By the time Man Of The Woods rolled around in 2018, Justin Timberlake was riding a wave as one of America’s biggest multi-media stars, a wave that had run uninterrupted for almost two decades. He was a top-selling musician, respected by critics and fans alike, productions and collaborations with Jay-Z, Ciara, Madonna and Duran Duran made him a top choice behind the boards as well. His easy charm and good looks also won him favor as an actor on the big and small screens.

Man Of The Woods was the sound of that wave crashing into the shore. It’s a messy expedition of an album that aims for the type of roots/R&B crossover that his occasional collaborator Beyoncé (and everyone from Shaboozey to Post Malone to Morgan Fucking Wallen) would later hit pay dirt with. What should have been a slam dunk-after all, Justin is from Memphis and has roots in country as well as soul music (two genres that are more closely related than most give them credit for)- turns into a swing and a miss.

Who should shoulder the blame for Man of the Woods being the semi-disaster that it is? Part of that blame should lay with Timberlake himself. After all, he’s the one who conceptualized the album right? Never the strongest of lyricists, songs like “Supplies,” “Flannel” and “Montana” are as half-baked and basic as the simple titles indicate. We should also toss some of that blame onto Timberlake’s collaborators. Chris Stapleton (who should be able to make an album like this with one eye closed and one hand tied behind his back) doesn’t bring his “A” game on the awkward “Say Something.” Meanwhile, the much-anticipated reunion with Timberlake and producers The Neptunes is a massive dud. Pharrell and Chad are washed, to say the least. And the magic that powered many of the better moments from JT’s solo debut, 2002’s Justified, had clearly vanished in the decade and a half since.

Thankfully, the album has a handful of salvageable moments. “Morning Light” is a sweet duet with Alicia Keys (whose creativity seems to have taken a similar tumble in recent years). For whatever it’s worth, JT has exhibited a particular chemistry with women performers (his Rihanna collaborations all slap), and he and Keys meld together seamlessly. “Breeze Off The Pond” is the highlight of the Neptunes collaborations, with a great verse melody and bridge. So, Man of the Woods isn’t a total failure. It remains somewhat puzzling that what should’ve felt like such an easy fit for Timberlake came out the way it did, and I feel like with different collaborators and more focus on lyrical quality, this could’ve been a great roots/soul fusion album (truthfully, Cowboy Carter, despite its critical acclaim, wasn’t it either). Point to this album as the beginning of the end for Justin Timberlake as popular music’s Golden Boy.

In 1993, nine emcees emerged from Staten Island, NYC’s oft-forgotten fifth borough, and staked their claim to hip-hop immortality. Wu-Tang Clan embodied nothing that had been seen in hip-hop before or since; a rap music Voltron dripping with street knowledge, charisma, lyrical dexterity, storytelling skills and production that was avant garde while still making heads’ necks snap. Enter The Wu-Tang arrived during an era when New York City still had most of hip-hop’s attention (The Chronic, released late in 1992, had just begun to turn the tide), and arguably was part of NYC’s last stand as rap’s epicenter (along with albums like Tribe’s Midnight Marauders and Nas’ Illmatic).

How can I even begin to describe the Wu-Tang ethos accurately? They are the hip-hop equivalent of New Edition. They are the East Coast N.W.A. (at least in terms of how they formed as a group and later split into individually legendary solo acts while occasionally reforming). They are 100% of their era–the references to comics and kung-fu could only come from kids who grew up in 1970s and 1980s New York City, when Saturday afternoons were equally split between cartoons, wrestling and Bruce Lee movies on TV. The dark NYC they (and those of us who lived in the city pre-Guiliani and Bloomberg) inhabit is almost hard to imagine in a post-gentrification Big Apple. Enter the Wu is a time capsule that’s generally only decipherable by those of us who are old enough, and were lucky (or unlucky) enough to share the same geography. Hell, even the (recognizable) samples and interpolations– Gladys Knight’s “The Way We Were,” Hall & Oates’ “Method of Modern Love”- are locked into a certain era of pop culture that makes Enter The Wu a Gen X classic.

Almost every emcee in the unit gets the chance to shine, which is truly shocking when you consider how many rappers are jockeying for air time, and one track is a solo showcase for the incredibly charismatic Method Man. While he’s widely considered the Wu’s MVP, you also gotta give props to Raekwon and Ghostface for their vivid storytelling skills on “C.R.E.A.M.” or the wildly creative and pointed verse GZA drops on “Protect Ya Neck.” Ol’ Dirty sprinkles his chaotic craziness throughout the album, and you can’t not give a hat tip to The RZA for a truly unique production style that intertwined soul classics, film dialogue and the slightly off-beat drum style that propelled what would later become neo-soul. There are clear precedents- RZA’s style is a little bit DJ Premier, a little bit Prince Paul and a little bit Erick Sermon circa Redman’s first album. But he spins it into something entirely his own.

It’s hard not to look at this album through the prism of everything that’s transpired in the three decades since, from RZA’s transition into film scoring to ODB’s untimely passing to Ghostface emerging as the Wu member with the most consistent solo discography. It can be argued that no subsequent Wu-Tang album-individually or collectively-has eclipsed the debut. But how can you top the escapades of so many hungry emcees at a peak time for NYC hip hop? Enter The Wu endures as one of hip-hop’s most highly regarded albums and has been incredibly influential for several subsequent generations of emcees.

A Tribe Called Quest’s The Low End Theory is consistently lauded as one of the greatest hip-hop albums of all time. I certainly regard it as a high water mark for its era, even though it’s not even my favorite Tribe album. Here are five reasons why The Low End Theory gets the props it rightfully deserves.

What sophomore jinx?

What’s the saying? You have your whole life to make your first album, and each subsequent album captures only a year or two (sometimes even less) in between. If your debut album is a success, the pressure to match or exceed the high water mark you’ve spent your whole life leading up to increases exponentially. Tribe’s 1990 debut, Peoples Instinctive Travels (I’m not typing the whole title), was critically acclaimed and sold relatively well for a non-commercial hip-hop debut. There may have been expectations surrounding The Low End Theory at the artist and maybe even the label level, but Tribe succeeded by expanding on the things that made their debut great and expanding their musical vocabulary, as opposed to making Instinctive Travels part 2. Sure, Tribe was a part of the Native Tongues collective. The Low End Theory advanced them past the “D.A.I.S.Y.” age and into their own realm.

Who’s That Other Guy?

Q-Tip is the primary emcee on Tribe’s debut, and what immediately stood out to me after my first couple of listens to The Low End Theory is that Phife Dawg bought in and brought his “A” game to the project. He, his wit, his interplay with Tip–those things were the “X” factor that turned ATCQ from a playoff contender to championship material. I feel like Phife would appreciate the usage of sports metaphors here.

September 25th, 1991–what a day

If you’re not a fan of music, it was probably an ordinary Tuesday. Hell, for most popular music listeners at that time, it wasn’t a particularly interesting day for new releases. However, three albums came out that-while not immediate hits-shifted the axis of popular music. Nirvana’s Nevermind brought grunge to the mainstream, popularizing Gen X angst on record. Four months after its release, it was the Number One album in the country. The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ breakthrough album, Blood Sugar Sex Magik, gave a pop sheen to their funk/rock sound courtesy of former hip-hop producer Rick Rubin. The result elevated both their careers. And then there was The Low End Theory. It’s sold the least of those three albums, but may end up being the most critically well-regarded. And unlike Nirvana and the Peppers, Tribe achieved Platinum sales on this album with damn near no airplay–on top 40 or urban radio.

Jazz-rap? Kinda. The birth of Neo-soul? Kinda.

