other two), and as such it is given the room to breathe unlike much of Dylan’s contemporaneous work. Teetering between thoughts of mortality and alienation from modern society Dylan openly yearns for the peace and beauty of either youth or death - we’re never quite sure. Musically the song and the entire album creak with a wooden authenticity, while still betraying all the modern production flourishes of Daniel Lanois. The album is soaked in waves of reverb and Lanois takes great care in mike placement and the specific instruments used on each song. The result is the contrary sensation of someone whispering in your ear while standing on the moon. It sounds far away, yet incredibly intimate simultaneously. Lanois has taken shit for his techniques, but I am a huge fan. I feel like the albums he produced in the 80’s, 90’s and beyond are some of the very few which pay tribute to the past while pointing the way to the future. His productions are immediately recognizable and entirely magical. Time Out Of Mind might be his most consequential achievement because it threw open the door to a modern era of Bobness, an era where his albums sound great again and he seems to have comfortably shrugged off the expectations of modern record making and found a comfortable place in the timeless firmament of musical tradition.

          Leading up to Time Out Of Mind Dylan had struggled with his craft, leaning on albums of traditional covers, an unsatisfying stint with The Grateful Dead and generally weak new material (1990’s Under The Red Sky is in contention to be his worst album), yet suddenly he seemed reconnected to his lyrical and musical muse. The songs were heavy with folksy wisdom and ruminations on the natural order. Perhaps that is the greatest strength of this album; it restores Dylan’s rightful place in the tradition of great American singer/songwriter’s and lessened the incessant imperative to constantly be “the voice of a generation.” Now he was sounding like a voice for ALL generations. Take opener “Love Sick.” Dylan takes a common phrase and turns it around, exploring it from all angles “I’m sick of love…but I’m in the thick of it/This kind of love…I’m so sick of it/I’m sick of Love …I hear the clock tick…I’m sick of love…I’m love sick.” Two simple words, normally spoken together to indicate an early state of romance are tumbled around to show the complexities and pitfalls of the most fraught state of human existence. In so few words Dylan perfectly illustrates his poetic mastery. Love isn’t only beautiful… it can make you sick. Each song on Time Out Of Mind follows this template: simple, declarative language employed in the most strategic and extraordinary ways to illuminate the complexities of the human condition.


          Back to “Highlands” - Dylan ends the album with a fatalistic, but somehow hopeful sentiment: “Well, my heart’s in the Highlands at the break of day / Over the hills and far away / There’s a way to get there and I’ll figure it out somehow / But I’m already there in my mind / And that’s good enough for now.” These lyrics can be read as poetry, yet with Lanois at the dials Dylan’s musings become musical monuments as well. Time Out Of Mind is such an important album in Dylan’s discography because it succeeds so wildly on both of these fronts. After at least a decade of seemingly not caring what his music sounded like, he produced an album of compelling, relevant, modern roots-rock, and after casually tossing off lyrics for a number of years he had re-fastened his poet’s loupe and started offering his audience polished thought diamonds once again. Time Out Of Mind declared boldly that Dylan’s best days as an artist were definitively not in the past thus proving composer Edgard Varese’s bold proclamation of 1921, “The present day composers refuse to die.”

- Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On #246: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (2005)

It’s 2005: the Internet is skyrocketing, New Orleans is underwater, and the War On Terror is in full swing. America the Cultured is in a cultural ditch: Destiny’s Child is breaking up, Flavor Of Love is in pre-production, and in his first televised bed-shitting, Kanye alleges that the POTUS is a racist. On the other side of the pop spectrum, Rock’n’Roll has gone full-on Sad-Boi™ and seems to have completely sold itself to corporate media. Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco are being crammed down the throat of nearly every emotional pre-teen and baggy-eyed Clear Channel jockey out there, driving them both to suicide. Between looming threats of another 9/11 and another forced serving of “I CHIME IN,” it was a scary time to be a young American – yet this national state of paranoia could never be enough to faze socially awkward college kids with dial-up connections. A smart, college-educated Brooklyn hipster like Alec Ounsworth, for example, is far too busy playing and promoting his band’s debut, chock full of weird guitar songs about young love and “…Young Blood” to Manhattan crowds that are growing larger and more prestigious by the night. (Imagine singing, “You look like David Bowie”, directly to the David Bowie....)

