The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time

Some punks wanted to smash the state. The Buzzcocks just wanted to find someone to love, and if you didn’t return their intense affection, watch out (check the jilted tantrum “Oh Shit!”). Singles collects eight British 45s into a perfect punk album. This Manchester group took the sound of the Ramones and made it jittery and even faster. Songs such as “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” define a world of permanently frustrated punk desire.

She had been a model and a nightclub singer when she cut this smooth R&B debut. Her vocal gifts and technique are astounding — even slick tracks such as “Greatest Love of All” stick. Best song: “How Will I Know,” perky synth-funk evoking Whitney Houston’s godmother, Aretha Franklin. Though her career and life ended tragically, nothing can diminish the memory of her Eighties glory, which is still a template for young singers looking for a path to greatness.

The Nineties’ most irrepressible punk brats grew up with a bang. They also proved they could take on the kind of gargantuan old-school concept album that nobody else seemed to have the guts to try. Green Day raged against political complacency of mid-decade America with a Who-size sense of grandeur, zeroing in on the rock audience’s political outcasts and misfits as Billie Joe Armstrong snarled, “Welcome to a new kind of tension/All across the alien nation.”

After releasing three multiplatinum records in a four-year flurry in the 1980s, Sade took another four years before putting out Love Deluxe in 1992. The group partially turned away from the soft, impeccable grooves that had made their previous LPs so successful, lacing the album opener, “No Ordinary Love,” with menacing guitars. But they remained masters at transcendent serenity: “I Couldn’t Love You More” verges on deep house as it overflows with contentment, while “Cherish the Day” wins with a simple entreaty, “Show me how deep love can be.”

“Don’t call it a comeback,” LL Cool J demanded on the album’s fists-of-fury title track, except that’s exactly what it was, one of the all-time great comebacks. A brash superstar at 17, LL made a serious misstep on 1989’s corny Walking Like a Panther, but he was back in full force here, cold chillin’ over Marley Marl’s deep-funk beats as he rapped about round-the-way girls, hanging out on the streets of Queens, and the boomin’ system in his ride.

Cocteau Twins were Scot goths who helped invent the dream-pop aesthetic that ruled U.K. indie during the Eighties. Heaven or Las Vegas is their arrestingly beautiful pop peak, despite being released as the band itself was in turmoil, largely brought on by guitarist Robin Guthrie’s drug addiction. Somehow, they created something wholly transporting; Elizabeth Fraser’s celestial soprano works like a vocal Rorschach test, gorgeously floating over Guthrie and Simon Raymonde’s magic-hour instrumentation.

Part of Kanye West died in the fall of 2007, when his beloved mother, Donda, passed away; soon afterward, his 18-month-long engagement to designer Alexis Phifer fell apart. So when he returned in 2008 with 808s & Heartbreak, it was akin to watching an emotional purge and resurrection. Drenching his voice in Auto-Tune and turning his synths to their coldest settings, he sang of unbearable winters, shattered love, and endless nightmares. Part of West’s healing was charting a path where the distinction between rapping and singing was beside the point. Within a few years, Drake and others picked up the torch he’d lit here and ran with it all the way to the top of the charts.

The Zombies broke up two weeks after they completed Odessey and Oracle, in December 1967, and the album wasn’t released in the U.S. until 1969. But its baroque psychedelic-pop arrangements continue to exert a powerful influence, particularly on whimsy-loving indie rockers. Recorded in London at both Abbey Road and a Stones haunt, Olympic Studios, Odessey combined the adventure of Sgt. Pepper with the concision of British Invasion pop. And “Time of the Season” went on to become a Number Three hit.

The Velvet Underground made their most accessible album in 1970, during a summer alternately comprising triumph and stress. Drummer Maureen Tucker was on maternity leave; singer-guitarist-songwriter Lou Reed quit in August before the record was even finished. But Reed left behind a pair of hits (“Sweet Jane,” “Rock ’n’ Roll”), two of his finest ballads (“New Age,” “Oh! Sweet Nuthin’”), and a record that highlights the R&B/doo-wop roots and Sun Records crackle buried deep inside the Velvets’ noir-guitar maelstrom.