Bassist Ron Carter appears on Low End Theory (perhaps the first well-regarded musician from his genre to appear on a rap record). There are plenty of samples from jazz records. Hell, one of this album’s biggest hits was called “Jazz (We’ve Got).” But is The Low End Theory jazz-rap? I don’t know. That feels a bit reductive. And truthfully, Low End has as many jazz samples as Tribe’s debut, which isn’t considered jazz-rap. So I don’t know what to make of all that, except to say that the album does have a distinctive sound. Some of that is the vocal interplay between Q-Tip’s voice (nasally, deep, calm) and Phife’s voice (high pitched, excitable). Some of it has to do with the production and engineering (props to the recently departed Bob Power). Sure, it’s jazzy, but it’s also warm, soulful and has that boom-bap to make your neck snap. Power, Tip and his Tribe-mates created a sound that would reverberate through the next 20 years of hip-hop and R&B music, setting the stage for what is now considered neo-soul (probably also a reductive term). In the immediate, albums like Tony! Toni! Toné’s Sons of Soul and Meshell Ndegeocello’s amazing debut Plantation Lullabies (engineered by Power) don’t exist as they are today without The Low End Theory. Expand that out further. D’Angelo? Erykah Badu? The Roots? All owe a debt to the template set by this album.

It’s a damn good album.

Period. Low End Theory is the sound of two dudes (and some friends) rapping their asses off. It’s the sound of a band discovering themselves and taking creative leaps forward in real time. It’s a throwback (the literal first track, “Excursions” finds Tip discussing hip-hop with his dad, comparing it to older music, and using Bobby Brown as the evolutionary Michael Jackson to make its point) and is forward-seeking at the same time. “Check the Rhyme” is an old-school routine given new-school gloss. The quotables on the album are insane. “Scenario” unleashed Busta Rhymes on the world and remains the greatest posse cut in hip-hop history. And to think that (in my opinion) Tribe hadn’t even reached their creative apex yet! My thoughts on Midnight Marauders being the superior work aside, The Low End Theory is a high mark for Tribe, for hip-hop, and for music in general. It’s an indispensable part of my music collection and should hold the same value for anyone and everyone.

Before Luther Vandross became the legend we now know him as, he was already a superstar. In the decade or so prior to the release of 1981’s Never Too Much, the NYC-based singer/songwriter had already performed alongside the likes of David Bowie and Bette Midler, was well-regarded as the singer of nationally aired TV and radio jingles, and his voice was prominent on some of the biggest hits of the disco era. Chic’s “Le Freak,” Sister Sledge’s “He’s the Greatest Dancer” and Irene Cara’s “Fame” all benefitted from Luther’s buttery croon and his talents as a vocal arranger and background singer. He’d even released two albums in the mid Seventies with a group called “Luther” that received little notice.

So even though Never Too Much may have seemed like a revelation to listeners at the time, Luther had already laid tons of groundwork for his official breakthrough. The album sounds accomplished (maybe also due to the fact that Luther was an ancient-for-the-music-industry 30-year-old at the time of the album’s release).

What did R&B music sound like in 1981? There was a distinct crossover, easy listening sound (think: Lionel Richie). The disco era (which Luther’s voice was a prominent component of) had ended and was replaced (in major metropolitan areas) with what would later be termed boogie (as typified by acts like Shalamar, The Whispers, and Evelyn “Champagne” King). There was also hard-funk in the vein of Rick James or Prince. Luther’s music didn’t fit cleanly into any of those sub-genres.

If I could compare Never Too Much to any of Luther’s contemporaries at the time, it would be George Benson. Like most of Benson’s hits, the songs on Luther’s solo debut have jazzy underpinnings, with more guitar than the remainder of his catalog. “Don’t You Know That?”, in particular, feels like it could’ve been lifted straight off of Benson’s Give Me The Night album. Even Never Too Much’s legendary title track is a little Benson-ian, although it’s certainly “Lutherized” by virtue of the starry-eyed lyrics and Vandross’s rapid-fire delivery, which calls to mind the speed-singing/rapping hybrid style that artists like (Luther’s future duet partner) Beyoncé perfected two decades later.

Most of Luther’s debut follows the template set by the title track. “She’s a Super Lady” and “Sugar and Spice (I Found Me A Girl)” feel like the first cousins of “Never Too Much.” It’s hard to say whether the similarity between songs is adherence to formula or Luther establishing a signature sound. Since it’s his (sort of) debut, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and call it establishing a signature. However, the one outlying song turned out to be the one that really established a signature sound for the vocalist. Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s “A House Is Not A Home” (popularized by Dionne Warwick) is given a complete restructuring by Luther. It’s stretched out to seven minutes, given a sumptuous arrangement, and Luther renders the song exquisitely, bringing out a melancholy that would become a hallmark of his most highly regarded work. It was the first of what would be many examples of Luther taking a song that belonged to someone else and making it his own, establishing him as the premier song interpreter of his generation (and perhaps ever).

Never Too Much isn’t the crown jewel of Luther’s catalog, but it’s an incredibly accomplished debut (which isn’t really a debut at all). The title track became an era-defining chart topper and set Luther on a barely-precedented streak of Platinum success that lasted for nearly two straight decades after. By the time 1981 came to a close, it was hard to think of Luther as being anyone’s jingle singer or vocal arranger.

When Whitney Houston passed away in February 2012, she was in the process of yet another comeback. A sea of personal issues had turned the powerhouse vocalist into a bit of a laughing stock in the new millennium. Her death was the final sad event in what had been a series of sad events for one of the biggest pop stars of the ‘80s and ‘90s.

The final attempt (in her lifetime) at making Whitney Houston commercially relevant came via 2009’s I Look To You, the singer’s first studio album in seven years. Commercially, it performed decently well, becoming Whitney’s only album to debut at Number One. Creatively, it does a good job of placing Whitney in what was then a contemporary context without trying too hard. It also makes the case that, despite the fact that her vocal skills were diminished due to time and abuse, Whitney Houston still had some of the most distinctive and powerful pipes in music history.

Think of the music scene in 2009. It wasn’t necessarily favorable to a singer like Whitney and I’m sure label head Clive Davis spent considerable energy finding collaborators and tracks that would make sense for top 40 radio while not sacrificing the essence of what Whitney was. Thankfully there are no guest rappers (although I’m curious what Kanye’s “chipmunk soul” sound would’ve sounded like on Whitney), there is no discernible Auto-Tune, and the lyrics don’t try too hard to place the singer in a light that would be ill-fitting for her age (46 at the time of I Look To You’s release).

The album kicks off with the sprightly “Million Dollar Bill,” produced by Alicia Keys and Swizz Beatz. The retro groove (buoyed by a disco-era Loleatta Holloway sample that pretty much provides the song’s bedrock) is a perfect fit for Whitney, who cut her teeth during the disco era. “Million Dollar Bill” is one of the best uptempo songs in her entire catalog. Other winners on the album include the island-spiced “Like I Never Left,” a duet with Akon that’s charming and lightweight. “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength” is a Diane Warren power ballad that a younger Whitney would’ve blown the speakers out on, but the song’s lyrics suit the more weathered, experienced Whitney. Peak-era Whitney would’ve delivered a powerhouse vocal performance, but 2009-era Whitney had the life experiences to make her rendering of the song believable.

A Whitney album (particularly one made in the 21st century) wouldn’t be a Whitney album without some head-scratchers. A cover of Leon Russell’s “A Song for You” (made famous by Donny Hathaway and the Carpenters, among many others) should’ve been a slam-dunk, but producers Stargate bury one of the best songs written in the last sixty years in some sort of electro-slush. It renders a commendable vocal by Whitney useless, and this atrocity would rank as the worst cover of “A Song for You” for a brief few years until an embarrassing version by Amy Winehouse (whose career has sad parallels with Whitney’s) surfaced on one of her posthumous albums. There’s also the presence of R. Kelly, who writes and produces two songs, including the title track (which I remember reading about in a Vibe Magazine interview from the mid ‘90s…how long was that song sitting on ice?). Neither of his contributions warrants much of a mention, as “I Look To You” is a fairly banal gospel ballad and “Salute” is generic 2009 pop.

I’m trying to put myself back into the mindset I was in on the day I bought this CD (having only heard a single or two), and I think I was pleasantly surprised that I Look To You ended up being as listenable as it was. The previous few years had been a bit of a trainwreck for Whitney, and the possibility existed that any new music from her could’ve been disastrous. Thankfully, I Look To You is not that. It’s not a work of genius either, but arguably Whitney never created that outside of a few specific songs spread across her catalog. I Look To You is pleasant, inoffensive and its primary distinction is that, sadly, it was the last album Whitney completed during her lifetime.

