Earn This

Rating: 4 and a half stars (out of 5)

During the course of their career, U2 has proven the ability to counter their underwhelming albums with beauties.  The passionate but occasionally monotonous, and critically yawned-upon, October was followed by 1983′s War, which elevated them into the big leagues.  The underrated though rambling Rattle and Hum, the culmination of their 80s journey into American sounds, led them to go “dream it all up again,” and the result was nothing less than Achtung Baby.  I have absolutely no problem with Pop, but a lot of people did, and they responded with the less adventurous but strong All That You Can’t Leave Behind.

Consequently, my utter disappointment with 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, the band’s last effort, was tempered by my hope for the future.  Though spare songs released in the interim (read: “Window in the Skies,” “Mercy”) didn’t assuage my concerns, I noticed tiny but promising details trickling in as this album’s arrival drew closer—that they were willing to delay the release date to miss the Christmas surge in order to finish working on it; the infinitely better title than the last; even the infinitely better cover art, much less mainstream and much more artistic.  And, while No Line on the Horizon, the band’s 12th studio album, is not War or Achtung, I have to say it has exceeded my expectations and restored my faith.  In comparison to Bomb, it’s much more subtle, much more sonically creative, and much less strained and awkward.  It truly is the kind of music a band of their age should be writing.

At their worst (i.e., on Bomb), U2 sounds too superficial, and the avoidance of that trait is perhaps my favorite aspect of No Line.  Upon my first listen, I was thrilled to discover that the songs could not be fit into little squares so easily.  “Magnificent” contains an old-school U2 feel, but also an unusual synth-guitar opening.  “Moment of Surrender” sounds nothing like a typical U2 song, nor does “Unknown Caller,” with its sing-chant choruses and extended intro and guitar solo outtro.  And that’s without getting to “FEZ—Being Born,” the sheer originality and prettiness of which makes me giddy. 

Songs such as “FEZ” suggest a new direction for the band, one not geared with the radio audience in mind, not geared with live shows in mind.  They’re back to being unafraid to write six minute songs that you’d rather listen to before going to sleep than while driving with the windows down, refusing to end each song precisely where it began, back to writing some compelling lyrics that make you stop and think.  Credit them too with the decision to scrap sessions with producer Rick Rubin and closely involve old friends Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois, who get songwriting credit on seven tracks.  It’s no coincidence that Eno and Lanois were behind the boards for The Unforgettable Fire, The Joshua Tree, Achtung Baby, and All That You Can’t Leave Behind.  In their atmospheric touches and willingness to push them, they take the band’s strengths into another realm.

Indeed, if you pay close attention, you’ll notice subtle breaks from convention on No Line—the way the riff in the title track (reminiscent of “The Fly,” though simultaneously cleaner—not married to that song’s ominous production—and dirtier, being choppier and less defined) doesn’t come in until the second verse, the way “FEZ” has not one but two distinct introductions, the way Bono starts “Breathe” with a what-the-hell free-form melody and winds his way into a gorgeous ending.  There are extended instrumental introductions on four of the songs and a surprising change-of-pace ending to “Unknown Caller,” helping to make this the longest U2 album yet recorded—and one of the most mellow.

You could say that the band hasn’t entirely gotten over the weak and unfair response to Pop, that they still play it safer than they did in the 90s…and you’d be right.  Gone, seemingly for good, are the thick dance beats, heavy distortion, whispered vocals, and hypnotic songs.  Sonically, the album contains pieces of mid-80s Unforgettable Fire and Joshua Tree as well as 2000’s Leave Behind.  It’s not fantastically innovative, but it doesn’t need to be, not when there’s the depth and heart in evidence here.  It takes about twenty seconds after the album’s start for bassist Adam Clayton and drummer Larry Mullen to show more power than they did anywhere on Bomb on the title track, which is the best rocker they’ve written since Achtung Baby.  “Moment of Surrender” is the second straight track-three ballad greeted with breathless hype—and the first to succeed.  With the exception of “One” and “The Unforgettable Fire,” this may be their best song ever to go to sleep on; the assured rhythms, Adam Clayton’s most soothing bass line yet, the Pink Floyd-esque interlude, and some of Bono’s best lyrics will transport you to another world.