Perhaps the first post-hip-hop masterpiece: Blue Lines combined rap, dub, and soul that gave birth to trip-hop; if you ever found yourself in a “chillout room” in 1995, this album was probably on, and it can still suck you into its gravitational pull. In the U.K., where acid house and jungle were the dominant sounds, its creepingly slow ambiance knocked the music world on its back. “What’s important to us is the pace,” said the band’s 3D, “the weight of the bass and the mood.”

Sam Cooke was elegance and soul personified, but he works this Florida club until it’s hotter than hell, all while sounding like he never breaks a sweat. He croons and strokes “For Sentimental Reasons” like a superlover, and when the crowd sings along with him, it’s magic. RCA Records originally shelved the album out of fear that Cooke’s raw performance might alienate crossover (read: white) audiences. When it was finally released more than 20 years after he recorded, Live at the Harlem Square Club gave many fans a whole new perspective of his greatness.

BDP copped a gangsta stance, sporting guns on the album cover, but they opened their debut with “Poetry,” an ode to the edutaining power of their music — “It takes concentration for fresh communication,” KRS-One informs. DJ Scott LaRock laced funky samples into taut, hard-hitting tracks like the classic interborough beef fests “The Bridge Is Over” and “South Bronx,” the latter doubling as a glorious origin story of hip-hop’s early days. LaRock was killed shortly after the album’s release trying to break up a fight.

In 1975, someone asked legendary rock critic Lester Bangs where music was going. “It’s being taken over by the Germans and the machines,” he replied. Not a bad prediction. This German group’s sound sought to eliminate the distinction between men and machines. Kraftwerk’s robot-synthesizer grooves influenced electrodisco hitmakers, experimental geniuses such as Brian Eno, and rappers including Afrika Bambaataa, who lifted the title track for “Planet Rock.” The whole world of EDM may not have happened without them.

Newly signed to Columbia, Nelson was feeling ambitious. “It was the first time I had ‘artistic control,’” he recalled. “So I thought I would just start writing.” Nelson had penned the song “Red Headed Stranger” years before, on a drive back to Austin after a Colorado ski trip. He kept the arrangements extremely spare, in sharp contrast to the gussied-up music coming out of Nashville at the time. The songs locked together to tell a riveting and heartfelt tale of murder and infidelity, and the concept album became one of Nelson’s biggest hits.

The robot duo from France perfected house music as pop on their 1997 album Homework. For the follow-up, they took electronic dance music to a whole new place, with the vocoder euphoria of “One More Time” and the deep-groove delight “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger,” where the title is chanted like a mantra at a dystopian corporate retreat. But even the winky moments have heart, like “Digital Love,” where Eighties guitar cheese takes off toward Tomorrowland.

After a decade of breaking metal’s speed limits, Metallica pared down their sound to the bare bones for their self-titled “Black Album.” “Enter Sandman” became a blockbuster because listeners finally had the space to sing along with James Hetfield’s bleak visions. Metallica achieved maximum heaviness on “Sad but True” by letting their guitars ring out for once; they embraced cinematic melodrama on “The Unforgiven” and “Wherever I May Roam,” and showed unusual depth for a band named Metallica with the sincere, no-bullshit ballad “Nothing Else Matters.”

Paranoid may have bigger hits, but Master of Reality, released a mere six months later, is heavier. It was the band’s first attempt to use the recording studio, and it’s full of ambitious ideas (check out Bill Ward’s funky timbale work on “Children of the Grave”). The highlight is “Sweet Leaf,” a droning love song to marijuana. The vibe is perfectly summed up by the final track, “Into the Void.” But it isn’t all relentless doom: “After Forever,” written by bassist Geezer Butler, pretty much invents the idea of Christian metal.

Here Tori Amos established herself as the poet laureate for a generation of battle-worn young women no longer satisfied with silence. From behind a piano that she wields like a machete aside her sharp, poignant reflections, Little Earthquakes is an incisive reflection on sexual assault, abuse, PTSD, and coming of age under the heavy veil of it all. At times thorny and confrontational, Amos’ voice still remains a warm invitation to people, like her, learning how to diffuse their trauma and move forward as best they can.

With characteristic humility, John Coltrane said the title of this album referred to the loping instrumental gait of his bassist Paul Chambers. On his Atlantic debut, Coltrane played with a heated melodic enthusiasm — flying clusters of notes — that declared new possibilities for jazz improvisation and predicted the ferocious, harmonically open lyricism that would come with his mid-Sixties records on Impulse. “Mr. P.C.,” “Cousin Mary,” and “Spiral” became Coltrane’s first classics.

