Top 100 Greatest Music Albums by 
DriftingOrpheus 
Subject to change (often). These are my personal favorite records...not necessarily a reflection of an objective musical hierarchy. (Wow. These write-ups have grown like weeds, particularly as you descend through the list. Only the slightest bit proud. 😌)
- Chart updated: 04/09/2024 04:15
- (Created: 04/25/2020 20:18).
- Chart size: 100 albums.
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92.2
[First added to this chart: 04/30/2020]
Year of Release:
2007
Appears in:
Rank Score:
10,646
Rank in 2007:
Rank in 2000s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
91
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92.2
[First added to this chart: 01/14/2023]
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92.2
[First added to this chart: 07/21/2023]
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When discussing The Smiths within musical circles, many would cite The Queen is Dead's politically-laced barrages of sound or perhaps the shyly-communicated romantic and physical insecurities of the band's brilliant debut record. When Meat is Murder eventually surfaces in conversation, it comes embroidered with the tagline, "The one where Morrissey pontificates about vegan ideals?" While it's certainly true that the album's title track is just as preachy as it is powerful, the record stands (albeit mostly unseen by most) as one of the band's most consistently brilliant outings. One could certainly attest to this album being the most varied in the discography, fluctuating between windswept, idyllic ballads and guitar-driven, rebellious canticles. This stylistic grab bag usually results in an uneven sonic experience, however, with the collective talent on hand, The Smiths deliver a master stroke markedly representative of their entire body of work.
The Headmaster Ritual kicks off the record, which serves as the band's statement on corporal punishment in educational settings. Marr's guitar is promptly infectious on the track, serving as the skeleton of the song while Mike Joyce's drum hits assume the figure of a percussive heart. Morrissey's yowls can be found scattered throughout, bridging between condemning cries of "Belligerent ghouls, run Manchester schools, spineless bastards all." The frontman's personal experiences can certainly be inferred upon here. It's possible his inclination towards artistic pursuits and not athletics made his time at school tumultuous. The Headmaster Ritual is a potent opener, flaunting wondrous instrumentation and inciting social discourse. Track two entitled, Rusholme Ruffians, conjures a carnival scene set against the backdrop of a hot summer evening in Manchester. Morrissey, from a lyrical standpoint, relays his most satirical skepticisms. He beckons, "Scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen, this means you really love me." He then recants (slightly), proclaiming that his "faith in love is still devout". Sixth track, Nowhere Fast, continues with all things snide, although far less concealed. Lyrics such as, "I'd like to drop my trousers to the Queen, every sensible child will know what this means" serve as a playful foreshadowing of political sentiments to follow. Marr's rockabilly rhythms once again propel the track reiteratively interlocked with Joyce's dependable drumming. For the quintet, Nowhere Fast acts as the musical equivalent of "cocking a snook". The album then coasts into seventh track, Well I Wonder, manifesting as part lullaby and epitaph. The appropriate visual accompaniment is that of beads of rain wandering down a windowpane as the sound of the drops patter overhead. Morrissey's vocal delivery is painful serene here as he croons, "Gasping, but somehow still alive, this is the fierce last stand of all I am." Andy Rourke's bass work creates a sense of space for the vocals, constructing a visual of Morrissey transmitting from the deepest, ghastliest alleyway where his pained but gorgeous falsettos only go as far as the wind takes them.
Morrissey's polarizing views on meat-infused diets, (comparing meat eating to child abuse and biting into your grandmother among others), often lampoon the album as an extension of those divisive statements. These snippets, nevertheless, should not detract from what an immense triumph this record still is, despite the idealogical load it must unfairly saddle. The Smiths were indeed two steps ahead of most of their contemporaries in the 1980's and routinely reduced similar-sounding groups to cut-rate emulations. Coinciding with their imminent prime was Meat is Murder, a stirring collection of some of The Smiths' finest musical exertions, layered and textured both in instrumentation and poetic capability. Ignominiously, It continues to remain back-seated when pitted against other Smiths discography entries. Oddly enough, you'll "get a crack on the head" for daring to bring it up.
"This is the last night of the fair,
and the grease in the hair,
of a speedway operator
is all a tremulous heart requires.
A schoolgirl is denied
She said : "How quickly would I die
If I jumped from the top of the parachutes?"
--Rusholme Ruffians
Standout Tracks:
1. Nowhere Fast
2. The Headmaster Ritual
3. Rusholme Ruffians
92.1 [First added to this chart: 04/26/2020]
The Headmaster Ritual kicks off the record, which serves as the band's statement on corporal punishment in educational settings. Marr's guitar is promptly infectious on the track, serving as the skeleton of the song while Mike Joyce's drum hits assume the figure of a percussive heart. Morrissey's yowls can be found scattered throughout, bridging between condemning cries of "Belligerent ghouls, run Manchester schools, spineless bastards all." The frontman's personal experiences can certainly be inferred upon here. It's possible his inclination towards artistic pursuits and not athletics made his time at school tumultuous. The Headmaster Ritual is a potent opener, flaunting wondrous instrumentation and inciting social discourse. Track two entitled, Rusholme Ruffians, conjures a carnival scene set against the backdrop of a hot summer evening in Manchester. Morrissey, from a lyrical standpoint, relays his most satirical skepticisms. He beckons, "Scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen, this means you really love me." He then recants (slightly), proclaiming that his "faith in love is still devout". Sixth track, Nowhere Fast, continues with all things snide, although far less concealed. Lyrics such as, "I'd like to drop my trousers to the Queen, every sensible child will know what this means" serve as a playful foreshadowing of political sentiments to follow. Marr's rockabilly rhythms once again propel the track reiteratively interlocked with Joyce's dependable drumming. For the quintet, Nowhere Fast acts as the musical equivalent of "cocking a snook". The album then coasts into seventh track, Well I Wonder, manifesting as part lullaby and epitaph. The appropriate visual accompaniment is that of beads of rain wandering down a windowpane as the sound of the drops patter overhead. Morrissey's vocal delivery is painful serene here as he croons, "Gasping, but somehow still alive, this is the fierce last stand of all I am." Andy Rourke's bass work creates a sense of space for the vocals, constructing a visual of Morrissey transmitting from the deepest, ghastliest alleyway where his pained but gorgeous falsettos only go as far as the wind takes them.
Morrissey's polarizing views on meat-infused diets, (comparing meat eating to child abuse and biting into your grandmother among others), often lampoon the album as an extension of those divisive statements. These snippets, nevertheless, should not detract from what an immense triumph this record still is, despite the idealogical load it must unfairly saddle. The Smiths were indeed two steps ahead of most of their contemporaries in the 1980's and routinely reduced similar-sounding groups to cut-rate emulations. Coinciding with their imminent prime was Meat is Murder, a stirring collection of some of The Smiths' finest musical exertions, layered and textured both in instrumentation and poetic capability. Ignominiously, It continues to remain back-seated when pitted against other Smiths discography entries. Oddly enough, you'll "get a crack on the head" for daring to bring it up.
"This is the last night of the fair,
and the grease in the hair,
of a speedway operator
is all a tremulous heart requires.
A schoolgirl is denied
She said : "How quickly would I die
If I jumped from the top of the parachutes?"
--Rusholme Ruffians
Standout Tracks:
1. Nowhere Fast
2. The Headmaster Ritual
3. Rusholme Ruffians
92.1 [First added to this chart: 04/26/2020]
Year of Release:
1985
Appears in:
Rank Score:
6,854
Rank in 1985:
Rank in 1980s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
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"Finally coming to my senses, I walked on to my hell.
For long before death had called me, my end was planned.
