The Rock 100 + 50.

Here are the 150 essential recordings of the first 50 years of rock & roll, 1954-2003: 100 albums & 50 singles not already on those albums. Together they form the canon of the basic rock & roll library.

A few things worth noting to help keep the list focused and streamlined:

• There is only rock music. Early influences (such as Robert Johnson, Hank Williams, or Billie Holiday) and contemporary influences of other genres (like Miles Davis, Muddy Waters, or Johnny Cash) were all left out.
• I went by the classic titles. As a purist, I included the long-held classics of the genre (such as Elvis Presley's The Sun Sessions and The Beach Boys' Endless Summer) even if they were long out-of-print; in such cases, I included a footnote to a modern substitution that is its closest in-print equivalent.
• I avoided multi-disc & multi-artist compilations. I wanted the list of 100 albums to actually be 100 CDs, with no cheating on extra discs. Furthermore, if an artist didn't merit an album, they were included in the singles section, as opposed to a compilation that may cover several of them.
• I usually went by the artist over the title. By this rule, I left out some classic albums (Love's Forever Changes and Carole King's Tapestry) to make sure I had room for artists who merited inclusion despite not having an album that was as much as a stone-cold classic (Jerry Lee Lewis and Janis Joplin).
• I tried to keep the number of entries per artist balanced. Only The Beatles have five albums; Bob Dylan & The Rolling Stones each have four, & only Elvis & Jimi have three. Of the rest, only Elvis, Jimi, Aretha, The Who, Zeppelin, Springsteen, & Wonder have two. This is when each LP is a classic in their own right (i.e., Springsteen's Born To Run and Born In The USA) &/or it helped to show the performer's range (i.e., The Who getting an early greatest hits as well as Who's Next). Each artists' number of possible singles in the 45s list correlates to the number of albums in the LPs list.
• Finally, artists are represented in the era by which they are most associated—and not necessarily the era in which their albums were released. After each album title is the label upon which it was released followed by the date the album came out. If the album is a compilation that covers several years, the spanning years are written before the release date.

Like anything else, the rest ultimately came down to my own judgment. The whole process was obsessive, agonizing, and conflicted—but hey, that's half the fun.

So here is the canon of rock and roll music—the rock, as it were, upon which rock and roll rests.

Part 1: The LPs.

The 1950s.

Chuck Berry: The Great Twenty-Eight*

(MCA, 1955-1965/1982)

"Maybellene," "Roll Over Beethoven," "Sweet Little Sixteen," and twenty-five more reasons why John Lennon wasn't kidding when he said another word for rock and roll might be Chuck Berry; features "Johnny B. Goode," the greatest rock record of them all.

Ray Charles: The Best Of The Atlantic Years

(Atlantic, 1954-1959/1994)

Hear Brother Ray invent soul music over three discs of his Atlantic Records masters, from the hard rhythm and blues of "I've Got A Woman" through the secular gospel of "Hallelujah, I Love Her So" and the archetypal funk of "What'd I Say."

Sam Cooke: The Best Of

(RCA, 1957-1962/1962)

When "You Send Me" hit #1, Sam Cooke crossed the divide between gospel titan and soul pioneer, as chronicled on this set, until he effortlessly mixed the music into the divine pop of "Wonderful World", "Chain Gang", & "Cupid."

Fats Domino: My Blue Heaven: The Best Of*

(EMI, 1949-1961/1990)

The master of the rolling New Orleans sound and the perfect first step for white audiences into rhythm & blues music, as "I'm Walkin'," "Ain't That A Shame," "Blue Monday," and "Blueberry Hill," crossed over into the pop charts and influenced all who heard them.

The Everly Brothers: Cadence Classics: Their 20 Greatest Hits

(Rhino, 1957-1960/1990)

High and lonesome country harmonies unleashing hillbilly-bop jumpers ("Bye Bye Love") and nursing broken hearts ("When Will I Be Loved") in equal measure, as kids like Lennon & McCartney and Simon & Garfunkel hung on every their note.

Buddy Holly: 20 Golden Greats*

(EMI, 1956-1958/1978)

The first everyman of rock and roll, as well as one of its finest (and first) singer-songwriters—tunes like "That'll Be The Day," "Not Fade Away," and "Words Of Love" provided a spring upon which The Beatles, Dylan, and The Stones could drink from the same well.

Jerry Lee Lewis: Original Golden Hits, Vol. 1 & 2*

(Collectables, 1956-1962/1999)

Rock and roll madness in its purist form, as titles on the sleeve "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On," "Great Balls Of Fire," and "Breathless" seemed to tell the whole story, but only hinted at the apocalyptic fury that lay within the grooves inside.

Little Richard: Here's Little Richard*

(Specialty, 1955-1956/1957)

Rock music's original masterpiece LP, with "Long Tall Sally," "Ready Teddy," and "Tutti Frutti," which contained the finest definition of rock and roll music ever ventured in its closing ten words: "A wop bop a loo bop a wop bam boom!"

Roy Orbison: For The Lonely: 18 Greatest Hits**

(Rhino, 1956-1964/1990)

Orbison's near-operatic tenor defined the dark side of classic rock and roll, as epic heartbreakers like "Only The Lonely," "Crying," "Running Scared," and "It's Over" go by on this disc before culminating in "Oh, Pretty Woman," where the singer finally gets the girl.

Elvis Presley: The Sun Sessions*

(RCA, 1954-1955/1976)

A weird 19-year-old truck-driver named Elvis cuts ten perfect singles—including "That's All Right," "Good Rockin' Tonight," "Baby, Let's Play House," and "Mystery Train"—that define rock and roll and completely change the course of popular music.

Elvis Presley: Elvis' Golden Records*

(RCA, 1956-1957/1957)

With "Hound Dog," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Don't Be Cruel," "Love Me Tender," "All Shook Up," "Jailhouse Rock," "(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear," and the rest, this is the music that made the man King—just before the Army came and stole his crown.

Elvis Presley: From Elvis In Memphis
(RCA, 1969)

After ten years in the desert of bad movies and soundtracks, the Kid grows up, goes home, & makes the finest studio recordings of his life—old enough to give weight to "Long Black Limousine" & "In The Ghetto," but young enough to still reclaim his title as King.

The 1960s.

The Band: The Band

(Capitol, 1969)

The Great American Novel as a rock and roll album dreamed up by 4 Canadian nomads and an Arkansas drummer; "Up On Cripple Creek" and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" are the classics, but it was "Across The Great Divide" that gave away their hand.

The Beach Boys: Endless Summer**

(Capitol, 1962-1966/1974)

California as a state of mind, charted in songs about surfing ("Surfin' U.S.A."), cars ("I Get Around"), and girls ("California Girls"), and anchored by brooding songs like "Don't Worry Baby," which looked beyond the summer to hint at the maturity that was to come.

The Beach Boys: Pet Sounds

(Capitol, 1966)

Rock and roll's first modern artistic masterpiece, a city upon a hill of hope ("Wouldn't It Be Nice"), beauty ("God Only Knows"), and ultimately, loss ("Caroline, No"), which sailed on an ocean of sound so full that it could float a ship of fools ("Sloop John B"); their finest album.