Indeed, throughout No Line are peaks that the band has not hit in a considerable time.  The bridge on the title track, expansive and cathartic, is one of the best they’ve ever written, eclipsed only by “Ultraviolet” and “Stuck in a Moment.”  Likewise, the ending of “Breathe” gets everything right all at once, with Bono and the Edge seeming to wink at each other as the words and licks intertwine perfectly.

That’s not to say they get everything right, which is why No Line still ranks just eighth among their albums in my view.  “Stand Up Comedy” is “Bullet the Blue Sky”-clunky, the kind of insipid song they could write in their sleep, and “Cedars of Lebanon” is yet another dreaded slow album closer. (They’re all or nothing on those songs—for every gorgeous “Mothers of the Disappeared” or “40,” there’s a dreadful “The Wanderer” and “Yahweh” and now this one.) Some of the decent songs have untapped potential—“Unknown Caller” probably sounds more profound than it is, and with the way you can hear all the effort being exerted to make lead single  “Get On Your Boots” fly, one wonders how they darn near succeed. 

Yet what’s especially interesting is how the band alternates in picking each other up, encouraging you to listen closely to see who delivers on which songs.  Bono could have written a better chorus for “Unknown Caller,” but everyone else sounds compelling.  Conversely, the Edge only wrote about a half a riff for “Magnificent,” but Bono carries the day.  For reasons I can’t really put my finger on, his singing, his melodies, his desires sound much more pure and much more natural than they have in a while, as exemplified perfectly by that song.  That’s how he manages to make “Magnificent” not sound like a caricature of a U2 song.  When he sings “I was born to sing for you,” it could have come across as pretentious or presumptuous, but in the hushed, almost resigned way he delivers it, he sounds refreshingly timid, as though afraid to intrude.

Similarly, note the way that “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight” does not sound as raucous as the lyrics would portend.  Lazy music reviewers, choosing to focus on only about a third of U2’s canon, love to call their music “big,” which is why I love Crazy Tonight’s restraint.  This is not “big,” but rather possesses an appropriate world-weary-but-still-eager amount of bubbliness.  And it doesn’t hurt that Bono writes a slick melody, and Edge (another one of his repetitive bridge solos notwithstanding) remembers what his strength is.

With a few exceptions, he’s at his best when adding texture to songs rather than dominating them.  He’s asked to carry too much of the load on “Magnificent” and “Stand Up Comedy,” where he misfires in trying to write a Led-Zeppelin-meets-Red-Hot-Chili-Peppers riff, but he’s merely providing shimmering texture on “Crazy.”  Or take the exhilarating title track; because Eno and Lanois make the song such a whoosh of oceanic haze, the main riff is simply another piece in the dense puzzle, another element that you might not even hear the first time through.

Many people say the Edge is the driving force behind the band, but that sentiment is misleading.  Even his best work needs to be enhanced by other elements—a powerful bassline, skilled production, interesting effects, Bono’s voice and lyrics, etc.  He’s the master of adding just the right amount of texture to songs like “With or Without You” and “Stay,” but he generally can’t carry a song by himself.  Because of that, U2 songs and albums need more to avoid sounding commonplace.

One such strength here is the exceptional track ordering, which makes the album flow magnificently and covers up most possible flaws.  Even the weaker songs, because they’re in their proper place, sound better in the context of the entire album.  “Boots” delivers on the ‘going crazy’ premise of its predecessor, and “Comedy” wouldn’t fit anywhere except after that song.  Likewise, the delayed introduction of “Unknown Caller” allows you to come down after the breathtaking “Moment of Surrender,” and “White as Snow” succeeds “FEZ” better than any other song would have.