Planned but well…"
-The Chill of Death
The wind tunnels that form in the clotted alleyways of the inner city usher various leaflets of promotional material across the asphalt, inviting trash collectors and the less fortunate to gigs which have already taken place. The draft doesn't discriminate either, collecting the cigarette smoke of the poetaster who gazes upward at the clouds that slice the sky and then towards the neighboring apartment buildings that bend inward, both imprisoning everything below and peering down at the inconsequentiality of it all. In a moment that seemingly lasts a lifetime, the rusted hinges of the rear door of the Damocles Club groan and a voice mumbles, "You're on in fifteen." The poetaster waits for the door to snap shut to inspect his cigarette to determine if its length can justify another quarter of an hour. After careful consideration based on years of experience and tobacco reliance, he deduces that he'll need another one around the eight-minute mark. He then, as is protocol, fumbles through his front pant pocket which houses a semi-crushed pack of Pall Mall (they were mild alright), confirming the amount of remaining aboriginals within the lining. After detecting the final three, his stare changes course towards his instrument, which no longer rested lazily against the rocky exterior of the Damocles. It likely had slid down to the pavement when the door closed, he thought, noting the decay of the effectiveness of its once pristine case. In his paranoia, as any player worth a damn would, he cracked it open to make sure his meal ticket hadn't been warped, or less likely, tampered with. It looked just the way it did when he loaded it into the case from within his Greenwich Village motel room. He remembered why it was out in the first place; It was on account of the fact that he couldn't make it sing like it did ten years ago, or three years ago for that matter. He still wasn't sure if it was the horn or his ears.
They came from all walks of life, some pampered and some pummeled by history's unbiased, grand design. They fit like jigsaw pieces within the Damocles, with those acting as corner pieces squeezing their frames into the aging venue's nooks and crannies, face out. Others sat peacocking at the bar, brandishing wads of green paper which furnished their own sense of dominion over the conglomerate. A handful of them would make nightly love to the billiard table, trying to conjure up enough bravado to look like Paul Newman. In truth, they all ended up looking like Art Carney. Despite their divergence, they all shared one thing in common, apart from the certainty that all who attended on this night had indeed done so before. Everyone in the box which masqueraded as a jazz club didn't come to listen to music. Now, the fifteen minutes was up and the poetaster had to dole out dulcet tones with only the sound of chattered indifference to feed off of. It was a noble profession in the same vein as a cabbie or bus driver. In all three cases, you wouldn't dare make eye contact.
This time, the door couldn't even be bothered to groan. Two firm bangs boomed, followed by an "Eleven o'clock!" The poetaster felt the satisfying clicks of the case's locks as he ended his detached longing into the trumpet's faded luster. He flung the mostly unsmoked cigarette into the partially lit shadow of the alley and trudged inside, his feet, as if anchors, with the discomfort of the trumpet's flex strap already coursing through his cognition. He finally reached the stage without any inkling of acknowledgment from the throng while staring at the provided stool for a good forty-five seconds. He felt heavy in that moment and wondered, just briefly, how this crumbling piece of wood supported him so many times prior. Then, he grasped the seat with two hands and set it to the side. He would stand tonight. The poetaster put his lips to mouthpiece, hesitated and glanced up with just his eyes. The pool sharks saw him out of their respective peripheries but never turned. The man at the bar thought about raising him a glass but thought better of it and just loosened his necktie; And, the little one, nestled into the corner, looked to his shoes and waited for the siren song to blare out, marking him safe from unwanted conversation. Like a dutiful soldier, the poetaster started at a patient tempo. It wasn't intended to coat the evening in melancholy, but rather to evaluate if an unusually grave processional would alert anyone to the atypical nature of the performance. However, the billiard balls loudly clacked, the glasses resounded firmly on the bar top and the squeaking of the corner table persisted by way of constant readjustment. Suddenly, as the poetaster became aware of the full scope of his alienation, he decided, like all who surrounded him, to retreat into himself.
It was then that the long sought-after sound of three and even ten years ago placed its comforting hand upon the poetaster's back as he played. He marveled at how the bell and the valves sparkled once again as he pressed the finger buttons, now free of resistance. As he stared ahead, the patrons became progressively amorphous and the previously paramount sounds of the Damocles faded into a faint memory of a monotone reverberation as he played more magnificently than he had ever done before. He thought, 'I might as well close my eyes." As the lids shrouded the old man's cataracts, he could see the alley, experience the touch of the remaining trio of Pall Malls and get the faint, telescopic smell of smoke. The wind swirled, as it did earlier, and sent his still embering cigarette into collision with a stray leaflet. He paid close attention to its text, which now was partially obscured by an upstart flame, which read, "Jazz Giants of Yesteryear: Nightly at the Damocles Club, 11:00 PM-11:30 PM."
The poetaster opened his eyes, which fell upon chaos from within the Damocles as smoke billowed and guests fled for the exits. As one would imagine, the club was far from up to code. Therefore, no sprinklers were engaged and the blaze flourished. With turmoil all around, the poetaster underwent a docile tranquility and played on. "This set isn't gonna finish itself," he assured. In the midnight black haze of the smoke, he had never felt more beloved by the still hanging pictures of Ellington, Tatum and Bird, of course. As the trumpet melted in his hands and hit the floor with a gelatinous thud, he reached for his notepad which he kept on his person for each and every performance. He flipped to the last transcription which read, "Village Vanguard, April 17th - 9:15 PM". He remembered what the doorman said to him the last time. It was written underneath the date as a reminder. "Don't get here too early, Max hates it when you hang around the place like a ghost." He closed the pad and calmly walked out the front door.
1. Hobo Ho
2. The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife are Some Jiveass Slippers
3. The I of Hurricane Sue
92 [First added to this chart: 04/25/2023]
For long before death had called me, my end was planned.
Planned but well…"
-The Chill of Death
The wind tunnels that form in the clotted alleyways of the inner city usher various leaflets of promotional material across the asphalt, inviting trash collectors and the less fortunate to gigs which have already taken place. The draft doesn't discriminate either, collecting the cigarette smoke of the poetaster who gazes upward at the clouds that slice the sky and then towards the neighboring apartment buildings that bend inward, both imprisoning everything below and peering down at the inconsequentiality of it all. In a moment that seemingly lasts a lifetime, the rusted hinges of the rear door of the Damocles Club groan and a voice mumbles, "You're on in fifteen." The poetaster waits for the door to snap shut to inspect his cigarette to determine if its length can justify another quarter of an hour. After careful consideration based on years of experience and tobacco reliance, he deduces that he'll need another one around the eight-minute mark. He then, as is protocol, fumbles through his front pant pocket which houses a semi-crushed pack of Pall Mall (they were mild alright), confirming the amount of remaining aboriginals within the lining. After detecting the final three, his stare changes course towards his instrument, which no longer rested lazily against the rocky exterior of the Damocles. It likely had slid down to the pavement when the door closed, he thought, noting the decay of the effectiveness of its once pristine case. In his paranoia, as any player worth a damn would, he cracked it open to make sure his meal ticket hadn't been warped, or less likely, tampered with. It looked just the way it did when he loaded it into the case from within his Greenwich Village motel room. He remembered why it was out in the first place; It was on account of the fact that he couldn't make it sing like it did ten years ago, or three years ago for that matter. He still wasn't sure if it was the horn or his ears.
They came from all walks of life, some pampered and some pummeled by history's unbiased, grand design. They fit like jigsaw pieces within the Damocles, with those acting as corner pieces squeezing their frames into the aging venue's nooks and crannies, face out. Others sat peacocking at the bar, brandishing wads of green paper which furnished their own sense of dominion over the conglomerate. A handful of them would make nightly love to the billiard table, trying to conjure up enough bravado to look like Paul Newman. In truth, they all ended up looking like Art Carney. Despite their divergence, they all shared one thing in common, apart from the certainty that all who attended on this night had indeed done so before. Everyone in the box which masqueraded as a jazz club didn't come to listen to music. Now, the fifteen minutes was up and the poetaster had to dole out dulcet tones with only the sound of chattered indifference to feed off of. It was a noble profession in the same vein as a cabbie or bus driver. In all three cases, you wouldn't dare make eye contact.