The Beatles: Meet The Beatles!
(Capitol, 1964)

The American soundtrack to Beatlemania, with both sides of their breakthrough hit ("I Want To Hold Your Hand" & "I Saw Her Standing There"), a standard ("Till There Was You"), & some of the most exciting music of the era ("It Won't Be Long," "All My Loving").


The Beatles: Rubber Soul

(Parlophone, 1965)

Beatlemania smokes pot, digs Dylan, and comes up the archetypal modern rock masterpiece—acoustically mature in some places ("In My Life"), electrically rocking in others ("Drive My Car"), and cryptically eclectic all around ("Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)").

The Beatles: Revolver

(Parlophone, 1966)

John finds LSD ("Tomorrow Never Knows"), Paul finds classicism ("Eleanor Rigby"), George finds meditation ("Love You To"), and Ringo finds a #1 hit ("Yellow Submarine") in their finest album—all parts independent, yet forming a common whole.

The Beatles: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

(Parlophone, 1967)

If not "The Greatest Album Of All-Time," surely the most influential, as the title track, "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds," and "A Day In The Life" charted the course from Rock to Art, and in so doing, divided the history of the music in two.

The Beatles: Abbey Road

(Apple, 1970)

And in the end, this was their fitting and sophisticated swan-song; but with "Come Together," "Here Comes The Sun," and Side 2's brilliant "Long Medley," it was not just a finale—it was their finest-produced and most-accomplished album.

James Brown: Live At The Apollo

(King, 1963)

Rock's greatest live album and R&B's finest hour is just another night for the Hardest Working Man In Show Business, as he begs, borrows, and steals his way through hits like "I'll Go Crazy" and "Think," then fans the audience's flame on an extended "Lost Someone."

James Brown: 20 All-Time Greatest Hits!

(Polydor, 1956-1984/1991)

Nothing less than a 20-song history of modern African American music, from hard R&B ("Please, Please, Please") to fiery soul ("I Got You (I Feel Good)") to hot funk ("Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine") to proto-rap ("The Payback"); endlessly sampled, but never equalled.

The Byrds: Greatest Hits

(Columbia, 1965-1967/1967)

With Dylan's words and The Beatles' sound, this was folk-rock, literally—defined by "Mr. Tambourine Man," "Turn! Turn! Turn!," and "Chimes of Freedom," before going to acid-rock ("Eight Miles High"), space-rock ("Mr. Spaceman"), and back ("My Back Pages).

Cream: Disraeli Gears

(Reaction, 1967)

11 tracks of Cream on top, just before the pop gave way to the self-indulgence—an acid rock tour of love ("Sunshine Of Your Love"), drugs ("Tales Of Brave Ulysses"), and, um, beer (?) ("Strange Brew"), held up by an old 78 ("Outside Woman Blues").

The Doors: The Doors

(Elektra, 1967)

Beginning with "Break On Through," climaxing on "Light My Fire," and closing with "The End," the archetypal statement of sex, drugs, and rock and roll—or, the brooding darkness hidden just under psychedelic rock's diamond sky that set the stage for the rest of the decade.

Bob Dylan: Bringing It All Back Home

(Columbia, 1965)

Bob Dylan plugs in and all but invents modern rock and roll—as abstract lyrics meet a garage rock hurricane on "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and "Maggie's Farm," before the sound and fury subside for an acoustic side crowned by "Mr. Tambourine Man."

Bob Dylan: Highway 61 Revisited

(Columbia, 1965)

From the gun-shot drum-hit of the epic "Like A Rolling Stone" through the winding back alleys of "Desolation Row," this is Bob Dylan's finest hour—and by extension, one of rock's too—built with restlessness in its heart and the highway in its spine.

Bob Dylan: Blonde On Blonde

(Columbia, 1966)

The capstone to Dylan's initial rock trilogy is an extended meditation on love ("I Want You"), drugs ("Rainy Day Women #12 & 35"), and poetry ("Visions Of Johanna"), with glimpses of death and humor wrapped in what he famously dubbed "that wild, mercury sound."

Bob Dylan: Blood On The Tracks
(Columbia, 1975)

With his marriage in shambles, Dylan shuffled this albums together from half-electric ("Tangled Up In Blue," "Idiot Wind") & half-acoustic ("A Simple Twist Of Fate," "Shelter From The Storm") stunners that stand as his finest work since the 1960s.


Aretha Franklin: I Never Loved A Man The Way I Loved You

(Atlantic, 1967)

The fervor of the church meets the fire of the bedroom on songs like "Respect," "Drown In My Own Tears," "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man," and the title track, which double as Aretha's arrival as an R&B powerhouse and what many consider the greatest soul album ever made.

Aretha Franklin: Lady Soul

(Atlantic, 1968)

The Queen Of Soul begins her reign on this second masterpiece, with the definitive readings of "Chain Of Fools" and "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman," released just before her career lost focus in a sea of overwrought performances and scattershot material.

Marvin Gaye: What's Going On

(Tamla, 1971)

Rock and roll as a sermon in soul music's first (and finest) concept album, with Gaye's eyes focused on heaven but soul weary as hell; propelled by hits like the title track and "Mercy Mercy Me," and "Inner City Blues," it would become Motown's best-selling album ever.

The Grateful Dead: American Beauty

(Warner Brothers, 1970)

The definitive live band's definitive studio album, with many of the songs that would make their legend, onstage and off: "Sugar Magnolia," "Friend Of The Devil," and "Truckin'," with its tagline summing up the band's epic journey perfectly: "What a long, strange trip it's been..."

Jimi Hendrix: Are You Experienced

(Reprise, 1967)

Rock's greatest guitarist makes rock's greatest debut album of all-time, which sounds like an avalanche and feels like a greatest hits; on "Purple Rain," "Hey Joe," "The Wind Cries Mary," "Foxy Lady," and the rest, this was a rare album that simply changed everything.

Jimi Hendrix: Axis: As Bold As Love
(Reprise, 1967)

An underrated "sophomore slump" that most bands would kill to have be their finest album, Hendrix digs in & deepens the textures—both lyrically & musically—on "Spanish Castle Magic," "Little Wing," "Castles Made Of Sand," & the staggering "If 6 Was 9."


Jimi Hendrix: Electric Ladyland

(Reprise, 1968)

For the first and only time in his all-too-brief career, Hendrix received unlimited studio time and came up with this, a 2-LP exploration of love, rock, and sci-fi, which peaked with "All Along The Watchtower," the greatest Dylan cover ever—and somehow, Hendrix's only US Top 20 hit.

Janis Joplin [with Big Brother & The Holding Company]: Cheap Thrills

(Columbia, 1968)

The arrival of rock's greatest white female singer—she dressed like a hippie and shouted like a rocker, but remained a blues singer down to her tortured soul, on hard rock ("Piece Of My Heart"), slow-burning standards ("Summertime"), & heavy blues ("Ball & Chain").

The Kinks: Greatest Hits**

(Rhino, 1964-1966/1990)

Before they got immersed in their own uniquely-British, village-green nostalgia, The Kinks were the rawest rock band of their time, as "You Really Got Me" and "All Day And All Of The Night" blurred the lines between garage and punk, and set the stage for heavy metal.