These are the kind of small details—like the cover image, like the way the verses of “No Line” are raucous and the chorus quiet—that evince the amount of care put into special albums.  But, as is almost always the case with U2, the album rests largely on the shoulders of Bono.  The first thing you notice is that his voice sounds much better than it did on Bomb.  On the title track he sounds free and loose, young and vibrant on “Crazy Tonight,” and there’s nothing nearly as horrid as those strainings on Bomb’s “All Because of You.”  Upon closer inspection, one discovers that his instincts have also not dissipated—for example, invasive lyrics and/or singing would have doomed “FEZ.”  But, above all, it’s his lyrics that are most satisfying.

OK, yes, you don’t need to pay attention what he’s saying on “Boots” or “Comedy.”  But I can totally go along with “Infinity is a great place to start” (especially in its context) or “The sweetest melody is the one we haven’t heard,” and “Moment of Surrender” is the best thing he’s written since the first half of All That You Can’t Leave Behind.  No longer bound by a need to blandly mourn his dead father or wax polemical, here he crafts a theme of a desire to get lost in music.  On “Magnificent, “Boots,” and “Breathe,” among others, he tells us that he wants to forget about every other problem in the world if he can just have a tune, for that will be enough.  “I found grace inside a sound…it’s all I found” he says on “Breathe”—and isn’t that what it’s all about?

Rating: 1 star (out of 4)

Hollywood studios like to propagate the idea that romantic comedies are suitable for both men and women.  Blind Side isn’t a rom-com, but doubtless this idea still came to them—hey, let’s combine Sandra Bullock (the women) and football (the men) to draw in maximum viewers.  Add the holiday season and a feel-good true story and you’ve got yourself a sure box office winner.

And, indeed, Blind Side has, along with The Proposal (and, I suppose, All About Eve) helped make 2009 the best box-office year of Bullock’s career, which must make the ineptitude of these films forgivable to those in the suits.  In this true story adaptation, Bullock plays Leigh Anne Tuohy, a Memphis socialite living the good life, thanks largely to the fact that her husband Sean (Tim McGraw) owns 85 Taco Bells.  She takes an interest in a student who was recently admitted to their kids’ private Christian academy, the imposing football player Michael Oher (newcomer Quinton Aaron). 

Michael’s life reads like a fairly typical sob story—crack-addled mother, no father, never been educated properly—but despite that and his overwhelming size, he’s calm and polite.  Leigh Anne takes him under her wing (and roof) and helps him hone his football skills, helping him ultimately go on to receive a college scholarship and a first-round draft pick of the Baltimore Ravens.  An interesting story, but, sadly, in telling it, director and writer John Lee Hancock utilizes all of the clichés and wooden characters that surrounded his last sports flick, The Rookie.

Is anything real or believable in this movie?  Certainly not Michael’s first night in Leigh Anne’s house, where she plops him on the couch because the guest room has boxes in it; please, woman, that house has five guest rooms.  And not the football scenes, which hit perhaps a new low for Hollywood.  The film apparently wants us to believe that one excruciating scene of Leigh Anne playing coach for a few minutes qualifies as Michael being taught how to play; of course, there’s a lot more to playing lineman than size, but oh well.  I guess that’s not important in a movie that wants you to believe that one good block means the running back can saunter in from 70 yards away for a touchdown, or that referees really wouldn’t be able to come up with a penalty for shoving someone over the field boundary (it’s called unnecessary roughness, guys).  

And it doesn’t help that Michael’s coach (Ray McKinnon), uh, isn’t exactly Billy Bob Thornton or Denzel Washington.  He’s not a good enough actor to make us understand that, when he sincerely pitches Michael’s school admission to the deans, he’s furtively concerned about his own team’s success.  (We assume that to be the case, independent of his acting, but when including the acting we’re just confused.)  He has plenty of company, though, as good acting is hard to be found here.  As laconic Michael, Aaron is fine, but McGraw and Bullock can’t find any kind of true emotions.  McGraw looks like someone behind the camera is giving him instructions at all times (where is the talent from Friday Night Lights?), and I can’t for the life of me figure out why so many critics are calling Bullock’s performance her career best.  I often like her, but this may be the worst I’ve ever seen.  In her attempt to break away from her breezy roles and look “solemn” or “serious,” she transforms herself into an utter statue, completely lacking in human emotion or realism.  She looks awkward in just about every scene, as though she’s reading the words for the first time.

