Soon Over Babaluma [United Artists, 1974]

>Soon Over Babaluma [United Artists, 1974]
>As überrock goes, this is diverting enough, ricky-ticking along through various moderately arresting sci-fi soundtrack noises, some of them melodies. But fondness for the machine does not necessitate separation from the body. Just ask Miles Davis. B-

>Soon Over Babaluma [Spoon, 1996]
>A basically instrumental excursion that aficionados rank with the sprawling Tago Mago, this 1974 Kraut-rock opus is to the Miles Davis of the era as acid jazz is to real jazz. It's never pompous, discernibly smart, playful, even goofy. If you give it your all you can make out a few shards of internal logic. But the light tone avoids texture, density, or pain. The jazzy pulse is innocent of swing, funk, or sex. And if it generates any intrinsic interest, as opposed to the conceptual kick of being so singularly European, after half a dozen plays I should have some inkling what that interest is. B-

what a fucking pleb

B- is about as good as a post Damo Can album can get

In the Heart of the Young [Atlantic, 1990]

The pall pop metal casts upon 1990's horrendous Hot 100 is a triumph of mass narrowcasting. By downplaying anything blatant in the music, marketers minimize tuneouts based on accidents of gender or subgeneration--potentially, any passive Caucasian under age 25 should be willing to consume (in descending order of marginal differentiation) Poison or Warrant or Jon Bon or Heart or Cheap Trick or David Goddamn Cassidy. So let the nadir stand in for all of them. Swallowing hooks from blooze to prog, masking their will to power in fake vulnerability and youthcult rote, Winger is Whitesnake with the sexism muted and the facelifts down the road. They may last a while, they may not. They're so bad that they're not even completely terrible. C-

Great review

In the Court of the Crimson King [Atlantic, 1969]
The plus is because Peter Townshend likes it. This can also be said of The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Beware the forthcoming hype--this is ersatz shit. D+

You Light Up My Life [Warner Bros., 1976]

Who cares if the single sold seven million copies? Trendsetters don't buy singles. Smart people like you and me don't buy singles, y'know what I mean? But now I hear that the _album_ went platinum? D-

Through The Fire [Geffen, 1984]

Relax, it's only corporate metal. There's no need to get upset at these four grizzled dildos. Still, you'd think their merger would at minimum produce a great name for a law firm. D-

Night In The Ruts [Columbia, 1979]

This one begins with a promising song about the band's career titled 'No Surprize'. Then they inch steadily closer to the dull tempos, flash guitar, and stupid cover versions of heavy metal orthodoxy. No surprize. C+

Spirits Having Flown [RSO, 1979]

I admit, I admire the perverse riskiness of this music, which neglects disco bounce in favor of demented falsetto abstraction--less love man than newborn kitten. I also admit that I'm genuinely fond of the many small moments of madness on here such as the way the three multitracked voices echo the phrase 'living together'. But obsessive ornamentation can't transform a curiosity into inhabitable music, and there is not one song on here that equals any on the first side of Saturday Night Fever. C+

Ten [Epic, 1991]

in life, misery breeds company. in music, riffs work even better ("Once", "Even Flow") **

Turn On the Bright Lights [Matador, 2002]

They bitch because everybody compares them to Joy Division, and they're right. It's way too kind, and I say that as someone who thanks Ian Curtis for making New Order possible. Joy Division struggled against depression rather than flaunting it, much less wearing it like a designer suit. What's truly depressing is that, just as the hairy behemoths of the grunge generation looked back to the AOR metal they immersed in as teens, these fops tweak the nostalgia of young adults who cherish indistinct memories of much worse bands than Joy Division, every one of them English--Bauhaus, Ultravox, Visage, Spandau Ballet, Tears for Fears. At a critical moment in consciousness they exemplify and counsel disengagement, self-seeking, a luxurious cynicism. Says certified British subject Peter Banks: "Emotions are standard and boring. I'd like to find another way to live." That's thinking either big or very small. C+

I love when people get mad because Christgau forms his own opinions and doesn't always go with what is deemed as "correct" or critically acceptable.