Otis Redding: Otis Blue: Otis Redding Sings Soul

(Atco, 1965)

The King Of Soul's finest hour, as he reinterprets old hits ("A Change Is Gonna Come"), sets up new ones ("Respect"), takes on the rockers at their own game ("Satisfaction"), and ruminates on love and loss as only he can ("I've Been Loving You Too Long").

Smokey Robinson & The Miracles: Going To A Go-Go

(Tamla, 1965)

Famously hailed by Bob Dylan as "America's greatest living poet," the man behind timeless hits like "Ooo Baby Baby," "My Girls Has Gone," & "The Tracks Of My Tears," proves that Dylan's words weren't just sensational—they were an understatement.

The Rolling Stones: Big Hits (High Tide & Green Grass)
(London, 1964-1966/1966)

The Rolling Stones don't so much arrive in pop culture as they do assault it, blasting consumerism ("Get Off Of My Cloud"), sex ("Heart Of Stone"), class ("Play With Fire"), &, on their signature "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," all of the above.


The Rolling Stones: Beggars Banquet

(London, 1968)

With "Sympathy For The Devil" leading the way, The Stones enter their "Greatest Rock And Roll Band In The World" phase with the sound to prove it—part blues, part country, and, on "Street Fighting Man," all revolutionary.

The Rolling Stones: Let It Bleed

(London, 1969)

An Irish wake for the 1960s, released just on the cusp of their collapse by the band who would put the final nail on the coffin—the apocalyptic "Gimme Shelter" told the whole story, but "You Can't Always Get What You Want" kept you coming back for more.

The Rolling Stones: Exile On Main Street

(Rolling Stones, 1972)

A murky, messy sprawl of an album, with no real relent, just hard, thick rock; "Tumbling Dice" was the closest thing to a hit single, while "Rocks Off" and "Down The Line" played like the equivalent of drowning in a mud pit—is it any wonder that this is their finest album?

Diana Ross & The Supremes: Every Great #1 Hit**

(Motown, 1964-1969/2008)

The Motown Sound in its Platonian form, best heard in 12 #1 songs—including "Where Did Our Love Go," "Baby Love," "Stop! In The Name Of Love," "You Can't Hurry Love," "Love Child," and a few that have nothing to do with love—still a record for an American vocal group.

Simon & Garfunkel: Bridge Over Troubled Water

Columbia, 1970)

The calm in the storm of '60s rock as captured on their definitive album, released just as the 1960s—and the duo itself—was dissolving altogether; with soon-to-be-standards like "The Boxer," "Cecilia," and the title track, this was a perfect ending for both.

Sly & The Family Stone: Greatest Hits

(Columbia, 1967-1969/1970)

A '60s utopia where race, sex, and class knew no boundaries and made music to match, as hits like "Dance To The Music" and "Everyday People" blended rock, pop, soul, and funk; in other words, a Great Society that actually worked, hidden in state-of-the-art acid rock.

The Velvet Underground & Nico

(Verve, 1967)

Overlooked at the time and indispensable ever since, Lou Reed & Co. crawled into rock and roll's seething id of hard drugs ("Heroin"), hard sex ("Venus In Furs"), and hard noise ("European Son"), inventing postmodern rock and roll and setting the stage for punk.

The Who: Meaty Beaty Big & Bouncy**

(Track, 1965-1970/1971)

They called it "Maximum R&B," but in early hits like "My Generation," "The Kids Are Alright," "Substitute," and the acid-inspired "I Can See For Miles," this was cutting-edge pop music, lovingly wrapped in a tempest of the hardest rock and roll of its time.

The Who: Who's Next

(Track, 1971)

The group turns up the cynicism, throws in synthesizers, and reinvents themselves as arena rockers—God knows they were already loud enough, but with "Baba O'Riley" and "Won't Get Fooled Again," they had songs as huge as their venues; their finest album.

Frank Zappa: We're Only In It For The Money

(Verve, 1968)

The American Sgt. Pepper, which turned the original inside-out—literally, in its artwork and conceptually with its savage hippie lampoons like "Who Needs The Peace Corps?" and "Absolutely Free"—and in doing so, actually bettered it.

The 1970s.

AC/DC: Back In Black

(Atlantic, 1980)

AC/DC was on the brink of international stardom when singer Bon Scott died from alcohol poisoning; from the tolling of "Hell's Bells" through the title track and infectious "You Shook Me All Night," this was his funeral—and a better-than-ever rebirth for the band.

Aerosmith: Rocks

(Columbia, 1976)

They would have bigger and more popular albums, but in tracks like "Last Child" and "Back In the Saddle," they would never have better; this is point at which Aerosmith could look back and call themselves "America's Greatest Rock And Roll Band" with a straight face.

The Allman Brothers Band: At Fillmore East

(Capricorn, 1971)

The biggest American band of their day shows off their musical prowess in this double-LP with equal parts hits ("Statesboro Blues") and jams ("Whipping Post"), built around Duane's electric slide and Gregg's rough-hewn vocals, all captured live and raw, just before the fall.

Black Sabbath: Paranoid

(Vertigo, 1970)

The definitive album from the definitive heavy metal band, with enormous riffs fueling angst-filled classics like "Iron Man," "War Pigs," and the title track, all spit with venom by Ozzy Osbourne, decades before he became a pop-culture punchline.

David Bowie: The Rise & Fall Of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars

(RCA, 1972)

Rock and roll as a passion play about an alien named "Ziggy Stardust" who has "Five Years" to become the world's biggest "Star," until committing a "Rock And Roll Suicide"; if Bowie couldn't quite live it out in real life, you'd never know it from the music.

The Clash: London Calling

(CBS, 1979)

The Only Band That Mattered ventures out from punk rock into an apocalyptic rock wasteland of the title track, and remake the music in their own image with rockabilly ("Brand New Cadillac"), reggae ("Rudie Can't Fail"), and a surprise pop hit ("Train In Vain").

Derek & The Dominoes: Layla & Other Assorted Love Songs

(Atco, 1970)

Eric Clapton's finest hour, his guitar work energized by bandmate Duane Allman's slide ("Bell Bottom Blues") and his performances wracked by the agony of being in love with his best friend's wife ("Layla"); it was too raw to last, but the best rock usually is.

The Eagles: Hotel California

(Asylum, 1976)

A bicentennial portrait of America from the other side of western expansionism, centered around the title track's gilded palace of sin; "They call it paradise, I don't know why," the singer warns in the closer, "The Last Resort," "You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye."

Fleetwood Mac: Rumours

(Warner Brothers, 1977)

A perfect '70s pop band whose relationships were falling apart craft a perfect '70s pop album about relationships falling apart—powered by hits like "Dreams," "Don't Stop," and "The Chain," it was the best-selling album of all time until Thriller came along.

Al Green: Greatest Hits

(Hi, 1971-1973/1975)

Following in the footsteps of Cooke and Redding, Green was the top soul singer of his time, as he crooned and pled his way through "Tired Of Being Alone," "Let's Stay Together," and "Love And Happiness," until he gave up his pop soul in favor of his immortal soul.

