Music is the discourse that passes itself off as nature; it participates in the construction of meaning, but disguises its meanings as effects.  Here is the source of its singular efficacy as a hidden persuader.

Teaching a week on ads for my music video course, and thus had to assign this Nicholas Cook jawn from ‘94.  He uses commercials–their tunes, specifically–as a jumping off point for a terse but brief sparring session with the “what does music mean?” question.

He ends on the idea that music alone is connotation, while what’s associated with music (ads, music videos, album art, liners, arguments, concerts, he even–as a classically-trained guy–throws lyrics in there) adds the denotative elements.  There’s certainly some arguments to be made pro and con, especially once you leave the advertising realm (film and video people might quarrel with their contributions being purely literal), but it’s good stuff to think with.

I know it’s gauche to some, but I’m a sucker for a well-used tune in an arty ad.  But then again music videos are themselves foundationally commercials to sell CDs and mp3s.  Ads sell soap and cars and beer with the same music (and the musicians get paid more too).

Let’s not also forget that the ad realm is often a springboard for work in that other glamorous short-form world.  To wit: This happens to be one of my favorite music videos of the ’90s (though truth be told, I’m a Toyota man).  And that hazy teenage nostalgia was certainly a common theme for those two.

Related: let’s not forget about this.

“Wolves, Lower” (Youtube) This video had to either be a favor from a guy with a tape-to-tape editing system, or a University of Georgia video class project. Either way, it’s a pretty good first go, though the backlight might be too bright on the performance clips. The ultra-slo-mo footage of Stipe dancing in a circle I could watch for at least fifteen more minutes, and the superimposition montage over the guitar freak-out section is nice. The first example of Bill Berry in a white, buttoned-to-the-neck-shirt.

“Radio-Free Europe” (Youtube) Okay this one, very garden-y (folk artist Howard Finster’s house, actually–see comments), has always reminded me of the clip for either “Paperback Writer” or “Rain” (or both?) that the Beatles sent to Ed Sullivan because they couldn’t be there in person. It’s got all the signs of the arty amateur video project, too—guys walking around aimlessly in a really pretty and sorta creepy environment. Could Mike Mills’ bass line be any greater, especially during the verses? Again, Berry with buttoned-up white shirt.

“Talk About the Passion” (mp3) One of their greatest songs, one of their worst videos (made four years later). With the stark, black and white imagery and footage of tenement buildings and homeless people, the clip could only have been released during the Reagan era. It casts a different light on the song’s lyrics, though, which is fine, but I’d rather just listen to this one on headphones.

“Radio-Free Europe” and “Talk About the Passion” (live on The Tube, 11.18.1983)
So I’ve never heard of this show before, but the audience paid to stand in front of the stage could not be lamer. They’re not dancing—they’re barely moving—and they keep looking at the camera as if it has come into their bedroom while they’re doing homework. But the band marches on (and yes, they’re actually playing, not syncing), especially Pete Buck (the “rock star” of the group), who prances erratically around the stage during “Radio” like a fey-er Pete Townshend. It’s a great version of the song—tons of energy and a near-complete ignorance of the audience. As for “Passion”, it’s still better heard through headphones.

“South Central Rain” Their prettiest video to this point, for their prettiest song. It’s shot on pretty 35mm instead of video, and Stipe’s hair is long and pretty. There’s not much here in terms of content, which is fine, because the song takes precedence. The next time you hear this song, consider it in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, which I do. It’s a new song then.

“Left of Reckoning” A headache-inducing collage of 16mm footage of the band goofing around. You can seriously 16x through this one—it’s like 20 minutes.

“Pretty Persuasion” (live on The Old Grey Whistle Test, 11.20.1984) Also available on the Whistle compilation DVD (buy) (which is awesome by the way). The sound mix is off on this clip, but maybe just on my speakers. Stipe’s got long, long hair, and Berry’s wearing a beret. Again, Mills’ bassline rules the school, and Stipe blows some harmonica, son.

“Can’t Get There From Here” Far and away their dumbest and funnest video. What else can one do with a song this ebullient and goofy, but make a greenscreen video with spliced-in home video footage? (see also: Pavement) I don’t know what the R.E.M. fan consensus is on the song, but I’ve always loved it–especially the chorus, where it’s “I’ve been there, I know the way” under “Can’t get there from here,” like what you’d get if you pull off the road in the rural South and ask directions from two old men sitting in front of a gas station.

“Driver 8” (Youtube) Starts off with Stipe trying to sound as good ol’ boy as he possibly can, over some film footage of trains and stuff. Then, oh! that Pete Buck guitar phrase is one of the most solemn, gorgeous things from the 80s. Video—meh. Trains and stuff with occasional Stipe.