>Joy Division struggled against depression rather than flaunting it, much less wearing it like a designer suit.
This is a good review but the C+ is too high

>C+ is too high
that was about as low as he would go in his later years. he got way kinder with the grading as time went by.

Oh come on, he's exactly like 90% of all other professional music critics. Punk/New Wave/Springsteen good, metal bad.

Californication [Warner Bros., 1999]

New Age fuck fiends ("Scar Tissue", "Purple Stain") *

Audioslave [Epic/Interscope, 2002] *bomb*

Out of Exile [Epic/Interscope, 2005] *bomb*

Hybrid Theory [Warner Bros., 1999]

the angry boys know what the men don't ("Papercut", "Points of Authority") **

Oh fuck you, Christgay.

this is correct though

Grace [Columbia, 1994]
Although Tim's vocal traces are in his genes as surely as John's are in Julian's, it's wrong to peg him as the unwelcome ghost of his overwrought dad. Young Jeff is a syncretic asshole, beholden to Zeppelin and Nina Simone and Chris Whitley and the Cocteau Twins and his mama--your mama too if you don't watch out. "Sensitivity isn't being wimpy," he avers. "It's about being so painfully aware that a flea landing on a dog is like a sonic boom." So let us pray the force of hype blows him all the way to Uranus. C

>unironically liking Audioslave

Pieces of You [Atlantic, 1995]

Worth ignoring while she was merely precious, she demands our brief attention now that she's becoming overvalued as well. With the possible exception of Saint Joan, who at least had some stature, this is the bad folkie joke to end all bad folkie jokes. With her self-righteousness, her self-dramatization, her abiding love for her own voice, her breathy little-girl innocence and breathless baby-doll sexuality, her useless ideas about prejudice and injustice and let us not forget abuse, she may well prove as insufferable as any hollow-bodied guitarist ever to get away with craving the world's adoration. End of story--I hope. C-

>he didn't have their CDs when he was 13
Admit it.

Return of Saturn [Interscope, 2000]

Gwen Stefani is forced to battle the perception that she's shallow because shallow is what she is. Like any human being, she has real feelings, but they run about as deep as her hair color and her commitment to ska, and wasn't it polite of me not to bring up her gift for the pithy phrase and the catchy tune? Occasionally her pushing-30 doubts about the single life are touching, like when she imagines Gavin Rossdale would make a good dad. But after five years, two producers, one Spin cover, and one lead review in Rolling Stone, the single Interscope sent her back to the salt mines for is the best thing on her automatic-platinum follow-up. So maybe marriage wouldn't be such a bad idea. No no no, not to Gavin--better she should land a really nice accountant. They have feelings too. C+

He didn't review Rocksteady. How odd. That album was inescapable back then.

Really just a wrapper for a hit single.

these are accurate dumb buttrockers

Oh yeah, Hella Good, damn that song brings back memories along with Destiny's Child tunes because if you had a 12 year old sister back then, you knew that shit like the back of your hand.

Spiderland [Touch and Go, 1991]

Out of Squirrel Bait by Hunglikealbini, a Trojan horse. Extolled for their multipartite songforms and, da-da, dynamic shifts from soft to loud, as well as their intimate knowledge of mental illness, these guys look like unassuming alternative types and in real life may be same. Their sad-sack affect fits right in. But musically--structurally, as one might say--they're art-rockers without the courage of their pretensions. And if you promise not to mention their lyrics they promise to keep the volume down. C+

he gets triggered if anything has the slightest hint of prog

Mad Season [Atlantic, 2001]

