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.
There are 9 comments for this chart from BestEverAlbums.com members and Top 100 Greatest Music Albums has an average rating of 88 out of 100 (from 32 votes). Please log in or register to leave a comment or assign a rating.
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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:
1,040
Rank in 1972:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
6
Buy album
- #Sponsored
91.5
[First added to this chart: 07/15/2023]
Year of Release:
1964
Appears in:
Rank Score:
696
Rank in 1964:
Rank in 1960s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
90.4
[First added to this chart: 12/22/2020]
Year of Release:
1963
Appears in:
Rank Score:
14,024
Rank in 1963:
Rank in 1960s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
90.3
[First added to this chart: 02/28/2024]
Year of Release:
1960
Appears in:
Rank Score:
1,248
Rank in 1960:
Rank in 1960s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Total albums: 4. Page 1 of 1
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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% | |
| Swans | 5 | 5% | |
| Bob Dylan | 5 | 5% | |
| Vampire Weekend | 4 | 4% | |
| Charles Mingus | 4 | 4% | |
| Scott Walker | 3 | 3% | |
| Show all | |||
| Country | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
|
|
|
| |
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 comments
Showing all 9 comments |
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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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