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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"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:
1,042
Rank in 1972:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
6
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- #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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- #Sponsored
Novices to the world of acclaimed rock music looking to cut their teeth wouldn't have to dig very deep to find evidence of The Dark Side of the Moon's legacy and societal imprint. After all, this is a record that is arguably the most universally celebrated and globally popular in modern history. Unfortunately, nowadays it's characterized, more often than not, by hyperbole. This is a shame really because it's pinpoint nuance that makes The Dark Side of the Moon one of the finest albums to grace humanity's collective eardrums. The record radiates a sound of a group that knows exactly what it wants to achieve sonically and signals the completion of a maturation that has occurred over the course of a handful of prior outings. Take 1971's Meddle for example. It's one of Floyd's finest without reservation, boasting immense successes such as Fearless and San Tropez, but there is a rather hefty outlier laden within the tracklist. To be clear, I'm using the term outlier in its most complimentary form. The 23 minute behemoth, Echoes, ended the record and served as a roadmap for where the band would venture next. The destination was a cosmic, ethereal, metaphysical realm that they dubbed The Dark Side of the Moon.
The album commences with Speak to Me, a transport that can loosely be described as a track, however, its importance is critical to the LP's DNA. The track is fronted by a literal heartbeat and incorporates various samples (faintly heard) that coordinate with future expositions, elapsing to lay out the coming journey that remains ahead. They say that your life flashes before you on your deathbed, but here the band have presented those nanoseconds at birth. It's an intriguing concept put lightly. After a short (breath) of cognizance, third track, On the Run, epitomizes the frantic rigors that life will bestow upon its participants. Synths and a Hammond organ spark throughout the frenetic, instrumental piece that help craft one of Floyd's most satisfying short-burst affirmations. A cacophony of alarm bells greet you when fourth track Time, one of Floyd's most cherished works, emerges. The song, unsurprisingly, deals with the passage of its namesake and how it is futile to protest against the all-devouring pull of its black hole. The horology driven track is arguably the album's spaciest statement, as it glides wonderfully across an unblemished, unsullied terrain. David Gilmour's lead vocals are hoisted by the serene backing of a myriad of singers before he himself uncorks a guitar solo of unflinching allure. Gilmour warns, "Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain; you are young and life is long and there is time to kill today, and then one day you find ten years have got behind you; no one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun." The Dark Side of the Moon has just revealed its first treasure. The final track of the A side is a bit of a deviation, but not in quality. The stunning, non-lexical vocal stylings of Clare Torry caress The Great Gig in the Sky, which stands in as a figurative grim reaper. If only dying could be this inviting. Her yowls seep into every crevice and cranny of the instrumentation, fusing into an intense moment of catharsis as side one fades out.
The tranquility subsides with an exchange of currency but this particular quid is of the funky variety. Money benefits substantially from drummer Nick Mason and session saxophonist Dick Parry. Mason excels against a tricky 7/4 time signature which is later converted to 4/4 for Gilmour's punctual guitar solo. Parry's sax shepherds the track through that very transition with all the eccentricities of a free jazz maestro. Thematically, the track mocks the pursuit of monetary wealth in the grand scheme of life's expansive possibility. "Money, it's a gas; grab that cash with both hands and make a stash; New car, caviar, four-star daydream, think I'll buy me a football team," elicits Gilmour. Money is, without opposition, the wittiest voyage on the album. Seventh track, Us and Them, shreds any remaining inklings of snarky banter. The nearly eight-minute cut is an expedition through the nucleus of human interaction and conflict. It's also the highpoint for melodic elegance on the record. For instance, the vocal harmony shared between Gilmour and Richard Wright, supported by the returning vocal quintet from Time, dishes out multiple crescendos which never fail to produce goosebumps. Dick Parry also returns, once again armed with his tenor saxophone. He contributes healthy doses of chaos alongside the angelic climaxes. Gilmour and Wright cry, "Haven't you heard it's a battle of words, the poster bearer cried, listen, son, said the man with the gun, There's room for you inside." Incredible is too tame a word for Us and Them. Any Colour You Like bridges the gap between Us and Them and the final two tracks of the record. Brain Damage, previously known as "Lunatic", is an uncompromising examination of the deterioration of one's mental health. It's a notably subdued moment on the LP, treading lightly in the manner in which one would approach a loved one battling cognitive disarray. Roger Waters tries his hand here, chanting, "And if the dam breaks open many years too soon, and if there is no room upon the hill, and if your head explodes with dark forebodings too; I'll see you on the dark side of the moon." These lyrics seem to metaphorically chronicle the spiraling psychological state of former Floyd compatriot, Syd Barrett. More details on that in 1975. The album comes to a stirring, reflective ending on Eclipse. It unfurls almost as a warning to its audience to take life seriously and thoroughly taste every precious drop of elixir it grants. Waters bestows, "And all that is now and all that is gone, and all that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon." The track departs with the heartbeat that introduced the record's arrival. It's the symbolic ending of a journey, or is it a rebirth?