Back in 1990, LL Cool J dreamed about a girl with “a Fendi bag and a bad attitude.” However, Uncle L’s around the way girl didn’t really exist in popular culture. Even in the music world that created that rap classic, female artists fit one of two archetypes: they were either evening-gown types like Anita Baker, or they were dance divas like Janet Jackson (pre-Poetic Justice). With her 1992 debut. What’s the 411?, Mary J. Blige broke the mold and created a new archetype. With her unvarnished vocals and fusion of R&B melodies over hip-hop breakbeats, the Yonkers, NY native reinvented soul music in her image.

Over the course of the last three decades, Mary has cultivated a legendary career as not only a singer, songwriter and actress, but as sort of an emotional barometer for her fanbase (mostly Black women). Her ups and downs are often very present in her lyrics, and that honesty resonates with listeners and gives her albums a level of importance and heft that you don’t get from 411. What you do get is a sharp, concise set of songs that take the rap and R&B fusion Teddy Riley created with New Jack Swing and simultaneously gives the genre a harder and softer edge. The beats (especially on “Real Love” and “Changes I’ve Been Going Through”) crunch instead of swing, while Mary’s vocals project the vulnerability generally associated with female singers while also giving off a don’t fuck with me edge.

While the more hip-hop informed tracks comprise the meat of What’s the 411 (including the title track, on which she actually raps and convincingly goes toe-to-toe with Grand Puba of Brand Nubian), there are more than enough moments on the album that fall in line with traditional R&B. “I Don’t Want to Do Anything” is an aching duet with Jodeci’s K-Ci Hailey. The two were an item at the time, and there’s an obvious romantic tension simmering throughout the song. The vibe cools down for the jazzy standout ‘Love No Limit.” Mary was discovered via a cover of Anita Baker’s “Caught Up in the Rapture,” and this song would’ve fit perfectly on one of Anita’s own albums.

I’m not gonna lie and say that back in the early ‘90s, I thought What’s the 411 would be a game-changing album. I knew that I liked the songs and the singer and consequently I wore the tape out not thinking that it (and Mary) would be part of the cultural conversation 35 years later. But here we are. Little did we know the monster that would be unleashed, right? Mary (and a list of songwriters and producers including the late, great Kenny Greene whom I would be remiss in not mentioning) seamlessly fused classic soul with future beats and set the stage for the next three decades of music.

Las Vegas native Ne-Yo spent a solid decade at or near the top of the pop/R&B world, as a songwriter and performer. His pen game is what got him in the door, thanks to songs like “Unfaithful” (made popular by Rihanna), “Let Me Love You” (a #1 smash for teen heartthrob Mario), and “Irreplaceable,” the country-spiked Beyoncé smash. He then directed that pen towards his own songs and scored a chart-topper out of the box with the lovelorn ballad “So Sick.”

Through his first two albums, Ne-Yo continued to establish himself as a musical force to be reckoned with. He was most often compared to “Off the Wall”-era Michael Jackson, with whom he shared a boyish high tenor singing voice. One thing Ne-Yo could do that Michael mostly couldn’t, though, was write convincingly about real-life relationships. Nowhere is that more evident than on his third album, Year of the Gentleman. On this album, Ne-Yo turns down a bit of the overtly sexual rhetoric some of his earlier (and later) work would rely on, and delivers a suite of expertly written, heartfelt songs that capture that elusive quality evident in all great lyricists: you can’t tell whether they are pulling from the pages of their own life or if they are just expert storytellers.

The pulsing, club-friendly opener “Closer” slaps, but it turns out to be a bit of a red herring compared to the rest of Year of the Gentleman, which is a mostly mid-tempo affair. The ups and downs of Ne-Yo’s relationships are explored thoughtfully and with a maturity and an attention to detail only hinted at previously. Highlights include “So You Can Cry,” on which Ne-Yo dips into a beautiful falsetto to allow the song’s subject to mourn a failed relationship. The tables turn on the devastating “Fade Into the Background” (for my money, the best song the man ever wrote). If you’ve ever stayed friends with an ex long enough to see them get married to someone else, this tune is 100% for you.

Those songs are just the tip of the iceberg. “Miss Independent,” a catchy anthem of female empowerment, struck a chord with Ne-Yo’s main fanbase and became the album’s most popular single. Speaking of singles, there’s…um, “Single,” a song Ne-Yo handed over to New Kids on the Block to aid their comeback. Featured here in a solo version, it loses a slight bit of luster but remains an earworm. Throughout the album, Ne-Yo’s voice charms while his lyrics are razor sharp.

Might Year of the Gentleman be the 21st century’s best contemporary R&B album? A more interesting set of questions for me is…given Gentleman’s release date and the knowledge that Ne-Yo was working on music for the King of Pop prior to the fateful events of June 25th, 2009, might Ne-Yo have been inspired to step his game up by being sent back to the drawing board by the notoriously exacting Michael Jackson? Hell, might Year of the Gentleman have been the album Michael would’ve ended up releasing had he lived? I’m not sure what caused Ne-Yo to deliver a masterpiece for his third album, but no matter the reason, Year of the Gentleman is worthy of your time if you haven’t given it attention in a while…or ever.

I have written more words about Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall than I have about any other album I’ve ever owned. Each time I put (virtual) pen to paper, though, I become intimidated. How do I properly discuss an album that’s so essential to who I am as a music fan (I have the iconic back cover image of Michael’s glowing socks tattooed on me) while still being concise and not repeating myself?

I’ll be honest with you–I don’t know the answer to that question. So if you’ve read any of my previous writing about this artist or this album, I apologize in advance. I’m not certain I have anything new to say.

If you have listened to any popular music at all in the last half-century, there’s a good chance that Off the Wall directly or indirectly influenced it. The album fused pop, soul and dance music like few albums before it. It rewrote the rule book for artists who wanted to nail the transition from child star to adult sensation. Of course, it also served as the warm-up for the biggest selling album of all time.

Off The Wall found artist (MJ) and producer (Quincy Jones) connecting at precisely the right time in their careers. Quincy was already an industry veteran and cultural groundbreaker. When he and Michael crossed paths on the set of the film The Wiz, Q was a steady presence in the R&B and jazz worlds. His proteges The Brothers Johnson were chart regulars, and Q’s own albums found a who’s who of current and future legends converging (Chaka Khan, Luther Vandross, Minnie Riperton to name a few). Meanwhile, Michael was on the cusp of adulthood (he turned 21 less than two weeks after Off the Wall’s release) and looking for an identity outside of his family. The ensuing mentor/mentee relationship paid incredible dividends for them and for us as music fans.

Wanna dance? You got it. Off the Wall starts off with five consecutive uptempo tunes, led by the disco-tastic, falsetto-laden classic “Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough.” The moods then vary from dreamy (”Rock With You”) to insistent (”Working Day & Night”), but it’s almost impossible to keep your feet from moving during the first half of this album. And despite being released just as the “disco era” was coming to a close commercially, these tunes all possess a level of genius that elevates them past the point of being relics of the time they were released.

Lest you think Michael is a one-trick pony, the rest of Off the Wall slows the tempo and offers more musical variety. Paul McCartney’s “Girlfriend” is lightweight and pleasant pop (like so much of the ex-Beatle’s catalog is), while Stevie Wonder and ex-Supreme Susaye Green offer the moody, jazzy “I Can’t Help It.” There’s also the dramatic, lovelorn “She’s Out of My Life,” which would stand as one of MJ’s most dramatic vocal performances even without the crocodile tears at the song’s conclusion.

After all these years, the overwhelming emotion I come away with after listening to Off the Wall is joy. Michael sounds like the life of the party here, loose and fun, vigorous and youthful. It’s the perfect coming-of-age record, the perfect late night party album, and as good a pop album as has ever existed.

I feel compelled to start this review by saying that, for the record, I find the last 12 or so years of Kanye West’s public persona abhorrent. I do not harbor or support his anti-Black or anti-Semitic views. It has been heartbreaking to see an artist that I once saw as aspirational go all the way off the deep end. Less seriously, it has been heartbreaking to see his creative decline (which began before he began spouting hateful rhetoric). I’ve barely (if at all) listened to any of Kanye’s creative output since The Life of Pablo (an album I was severely disappointed in), and while I think his recent rash of apologies suggests that he may be realizing the error of his ways as a man (and because of that, in addition to having empathy for the short leash of compassion Black men too often get, I’m not willing to completely throw him in the trash), I’m probably not gonna be rushing out to listen to any new music he puts out. Hell, for the last 8 or 9 years, I’ve had trouble listening to the old music he put out—so much of which I absolutely loved. So, this review comes with a lot of forethought and consideration, something not too often seen on the internet these days.

Watch the Throne was an event record. Two rappers—one of whom served as an inspiration and mentor to the other—both of whom were at the top of their games commercially, joining forces. It was the hip-hop equivalent of Michael and Prince making a record together in 1985. The expectations were sky-high from both Kanye’s and Jay’s fan bases. Were those expectations met? Ehhh, hard to say. Probably not. But does that speak more to the quality of Watch the Throne or the outsize expectations of the average hip-hop fan?

Watch the Throne is probably a few tracks too long. It contains a handful of filler. There aren’t too many moments of genuine self-reflection or social commentary. It’s two powerful, rich dudes making a powerful, rich (and a powerful, rich sounding) record that’s got some incredible production, a few poignant lyrics, and a few funny lines. Each artist has individually made better albums, but they’ve also made much, much worse. So maybe iron isn’t exactly sharpening iron here, but…is platinum sharpening platinum, maybe?

The first thing that struck me as curious or odd retroactively was that Watch the Throne contains not a single guest emcee. The average Jay or Kanye record is stuffed with features (although it’s worth noting that the best albums in Jay’s catalog go easy on the supplemental artists), so the fact that the only two people rhyming across this album’s length are the same two artists is notable. I respect their commitment to the bit. Like I wrote earlier, neither Jay nor Ye is kicking their most cerebral rhymes, but Watch the Throne rarely slips to the level of laziness that Hov was more than guilty of partaking in. Even if the lyrics are mainly of the “I got money” variety, they’re often witty and/or spit with intention. And the album’s best verses come when the topics shift slightly, whether we’re talking about the men musing on their lives as future fathers on the contemplative “New Day,” Jay musing on standards of Black beauty on “That’s My Bitch” (even if his verse mostly serves as an excuse to big up his wife) or the fellas ruminating on being betrayed by friends on the stuttering, paranoid “Why I Love You.”

During our recording of the podcast, GG referred to Watch the Throne as “luxury rap,” and while I can’t say what that sub-genre is supposed to sound like, I’ve gotta agree that the name sticks. I mean, money is certainly a constant lyrical topic. Neither ‘96 Jay nor ‘04 Kanye would have been able to pull off observations of opulence like “Otis” or “Niggas in Paris.” Also, this album sounds expensive. No dusty soul grooves here (at least not until the Pete Rock-helmed bonus track “The Joy,” ironically one of my favorite tracks). The beats sparkle, and they’re also provided by a laundry list of A-list collaborators, from the RZA (whose work on “New Day” can best be described as an homage to Ye’s early productions) to the maximum minimalism of Pharrell Williams on “Lift Off” and “Gotta Have It.” That said, the album’s best production moment comes courtesy of relatively unheralded 88-Keys, whose “No Church in the Wild” is an unsettling, cinematic album opener. As Kanye’s lyrical content was growing increasingly darker, “Church”’s imagery of religious symbols and threesomes matched the prowling soundscape perfectly. It’s a stunning, if unsettling snapshot of opulence and regret that stands as one of the best songs in either artist’s catalog (and had a lengthy afterlife in TV and movie trailers until Kanye’s diarrhea of the mouth/mental illness derailed that train).

I’ve been in complete Ye-blackout mode (even including the old stuff) for a year or so now, so it was interesting to come back to Watch the Throne, even with the extra baggage, and find that I still enjoyed it. The ridiculous expectations for it may have prevented the album from receiving all the flowers it deserved, but at that point in time, Jay and Kanye had more than enough flowers anyway…and probably still do.

Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill was one of the ‘90s biggest success stories. Millions upon millions of records sold. The Album of the Year Grammy (in a pretty stacked year for music). Legions of imitators (more on that later). What made this album’s success so unique was that it seemed to have come out of nowhere. How’d this album become the juggernaut it became, and how did Alanis materialize in thin air to become a superstar?

Well, part of the answer lies in the fact that Alanis didn’t exactly come out of nowhere. In the days before media globalization, you could still be a superstar in your native country (even if said country stands just above the US) and an unknown in America. Alanis was already a household name in Canada, having begun her career on Nickelodeon’s kiddie-comedy-variety show “You Can’t Do That On Television” and graduating to dance-pop success as a teenager in the Debbie Gibson/Tiffany vein.

Jagged Little Pill sounds nothing like Alanis’s early records. In fact, I wonder if Debbie and Tiffany listened to Alanis’s American debut and wished they’d gotten the chance to make an album like it (and have it accepted as readily). Released mere days after Alanis’s 21st birthday, Pill is as messy as it is accomplished, as pop as it is “alternative,” as mature as it is callow. It played to the same audience artists like Liz Phair and Courtney Love (as part of Hole) were growing while maintaining enough pop smarts to not sound out of place next to Boyz II Men and Céline Dion on top 40 radio.

Some of that pop sheen came from Alanis’s Robin Sparkles-esque past. Some of it also came from Pill’s co-pilot, producer Glen Ballard. Ballard cut his teeth in the Quincy Jones camp, initially coming to fame as the co-writer of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” and then dominating pop radio in the early ‘90s as the architect behind Wilson Phillips’ initial run of hits. This connection smoothed out some of the more, ahem, jagged qualities in Alanis’s lyrics, which were wordy in a Joni Mitchell kinda way (Joni even gets shouted out in the lyrics of acapella hidden/closing track “Your House”) but with a bite and an aggression that firmly separated Alanis from her Canuck predecessor.

Actually, that’s not entirely fair. The reputation Jagged Little Pill has as an album soaked in piss and vinegar is largely due to the ex-ecoriating lead single “You Oughta Know”. Lyrics about going down on someone in a theater caused a bit of a stir back in the day (hard to imagine anyone raising an eyebrow these days, though). Equally as angry (and rightfully so) is “Right Through You,” in which Alanis speaks on the objectification and misogyny she must have experienced as a teenage girl in the music industry. Clearly, she’d seen and experienced some shit-her writing practically glows with authenticity. Other moments on the album, may not be as immediately attention-grabbing, are just as lyrically and musically strong. The moods range from wry (“You Learn”) to hopeful (“Hand In My Pocket”), while operating within a guitars-and-drum-loops framework that would point towards the sound of “alternative” music for the rest of the decade—well until Kid Rock, Korn and Limp Bizkit ushered in the era of boneheaded and simplistic rap-rock and essentially pushed women out of the format entirely.

Jagged Little Pill’s influence has lingered on, though. Initially, it seemed like record companies were tripping over themselves to sign women artists with odd names–Leah Andreone, Natalie Imbruglia, and Merrill Bainbridge all enjoyed fleeting success with Alanis-esque tunes. Hell, I’d argue that even Janet Jackson’s critically-acclaimed confessional effort Velvet Rope was influenced by Alanis’s breakthrough. These days, it’s very easy for me to hear Alanis’s influence in artists as stylistically disparate as P!nk, Olivia Rodrigo and RAYE. Even Queen of All Media Tay-Tay’s music features hints of a sound that Alanis thrust into the mainstream. And despite the fact that Jagged Little Pill’s music is so imprinted on my psyche that I never feel the need to actively listen to it anymore (I worked in a record store for most of the ‘90s), it doesn’t matter. I still hear echoes of it everywhere.

The sophomore jinx is real, y’all. Artists have their entire lives to create their debut, and often just a year or two to create a second album. The light shines brighter on you if your debut is a success. The eyes of the public are staring deeply into you, wondering if you will capitalize on the momentum of your initial success or fall flat on your face.

This was the situation Alicia Keys found herself in following the enormous success of 2001’s Songs In A Minor. That album was a smash by everyone’s estimation, winning the young singer/songwriter/pianist a host of Grammy Awards, critical acclaim and millions in record sales. Alicia, born and raised in NYC and involved with the arts since she was a toddler, was hailed as a generational talent. Someone who took the songwriting and playing chops of Carole King and Roberta Flack and gave them a hip-hop edge. The stakes were high for The Diary of Alicia Keys, an album that arrived on record store shelves over two years after her debut. In my opinion (and the public’s), those stakes were met-mostly.