Elton John: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

(MCA, 1973)

The '70s most indulgent artist makes his most indulgent statement, an ambitious, sprawling double-album of hits ("Bennie And The Jets"), classics ("Candle In The Wind"), and excess (the 11-minute plus "Funeral For A Friend/Love Lies Bleeding" opener).

Led Zeppelin: II

(Atlantic, 1969)

The archetypal heavy metal rockers perfect hard rock ("What Is And What Should Never Be" and "Heartbreaker") and play tribute to the blues ("The Lemon Song" and "Bring It On Home"), except on "Whole Lotta Love" (their sole US Top 10 hit), in which they do both.

Led Zeppelin: Untitled [IV]

(Atlantic, 1971)

Their finest album, which means it was hard rock's finest album as well—"Black Dog," "Rock And Roll," and "Stairway To Heaven" may get it all of the attention, but it's the epic reworking of the ancient blues holler "When The Levee Breaks" that steals the show.

John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band

(Apple, 1970)

Rock album-making as primal scream therapy—or, with "God," a Cartesian exercise in what constitutes reality; either way, in "Mother," "Working Class Hero," and "Love," Lennon broke out of The Beatles to craft the most "real" singer-songwriter album of them all.

Bob Marley: Legend

(Tuff Gong, 1973-1980/1984)

A perfect summation of reggae's master that more than lives up to its title, as classics like "Get Up Stand Up," "One Love," "I Shot The Sheriff" and more have propelled it to become the biggest-selling reggae album of all-time; I'd say you should own it, but you already do.

Curtis Mayfield: Super Fly

(RCA, 1972)

Hear the voice of The Impressions cash in his sweet dreams for the cold realities in "Freddie's Dead," "Pusherman," and the title track—and help define '70s African American culture in the process, all while launching the beats of a thousand rap samples.

Joni Mitchell: Blue

(Reprise, 1972)

Sweet Baby James was earlier and Tapestry was bigger, but Blue was the best—over ten stark ballads like "Carey" and "A Case Of You," Mitchell plumbs the depths of her emotions, all coming back to the central question of "California": "Will you take me as I am?"

Van Morrison: Astral Weeks

(Warner Brothers, 1968)

Jazz as pop as rock as memory as time, ventured in the slipstream and wrapped in the blues, way up in the heaven; or, in songs like "Cyprus Avenue" and "Madame George" a journey deep into the mystic, as crafted by the most mystical rocker of them all.

Parliament: Mothership Connection

(Casablanca, 1975)

Funk perfected in an intergalactic concept album by George Clinton & Co. that keeps the party going from "P. Funk (Wants To Get Funked Up)" through "Star Child"—but nothing tops the bass singer in "Give Up The Funk" intoning tear the roof off the sucker...

Pink Floyd: The Dark Side Of The Moon

(Capitol, 1973)

Although it was only #1 for one week and had only one medium-sized hit ("Money"), this LP stayed on the US charts for a record decade and a half, as rock fans were swept into its singularly epic vision, culminating in the eerie finale of "Brain Damage/Eclipse."

The Ramones: The Ramones

(Sire, 1976)

"1-2-3-4!" As in, 1 revolutionary sound + 2-minute songs + 3-chords + 4 cartoon rockers posing as brothers = what leader Joey Ramone famously described as a sort of bubblegum music for sick kids—or, as it would soon be called, punk.

The Sex Pistols: Never Mind The Bollocks

(Virgin, 1977)

As the anti-leaders of rock's imploded third wave, the definitive punk band defines the sound in instant-standards like "Anarchy In The UK" and "God Save The Queen," relentlessly screamed with a blank stare by a hunchbacked man with green teeth named Johnny Rotten.

Patti Smith: Horses

(Arista, 1975)

With "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine," it had the best first line in rock—and the rest of the LP more than lived up to its promise; from the trash-rock rewrite of "Gloria" through the epic "Land," poetry, pop, and punk mingled freely until all that remained was art.

Bruce Springsteen: Born To Run

(Columbia, 1975)

Rock and roll's biggest fan grabs Elvis's jacket, Dylan's cadence, and Spector's sound in a laughing grifter's shot at the music's biggest statement—and, in songs like the rambling "Thunder Road"  and the wanderlust title track, comes closer to it than anyone has since.

Bruce Springsteen: Born In The U.S.A.

(Columbia, 1984)

The Promise is broken by four years of Reaganomics, yet he masked anger in nostalgia ("Glory Days") and fun ("Dancing In The Dark") so effectively that even Reagan tried to appropriate the bitter anti-Vietnam title track as a feel-good, all-American fist-pumper.

Stevie Wonder: Talking Book

(Tamla, 1972)

Motown's boy genius grows up, reaches for greatness, and finally gets it with this, his first masterpiece; "You Are The Sunshine Of My Life" and "I Believe" are the standards, but "Superstition" is still the funkiest thing I've ever heard.

Stevie Wonder: Innervisions

(Talma, 1973)

Wonder survives a car wreck, makes himself into a one-man band in the studio, and makes the music of his life; along the way was love ("All In Love Is Fair"), politics ("Living For The City"), drugs ("Too High"), and hot funk ("Higher Ground").

Neil Young: After The Gold Rush

(Reprise, 1970)

Young was the '70s definitive rocker because he was the music's definitive iconoclast; this album would be his most celebrated—wistful (the title track), fierce ("Southern Man"), playful ("Cripple Creek Ferry"), and always uncompromised.

The 1980s.

The Beastie Boys: Paul's Boutique

(Capitol, 1989)

Three NYC rap-party pranksters reinvent themselves as cutting-edge MCs—sly, slick, and full of allusions, best heard in "Shake Your Rump," "Hey Ladies," and "Shadrack"—on top of a platter of samples so thick, it redefines the meaning of American freedom in music.

Grandmaster Flash, Melle Mel & The Furious Five: The Best Of: Message From Beat Street

(Rhino, 1980-1985/1994)

The most influential group of early rap epitomized the party music until "The Message" and "White Lines (Don't Do It)," in which the party stopped and the group surveyed the wasteland outside that the music had previously sheltered them from.

Guns N' Roses: Appetite For Destruction

(Geffen, 1987)

L.A. heathens whip hard rock back into shape, just in time to put the last nail in glam-metal's coffin; "Welcome To The Jungle" and "Paradise City" were pure rock hedonism, but just as impressive was "Sweet Child O' Mine," the only power ballad that doesn't suck.

Michael Jackson: Thriller

(Epic, 1982)

For one brief, shining moment, rock, R&B, and pop all converged into one once-and-again best-selling LP of all-time—immortalized in the street hustle of "Beat It," the paranoid pop of "Billie Jean," and the ridiculous B-movie freak-show "Thriller"—and it was Good.

Madonna: The Immaculate Collection

(Sire, 1983-1990/1990)

'Tis a party, she's a whore, until "Like A Prayer" appears, and the artist suddenly lives up to her name; but then again, "Borderline," "Like A Virgin," and "Material World" were no mere dancefloor throwaways—they're some of most immaculate pop ever conceived.

