Twenty years after its summer 1997 release, OK Computer re-emerges clothed in light. In this two-part reissue: a first disc with the remastered original album; a second, 11-track disc made up of B-sides and previously unreleased titles. The sort of release that has fans in a frenzy... After the admittedly perfect classicism of The Bends (1995), Radiohead took a sort of swan dive into the ocean of a distinctly more experimental type of rock. Like revisited prog rock, subtly undermined by snatches of electronic music, OK Computer is never a mere mad scientist's laboratory, experimenting just for the fun of it. Underneath the atmospheric layering, behind the patchworks of textures inherited from Pink Floyd, R.E.M. or even Teuton krautrock (Neu! and Can spring to mind), the Oxford group never lets its attention stray from the writing. Between Thom Yorke's tortured but often lyrical (Exit Music (For A Film)) and always distinctive voice (Karma Police) and Jonny Greenwood's avant-garde guitar lines (Subterranean Homesick Alien), this third album keeps listeners on their toes. OK Computer reached a pinnacle of inventiveness, with bold harmonies, groundbreaking production and inventive instrumentation. It left its mark on its time and will continue to influence masses of groups and musicians...The second disc in OK Computer OKNOTOK 1997 2017 contains eight B-sides (Lull, Meeting In The Aisle, Melatonin, A Reminder, Polyethylene (Parts 1 & 2), Pearly, Palo Alto and How I Made My Millions) and three previously unreleased tracks (I Promise, Man Of War and Lift). Recorded in March 1998 at the Abbey Road Studios in London, Man Of War was originally intended to be on the soundtrack of the big-screen adaptation of The Avengers with Uma Thurman and Ralph Fiennes, but the group was unhappy with the result and shelved the song. However glimpses of the title's recording footage can be seen in the documentary Meeting People Is Easy. Radiohead began performing on stage in 1996 with I Promise and Lift, on a US tour as the opening act for Alanis Morissette. Hard to fathom how Lift and its heady melody did not end up on the final tracklisting of OK Computer. © MD/Qobuz

On her twelfth album with the Pretenders—truly her band, as not even drummer Martin Chambers returns for this one—Chrissie Hynde is aware of her age but not necessarily feeling it. There are no idle hands or thoughts of retirement on "Let the Sun Come," with its Peter Buck-sounding guitar. "We don't have to get fat, we don't have to get old/ We don't have information that we have to withhold … we don't have to fade to black/ Let the sun come in," the 71-year-old legend sings. But that's not to say she's stayed in the same place. The production is crunchier, darker than the Windex-clear sounds on the band's early now-classics like "Don't Get Me Wrong" and "Brass in Pocket," and Hynde is, as she has been for the past decade or so, in a balladeer mood. She sounds like a chanteuse on the torch-song burn of "The Promise of Love," occasionally breaking through the smoke to soar light and aloft. On "The Copa," her voice tracks an ancient-sounding Renaissance melody against lovely guitar noodling. She's not afraid to look back, but it's rarely with nostalgia. "I Think About You Daily"—featuring a lovely string arrangement by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood—finds Hynde slightly trembling with emotion as she offers an apology to someone she hurt in the past. There are no such regrets on "Just Let It Go," seemingly about refusing to get comfortable or meet expectations. "What kind of career means a life in a cage?/ One day I could hear a distant bell toll ... I let it go/ maybe it's best to just let it go/ The changes were fast but the torment was slow," she sings, low and hazy on the verses as wailing guitar sounds like a cry for mercy, then flying on the chorus and supported by drums rumbling like release. "A Love" slightly echoes the energy of oldie "Kid" as Hynde plays it cautious in romance: "I'm not scared of your dark eyes/ They mesmerize and soothe/ But I don't mess with burning coal/ Or anything I can't control … I'm not scared of you/ I'm scared of what could be/ Like certain drugs/ One taste and then you're never free." Meanwhile, on "Merry Widow," she rides a gnarled melody to gleefully claim independence, declaring, "He thought love was competitive like sport ... so I left him at the port / I'm a divorcee, but I feel like a widow, a merry, merry widow." The music is a little bit mystery, a little doom-rock shadow and takes a snaking tarantella turn at the end. There are two real rockers here—"Losing My Sense of Taste" and garage banger "Vainglorious"—and Hynde sounds fantastic on both, especially as she delights in repeating the latter's title over and over, trying on different inflections and emotions like personalities. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Big Thief songwriter and frontwoman Adrianne Lenker's aesthetic falls somewhere between rough edged Appalachian Mountain music filtered through an urban Brooklyn sensibility, and something further out, more individualized, and in the end, not completely expressible. While stanzas like "When I say celestial/ I mean extraterrestrial/ I mean accepting the alien you've rejected in your own heart/ When I say heart I mean finish/The last one there is a potato knish/ Baking too long in the sun of spud infinity" might make you smile, her lyrics often seem like they're only scratching the surface of what she's thinking and feeling. Her voice, which can shade into a Hazel Dickens kind of portentousness, often strains to reach a place that only she can visualize. But the overall effect is a rigorous, engaged, and inviting musical experience. Recorded in four locations—Topanga Canyon, Upstate New York, Colorado, and Tucson, Arizona—there's nevertheless a cohesion thanks to Lenker's singing. "Red Moon," with guest Matt Davidson of Twain on fiddle and harmony vocals, is the band at their most Americana-esque. The album's sweetest melody is found on "No Reason" with Buck Meek on twelve-string guitar and guest Richard Hardy on flute. The only misstep is "Love Love Love," where Lenker's voice wobbles and nearly breaks in spots. At times the foursome (rounded out by bassist Max Oleartchik and drummer James Krivchenia) do get noisier, as in "Little Things," where Meek's electric guitar chimes and reverb gives Lenker's voice extra force; guitar effects and electronics add a textured bass thump to "Flower of Blood." You may wonder if this double album would have been tighter and less indulgent condensed into a single, but Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You justifies its length, staying steady until the goodtime honky-tonk closer, "Blue Lightning." © Robert Baird/Qobuz

