murfocakes

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murfocakes reviewed Déjà Vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young 1mo

9.0

Déjà Vu is one of those albums that can feel simultaneously magnificent and slightly all over the place. That's probably inevitable when you've got four major songwriting personalities pulling in different directions. The result isn't inconsistency in quality. There isn't a bad song here. The inconsistency is tonal. One minute you're in the dreamlike, mystical world of Crosby's title track, the next you're listening to the grand sweep of Neil Young's "Country Girl", then suddenly Graham Nash is inviting you into a perfectly pleasant domestic idyll on "Our House". And yes, fucking Our House. Every time it starts you almost expect there to be some hidden sting. Maybe it's secretly a savage Vietnam allegory. Maybe it's disguising itself as a song about domestic bliss while plotting something darker underneath. Nope. It's really just Graham Nash being happy with Joni Mitchell. Perfectly lovely. Perfectly sincere. Completely out of place on an album that elsewhere feels like a hazy, fragmented dream. Stick it on a Nash solo album and nobody bats an eyelid. What Crosby, Stills & Nash bring to Neil Young is heard most clearly on "Helpless". The song itself is wonderful, but those backing vocals elevate it into something transcendent. Throughout the record the harmonies are absurdly good. Even when the album feels like a collection of individual visions rather than a unified statement, the singing binds everything together. The opening one-two punch of "Carry On" and "Teach Your Children" is tremendous. Their version of "Woodstock" crackles with energy and remains arguably the definitive reading of the song. "4 + 20" is stark and beautiful. "Country Girl" is majestic, belonging to a particular kind of sprawling Neil Young composition that recalls "Broken Arrow". He doesn't write songs like that very often, which makes it all the more special when he does. The title track remains my favourite thing here. Some hear it as unfinished or sketch-like, almost a collection of fragments stitched together. I've always loved precisely that quality. It drifts in and out like a dream. Crosby absolutely had the goods, and the brilliance of his solo debut the following year only confirms that. If there's a criticism, it's that the shifts between songs can occasionally be disorientating. "Cut My Hair" borders on melodrama. "Our House" is cosy domesticity. "Country Girl" is widescreen Americana. Individually they're all excellent. Together they can feel a little strange. But this is nit-picking. The variety is also part of the album's charm. Déjà Vu may lack the singular focus of the very greatest albums, but it's overflowing with great songs, gorgeous harmonies and remarkable performances. A classic album that occasionally feels like four brilliant artists sharing the same room rather than a single band pursuing one vision.

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murfocakes reviewed Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath 1mo

9.2

There’s something thrilling about going back to Black Sabbath and trying to hear it as someone might have heard it in 1970. Not as the birth of heavy metal, not as the first chapter in a legendary career, but as a completely unknown record arriving out of nowhere. Even now, the title track retains its power. When Huey played the entire thing a month ago, rain, thunder, crackling fire and all, it was a reminder of just how radical those opening minutes remain. What must that have sounded like to a first-time listener in February 1970? Nothing on rock radio sounded remotely like it. And when the song ramps up into its exhilarating final section, it still feels genuinely menacing and exciting over fifty years later. What stands out throughout the album is how fully formed Black Sabbath were from the beginning. They weren't trying to be Led Zeppelin, the Yardbirds, or any of the other blues-rock heavyweights of the era. There are obvious influences, particularly Hendrix in Tony Iommi's playing, but the band already sounded utterly singular. Like the Beatles, Queen, or R.E.M. at their peaks, every member contributes something essential that couldn't simply be replaced. Ozzy Osbourne is extraordinary from the first note. His voice doesn't just sit on top of the music; it becomes part of the texture itself. At times it functions almost like another instrument, a sheet of sound floating above the riffs, reminiscent of the way Damo Suzuki would later operate within Can. His performance on "Black Sabbath" alone announces the arrival of one of rock's most distinctive vocalists. Iommi naturally receives much of the attention, and rightly so. Brian May's admiration makes perfect sense. The riffs are immortal, but there's also a fluidity and melodic imagination here that can sometimes be overlooked. "N.I.B." is the perfect example, with its almost flamenco-like melodic passages weaving through the heaviness. Yet the album's power also comes from Geezer Butler and Bill Ward. Their grooves are immense throughout, grounding the music while simultaneously pushing it forward. The one track that slightly drags the score down is "Warning". As extended blues-rock workouts from 1970 go, it's actually pretty good, but it feels more rooted in the past than the revolutionary material surrounding it. By comparison, "Black Sabbath", "N.I.B.", and "The Wizard" point directly toward the future. I've always thought of "Sleeping Village" as almost functioning as an introduction to "Warning", making the album's closing stretch feel like a single extended suite. It's also worth mentioning "Wicked World", which appears on streaming services despite being a B-side rather than part of the original UK album. A decent track, but not really essential to the album's core identity. Listening today, you can already hear seeds that would bloom elsewhere, not least on Queen's debut album. The influence of Sabbath would become almost impossible to escape, but what impresses most is how complete the vision already was. This isn't a promising first attempt. It's a band arriving with a sound, a personality, and an identity fully intact. One of the greatest debut albums ever made? Absolutely. Not quite perfect, though. For me, Paranoid takes everything great here and sharpens it into a flawless masterpiece.