This time, the door couldn't even be bothered to groan. Two firm bangs boomed, followed by an "Eleven o'clock!" The poetaster felt the satisfying clicks of the case's locks as he ended his detached longing into the trumpet's faded luster. He flung the mostly unsmoked cigarette into the partially lit shadow of the alley and trudged inside, his feet, as if anchors, with the discomfort of the trumpet's flex strap already coursing through his cognition. He finally reached the stage without any inkling of acknowledgment from the throng while staring at the provided stool for a good forty-five seconds. He felt heavy in that moment and wondered, just briefly, how this crumbling piece of wood supported him so many times prior. Then, he grasped the seat with two hands and set it to the side. He would stand tonight. The poetaster put his lips to mouthpiece, hesitated and glanced up with just his eyes. The pool sharks saw him out of their respective peripheries but never turned. The man at the bar thought about raising him a glass but thought better of it and just loosened his necktie; And, the little one, nestled into the corner, looked to his shoes and waited for the siren song to blare out, marking him safe from unwanted conversation. Like a dutiful soldier, the poetaster started at a patient tempo. It wasn't intended to coat the evening in melancholy, but rather to evaluate if an unusually grave processional would alert anyone to the atypical nature of the performance. However, the billiard balls loudly clacked, the glasses resounded firmly on the bar top and the squeaking of the corner table persisted by way of constant readjustment. Suddenly, as the poetaster became aware of the full scope of his alienation, he decided, like all who surrounded him, to retreat into himself.
It was then that the long sought-after sound of three and even ten years ago placed its comforting hand upon the poetaster's back as he played. He marveled at how the bell and the valves sparkled once again as he pressed the finger buttons, now free of resistance. As he stared ahead, the patrons became progressively amorphous and the previously paramount sounds of the Damocles faded into a faint memory of a monotone reverberation as he played more magnificently than he had ever done before. He thought, 'I might as well close my eyes." As the lids shrouded the old man's cataracts, he could see the alley, experience the touch of the remaining trio of Pall Malls and get the faint, telescopic smell of smoke. The wind swirled, as it did earlier, and sent his still embering cigarette into collision with a stray leaflet. He paid close attention to its text, which now was partially obscured by an upstart flame, which read, "Jazz Giants of Yesteryear: Nightly at the Damocles Club, 11:00 PM-11:30 PM."
The poetaster opened his eyes, which fell upon chaos from within the Damocles as smoke billowed and guests fled for the exits. As one would imagine, the club was far from up to code. Therefore, no sprinklers were engaged and the blaze flourished. With turmoil all around, the poetaster underwent a docile tranquility and played on. "This set isn't gonna finish itself," he assured. In the midnight black haze of the smoke, he had never felt more beloved by the still hanging pictures of Ellington, Tatum and Bird, of course. As the trumpet melted in his hands and hit the floor with a gelatinous thud, he reached for his notepad which he kept on his person for each and every performance. He flipped to the last transcription which read, "Village Vanguard, April 17th - 9:15 PM". He remembered what the doorman said to him the last time. It was written underneath the date as a reminder. "Don't get here too early, Max hates it when you hang around the place like a ghost." He closed the pad and calmly walked out the front door.
1. Hobo Ho
2. The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife are Some Jiveass Slippers
3. The I of Hurricane Sue
92 [First added to this chart: 04/25/2023]
Year of Release:
1972
Appears in:
Rank Score:
1,041
Rank in 1972:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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- #Sponsored
There was once a time when Cancerslug was a whisper. An underground, seemingly occult legend that was forged in the deepest swamps of Alabama. Their music was self-released, self-produced and polished with their own sweat and blood. It was in a word: relentless. In 1999, the subsection of Horror rock and Horror punk had seen its resources sucked bone dry. The Misfits of the late 70's and early 80's had long since been the standard bearer of a genre which had seen its numbers slowly dwindle. That's not say Cancerslug's music should be lumped in with any contemporaries. The band was a beast of its own, but at the time, they didn't make much of a splash outside of their stomping grounds in the south. Theirs is a mythos that grew and shrunk simultaneously throughout time. At the forefront of it all is lead singer/writer Alex Story, who's seen eras, lineups and even bandmates (drummer Mike Horgan) come to pass. His vision for what Cancerslug could be was enough to brand the band "the most vile band on Earth". Despite the perfectly fitting moniker, there was a distinct method to the boundless madness. A formula that was incapable of replication; a chemical synthesis of fury, repugnance and supernatural power that was perfected on 2004's 'Battle Hymns II'.
There's a raw, unpolished disregard that permeates through the veins of 'Battle Hymns II'. The devil-may-care production only enhances the material and the legacy it leaves behind, like a piece of cursed media or an unreleased 911 call. While rhapsodizing about 'little angels who want to be sex crime victims' and 'lasting a single minute more with pagan whores', the band leaves in spits, slip-ups and guitar feedback that bookends tracks like recording session timestamps. Lead singer Alex Story's howl corrals the sonic storms of crashing cymbal hits blended with scraping guitar strings and gives them direction. It's no secret that the band tends to re-record tracks from their past and reimagine them in different colors. Interestingly, the re-touching of traversed lands worked for the group as each entry brought a different energy that rarely disappointed in the early days of Cancerslug. There's a thickness to the production here; a heavy, corrosive presence that aids in the culmination of something wholly unholy. Still, melody isn't compromised, truthfully, it's just the opposite. To dissect it further in a musical sense would be an injustice to the very essence of what the album offers. It's devoid of form by intention, ancient in its nature and the equivalent of unearthing a malevolent curse from centuries ago and having it embody a 22-track album. A more appropriate way to observe 'Battle Hymns II' is through its prose. Deeply abrasive, satanic and nihilistic, Alex Story's lyricism is the perfect accompaniment to the already haunting sonic disposition. Some selections include, 'Sex Crime Victim', 'Demon in My Pants', 'Blood on Satan's Claw' and 'Creation Teardrops'. On 'Cycle of the Wolf' Story details, "The hunger burning in these veins to feed, to fuck, to live unchained, to bend the back and walk the earth on all fours." Despite its rather obvious connections to the commonly known werewolf myth, there's a frightening reality to the delivery, as if Story and company mean it in a literal sense, possibly alluding to the animalistic nature of society's most depraved. Creative subtlety is rife on the record (something that modern Cancerslug sorely lacks), but Story makes room for a healthy dose of skin-crawling bluntness. He writes on 'The Raven', "Taking baby out for a treat tonight, fuck her up the ass with a switchblade knife; I don't know if it's love but it's alright." The track has little in common with Poe's tale (other than the call and response of Nevermore), but Story's version remains on of the album's most visceral accounts.