A few songs on Diary sound like fuller, more mature versions of the material Alicia and her collaborators created on Songs in A Minor. It feels like Alicia’s more comfortable with her voice. She’s not afraid to full-on belt like on “If I Ain’t Got You” (the album’s most enduring track), but she can also shade a song with subtlety, as she does with “Diary,” on which she’s joined by vocal foil Jermaine Paul and the non-Saadiq members of Tony! Toni! Toné! The album’s other collaborators provide some welcome left turns. Easy Mo Bee repurposes the beat he created for The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Warning” for Alicia’s otherwise faithful cover of Gladys Knight’s “If I Were Your Woman.” The funky “Heartburn,” co-created with Timbaland, goes for a full-on Blaxploitation vibe, while “You Don’t Know My Name” keeps with the retro theme, complete with a spoken word breakdown mid-song in the form of a phone call. Even in the most vulnerable of lyrical situations, Alicia still carries herself with a palpable confidence and swagger.

That confidence and swagger doesn’t translate through to the end of Alicia’s Diary, though. The final third of the album is bogged down by lyricism that’s either lazy (“When You Love Someone”) or embarrassing (“Samsonite Man”). Had Diary been released a decade later, without the need to pad an album to fit the running time of a CD, it could’ve been a tight 10 song all killer/no filler exhibit of Alicia’s considerable skills as a vocalist and instrumentalist. As it exists, it’s still a solid showcase of pop-flavored music, and a clear conquering of the dreaded sophomore jinx.

I’ve been trying to think of a good way to describe Huey Lewis & the News, and the most accurate analogy I can make comes from the News’ home base in The Bay. Think of the TV show “Full House”, and imagine The Rippers fronted by Bob Saget’s Danny Tanner instead of John Stamos’s Uncle Jesse. They fit the classic bar band image, and Huey was an everyguy rocker who didn’t take himself anywhere near as seriously as Bruce Springsteen or John Mellencamp. Am I off-base here?

There was a point in the mid Eighties when Huey Lewis & the News was the biggest American group out. Number One singles, American Music Awards, Grammy nominations galore. Nothing about their story makes sense through a 2026 lens, but back in 1983-84? Sports was right up there next to Thriller, Purple Rain, Born in the U.S.A and all the tentpole albums you know and love.

Huey and his crew achieved that success with a winning formula of no-nonsense pop/rock. The nine songs on Sports are all earworms. They sound great coming out of radio speakers. They sound great coming out of jukeboxes. And Huey’s voice, soulful and throaty, manages to be both unique and familiar. Songs like the propulsive dance jam “Heart & Soul” and the suggestive “I Want A New Drug” practically announce themselves as hits as soon as you put the needle on the groove-even though the band was still building towards “star” status as they were recording this album. Sports-a commercial breakthrough for the act-was their third time at bat. How’s that for audience development?

You can’t even be mad at the moments on Sports that might come across a little hokey. I’ve always found “The Heart of Rock & Roll” to be a little too on the nose, but Huey’s just so damn earnest and likable it’s hard to resist. And that earnestness (also evident on standout slow jam “If This Is It” is tempered by the fact that Huey sounds like a grown man who’s seen some shit. That sensibility-in addition to the pinpoint harmonies of The News-is how he’s also able to pull off more serious tunes like “Walking on a Thin Line,” one of several hits of that era concerned with the PTSD suffered by Vietnam vets.

One topical tune aside, Sports doesn’t concern itself with much beyond being agreeable and appealing. And that is perfectly fine. Sometimes you don’t need anything more than that. Huey Lewis & the News cemented their stardom not by making big artistic statements, but by writing (or choosing) and singing songs that were made for playing loud and feeling good.

The modern day rap fan doesn’t know MC Hammer from Armie Hammer, and that makes me simultaneously happy and sad. The Bay Area-based rapper was the first all caps POP ICON of hip-hop. His sophomore effort, 1990’s Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em spent the entire summer of 1990 at Number One on the album chart, and most of the fall too, on its way to Diamond certification (one of a dozen or so albums to reach this milestone ever). The album’s best-known single “U Can’t Touch This,” would’ve been the first rap record to top the Hot 100 had it actually been released as a cassette or CD single (available in limited quantities as a 12” vinyl single, it still hit Number Eight). It’s clearly a cultural and commercial milestone. It’s also not a very good record.

While it may be hard for some folks to remember a time when integrity and hip-hop were synonymous, let’s time travel back to 1990. Rap was still making inroads into pop culture, and any music that felt like it was playing too close to Middle America or felt too safe was eyed warily by its core audience and most of its artists. Hammer, whose music often relied on obvious samples and who dared to smile in his videos, was looked at with particular derision. Even before Please Hammer catapulted him to worldwide stardom, he’d been the subject of dis records by LL Cool J and 3rd Bass. In 2026, the average hip-hop fan side eyes you if you don’t go Platinum (unless you’re one of those backpacker snobs). How the tides have turned.

Successful or not, the reality is that (and this is damn near objective) Hammer is not a particularly skilled emcee. His records sold largely because of the charisma that became evident as soon as folks saw Hammer dance. There’s also the fact that, in an era when production teams like The Bomb Squad and Prince Paul were using sampling technology in unique ways, Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em (a mostly self-produced affair), relied on lazy beat jacking. “U Can’t Touch This” lifts Rick James’ “Super Freak” (the same way his previous album’s title track, “Let’s Get It Started” borrowed “Give It to Me Baby” from the same Rick James album). “She’s Soft and Wet” is one of two songs that raids the Prince catalog. “Have You Seen Her?” and “Dancin’ Machine”...well, you get the picture. Even if you wanna give Hammer points for his positive messages, it’s hard to get past the fact that “Pray” and “Help the Children” (my two favorite songs on the album) lean heavily on “When Doves Cry” and Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy Mercy Me,” respectively.

This might be the only one of the fifty albums Garrett and I discuss that I would 100% like to never hear again. Even at the height of its popularity, Please Hammer was an album I listened to more out of curiosity than out of an affinity for the music. And trust me, I had no artistic integrity at that time. I owned the Vanilla Ice album and both Marky Mark albums (all three are arguably better, and it pains me to write that). So while Hammer gets props for expanding the scope of hip-hop, that’s about the only nice thing I can say about it.

In 2004, The Beastie Boys released To The Five Boroughs. It was the first album of new music released by the trio since the attacks on September 11th, 2001 that left an indelible mark on the city they (and I) were born in. To The Five Boroughs is a good record; my co-host Garrett says it’s his favorite. For my money, though, the Beasties’ best and most heartfelt ode to New York City was 1989’s masterpiece Paul’s Boutique, an album that ironically was recorded in Los Angeles.

It’s hard not to think of the Beastie Boys without thinking of the Big Apple. After all, where else would three Jewish Gen-Xers fall in love with hip-hop at the start of the Eighties? Mike D, Ad Rock and MCA parlayed their affection for the then-burgeoning art form into one of the most successful debut albums of all time. 1986’s Licensed to Ill was the first rap album to top the Billboard Top 200 Albums chart, and the Beasties quickly became international superstars, rap music’s Great White Hopes, and the poster boys for a fratty, obnoxious image that was a cartoonish embellishment of their actual selves (as legend has it). Paul’s Boutique is less fratty maybe, but still bratty. I mean, the second rapped line on the album finds Ad Rock threatening to beat someone down with an aluminum bat. The Beasties, even at their best and most sincere, were still a bit on the obnoxious side. But the signifiers are, overall, less juvenile in tone and execution. The dudes who almost called their first album Don’t Be A Faggot shout out noted queer nexus The Village by album #2, and also take time to declare that “racism is schism on the serious tip,” distancing themselves from overtly (or covertly) racist and homophobic Middle American brosephs that fell in love with Ill songs like “Girls” and “Paul Revere.”