“Life and How to Live It” (mp3) Sometimes, this is my favorite R.E.M. song. I’m usually opposed to the blurry, stop-motion concert footage trope, but it somehow manages to work here, underneath one of the band’s most high-energy, danceable songs.  And that bridge…ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Feeling Gravity’s Pull” Another one of my all-time faves, and the song that gives the DVD its title. Unfortunately, same spiel as the previous video. Man, the things I could do with this song. Fun fact: the line “it’s a Man Ray kind of sky, let me show you what I can do with it” is one of Stipe’s best lyrical moments.

“Can’t Get There From Here” (live on The Tube, 10.25.1985) The crowd’s a little more lively, but not much. But we do get to see an early example of Stipe-Dance, which is a marvelous thing. Hands operating independent of anything, arms bent at the elbow, head shaking, feet sort of moving. Buck is in full Keith Richards mode here, and Stipe is fabulous with pink eyebrows and gelled-up, blonde hair.

“Fall on Me” (Youtube) When I was a kid, this video blew my mind. And the contrast of the lime-green letterboxing and the orange letters over constantly moving black and white footage of urban decay is still striking. The fact that the video is essentially a lyric sheet for the song is nicely subversive, too. This was the first time I’d ever heard of R.E.M., and don’t think I didn’t notice Mike Mills’ contrapuntal voice in the background, either. It’s a wonder.

“Swan Swan H” I’ve always been on the fence with this song—I have very mixed memories associated with Life’s Rich Pageant, and I’m not a big fan of waltzes. But the video is just marvelous. The band makes a stage in a church undergoing massive renovations, and re-records the song for the video, which is always nice. And it’s prime, prime, prime mid-late 80s R.E.M. fashion, too—Mills has his glasses now, Buck has the long hair, Stipe’s going with the hats and blazers, and Berry’s still rocking the Victorian shirts that cover the neck. It’s the best visual translation one could hope for with this song. They’re all growed up and on the cusp of being HUGE.

“The One I Love” (Youtube) I realize because of this DVD that the performance clips in this song are pretty much the same as they were in “Wolves, Lower,” only more technically realized. Again, it’s a gorgeous video, and their artiest yet, with the shot of the guy with his head in the woman’s lap, same woman walking through the forest at night, and the firecrackers on the ground superimposed over the washbasin. And I still get goosebumps when the guy mouths the word “Fire!” It’s Southern Gothic Surrealist psychedelia, and it’s easily one of the greatest videos of the 1980s. This is the one that also always confused the VJs on MTV at the time. It was awesome enough to get mainstream rotation, but still weird enough to leave Adam Curry speechless.

“It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” (Youtube) Don’t tell me you didn’t keep trying that one-hand handstand with a skateboard, no matter how stupid you feel about it. Because you know you did. It’s obvious the song owes its structure to “Subterranean Homesick Blues” (and earlier, Chuck Berry’s “Too Much Monkey Business”), and the video works well as an update, with a single figure (the skater kid) rummaging through a house full of junk, trying to make sense of it and turn it into performance. The thing, you know, that’s easier to do with a bunch of cue cards and Allen Ginsberg. And the dog face closeup during “Leonard Bernstein” still makes me smile.

“Finest Worksong” One of Buck’s most electrifying guitar moments, and a fitting tribute to both Socialist ideology and Futurist imagery (standing with hammer over shoulder). The setting looks like the leftovers from “End of the World,” with the dude here just smashing up whatever the band didn’t want to take to Goodwill. It’s also, with the smashing and the fire and the what-not, a fitting ending to the first phase of the band’s career.

“The Cutting Edge” (October 1983 and June 1984) Apparently, this was a local show from Athens (?), and they did an extended feature on R.E.M. right as the band was becoming cult heroes. Seriously, this is the thing that should make you buy this DVD, or Netflix it at least. Maybe it’s just the former video-geek side of me, but there’s so much more history and sentimentality contained in these 45 (yes, 45!) minutes than in the whole of all of the videos on the DVD. The guy in the Pylon t-shirt that starts the clip ends his segment by predicting that the band would become the biggest thing in the world. He was just kidding then, I’m assuming, right? The show is standard package format—interviews, b-roll and performance footage—and the interviews, especially the ones with Peter Buck, are priceless. Buck comes across as a cocky indie geek—name-dropping as many of his idols as he can squeeze in (he did work at Wuxtry Records, remember)—Sky Saxon from the Seeds, Neil Young, the “brave” new Black Flag record, and then a comparison to Hank Williams to boot. Which leads to the part when the entire band starts dropping names of current bands (the dBs, Let’s Active, Husker Du, Wire Train, Fleshtones, Love Tractor, etc.). It dispelled a lot of the mythology I’d built around the band, revealing them as music geeks like anyone else. Mills also talks about the spontaneity of the recording sessions, and the stellar, very blue-cast (and extensive) performance footage supports this—they just whip out these songs, sometimes starting them over, usually talking to the videographers as they’re going. And Buck, during this session, which is included in full, demonstrates why he’s just one of the greatest and most underappreciated guitarists of his generation. And they play “Don’t Go Back to Rockville.”