McGraw and Bullock certainly aren’t helped by a script that paints the family dynamic in unrealistic and annoying ways.  The writers think they can show spousal love with vague, bland irritations—the ‘I can’t stand how she does this, but that’s why I love her’ nuisances common to such films—and they introduce yet another annoying little kid.  Jae Head’s young SJ almost manages to attain the mind-blowingly irritating level of Hayden Panettiere in Remember the Titans.  (Largely because of this, it was to my immense relief that Leigh Anne’s daughter wasn’t a typically “angsty” Hollywood teenager.)

And the script also makes a mockery out of painful stereotypes—both black (everyone in the ‘projects’ where Michael’s mom lives) and white (heartless rich bitches that Leigh Anne lunches with).  That’s in between its presentation of such bon mots as “You’re changing his life”—“No, he’s changing mine” and Michael’s groan-inducing, predictable-but-unbelievable “Don’t lie to me” retort to Leigh Anne.  In your face, woman!

Amidst all this, the plot is a mess, going fully sideways after what feels like the climax into an utterly unnecessary final scene with Michael at the projects, topped in absurdity only by Leigh Anne going back there—disregarding Michael’s earlier words of caution by wearing a ridiculously provocative dress—and getting in the face of one of the thugs in a move that makes you want to throw something at the screen.  Such moments are particularly troubling because they seem to be replacing what might have been meaningful scenes: by the end, one wonders why no more mention was ever made of Michael’s briefly seen brother or his mother—did he never say anything about them as he was preparing to attend college?

It’s remarkable that this movie needs more scenes, given that there are so many gratuitous ones that bloat the running time.  Most movies of this ilk last—as they should—about 90 minutes, yet, for reasons passing understanding, Blind Side runs two-and-a-quarter hours—but then again, most everything about this movie was done for reasons passing understanding.

Rating: 2 and a half stars (out of 4)

For those who have seen the trailers and are reasonably familiar with the puppets behind the stage, Invictus will probably be much like what you expect.  Clint Eastwood’s directorial style—at best, smooth and undistracted, at worst flat—Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon’s dignified acting, and a stirring finish are all delivered as expected.  But although Invictus is certainly safe in its own way, it’s not at all the kind of movie one might have expected about Nelson Mandela…nor is it nearly as good as it could have been.  This film centering around the famous president of South Africa, elected after spending 27 years in prison, doesn’t delve into his incarceration, The Hurricane-style, or tell a birth-to-present biographical story complete with cries from his estranged family members.  Instead, it possesses many hallmarks of a classic sports movie, replete with an underdog we can cheer for and a ceremonial ending.

At the movie’s outset, Mandela (Freeman) has been recently elected president of South Africa, a country in tatters and still filled with racial strife.  Blacks are pleased with his election but skeptical of Whites and of the possibility of actual change; meanwhile, Whites wonder whether their dominance will be stripped away.  Mandela starts by surprising the Whites on his staff by telling them they won’t be fired, then begins contemplating how to start unifying his country.  He cares not about revenge but rather wants whatever will help his country heal fastest.  And to that end, he turns to rugby.

Captained by Francois Pienaar (Damon), the national rugby team, the Springboks, have long been ignored or condemned by the country’s Black population.  Playing a largely White sport (as opposed to soccer), the Springboks have represented apartheid for years.  Blacks want the team and its colors disbanded, but Mandela sees a different angle: he wants the country to rally around its team in the upcoming Rugby World Cup.  Mandela, shrewdly, seems to sense the transcendent power that sports victories have for people, and he envisions a winning Springboks team as a potential beacon of inspiration for his countrymen, regardless of their skin color.