Lyrically, Paul’s Boutique is more specific and insular than its predecessor. There are actual stories here that have a basis in reality (unlike the aforementioned “Paul Revere”). “Johnny Ryall” is about a homeless guy that the Beasties encounter on the NYC streets (and was a real person, if you believe Beastie Boys Book). “Stop That Train” (one of many mini-songs featured in the album’s closing suite “B-Boy Bouillabaisse” is filled with references to New York’s subway lines and references to activities that are romanticized by pre-gentrification NYC denizens these days (crackheads punching out train windows, smoking and pissing between subway cars). While the Beasties collectively are probably in the lower-third percentage of MCs from a skills perspective, they are in the upper-third percentage of MCs from a wit, charm and storytelling perspective, which helps the reliance on old-school routines and occasionally sloppy rapping go down a bit more smoothly.

And then there’s the production. Before sampling laws were really enforced, production crews like Public Enemy’s Bomb Squad were incredibly innovative, especially when it came to creating collages of sound from music created by other people. The Beasties (and album producers The Dust Brothers) were likely inspired by the Bomb Squad as well as Prince Paul’s kitchen sink-like production of De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising, and took the same madman’s approach to sampling. A big part of the reason Paul’s Boutique grabbed me as a teenager and kept my attention was that it had me jamming the pause button every 45 seconds asking “what record did that come from?” Even in situations where the sampling is more obvious (for example, the loop of Ernie Isley’s legendary guitar solo from “That Lady” in “A Year And A Day”), that solo is chopped and scratched up to create something new (and MCA also sounds like he’s rapping through a cardboard tube, a trick he’d employ several more times before his untimely passing). It’s familiar and unique at the same time. And, unlike the songs on Licensed To Ill, many of Paul’s Boutique’s tunes are danceable, although I don’t think many people were grooving to the ‘70s inspired funk of “Hey Ladies” and “Shadrach” in 1989 when house music and Rhythm Nation were burning up the airwaves.

Actually, most people weren’t grooving to the Beastie Boys at all when Paul’s Boutique was released. The album famously stiffed, barely going Gold and not cracking the Top Ten on the charts. Thankfully, though, it was released in an era when labels gave artists second (and occasionally third) chances. Ironically, an album that was viewed as a flop saved the group (and let’s be real, if the fellas had tried to replicate License To Ill, it would have torpedoed their careers–that album aged like milk). Paul’s Boutique bravely set the course for Phase 2 of the Beastie Boys career (well, actually, Phase 3 when you consider the Beasties began life as a punk/hardcore outfit), a career that would ultimately lead to a 20-year run as hip-hop ambassadors and ultimately members of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. It’s also one of the ten or so greatest hip-hop albums of all time in my opinion, a huge step forward for the band and for the genre.

Is there a precedent for 56-year-old rappers making good albums?

No?

Well, of course, count on LL Cool J to break the mold. It’s something he’s been doing for four decades. He was the first solo rapper to have a Gold album. The first solo rapper to have a Platinum album. The first solo rapper to have multiple Platinum albums. The list goes on. Before Uncle L became best known as a television action hero, he was hip-hop’s original sex symbol, the first king of rap beef, a man capable of alternating pure lyricism with pop appeal, joints for the guys and jams for the ladies…

…and an artist whose albums have historically been frighteningly inconsistent. To put a positive spin on it, LL’s versatility has resulted in some jarring sonic moments. To put the opposite spin on it, LL’s desire to be at the head of the table of whatever trend is commercial in hip-hop has led to some questionable artistic choices. “Accidental Racist,” anyone?

After a 13 album run as Def Jam’s flagship artist, LL made one indie album, 2013’s Authentic. At that point, it appeared that he’d lost the plot–no hip hop fan was checking for his collaborations with Eddie Van Halen, or another (less misguided, thank God) team up with Brad Paisley. After that album was met with public indifference, the former James Todd Smith wisely hung up his mic and focused on acting, using his TV hiatuses to tour and remind audiences that he was still one of rap music’s most electrifying live performers.

Eleven years later, The FORCE arrived on (IRL and virtual) record shelves and while LL may not want us to call it a comeback, that’s exactly what it is. He sounds energized, more engaged with the music than at any point since maybe the early Nineties. It’s a stunning return to form with no real precedent. Some of that sharpness might have been due to the long layoff. Some of it might’ve been energy from LL’s (overdue) Rock Hall induction. Some of it might’ve been a feeling of “iron sharpens iron” following the summer 2024 trek to celebrate hip-hop’s 50th anniversary. Ultimately, who cares where it came from as long as it’s there?

A fair amount of the credit for The FORCE’s success has to go to it’s sole producer, Q-Tip. The Tribe frontperson handles all of the boardwork, and the LL/Tip teamup makes for a solid fit next to all of the recent rapper/producer collabs that have been pretty much the only hip-hop I’ve been able to tolerate lately (see: Common & Pete Rock, Nas & Preemo). Already a legendary producer, Tip’s stepped his game up in recent years. His work on The FORCE is a logical step forward from 2016’s Tribe album We Got It From Here…Thank U 4 Your Service. It’s rooted in classic hip-hop, but also experimental.

And I’m sure Tip helped LL stay true to his essence-there’s no trend-chasing, no lazy bars, and refreshingly few attempts to glom on to cultural relevance by virtue of contemporary collaborators. The FORCE is nothing more than LL Cool J doing what he does best–riding dope beats, expounding on his legacy as one of the best to ever do it (remember–he coined the term “GOAT”), dropping witty braggadocio (with the added import of now being accomplished enough to back all the bragging up) and throwing in a couple of jams for the ladies, who very likely Still Love Cool James. The guests on the album all play their roles well. Nas delivers an A-game performance on “Praise Him,” Saweetie gamely steps up to the LeShaun role on the sex jam “Proclivities” and even Rick Ross and Fat Joe (two emcees I generally have trouble tolerating) go toe-to-toe capably with L on “Saturday Night Special.”

If you’d have told me back in 1990 that LL Cool J would still be making good records in 2024, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you’d have told me in 2014 that LL Cool J would be making good records in 2024, I wouldn’t have believed you. But leave it to the guy who loves nothing more than silencing naysayers. He’s done it for four decades, and I won’t count him out from doing it again.

We’re in 2026. Bruno Mars is, arguably, the biggest male singer on the planet*. His world tour sold out in minutes. He’s already amassed more Grammy Awards than his heroes Elvis, Michael and Prince. It’s hard to believe that once, in the not-too-distant past, Bruno was the semi-anonymous hook dude on pop/rap records like Travie McCoy’s “Billionaire” and B.o.B’s “Nothin’ On You”. A decade and a half after those successes, Bruno is headlining arenas and Travie and B.o.B are on the state fair circuit.

Was the type of mass appeal success Bruno’s achieved evident on his debut, 2010’s Doo-Wops and Hooligans? Yes and no, I guess. The world was a lot different sixteen years ago and mass-appeal success wasn’t something that was thought of as a unicorn. There was still something of a monoculture. Bruno had a little something that appealed to everyone: his look was somewhat racially ambiguous. He sang to the ladies but had dude appeal, and his music cut a wide enough swath that it encompassed reggae roughneck Damian “Jr. Gong” Marley, R&B lothario Ne-Yo (who appeared in the video for “The Lazy Song” and electro-indie superstars Passion Pit (who remixed “Grenade”). This universal appeal is the reason why, these days, none of his collaborations (with the likes of Lady Gaga, Anderson .Paak, Cardi B and K-Pop star Rosé–a group of very different artists) feel out of place or forced.

Doo-Wops clocks in at a compact ten songs and 35 minutes, harkening back to the days before CDs when 2 sides of vinyl only held about 20 minutes of music each. His subsequent albums have all been similarly compact, which means that Bruno’s work has not been subject to the bloat that albums by his contemporaries like Taylor and Beyoncé suffer from. It’s a short, sweet blast of dopamine. Bruno’s lyrics have gotten a little funnier and freakier as the years have gone by (although, to be fair, he did write Ceelo Green’s “Fuck You” before releasing music on his own), and the songs on this debut have an innocence about them. “Just the Way You Are” and the ukulele-centered “Count On Me” have a sweetness that was soon to be absent from most pop music, and even the song about losing your V-Card (“Our First Time”) sounds way less lecherous than it would if it came from Bruno’s same mouth five years later.