Buy When the Light is Mine here.

10. A Tribe Called Quest-Midnight Marauders (Jive, 1993)

A whittled-down version of The Low-End Theory, Midnight Marauders is, aside from the obvious craft of MCs Q-Tip and Phife, a clear victory for unheralded DJ Ali-Shaheed Muhammad, who, over the course of this loose conceptual work, concocted some of the head-noddinest beats in hip-hop’s canon. Opening with the (somehow not annoying) female “tour guide,” Marauders launches into the one-two punch of “Stir it Up (Steve Biko)” and the irresistable organ-hop of “Award Tour.” Then, on to Phife’s career highlight, the brooding, stand-up bass driven “8 Million Stories,” featuring the memorable verse “Stressed out more than one could ever be/Forever trying to clear the sample for my new LP/With all these trials and tribulations yo I’ve been affected/And to top it off, Starks got ejected.” The second half is no letdown, as tracks 7 through 10 slide seamlessly into one another: the tinkling electric piano on “We Can Get Down,” the slinky, dirty “Electric Relaxation,” the Meters-copping “Clap Your Hands” and whip-cracking “Oh My God,” sampling fellow Native Tongue Busta Rhymes’ lyric from The Low End Theory’s “Scenario.” The rhythm is tighter on this record than it had been before or would be for the Tribe, making it feel much shorter than its 51 minute runtime–which is definitely not a problem, because a record with beats like this is made to be repeated.
9. Spoon-A Series of Sneaks (Elektra, 1996)

Still, even after the band’s last three releases, this dark, moody post-post-punk masterpiece is my favorite Spoon album. This collection of songs is Britt Daniel’s darkest, with obtuse lyrics summoning an overwhelmng sense of anxious anticipation perfectly suited to the music, a jagged minimalist interplay between guitar and drums. Daniel’s voice has matured, but still bears a warm resemblance to both Jonathan Richman and Elvis Costello, with a healthy amount of Texas grit. The songs sit next to one another as a fractious array of brief glances, nervy contemplation and obscured views of what’s to come. There’s an unrestrained propulsion to songs “30 Gallon Tank” and “Car Radio” that renders repeated, yelped offers to “c’mon” a dicey but intriguing proposition. Disconsolate slivers “Chloroform” and “The Minor Tough” are introspective moments created by unexplained forces, leading to perceptions like: “They’re standing up the block and down the street/And they’ll be out all night/As I’m out in the car/It comes to me/They’re breaking up inside.” Album highlight “Metal Detektor” is a slow, contemplative zoom into a frozen moment, tinted by the ache of unrealized ambition. It would take Spoon five years to fully recover from their unceremonious dumping from Elektra (Merge’s re-release of this record contains two great songs about it), and by that point, the band’s core sound as represented here will have morphed into something completely different. A Series of Sneaks stands alone in Spoon’s discography–as artful, broken shards of songs.

8. Ween-Chocolate and Cheese (Elektra, 1994)

The first album where Ween (and I mean this without sarcasm) began to take themselves seriously as musicians and appropriators. Their sense of humor is still the driving force behind their music, but is now given massive ironic punch by association with a variety of “serious” styles, and vice-versa. Let’s begin with “Freedom of ‘76,” a smooth, Philly-soul ode to the birthplace of liberty, sung in a syrupy falsetto and featuring the line “Mannequin was filmed at Woolworth’s/Boyz II Men still keepin’ up the beat, yeah.” Elsewhere, the seemingly untouchable is touched where it shouldn’t be–the cringe-inducing but hilarious “Spinal Meningitis Got Me Down” is sung from the perspective of a child, asking in the highest of voices, “Why they wanna see my spine, mommy?”, and live favorite “The H.I.V. Song” repeats the words “H.I.V.” and “AIDS” over repetitive circus music–this is not music to be taken literally. But when they rock out, they do it remarkably well, with the overdubbed guitar triumph of “Roses are Free,” opener “Take Me Away,” classic “Voodoo Lady” and Eastern-flecked “I Can’t Put My Finger On It.” The unqualified highpoint of the album, however, is the epic spaghetti western revenge fable “Buenos Tardes Amigo,” sung in full Speedy Gonzalez character with a deathly seriousness. Like Beck without the pretension, or Steely Dan’s Becker and Fagen after huffing gasoline, Chocolate and Cheese is a barely contained riot, a musically solid if ideologically retarded pastiche of style that forms a mind-bendingly coherent whole.
7. R.E.M.-Out of Time (Warner Bros., 1991)