Back when he was one more nothing bandleader riding a chart fluke, there was something likable about Rob Thomas--something common, something dork-gets-lucky. Carlos Santana changed that fast, and with this album well into its second year on the Billboard 200, Thomas is now officially a menace. He's always emoting some new excuse with his not-bad voice, and he looks like he spends a couple grand a month on haircuts alone--a neat cross between Michael McDonald and Gregg Allman who'll be doing duets for decades. Next chapter: the solo debut. C+

yet you still get so butthurt when he doesn't like critical darlings like King Crimson

Back in Black [Atlantic, 1980]

Replacing Aerosmith as primitives of choice among admirers of heavy machinery, these Aussies are a little too archetypal for my tastes. Angus Young does come up with killer riffs, though not as consistently as a refined person like myself might hope, and fresh recruit Brian Johnson sings like there's a cattle prod at his scrotum, just the thing for fans who can't decide whether their newfound testosterone is agony or ecstasy. AC/DC can't decide either--"Shoot to Thrill," "Given [sic] the Dog a Bone," and "Let Me Put My Love Into You" all concern the unimaginative sexual acts you'd imagine, and "What Do You Do for Money Honey" has a more limited set of answers than the average secretary would prefer. My sister's glad they don't write fantasy and science fiction, and if you're female you're free to share her relief. Brothers are more deeply implicated in these matters. B-

Close to the Edge [Atlantic, 1972]
What a waste. They come up with a refrain that sums up everything they do--"I get up I get down"--and apply it only to their ostensible theme, which is the "seasons of man" or something like that. They segue effortlessly from Bach to harpsichord to bluesy rock and roll and don't mean to be funny. Conclusion: At the level of attention they deserve they're a one-idea group. Especially with Jon and Rick up front. C+

>one idea group

Astro Lounge [Interscope, 1999]

Surveying the world from a temporary star ("Then the Morning Comes," "I Just Wanna See"). ***

Dude there's tons of punk and new wave that he doesn't like

He gave bad reviews to the Circle Jerks and Dead Kennedys if I recall. He hates a lot of critical darlings and seems to have a taste for masterfully crafted works in an existing genre that don't push anything forward (Layla, Exile on Main St). But then all rock is basically the same, hating Layla for being boring is a pretty avant-teen thing to do.

SOMEONE STOP HIM

Tonight The Stars Revolt [DreamWorks, 1999] *bomb*

This so much

Grace is dogshit, it's only highly rated because lots of psuedo-arty women thought that Buckley was cute in the 90s and he died

He's just another shitty manufactured psuedoemotional rockstar loverboy asshole meant to sell to teen girls

Enema of the State [MCA, 1999]

Ignore the porn-movie cover except insofar as it conveys terror. These guys are so frightened of females that they turn down sure sex from one hussy on grounds of name-dropping and reject another for being too quick with the zipper. There's no macho camouflage--girlophobia is their great subject. And boy, have they worked up some terrific defenses. If preemptive jealousy doesn't do the trick, there's always suicide, or abduction by aliens. Yet note it well--because they're out front about their little problem, "Going Away to College" is the love song the Descendents put Green Day on earth to inspire. A-

Feels [Fat Cat, 2005]

Back when I was a young feller, we called these things hootenannies, only we thought they needed songs ("Did You See the Words," "Turn Into Something"). **

Pure Guava [Elektra, 1992]

It's to the half-credit of these Bucks County wise guys that the studio amenities of their major-label debut impel them toward fucked-up sounds, which come hard, rather than fucked-up songs, which they write without thinking (and how). But I don't buy the claim that they'll do anything for a laugh. Ever since they went on about pussy for nine minutes (good idea) in a Princey blues-minstrel drawl (bad one), I've assumed they were the kind of rec-room gigglefritzes who enjoy a good nigger joke when they're sure their audience is sophisticated enough to enjoy it. And to be perfectly honest, I don't hear one of those here. C+

Spiderland is a pretty boring record, it's really just prog for whiny emo kids

It was influential, sure. But none of the bands it influenced are any good.