Eastwood and writer Anthony Peckham carry much of the film with grace and effective understatement.  But given their decision to focus so much on sports—and rugby, no less—and not the historical figure, their inability to generate the proper gravity of the climactic game has to be considered a damaging flaw.  That this rugby team, considered a laughingstock before the Cup, actually managed to come together and win after Mandela encouraged them to do so is mind-boggling—the kind of thing that would be laughed out of the cutting room floor of a proposed fictional tale.  Invictus, sadly, imparts absolutely no sense of the moment, of the magnitude of the success.  Not only is there no explanation of how the team improved or of how improbable that was, the film, and its climax, doesn’t feel nearly as ‘big’ as it should.   

What’s more, we don’t know anything about any players (including Damon’s) or, let’s face it, the sport itself; so, with all that combined, we watch the final game in a sort of blank numbness.  Since that game lasts about twenty minutes—and since the escalation of the team’s skill accounts for most of the film’s latter half—that severely hampers our ease at fully enjoying the proceedings. 

Invictus deserves credit for adding in a few mischievous lines for Mandela to keep him from merely being a boring saint, but other small details are botched.  We don’t need the awkward quasi-hug between the antagonists-turned-somehow-friends after the winning game (an irritating sports movie cliché), or the astoundingly predictable sequence involving a young Black kid and police officers during the game, to which Eastwood cuts back too many times. 

Surprisingly for a movie that takes its obscure Latin title from the William Ernest Henley poem from which Mandela drew strength while in jail, Invictus is nothing more than a conventional sports movie.  There’s more about Mandela that’s interesting, obviously, but they chose to go in a different direction.  Greatest credit should go to the actors, especially Damon, who nails his limited role and accent (there’s a locker room scene where he delivers an anti-inspirational speech with such restraint and focus it’s a shame it only lasts for a couple minutes).  But otherwise, it’s a safe movie, a relatively competent one, and a relatively frustrating one.

Here’s the concept. I consider each of The Beatles’ twelve studio albums in their best form (i.e. their British releases) and rank them according to which albums I most want to listen to, end to end, right now. I’m ignoring the Yellow Submarine soundtrack, which most people like to pretend doesn’t exist, but including Help!, A Hard Day’s Night, and Magical Mystery Tour.

12. Let It Be (1970)

With pretty much every Beatles album, you can logcially make a claim of perfection — or at least greatness that supercedes perfection. “Sure, The White Album is fractured and quirky, but its sprawl is so dizzying and compelling.” With Let It Be, there’s no “but…” in there that justifies just how gloppy and inconsistent it is. There are a few great tracks; nay, phenomenal tracks. But there aren’t enough of them for Let It Be to lose the title of being my least favorite Beatles album.

Why it’s not higher: The Long and Winding Road makes me nauseous. Only ten real songs. The only headache Beatles album that is unquestionably worse than the previous Beatles album, which makes it the only disappointment in their catalog.

11. Please Please Me (1963)

What is so remarkable about Please Please Me is that it’s good. And that’s it. It’s not great (besides the three mandatory classics that should be on everyone’s iPod). It’s certainly not bad. It’s mostly remembered so fondly simply because it was The Beatles’ first album and because it’s not particularly objectionable, not because it’s transcendent in any way.

Why it’s not higher: Minus a few tracks, this is merely good early sixties pop. There’s impeccable craft, but the songs and the sound are just above average.

Why it’s not lower: The title track. I Saw Her Standing There (“One two three FAH!”). Twist and Shout — which is the flukiest Beatles track ever because its charm is poor craft (Paul’s dying vocal chords).

10. Beatles for Sale (1964)

There’s no such thing as an underrated Beatles album — remember that AllMusic has given its prestigious five-star designation to every album on this list except Let It Be — but if there were, Beatles For Sale would be the one. Its three opening tracks are probably the three darkest from the first half of The Beatles’ career, and they’re also quite good. The rest of the album doesn’t quite live up to the intro, with only a few exceptions. Then again, look at those exceptions: Eight Days a Week, I’ll Follow the Sun, and the most underrated of all Beatles tracks, What You’re Doing.