One misstep (I know it was vogue at the time, but did opener “Radio Song” need KRS-One?) aside, Out of Time is R.E.M.’s best record since Fables of the Reconstruction, and remains the band’s best post-Warner Brothers effort. The mood swings wildly over the album, beginning with the dual Southern Gothic laments “Losing My Religion” and the gorgeous “Half a World Away” to the turtlenecked coffeeshop vibe of “Low” and Mike Mills’ two offerings “Texarkana” and “Near Wild Heaven” providing a wide-eyed sunny vibe throughout the record. The late album show-stopper is “Country Feedback,” a dirge that simultaneously reflects their earlier work and forecasts later songs like “E-Bow the Letter.” “Losing My Religion” remains one of my all-time favorite singles, and thinking of it sweeping the VMAs, complete with Michael Stipe removing t-shirts left and right, promoting one cause after another until they all faded together, makes me yearn for the days when MTV…well, you know.
6. Nine Inch Nails-The Downward Spiral (Interscope, 1994)

The best metal album of the decade, and the best industrial album of all-time. The pinnacle of a career logically proceeding toward this end, The Downward Spiral maximizes Trent Reznor’s appeal to a generation of disenfranchised youth–a blunt to the point of ham-handed approach to lyricism, a perfect balance of growling, screaming electric guitars with a loud, discordant, pummeling electronic undercurrent, and, exclusive to this record , an aura of disconcerting theatricality created through startling dynamic shifts, both musically and tonally. This is one of the finest and widest-ranging collection of songs offered on any rock album during the decade, from the pounding, distorted “Mr. Self-Distruct,” “March of the Pigs” and “Big Man With A Gun” to the Front-242/KMFDM march of “Heresy” and the majestic “Ruiner,” to the minor, elegant “Hurt” (the video for which was taped at a concert I attended) and the brooding Charles Manson-themed “Piggy” (the record was recorded in Sharon Tate’s house). Legions of metal and industrial bands have spent entire careers trying to release an album half as good as this.

5. Portishead-Dummy (Go!, 1994)

The greatest aspect of the best trip-hop (and I’m only thinking of Massive Attack and Portishead here) is that it at once balances the timeless and modern. The sultry, siren-voiced Beth Gibbons is obviously the centerpiece of this group, providing a majestic counter to the skittering, brooding gloominess around her. The skillful deployment of espionage-themed samples and clever steering around the latest technological wizardry renders this record as relevant now as it was eleven years ago, as if Shirley Bassey were singing for a backing band consisting of David Axelrod, Silver Apples and Grandmaster Flash. Dummy’s singularity lies in the fact that it could have been released at any time in the last 30 years and still been regarded as current.

4. Digable Planets-Reachin (A New Refutation of Time and Space) (Pendulum, 1993)

The epitome of the frequently attempted and often succesful hybrid between jazz and hip-hop, the Digable Planets were able to cohere the two, along with many other influences, seamlessly, to the point of creating something completely new in the process. A Tribe Called Quest and Souls of Mischief were still dominated by the hip-hop idiom, and Guru’s Jazzmatazz went the other way, but Reachin’ incorporated elements of fusion, bebop, cool jazz, funk and psychedelia, with a distinctly east coast bohemian flair, standing as a remarkable and untoppable work. There’s not a weak point on this record–the loping, stand-up basslines dissolving into coffee-shop banter between numbers, giving the album the feel of a one-off performance from a interplanetary trio of MCs (or “Insects”), only able to pick up Art Blakey and Sonny Rollins transmissions on their UFO in-dash.