Metallica: Master Of Puppets

(Elektra, 1986)

The finest heavy metal album by the band who all but single-handedly saved the genre. In songs like "Battery," and the title track, Metallica crafted dense, sprawling epics of anger and fear that redefined heavy metal for all who have played the music ever since.

Prince: Purple Rain

(Warner Brothers, 1984)

The Purple One at the peak of his talent and popularity in instant-classics such as "When Doves Cry," "Let's Go Crazy," and "I Would Die 4 U" turned funk into confession and sex into love; a pop/rock/R&B "Song Of Myself" that would've even made Whitman blush.

Public Enemy: It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back

(Def Jam, 1988)

Chuck D brought a newfound sense of politics to songs like "Bring The Noise" and "Don't Believe The Hype," which was met by Terminator X's beats and offset by Flava Flav's cold lampin'—the result was the Sgt. Pepper of rap: the genre's "official" greatest  album.

Run-D.M.C.: Raising Hell

(Profile, 1986)

After Run-D.M.C.'s hit with Aerosmith on "Walk This Way" broke down the wall between rap and rock (literally, in the video), they followed up with a classic LP of street rhymes ("My Adidas"), social rhymes ("Proud To Be Black"), and nursery rhymes ("Peter Piper").

The Smiths: The Queen Is Dead

(Rough Trade, 1986)

The definitive UK indie band of the 1980s crafts the decade's finest rock album, as Morrissey croons songs about death ("I Know It's Over"), love ("The Boy With The Thorn In His Side"), and death measuring love ("There Is A Light That Never Goes Out").

Sonic Youth: Daydream Nation

(Enigma, 1988)

With "Teenage Riot" kicking it off and the extended "Trilogy" as its finale, Sonic Youth's masterpiece mixed rock, punk, and avant-garde to create a sonic vocabulary that would be used by nearly every major group that came since—almost all of whom they've since outlasted.

Talking Heads: Remain In Light

(Sire, 1980)

The artiest band of the New York punk scene took on the world with this LP, building a sound on tape-loops of polyrhythmic African music; the result was an innovative record with a hit single, "Once In A Lifetime," with an archetypal video to match.

U2: The Joshua Tree

(Island, 1987)

Outside is America, as the group crafted a sound that was nearly as big as the land they sought to conquer; songs like "Where The Streets Have No Name" or "With Or Without You" grasped for a terrain so wide-open, it could only be found in one's imagination.

The 1990s (& Beyond).

Dr. Dre: The Chronic

(Death Row, 1992)

On the definitive rap album of the 1990s, Dr. Dre steps out from behind the producer's desk, shares the mic with a then-unknown Snoop Doggy Dogg, and in hits like "Nuthin' But A G Thang" and "Dre Day," creates gangsta rap's first modern masterpiece.

Eminem: The Marshall Mathers LP

(Aftermath, 2000)

What if the smartest person in America was also the angriest? Eminem's second album provided an answer, as "The Real Slim Shady" and "Stan" spewed a fire bitterness and ridicule, while proving him to be one of the finest (and funniest) MCs to pick up a mic.

Nine Inch Nails: Pretty Hate Machine

(Nothing, 1989)

Equal parts rocking & disturbing, songs like "Head Like A Hole," "Terrible Lie," "Down In It," & "Sin" put industrial on the map & Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor at the forefront of rock; arguably the first great albums of the '90s, even if it arrived two months early.

Nirvana: Nevermind

(DGC, 1991)

A loud Seattle trio led by a loser who used to live under a bridge finally break punk (now called grunge) in one of the finest albums in rock history: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was the anthem, "In Bloom" was the mindset, and "Come As You Are" was the password.

Radiohead: OK Computer

(Parlophone, 1997)

The collapse of the 20th Century in an album that made Radiohead the most influential group at the brink of the 21st, as "Paranoid Android," "Karma Police," and "No Surprises" walked the line between man and machine with a post-grunge edge and a wistful beauty.

R.E.M.: Automatic For The People

(Warner Brothers, 1992)

Almost ten years after Murmur, R.E.M. releases a mostly quiet, understated collection of songs—such as "Everybody Hurts," "Man On The Moon," and "Nightswimming"—that are as murky as the swamp but elegant enough for AM radio; their finest album.

The Strokes: Is This It

(RCA, 2001)

The great white hype and momentary saviors of rock, they took everything good about New Wave, mixed it with The Velvet Underground, and sang it through a megaphone; "Last Night" was the anthem, but "Someday" is one of the prettiest songs I ever heard.

The White Stripes: White Blood Cells

(Sympathy For The Record Industry, 2001)

Back-to-basics guitar/bass/drums music (minus the bass), in the tradition of the Pistols and Nirvana; this time, it was curtesy of a divorced couple posing as brother and sister who set rock afire again with "Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground" and "Fell In Love With A Girl."

Part 2: The 45s.

1. The Band: "The Weight." The rock ballad as quasi-spiritual pilgrimage, with grace, the devil, & Crazy Chester's dog.

2. The Beatles: "She Loves You." The sound of British Beatlemania, just before the yanks caught on.

3. The Beatles: "Yesterday." The most covered song in the history of recorded song.

4. The Beatles: "Strawberry Fields Forever." Their finest recording—which makes it a strong contender for rock's finest, too.

5. The Beatles: "Hey Jude." Their biggest hit.

6. The Beatles: "Let It Be." Their perfect swan song.

7. The Bee Gees: "Stayin' Alive." The signature song of the disco era.

8. David Bowie: "Changes." The quintessential calling card of a chameleon.

9. Johnny Cash: "I Walk The Line." The Man in Black, raw & uncompromised—in other words, at his finest.

10. Ray Charles: "Hit The Road Jack." Brother Ray's most iconic post-Atlantic hit.

11. Chubby Checker: "The Twist." American Independence as rock's biggest dance craze.

12. Jimmy Cliff: "The Harder They Come." Not just the first major cry of reggae, but proof that rock had broken through to the third world.

13. Sam Cooke: "A Change Is Gonna Come." Passionate, heartbreaking, & controversial, this was the greatest soul ever sung.

14. Bo Diddley: "Bo Diddley." The beat that launched a thousand songs, though this one is still the best.

15. Bob Dylan: "Blowin' In The Wind." Dylan's first masterpiece & the theme-song to an entire social revolution.

16. Bob Dylan: "Positively 4th Street." The greatest kiss-off in rock (or should I say folk) history?

17. Bob Dylan: "Lay Lady Lay." Dylan quits cigarettes, goes to Nashville, & scores a rare Top 10 hit.

18. Bob Dylan: "Knockin' On Heaven's Door."Dylan scores a film no one remembers with an instant-standard that no one will ever forget.

19. Marvin Gaye: "I Heard It Through The Grapevine." A masterful, deceptively simple record that was Motown's biggest hit up to its time.