Other parables of woe include 'So Many Dead', where Story screeches, "I put on the mask, I take up the knife I put on the gloves, I'll take your life; I am a fucking force of nature". The band effortlessly typifies the uncomfortable reality that percolates throughout 'BH II'. That's precisely why they occupied such a unique space amongst the Horror rock landscape. Their approach (in their prime), complete with a bedeviling delivery, convey the image of an act that may not know where the performance ends and the actuality begins. In other instances, Story honors his idols such as Italian filmmaker Lucio Fulci on 'Cat in the Brain', a song inspired by the 1990 horror film of the same name. The band even employs a softer touch on the record (by their standards) with 'In Dreams', a (dare I say) touching story of longing and repudiation. Story croons, "I can feel the fear inside of you; I'm amazed by your strength and pride and you will be forever by my side; No, there'll be no more pain so dry your lovely eyes." The album's magnum opus is 'Death's Call', a track so audibly haunting that Story's ghostly bellows seem to emanate from the attic above, through waterlogged plaster at 3AM. Nihilistic fervor takes hold with Story's declarations, "Everywhere I go, death comes calling to take me home; I will die alone and death comes calling to take me home." The nauseously named 'Fetus Milkshake' is a molten, sluggish account of a self-performed clothes hanger abortion told with unnerving explicitness. "When you are safe in mommy's womb, don't let the clothes hanger bother you; When you feel your limbs being torn away, don't feel bad you'll find them down the drain." Despite its unabashed ugliness, the hypnotic sway of 'Fetus Milkshake' give it the qualities of a diabolic lullaby. Story takes no position on the issue. He merely remains an observer. He's happy to just report upon horrors rather than analyze them.
Soon, the edge faded, the anger dwindled and the ferocity that separated Cancerslug from droves of gimmick bands that tried to reinvigorate horror-inspired rock and roll died off. It was replaced with vulgarity for vulgarity's sake. Shock value songs instead of the hair-raising mystery and mythology that encased the group in its heyday and all that remained was a pale reflection. There's blame to be shared in both camps, the band's and the blame of our expectations. People change, and ambition quells but few can deny the horrifying enigma Cancerslug once was. A beast that stalked the nights on internet forums and in the basements of horror aficionados everywhere. It's unlikely that Cancerslug will make much of an impression on music platforms or that it will even resonate with anyone reading this. Still it must be documented that their brilliance and bottled hate once inspired joy and dread in those who faced their music. Even the most docile and non-confrontational of individuals would know the face of true rage which the band communicated seemlessly during the early oughts. That's the kind of ruthless insight Cancerslug would spew when its revelry knew no bounds and its carnage took no prisoners. 'Battle Hymns II' is one of the most striking, deftly-aimed, sensational albums of the 21st century and so very few know of its power. It's meant to be listened to through the most imperfect of equipment and in the most hostile of environments. Be careful and tread lightly when you speak its name, for you must be prepared for the sinister, soul-blackening contents held within.
"I've got my innocence.
I'm gonna fuck you with it and I won't stop until I am through."
- If I Should Die Tonight
Standout Tracks:
1. Death's Call
2. Fetus Milkshake
3. The Raven
92 [First added to this chart: 07/15/2021]
There's a raw, unpolished disregard that permeates through the veins of 'Battle Hymns II'. The devil-may-care production only enhances the material and the legacy it leaves behind, like a piece of cursed media or an unreleased 911 call. While rhapsodizing about 'little angels who want to be sex crime victims' and 'lasting a single minute more with pagan whores', the band leaves in spits, slip-ups and guitar feedback that bookends tracks like recording session timestamps. Lead singer Alex Story's howl corrals the sonic storms of crashing cymbal hits blended with scraping guitar strings and gives them direction. It's no secret that the band tends to re-record tracks from their past and reimagine them in different colors. Interestingly, the re-touching of traversed lands worked for the group as each entry brought a different energy that rarely disappointed in the early days of Cancerslug. There's a thickness to the production here; a heavy, corrosive presence that aids in the culmination of something wholly unholy. Still, melody isn't compromised, truthfully, it's just the opposite. To dissect it further in a musical sense would be an injustice to the very essence of what the album offers. It's devoid of form by intention, ancient in its nature and the equivalent of unearthing a malevolent curse from centuries ago and having it embody a 22-track album. A more appropriate way to observe 'Battle Hymns II' is through its prose. Deeply abrasive, satanic and nihilistic, Alex Story's lyricism is the perfect accompaniment to the already haunting sonic disposition. Some selections include, 'Sex Crime Victim', 'Demon in My Pants', 'Blood on Satan's Claw' and 'Creation Teardrops'. On 'Cycle of the Wolf' Story details, "The hunger burning in these veins to feed, to fuck, to live unchained, to bend the back and walk the earth on all fours." Despite its rather obvious connections to the commonly known werewolf myth, there's a frightening reality to the delivery, as if Story and company mean it in a literal sense, possibly alluding to the animalistic nature of society's most depraved. Creative subtlety is rife on the record (something that modern Cancerslug sorely lacks), but Story makes room for a healthy dose of skin-crawling bluntness. He writes on 'The Raven', "Taking baby out for a treat tonight, fuck her up the ass with a switchblade knife; I don't know if it's love but it's alright." The track has little in common with Poe's tale (other than the call and response of Nevermore), but Story's version remains on of the album's most visceral accounts.
Other parables of woe include 'So Many Dead', where Story screeches, "I put on the mask, I take up the knife I put on the gloves, I'll take your life; I am a fucking force of nature". The band effortlessly typifies the uncomfortable reality that percolates throughout 'BH II'. That's precisely why they occupied such a unique space amongst the Horror rock landscape. Their approach (in their prime), complete with a bedeviling delivery, convey the image of an act that may not know where the performance ends and the actuality begins. In other instances, Story honors his idols such as Italian filmmaker Lucio Fulci on 'Cat in the Brain', a song inspired by the 1990 horror film of the same name. The band even employs a softer touch on the record (by their standards) with 'In Dreams', a (dare I say) touching story of longing and repudiation. Story croons, "I can feel the fear inside of you; I'm amazed by your strength and pride and you will be forever by my side; No, there'll be no more pain so dry your lovely eyes." The album's magnum opus is 'Death's Call', a track so audibly haunting that Story's ghostly bellows seem to emanate from the attic above, through waterlogged plaster at 3AM. Nihilistic fervor takes hold with Story's declarations, "Everywhere I go, death comes calling to take me home; I will die alone and death comes calling to take me home." The nauseously named 'Fetus Milkshake' is a molten, sluggish account of a self-performed clothes hanger abortion told with unnerving explicitness. "When you are safe in mommy's womb, don't let the clothes hanger bother you; When you feel your limbs being torn away, don't feel bad you'll find them down the drain." Despite its unabashed ugliness, the hypnotic sway of 'Fetus Milkshake' give it the qualities of a diabolic lullaby. Story takes no position on the issue. He merely remains an observer. He's happy to just report upon horrors rather than analyze them.
Soon, the edge faded, the anger dwindled and the ferocity that separated Cancerslug from droves of gimmick bands that tried to reinvigorate horror-inspired rock and roll died off. It was replaced with vulgarity for vulgarity's sake. Shock value songs instead of the hair-raising mystery and mythology that encased the group in its heyday and all that remained was a pale reflection. There's blame to be shared in both camps, the band's and the blame of our expectations. People change, and ambition quells but few can deny the horrifying enigma Cancerslug once was. A beast that stalked the nights on internet forums and in the basements of horror aficionados everywhere. It's unlikely that Cancerslug will make much of an impression on music platforms or that it will even resonate with anyone reading this. Still it must be documented that their brilliance and bottled hate once inspired joy and dread in those who faced their music. Even the most docile and non-confrontational of individuals would know the face of true rage which the band communicated seemlessly during the early oughts. That's the kind of ruthless insight Cancerslug would spew when its revelry knew no bounds and its carnage took no prisoners. 'Battle Hymns II' is one of the most striking, deftly-aimed, sensational albums of the 21st century and so very few know of its power. It's meant to be listened to through the most imperfect of equipment and in the most hostile of environments. Be careful and tread lightly when you speak its name, for you must be prepared for the sinister, soul-blackening contents held within.
"I've got my innocence.
I'm gonna fuck you with it and I won't stop until I am through."
