Sometimes, life feels like a random intersection of others lives. In 1969, there was just over three and a half billion people on the planet. And somehow, Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Bonham, and John Paul Jones found one another and formed one of the most important bands in the whole scope of pop music history.
And they released this record, which would become one of the most influential albums of all time.
In the spring of 2006, during the heyday of MySpace, I somehow ended up becoming good friends with an entire family of siblings that I had never met.
The eldest was Andrew Stonestreet, a singer songwriter with a golden voice and a master for subtlety. At that point, he was writing bluegrass inspired worship songs that were as introspective as they were delicate.
Years later, he moved from West Virginia to Portland, where he formed Greylag, a project that turned his Appalachian sensibilities a few shades atmospheric—and apocalyptic.
I sometimes forget that my friend Grey is more than just a memelord. From his constant online irreverence and roasting of just about every band in existence (see: his podcast Demolisten), it sometimes feels like he doesn’t have a heart at all.
But within a few seconds of his solo full length Forget I Brought It Up, I realize oh yeah, this guy does have feelings—and an incredible talent for communicating them through poignant lyrics and a rich mixture of 90s alternative, pop punk, and emo.
By the mid ’80s, mechanical, inhuman synthpop that Kraftwerk pioneered had gone from an avant-garde experiment to the main stream. Artists like the Human League, New Order, and even Madonna had already taken the same artificial instruments and turned them on pop music.
And so when Kraftwerk released Electric Cafe, it was in a world where electronic music wasn’t just made by robots anymore. The adjustment is a little difficult, but it’s more rewarding than not.
Read more at ayearofvinyl.com #kraftwerk #krautrock #electronica #avantgarde #synthpop #vinyl
When I first stumbled upon the wonderful post-hardcore supergroup Less Art last year, I was a little unfamiliar with the home projects of the members. Obviously, I am a longtime and die hard fan of Thrice, but I had only given a precursory listen to Curl Up and Die, and had never heard of Kowloon Walled City at all.
But, the strength of Less Art invited me to look into them, and oh, am I glad I did.
Container Ships, their 2012 sophomore record, is a patient, cerebral piece of heavy music that blends sludge metal and post-hardcore in a brilliant way that lands somewhere between ISIS and Fugazi.
Every once in a while, the general music-listening public collectively latches onto an esoteric trend and gets super into it for awhile.
In the ’60s, it was Indian raga, such as Ali Akbar Khan. In the ’70s, it was jazz fusion like Miles Davis, his large cohort of collaborators, and their imitators.
Then in the 80s, there came New Age. And while it’s easy to dismiss new age as uninspired, atmospheric, pseudo-spiritualism that went on to become the soundtrack of wannabe yogis and crystal-filled wellness spas forever, Kitaro is another story.
If you were to conduct a survey to find the most important rock bands of the 1980s, the name “Journey” would be somewhere in the top five most common answers. Their huge hooks and virtuosic guitar solos have given them a permanent spot in “Yesterday and Today” radio stations across the country.
That legacy of hard-hitting singalongs started on Infinity, their fourth studio album, and their first with vocalist Steve Perry. That addition was the perfect ingredient to take them from an obscure progressive outfit to hit-making, bonafide arena rockers.
Let’s get one thing straight right out of the gate: I love this album. Wholly, completely, and without irony.
It’s not just a nostalgia thing either: despite Jars of Clay’s mainstream success in the mid 90s, I didn’t get into them until a decade later (when I stole all of my mom’s JoC CDs after graduating high school). Even after getting into more respectable music, I’ve always loved Jars of Clay. They’re not just good for a CCM band—they’re good period.
And even in the midst of a long and consistent career and in the shadow of a widely celebrated debut, I think their sophomore release, Much Afraid, has always been my favorite.
Creating the perfect debut record is a difficult task. It needs to capture a compelling snapshot that introduces them to the world while also fitting their potential in the same frame. Debuts are often youthful, packed with the ambition of an artist with something to prove.
But on his own debut, Jackson Browne seems to skip all that, starting instead in the middle of a respectable career.
Herbie Hancock is one of the more convincing chameleons (pun intended) in jazz history.
After writing indelible standards like “Maiden Voyage” and “Watermelon Man,” pioneering fusion alongside Miles Davis, and leading the far-out, futuro-Afro fusion band Mwandishi, Herbie easily could have rested on his laurels and still been heralded as a legend.
But resting isn’t exactly one of Herbie’s strong suits. And in the mid-eighties, he continued to look forward. Sound-System, his second album with the Rockit band, finds him setting aside horns, pianos, and tune itself in favor of drum machines, turntables, and samplers and exploring hip hop, funk, and electro.