Songs in the Key of Life was Stevie Wonder's longest, most ambitious collection of songs, a two-LP (plus accompanying EP) set that -- just as the title promised -- touched on nearly every issue under the sun, and did it all with ambitious (even for him), wide-ranging arrangements and some of the best performances of Wonder's career. The opening "Love's in Need of Love Today" and "Have a Talk with God" are curiously subdued, but Stevie soon kicks into gear with "Village Ghetto Land," a fierce exposé of ghetto neglect set to a satirical Baroque synthesizer. Hot on its heels comes the torrid fusion jam "Contusion," a big, brassy hit tribute to the recently departed Duke Ellington in "Sir Duke," and (another hit, this one a Grammy winner as well) the bumping poem to his childhood, "I Wish." Though they didn't necessarily appear in order, Songs in the Key of Life contains nearly a full album on love and relationships, along with another full album on issues social and spiritual. Fans of the love album Talking Book can marvel that he sets the bar even higher here, with brilliant material like the tenderly cathartic and gloriously redemptive "Joy Inside My Tears," the two-part, smooth-and-rough "Ordinary Pain," the bitterly ironic "All Day Sucker," or another classic heartbreaker, "Summer Soft." Those inclined toward Stevie Wonder the social-issues artist had quite a few songs to focus on as well: "Black Man" was a Bicentennial school lesson on remembering the vastly different people who helped build America; "Pastime Paradise" examined the plight of those who live in the past and have little hope for the future; "Village Ghetto Land" brought listeners to a nightmare of urban wasteland; and "Saturn" found Stevie questioning his kinship with the rest of humanity and amusingly imagining paradise as a residency on a distant planet. If all this sounds overwhelming, it is; Stevie Wonder had talent to spare during the mid-'70s, and instead of letting the reserve trickle out during the rest of the decade, he let it all go with one massive burst. (His only subsequent record of the '70s was the similarly gargantuan but largely instrumental soundtrack Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants.)© John Bush /TiVo

The tenth studio album from Sufjan Stevens is conceptually looser than 2015's acclaimed Carrie and Lowell, about his complicated relationship with his mother, an addict who suffered from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, and the stepfather who brought both levity and depth to Stevens' life. That said, Javelin is more like a greatest-hits of the topics that have always pervaded his music: love and loss and what if; faith and higher power. Modest (but not simple) guitar, an Up-with-People style choir and soft but deeply booming drums create a cocoon-like atmosphere on "Everything That Rises"—a safe space for Stevens to implore "Jesus lift me up to a higher plane ... before I go insane." Folky "A Running Start" captures that weird, suspended-in-amber moment before a first kiss, with Sufjan singing, "I cross my arms to shield my heart." "Will anybody ever love me?/ For good reasons/ Without grievance, not for sport?" he questions on the lovely "Will Anybody Ever Love Me," its stacks of vocal layers almost disorienting. Piano-driven "So You Are Tired" ("So you are tired of us ... So you are tired of even my kiss ... So you are dreaming of after … I was the man still in love with you/ When I already knew it was done") re-creates the helpless feeling of someone falling out of love with you. But Stevens is aware of his own power, too, on "Javelin (To Have And To Hold)," a metaphor symphony of near-misses and regrets. "Searching through the snow/ For the javelin I had not meant to throw right at you," he sings as backing vocals blow behind him like a chilled wind. (Adrienne Maree Brown, Hannah Cohen, Pauline Delassus, Megan Lui and Nedelle Torrisi lend harmonies to the songs.) Musically, Javelin is not so far from Carrie and Lowell's quiet beauty; "My Red Little Fox" manages to bottle the sort of Elliott Smith melancholy Stevens has used in past songs like "Should Have Known Better." But this time around, his emotions cannot be contained in one space. So many of the hushed, even delicate moments here bloom into something much bigger—the big burst on  "Goodbye Evergreen" could fit either a marching band or the Flaming Lips. And "Shit Talk" stretches for a luxuriant eight-and-a-half minutes as Stevens seeks security and comfort while accompanied by The National's Bryce Dessner on clear, bright guitar. "Hold me closely/ Hold me tightly/ Lest I fall," the verses start off like a prayer, before Stevens' tone twists into anguish.The song grows to pandemonium—feminine and masculine voices separating and taking sides but ultimately yearning for the same thing—before fading into a lengthy instrumental interlude: the inhale and exhale of life. It all ends with a stripped-down cover of Neil Young's "There's a World"; freed of the original's London Symphony Orchestra grandeur, the song appropriately becomes more vulnerable, its belly exposed. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Few albums can say that they have defined a generation, but (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? is undoubtedly among that elite crowd. Recorded over the course of just 15 days in 1995, the album catapulted Oasis from crossover indie act to worldwide pop phenomenon, flooding the charts with retro-rock riffs and unforgettable hooks. To say that its impact was titanic would be an understatement. It became the fastest-selling album in the UK since Michael Jackson’s Bad. It has sold over 22 million copies worldwide, making it one of the best-selling albums of all time. And it was the knockout blow in the battle of Britpop, being twice as successful as their rival Blur’s contemporaneous album The Great Escape.Following up from the incredibly popular Definitely Maybe was no mean feat, but Oasis pulled it off without a hitch. The idealistic hope-against-the-odds message from their beginnings was replaced with realism and reflection. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Noel Gallagher commented that while their first album “was all about dreaming of being a pop star in a band, the second album is about actually being a pop star in a band”. They had reached where they wanted to be, and were wondering what lay beyond fame and fortune. The Mancunians had clearly enjoyed enough sex, drugs and rock’n’roll to yield four sides of vinyl, though they never limited themselves purely to counter-culture clichés. Noel Gallagher’s songwriting took on a notably more introspective tone, nestled in amongst jauntier tracks like She’s Electric and Roll With It. His philosophising shone through perhaps most obviously on Cast No Shadow, a song which was dedicated to The Verve’s frontman Richard Ashcroft and details the struggle that songwriters (and more universally, all of us) face when they desperately try to say the right thing and it keeps coming out wrong. Elsewhere, we find the attitude and aloofness that Oasis do so well. The cocaine anthem Morning Glory rides along a continuous wave of stadium-filling guitars as Liam Gallagher sings “All your dreams are made / When you’re chained to the mirror and the razor blade”. And then of course, there are Oasis’ biggest hits: Don’t Look Back In Anger, which urges the listener to live regret-free; Champagne Supernova, which despite its famously nonsensical lyrics (Slowly walking down the hall / Faster than a cannonball we’re looking at you) resonates with people the world over; and the often-imitated-never-replicated Wonderwall, where you’d be hard-pressed to find any Brit who doesn’t know all the words. Being more than just wedding dancefloor fillers and karaoke classics, the three tracks brilliantly capture the band’s skill for drawing complexity from simplicity. Ultimately, this album marked the beginning of the long-drawn-out end for Oasis and the albums that followed never quite lived up to the glorious rock and carefree euphoria found here. But then that’s another story… © Abi Church/Qobuz

Since she first appeared on the scene in the mid-90s, amongst a small but genuine group of artists who claim jazz as an unambiguously ‘native’ musical language, Stacey Kent has consistently innovated her stylistic palette, drawing in new audiences without ever needing to sacrifice her own sound, or her artistic integrity. Her new record is the latest example of her artistic versatility. Kent’s talents as a performer are on full display here, in a complete work that includes three original pieces and a series of classics drawn from Broadway musicals, film scores, French chanson tradition, and Brazilian music.She is accompanied on the record by a small and vibrant jazz ensemble under the artistic direction of her longtime collaborator – multi-instrumentalist and arranger Jim Tomlinson. She navigates multiple languages, and seamlessly transitions with virtuosity and flawless musicality from Michel Legrand's lyricism (“Summer me,Winter me”, “La valse des lilas”) to Carlos Jobim's heady sensuality (“Corcovado”), with the light sophistication of the melodies of Richard Rogers' (“Happy Talk”) or Frederick Loewe (“Show Me”) to the poignant gravity of Jacques Brel (the classic “Ne me quitte pas” sung in French and its English version “If You Go Away”). In each of these pieces, with her clear and vibrant timbre, fluid articulation, and innate sense of swing, Stacey Kent once again demonstrates real artistic originality, through her sensual and sophisticated vocals, full of emotional nuance. © Stéphane Ollivier/Qobuz