Why it’s not higher: Too much folksy country filler, including the regrettable Mr. Moonlight. And there’s Chuck Berry cover that brings the band back to Earth and reminds us that they’re just a bunch of white dudes. The album’s also a bit too long.

Why it’s not lower: Awesome opening set. What You’re Doing. Consistently great harmonies and melodies and musicianship.

9. With The Beatles (1963)

With The Beatles is kind of like The Godfather 2 to Please Please Me’s The Godfather. The good moments aren’t nearly as iconic. There’s no “leave the cannolis” (Please Please Me), no sleeping with the fishes (I Saw Her Standing There), and no horse head (Twist and Shout). But it’s smarter and richer and better executed and a few shades darker.

Why it’s not higher: Still just straightforward pop. A small handful of forgettable tracks.

Why it’s not lower: All My Loving is so great. If The Beatles’ catalog is the McDonald’s menu, then All My Loving is the McDouble. There might be some fancier burger that I order every now and then, like the Big Mac (While My Guitar Gently Weeps) or the Big and Tasty (Get Back), but the McDouble is always there for me.

8. Help! (1965)

What do you get when you slap together, with no real cohesion or theme, two 10 out of 10 tracks (Help!, Yesterday), a 9 out of 10 (I’ve Just Seen a Face), and a large array of 8/10s? You get The Beatles’ eighth best album. There’s no real flow or feeling that this is anything more than a mixtape or soundtrack, but then every song is somewhere between quite good and perfect. It’s a bit frustrating, really.

Why it’s not higher: Because it just feels like an uneven Greatest Hits album. Also, I’ll nitpick: there’s two dud songs, You Like Me Too Much and Tell Me What You See.

Why it’s not lower: It pains me to put this at #8, because, this is one of the most consistently good Beatles albums. It has Help! It has Yesterday. But it’s just not as fun or coherent or lasting as some of the other albums.

7. Magical Mystery Tour (1967)

Magical Mystery Tour is just as disjointed as Help!, and it has a greater percentage of tracks that I skip over. So why is it ahead of Help? Because the songs that I don’t skip  are peak Beatles. Psychedelic and bizarre in all of the good ways. They sound experimental, and each experiment is a success. Fool on the Hill. I Am the Walrus. Strawberry Fields Forever. All You Need Is Love.

Why it’s not higher: A few too many duds and not enough unity.

Why it’s not lower: Most bands would do terrible things to have a greatest hits album feature about six of these tracks, let alone one studio album.

6. The White Album (1968)

The single most fascinating album ever released. If this album had never been released, and its concept was explained to music fans everywhere – a huge double album whose quirks effectively document every reason The Beatles were great but also every reason The Beatles self-destructed, filled with some of The Beatles’ alternately best and most polarizing tracks, including a small handful of masterpieces – it would be sheer fantasy. It would be like making up an album where Buddy Holly, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, and Jeff Buckley rise from the dead to record together. But here The White Album is, and people still don’t fully get it. I know I don’t. I’m not even sure I like it sometimes. Yet I keep listening, keep hoping in vain that it will somehow piece together into something sensible and comprehensible. It won’t.

Why it’s not higher: There are definitely some bad tracks. And there’s definitely too much going on. The confusing thing is, nobody agrees what the bad tracks are, and some people think the album’s excesses are its greatest trait.

Why it’s not lower: While My Guitar Gently Weeps, Back in the USSR, Blackbird, etc. Each just thrown off like simple exercises, when each would’ve been Best Track Ever for just about any other band.

5. Abbey Road (1969)

There have been times in my life when Abbey Road would top this list. But I’ve just listened to it too much. It’s a bit too polished. It aims to be simpler and less challenging than other Beatles albums; in turn, it’s an easier listen but an ultimately less satisfying one over the long term. But even after all of these spins, it still goes down so smoothly and delightfully.

Why it’s not higher: It’s over-familiar at this point, and there aren’t quite enough mysteries to unravel.