The Dark Side of the Moon continues to induce innumerable headlines, but it's the subtext which serves as a finer asseveration of its invincibility. Its chart topping run isn't the catalyst for the album's cultural staying power, nor is it typified by its pieces. It was constructed with the intention to be consumed wholly in the same fashion in which humans cannot pick and choose select instances within a lifetime. Yes, the performances are marvelous, but it's the uncolored edges of ruminative headspace between the sonic apexes that truly hold the jewels. It's not Pink Floyd's most personal outing (Wish You Were Here) or even their most technically proficient (Animals), but it remains their most essential due to its kinship with the human condition. The truth is, yes, it really is that good. Look within life's tiniest moments for validation.
"Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time,
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines,
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way,
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say."
-Time
Standout Tracks:
1. Us and Them
2. Time
3. Brain Damage
91.4 [First added to this chart: 04/26/2020]
The album commences with Speak to Me, a transport that can loosely be described as a track, however, its importance is critical to the LP's DNA. The track is fronted by a literal heartbeat and incorporates various samples (faintly heard) that coordinate with future expositions, elapsing to lay out the coming journey that remains ahead. They say that your life flashes before you on your deathbed, but here the band have presented those nanoseconds at birth. It's an intriguing concept put lightly. After a short (breath) of cognizance, third track, On the Run, epitomizes the frantic rigors that life will bestow upon its participants. Synths and a Hammond organ spark throughout the frenetic, instrumental piece that help craft one of Floyd's most satisfying short-burst affirmations. A cacophony of alarm bells greet you when fourth track Time, one of Floyd's most cherished works, emerges. The song, unsurprisingly, deals with the passage of its namesake and how it is futile to protest against the all-devouring pull of its black hole. The horology driven track is arguably the album's spaciest statement, as it glides wonderfully across an unblemished, unsullied terrain. David Gilmour's lead vocals are hoisted by the serene backing of a myriad of singers before he himself uncorks a guitar solo of unflinching allure. Gilmour warns, "Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain; you are young and life is long and there is time to kill today, and then one day you find ten years have got behind you; no one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun." The Dark Side of the Moon has just revealed its first treasure. The final track of the A side is a bit of a deviation, but not in quality. The stunning, non-lexical vocal stylings of Clare Torry caress The Great Gig in the Sky, which stands in as a figurative grim reaper. If only dying could be this inviting. Her yowls seep into every crevice and cranny of the instrumentation, fusing into an intense moment of catharsis as side one fades out.