20. Bill Haley & His Comets: "Rock Around The Clock." The shot-heard-'round-the-world of a still-unfinished revolution.

21. The Impressions: "People Get Ready." Soul music as social prophecy, a rock & roll "Keep Your Eyes On The Prize."

22. Janis Joplin: "Me & Bobbie McGee." A man's country song sung by a female blues singer, & a natural #1 hit.

23. The Kingsmen: "Louie, Louie." Ground zero for punk rock: Three chords & the (garbled) truth.

24. The Kinks: "Waterloo Sunset." A celebration of England, just like it used to be—or never was.

25. John Lennon: "Imagine." Radical socialism disguised as wistful sentimentality.

26. Martha & The Vandellas: "Dancing In The Street." A call to arms, an answer to rioting, & one hell of a dance record.

27. Don McLean: "American Pie." The History of Rock 101—taught by a song that would in time join it.

28. Van Morrison: "Brown-Eyed Girl." The soundtrack to everyone's favorite summer fight, or at least the way we choose to remember it.

29. Notorious B.I.G.: "Juicy." The king of East Coast rap on the breakout song of his all-too-short career.

30. The Penguins: "Earth Angel." An unfinished demo buried on the flipside of a single that's now in the National Recording Registry as the quintessential doo-wop record.

31. Elvis Presley: "Can't Help Falling In Love." Schmaltz as sincerity.

32. Elvis Presley: "Suspicious Minds." The centerpiece of Elvis's late-'60s comeback, a study in paranoia that rivaled Vertigo, & the King's final #1 American hit.

33. Elvis Presley: "Burning Love." One final burst of mad joy before the sorry decline.

34. Otis Redding: "(Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay." Written while listening to Sgt. Pepper over and over, recorded three days before his plane crashed into the icy waters of Lake Monona. 

35. R.E.M.: "Losing My Religion." The Gothic American South as pioneering college (later "indie") rock.

36. The Righteous Brothers: "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'." One version of the Wall Of Sound: Mature, dynamic, & as subtle as a tidal wave.

37. The Rolling Stones: "Paint It, Black." An attack on psychedelic rock, with tar brush in hand.

38. The Rolling Stones: "Ruby Tuesday." An embrace of psychedelic rock, with flute in studio.

39. The Rolling Stones: "Honky Tonk Women." Country sleaze as blues swagger—& their best-selling stateside hit to date.

40. The Rolling Stones: "Brown Sugar." The American South as a depraved nightmare—not to mention another #1 hit.

41. The Ronettes: "Be My Baby." Another version of The Wall Of Sound: An endless sea of instruments, voices, & echo that could be summoned into submission by a single kick-drum.

42. Simon & Garfunkel: "The Sounds Of Silence." When an electric band was dubbed onto this acoustic record, the result was quintessential folk-rock—literally.

43. Sly & The Family Stone: "Family Affair." Funk as weird, druggy protest—& somehow, a natural #1 hit.

44. Britney Spears: "...Baby One More Time." The greatest pop song of the last 25 years. No, really.

45. The Sugar Hill Gang: "Rapper's Delight." The "Rock Around The Clock" of rap, & just as catchy.

46. Ike & Tina Turner: "River Deep, Mountain High." A third version of the Wall Of Sound: An apocalyptic blast of sound & fury.

47. 2pac: "California Love." The signature song of the West Coast hip-hop legend.

48. U2: "One." The biggest rock group of their time nearly breaks up, writes their finest song, & has been together ever since.

49. Stevie Wonder: "Uptight (Everything's Alright)." Classic proto-funk from Motown's wunderkind.

50. Neil Young: "Heart Of Gold." Rock's most uncompromising rebel at his most surprising: Friendly & mainstream, with a #1 hit.

* * *

*1950s Substitutions: Chuck Berry: The Definitive Collection; Fats Domino: Walking To New Orleans: Greatest Hits; Buddy Holly: Greatest Hits [1996]; Jerry Lee Lewis: 18 Original Sun Greatest Hits; Little Richard: The Very Best Of; Elvis Presley: At Sun; Elvis Presley: ELV1S: 30 #1 HITS.

**1960s Substitutions: The Beach Boys: Sounds Of Summer; The Kinks: The Singles Collection; Roy Orbison: 16 Biggest Hits; Diana Ross & The Supremes: The Definitive Collection; The Who: My Generation: The Best Of.

Randy Newman's Visions Of Sin.

A little over a decade ago, literary scholar Christopher Ricks came out with a book called Dylan's Vision Of Sin, which reexamined Bob Dylan's oeuvre as it related to the 7 sins. It was a clever book, & critics were tripping over themselves with praise—& indeed, considering it was written by a guy who usually writes about folks like Ezra Pound & T.S. Eliot (fighting at the captain's tower?), it's a very readable book & the rare literary criticism that you can dip in & out of at your own leisure.

But let's be clear—this is ultimately a better idea than it is a book. This is not to slight the book as a volume, but rather to say that the idea is just that good. Just like its most striking moments ("Clothesline Saga" is sloth!), the book as a concept stays with you, long after you've put it back on your Dylan-packed shelf.

This is all just to say that although I hadn't touched the book in years, it was still rattling around in my head when I got the chance to see Randy Newman last fall play an intimate solo show at the Library Of Congress in Washington, D.C. Originally scheduled for October 5, the show was one of many things that had been shut down by the government shutdown, which sadly says nearly as much about the state of America as a Randy Newman album.

As Jonathan Edwards (the Puritan, not the former cheating vice-presidential candidate or the shticky daytime television spiritualist) once wrote, we are a nation of sinners in the hands of an angry God, & no other entertainer understands our sinning better than Randy Newman, a man who made his career in part on "Sail Away," about a slave-boat captain spinning his best Willie-Loman-in-his-prime sales-pitch to a bunch of unsuspecting Africans. "In America, every man is free," the slaver promises. "To take care of his home & his family." If there is a better pop song about the sick allure that drove America's original sin, I've yet to find it.

When Randy Newman graciously rescheduled the show for November 13, "Sail Away" was one of the songs he performed, with some twenty others. I decided not to force my whole "Randy Newman's Visions Of Sin" theory onto the performance, but rather wait to see if it came along naturally.

Newman came out & sat down to begin the first number, issuing a fluttering piano riff as he sang the words:

I don't love the mountains

& I don't love the sea

& I don't love Jesus

He never done a thing for me...

It's money that I love

It's money that I love

& there it was. Not even one verse in & Randy Newman's Visions Of Sin had begun.

* * *

Greed: It's Money That I Love.

More than any other song, "It's Money That I Love" predicted the Reagan Era. Released just on the cusp of the '80s, the song caricatured everything that was yuppie before the term even existed. The best—& weirdest—line comes towards the end:

Used to worry about the starving children of India
You know what I say about the starving children of India?
I say, "Oh mama..."

It's money that I love
It's money that I love.

As Greil Marcus memorably wrote, after scoring a surprise hit single, he was back on the margins, scheming.

Or, as Gordon Gekko might say, "Greed, for lack of a better word, is good."


Wrath: Short People.

That surprise hit single in question was this song, a satire of bigotry that was so stupidly sophisticated (or something), most people missed the irony altogether & embraced it as a sick novelty song.