- If I Should Die Tonight
Standout Tracks:
1. Death's Call
2. Fetus Milkshake
3. The Raven
92 [First added to this chart: 07/15/2021]
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- #Sponsored
Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones was 20 years of age in the early part of 1994. He had spent the last two years recording what would become his magnum opus and what's widely seen as the crown jewel of today's most preeminent music genre. He was still a minor but possessed the sagacious foresight of a storyteller that had lived five lifetimes. Born in Brooklyn but raised in nearby Queens, his experiences provided the narrative bedrock for 1994's Illmatic, incorporating his observations as a youth and synthesizing them with his reflections as a burgeoning adult. His insight provided social commentary that remains poignant and pertinent over 25 years later. The legendary-titled "N.Y. State of Mind" perhaps prophesied it best. This was the birth of "Nasty Nas" as an idea instead of a name and the beginning of a never-ending chase for genre peers to one-up his debut masterpiece. As of today, it has never been achieved.
After an establishing intro entitled The Genesis, Nasty Nas announces himself with N.Y. State of Mind, a stirring adrenaline shot that simultaneously cherishes (as a haven) and chastises (as a hellhole) the Big Apple. DJ Premier produced the track and provided the spine of the song with a daunting piano sample that is wonderfully dissonant behind Nas' silky delivery. Speaking of silky, Nas' philosophy and flow is on full display throughout the track. He spits, "I'm an addict for sneakers, 20's of Buddha and bitches with beepers, in the streets I can greet ya, about blunts I teach ya, inhale deep like the words of my breath, I never sleep, 'cause sleep is the cousin of death." His first proper track on his debut LP remains one of the genre's defining statements. That's pretty quick work indeed. He collaborates with fellow New York native, AZ, on third track Life's a Bitch. AZ's verse nearly highlights the song with his mile a minute delivery. However, never to be outdone, Nas equalizes during the second half of the three and a half minute cut. He declares, "Got rhymes 365 days annual, plus some, load up the mic and bust one, cuss while I pus from, my skull, cause it's pain in my brain vein, money maintain, don't go against the grain, simple and plain." The track is delicately produced by L.E.S with Nas himself having a hand in crafting the backbone of Life's a Bitch. It's a restrained approach that recognizes the strength of the flows of the rappers involved and gives them ample space to breathe. It then fades out gorgeously with a cornet outro played by Nas' own father, Olu Dara. Fourth track, The World is Yours, is likely the finest representation of the supreme fluidity of its orator. It's often cited as the lynchpin that binds arguments for Nas' possession of the best flow in history. Take for example: "Yet I'm the mild, money-gettin' style, rollin' foul, the versatile, honey-stickin', wild, golden child, dwellin' in the Rotten Apple, you get tackled, or caught by the devil's lasso, shit is a hassle." The World is Yours is nothing less than a lyrical masterclass communicated with the precision of an expert marksman.
The midpoint of the album is appropriately titled, Halftime. In some ways, you can't even tell that The World is Yours has ended, given how effortlessly Nas vocally sails through the fifth track. "I used to hustle, now all I do is relax and strive, when I was young I was a fan of the Jackson 5, I drop jewels, wear jewels, hope to never run it, with more kicks than a baby in a mother's stomach," he details. The track was actually released in 1992 as Nas' first single, under the moniker Nasty Nas. This seems to play a role in the track's omission when talking about the spoils of Illmatic. Nevertheless, Halftime is impossible to ignore, even amongst the giants it stands shoulder-to-shoulder with. After a velvety trip down memory lane, Nas concocts what is likely the summit of his poetic genius. One Love is expertly told and beautifully chronicled. The track snakes along, documenting fictitious letters that Nas has written to his companions who are behind bars. He explains, "What up, kid? I know shit is rough doin' your bid, when the cops came you shoulda slid to my crib, fuck it, black, no time for lookin' back, it's done, plus, congratulations, you know you got a son, I heard he looks like ya, why don't your lady write ya?" Later letters warn his friend to be wary of the dangers of incarceration and his own desire to want to murder out of frustration. He then recants because of his devotion to "One Love". A beautiful and haunting contemplation. He finishes the mosaic by fearing a similar fate for a younger confidante, "Shorty's laugh was cold-blooded as he spoke so foul, only 12, tryin' to tell me that he liked my style, then I rose, wipin' the blunt's ash from my clothes, then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose and told my little man I'ma ghost, I broze, left some jewels in his skull that he can sell if he chose, words of wisdom from Nas: try to rise up above, keep an eye out for Jake, Shorty Wop, one love." The lyricism is unbelievably profound as the Brooklyn-based bard paints a harrowing picture of the dangers of living in poverty and the effect of disenfranchisement and bias towards people of color. However, Nas promises to rise above the immense sociological disadvantages handed to him while hoping others will follow his lead. A sentiment that remains frighteningly relevant today. One Love is a landmark in hip-hop storytelling pageantry.
Nas' Illmatic remains entrenched in the pantheon of the lauded era of 90's hip-hop. On the other hand, it seems far ahead of its time. Its production and beats are some of the best that the era had to offer but it's the poetry on the LP that allows it to elude the aging process. Illmatic almost functions as a "Benjamin Button" of sorts, becoming more and more essential as time passes. Echoes of its excellence are heard in numerous hip-hop projects each and every year. In 2014, a documentary film, "Nas: Time is Illmatic", explored the album and its lasting legacy. Nas himself has even called the 25 years since the release as "a lifetime". It's perfectly understandable coming from the man who lived it, but the music never fails to be a product of the moment when it hits your eardrums and heart. If you listen closely, you can hear it reverberate off the brick walls of New York's compressed alleyways, rising above the sound of traffic, banter and the steam that rises from the streets.
"My intellect prevails from a hangin' cross with nails,
I reinforce the frail with lyrics that's real,
Word to Christ, a disciple of streets, trifle on beats,
I decipher prophecies through a mic and say peace."
- Memory Lane (Sittin' in Da Park)
Standout Tracks:
1. One Love
2. Halftime
3. N.Y. State of Mind
92 [First added to this chart: 06/17/2020]
After an establishing intro entitled The Genesis, Nasty Nas announces himself with N.Y. State of Mind, a stirring adrenaline shot that simultaneously cherishes (as a haven) and chastises (as a hellhole) the Big Apple. DJ Premier produced the track and provided the spine of the song with a daunting piano sample that is wonderfully dissonant behind Nas' silky delivery. Speaking of silky, Nas' philosophy and flow is on full display throughout the track. He spits, "I'm an addict for sneakers, 20's of Buddha and bitches with beepers, in the streets I can greet ya, about blunts I teach ya, inhale deep like the words of my breath, I never sleep, 'cause sleep is the cousin of death." His first proper track on his debut LP remains one of the genre's defining statements. That's pretty quick work indeed. He collaborates with fellow New York native, AZ, on third track Life's a Bitch. AZ's verse nearly highlights the song with his mile a minute delivery. However, never to be outdone, Nas equalizes during the second half of the three and a half minute cut. He declares, "Got rhymes 365 days annual, plus some, load up the mic and bust one, cuss while I pus from, my skull, cause it's pain in my brain vein, money maintain, don't go against the grain, simple and plain." The track is delicately produced by L.E.S with Nas himself having a hand in crafting the backbone of Life's a Bitch. It's a restrained approach that recognizes the strength of the flows of the rappers involved and gives them ample space to breathe. It then fades out gorgeously with a cornet outro played by Nas' own father, Olu Dara. Fourth track, The World is Yours, is likely the finest representation of the supreme fluidity of its orator. It's often cited as the lynchpin that binds arguments for Nas' possession of the best flow in history. Take for example: "Yet I'm the mild, money-gettin' style, rollin' foul, the versatile, honey-stickin', wild, golden child, dwellin' in the Rotten Apple, you get tackled, or caught by the devil's lasso, shit is a hassle." The World is Yours is nothing less than a lyrical masterclass communicated with the precision of an expert marksman.