And I feel like that innocent essence is why Bruno is still relevant all these years later. That essence is also timeless. Most of this album’s tracks could have come out at any point in the last fifty years and fit right into whatever was happening culturally at that moment. Credit is due in this instance to Bruno, for paying attention to and then synthesizing his influences-the biggest pop culture icons of all time, who all knew how to be simultaneously cutting-edge and middle-of-the-road.

I don’t know that any album in Bruno’s discography is essential (if they still put out Greatest Hits albums, Bruno’s would sell until the end of time like Elton John’s). However, Doo-Wops and Hooligans is a polished, solidly enjoyable debut. The effortless melange of genres covered (all blending into pure pop) certainly pointed the way towards the former Peter Gene Hernandez becoming America’s last truly mass-appeal superstar.

*With apologies to Harry Styles and Justin Bieber.

When TLC stepped onto the scene in 1992, they broke the mold. While they were created in the image of Bell Biv DeVoe’s “hip-hop smoothed out on the R&B tip with a pop feel appeal to it” mission statement, TLC offered a different perspective. First off, they were women, so that immediately provided an antidote to BBD’s occasionally misogynist POV. Second, their sound was unique to the point of almost being avant-garde.

I’ve been thumbing through a book called “You’re History: The 12 Strangest Women in Music”, and there’s a reason why T-Boz, Left Eye and Chilli take their places on this list alongside Kate Bush and Janet Jackson (whose racier mid ‘90s image took a few cues from the table TLC set). No one sounded exactly like them before or since. And while this trio’s success is occasionally viewed as a triumph of production over talent, the reality is that there has yet to be a vocalist able to replicate T-Boz’s sandpapery rasp or Left Eye’s nasal chirp. Combined with Chilli’s more generic pop/R&B stylings and a visual image that prioritized loud colors, oversized everything and the shock value of strategically placed condoms on their bodies, TLC was a revelation. Like if someone went into a lab and combined Salt-N-Pepa, Millie Jackson and Babs Bunny from Tiny Toon Adventures.

1994’s Crazysexycool, their diamond-certified sophomore album, takes their debut’s all-over-the-place energy and streamlines it. The sample-heavy noise of Ooooooohhh... On the TLC Tip is swapped out for slower tempos and cooler textures, very much in line with the changes R&B music made in the two years that had passed between those two albums. It’s a significantly more mature work, although the feminist edge and sense of daring remains.

While many listeners read the album title as a three-word title with one word each being used to describe a specific member of TLC (Left Eye as crazy, Chilli as sexy, T-Boz as cool), Crazysexycool is stylized as one word for a reason. The members of TLC maintained that the term described qualities that live in every woman, and the various roles they inhabit through these songs lets that definition play out. Those roles include seductress (“Red Light Special” and “Let’s Do It Again”), personal peace protector (“Case of the Fake People”), revenge cheater (“Creep”) and world-weary philosopher (“Waterfalls”). Sonically, the album’s team of producers (including Jermaine Dupri, Dallas Austin and Babyface) create a framework that’s contemporary while pushing at the edges of what was commercially impactful at the time. “Waterfalls” sounded like it had been beamed in from a Staple Singers record from twenty years prior, and album closer “Sumthin’ Wicked This Way Comes” had a darkness that was barely a step removed from Alice in Chains and Nirvana.

There had already been a fairly significant of personal and career tumult experienced by the ladies in the group prior to Crazysexycool’s release (I’m not gonna use any more space to talk about the infamous fire than I need to, because it’s been covered so much). Who knew that the next few years would amplify the drama? Over the next decade, there was plenty: from bankruptcy to illness to internal squabbles. There was also a pretty significant drop off in musical quality, as TLC’s subsequent two albums sounded way less fun and way more forced. Many thought that the group was finished when Left Eye passed away in 2002, but T-Boz and Chilli soldier on, largely as a nostalgia act. Crazysexycool is so solid a record that the ladies can still tour on it three decades later. More than that, though, it remains a sonically and culturally relevant album that still has its handprint on current pop music.

When 19-year-old Janet Jackson flew to Minneapolis to record the album that ultimately became Control, she couldn’t have had any idea that the recording sessions she signed on for could reshape pop music. After all, the producers she was traveling to the snowy midwest to record with weren’t a sure bet for success. Jimmy “Jam” Harris and his partner Terry Lewis were beginning to make a name for themselves in R&B circles courtesy of hit singles for The S.O.S. Band, Cheryl Lynn and Alexander O’ Neal, but they weren’t exactly household names.

Contrary to how we think of Janet now, the reality then was that Janet was the more unknown quantity (in terms of commercial viability, not in terms of name recognition) in that equation. Jam & Lewis were slowly building a track record of proven hits, although crossover success was just beginning to surface (their first top 10 pop hit, The Force M.D.’s “Tender Love”, was released just as the Jackson sessions were wrapping up). Janet, despite releasing two albums prior to Control, was better known as an actress than as a singer. Hell, she was better known for being Michael’s sister than as a singer or an actress.

What resulted when those two quantities met was one of pop music’s most perfect producer/performer marriages. Commercially, Control was a juggernaut, an essential album for its time that deserves its place in the ‘80s album canon alongside Purple Rain, Private Dancer and Thriller. It ruled the R&B airwaves for nearly 18 months. Four of its five singles hit the Number One spot on Billboard’s R&B charts-the only song that didn’t became Janet’s first leader on the pop charts. Additionally, Janet became only the third (or fourth) Black woman to top the pop album charts in the ‘80s (depending on whether you consider Sade a solo artist or a band). Her two predecessors were Donna Summer (a holdover from the ‘70s) and Whitney Houston, whose sound was tailored for mass acceptance. Control sounded nothing like pop radio in early 1986, but within a year’s time, so much pop radio sounded like Control.

Jam & Lewis’s production was widely considered to be the key factor in Control’s success early on. While there’s plenty of misogyny at play in that statement, the reality is that nothing in Janet’s career up to that point indicated that she was capable of making an album this accomplished, this attitude-laden, this funky. But let’s keep it real: Miss Jackson brought plenty to the table. Namely, her life experiences. She wasn’t even out of her teens when Control was released, but she’d already been married and divorced. She was struggling to get out of the shadow her famous family had cast. She wanted independence as an artist and as a human. Control found her realizing she could play ball. Jam & Lewis famously adopted a collaborative approach and allowed Janet to shape the album’s concept and its lyrical content. It allowed the authentic Janet to burst forward in full bloom.

Almost every song on Control bristles with energy and attitude. While not a leather-lunged diva like most successful Black women artists of the day, Janet sang with conviction, heart and an innocence that gave hard-bitten songs like “What Have You Done for Me Lately” and “Nasty” a certain lightness despite their lyrical content. Her voice may have been soft, but it was clear that Janet didn’t have time for yours (or anyone’s) bullshit. That softness carries the brighter tunes, as well. “When I Think of You” carries a lighter touch, but has the same funky effervescence as the more lyrically aggressive tunes. The album ends with a 1-2 punch of ballads showing off different sides of Janet. “Let’s Wait Awhile” is an innocent, tender tune that conveys a message many of her similarly-aged (and younger) fans identified with. On the flip side, “Funny How Time Flies (When You’re Having Fun) introduced a seductive, sensual Janet. Despite the musical similarities to her big brother’s “The Lady In My Life,” no one was gonna take Mike seriously singing something this erotic. With a few strategically placed coos and French asides, Control’s final song birthed Janet the sex symbol. Not something we saw coming from Penny on Good Times.

Influence can often be overstated, and our culture is often in a rush to label anything as “iconic” and anyone as a “legend.” There’s no overstating when it comes to Control. So many debts of gratitude are owed to Janet, Jimmy and Terry for this album. New Edition’s Heart Break would literally not have been made if not for Control. The glut of dance divas who ruled the ‘80s and ‘90s with variations on the Minneapolis sound owe their breakthroughs to Janet. Hell, Paula Abdul’s ascendance came in large part because she choreographed (and appears in) the first two Control videos. Karyn White. Jody Watley. Pebbles–they all had their paths to success greased by Janet’s breakthrough. Let’s also not forget that Control was the first huge pop album to meld R&B with a more streetwise, hip-hop based sound. Many call it the first new jack swing album, and I’m inclined to agree.