The source of the confusion came with the tagline "Short people got no reason to live," a statement so bitter & cutting that not even the shimmering redemption of the bridge ("Short people are just the same as you & me") upheld by The Eagles' backing vocals could redeem it. Most of the lyrics are so outlandish, I had dismissed them years ago, but was caught by surprise to hear people laughing with the "They got little cars that go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices goin' peep, peep, peep" couplet.

In the end, it is the song of a man who draws a line around himself in an attempt to live in the world as he wants to define it & to hell with the rest. Indeed, his hatred for short people is not only what defines him, it is what turns his kingdom into a prison, unbeknownst to him.

Gluttony: The Great Nations Of Europe.

For all of the ink spilled about Randy Newman as a "funny" songwriter, there is very little that he has ever written about food. Compare this with, say, "Weird Al" Yankovic, who had already produced a food classic ("My Bologna") before he even scored a record deal (with which he soon churned out further food classics like "I Love Rocky Road" & "Eat It"; by the time he asked Kurt Cobain for permission to parody "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Cobain responded by asking if it had to do with food—but I digress).

However, "The Great Nations Of Europe" takes the sin of gluttony—that is, greedily devouring everything in sight—& applies it to, well, the great nations of Europe in the 16th Century, guzzling their way through the land in a gesture of carelessness & destruction:

There were natives there called Guanches
Guanches by the score
Bullets, disease, the Portuguese,
& they weren't there anymore

Is there any wonder the singer warns to lock up your wives & daughters, but to "Hide the groceries too"?

Lust: You Can Leave Your Hat On.

Perhaps the strangest Randy Newman classic-in-retrospect is this one, no doubt helped by film: First, by Joe Cocker's memorable rendition for the striptease scene in 9 1/2 Weeks, & then by Tom Jones' memorable rendition of it in the finale of The Full Monty, which oddly rendered it from a song about male sexual perversion to one about male sexual strength. Still, taken by itself—naked, if you will—the song is classic Randy Newman: A deceptively simple character study that gets weirder with every listen. At its heart (or lack thereof) is a man's patent denial that is spoken plainly:

They don't know what love is.
They don't know what love is.
They don't know what love is.
They don't know what love is.

I know what love is.

Sick, obsessive love & denial has long been a favorite topic of Newman, as evidenced by his artistic breakthrough 12 Songs, which contained "love" songs about planning to make love to a burning cornfield ("Let's Burn Down The Cornfield"), a stalker who finds a random woman's information in a telephone book & waits for her in the shadows ("Suzanne"), & a high school girl who gets run over & killed by a beach-cleaning machine ("Lucinda"). Taken in this light, "You Can Leave Your Hat On" may just be the lustiest one of all—after all, it is the only one in which the singer gets the girl.

Envy: The World Isn't Fair.

Leave it to Randy Newman to address the sin of envy by dissecting the political philosophy of Karl Marx. After laying out the simple tenet at the center of Marxism—"no one could rise too high, no one could sink too low"—he spins a story for Marx that has nothing & everything to do with the situation: A recent school orientation day in which beautiful women were accompanied by ugly men like the singer. Quite simply, communism failed & capitalism succeeds because envy powers the slick machine. That is why the singer can say:

Just like I'm glad I'm living in the land of the free
Where the rich just get richer
& the poor you don't ever have to see!

Gatsby would approve.

Pride: Political Science.

There is a razor-thin line dividing pride & postmodern international diplomacy, & "Political Science" is written directly on it. The problem: No one likes us. The solution: Let's nuke them all to kingdom come:

Boom goes London & boom Paree
More room for you & more room for me
& every city the whole world 'round
Will just be another American town!

"Oh how peaceful it will be," the singer predicts. "We'll set everybody free." In those four little words, Manifest Destiny is reborn in Randy Newman's twisted patriotic paean—as Manifest Irony.

Sloth: I Think It's Going To Rain Today.

Throughout the entire concert, the man next to me was gunning for Newman to sing "I Think It's Going To Rain Today." After the mushroom cloud of "Political Science" cleared, he got his wish. "I Think It's Going To Rain Today" is one of the most celebrated of Newman's standards, but like much the record it first appeared on (his self-titled 1968 debut), I felt like I should like it more than I do, which is to say, I always found it kind of boring. Or maybe that's the point.

Right before me, the signs implore me
To help the needly & show them the way
Human kindness is overflowing
& I think
It's going
To rain
Today.

Correlating the link between depression & rain is nothing new, but what "I Think It's Going To Rain Today" adds to the picture is a version of sloth: Help the needy? No can do. I think it's going to rain today. It is life as a self-fulfilling prophesy, dark clouds that never part because the focus is not on whether they are there or not, but rather, the thought that they will be.

* * *

As the self-proclaimed "Dean Of Rock Critics" Robert Chistgau once wrote, "I want to say that what distinguished Randy Newman from the more popular rock artistes of the sixties was that he was smart. But it's possible all I mean is that he was Jewish." After all, it was another sixties Jewish rocker, Bob Dylan, who once noted, "To me, someone who writes really good songs is Randy Newman is Randy Newman...not that many people in Randy's class."

Indeed, reflecting on the evening, it is Newman's vision/version of an Old Testament God that shapes his entire perspective. No song expresses this better than his ultimate vision of sin, "God's Song (That's Why I Love Mankind)," which is unlike any other song of wrath ever recorded:

I burn down your cities, how blind you must be
I take from you your children & you say how blessed are we
Y'all must be crazy to put your faith in me
That's why I love mankind—you really need me
That's why I love mankind.

As he has been doing for years, Newman plays the song faster than it appeared on the initial record, which only emphasized its matter-of-fact cynicism over a deadpan blues. But in it, his catalog takes shape, as it helps to define the rest of the songs he performed that evening: The telling reminder of God's vengeance through the flood of "Louisiana 1927," the drunkard's afterlife visions of "Harps & Angels," the smug, secular self-satisfaction of "My Life Is Good." Even the optimistic songs—the beautiful love song "Marie," the Toy Story bromance of "You've Got A Friend In Me"—can be seen as the proverbial shelter from the storm.

Towards the end of a short Q&A session following the concert, the interviewer asked Newman if he'd like to answer a few more questions. He said no. But he would sing another song, if there was something we wanted to hear. The crowd started shouting favorites, including, much to my surprise, "Feels Like Home," a sentimental love song that may be the most perfect thing he ever wrote. I joined in the shout for the song & he received it, nodding his head in agreement, & saying, "Okay, 'Feels Like Home'."

In Dylan's Visions Of Sin, Ricks writes not only about the seven sins, but of the four virtues & three heavenly graces. I wish I could say I heard those in Newman's songs, but I don't really, except for this one, which seems to take all seven of those virtues & graces & puts them into one work of simple, shimmering beauty.

Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like I'm all the way
Back where I come from—

After bringing us through the Inferno, the Purgatorio, & most of the Paradiso, Dante is famously at a loss of words when he finally sees his vision of Beatrice. The most beautiful things, it seems, elude description.

This is how I felt about hearing Randy Newman sing "Feels Like Home" on this evening. I had experienced other moments of beauty at concerts—Elliott Smith singing "XO (Waltz #2)," Fleetwood Mac singing "Landslide"—but this one was the most beautiful, the most powerful, the most emotional.