Do you like Led Zeppelin? Mitten State retro-rockers Greta Van Fleet sure do, and their debut long-player -- it's actually a pair of combined EPs -- delivers enough Plant-induced "Oh mamas," genuine Page-turners, and cavernous Bonham-esque beats to reforge the hammers of the gods ten times over. Comparisons to the band's 1980s doppelgängers Kingdom Come are inevitable, but unlike those Zep clones, who arrived at a time when hard rock and hair metal were still fairly relevant, Greta Van Fleet are outliers, a trad rock band in an era that's more concerned with EDM drops than hot licks. Still, their unbridled enthusiasm for all things classic rock is kind of endearing -- their oldest members were barely of legal drinking age at the time of the recording -- and that fresh-faced approach to such well-worn tropes helps elevate the material. It's awfully easy to spot the Zep cut that served as the inspiration for each song -- "Safari Song" ("In My Time of Dying"), "Flower Power" ("Hey, Hey, What Can I Do"), "Highway Tune" ("The Rover"), etc. -- but there really isn't an iota of cynicism to be found. The future will not be too kind if subsequent efforts continue to climb the stairway to heaven, but there are worse ways to get your Led out. Ramble on, gents.© James Christopher Monger /TiVo

Leaving behind the garagey jangle pop of their first recordings, R.E.M. developed a strangely subdued variation of their trademark sound for their full-length debut album, Murmur. Heightening the enigmatic tendencies of Chronic Town by de-emphasizing the backbeat and accentuating the ambience of the ringing guitar, R.E.M. created a distinctive sound for the album -- one that sounds eerily timeless. Even though it is firmly in the tradition of American folk-rock, post-punk, and garage rock, Murmur sounds as if it appeared out of nowhere, without any ties to the past, present, or future. Part of the distinctiveness lies in the atmospheric production, which exudes a detached sense of mystery, but it also comes from the remarkably accomplished songwriting. The songs on Murmur sound as if they've existed forever, yet they subvert folk and pop conventions by taking unpredictable twists and turns into melodic, evocative territory, whether it's the measured riffs of "Pilgrimage," the melancholic "Talk About the Passion," or the winding guitars and pianos of "Perfect Circle." R.E.M. may have made albums as good as Murmur in the years following its release, but they never again made anything that sounded quite like it.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Killer Mike would rather be contradictory than one-dimensional: he's advocated for both socialist causes and self-sufficient Black capitalism, campaigned for progressive icon Bernie Sanders and broken bread with conservative Georgia governor Brian Kemp, and seems constantly torn—on and off the mic—between opening haters' minds and putting their brains to sleep. But with Michael, the Atlanta rapper's most personal and autonomously definitive album since his solo debut Monster 20 years earlier, the son of a policeman father and a mother who trafficked cocaine navigates the more personal and formative influences in his life that led him to his status as an outspoken one-man multitude. Mike reveals himself as someone whose upfront lyrical frankness and high-displacement-muscle-car-V8-engine of a voice belies deeper complications in his perspective—an ongoing process that reckons with the burden of what he owes people. For his mother and grandmother, both deceased and paid moving tribute to in "Motherless," what he owes is everything—his empathy, his insight, his ability to be a strong parent. For his detractors, "Talkin Dat SHIT!" owes them a verbal beating, not just invoking but channeling Three 6 Mafia and UGK as he personifies the G-as-activist ("you a leech, I'm a leader"). He gives his musical collaborators—Andre 3000 and Future elevating the next-phase utopianism of "Scientists & Engineers," Young Thug wringing both impassioned intensity and reflective quiet to his triplet flow on "RUN," El-P holding forth like a welcome guest in his Run the Jewels partner's home on "Don't Let the Devil"—the kind of free reign that only comes with the confidence of a vet who doesn't fear or even care about the possibility of being shown up. The production by No I.D. plays to the church pews, scoring straight-up sermons before driving souls to the polls, and the Chicago beatmaker's gospel/R&B inflections are just Atlanta enough to complete what few locally rooted details Mike leaves out. And what does Mike owe himself? Going by the impassioned soul-searching of "Shed Tears," the answer is a reckoning, a catharsis, an acknowledgement of the pain that made him even when it hurts to recall. Mike has stayed angry enough to challenge power and idealistic enough to believe those in power can be moved by his presence—but with a presence like his, it's not easy to doubt him. © Nate Patrin/Qobuz