Of course, it also set Janet forward on a course that has seen her achieve legendary status as a songwriter and entertainer. Although she’s released several classic albums in the forty years since Control, there’s still an electric charge in the compact, feisty nine songs that comprise her breakthrough album. I hope that Janet looks back on that initial trip to Minneapolis and smiles. She’s certainly given her fans many reasons to in the years since Control announced her arrival.

Michael Jackson is widely regarded as one of, if not the greatest pop stars of all-time. The Motown-era Jackson Five are acclaimed as the granddaddy of the modern boy band. However, the average music fan assumes that the Jackson brothers left Motown and then Michael became the supernova who ruled the ‘80s and ‘90s without considering the body of work adult MJ made with his brothers as The Jacksons. Triumph, in particular, is an integral part of Michael’s history (or HIStory), especially considering it was the album that was released between Off the Wall and Thriller.

Let’s backtrack a bit. The Jacksons’ previous album, 1978’s Destiny, pulled them out of a commercial slump and set the stage for Off the Wall. It was the first album to feature significant writing and production by the brothers, and hits like “Blame it on the Boogie” and “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” set radio waves and dance floors on fire. The former child stars had become critically acclaimed, commercially viable adults, and after a lengthy tour, they returned to the studio to build on their renewed success.

The release of Triumph was delayed initially when Off the Wall outperformed expectations, then was delayed again when a car accident almost claimed the life of Randy, the youngest Jackson brother. Originally told that his legs needed to be amputated following the accident, Randy learned to walk again within months, and was playing instruments and dancing onstage 18 months after the accident took place. That sense of accomplishment and perseverance informs the album title in addition to the anthemic opening track, “Can You Feel It.” It’s no coincidence that the first voice you hear on Triumph belongs to Randy.

While Michael was always the primary lead vocalist of the family group, Triumph actually turns out to be more of a diplomatic vocal effort than the brothers’ previous albums on Epic. Marlon shares the mic with Mike (ha!) on the breezy, doo-wop flavored “Give It Up,’ while eldest brother Jackie takes the reigns for “Wondering Who,” a danceable bop. Despite the slightly more egalitarian approach, though, Michael is still very much a presence. And riding high off of four top 10 solo singles and a Grammy win, Michael’s presence loomed large.

My favorite Triumph track, “Heartbreak Hotel,’ is essentially a Michael solo record. He wrote it alone, and musically and lyrically, it points the way towards a sound that he perfected with songs like “Billie Jean.” It marked the introduction of themes that would recur throughout Michael’s solo career (paranoia, revenge, a distrust of the opposite sex) and proved that Michael had learned much studying at the feet of Quincy Jones. Other songs on the album, including “Lovely One” and “Everybody,” are efforts to emulate the sound of Off the Wall to solid effect.

Triumph continued the brothers’ critical and commercial success. It sent the brothers to the Number One slot on Billboard’s R&B charts for the first time since the early Seventies, earning the group their only Grammy nomination as The Jacksons, and spawning a tour that ran through the summer of 1981. Not too long after the tour ended, Michael went into the studio with Quincy to begin recording the album that would eventually become Thriller. That album changed the course of Michael’s career, changed the dynamic of The Jacksons (the group and the family), and changed the course of popular music. And while Triumph will always live in that shadow, it really deserves to be heard and appreciated in its own right.

It’s hard to listen to, much less review, Tupac Shakur’s All Eyez On Me without taking in all that happened in the months leading up to the album’s release, and all that happened in the months after the album’s release.

That feels a little silly to write—of course you want to take in context when consuming a piece of art–but it also is a way to highlight a stretch in which the musician and actor known as 2Pac witnessed a commercial breakthrough (thanks to the top 20 pop hits “I Get Around” and “Keep Ya Head Up”), got involved in a shootout with Atlanta-area cops (and beat the charge), was accused of sexual assault (did not beat that charge), was robbed, beaten and shot in the lobby of an NYC recording studio, became the first artist to have a Number One album while incarcerated, delivered an incendiary interview to Vibe Magazine in which he insinuated that his friend The Notorious B.I.G. and some of his associates were aware of the studio assault/shooting before it happened (pouring gallons of gasoline on already-rising tensions between hip-hop factions on the coasts), got bailed out of jail by Death Row Records’ Suge Knight (who was more than happy to assist Pac in said pouring of gasoline), recorded over 150 songs, filmed two movies, and was ultimately shot to death on the Las Vegas strip following a Mike Tyson fight. A timeline like this is absolutely dizzying–it’s hard to believe all of these events occurred between summer 1993 and early fall 1996, with All Eyez On Me’s release coming only eight months before Tupac met his untimely (but self-prophesied) demise.

Thirty years following 2Pac’s death, you may know him as a folk hero, a shit-starter, a cultural icon whose image is preserved in amber. He’s certainly one of the most influential pop culture figures of the latter 20th century, but how much of that is actually due to the music? Opinions may vary, but to my ears, Pac’s music was pretty hit or miss. He was certainly not an emcee of incredible skill. Much like his stylistic predecessor Chuck D, 2Pac’s artistic talent lay more with emotion than it did technical proficiency. That emotion, used to its best effect on 1995’s paranoid and often somber Me Against the World, is more scattered over the course of the two-discs and 90+ minute running time of its follow up, All Eyez On Me, the last album Pac released during his lifetime (unless you believe that he’s still alive, in which case…)

When Eyez was released in February 1996, I was 19 years old. I was newly unemployed, living off of meager savings and unable to participate in my favorite pastime, which was buying records. After a little under two months of no income, I was able to secure a job and the first music purchase I made once I knew I was getting regular paychecks again was All Eyez On Me (The Fugees album was gonna have to wait). I took those tapes home and studied them like I was cramming for an exam. There were some moments of bluster that I thoroughly enjoyed just because they were brash and energetic (“Heartz Of Men” and the “California Love” remix). There were some moments of girl-chasing bravado that I enjoyed because they were playful and not altogether sleazy (“How Do U Want It”, “What’s Ya Phone #”--although maybe I liked the latter song more for the Time sample). There were a couple of moments of introspection that I found endearing (“Life Goes On” and “I Ain’t Mad at ‘Cha”). There were guest appearances that I was checking for; Dre, Meth and Red, Snoop and three of the four members of Jodeci, to name a few).

Also, there were also at least a dozen songs of filler. I’m not totally sure I realized it back in the day, but I sure as hell realize it now: All Eyez On Me is a solid single album that gets pulled down a couple points because of its length. Maybe that doesn’t make much of a difference now that the way we listen to music has changed, but that certainly made a huge difference when we were rewinding and fast-forwarding fragile cassettes (and we had the attention spans to consume entire albums). After a while, you realize that Pac is just recycling themes. The producers (a varied bunch that includes Dr. Dre, DeVante Swing, Quincy Jones’s son QDIII and more) are recycling G-funk musical tropes. Hell, Pac damn near is recycling song titles by the end of the album. Thirteen songs is enough and when you double that, and the law of diminishing returns quickly sets in.

It’s now 2026. I’m creeping up on 50 years old, almost twice the age Pac was when he was murdered. It’s hard for me to listen to All Eyez On Me these days. The sex songs that I thought were kinda funny thirty years ago now come across as moderately to painfully misogynist. The thug/gangsta posturing-with the knowledge that Pac was more or less perpetrating a fraud and employing method acting to the hilt-feels formulaic and forced and antithetical to hip-hop’s “keep it real” ethos. I listen to this album now and I kinda feel like I fell for a con job.

And, look, I’m not saying Pac is the only rapper whose music and image I now have a bit more of an aversion to. As I’ve gotten older, there are a lot of artists and albums that I’ve had to reckon with from a moral standpoint and say “nah, not for me.” I’m also not here to shit on anyone’s hero. I’m just one guy with an opinion just like you and you and everyone else typing words out on a screen. And Pac’s life story clearly lines out the societal and familial circumstances that his music career laid out.

More than anything, re-listening to All Eyez On Me retroactively makes me really sad that Tupac didn’t get the chance to grow and possibly make some of the same realizations that I did.