With hair like Jagger’s and a voice like Dylan’s in tune, Tom Petty and his bar band defrilled classic rock: In 1979, he filed for bankruptcy; then Torpedoes took off, mostly because “Here Comes My Girl” seemed to keep the promises those like Jagger et al., forgot they’d made. Perfectly produced by future music-industry megamogul Jimmy Iovine, Torpedoes gave bright jangling Sixties rock a sheen that made pretty much everything else on AOR radio seem lumpy and stiff, while Petty’s obvious authenticity kept the music from ever seeming calculated or overly polished.

After dominating the Top 40 for years, Rihanna wanted to make an ambitious album-statement, brilliantly sustaining the tipsy two-in-the-morning vibe of this moody midcareer reinvention. “I just gravitated toward the songs that were … the things I want to listen to,” she said. “The things that I want to smoke to.” On Anti, she recast pop as her own hazy playground, referencing Dido and hair metal, covering Tame Impala, and merging dancehall and torch ballads.

Her career was cut short when she died in a plane crash at 30, but Patsy Cline made her mark as one of country’s great singers. “Even though her style is considered country, her delivery is more like a classic pop singer,” Lucinda Williams has noted. Her hits “Walkin’ After Midnight” and “I Fall to Pieces” also made it to the pop charts, establishing the template for country crossover that pointed the way forward for generations; her version of “Crazy” was a godsend to the song’s struggling writer, a young Willie Nelson.

The cover of De La Soul’s second album — an overturned flowerpot of dead daisies — was as subtle as a sledgehammer. After the sunny 3 Feet High and Rising, the confrontationally pessismsitic De La Soul Is Dead was a shock; songs dealt with sexual assault (“Millie Pulled a Pistol on Santa”) and drug abuse (“My Brother’s a Basehead,” based on member Posdnuos’ brother’s crack addiction). But the fun wasn’t totally over (see “A Roller Skating Jam Named ‘Saturdays’”) and producer Prince Paul gave the dense LP a sample-delic flow.

“I came from a family where my people didn’t like rhythm and blues,” Little Richard told Rolling Stone in 1970. “Bing Crosby, ‘Pennies From Heaven,’ Ella Fitzgerald was all I heard. And I knew there was something that could be louder than that, but didn’t know where to find it. And I found it was me.” Richard’s raucous debut collected singles such as “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” in which his rollicking boogie-woogie piano and falsetto scream ignited the unfettered possibilities of rock & roll.

Eric Clapton was tired of stardom, so he formed a new band where he could be just another one of the lads. But there was no mistaking the blues guitar on “Layla,” as Clapton sang about falling in love with the wife of his best friend, George Harrison. The tortured love songs on Layla get a kick from guest Duane Allman, whose interplay with Clapton in “Key to the Highway” and “Have You Ever Loved a Woman” is both harmonious and fiercely competitive: electric, brotherly love.

When Reprise Records refused to release Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco posted it for free on the internet. Two-hundred-thousand downloads later, Nonesuch Records (owned by the same company as Reprise) released the album, and it became critical and commercial gold. Its pretty acoustic-guitar melodies battled noise, skidded into dissonance, or got chopped off abruptly. Its lyrics pitted hope against doubt, with all bets off. “You have to learn how to die,” crooned Jeff Tweedy, “if you wanna … be alive.”

Before their criticism of George W. Bush made them Nashville exiles and before they established their legacy as country’s most righteous troublemakers, the Chicks were effortlessly ruffling feathers on their infectious, poppy fifth album, Fly. “Cowboy Take Me Away,” “Ready to Run,” and “Goodbye Earl” became defining country hits of the late Nineties, but the rest of the record was hardly filler, from the intense balladry of “Cold Day in July” to the thrash-metal-with-fiddles freakout of “Sin Wagon.”

After the primal-scream therapy of Plastic Ono Band [see No. 85], Lennon softened up on his second solo album. There is still the stinging “Gimme Some Truth” and his evisceration of Paul McCartney, “How Do You Sleep?” — both featuring George Harrison on guitar. But there is also the aching soul of “Jealous Guy” and the irresistible “Oh Yoko!” Imagine is self-consciously luminescent, pointedly embraceable. Lennon said of the title track: “Now I understand what you have to do. Put your political message across with a little honey.”