American Idiot [Reprise, 2004]

If you're wondering what this concept album means, don't labor over the lyric booklet. As Billie Joe knows even if he doesn't come out and say it--he doesn't come out and say lots of obvious stuff--this is a visual culture. So examine the cover. That red grenade in the upraised fist? It's also a heart--a bleeding heart. Which he heaves as if it'll explode, only it won't, because he doesn't have what it takes to pull the pin. The emotional travails of two clueless punks--one passive, one aggressive, both projections of the auteur--stand in for the sociopolitical content that the vague references to Bush, Schwarzenegger, and war (not any special war, just war) are thought to indicate. There's no economics, no race, hardly any compassion. Joe name-checks America as if his hometown of Berkeley was in the middle of it, then name-checks Jesus as if he's never met anyone who's attended church. And to lend his maunderings rock grandeur, he ties them together with devices that sunk under their own weight back when The Who invented them. Sole rhetorical coup: makes being called a "faggot" something to aspire to, which in this terrible time it is. C+

Post good christgau reviews

Derek and the Dominos: Layla [Atco, 1970]
What looks at first like a slapdash studio double is in fact Eric Clapton's most carefully conceived recording. Not only did he hire Duane Allman for overdubs after basic tracks were done, but he insisted that Duane come up with just the thick, sliding phrase he (Eric) wanted before calling it a take. The resulting counterpoint is the true expression of Clapton's genius, which has always been synthetic rather than innovative, steeped in blues anti-utopianism. With Carl Radle and Jim Gordon at bottom, this album has plenty of relaxed shuffle and simple rock and roll, and Clapton's singing is generally warm rather than hot. But his meaning is realized at those searing peaks when a pained sense of limits--why does love have to be so sad, I got the bell-bottom blues, Lay-la--is posed against the good times in an explosive compression of form. A+

Trout Mask Replica [Straight, 1969]
I find it impossible to give this record an A because it is just too weird. But I'd like to. Very great played at high volume when you're feeling shitty, because you'll never feel as shitty as this record. B+

Load [Elektra, 1996]

One of the nice things about being old is that I'm neither wired to like metal nor tempted to fake it. Just as I figured, these here-come-the-new-heroes-same-as-the-old-heroes could no more make a "grunge" album than they could do double-entry bookkeeping. Grunge simply isn't their metier. So no matter what riff neatniks think, for outsiders this is just a metal record with less solo room, which is good because it concentrates their chops, and more singing, which isn't because they can't. C+

You realize how many people's childhoods he insulted?

Didn't Michael Gira mail him a bag of cum after he gave Filth a bad review?

yeah it's too bad Christgau doesn't take into account the opinions of a bunch of ten year olds when he writes a review

>he thinks middle schoolers have any taste in music

King Crimson is one of the few albums that critics correctly assess as having actual significance.

Christgau and nearly every other critic just make shit up about the things they review. Why bother? It is literally a snarky Facebook/blog comment with a useless score stickered onto it. Score aggregators and random recommendations from forums are literally as good for discovering music as these faux "experts" are. And they aren't like experts in classical who actually identify concrete innovations in compositions, and even "classical experts" ass-pull. The closest analogy in rock is Scaruffi, who is vilified and ass-pulls himself.

>implying he wasn't right about RHCP

Greatest Hits [Motown, 1978]

One thing you can say about a funk band with a hit as sappy as "Three Times a Lady", they ain't as funky as they used to be. Or maybe they never really were a funk band to begin with and instead merely understood funk's value as entertainment similar to John Denver and folk. I love "Brick House", "Machine Gun", and "Slippery When Wet", but they aren't even on the same side of this depressing compilation, half of which is devoted to Lionel Ritchie and his mealy mouth. C+

Blood Sugar Sex Magik [Warner Bros., 1991]

they've grown up, they've learned to write, they've earned the right to be sex mystiks ("Give It Away", "Breaking The Girl") **

Reinventing the Steel [EastWest, 2000] *bomb*