Why it’s not lower: Come Together. Something. Oh! Darling. Here Comes the Sun. Because. The Medley… Should I keep going, or do you want to just look up the track list yourself? Plus it has a joyful polish to it. It’s cohesive and guitar-driven.

4. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967)

The first time I listened to The Beatles’ discography straight through, the moment I decided that The Beatles were unquestionably the greatest band of all time was ten seconds into When I’m Sixty Four, when the chamber hall band is just bouncing around before the verses start. It’s not the most remarkable moment for the band — in fact, it’s not even close to the most remarkable moment on the album — yet it’s a bewildering a combination of bold and perfectly executed. It sounds like nothing else in rock and roll, but it feels immediately familiar. It’s a nice microcosm of what makes Sgt. Pepper’s so great.

Why it’s not higher: The songs, on a whole, just aren’t quite as good as the ones on other albums. For every A Day in the Life – which may require that you change underpants following your first few listens – there’s a Good Morning Good Morning, which is only decent minus the soundscape wizardry.

Why it’s not lower: No album sounds better. Sgt. Peppers is kaleidoscopic, psychedelic, intricate, beautiful, daunting, terrifying, mystifying — insert any adjective which implies that it evokes a powerful response.

3. A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

Putting it above The White Album and Sgt. Pepper’s will pass as heresy in some circles, but you read the introduction, right? What do I most want to listen to, right now?  A Hard Day’s Night fits comfortably in third place. It’s just… perfect. I don’t know, maybe I use that word too lightly. But if you were to ask me what the prototypical rock album is, I’d burn you a copy of this. It has the rockers, the ballads, the album tracks, the consistency and variety. It gels together evenly like the best albums from highly skilled craftsmen, but it flows with hooks and ideas that come from creative melodicists. I have no complaints.

Why it’s not higher: Because, as flawless as it is, it’s still not The Beatles’ greatest album.

Why it’s not lower: No bad tracks and lots of great ones. True cohesion. The greatest opening guitar chord of all time (title track).

2. Revolver (1966)

I couldn’t have said it better than this, so I’ll just borrow the ending from Stephen Thomas Erlewine’s review:

The biggest miracle of Revolver may be that the Beatles covered so much new stylistic ground and executed it perfectly on one record, or it may be that all of it holds together perfectly. Either way, its daring sonic adventures and consistently stunning songcraft set the standard for what pop/rock could achieve. Even after Sgt. Pepper, Revolver stands as the ultimate modern pop album and it’s still as emulated as it was upon its original release.

Why it’s not higher: Revolver might understandably be the consensus greatest Beatles album (if Rolling Stone re-did its poll of writers and musicians, Revolver would win #1 this time, not Sgt. Pepper’s), but it’s not my favorite.

1. Rubber Soul (1965)

If I have a consistent complaint with The Beatles’ releases from Revolver through The White Album, it’s that too often the tremendous displays of sound and style distract from the songs themselves. But here, I have no such complaints. Even the boldest tracks here — Michelle and Norwegian Wood — just come across and rich and powerful instead of experimental.

It’s convenient that the last Beatles album to focus more on the songs themselves — instead of the way the songs sound — happens to feature the band’s best set of tracks. I’d be hard pressed to name an album by anyone with a set of songs I like more. Here are the highlights: Drive My Car, Nowhere Man, In My Life, Norwegian Wood, Michelle, Girl, The Word, Think For Yourself… and so on.

One underrated feature of Rubber Soul? The song lengths. Every track is between 2:00 and 3:30. I hate it when bands make songs longer just for the sake of the song being longer. Two examples? No Doubt’s Don’t Speak and The Police’s Every Breath You Take. Both songs miss out on my list of my 100 favorite songs ever almost entirely because they’re longer than they should be. Rubber Soul gives you exactly what you need. No more, no less.

Why it’s not lower: The understated sounds, but moreso, the songs. An album is only as good as its songs, and Rubber Soul has the best of them.