The midpoint of the album is appropriately titled, Halftime. In some ways, you can't even tell that The World is Yours has ended, given how effortlessly Nas vocally sails through the fifth track. "I used to hustle, now all I do is relax and strive, when I was young I was a fan of the Jackson 5, I drop jewels, wear jewels, hope to never run it, with more kicks than a baby in a mother's stomach," he details. The track was actually released in 1992 as Nas' first single, under the moniker Nasty Nas. This seems to play a role in the track's omission when talking about the spoils of Illmatic. Nevertheless, Halftime is impossible to ignore, even amongst the giants it stands shoulder-to-shoulder with. After a velvety trip down memory lane, Nas concocts what is likely the summit of his poetic genius. One Love is expertly told and beautifully chronicled. The track snakes along, documenting fictitious letters that Nas has written to his companions who are behind bars. He explains, "What up, kid? I know shit is rough doin' your bid, when the cops came you shoulda slid to my crib, fuck it, black, no time for lookin' back, it's done, plus, congratulations, you know you got a son, I heard he looks like ya, why don't your lady write ya?" Later letters warn his friend to be wary of the dangers of incarceration and his own desire to want to murder out of frustration. He then recants because of his devotion to "One Love". A beautiful and haunting contemplation. He finishes the mosaic by fearing a similar fate for a younger confidante, "Shorty's laugh was cold-blooded as he spoke so foul, only 12, tryin' to tell me that he liked my style, then I rose, wipin' the blunt's ash from my clothes, then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose and told my little man I'ma ghost, I broze, left some jewels in his skull that he can sell if he chose, words of wisdom from Nas: try to rise up above, keep an eye out for Jake, Shorty Wop, one love." The lyricism is unbelievably profound as the Brooklyn-based bard paints a harrowing picture of the dangers of living in poverty and the effect of disenfranchisement and bias towards people of color. However, Nas promises to rise above the immense sociological disadvantages handed to him while hoping others will follow his lead. A sentiment that remains frighteningly relevant today. One Love is a landmark in hip-hop storytelling pageantry.
Nas' Illmatic remains entrenched in the pantheon of the lauded era of 90's hip-hop. On the other hand, it seems far ahead of its time. Its production and beats are some of the best that the era had to offer but it's the poetry on the LP that allows it to elude the aging process. Illmatic almost functions as a "Benjamin Button" of sorts, becoming more and more essential as time passes. Echoes of its excellence are heard in numerous hip-hop projects each and every year. In 2014, a documentary film, "Nas: Time is Illmatic", explored the album and its lasting legacy. Nas himself has even called the 25 years since the release as "a lifetime". It's perfectly understandable coming from the man who lived it, but the music never fails to be a product of the moment when it hits your eardrums and heart. If you listen closely, you can hear it reverberate off the brick walls of New York's compressed alleyways, rising above the sound of traffic, banter and the steam that rises from the streets.
"My intellect prevails from a hangin' cross with nails,
I reinforce the frail with lyrics that's real,
Word to Christ, a disciple of streets, trifle on beats,
I decipher prophecies through a mic and say peace."
- Memory Lane (Sittin' in Da Park)
Standout Tracks:
1. One Love
2. Halftime
3. N.Y. State of Mind
92 [First added to this chart: 06/17/2020]
Year of Release:
1994
Appears in:
Rank Score:
18,506
Rank in 1994:
Rank in 1990s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
91.8
[First added to this chart: 02/23/2022]
Buy album
- #Sponsored
Royal Mail Ship Titanic was comprised of nine decks and three million rivets, fitted with a total of 29 boilers which fed two reciprocating steam engines and one low-pressure turbine that allowed the ship to reach speeds of up to 21 knots at a staggering length of just under 883 feet from bow to stern. She required three years to complete and her hardware was, and in many ways still is, a miracle of science and sat comfortably at the pinnacle of technological advancement when it first launched from Southampton in April of 1912. Her luxury accommodations and various architectural adornments were equally unrivaled and positioned Titanic as a mobile, sparkling rendezvous which out-twinkled the finest hotels of the stationary variety. Her promenade deck was surely the most winsome, featuring a myriad of ornamental configurations whose inspirations date as far back as the Renaissance Era. It was a structural phenomenon, a major artery of artistic design allowing the blood of inspiration to flow and provide oxygen to dreams. In hindsight, it became the most appropriate locale for an ending of tragic, Shakespearian proportions. How do you successfully compartmentalize and synthesize her indominable aura and legacy into a 25-minute piece of art? Or, better yet, does one even try?
Henry James Beauchamp, 28, 2nd Class
Dorothy Sage, 14, 3rd Class
Thomas Andrews, Naval Architect, 39, 1st Class
When Gavin Bryars first enrolled at Sheffield University, his primary focus of study was philosophy, which no doubt engrained within him an acute perspective, optimal for when the eventual transition into music beckoned. He began his ever-evolving, sonic trek by dabbling in the world of jazz, employing the upright bass as his instrument of choice, first traditionally, then tinted with a sheen for the avant-garde. Like many visionaries, his taste for the conventional soon withered, as did his interest towards playing. It wasn't until a move abroad that his artistic sensibilities would come into full focus. He briefly studied under the minimalist icon, John Cage, and rapidly gained an esteem for the uncolored edges of sonic exploration. He returned to England soon after to pursue a teaching role at Portsmouth College of Fine Art. Here, he would pen his most significant and enduring work, a monument as much as it is a marvel, firmly in tune with the ship it honored.
Jack Phillips, Marconi Wireless Operator, 25, Crew
Augusta Charlotta Lindblom, 45, 3rd Class
Henry Michael Mitchell, 71, 2nd Class
Titanic was equipped with 16 watertight bulkheads, ones that fatally didn't rise above E deck. This caused the unimaginable amount of water rushing in, as a result of the 300-foot gash which parted her double hull, to spill over each of these watertight compartments in succession, dragging Titanic's bow underneath the waterline. The promenade deck, once grounds for regalia and soirees, would soon be a scene of hysteria and stampede for the better portion of two hours and forty minutes. Despite the myth, Titanic's marketing never brandished an "unsinkable" moniker, but her inexorable descent into the icy Atlantic remains a chilling exemplar of nature's dominion over the impudence of man. As dinner jackets, newly-molded china and suitcases in abundance homogenized with the sea, in congruence to the legend, Titanic's orchestra played until they were submerged in order to calm their terrified fellow men and women. 57 years onward, Gavin Bryars would use this symphonic motif as the basis for his masterpiece.
Salli Helena Rosblom, 2, 3rd Class
Henriette Yvois, 24, 2nd Class
Toufik Nakhli, 17, 3rd Class
Bryars originally planned for 'The Sinking of the Titanic' to be purely conceptual and free of the limitations that a tangible performance would provide. Nevertheless, Bryars eventually performed the piece in 1972 with its first revision surfacing in 1975. It's often viewed as an open work, consistently subject to re-toolings and re-imaginings, yet, the conceptual framework stays intact, akin to the still majestic, but ghostly shipwreck located 12,500 feet from the trough of the waves. Bryars was intrigued by the peculiar concept of how the orchestral sounds of Titanic's players would locomote when rendered subaqueous. Put simply, how would they sound if they were able to play until they met the ocean floor? As the music would theoretically distort, morph and provide a very divergent timbre, the reverberating sound waves would serve as one final sonic footnote, a siren song and elegy for the once mighty ship to be accompanied by during its final descent. Using the episcopal hymn 'Autumn' as a skeleton, a piece that may have been present during the sinking, Bryars translated his initial theory into classical composition. The first rework was featured as the inaugural release in a decet of albums on the Brian Eno-founded label 'Obscure Records' in 1975. On it, Bryars plays a dual role of conductor and pianist, as he captains a weighty, solemn procession shepherded by strings which sound as if they have been in use since 1912 and keys befitting a piano in a dilapidated chateau which strike heavily and originate from a floor above and two rooms over. There's a pulsating hum which envelopes the piece in its entirety that aims to simulate the water's annulments which results in a shadowy, yet tranquil experience that furnishes an idea of a bleak, yet dignified acceptance of death. This assimilation into liquid continues for nearly a half hour, broken only briefly by the attestations from survivor Eva Hart, when finally, the damp resonance ceases from a place below and no longer in sight. It is, without hesitation, a triumph of aural intention and realization which offers consistent treasures upon re-visitation.