Arguably John Coltrane's finest all-around album, this recording has brilliant versions of "Afro Blue" and "I Want to Talk About You"; the second half of the latter features Coltrane on unaccompanied tenor tearing into the piece but never losing sight of the fact that it is a beautiful ballad. The remainder of this album ("Alabama," "The Promise," and "Your Lady") is almost at the same high level.© Scott Yanow /TiVo

Zappa in New York was recorded in December 1976 at the Palladium and originally intended for release in 1977. It was held up due to arguments between Frank Zappa and his then-record label, Warner Bros. When the two-LP set finally appeared in March 1978, Warner had deleted "Punky's Whips," a song about drummer Terry Bozzio's attraction to Punky Meadows of Angel. The Zappa band, which includes bassist Patrick O'Hearn, percussionist Ruth Underwood, and keyboard player Eddie Jobson, along with a horn section including the two Brecker brothers, was one of the bandleader's most accomplished, which it had to be to play songs like "Black Page," even in the "easy" version presented here. Zappa also was at the height of his comic stagecraft, notably on songs like "Titties & Beer," which is essentially a comedy routine between Zappa and Bozzio, and "The Illinois Enema Bandit," which features TV announcer Don Pardo.© William Ruhlmann /TiVo

If OMD's debut album showed the band could succeed just as well on full-length efforts as singles, Organisation upped the ante even further, situating the band in the enviable position of at once being creative innovators and radio-friendly pop giants. That was shown as much by the astounding lead track and sole single from the album, "Enola Gay." Not merely a great showcase for new member Holmes, whose live-wire drumming took the core electronic beat as a launching point and easily outdid it, "Enola Gay" is a flat-out pop classic -- clever, heartfelt, thrilling, and confident, not to mention catchy and arranged brilliantly. The outrageous use of the atomic bomb scenario -- especially striking given the era's nuclear war fears -- informs the seemingly giddy song with a cut-to-the-quick fear and melancholy, and the result is captivating. Far from being a one-hit wonder, though, Organisation is packed with a number of gems, showing the band's reach and ability continuing to increase. Holmes slots into the band's efforts perfectly, steering away from straightforward time structures while never losing the core dance drive, able to play both powerfully and subtly. McCluskey's singing, his own brand of sweetly wounded soul for a different age and approach, is simply wonderful -- the clattering industrial paranoia of "The Misunderstanding" results in wrenching wails, a moody cover of "The More I See You" results in a deeper-voiced passion. Everything from the winsome claustrophobia of "VCL XI" and the gentle, cool flow on "Statues" to the quirky boulevardier swing of "Motion and Heart" has a part to play. Meanwhile, album closer "Stanlow," inspired by the power plant where McCluskey's father worked, concluded things on a haunting note, murky mechanical beats and a slow, mournful melody leading the beautiful way.© Ned Raggett /TiVo