It served as a reminder that if sin is best described in its complexity, virtue is best realized by its simplicity.

In other words, it feels like home.

Geeshie Wiley & Elvie Thomas: Lost & Found.

Some time ago, in one of my first blog entries, I wrote a piece about Geeshie Wiley's recording of "Last Kind Word Blues." At the time, virtually nothing was known of Wiley, which only reinforced the song's unsettling mystique. "Like Wiley herself," I wrote, "the song seems to mysteriously exist on its own terms, holding all but revealing nothing."

"Last Kind Word Blues" is a song about a woman who hears the last kind words of her WWI lover to send his body to his mother-in-law if he doesn't survive the war (he won't). It is a song about a woman who, when reflecting upon her own death, decides she'd rather be eaten by buzzards than receive a proper burial. It is a song about a woman whose simple actions—walking across a rich man's field, going to the depot & looking up at the sign—take on the epic weight of a Biblical parable. It is a song about a woman who recounts her mother's dying words to her to not be so wild, in a voice that is void of any sense of wildness, let alone any trace of youthful daughterhood. It is a song in which a woman looks across the Mississippi River & sees her own face on the other side. It is a song about a woman who is inflicted with a feeling that she cannot get out of her & believes she has to cross the deep blue sea.

It is a song about profound loneliness, the finality of death, & the solitude of sin.

It is a song about isolation, about entrapment, about depression.

It is a song about Purgatory.

"Geechie Wiley can see her face from across the Mississippi River because hers is the only face to see;" Greil Marcus wrote in Invisible Republic (later retitled The Old, Weird America: The World Of Bob Dylan's Basement Tapes), "all that she loves are dead, & there is no hint of community or society, of town & fellowship, anywhere in her song. The country it makes is a wasteland." Or, as Don Kent put it in the liner notes of the 1994 Yazoo Records compilation Mississippi Masters: Early American Blues Classics, 1927-35: "If Geeshie Wiley did not exist, she could not be invented."

But Geeshie Wiley did exist, as did her singing partner, Elvie Thomas, as evidenced in a remarkable new article by John Jeremiah Sullivan, "The Ballad Of Geeshie & Elvie," which was featured as the cover story on The New York Times Magazine last month. For anyone who's a fan of Wiley, Thomas, or the country blues, this article is a watershed & must be read in full; Sullivan's ability to describe the big picture while simultaneously focusing on the details is masterful, & much of his work would not be possible without the help of Caitlin Love, who dug through the trenches to provide the groundwork for many of the article's revelations.

In the article, it is Thomas who emerges most fully from the mystic chords of history. She was born August 7, 1891, went to prison at 18 for unknown reasons, played picnics with (& outsang) blues legends, teamed up with another female blues singer named Geeshie Wiley, recorded a few records with her in Wisconsin, then later turned to God, & apparently lesbianism. By the time she died on May 20, 1979, she was best remembered as a strict, God-loving hermit who chain-smoked cigarettes & had the most beautiful voice in the Mount Pleasant Church of Houston, Texas. She had cut off all ties to her blues-performing past—helped, no doubt by what Sullivan terms the "long, invisible blade between the two destinies" of "Elvie, a singer, who lives nowhere, & L.V., a woman, at her house in Houston"—such that her own family were surprised to hear of her unique blues legacy when the article was being published.

Geeshie Wiley largely remains in the shadows. We learn her birth name, Lillie Mae Scott, that she was born in Louisiana around 1908, married a man named Thorton Wiley who Thomas did not care for, & went off to live in rural Oklahoma some three years after recording her entire known catalog of a half-dozen sides. As Caitlin Love discovered, Geeshie Wiley comes sharpest into view is on the death certificate of her estranged husband who "died of stab wound between collarbone & neck" by a "Knife wound inflicted by Lillie Mae Scott."

What makes this so epic is that Wiley seems to predict this act of violence on the flipside of "Last Kind Word Blues" in a song called "Skinny Leg Blues."

I'm gonna cut your throat, baby, gonna look down in your face
I'm gonna let some lonesome graveyard be your resting place.

Given the events that soon played out after Geeshie Wiley recorded this song, these words are jarring enough, but considering the musical creative environment of the day, they are all the more bizarre and unusual. In their definitive Faking It: The Quest For Authenticity In Popular Music, Hugh Barker & Yuval Taylor write about what a relatively recent phenomenon the autobiographical song is: "Performers often use autobiographical song now as a talisman of their personal authenticity, parading their insecurities & problems through song in order to boast of how 'real' they are. But it was not common to give such detail in song until relatively recently, especially not in songs aimed at a mass market."

Barker & Taylor's example of a rare autobiographical exception that proves the rule is Jimmie Rodgers' "T.B. Blues," which he recorded in January 1931; when he died of tuberculosis two years later, people made the then-unusual leap of connecting the song's lyrical content with the singer's plight. Wiley's recording of "Skinny Leg Blues" was made in March 1930. In the time between Jimmie Rodgers recorded "T.B. Blues" & died of the disease he sang about, Geeshie Wiley cut her baby's throat.

Thus, a post-rock temptation to take all lyrics as autobiographical is seemingly justified by Geeshie Wiley's words & actions. If the most dire of her lyrics are proven accurate, what does this mean about her as a musical artist & lyricist? Is this another way in which she was ahead of her time? & does this now grant us the ability to listen to all of her songs that much more literally, the way we might be tempted to hear a John Lennon or a Joni Mitchell song?

Part of the unique chill of "Last Kind Word Blues" is how directly Geeshie sings it; this is not the lament of some overwrought torch song or a blues that uses irony like a shield to distance the singer from the hardship they express. When Geeshie tells you the last kind words of her lover, you take her at her word, just like she takes her lover at his word within the song.

The effect is that Geeshie is further drawn into the world of "Last Kind Word Blues" & further separated from our own. & yet, only a few weeks ago, it was largely unknown any concrete detail of her life, down to her real name. "Last Kind Word Blues," then, pulls the ultimate trick—it continues to recede even as we gain new facts that should allow us to view it closer. As Sullivan hints, our mind races at his article's newfound information. Given L.V.'s lesbian lifestyle & guardedness about Geeshie, is it possible that the two women were lovers? & if so, did Thorton Wiley suspect, know, or walk into the wrong room at the wrong time? Did L.V. secretly blame herself for Thorton Wiley's murder? It would be enough to make someone want to turn to the church & never look back.

It is tempting to say that we'll never know what happened, but given the recent small avalanche of information that has appeared, perhaps maybe we will. As a professor I sometimes do research for likes to say, "It's all out there waiting. You just have to find it."

Still, perhaps our postmodern, post-feminist readings of Geeshie & L.V. tell us more about the age that we live in than the one that we tell ourselves we are reconstructing. But now, with the long-forgotten murder of Thorton Wiley & Geeshie Wiley's recorded prophetic confession in the year prior, the strangest force imaginable now seems to attach itself to Geeshie's recordings: Truth.

One cannot help to wonder if maybe, just maybe, when Geeshie Wiley looked across the Mississippi River, she could see her face on the other side.