Engelhart Cornelius Ostby, 64, 1st Class
Eric Rice, 7, 3rd Class
Emil Christmann, 29, 3rd Class
The record's B-Side has received acclaim and has carved out a place of reverence in its own right. 'Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet' is less an art project and more of a humanistic observation set to music. Anchored by an audio sample of a destitute reaffirming his allegiance to God, the song is fairly more traditional than the title track, save for the inclusion of minute escalations in the instrumentational flow. The set of players return from 'Sinking' and the musical coloring remains unaltered as they craft another circular, albeit less oxidizing auditory space. Swelling strings coalesce into a autonomous power source only halting for a brief moment as plucked guitar strings dance above them as if they were native to a nautical lullaby. Its relationship with the former track isn't directly analogous, yet it does occupy emblematic territory. It doesn't strain one's imagination to make the connection that it could resemble the last words of a doomed passenger, life jacket-clad and clinging to debris, requesting absolution in the face of the impending hereafter. Bryars' composition expertly paints a portrait of a regretless sage, singing to the starless night, kept warm in the glassy waters by faith alone, defiant in the face of 'Titanic's colossal vortex.
Aloisia Haas, 24, 3rd Class
Arthur Webster Newell, 58, 1st Class
Captain Edward Smith, 62, Crew
Who could have imagined, as the collective stood on Titanic's port side in anticipation of her maiden voyage, the kind of lightning rod the steamer would become for art, literature, music and film? It's easy to forget, while some had their personal effects taken to their room and others were being checked for lice, that the ship that would carry both subsets, man and woman, rich and poor, was made of iron. It was, at the time, an inanimate object with the sole purpose of passage. Now, it's a ghost, a shadow and a vivid memory in the minds of those who never walked her decks. It lies at 41°43′57′′ N 49°56′49′′ W. Today, with modern technology, we can view what remains of the vessel. You'd swear you could see it breathe, iron and all. Even if it wasn't 'Nearer My God to Thee', the truth endures, Titanic's musicians played to the end. We can only hope it sounded this beautiful.
91.8 [First added to this chart: 02/23/2023]
Henry James Beauchamp, 28, 2nd Class
Dorothy Sage, 14, 3rd Class
Thomas Andrews, Naval Architect, 39, 1st Class
When Gavin Bryars first enrolled at Sheffield University, his primary focus of study was philosophy, which no doubt engrained within him an acute perspective, optimal for when the eventual transition into music beckoned. He began his ever-evolving, sonic trek by dabbling in the world of jazz, employing the upright bass as his instrument of choice, first traditionally, then tinted with a sheen for the avant-garde. Like many visionaries, his taste for the conventional soon withered, as did his interest towards playing. It wasn't until a move abroad that his artistic sensibilities would come into full focus. He briefly studied under the minimalist icon, John Cage, and rapidly gained an esteem for the uncolored edges of sonic exploration. He returned to England soon after to pursue a teaching role at Portsmouth College of Fine Art. Here, he would pen his most significant and enduring work, a monument as much as it is a marvel, firmly in tune with the ship it honored.
Jack Phillips, Marconi Wireless Operator, 25, Crew
Augusta Charlotta Lindblom, 45, 3rd Class
Henry Michael Mitchell, 71, 2nd Class
Titanic was equipped with 16 watertight bulkheads, ones that fatally didn't rise above E deck. This caused the unimaginable amount of water rushing in, as a result of the 300-foot gash which parted her double hull, to spill over each of these watertight compartments in succession, dragging Titanic's bow underneath the waterline. The promenade deck, once grounds for regalia and soirees, would soon be a scene of hysteria and stampede for the better portion of two hours and forty minutes. Despite the myth, Titanic's marketing never brandished an "unsinkable" moniker, but her inexorable descent into the icy Atlantic remains a chilling exemplar of nature's dominion over the impudence of man. As dinner jackets, newly-molded china and suitcases in abundance homogenized with the sea, in congruence to the legend, Titanic's orchestra played until they were submerged in order to calm their terrified fellow men and women. 57 years onward, Gavin Bryars would use this symphonic motif as the basis for his masterpiece.
Salli Helena Rosblom, 2, 3rd Class
Henriette Yvois, 24, 2nd Class
Toufik Nakhli, 17, 3rd Class
Bryars originally planned for 'The Sinking of the Titanic' to be purely conceptual and free of the limitations that a tangible performance would provide. Nevertheless, Bryars eventually performed the piece in 1972 with its first revision surfacing in 1975. It's often viewed as an open work, consistently subject to re-toolings and re-imaginings, yet, the conceptual framework stays intact, akin to the still majestic, but ghostly shipwreck located 12,500 feet from the trough of the waves. Bryars was intrigued by the peculiar concept of how the orchestral sounds of Titanic's players would locomote when rendered subaqueous. Put simply, how would they sound if they were able to play until they met the ocean floor? As the music would theoretically distort, morph and provide a very divergent timbre, the reverberating sound waves would serve as one final sonic footnote, a siren song and elegy for the once mighty ship to be accompanied by during its final descent. Using the episcopal hymn 'Autumn' as a skeleton, a piece that may have been present during the sinking, Bryars translated his initial theory into classical composition. The first rework was featured as the inaugural release in a decet of albums on the Brian Eno-founded label 'Obscure Records' in 1975. On it, Bryars plays a dual role of conductor and pianist, as he captains a weighty, solemn procession shepherded by strings which sound as if they have been in use since 1912 and keys befitting a piano in a dilapidated chateau which strike heavily and originate from a floor above and two rooms over. There's a pulsating hum which envelopes the piece in its entirety that aims to simulate the water's annulments which results in a shadowy, yet tranquil experience that furnishes an idea of a bleak, yet dignified acceptance of death. This assimilation into liquid continues for nearly a half hour, broken only briefly by the attestations from survivor Eva Hart, when finally, the damp resonance ceases from a place below and no longer in sight. It is, without hesitation, a triumph of aural intention and realization which offers consistent treasures upon re-visitation.
Engelhart Cornelius Ostby, 64, 1st Class
Eric Rice, 7, 3rd Class
Emil Christmann, 29, 3rd Class
The record's B-Side has received acclaim and has carved out a place of reverence in its own right. 'Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet' is less an art project and more of a humanistic observation set to music. Anchored by an audio sample of a destitute reaffirming his allegiance to God, the song is fairly more traditional than the title track, save for the inclusion of minute escalations in the instrumentational flow. The set of players return from 'Sinking' and the musical coloring remains unaltered as they craft another circular, albeit less oxidizing auditory space. Swelling strings coalesce into a autonomous power source only halting for a brief moment as plucked guitar strings dance above them as if they were native to a nautical lullaby. Its relationship with the former track isn't directly analogous, yet it does occupy emblematic territory. It doesn't strain one's imagination to make the connection that it could resemble the last words of a doomed passenger, life jacket-clad and clinging to debris, requesting absolution in the face of the impending hereafter. Bryars' composition expertly paints a portrait of a regretless sage, singing to the starless night, kept warm in the glassy waters by faith alone, defiant in the face of 'Titanic's colossal vortex.