After spending over a decade avoiding his past, Chris Cornell reconnected with it in a big way during 2010. First, he reunited with Soundgarden, their tour so successful it spilled over into a studio collaboration interrupted by Cornell launching an acoustic tour where he revisited his catalog, quite definitively tying his solo career and time with Audioslave to Soundgarden. Songbook is a live album culled from this tour and has Cornell sampling from all phases of his career, often spinning harder-rocking songs into moody reflective territory. Unlike his solo debut, Euphoria Morning, this never sounds solipsistic; Cornell is engaged, looking outward to the audience, giving subtly forceful performances that often rescue overlooked tunes -- including selections from his electronica makeover Scream -- and freshen up familiar songs, including covers of Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” and John Lennon’s “Imagine.” He sounds at peace with his past and comfortable with his present, and that casual assurance makes Songbook his best solo offering to date.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

She was set to be one of the revelations of 2020. But the pandemic got in the way, and Celeste Epiphany Waite postponed the planned release of her first album. Celeste is a new UK sensation. She received the Rising Star prize at the prestigious Brit Awards, an honour which has been bestowed upon such promising young people as Sam Smith or Adele, who went on to enjoy colossal success and international stardom. Add another nomination, for the BBC's Sound of 2020, and the growing interest in this newcomer to the global pop scene was clear. While waiting for the album, Celeste did not sit idly by. She provided some vocals for the high-flying soundtrack for Pixar's successful Soul, and for the series The Chicago Seven, which was broadcast on Netflix. In terms of musical education, Celeste was brought up almost exclusively on blues, jazz, and golden-age soul by James Brown, Aretha Franklin (whom Celeste worships), Nina Simone and Sarah Vaughan. A coppery, nonchalant voice, tinged with a hoarse fragility, Celeste instantly sounds like a little sister to Adele and Amy Winehouse. Finally, the album is here. With its nose-thumbing title, Not Your Muse is an impressive engine, perfectly conceived and calibrated to conquer airwaves around the world, and audiences too. From Strange's skin-tight tenderness to the old-school sixties throwback Love is Back, to the party number Tonight Tonight, all the ingredients are there to make this album a must-have for years to come. © Yan Céh/Qobuz