The tranquility subsides with an exchange of currency but this particular quid is of the funky variety. Money benefits substantially from drummer Nick Mason and session saxophonist Dick Parry. Mason excels against a tricky 7/4 time signature which is later converted to 4/4 for Gilmour's punctual guitar solo. Parry's sax shepherds the track through that very transition with all the eccentricities of a free jazz maestro. Thematically, the track mocks the pursuit of monetary wealth in the grand scheme of life's expansive possibility. "Money, it's a gas; grab that cash with both hands and make a stash; New car, caviar, four-star daydream, think I'll buy me a football team," elicits Gilmour. Money is, without opposition, the wittiest voyage on the album. Seventh track, Us and Them, shreds any remaining inklings of snarky banter. The nearly eight-minute cut is an expedition through the nucleus of human interaction and conflict. It's also the highpoint for melodic elegance on the record. For instance, the vocal harmony shared between Gilmour and Richard Wright, supported by the returning vocal quintet from Time, dishes out multiple crescendos which never fail to produce goosebumps. Dick Parry also returns, once again armed with his tenor saxophone. He contributes healthy doses of chaos alongside the angelic climaxes. Gilmour and Wright cry, "Haven't you heard it's a battle of words, the poster bearer cried, listen, son, said the man with the gun, There's room for you inside." Incredible is too tame a word for Us and Them. Any Colour You Like bridges the gap between Us and Them and the final two tracks of the record. Brain Damage, previously known as "Lunatic", is an uncompromising examination of the deterioration of one's mental health. It's a notably subdued moment on the LP, treading lightly in the manner in which one would approach a loved one battling cognitive disarray. Roger Waters tries his hand here, chanting, "And if the dam breaks open many years too soon, and if there is no room upon the hill, and if your head explodes with dark forebodings too; I'll see you on the dark side of the moon." These lyrics seem to metaphorically chronicle the spiraling psychological state of former Floyd compatriot, Syd Barrett. More details on that in 1975. The album comes to a stirring, reflective ending on Eclipse. It unfurls almost as a warning to its audience to take life seriously and thoroughly taste every precious drop of elixir it grants. Waters bestows, "And all that is now and all that is gone, and all that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon." The track departs with the heartbeat that introduced the record's arrival. It's the symbolic ending of a journey, or is it a rebirth?
The Dark Side of the Moon continues to induce innumerable headlines, but it's the subtext which serves as a finer asseveration of its invincibility. Its chart topping run isn't the catalyst for the album's cultural staying power, nor is it typified by its pieces. It was constructed with the intention to be consumed wholly in the same fashion in which humans cannot pick and choose select instances within a lifetime. Yes, the performances are marvelous, but it's the uncolored edges of ruminative headspace between the sonic apexes that truly hold the jewels. It's not Pink Floyd's most personal outing (Wish You Were Here) or even their most technically proficient (Animals), but it remains their most essential due to its kinship with the human condition. The truth is, yes, it really is that good. Look within life's tiniest moments for validation.
"Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time,
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines,
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way,
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say."
-Time
Standout Tracks:
1. Us and Them
2. Time
3. Brain Damage
91.4 [First added to this chart: 04/26/2020]
Year of Release:
1973
Appears in:
Rank Score:
71,269
Rank in 1973:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
91
[First added to this chart: 06/11/2020]
Year of Release:
1977
Appears in:
Rank Score:
21,735
Rank in 1977:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
91
[First added to this chart: 01/07/2022]
Year of Release:
1971
Appears in:
Rank Score:
10,212
Rank in 1971:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
90.4
[First added to this chart: 04/29/2020]
Year of Release:
1975
Appears in:
Rank Score:
50,817
Rank in 1975:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
Perhaps there is no figure who approached music as a science more capably than Suffolk's sagacious Brian Eno. Eno, the preeminent sonic architect, crafts his tiniest compositions with the delicacy of an artisan with his most grandiose and longform exhibitions resembling sprawling city blocks designed for optimal traversing, with each street name and traffic sign strategically plotted and placed. It seems as if any resulting emotional potency is unintentional, or at least, coincidental. Eno never sought out a comfortable groove in which to ride out his over fifty-year career. Instead, he opted to eschew convention and complacency, hell bent on meeting fresh, uncultivated sediment which was ripe for exploration. After opting out of Bryan Ferry's gyrating, glam force majeure, 'Roxy Music', Eno's subsequent musical forays produced far less immediate and less carnal fruits. Often categorized by complexity and an inherent pension for the abstract, his first pair of solo efforts embraced the unconventional, just as Ferry's project had, but now it was on his own terms as he set coordinates for the great beyond. It wouldn't be out of line to declare that nobody quite looked at music the way that Brian Eno did and, by 1975, he had severed the tendrils of his peers and was ready to deliver a idiosyncratic, alien, and career defining artifact.
'Another Green World' commences with 'Sky Saw', a serrated, buzzing entity with a taste for the dissonant. 'Sky Saw' is the first of a line of tracks linked by DNA and could only exist as mysterious fauna native to an entirely different cosmos. The robotic, ory instrumentation employed makes it seem like a fashionable dance track at a futurist discotheque. When Eno's vocals finally penetrate the aluminum atmosphere, it ends up jarring in a way that's welcomed. It's the lone piece of humanity amidst a mosaic of auditory gadgetry and a stark introduction to record's genetic code. Second track, 'Over Fire Island', contains a far more earthy timbre, largely centered on percussion and wet bass. It wouldn't be out of place at a tribal soiree but the whirring coda ends the dream and places you squarely back into a chilly reality. The track briefly embodies a memory of an AI recreation of native music, yet without a discernable, anthropomorphic soul. The most urgent cut on 'Another Green World' has to be fourth track, 'St. Elmo's Fire'. It's catalyzed with uptempo, accelerative energy with Robert Fripp's proggy guitar solo flooding over the dam and washing overtop of the rest of the components. It's a brilliant approach to the art of the earworm and a visionary compromise between the horizon-less limits of Eno's sonic fantasies and the hard line of pop music's rigid boundaries. The album takes a nefarious turn on 'In Dark Trees' with Eno as its lone captain. The sensation of tumbling downward is tactile, as the shallow, unloving electronic drums dutifully chug on, unswaying throughout the track. It's a brief showcase, but by the end of it, you'd swear you were subterranean and devoid of the sun's kiss. Fifth outing, 'The Big Ship', doesn't include a vocal feature from Eno, a trend that carries throughout the majority of the record. In it's place, a tangible sense of scale is meticulously constructed. The track harbors the qualities of an iceberg, with it's peak gloriously basking in warmth the sun, while the base is left to remain untraversed and unable to be properly gauged. Eno's synth work is frothy and luminous, bestowing the honor of "most winsome" onto 'The Big Ship'. However, its aesthetic beauty is perched above the aforementioned impression of scale and labyrinthian real estate held below like oil resting comfortably on top of the sea. The track is gigantic to the ear despite its minimal instrumentation and Eno's excellence creates a cognizance of a world uncharted between the notes.
The most sugary offering on the record is 'I'll Come Running', which bottles a domestic, romantic syrup into a nearly four-minute nocturne, à la The Beatles' 'When I'm Sixty-Four'. The frolicking piano, which strides to and fro, projects a sensation of repetitive bliss and the notion that life's banalities make for gratifying exertion when in service of a special someone. It's strangely human for Eno, or perhaps, deceptively snide. Side one ceases with the title track, a brief , patient transitional that pokes its head out of the clouds just to be quickly shrouded once more. Eno's 'Desert Guitars' parabola as the track comes and goes like a sun shower. Side two, unfurls with a pair of wordless pieces with alternating physiology. 'Sombre Reptiles' is charged with locomotive energy powered by pistons set to world music of the Peruvian variety. Its straight-line fidelity is in stark divergence with follow up tune, 'Little Fishes', which effectively meanders in a way which could easily harmonize within the confines of a sound studio or underneath an electron microscope. Possibly the most apropos moniker on the LP, the track's prepared piano conjures an image of a minnow swimming up and downstream, susceptible to the gentlest of currents. It's clear by this point that Eno is reserving ample space for some of his most three-dimensional soundscapes. Track ten, 'Golden Hours' surely contains helium, as its carefully batted around expertly by Eno and Fripp. It also holds some of the album's finest lyrical pearls as Fripp's guitar solo sews the track shut with thin kevlar. Subsequent track, 'Becalmed' sounds as if Eno has harnessed the full weight of artificial placidity as the track swells and shrinks at the moments most opportune. Impressively, the music remains terrifically pastoral while also sounding akin to a deep-space, cosmic happening. 'Zawinul/Lava' plays like a wise man recounting an ancient prophecy or event responsible for population bottleneck, with more than a hint of dread as fretless bass drops leave the back door open for distant howls propelled by the wind. It's a musing piece that depicts what's coming and what has occurred without a moment's thought for the present. Eno carves out one more slot for a ballad, as to not drift too far into the ether, but even Eno's narratives inject a dose of the illusory. 'Everything Merges with the Night' depicts a love affair, but in which stage we never know. It's as if Eno wrote a treatment for a couple he viewed on a canvas, no doubt one with soft, pastellic edges. Our subject has been "waiting all evening or possibly years" as Eno's piano ensures us that the character is not displeased or even losing patience. Finally, the record concludes with 'Spirits Drifting', which feels evocative of an ending, yet strangely behaves as if it could run parallel to the entire album. The synth work does indeed achieve spectral ambience, but the track functions more effectively as the main mode of transit for the lost souls of Eno's gaseous, nearly imperceptible world of sonic dominion.
When entering the studio for what would become the third record under his stewardship, Brian Eno was without much of a foundation, save for the knowledge that he had begun to tire of the rock's dependent formula that still lingered on his previous two efforts. His lack of sonic provision actually proved to be a strength in the studio as it aided in the construction of a fossil which relished its own formlessness and supernatural ideology. As the sessions commenced, Eno's vision began to take shape, a vision that permeated like a vapor while remaining stoic and shapeshifting with no classification able to weigh down its ascent. 'Another Green World' was indeed the composer's first step into a new paradigm, where music was kinetic and a naturally occurring element with conscious, sonic landscapes capable of forming their own chemical makeup. It marked the beginning of four-decade long pilgrimage to a haven of musical liberation which had long thought to be bestiary. It was a place that married well with Eno's disdain for the shelters of sonic conventionalism and it's a dimension that he has yet to bid adieu to.
Standout Tracks:
1. The Big Ship
2. Becalmed
3. St. Elmo's Fire
89.7 [First added to this chart: 04/30/2020]
'Another Green World' commences with 'Sky Saw', a serrated, buzzing entity with a taste for the dissonant. 'Sky Saw' is the first of a line of tracks linked by DNA and could only exist as mysterious fauna native to an entirely different cosmos. The robotic, ory instrumentation employed makes it seem like a fashionable dance track at a futurist discotheque. When Eno's vocals finally penetrate the aluminum atmosphere, it ends up jarring in a way that's welcomed. It's the lone piece of humanity amidst a mosaic of auditory gadgetry and a stark introduction to record's genetic code. Second track, 'Over Fire Island', contains a far more earthy timbre, largely centered on percussion and wet bass. It wouldn't be out of place at a tribal soiree but the whirring coda ends the dream and places you squarely back into a chilly reality. The track briefly embodies a memory of an AI recreation of native music, yet without a discernable, anthropomorphic soul. The most urgent cut on 'Another Green World' has to be fourth track, 'St. Elmo's Fire'. It's catalyzed with uptempo, accelerative energy with Robert Fripp's proggy guitar solo flooding over the dam and washing overtop of the rest of the components. It's a brilliant approach to the art of the earworm and a visionary compromise between the horizon-less limits of Eno's sonic fantasies and the hard line of pop music's rigid boundaries. The album takes a nefarious turn on 'In Dark Trees' with Eno as its lone captain. The sensation of tumbling downward is tactile, as the shallow, unloving electronic drums dutifully chug on, unswaying throughout the track. It's a brief showcase, but by the end of it, you'd swear you were subterranean and devoid of the sun's kiss. Fifth outing, 'The Big Ship', doesn't include a vocal feature from Eno, a trend that carries throughout the majority of the record. In it's place, a tangible sense of scale is meticulously constructed. The track harbors the qualities of an iceberg, with it's peak gloriously basking in warmth the sun, while the base is left to remain untraversed and unable to be properly gauged. Eno's synth work is frothy and luminous, bestowing the honor of "most winsome" onto 'The Big Ship'. However, its aesthetic beauty is perched above the aforementioned impression of scale and labyrinthian real estate held below like oil resting comfortably on top of the sea. The track is gigantic to the ear despite its minimal instrumentation and Eno's excellence creates a cognizance of a world uncharted between the notes.
