Top 8 Music Albums of the 1970s
by 
DriftingOrpheus 
- Chart updated: 07/18/2026 20:15
- (Created: 01/29/2026 20:56).
- Chart size: 8 albums.
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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 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 and 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 D 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 hymn 'Autumn' by Barthélemon as a skeleton, a piece present during the sinking by witness testimony, 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 an inebriated 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 just as beautiful.
99.00 [First added to this chart: 02/15/2026]
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 and 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 D 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 hymn 'Autumn' by Barthélemon as a skeleton, a piece present during the sinking by witness testimony, 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 an inebriated 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 just as beautiful.
99.00 [First added to this chart: 02/15/2026]
Available from
"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. "It 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. Adagio Ma Non Troppo
91.97 [First added to this chart: 06/26/2026]
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. "It 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. Adagio Ma Non Troppo
91.97 [First added to this chart: 06/26/2026]
Year of Release:
1972
Appears in:
Rank Score:
988
Rank in 1972:
Rank in 1970s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Available from
82.39
[First added to this chart: 02/15/2026]
Available from
82.26
[First added to this chart: 05/11/2026]
Available from
81.69
[First added to this chart: 06/26/2026]
Available from
77.81
[First added to this chart: 02/15/2026]
Available from
72.10
Available from
69.62
[First added to this chart: 07/18/2026]
Total albums: 8. Page 1 of 1
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Top 8 Music Albums of the 1970s composition
| Year | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
| 1970 | 1 | 13% | |
| 1971 | 2 | 25% | |
| 1972 | 3 | 38% | |
| 1973 | 0 | 0% | |
| 1974 | 0 | 0% | |
| 1975 | 1 | 13% | |
| 1976 | 0 | 0% | |
| 1977 | 0 | 0% | |
| 1978 | 1 | 13% | |
| 1979 | 0 | 0% |
| Artist | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
|||
| Townes Van Zandt | 4 | 50% | |
| Gavin Bryars | 1 | 13% | |
| Charles Mingus | 1 | 13% | |
| Fraction | 1 | 13% | |
| John Cale | 1 | 13% |
Top 8 Music Albums of the 1970s chart changes
| Biggest fallers |
|---|
Down 1 from 7th to 8th |
| New entries |
|---|
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| Best Album of the 2020s | DriftingOrpheus | 2020s decade chart | 2026 | |
| Top 6 Music Albums of the 2010s | DriftingOrpheus | 2010s decade chart | 2026 | |
| Top 3 Music Albums of the 2000s | DriftingOrpheus | 2000s decade chart | 2026 | |
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Johnnyo TOP 100 COMMENTER 09/21/2026 18:12 | #316142
It’s not really fair to rate this yet as only eight entries but a nice start to the chart. Looking forward to seeing it develop
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