Originally released in June 2005, the self-titled debut from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sounds as chameleonic as it does disciplined, and its distinctly “indie” lore remains intact to this day. Following exceptionally positive online buzz and culminating with a glowing review from an increasingly influential webzine called Pitchfork Media, demand for the album became so large that the band had to reprint and reissue the disc altogether, selling over 40,000 copies on their own by the end of September. They signed a deal with UK indie Wichita Records in October only as a means to get the physical disc across the pond. What started as a way for Ounsworth to channel his love of quirky 70’s/80’s new wave and 90’s alternative morphed into one of the Internet’s first overwhelming musical sensations – something reveled by both no-name bloggers and heavy-hitting industry titans (like Bowie and David Byrne who were both spotted at the band’s Manhattan shows).

In other words, freedom from the influence of label heads and industry execs allowed CYHSY total creative freedom, and this quality is immediately evident to the listener. The album’s off-kilter, unorthodox feel can be heard straight away in the eponymous opening track. On “Clap Your Hands!” a carnival Wurlitzer lays the red-paisley carpet for Ounsworth, the madcap master of ceremonies whose lyrics throughout the album are as nonsensical ("betray white water, delay dark forms") as they are woke ("Should I trust all the rust that's on TV/I guess with some distaste I disagree"). The record’s lyrical pinnacle is born on the powerful, Dylan-esque “Details Of The War”; here Ounsworth’s warbled “mezzo-tenor” croons “Nakedness, a flying lesson/Tattered dress, sunburned chest/You will pay for your excessive charm.”

After a point, it becomes futile to trace the sonic influence of CYHSY, as any two record connoisseurs will ultimately come up with different sources. While Ounsworth’s vocals do draw obvious comparisons to Byrne, and nods to Berlin-era Bowie are scattered throughout the otherwise sparse arrangements, the record also qualifies as an indie/alternative funhouse. Perhaps the most agreeable influence is that of Frank Black, whose Pixie-dust is sprinkled on the heavier, guitar-oriented tracks (“Let The Cool Goddess Rust Away,” “In This Home On Ice”), although another listener could easily make an argument for Pavement, or even Yo La Tengo at their loudest. The sonic sources become more ambiguous as the group channels everything from Stereolab (the euphoric “Is This Love”) to the Cure (the goth-pop of “Over And Over Again”), and utilized everything from toy pianos (“Sunshine And Clouds”) to digital Theremins (“Heavy Metal”). The album’s most ear-catching sound is the 8-bit synth patch heard on its only single, “By The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth,” which sounds like the soundtrack to your favorite old Game Boy game.

In this day and age, where every self-righteous “gifted” millennial is pirating Ableton on uTorrent and publicly claiming they’re about to produce the next channel ORANGE, the grassroots creation of CYHSY seems almost too good to be true. Although M.I.A. had blown up MySpace in the year prior, and the Go! Team had received serious praise from mp3 blogs, there had yet to be an unsigned act that tapped into musical virality. Even Merge, a renowned indie, was driving the seismic impact of the Arcade Fire. To that effect, CYHSY is one of the first and most lasting testaments to the power of post-millennium DIY culture; its recording and release chronicle a young band’s journey from virtually unknown local favorites to international sensation in the matter of weeks. It’s not quite Beatlemania, but the thing that hooked people onto CYHSY – what set them apart from the pack – was their status as a totally organic, bare-bones guitar band that built their sound, image, and promotional material all on their own apart from any major external force. Additionally, the one force that did catapult this group into the spotlight from obscurity was an exponentially budding music blogosphere that had not yet been swayed by money and corporate interests.

The main lyrical theme of the album – the disillusionment of intelligent youth, poor and heartbroken, in a superficially materialistic Western society that lives in constant fear of mass destruction – is something that is transcendent in the best of all Western pop music, yet Ounsworth’s freewheeling energy and epileptic delivery make these age-old themes seem urgent and uniquely contemporary. Still drunk off the mercurial splash that was Funeral, journalists and A&R men everywhere were desperately looking for an answer to the Arcade Fire, and (if you asked Bowie/Byrne) Clap Your Hands Say Yeah were it. In sound, structure, and style, this is as indie as it gets.