Quiet though it may be, Paul McCartney experienced something of a late-career renaissance with the release of his 1997 album Flaming Pie. With that record, he shook off years of coyness and half-baked ideas and delivered an album that, for whatever its slight flaws, was both ambitious and cohesive, and it started a streak that continued through the driving rock & roll album Run Devil Run and its 2001 follow-up, Driving Rain. For Chaos and Creation in the Backyard, the follow-up to that record, McCartney tried a different tactic, returning to the one-man band aesthetic of his debut album, McCartney, its latter-day sequel, McCartney II, and, to a lesser extent, the home-spun second album, Ram. Apart from a guitar part or two, a couple of drum tracks, and, of course, the strings and horns that pop up now and again, McCartney played everything here, from the guitars and keyboards down to the bass and drums. The difference here is that instead of producing the record by himself, McCartney brought in alt-rock auteur Nigel Godrich, best known as the producer behind Radiohead's OK Computer and Beck's Mutations, as well as being the only producer responsible for a streamlined Pavement record. Godrich has a gift for making messy or difficult music sound simple, logical, and clean, and he has that same effect on Chaos and Creation, removing the obvious rough edges and home-spun charm that characterized Macca's previous one-man affairs. Consequently, Chaos sounds as polished as a normal McCartney album, as polished as Driving Rain, but the process of its creation and recording does make this a very different album from not just its predecessor, but from most of McCartney's solo albums. It's quiet and meditative, not without its share of eccentricities, nor without its share of sprightly tunes -- certainly, the opener, "Fine Line," is a propulsive, hooky song that burrows into your head after just one spin and sounds like a tune you've known all your life, and "Promise to You Girl" also zips along nicely -- but the overall feel of the record is one that's reflective and ruminative, not messy or silly. Or whimsical or treacly, for that matter, since the combination of introspective ballads and intricately detailed but not overly fussy or polished production means that Chaos and Creation in the Backyard is a rare thing indeed: a McCartney album that's devoid of cuteness or easy sentiment. Which doesn't mean that it's somber or lacking in romantic material -- Paul loves his love songs, after all -- but the tone and timbre of the album is so simple, stripped-down, and sincere that all the music resonates a little deeper and feels a little more heartfelt. If there are no outright knockouts here, there are no weak spots, either, and if the album doesn't have the sprawl and quirks or overt humor of his classic solo albums from Ram through Tug of War, that's OK, because Chaos and Creation in the Backyard offers something different: not only is Paul in an unusually reflective mode, but he's made a lean, cohesive record that holds together better than his previous latter-day high-water mark, Flaming Pie -- which is unusual, since McCartney albums rarely, if ever, come without spots of filler. The quiet nature of Chaos and Creation may mean that some listeners will pass it over quickly, since it's a grower, but spend some time with the record and it becomes clear that McCartney is far from spent as either a songwriter or record-maker and, in many ways, continues to make some of the best music of his solo career. © Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Centered around onetime Spinners utility players John Manuel (drums) and Landy Shores (guitar), Saturday Night Special -- presumably named after Norman Connors' Reggie Lucas-written song of the same name -- played in and around its hometown of Cincinnati during 1975 and 1976, basing live sets on reimagined versions of R&B hits that leaned toward sophisticated funk. Once Roy Ayers caught a gig and got involved, the band changed its name to Ramp ("Roy Ayers Music Productions") and recorded its one album, produced by Ayers with tight associates Edwin Birdsong and William Allen. The material swings between anti-gravity soul and hard-edged funk otherness, a unique mixture that could've only been encouraged or enhanced by Ayers and Birdsong. "Give It," one of Birdsong's contributions, tumbles and swings, repeatedly unfurling and recoiling, made all the more off-center by Sharon Matthews and Sibel Thrasher's frantic projections: "Earth can be lonely in the middle of the night/We must love now so our minds can take flight." "The American Promise," with all its nerved-up guitar scratches and alternately forthcoming and demanding assertions, could be mistaken for early Pointer Sisters or even Bohannon. The likes of "I Just Love You," "Daylight," "Come into Knowledge," and "Look into the Sky," along with a particularly radiant look at "Everybody Loves the Sunshine" (originally recorded less than a year prior for Ayers' album of the same title), drift along with sweet melodies and silken rhythmic layers that linger for days, rivaling similarly bliss-inducing, spiritually minded Ayers Ubiquity classics like "Searching" and "Red, Black and Green." Due to an untimely shake-up at the Blue Thumb label, the album was barely released, receiving nothing in the way of promotion beyond word of mouth. Few outside the band's local supporters and Ayers' keen following were in the know, and it languished in obscurity until A Tribe Called Quest sampled "Daylight" for "Bonita Applebum." Vinyl "reissues" surfaced. A couple tracks were licensed for compilations. Universal Japan put a stop to the nonsense in early 2007 by releasing the album for the first time on CD; later in the year, Verve licensed the disc for U.S. release.© Andy Kellman /TiVo