3. Flaming Lips-The Soft Bulletin (Warner Bros., 1999)

Recorded when core member Steven Drozd was in the throes of heroin addiction, The Soft Bulletin is an overpowering, brightly colored symphonic testament to life, death, and the dark, existential forces beyond our control. This is producer Dave Fridmann’s finest hour, as he was able to sculpt from The Flaming Lips’ astronomical ambition (see Zaireeka) a comparatively robust, warm, and most importantly, focused record that sounds like it was recorded in Heaven–loud, thundering percussion, expansive yet airy strings and brass, and the strained, wounded timbre of Wayne Coyne’s voice. Thematically, Bulletin expertly balances the plaintive with the sublime, to best effect on “Waiting for a Superman” and the lush, elegaic “Feeling Yourself Disintegrate”:

Love in our life is just too valuable
Oh, to feel for even a second without it
But life without death is just impossible
Oh, to realize something is ending within us
Feeling yourself disintegrate

Concurrently, the album serves as an encomium to those sacrificing their personal health for the good of others’, on “Race for the Prize” and brash, thunderous “The Gash.” Two of the best moments are just that–moments–elevated to celestial status through subsequent revelation. “The Spark that Bled” opens with the lyric, “I accidentally touched my head/And noticed that I had been bleeding/For how long I didn’t know,” leading to a realization of the sanctity of the present, and the urgent yet hopeless need for reaction:

And it seemed to cause a chain reaction
It had momentum, it was gaining traction
It was all the rage, it was all the fashion
The outreached hands had resigned themselves
To holding onto something that they never had
Later, album highlight “Suddenly Everything Has Changed” delicately transforms the quotidian into the remarkable: “Driving home, the sky accelerates/And the clouds all form a geometric shape/And it goes fast/You think of the past/Suddenly, everything has changed.” The Soft Bulletin, to its eternal credit, re-imagined the beatific possibilities of “psychedelic” music, creating a timeless, yet very modern update on Brian Wilson’s “teenage symphony to God.”

2. The Pharcyde-Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde (Delicious Vinyl, 1992)
I’ve realized the appearance of some generic trends that make themselves known through the process of compiling rankings based on a seemingly arbitrary criterion of ten-year chunks of time. It’s that, for me, the nineties were my hip-hop decade. Just as the eighties were defined by “underground”/indie rock, the seventies by punk, and the current decade shaping up to be a reemergence of pop, I’ve found that the nineties represented the true “golden age” of the musical form. The early part of the decade was marked by a gritty, hyper-violent, at times misogynist strand of hip-hop called, popularly, “gangsta.” It’s best and most progressive-minded practicioners are featured throughout this list, as are several representatives of the other salient form of the music–an introspective, jazz-based alternative to the mainstream, a style that sounds as fresh today as it did then. A Tribe Called Quest, Digable Planets and Souls of Mischief can all fall into this category, but no group synthesized the music, lyrics, production value and innovation more than The Pharcyde, on their fascinating debut, Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde. Seven years before Eminem, Fatlip, Imani, Bootie Brown and Slim Kid Tre synthesized the hopes and fears, the successes and failures of Black youth culture into a sprawling, kaleidoscopic, hilarious hip-hop circus. Jazz (especially organ) was the basis of the music, but only as an opportunity to transform it into a hurdy-gurdy-style “step right up” welcome on to the carousel. Progressive politics permeate this record, but are presented with a casual flair that underscores the omnipresence of the current racial divide, especially in post-Rodney King Los Angeles. “Officer” begins with a revamped Chuck D line, and proceeds tothe singalong “Please/Don’t pull me over, Mr. Officer/Don’t pull me over Mr. Officer, please,” ending with a stammering, Chuck Berry-style neologism “I’m discomboberated!” More upfront critique is offered on two actually worthwhile skits, a rarity on hip-hop of any era, “It’s Jigaboo Time” and “If I Were President.” The bizarre ride features it’s moments of inspired frivolity, of course, and the Pharcyde proves this to be their strong suit, with the brass-driven, Brand New Heavies inspired “Soulflower” ending with the line “If Magic can admit he got AIDS/Fuck it, I got herpes!”, “Ya Mama” a gut-busting dozens game (”Ya mama looks like she been in the dryer wit’ some rocks”), and album-opening “Oh Shit” consisting of a series of embarassing revelations leading to an utterance of the titular phrase: “Looked at her shoes and her feets was real long/Then it hit me, oh please god no/Don’t let this ho turn out to be a john doe/He pulled a fast one on me yo/I guess that’s one of those things that make you go…” The self-deprecation that was all too rare in hip-hop of that period was taken to its sublime, remarkable extreme on two tracks that alone would have registered this record in at least the top twenty of this list. “Passing Me By” comes first, featuring one of hip-hop’s best and most recognizeable samples (from Quincy Jones’ fusion cover of “Summer in the City), and a stark, unrefined sentimentality that any musical or art form would do well to attempt. A series of ruminations on unrequited love, the song features one of the best lyrics ever to grace a hip-hop record:

The three 50’s ballad references at the end, the seamless lapse into imagined serenade in the middle, and the general sense of undeniably feeling conquered by overwhelming self-doubt is nothing less than remarkable. “Passin’ Me By” is then topped by next song “Otha Fish,” at the other end of the relationship spectrum–lamenting lost love, and reapproaching it to see if it ever truly existed. Two magnificent verses are topped by the third, my favorite hip-hop moment of all time:

(This is the first installment of my top 50 albums of the 1990s, and will continue on a daily basis through the revelation of number one on Thursday.)

I was 13 in 1990, and 22 in 1999. This list represents, to a large degree, the span of the maturation of my popular musical development. I really, really loved all forms of hip-hop in the early 1990’s. I watched Yo! MTV Raps and BET’s Rap City (I remember Chris Thomas’ era most fondly), and had my friend Kyle Seaney dub tapes of Esham and Too Short for me.

I began working in earnest at a college radio station in 1995, and continued for the next three years. During this time, I started to amass a library of music, largely consisting of promotional copies from record labels.

I also started college in 1995, and met several good friends, most of whom I remain in contact with, and with whom I experienced a good portion of this list. I averaged a 4.0 in the four “History of Rock and Roll” classes I took through the music school, taught by the stalwart, brilliant professor Glenn Gass. I developed a litany of collection perennials (Beatles, Steely Dan, R.E.M., Belle and Sebastian, XTC, Kinks, etc.), and became an insufferable elitist for a few years, finally settling down into a reasonably well-paying job in 2000 that allowed me to waste every cent of spare change I earned on music and music-related products.

I started teaching at a private, decently exclusive liberal arts college in late 2002–the connection with a body of literate, creative younger people re-energized my affinity for the current and hyper-current (i.e. not officially released). I taught my own history of rock and punk rock classes (during a shortened, winter-term period) and tripled the size of my already out of control collection.

Despite the evolutionary nature of my musical “education,” I give equal weight to my opinions in 1990 as I do today—I still actively sought out the music I deemed best, but age and finances limited my scope rather severely.

Finally, some “standards” that won’t appear here, for a variety of reasons I’m happy to discuss: Dismemberment Plan, Public Enemy, Aphex Twin, Tori Amos, Massive Attack, Sonic Youth (Daydream Nation remains my favorite, and the others never did much for me), Brainiac, Dr. Octagon, Bjork, Modest Mouse, Liz Phair, Weezer, or Fugazi. I look forward to good-spirited arguments, which is the point, right?

50. Eleven-Eleven (Hollywood, 1993) (buy)
Who? Released during the commercial apex of the ill-titled “grunge” movement in pop music, Eleven’s eponymous debut represented for me (and my best friend) one of the best hard rock albums of the decade, featuring the oh-so-important element of “no one else has heard of them.” Single “Reach Out” received some alt-radio airplay, but the record was a commercial failure. Which is too bad, actually, because lead singer Alain Johannes possessed one of the best voices of the decade, superceding everyone but Chris Cornell in terms of rock screamers (rumor was, he was supposed to replace Cornell after his ill-fated solo excursion). Additionally, drummer Jack Irons was in-between stints with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam, and, best of all, bassist/organist/singer/eastern-European hottie Natasha Shneider added the band a mysterious, gypsy-like flair, with her Marianne Faithfull/Kristin Hersh growl on “Towers” and “Hieronymous.” Eleven is a great, solid album, able to variously rock out courtesy of Irons’ funk/rock pedigree (you could bounce a quarter off his snare) on “Slinky” and achieve a spooky, dirge-like quality on “Ava Tar.” Stands up well as one of the few great unknown albums of that era.

49. Mercury Rev-Deserter’s Songs (V2, 1998) (buy)
The torrrential thunderstorm that was Mercury Rev’s first two records broke with See You on the Other Side, but it took until their next album, Deserter’s Songs for the sun to illuminate what had been obscured by sheets of noise on Boces and Yerself is Steam—the cinematic scope and simple elegance of American nostalgia. The sound of the record was lent an aural sepia tone by recording on 35mm magnetic film, and world-class ringers and former traffickers in tales of Americana Levon Helm (“Opus 40”)and Garth Hudson (“The Hudson Line”) were brought in to lend some authenticity to the proceedings. Most importantly, Deserter’s Songs saw the band embracing a restrained, universal and mature sense of psychedelia, most memorably through the use of a musical saw (“Endlessly”). The standout track is “The Funny Bird,” which, by channeling the unbalanced sound of the previous records through producer Dave Fridmann’s masterful grasp of studio-created high drama, created a slow motion masterpiece concocted of what sound like interminable “waves” of sound. Mercury Rev’s career has followed a trajectory similar to that of the Flaming Lips, traversing the spectrum of rock music from noisy avant-punk to transcendent beauty with wispy lead vocals and Fridmann manning the boards. If this was Mercury Rev’s Pet Sounds, then next year’s The Soft Bulletin would be the Flaming Lips’ Sgt. Pepper.

48. Jamiroquai-Emergency on Planet Earth (Columbia, 1993) (buy)
It’s hard to believe, but there was a time when Jamiroquai wasn’t that one-hit wonder with the ponytail and the conveyor belt video. The band’s first record, Emergency on Planet Earth, combined, as only a British artist in the early 1990’s could, 1970’s funk and R&B, house rhythms popularized by Primal Scream and Happy Mondays, Australian tribal music and a neo-hippie sense of environmental consciousness (his name, as mentioned in the liner notes, is a combination of his ethnic ancestry—Jamaican and Iroquois). This was Stevie Wonder fronting the Brand New Heavies, and for this album, it worked, especially on opener “When You Gonna Learn (Didgeridoo)” and “If I Like It, I Do It.” The canonical video for “Virtual Insanity,” and the band’s 15 minutes of fame, was still three years in the future, and this record is the sound of a one-of-a-kind and distinctly of its time band at its early peak.

47. R.E.M.-New Adventures in Hi-Fi (Warner Bros., 1996) (buy)
In 1996, I was 19 years old, and had firmly established R.E.M. as My Most Important Band of All-Time. This was based largely on the Murmur through Out of Time period, though—Automatic for the People and Monster had failed to sufficiently move me. In retrospect, if Automatic represented the end of R.E.M.’s “classic” period and Monster an ill-fated attempt at merging glam with grunge, New Adventures in Hi-Fi could have marked the beginning of a clean slate for the band. The rolling piano outro of camp-country opener “How the West Was Won and Where it Got Us,” plays the band off stage, and, the second the lights fully dim to black, they rocket back to a blinding white as Stipe’s vocal “I look good in a glasspack,” introduces Peter Buck’s distorted lead in “The Wake-Up Bomb,” the rocking Marc Bolan paean that stands as their best all-out rocker since Green’s “Get Up.” The overall experience of the record is one of exhausted reflection, influenced thematically by Stipe’s friendship with Radiohead’s Thom Yorke (the album’s choice of font should give that one away). The tone is erratic but coherent, veering from the enormous pre-recorded squall of “Leave” to the subtle, gorgeous album closer “Electrolite.” While some tracks (“So Fast, So Numb” especially) sound like Monster leftovers, Hi-Fi is, in retrospect, the last great R.E.M. record, and I sadly don’t expect them to make another that will surpass it.

46. Smashing Pumpkins-Siamese Dream (Virgin, 1993) (buy)
Siamese Dream was a polarizing album for my group of friends, who would debate its merit over endless cups of coffee at the Waffle House after work at the local dollar theatre. The key moment in the discussion came when resident dork and whipping-boy Jared, who loved All for One, strolled in one night singing the chorus to “Today.” We all owned and liked the record, but couldn’t stand the fact that the guy in the oversized Glenn Robinson jersey knew it, too. This was the epitome of sixteen-year old alt-rock backlash, and led to everyone reppin’ Gish as far superior, which we all, at least on an unconscious level, knew was wrong. Siamese Dream was a fantastic record, one that was unfortunately lumped in with Nirvana, Soundgarden and Alice in Chains by MTV and “alternative” radio when it more comfortably sits aside My Bloody Valentine, Lush, and 4AD’s Cocteau Twins and This Mortal Coil as dense, moody, layered and intelligent rock. Sure, “Today” was a great single, and it made them superstars, but it’s really the dynamic shifts of “Soma” and the pummeling “Cherub Rock” that made them great.