- Ethan Griggs

I'd Love to Turn You On #245 - Michael Hurley, the Unholy Modal Rounders, Jeffery Frederick & the Clamtones - Have Moicy! (1976)

Back in late 1975 two folk scene stalwarts, Michael Hurley and Peter Stampfel (on hiatus from the Holy Modal Rounders at this point), got together with younger singer-songwriter Jeffery Frederick to make an album that ended up being more consistently entertaining - and more consistently goofy - than anything I’ve ever heard by any of them separately. This is why the record is, clumsily but accurately, credited to "Michael Hurley, the Unholy Modal Rounders, Jeffery Frederick & the Clamtones" - though that gives the impression that three bands got together to put out a compilation, rather than the sympathetic communal wackiness that's actually on display here.

The three main (vocal) personalities at play here are as follows:

1. Peter Stampfel, 37 year-old co-founder of Greenwich Village folk scene regulars The Holy Modal Rounders (who you may know from "If You Want To Be A Bird" on the Easy Rider soundtrack). He's a weirdo and a seeker of music who digs into deep Americana to find songs to cover, rip off, or sometimes just inform his own writing. And he sings with a wild enthusiasm that's hard to match (or resist), even if that enthusiasm does not often translate to any kind of musical accuracy.

2. Michael Hurley, the easy-going 34 year-old "outsider folk" prodigy who began writing and recording in his early teens, but didn't get a career rolling until his 20s due to illness, and then began a slow outpouring of his laid-back, almost soulful folky ease. Only by having Stampfel next to him does he seem like a normal musician.

3. Jeffery Frederick, at 25, the baby of the bunch, an East Coaster relocated to Oregon, who approaches the musical side of things somewhat more professionally - relatively speaking - but his words are every bit as wacko as his confreres.

Lyrically, Stampfel will sing about bidets, Paris, wine, young people in love, dancing, and the freak party on the edge of town; Hurley tells us about spaghetti, dirty dishes in the sink, heartbreak, the blues, and oral sex; Frederick tells us about robbing banks, hamburgers, the blues (also), and a heart attack. Among other things. Musically, it flows beginning to end, from the Parisian wine at the beginning to the Thunderbird wine (and a pound of hash) that closes things, with members of each leader's band performing alongside each other throughout the album creating the kind of musical consistency that's rare in any collaborative project like this. Special kudos go to the fiddler and mandolin player credited solely as Robin here, though the fine work of the understated but supportive drummer known as Frog should also be mentioned.

            The album passes singing and songwriting duties around from track to track like the joints they no doubt shared during the record's creation, and the result is a melodic, good-natured, hilarious exploration of what happened to "The Scene" of the late-60s by the time we got to the mid-70s. Rather than becoming wistful for the past, as many of the older guys' contemporaries were already doing by then, they found their joy in smaller pleasures like those detailed above. It kicks off with "Midnight In Paris," a 1935 pop tune turned all banjo-and-mandolin bluegrass style here, where Stampfel (credited as "Pierre" instead of Peter for this track) gets the ball rolling in his best American-ese "You wear my bee-ray/and I'll use your bee-day/I'll be clean and you'll be free." And then they take off from there, straight into Frederick's "Robbin' Banks," a song about exactly what it says, supposedly inspired by his bank robbing grandfather, but just to prove his freak bona fides, he throws in lines like “If you get scared and run you bastard, I’ll break your arm.” Up next is Hurley, with "Slurf Song," where he envisions a feast for all his pals, but laments the cleaning up afterward, and follows the feast right through to its (bio)logical end.

            And so it goes. Other highlights include Stampfel's "Griselda," written by the Greenwich village folk scene musician Antonia who introduced him and the other Holy Modal rounder founder Steve Weber back in the 60s, Jeffery Frederick's "What Made My Hamburger Disappear?" which sounds silly (and was supposedly performed on Sesame Street) but is written from the point of view of a burger eater having a heart attack, Hurley's slyly naughty "Driving Wheel," and the killer Antonia-penned capper "Hoodoo Bash," which may as well be describing the freak party that is this album.

            Of course, if you can't attenuate Stampfel's vocals into something your ear can easily digest, if you want your folk music all serious and stately instead of lively and of-the-people, if you like your freaks a little more toned-down than these guys, maybe this record isn't for you. For anyone who's in it for the fun though, dig in. You won't regret it.

            - Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On #244 - Ghostface Killah – Supreme Clientele (2000)

            Lately I’ve been getting caught up in the Hulu show Wu-Tang: An American Saga. Even though it’s kind of a shitty show, it’s reminded me that revisiting my love of the Wu-Tang Clan is something I need to do occasionally. I’m certain I’m not alone in my assessment that when the Wu-Tang Clan came to prominence, they were a cut above the rest in terms of the hip-hop of the ‘90s. They quickly became one of my favorites and it didn’t take long for me to start tracking down every solo album by every solo rapper even tangentially related to the Wu.

            Among the masterpieces to grace the world at the turn of the new millennium was Supreme Clientele, the second solo record by the inimitable Ghostface Killah. Released at a time when most Wu-Tang members had either already ventured off onto their own solo paths or were about to, de facto leader RZA could not oversee production on all of them, and it often showed. He did, however, opt to man the boards (and contribute some rhymes) for Supreme Clientele, enlisting the help of a small team of other RZA disciples. Incorporating the sexiest of obscure R&B samples (the cover photo of Ghost crooning into a retro microphone makes it even look like it could be a 1970s Jerry Butler record or something) into the sleaziest of beats and loops, to produce a result that is pure Staten Island sound: pure Wu-Tang. Ghost’s lyrics provide vivid narrative structures emboldened by deep personal introspection while laced with abstract, ostensibly nonsensical poetic liberties. Many of the lyrics on Supreme Clientele were written while Ghost was on a several month-long trip to Africa, incorporating much of his experience with the culture there (and his subsequent disdain for American consumerism) into his words. And the flow doesn’t stop with just Ghost. In fact, not only is he joined by RZA but other fellow Wu members Cappadonna, GZA, Masta Killa and Raekwon pop in and out to take a verse or two, making it just about as close to Wu-Tang-Proper as it gets.

            The thing about Supreme Clientele is that it’s quite notoriously one of the most-loved, if not the most-loved of the non-Wu-Tang Wu-Tang projects. At least one of the highest charting ones, if I’m not mistaken. And deservedly so. It’s not only a step up creatively from its predecessor, Ghost’s powerful debut Ironman (which is also great), but production-wise too. Supreme Clientele is stamped front to back with that unmistakable RZA sound which, by 2000, just wasn’t as ubiquitous as it once was. In the 19 years since this record came out, the world of hip-hop has only gotten more incredible and complex and the landscape is constantly changing. There are countless talented emcees and DJs out there and with Soundcloud and Bandcamp and the like, it’s easier than ever for some of the lesser-known talented acts to be heard. Even Ghostface himself has gone on to release material that far surpasses that of Supreme Clientele. In fact, 2006’s Fishscale is high in the running for best hip-hop record ever, in my opinion. But this… this is the one. This is, I think, the reference point that people will point to when talking about solo Wu-Tang albums. When this record came out, I could not get enough of it. And now, listening back to it as much as I did in preparation to write this, it still sounds as fresh and exciting as it did when I first bought it.

            Honestly, I wouldn’t ordinarily choose to write about a record that’s already received as much critical and commercial praise as Supreme Clientele has received. I mean, theoretically it’s already had so much smoke blown up its ass over the years that I couldn’t possibly have anything to add that would be useful. And anyway, the point of these reviews is to “turn you on” to something you may have otherwise missed. It’s just that I truly believe that this record still needs to be talked about because it’s a god damn masterpiece. Whether you’re new school or old school, there’s something on Supreme Clientele for every hip-hop fan.

            - Jonathan Eagle

I'd Love to Turn You On #243 - The Killers - Sam's Town (2006)

            When The Killers' debut album Hot Fuss came out in 2004 I begged and begged my dad to take me to see them at City Stages in Birmingham the next year. They played the entire album and I was hooked instantly; I became a forever fan and my poor dad had to stand there with a screaming teenage girl. I still wear the t-shirt I got at the show and am amazed it still fits me. I guess it’s just that Killers magic. When their second studio album Sam’s Town came out the year after that I instantly went out and bought the CD and later when I got my first turntable it was the first new record I bought with my own money. It was a departure from the synth and auto-tune featured heavily in Hot Fuss, while still being very much a Killers album at its core. It’s a love letter to Las Vegas - where the members either grew up or moved to when they were young, and where the band formed.

            I guess a little background on the band will make their love of Las Vegas and the Sam’s Town Hotel and Gambling Hall make a little more sense. Lead singer Brandon Flowers, drummer Ronnie Vannucci Jr. and bassist Mark Stoermer grew up in Las Vegas while guitarist Dave Keuning moved there in his early 20’s. But all four of them met in the City of Sin under the bright lights and formed The Killers in 2001. As a child Stoermer could see the Sam’s Town Hotel and Gambling Hall sign from his bedroom window. Las Vegas gave them an edge that they couldn’t have gotten anywhere else. The album was even recorded in Las Vegas. With Vegas in their hearts and minds they as a group decided to move away from the new wave Brit-pop sound of Hot Fuss and record an album that sounded more like where they came from.

            Sam’s Town kicks off with the title track, a larger than life rock anthem. It gives you the feeling of walking down the Las Vegas Strip at night soaking in all of the bright lights and big sounds. It comes from a place in Flowers' heart, because he grew up doing just that. Two of my favorite things about Sam’s Town are the “Enterlude” and “Exitlude” tracks bookending the album. You can imagine Flowers as a lounge singer in a casino, welcoming in patrons as the night begins and softly letting them know it’s time to go when the sun comes up. My other two favorites off Sam’s Town, “Uncle Johnny” and “Bones,” fill in the sex and drugs part of “sex, drugs and rock & roll” for the album. “Uncle Johnny” is raw and feels like a person strung out on cocaine while living it up in Las Vegas. “Bones” is a throwback to the synth-pop sound from Hot Fuss, but with a little more Mojave Desert dirt mixed in. Both tracks don’t hold anything back and that is what makes them stand out on this album.

The Killers didn’t hold anything back when making this album, and while most reviews of the album were not stellar, the album holds true to their Las Vegas roots and that desert sound. It isn’t flashy, it doesn’t try to copy their sound from Hot Fuss, and it stands alone in the pantheon of Killers albums. It’s raw, it’s dusty and it’s very Las Vegas. While Hot Fuss tends to get all the glory, Sam’s Town in my opinion is a truly Killers album. They made it the way they wanted, they recorded it where they wanted and to me it works, even if the rest of the world didn’t seem to think so.

P.S. Brandon Flowers' debut solo album Flamingo is also a beautiful heartfelt love letter to the city of Las Vegas and is well worth a listen.

- Anna Lathem

I'd Love to Turn You On #243 - Serge Gainsbourg - Histoire De Melody Nelson (1971)

  Melody Nelson lived fourteen autumns and fifteen summers when she was struck by the front end of a Silver Ghost. The driver, who we can only assume is some extension of the artist in question, was met with confusion and inexplicable lust. Melody survives the incident, but not without being subjected to the narrator’s bizarre, Nabokavian tendencies. Gainsbourg, with the help of partner Jean-Claude Vannier and guest musicians Alan Parker and Dave Richmond among others, spends just under 28 minutes unfolding a musical narrative to which there are many dark, euphoric, and ambiguous sides.

 Histoire De Melody Nelson is a landmark record looked upon by countless musicians as a sonic reference point, and by critics as a benchmark in the field of concept albums. It is perhaps the most influential French rock album ever released and has been covered, and to some extent copied countless times in the 48 years since its release. Beck, who notably paid homage to the album’s title track on his 2003 breakup bummer, Sea Change, called the album “one of the greatest marriages of rock band and orchestra” he’d ever heard. Upon listening, it’s not difficult to understand why. The record opens with a plodding, quiet bassline over jagged guitar riffs that are soon met with the sinister vocal delivery of Serge Gainsbourg relaying in spoken word the story of hitting Melody on her bicycle as he (or the narrator) haplessly drives his Rolls Royce. The darkness of it all becomes quickly euphoric as a swelling orchestra builds over the track’s otherwise brooding atmosphere. Highlighted by production that’s as rich as it is spacious, each musician is given their chance to shine here, but no one instrument distracts from or overshadows its counterparts. The tracks that follow act as vignettes, conveying the narrator’s increasing affinity for the album’s title character.

While the bookend tracks take most of the glory, the sheer musicianship flourishes throughout, without the end product feeling like homework or something that takes itself too seriously. The album’s studio playfulness leads to wonderful, slightly less musical moments. On the track “En Melody,” bursts of maniacal laughter break out over a ferocious drum beat as Gainsbourg relates the story of a plane crash that ultimately takes the life of young Melody. Violinist Jean-Luc Ponty adds a set of strings to the mix as tensions rise toward the fatal crash. The laughter coming from the voice of the titular character, played here by Gainsbourg’s then-wife Jane Birkin, was achieved by Birkin being tickled in the recording booth during the session. Her cackles add a layer of palpable anxiousness as Melody’s short story comes to a bloody, abrupt end.

Below the surface, Melody Nelson is a tremendously complicated exploration of masculinity and its dark, inherent sexuality viewed through the lens of tragedy - though Gainsbourg doesn’t really to seem to offer answers to this complexity here. Melody Nelson, like the strange relationship that unfolds through the album’s story, is another question mark in the life of the story’s recounter. Gainsbourg makes a point to state from the beginning that the story’s central characters are involved in this accident through naivety; in terms of childlike innocence via the story’s victim and by contrast, age and recklessness via its narrator. In the middle somewhere lie love and lust: two timeless themes that have been endlessly tackled by musician after musician. Perhaps Gainsbourg understood this to be heavily trod thematic ground and saw an opportunity to disclose a side of these feelings not often explored, and its provocativeness is nothing more than that. Or maybe the story is somewhat autobiographical and we’re getting a real look into the sinister, paranoid world of the musician in question. Ultimately that truth wouldn’t serve or enhance anyone’s understanding of the album, and its moral ambiguity factors heavily into the atmosphere of it all. The underlying story plays more of a supporting role to Gainsbourg and his band than it does actually try to say something about its subjects and their interactions.

The record’s cinematic nature was, at the time of release, unparalleled by anything else in its genre. While Melody Nelson isn’t exactly a rock opera in comparison to something like The Who’s Tommy, it does a brilliant job of creating a mood to match its subject and creates fertile ground for linear storytelling.

- Blake Britton (Initials B.B.)

I'd Love to Turn You On #242 - The Cure - Disintegration (1989)

            You’ve almost certainly heard of the Cure. And you’ve almost certainly heard at least one song off their 1989 album Disintegration. It’s hardly obscure; after all, we’re talking about the album that brought us “Lovesong.” But there’s nothing quite like listening to the whole thing all the way through for the first time. It’s brooding. It’s melancholy. It’s like watching a thunderstorm happen in reverse. This album is quintessential for the Cure; it combines the darker, moodier feeling of early albums like Faith and Pornography with the accessibility of albums like Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. There’s a reason this album is a classic, which still earns acclaim thirty years after its release. If you’re gonna get into the Cure, this is the album to start with.

            Disintegration was written at a rather turbulent time for the Cure. During its production, the band’s keyboardist and one of its founding members, Lol Tolhurst, left the band and was replaced by touring keyboardist Roger O’Donnell. Robert Smith, the band’s frontman, was suffering from depression and turned to psychedelic drugs to cope. His introspection about turning 30, and about the legacy of the band, also influenced the album; they’d begun writing poppy tunes to avoid being pigeonholed as simply a Goth band, but Smith now wanted to get back to their roots. This resulted in an album which kept some pop elements, but returned to a darker sound.

            To start with, there’s the opening track, “Plainsong.” It starts out quiet, with gently ringing bells, and then explodes rather suddenly into an atmospheric, warm, shimmery intro that hits like the first burst of sunlight through the clouds at the end of a storm. Then comes the guitar, dripping with melody. By the time the vocals hit, you’re fully immersed. Their echoes complement the atmosphere of the song perfectly, and Smith’s voice blends in, rather than being sung over the rest of it.

            After “Plainsong” is “Pictures of You.” Like much of the album, the keys, the shimmers, and guitar sounds from “Plainsong” carry over to this track, but Smith’s vocals take on more of a leading role. Then comes “Closedown,” which continues the feeling, but brings in more of Simon Gallup’s bass and Boris Williams’ drums. By this point you can tell the album has been building up to something, but you’re not sure what.

            And then there’s “Lovesong.” It’s an achingly sweet declaration of love, written as a wedding present to Smith’s wife (and high school sweetheart), Mary Poole. With its heart-melting lyrics and yearning melody, it’s easy to see why this song is so well-loved by fans and casual listeners alike. I can’t hear it without wanting to sing along; it’s beautiful. It starts out softer and subtler than previous tracks on the album, with a catchy bass line and quiet keys. Then come the vocals and the iconic guitar and keyboard riffs, adding a new energy to the album and giving it new depth. This song is where Disintegration goes from good to great.

            "Lovesong" is followed up by “Last Dance,” a heart-shattering track that brings back the shimmery atmosphere from earlier in the album, but makes it colder and sadder. The tender nostalgia in the lyrics is matched by Simon Gallup’s melodic bass and the reverb-heavy guitar that seems to drift down like snow over the listener. There’s a subtle desperation conveyed that sticks with you long after the song ends.

            And then there’s “Lullaby,” easily one of the top three tracks on Disintegration. It’s a bit of a departure from the earlier sound of the album, but it’s a perfect fit. The frantic, paranoid vocals are whispered rather than sung, fitting perfectly with the eerie lyrics, which describe being eaten by a spider man in a nightmare. It’s isolation, it’s terror, it’s helplessness, and it’s so strangely pretty you can’t help but listen again.

            Next comes “Fascination Street.” The reverb-laden guitars are back, echoing in a kind of organized chaos over the bass that draws you in. It’s a while before the vocals come in, which gives the listener a chance to get used to the building tension. But when the vocals hit, the tension only continues to build, which keeps the listener engaged and yearning for more.

This leads into the angst-ridden “Prayers for Rain,” a dark, gloomy track, with bleak imagery in its lyrics and simple but captivating guitar. Of all the tracks on Disintegration, this one is the closest to the deliciously nihilistic, desolate sound on earlier albums like Pornography. It’s one of my favorite tracks on the album. The way it takes the warm elements of earlier tracks on the album and darkens them keeps me coming back to this track over and over again.

“The Same Deep Water As You” starts out with the sound of thunder and rain, which sets the pleasant but melancholy tone for the whole song. It’s not as dark as “Prayers for Rain.” Instead it’s a warm and mellow type of yearning, in striking opposition to the next song on the album, “Disintegration,” like the calm before a storm. It has a way of washing over the listener, bringing back the shimmering atmosphere that characterizes so much of this masterpiece of an album.

The title track, “Disintegration,” is much more fast-paced. It has a frantic, desperate feel to it, which persists until the last chord. It’s about selfishness, deception, and endings, and you can’t help being pulled into the narrative by Robert Smith’s deeply emotional vocals. The album has felt like it was building up to something, and with this track, it finally comes to a head.

After this is “Homesick,” for which Lol Tulhurst provided the basis before he left the band. It’s full of dramatic, aching sadness. Like most of the Cure’s work, it’s melody-driven. Disintegration feels like a breakup album, and this feels like the aftermath to the ending “Disintegration” represents.

Finally, the album ends with “Untitled.” It has a happier, warmer tone, in contrast to “Disintegration” and “Homesick.” This provides some closure, and ensures the listener doesn’t leave feeling too broken down. It’s still sad, but it’s less intense, and the lyrics echo back to the perception of unreality expressed in “Pictures of You.”

The Cure were one of the biggest bands of their era, transcending genre and crafting a legacy that will endure for generations. Disintegration is an album that captures all their best elements, and it’s the album that changed me from a casual listener to a fan. It’s melancholy and it can be dark, but it’s intensely beautiful. Is there really any better album for when you’re feeling down?

- Madden Ott