The most sugary offering on the record is 'I'll Come Running', which bottles a domestic, romantic syrup into a nearly four-minute nocturne, à la The Beatles' 'When I'm Sixty-Four'. The frolicking piano, which strides to and fro, projects a sensation of repetitive bliss and the notion that life's banalities make for gratifying exertion when in service of a special someone. It's strangely human for Eno, or perhaps, deceptively snide. Side one ceases with the title track, a brief , patient transitional that pokes its head out of the clouds just to be quickly shrouded once more. Eno's 'Desert Guitars' parabola as the track comes and goes like a sun shower. Side two, unfurls with a pair of wordless pieces with alternating physiology. 'Sombre Reptiles' is charged with locomotive energy powered by pistons set to world music of the Peruvian variety. Its straight-line fidelity is in stark divergence with follow up tune, 'Little Fishes', which effectively meanders in a way which could easily harmonize within the confines of a sound studio or underneath an electron microscope. Possibly the most apropos moniker on the LP, the track's prepared piano conjures an image of a minnow swimming up and downstream, susceptible to the gentlest of currents. It's clear by this point that Eno is reserving ample space for some of his most three-dimensional soundscapes. Track ten, 'Golden Hours' surely contains helium, as its carefully batted around expertly by Eno and Fripp. It also holds some of the album's finest lyrical pearls as Fripp's guitar solo sews the track shut with thin kevlar. Subsequent track, 'Becalmed' sounds as if Eno has harnessed the full weight of artificial placidity as the track swells and shrinks at the moments most opportune. Impressively, the music remains terrifically pastoral while also sounding akin to a deep-space, cosmic happening. 'Zawinul/Lava' plays like a wise man recounting an ancient prophecy or event responsible for population bottleneck, with more than a hint of dread as fretless bass drops leave the back door open for distant howls propelled by the wind. It's a musing piece that depicts what's coming and what has occurred without a moment's thought for the present. Eno carves out one more slot for a ballad, as to not drift too far into the ether, but even Eno's narratives inject a dose of the illusory. 'Everything Merges with the Night' depicts a love affair, but in which stage we never know. It's as if Eno wrote a treatment for a couple he viewed on a canvas, no doubt one with soft, pastellic edges. Our subject has been "waiting all evening or possibly years" as Eno's piano ensures us that the character is not displeased or even losing patience. Finally, the record concludes with 'Spirits Drifting', which feels evocative of an ending, yet strangely behaves as if it could run parallel to the entire album. The synth work does indeed achieve spectral ambience, but the track functions more effectively as the main mode of transit for the lost souls of Eno's gaseous, nearly imperceptible world of sonic dominion.
When entering the studio for what would become the third record under his stewardship, Brian Eno was without much of a foundation, save for the knowledge that he had begun to tire of the rock's dependent formula that still lingered on his previous two efforts. His lack of sonic provision actually proved to be a strength in the studio as it aided in the construction of a fossil which relished its own formlessness and supernatural ideology. As the sessions commenced, Eno's vision began to take shape, a vision that permeated like a vapor while remaining stoic and shapeshifting with no classification able to weigh down its ascent. 'Another Green World' was indeed the composer's first step into a new paradigm, where music was kinetic and a naturally occurring element with conscious, sonic landscapes capable of forming their own chemical makeup. It marked the beginning of four-decade long pilgrimage to a haven of musical liberation which had long thought to be bestiary. It was a place that married well with Eno's disdain for the shelters of sonic conventionalism and it's a dimension that he has yet to bid adieu to.
Standout Tracks:
1. The Big Ship
2. Becalmed
3. St. Elmo's Fire
89.7 [First added to this chart: 04/30/2020]
Year of Release:
1975
Appears in:
Rank Score:
9,175
Rank in 1975:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
88.6
[First added to this chart: 03/25/2021]
Year of Release:
1971
Appears in:
Rank Score:
2,222
Rank in 1971:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
88.5
[First added to this chart: 11/26/2021]
Year of Release:
1979
Appears in:
Rank Score:
2,380
Rank in 1979:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
95. (=)
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88.2
[First added to this chart: 03/28/2021]
Year of Release:
1973
Appears in:
Rank Score:
12,881
Rank in 1973:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Total albums: 12. Page 1 of 2
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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% | |
| Vampire Weekend | 4 | 4% | |
| Charles Mingus | 4 | 4% | |
| The Beach Boys | 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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A lot of hard work happens in the background to keep BEA running, and it's especially difficult to do this when we can't pay our hosting fees :(
We work very hard to ensure our site is as fast (and FREE!) as possible, and we respect your privacy.