45. Supergrass-Supergrass (Parlophone, 1999) (buy)
Along with Blur, survivors of the “Brit-Pop” era that claimed the lives of so many bands unable to transcend the tag (Oasis, Pulp, Suede, Sleeper, Gene, and on and on). This, their third album, takes another step toward maturity past the great In It for the Money, and sounds light years past the adolescent, druggy glee that produced “Caught by the Fuzz.” Opener “Moving” is an update of Money’s “Late in the Day,” alternating seamlessly between dreamy synth and rollicking guitar/piano parts, and setting the dualistic tone for the album, which swings between the wide and spacey (“Shotover Hill” and the appropriately titled “Eon”) and fist-pumping larks like weed ode “Mary” and “Jesus Came from Outta Space.” Acoustic guitar, piano, and handclaps color my personal favorite, “What Went Wrong (In Your Head),” which seems initially flippant through repetition of the titular phrase, but adds a sweet sentiment with the refrain, “God save the unstable/They stand alone/Ain’t done no wrong/It’s such a beautiful life.” Lead single “Pumpin’ on Your Stereo” was T. Rex personified, unequaled until their next album’s first single “Seen the Light.” This album proved that Supergrass could effectively ripen their signature sound without losing their core cult of fans.


44. Stereolab-Emperor Tomato Ketchup (Elektra, 1996) (buy)
I was introduced to Stereolab in 1994 during a radio show, when I segued into Mars Audiac Quintet’s “Ping-Pong” from, ready for this one?…Soho’s “Hippy Chick.” That’s what Stereolab was for me until Emperor Tomato Ketchup—a novelty French band, a one-trick pony that would surely fade away—until a good friend of mine put “Metronomic Underground” as a lead track on a superb mixtape circa 1997—the seven-minute runtime of the song alone astounded me and led me to not only pick up the record, but also to seek out rhythmic progenitors Can, Neu!, and Kraftwerk. After that, well, one can only assume how long it took to morph into an insufferable elitist. This is, for me, Stereolab in their purest form, mixing string sections, the (too-focused upon) weightless and multi-tracked vocal style of Laetitia Sadier, analog synth and farfisa organ to create a syncopated “yper-sound” that has proved very influential (Pram, Electrelane, Broadcast, Japanese “shibuya-kei” music) but never equaled.

43. Neutral Milk Hotel-In the Aeroplane Over the Sea (Merge, 1998) (buy)
The relatively low placement of this record is sure to get many Pitchfork acolytes in a sanctimonious tizzy, but can be explained thusly: I somehow missed it the first time around, and was only introduced to it a few years ago. This list places a large emphasis on duration of affection—in the coming years, this one should steadily climb.

42. Jeff Buckley-Grace (Columbia, 1994) (buy)
As Buckley’s only fully realized artistic vision before his death, Grace would register as remarkable in a biographical context alone—a stunning collection of earnest, romantic rock that gains meaning as Buckley’s James Dean-ish legend grows. But, decontextualized from the tragedy, this collection of songs is astounding—the back-to-back sequencing of the dynamic, operatic “Grace” and “Last Goodbye” still give me chills as I vainly attempt to emulate Buckley’s singular vocal range. Well-selected covers “Hallelujah” and “Lilac Wine” add depth and resonance, and album highlight “Lover, You Should Have Come Over” proceeds from a funereal accordion dirge to all-out screaming catharsis. It’s impossible to imagine how Arcade Fire would sound if this album had never been released.

41. A Tribe Called Quest-The Low End Theory (Jive, 1991) (buy)
The first hip-hop (but far from the last) record to appear on this list—The Low End Theory introduced me to jazz, although I certainly didn’t know it at the time, via the videos on Yo! MTV Raps for “Check the Rhime” and “We Got the Jazz.” I was entranced by a vision of hip-hop that didn’t involve, well, everything that The Chronic did, i.e. maturity, a healthy dose of stand-up bass and, unfortunately for my ensuing clothing choices, east-coast Afrocentrism (I soon purchased an “X” baseball cap, even further isolating me from my peers). After buying the tape (ah, tapes), I gazed at the picture of the trio inside, trying to decide which was Ali Shaheed (overbite), Phife (short, dark, and plus his voice is raspy) and Q-Tip (the reason girls bought the record), and wondering where I could find any recording from Grant Green, from whose “Down Here on the Ground” I learned the group sculpted “Vibes and Stuff” from. Like everyone else, I still prefer Q-Tip to Phife, although I can’t deny the great contrast between their individual styles that contributed to their uniqueness—Tip’s literate smoothness: “Back in the day when I was a teenager/Before I had status and before I had a pager/You could find the Abstract listenin’ to hip-hop/My pops used to say it reminded him of bebop,” and the “Five-foot Assassin’s” abrasive name-dropping simplicity: “I never half-step because I’m not a half-stepper/Drink a lot of soda so they call me Dr. Pepper.” And I can’t end this without mentioning the killer, Native Tongue-populated video for “Scenario,” still one of my all-time favorites, and which I could probably draw from memory.