For her first post-motherhood disc, Madonna and producer William Orbit showed the world that electronica didn’t have to be cold. Songs like the title track and “Nothing Really Matters” are beat-driven but restrained — filled with warmth and wonder. Ray also features Madonna’s best singing ever. “A ray of light to me is hope,” she said, describing her inspiration in making the album. “We are zooming forward, but that doesn’t mean you can lose touch with the spiritual side of things.”

“I believe in this band’s ability to bridge the gap between entertainment and activism,” declared Zack de la Rocha, whose radical politics found sympathetic muscle in Tom Morello’s howling one-guitar army, making a furor unheard since the MC5 and Clash. “Killing in the Name” took on historical racism within U.S. policing, a message that remains sadly prescient, and songs like “Bombtrack” and “Wake Up” were funky fusillades that proved rap rock could change minds as well as roil arena mosh pits.

Neil Young was just getting his solo career underway when he joined his old Buffalo Springfield bandmate Stephen Stills, ex-Byrd David Crosby, and former Hollie Graham Nash in the first of the West Coast supergroups. Young’s vision and guitar transformed the earlier folk-rock CSN into a rock & roll powerhouse. The CSNY combination was too volatile to last, but on their best album, they offered pop idealism (Nash’s “Teach Your Children”), militant blues (Crosby’s “Almost Cut My Hair”), and vocal-choir gallop (Stills’ “Carry On”).

The finest Wu-Tang solo joint stands out due to Raekwon’s understated, eternally unflustered cool and densely woven verses. Abetted by hyperactive sideman Ghostface and hypnotically stark beats courtesy of the RZA, Raekwon crafts breathtaking drug-rap narratives. On “Knowledge God,” an Italian drug dealer with a “hairy chest” and “many minks” meets his colorful demise in just six words: “Sixteen shots in his fish tank.” It’s the rare hip-hop album that rivals the mob movies it celebrates for gripping detail.

Things were not well with TLC during the making of CrazySexyCool: Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes was lighting fires, and the group was in a financial slide that would end in bankruptcy proceedings. But they emerged with the most effervescent and soulful R&B pop anyone had heard since the Supremes. “Creep” is hard-edged but cute, the summery “Diggin’ on You” is almost pastoral in its intimate flow, and the transcendent “Waterfalls” may be the greatest song ever about how it’s not a great idea to go after your dreams.

Oasis didn’t get the memo about how Nineties rockers had to be all angst-y and fame-hating, but the Gallagher brothers’ cockiness would have been hollow without the supersonic songs on their debut. Liam’s insolent snarl and his brother Noel’s dialed-to-11 guitar on working-class anthems like the elevating “Live Forever” and the blaring “Rock ‘n’ Roll Star” built off the Beatles and T. Rex to reach for their own glorious future.

Elliott Smith had ambitions to make records with a Beatlesque sound — but zero interest in Beatlesque fame — when he recorded Either/Or. While he achieved his dreams on several subsequent major-label releases, the Portland, Oregon, indie-folk singer-songwriter’s third album resonates because of his low-fi whisper and gritty, sepia-toned lyrics. His songs struck a nerve well beyond the Northwest music scene — Madonna, of all people, covered the morosely pretty drunk’s lullaby “Between the Bars.”

The Dead never sounded better in the studio than in the down-home stoner country of American Beauty. Released just five months after the folkie classic Workingmans Dead, American Beauty has some of their most beloved songs in “Ripple,” “Brokedown Palace,” and “Truckin’.” Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter were on a hot streak, writing the ultimate outlaw credo in “Friend of the Devil.” “Box of Rain” has the Dead’s most emotional harmony vocals, especially in the haunting final lines: “Such a long, long time to be gone/And a short time to be there.”

Petty struggled for two years to make the Rick Rubin-produced follow-up to 1989’s hit Full Moon Fever. He left tons of songs in the can, and the final product stretched to 70 minutes but didn’t have any filler. Petty hit a new songwriting peak, going from intimate, soul-bearing songs like the title track and “Crawling Back to You” to rockers like “You Wreck Me” and “House in the Woods.” “I think it’s maybe my favorite LP that I’ve ever done,” Petty said.