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murfocakes reviewed Sweet Baby James (Remastered) by James Taylor 1mo

7.0

A lovely album built around two classics, but one that occasionally mistakes comfort for inspiration. When James Taylor is great, he's genuinely great. The challenge is that too much of Sweet Baby James settles for merely pleasant. Sweet Baby James is one of those albums that arrives with intimidating credentials. The title track regularly appears in discussions of the greatest songs ever written and, to be fair, it deserves the acclaim. "Sweet Baby James" is a beautiful piece of songwriting: warm, wistful and effortlessly melodic. It sounds timeless without trying to sound important. The problem, at least for me, is that the rest of the album never quite reaches those heights. This is an undeniably pleasant record. Everything is tasteful, beautifully played and impeccably arranged. James Taylor's voice is smooth, reassuring and instantly recognisable. Yet much of the album drifts by without leaving a lasting impression. Unlike contemporaries such as Crosby, Stills and Young, Taylor rarely introduces any real tension into the music. There's no jagged edge, no sense that things might come apart. The result is admirable rather than thrilling. "Fire and Rain" is the obvious exception. It's the album's clear standout and remains one of the finest singer-songwriter recordings of the era. Taylor's understated performance gives the song a depth and emotional weight that much of the rest of the record lacks. Alongside the title track, it's the moment where his gift feels undeniable. Elsewhere, "Country Road" comes closest to matching that standard, while "Lo and Behold" and the closing "Oh, Susannah" provide a satisfying finish. Those songs have a bit more personality and movement, allowing the album to rise above its generally gentle temperament. The weaker moments tend to be the blues-based material. Like so many artists of the period, Taylor seems obliged to include a couple of blues workouts. They're performed with total competence, but competence is often the problem. Unless the blues approach is transformed into something genuinely distinctive, it can feel like filler. Here, the blues numbers never quite justify their place alongside the stronger songwriting. They're perfectly fine while they're playing and largely forgotten once they're over. Listening today, it's difficult not to compare Taylor with the members of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. He shares Nash's melodic instincts and gentle temperament, but lacks the spike that Crosby and Stills bring to their best work, never mind Neil Young. In fact, Young's presence within CSNY always had the effect of making the others seem slightly more conventional by comparison. Taylor might actually have fitted comfortably into that world. You can easily imagine him blending into CSN's harmonies, perhaps more naturally than Young ever did. The thought is amusing because Young's awkward fit within the group is partly what made them such a fascinating proposition in the first place. Taylor's strengths lie elsewhere. He's a craftsman rather than a provocateur. A singer rather than a force of nature. Handsome, gifted and effortlessly likeable, he became one of the defining voices of the singer-songwriter movement for good reason. But his albums sometimes feel less substantial than his reputation suggests. In many ways, Sweet Baby James reinforces a suspicion I've always had about James Taylor: he may be an artist best served by a greatest hits compilation. His finest songs are magnificent, and when collected together they form an impressive body of work. As a complete album, however, Sweet Baby James feels slightly thinner than its legendary status implies. That's not to say it's a bad record. Far from it. It's good songs, well sung and beautifully played. It simply never develops beyond the promise of that extraordinary opening track.

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murfocakes reviewed Morrison Hotel by The Doors 1mo

8.0

Not their masterpiece, but proof that beneath the legend there was a genuinely excellent band. After the psychedelic sprawl of The Soft Parade, Morrison Hotel finds The Doors returning to a leaner, earthier sound. It's more exciting and more varied than its reputation sometimes suggests, even if it remains tied to the blues-rock conventions that were practically compulsory at the turn of the decade. The album's greatest strength is its energy. "Roadhouse Blues" may be overfamiliar, but it's delivered with such conviction that it's difficult to resist. Elsewhere, "Peace Frog" remains a startling highlight, driven by a groove that feels oddly ahead of its time. There's something in its swagger and rhythmic pulse that anticipates the danceable rock of late 1980s Manchester more than it reflects 1970 Los Angeles. Yet Morrison Hotel is also where one of The Doors' persistent weaknesses becomes apparent. The blues-rock numbers are performed with absolute professionalism, but too often they feel like filler rather than inspiration. Unless the band finds something genuinely distinctive, as they do on "Roadhouse Blues", they can drift into sturdy but unremarkable bar-band territory. Tracks like "Land Ho!", "You Make Me Real" and the closing "Maggie M'Gill" never quite escape that "album track" status. They're competent, occasionally enjoyable, but they weigh down a record that otherwise has real momentum. Jim Morrison remains a fascinating figure at the centre of it all. Revisiting The Doors today, it's easier to separate the man from the mythology. Morrison was an excellent frontman with charisma to spare, though often a rather silly lyricist. His reputation owes something to his striking image and to Ray Manzarek's later tendency to portray him as a mystical shaman. What strikes me now is not the depth of his poetry but the possibilities left unrealised. There are moments here that suggest he could have aged into a superb crooner, moving away from blues clichés and becoming something altogether more sophisticated. Morrison probably had far more to offer than we'll ever know; music may only have been part of the story. The musicians themselves remain remarkable. Robby Krieger and John Densmore bring a looseness and jazz sensibility that frequently elevates the material. Manzarek's keyboard style is distinctive, though it also date-stamps the band somewhat. It's difficult to imagine him embracing the synthesiser-driven directions that rock would take later in the decade. Then again, with Krieger and Densmore's versatility, perhaps The Doors might have evolved in ways nobody expected. Is Morrison Hotel their best album? Probably not. The debut and Strange Days still feel stronger, more consistent and more original. But this remains a very good record, and another reminder that The Doors were a better band than either their detractors or devotees sometimes admit. My biggest frustration has never really been with The Doors themselves. It's with the cultural imbalance that followed. The Doors got the films, the revivals and the mythology, while equally worthy bands such as Love remain comparatively overlooked. Revisiting Morrison Hotel has increased my appreciation for The Doors, but it hasn't changed my belief that Love were one of the great underrated bands of the era.