Aloisia Haas, 24, 3rd Class
Arthur Webster Newell, 58, 1st Class
Captain Edward Smith, 62, Crew
Who could have imagined, as the collective stood on Titanic's port side in anticipation of her maiden voyage, the kind of lightning rod the steamer would become for art, literature, music and film? It's easy to forget, while some had their personal effects taken to their room and others were being checked for lice, that the ship that would carry both subsets, man and woman, rich and poor, was made of iron. It was, at the time, an inanimate object with the sole purpose of passage. Now, it's a ghost, a shadow and a vivid memory in the minds of those who never walked her decks. It lies at 41°43′57′′ N 49°56′49′′ W. Today, with modern technology, we can view what remains of the vessel. You'd swear you could see it breathe, iron and all. Even if it wasn't 'Nearer My God to Thee', the truth endures, Titanic's musicians played to the end. We can only hope it sounded this beautiful.
91.8 [First added to this chart: 02/23/2023]
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91.7
[First added to this chart: 07/16/2022]
Total albums: 100. Page 4 of 10
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Top 100 Greatest Music Albums composition
| Decade | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
 |
 |
|
|
| 1930s | 0 | 0% | |
| 1940s | 0 | 0% | |
| 1950s | 3 | 3% | |
| 1960s | 16 | 16% | |
| 1970s | 12 | 12% | |
| 1980s | 7 | 7% | |
| 1990s | 20 | 20% | |
| 2000s | 20 | 20% | |
| 2010s | 20 | 20% | |
| 2020s | 2 | 2% |
| Artist | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
 |
|
|
| フィッシュマンズ [Fishmans] | 10 | 10% | |
| Radiohead | 7 | 7% | |
| Bob Dylan | 5 | 5% | |
| Swans | 5 | 5% | |
| Charles Mingus | 4 | 4% | |
| Vampire Weekend | 4 | 4% | |
| Joanna Newsom | 3 | 3% | |
| Show all | |||
| Country | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
|
|
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| |
56 | 56% | |
 |
22 | 22% | |
 |
10 | 10% | |
 |
4 | 4% | |
 |
3 | 3% | |
 |
2 | 2% | |
 |
1 | 1% | |
| Show all | |||
Top 100 Greatest Music Albums chart changes
| Biggest climbers |
|---|
| Up 2 from 94th to 92nd Only God Was Above Us by Vampire Weekend |
| Biggest fallers |
|---|
| Down 1 from 92nd to 93rd Strawberry Jam by Animal Collective |
| Down 1 from 93rd to 94th Currents by Tame Impala |
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Top 100 Greatest Music Albums ratings
88/100 (from 32 votes)
where:
av = trimmed mean average rating an item has currently received.
n = number of ratings an item has currently received.
m = minimum number of ratings required for an item to appear in a 'top-rated' chart (currently 10).
AV = the site mean average rating.
Showing latest 5 ratings for this chart. | Show all 32 ratings for this chart.
| Rating | Date updated | Member | Chart ratings | Avg. chart rating |
|---|---|---|---|---|
 70/100  | 06/23/2023 05:13 |  Applerill | | 75/100 |
| 85/100 | 03/27/2023 17:55 | Johnnyo | | 80/100 |
| 85/100 | 03/27/2023 00:15 | Moondance | | 84/100 |
| 80/100 | 03/26/2023 12:00 |  Tamthebam | | 85/100 |
| 90/100 | 09/17/2022 23:03 | Rm12398 | | 89/100 |
Rating metrics:
Outliers can be removed when calculating a mean average to dampen the effects of ratings outside the normal distribution. This figure is provided as the trimmed mean. A high standard deviation can be legitimate, but can sometimes indicate 'gaming' is occurring. Consider a simplified example* of an item receiving ratings of 100, 50, & 0. The mean average rating would be 50. However, ratings of 55, 50 & 45 could also result in the same average. The second average might be more trusted because there is more consensus around a particular rating (a lower deviation).
(*In practice, some charts can have several thousand ratings)
This chart is rated in the top 9% of all charts on BestEverAlbums.com. This chart has a Bayesian average rating of 88.2/100, a mean average of 88.9/100, and a trimmed mean (excluding outliers) of 88.9/100. The standard deviation for this chart is 11.6.
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Top 100 Greatest Music Albums favourites
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Top 100 Greatest Music Albums comments
Showing all 9 comments |
Most Helpful First | Newest First | Maximum Rated First |
Longest Comments First
(Only showing comments with -2 votes or higher. You can alter this threshold from your profile page. Manage Profile)
85/100
From Johnnyo 03/27/2023 17:55
Exceeding chart and a great read.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
85/100
From Moondance 12/08/2022 00:11
We are 2 generations apart, so no surprise that our musical tastes/album preferences are not going to align. Totally respect your selections and appreciate your commentary - this chart is a definite labour of love. BTW - our one common album ~ Dark Side Of The Moon. BTW2 - thank you for introducing me to Night Beds' Country Sleep album - a future inclusion in my 2013 year chart.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
95/100
From 
Larcx13 07/20/2021 15:00
Larcx13 07/20/2021 15:00
I guess youre a fan of radiohead.
Hard work on the descriptions good stuff.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
From DriftingOrpheus 04/27/2021 22:55
DriftingOrpheus 04/27/2021 22:55
@StreakyNuno: Your statement is demeaning to every individual who's ever experienced an inkling of an original thought...
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +2 votes (2 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
60/100
From StreakyNuno 04/27/2021 19:23
This comment is beneath your viewing threshold.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | -5 votes (0 helpful | 5 unhelpful)
100/100
From 
DommeDamian 04/27/2021 13:50
DommeDamian 04/27/2021 13:50
*shocked emoji* this is ridiculously great.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
90/100
From leniad 10/21/2020 23:28
Like your taste
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
95/100
From 
Strangel 06/17/2020 10:18
Strangel 06/17/2020 10:18
Saw your comments on Syro which intrigued me enough to wander over here and read a bit more. I’ve always rated charts that offer explanations for each choice. So far you have gone above and beyond, plus I tend to agree with your love for many of these albums (Smiths aside). Look forward to seeing the finished version!
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | +1 votes (1 helpful | 0 unhelpful)
55/100
From mianfei 05/14/2020 02:18
Even with very many “stereotypical” choices, this is not that bad a list.
Although I have never heard their music, Acid Bath is a wonderful surprise, as is the Misfits. I heard of both bands in the middle 2000s from one writer on Amazon.com called “janitor-x”, whose musical taste I cannot relate to but whose virulent criticism of ‘Rolling Stone’ I have never doubted nor seen refuted.
Helpful? (Log in to vote) | -1 votes (0 helpful | 1 unhelpful)
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We work very hard to ensure our site is as fast (and FREE!) as possible, and we respect your privacy.
| Best Ever Artists | |
|---|---|
| 1. The Beatles | |
| 2. Radiohead | |
| 3. Pink Floyd | |
| 4. David Bowie | |
| 5. Bob Dylan | |
| 6. Led Zeppelin | |
| 7. The Rolling Stones | |
| 8. Arcade Fire | |
| 9. The Velvet Underground | |
| 10. Kendrick Lamar | |
| 11. Nirvana | |
| 12. Neil Young | |
| 13. The Smiths | |
| 14. Miles Davis | |
| 15. The Beach Boys | |
| 16. Kanye West | |
| 17. Pixies | |
| 18. R.E.M. | |
| 19. Jimi Hendrix | |
| 20. Bruce Springsteen |