After a whirlwind 2020, with almost every artists’ musical endeavours being put on hold, Sophie Hutchings made the best of a bad situation, and now we are presented with her album Echoes in the Valley. The original plan for Sophie’s latest release was to record in Nils Frahm’s studio in Berlin, however, the pandemic had other plans. Instead, Sophie returned to her home of Australia and spent a week in the Byron Hinterland. The Hinterland is a stretch of rolling hills and untouched bush inland from Byron Bay, Australia’s most eastern point. Sprinkled throughout the Hinterland are hiking trails, waterfalls and quaint towns, those typical of a Banjo Patterson poem. After being presented with an unfamiliar piano in a shack in the middle of nowhere, over three short days Hutching’s got to work creating the masterpiece that is Echoes in the Valley. Without even knowing the story behind the location or the piano, from the first track 'Along the Boundary' you are instantly transported to another world. The natural soundfloor of the bush outside, coupled with the mechanics of the piano, make you feel like you’re right there inside the piano, as Sophie’s floating, meditative melodies swirl around you. Being presented with an unconventional piano to record an entire album on can be daunting, but in true Australian fashion, Sophie ran with it and turned it into something beautiful. In conversation she mentioned, “There were a few little weird characteristics of the piano that were bothering me, and I was like, okay... I’ve got to make this thing work. It's funny, initially, I was a bit stressed about the personality of the piano, even after it had been tuned, but strangely with the environment and the setting, I was like, this is going to tell a story.” And tell a story it does, it reflects the story of the year that the world stopped.The album flows seamlessly and transports you to another, more calm world than that of our own, whilst still providing plenty of emotional depth. The track 'Billow Gently' is contemplative and even mournful, whereas 'I Used to Live Here' is earnest, with the arpeggiated left hand, which sits just below the sound of the right, reminiscent of cinematic classic Gabriel’s Oboe from The Mission. On a track like 'The Lighthouse', the natural creaks and clicks of the piano create an almost metronomic sensation that pushes the piece forward, grounding the aerial melody lines before evolving into the perfect accompaniment for Glass-like repetitive motives. Echoes in the Valley rounds out with 'Hold My Hand', a contemplative and quietly optimistic track. The repeated motive would’ve been a fine ending to this closing track, however, the final rising line leaves us with bated breath, hoping for just a drop more of what Sophie has to offer. © Jessica Porter-Langson / Qobuz

B.B. King made his debut as producer with Blues on the Bayou, released in October 1998. He employs the most basic of ideas for this project: record an album of B.B. King tunes, with B.B. King's regular road band, under B.B. King's supervision. Keeping it loose, relaxed, and focused, King cut this album in four days down at a secluded studio in Louisiana and came up with one of his strongest, modern-day albums in many years. No duets, no special guests, just King and his road warrior band, playing his songs with him producing the results -- no overdubs, just simple, no-nonsense blues done like he would do them on-stage. The result is a no-frills, straight-ahead session that shows that King might be have been 73 at the time of this date, but he still had plenty of gas left in the tank. Tracks like "I'll Survive," and the jumping "Shake It Up and Go," "Darlin' What Happened," the minor keyed "Blues Boy Tune," the instrumental "Blues We Like," and the closing "If That's It I Quit" show him stretching out in a way he has seldom done in a studio environment, and the result is one of his best albums in recent memory. © Cub Koda /TiVo

As one of the first albums Herbie Hancock recorded after departing Miles Davis' quintet in 1968, as well as his final album for Blue Note, The Prisoner is one of Hancock's most ambitious efforts. Assembling a nonet that features Joe Henderson (tenor sax, alto flute), Johnny Coles (flugelhorn), Garnett Brown (trombone), Buster Williams (bass), and Albert "Tootie" Heath (drums), he has created his grandest work since My Point of View. Unlike that effort, The Prisoner has a specific concept -- it's a tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, evoking his spirit and dreams through spacious, exploratory post-bop. Often, the music doesn't follow conventional patterns, but that doesn't mean that it's alienating or inaccessible. It is certainly challenging, but Hancock's compositions (and his arrangement of Charles Williams' "Firewater") have enough melody and space to allow listeners into the album. Throughout the record, Hancock, Coles, and Henderson exchange provocative, unpredictable solos that build upon the stark melodies and sober mood of the music. The tone is not of sorrow or celebration, but of reflection and contemplation, and on that level, The Prisoner succeeds handsomely, even if the music meanders a little too often to be judged a complete success.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo