Fifty years. Each of the 10 (no wait, 11!) albums below turned 50 this year. I wasn’t around for those inaugural years (I’m not that old), so I can’t speak to the scuttlebutt of the time. What I can say is that we’re in the middle of maybe my favorite three-year run of albums in basically ever. I have six albums below that I would call “10s.” That might be seen as generous, but I’m not so sure. Not every year will be like this. I have a sense of what I’ll be writing in the future and I know the “Honorable Mentions” category will be bulkier than “The 10s.” But not today (and definitely not 1974 either).
And what’s wilder is what doesn’t get mentioned here: Neil Young’s most lovable and underrated Ditch album, King Crimson Mach 3’s sterling return to studio recording, more peak glam both of the UK (Mott, Bolan, Bowie) and US (Cooper, New York Dolls) variety, more peak soul (I expect and deserve people to give me shit for excluding Stevie Wonder, Al Green, the Isleys and so much more) and more German nonsense (Can, Faust). Of course, I have once again left Steely Dan off this list in order spare you until the time that it is absolutely crucial to include them. But make no mistake, they deserve to be here.
1. Judee Sill Heartwork
I’ve already burned a lot of words talking about Judee Sill’s now-no-longer-underrated masterpiece. The big reissue glut of the mid-2000s put the doomed singer on my radar and in a field of reclamations for not only Karen Dalton, Vashti Bunyon and Linda Perhacs, but also Bill Fay, Mickey Newbury and Roy Harper, Sill stood out as uniquely impactful.
Sill’s biography – the prostitution, the armed robbery, the drugs, the Christian mysticism – was only matched by the perplexing variety of her music. Heartwork, her second and final album before her sadly inevitable escape from this realm, most startlingly captures it all. She’s a Laurel Canyon celestial country troubadour. A gawky, fatally doomed earth angel tapping into the divine with supernatural harmonies belied by a folksy midwestern flatness. These are the teenage symphonies to God that Brian Wilson could only dream over.
Heartwork’s great trick is how it almost defies its groundedness: “There’s A Rugged Road” is a simple folksy number that bends toward something unimaginable; “The Pearl” is a sprightly jaunt that enters into a perpetual ascent; “The Vigilante” taps into the mystic undercurrent of the campfire singalong. And when Heartwork opts to fully unmoor itself from gravity, my God, the experience still leaves me breathless. Twin pillars, “The Kiss” and “The Donor” achieve a power that staggers and haunts. Heartwork is the sound of some celestial vessel, expressing something inexpressible in an inimitable voice touched by a God that is unknowable, but so painfully close you could kiss Her.
2. John Cale Paris 1919
1973: The Year of the Dandy Fop (see No. 3 for further reading). In my past writing, I’ve often talked about my proclivity toward the marriage of the odd and accessible. Steely Dan’s jazz-drenched tales of losers and creeps finding a home in grocery stores. The autistically detached Talking Heads morphing into the party band of the 80s. The gawky, arch Dirty Projectors making R&B inroads. John Cale’s endlessly listenable Paris 1919 may have been the first great entry into that “outsider on the inside” aesthetic.
Fresh off of work with the likes Terry Riley, La Monte Young and The Stooges, not too mention his groundbreaking avant garde work as a founding member of the Velvet Underground (where he wrote the band’s most annoyingly pretentious songs), Cale’s identity was firmly ensconced in the realm of outsider art. Enter Little Feat (whose own career best Dixie Chicken came out in ‘73), a band with a knack for instilling their brand of warm, jammy country rock with real soul, as Cale’s unlikely backing band. On Paris 1919 the twin entities make for an album that provides an inviting musical backdrop for Cale’s typically cryptic sophisticalia.
Paris 1919 boasts a stately grandeur, evidenced by the orchestrations of “The Endless Pain Of Fortune” and the jaunty title track, but the album remains grounded and accessible. “Macbeth” rocks with glam’s buzzed swagger, “Graham Greene” charms with a playful bounce and delectable squiggles, and the rolling guitar lines smooth out the drones of “Half Past France” (we’re miles away from Velvet Underground’s “The Gift”). When Cale takes a flight of fancy, the music extends an open invitation. When the music moves toward the middle of the road, Cale’s abstractions keep the listener engaged. The balance is perfectly achieved. Paris 1919 expertly sets a template for avant garde oddities looking for a real audience.
3. Genesis Selling England By The Pound
You see it everywhere these days: “I’m more into their 80s stuff, actually.” It’s the statement of the new school; apologists for shorter run times, sleeker production, concision and hooks. It’s the Patrick Bateman school and they’re starting to take over. But they are wrong. Now if this were Rush we were talking about, I’d be all over it (their day will come), but when it comes to Genesis, I feel my perspective solidifying as passe. “Look at this old fool still pining for Peter Gabriel-era Genesis,” they scoff as they gently caress their copy of No Jacket Required. Don’t get me wrong, I get 80s Genesis. I get solo Phil Collins. I like sleekness and concision. I believe wholeheartedly in their deserving reclamation, but let’s not pretend there’s even a contest here. Selling England By The Pound (and the two albums on either side of it) remains the pinnacle of the Genesis mountain. They went a different path and that’s cool, but this is the masterpiece. If there’s a “one,” this is undoubtedly it.
From the dynamic range of indelible opener “Dancing with the Moonlit Knight” to the sultry rock groove of “I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)” to the gentle uplift of “More Fool Me,” Selling England captivates. The albums 10-minute epics – a staple of any prog album worth its weight in wizard hats – are more narratively-inclined than those of many of their prog brethren, though they still showcase a technical proclivity that is to be envied.
But what Genesis truly have above the likes of Yes, ELP, King Crimson, etc. is a real honest to God frontman. Peter Gabriel is the rare prog singer to outshine his own band’s idiosyncrasies. On England, Gabriel minces, dons silly voices and accents, and generally makes his presence undeniable. In that way, Selling England By The Pound takes greater stylistic risks, but Gabriel shows the necessary lack of self-consciousness to really make it work – he’s the one doing the selling. Genesis were a more fanciful breed of prog rock, but they had a courage of their convictions and England yielded some of the highest rewards the genre could ever achieve.
4. Keith Jarrett Solo Concerts: Bremen and Lausanne
Keith Jarrett is essentially retired from performance. The 78-year-old Jarrett suffered a pair of strokes in 2018 that rendered him partially paralyzed on his left side and devoid of the ability to fully connect with the instrument he’s made sing for over 50 years. “I don’t know what my future is supposed to be,” the mercurial Jarrett told the New York Times. “I don’t feel right now like I’m a pianist. That’s all I can say about that.”
Jarrett may be done as a performer, but that likely doesn’t mean you’ve heard the last of him. Even if you’re a long-time fan, there is just so much material out there that it hardly seems possible to have heard all of it. From studio creations to his live albums, from his solo sets to his collaborations, the Jarrett catalog is as deep as it is rich. For those who haven’t spent much time with this improvisational genius, I would suggest this stirring, soulful offering from two separate 1973 European dates.
Bremen and Lausanne capture Jarrett’s mastery of improvisation, only a few months following his studio breakthrough, Facing You, and a couple years ahead of his commercial crescendo, The Köln Concert. It’s still my favorite work of his, capturing the expanse of Jarrett’s sound as he explores jazz, classical and gospel textures, reaching a sort of spiritual singularity with his instrument. This triple-LP set is passionate, explosive, sweeping and devastating, with no single moment going to waste. Jarrett uses his virtuosity as an emotional springboard, creating an open-hearted and free-flowing expression of love. It may just be the tip of the iceberg in one of jazz’s most impressive and enduring careers, but there is an entire lifetime’s worth of beauty to be found here.
5. Magma Mekanik Destruktiw Kommandoh
Sometimes albums just bowl you over with their bonkers energy, even if it’s more than likely they will clear most rooms. Magma’s delectably out-of-its-freaking-gourd Mekanïk Destruktïw Kommandöh may not be for everybody, but its madness is a feature in itself.
An operatic prog-jazz journey through the cosmos, Mekanïk Destruktïw Kommandöh is an album that only could have been made in the early 70s. Outside of proto-krautrockers like Amon Duul II, I can’t think of too many band’s that share an auditory space with Magma. In fact, they make more sense when lined up alongside cinematic oddities like El Topo or Aguirre, The Wrath Of God. Their work, and especially their work on this masterpiece, is the sound of completely untethered artistic expression. No language can hold them (they’re singing gibberish – I originally thought it was German, but Magma are a French band; neither language is represented here), no degree of intensity is too high, no vocal performance too unhinged. Mekanïk Destruktïw Kommandöh is indefatigable and devastating.
I have a short list of completely insane albums that I am drawn to exclusively for the thrill it gives me. Many…most…are from the 70s, an era of absolutely free expression without a trace of self-consciousness. Mekanïk Destruktïw Kommandöh is the tentpole, however. A masterclass in lunatic ambition.
6. Lynyrd Skynyrd Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd
I don’t know if the current generation of young music listeners have really found Lynyrd Skynyrd yet. They’re a hard band to fit neatly into the modern music conversation where socio-political status is as important to an album’s perception as, you know, the actual content of the album. To talk about Lynyrd Skynyrd today means you have to dance with all the problematic elements – the “southerness” of it all (AKA, the Confederate Flag Conundrum). Which means it’s probably easier for people to just ignore the band’s existence than engage with them. I can’t dictate how someone responds to a band like this – especially in the later years where the band has obstinately stuck to their racist shitheel guns – but it’s important to remember a couple key things:
- People were really rocking the stars n’ bars in the 70s and 80s without any consideration to the message they were conveying beyond “I’m from the bottom portion of the US.”
- All the cool guys from Lynyrd Skynyrd were dead and buried in 1977.
- The band’s 1973 debut album is basically flawless and deserves your consideration. It also doesn’t have the great, but at-best inscrutable southern defense, “Sweet Home Alabama,” if you were worried about that.
Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd is the essential southern rock album. No fat, no false moments, none of the Allman Brothers propensity to meander into a rote blues jam – just hits, bangers and a host of the greatest power ballads ever squeezed out by one band. And to a man, these guys deliver. Listen to guitarists Gary Rossington and Allen Collins boogie and strut over Bob Burns’ backwards/backwoods shuffle on “I Ain’t The One,” hear pianist Billy Powell’s barroom bounce on “Things Goin’ On,” or lean in for Ronnie Van Zant’s (the good Van Zant) leering drawl on “Mississippi Kid.” On “Poison Whiskey” they put it all together with a song that counters undeniable rock grit with bassist Leon Wilkeson’s frenetically funky groove. Every moment is just brimming with craft and personality.
And then there are the ballads. Three absolute monsters that have furrowed so deep into the American rock lexicon that their relative quality has become almost moot. That said, they’re all great, no matter how many “Free Bird” jokes you’ve heard or how much of a cliche it is to use “Tuesday’s Gone” in a movie soundtrack. I mean, imagine having “Free Bird” on your first album! And I think I like “Tuesday’s Gone” and “Simple Man” even more! Lynyrd Skynyrd may not be a band of today’s moment, but this fiery, lively, self-assured debut carries a power few modern artists could dare match.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
Herbie Hancock Head Hunters
One of my great joys is digging further into Herbie Hancock’s rich catalog, especially as he veers away from tastefulness and plays outside the lines of jazz like on 1979’s Feets Don’t Fail Me Now (disco) and 1983’s Future Shock (hip-hop). But my love of Hancock’s more confounding eras doesn’t blind me to the fact that Head Hunters, Hancock’s big selling iconoclastic breakthrough, is still thoroughly the shit. I think the purists may have scoffed, but scoffing at an album this fearlessly funky is about the squarest thing you can do.
Waylon Jennings Honky Tonk Heroes
Sung by a real one and written by an even realer one, Honky Tonk Heroes is the sine qua non of outlaw country. Between Jennings’ heavy, authoritative baritone and writer Billy Joe Shaver’s gritty, witty lamentations, Honky Tonk Heroes is a southern shitkicker the way it absolutely needs to be – wry, weary and as pure as an unflinching gulp of three fingers of Wild Turkey 101.
David Holland Quartet Conference of the Birds
Carson’s first ECM album! That’s got to count for something. Featuring four absolute hall of fame names in free jazz, Conference of the Birds is absolutely the perfect confluence of improvisation and order. The abstractions are given free reign to run wild, but the way these songs coalesce into rich melodies still staggers me. Using the Ornette Coleman playbook, Conference of the Birds highlights the discipline and focus required in making truly “out there” music. A wonder to behold.
Willie Nelson Shotgun Willie
Clearly a big year for the outlaws. Shotgun Willie is the height of Willie Nelson’s imperial phase without the encumbrance of an overriding concept. Shotgun Willie is just a singer-songwriter at the top of his game, no more, no less. Marvel as it delivers country funk essentials (“Whiskey River”) and outlaw mainstays (“Sad Songs And Waltzes”) while a whip-crack band adds warmth and depth to Nelson’s warm, but off-kilter wit.
LIVE BONUS
Bill Withers Live At Carnegie Hall
What are the keys to Bill Withers’ enduring appeal? How does Withers’ music remain unaffected by prevailing tastes and fashions? How do such simple songs transcend so effortlessly? I think Live At Carnegie Hall has the answer.
In this masterful, moving and disarmingly playful live set, Withers crystallizes an everyman appeal that can’t really be tampered with. His voice is soulful, but unshowy, adhering to a middle range with which any jerk on the street could identify. His stage banter is unpretentious and effortless – just a man rappin’ with the folks. His lyrics are literal and uncluttered, unencumbered by winking nods or innuendo (when Withers sings of his “Friend Of Mine,” he’s literally shouting out the bros, God love him). And his band…well, the band funks like a motherfucker, as the album’s extended bookends enthusiastically attest. So maybe Withers has something a little more special at his disposal.
There’s nothing about Bill Withers that one needs to “get.” His music is as elemental as the earth; his empathy is as real as the sun. Withers introduces set highlights “Grandma’s Hands” and “I Can’t Write Left-Handed” with stories told with charming plain-spokenness. And when the songs take shape, those qualities remain throughout. For a live set to truly become a declarative statement, it needs to dig deeper into not only the artist’s craft, but also the indefinable quality that makes a public figure so compelling, so magnetic. Live At Carnegie Hall captures both Wither’s sturdy, simple songwriting, but also the truth at the center of his being. We recognize the purest form of ourselves in Withers’ songs and in the man himself. Live casts it all in radiant sunshine.
VIKINGS & BEEKEEPERS 