Frontiers managed to give Journey four Top 40 hits, with "After the Fall" and "Send Her My Love" both reaching number 23, "Faithfully" at number 12, and "Separate Ways" peaking at number eight -- the same amount that 1981's Escape brandished. While they tried to use the same musical recipe as Escape, Frontiers comes up a little short, mainly because the keyboards seem to overtake both Schon's guitar playing and Steve Perry's strong singing. An overabundance of Jonathan Cain's synth work cloaks the quicker tunes and seeps into the ballads, slightly widening the strong partnership of Perry and Schon. "Faithfully" tried to match the powerful beauty of "Open Arms," and while it's a gorgeous ballad, it just comes inches away from conjuring up the same soft magic. "Separate Ways" grabs attention right off the bat with stinging synthesizer and a catchy guitar riff, and "Send Her My Love" emphasizes Perry's keen ability to pour his heart out. The rest of the songs on the album lack the warmth that Journey is famous for, especially in their mix of fervor and intimacy shown on this album's predecessor.© Mike DeGagne /TiVo

For American audiences, the phenomenal worldwide success of Oasis was a little puzzling. That's because they only had part of the picture -- unless they were hardcore fans, they didn't hear nearly three albums of material released on B-sides and non-LP singles. Critics and fans alike claimed that the best of these B-sides were as strong as the best moments on the albums, and they were right. None of the albums had a song that rocked as hard as "Fade Away" (cleverly built on a stolen melody from Wham!'s "Freedom"), "Headshrinker," or "Acquiesce." There was nothing as charming as the lite psychedelic pastiche "Underneath the Sky" or the Bacharach tribute "Going Nowhere"; there was nothing as affecting as Noel Gallagher's acoustic plea "Talk Tonight" or the minor-key, McCartney-esque "Rockin' Chair," nothing as epic as "The Masterplan." Most bands wouldn't throw songs of this caliber away on B-sides, but Noel Gallagher followed the example of his heroes the Jam and the Smiths, who released singles where the B-sides rivaled the A-sides. This meant many American fans missed these songs, so to remedy this situation, Oasis released the B-sides compilation The Masterplan. Oasis unfortunately chose to opt for a single disc of highlights instead of a complete double-disc set, which means a wealth of great songs -- "Take Me Away," "Whatever," "D'Yer Wanna Be a Spaceman?," "Round Are Way," "It's Better People," "Step Out," a raging cover of "Cum on Feel the Noize" -- are missing. But The Masterplan winds up quite enjoyable anyway. Apart from the sludgy instrumental "The Swamp Song," there isn't a weak track here, and the brilliant moments are essential not only for Oasis fans, but any casual follower of Britpop or post-grunge rock & roll.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

The sophomore effort from Slipknot and Stone Sour vocalist Corey Taylor follows 2020's CMFT. His solo career has been a chance for him to experiment with a variety of styles that don't fit with his main bands, and this album continues that trend with a wide variety of rock approaches from punk and alt-rock to smooth grooves and atmospheric Americana.© TiVo

On 2012's The Absence, Melody Gardot made her first shift away from the jazz-tinged ballads that drew such heavy comparisons to Norah Jones and Madeleine Peyroux. Lushly orchestrated, it was chock-full of songs inspired by Brazilian, Latin, and French forms. On Currency of Man, Gardot takes on a rootsier sound, embracing West Coast soul, funk, gospel, and pop from the early '70s as the backdrop for these songs. It is not only different musically, but lyrically. This is a less "personal" record; its songs were deeply influenced by the people she encountered in L.A., many of them street denizens. She tells their stories and reflects on themes of social justice. It's wide angle. Produced by Larry Klein, the cast includes members of her band, crack session players -- guitarist Dean Parks, drummer Vinnie Colaiuta, Larry Goldings, the Waters Sisters, et al. -- and strings and horns. The title track is a funky blues with a rumbling bassline, dramatic strings (à la Motown) and fat horns. Gardot uses the lens of Sam Cooke to testify to the inevitability of change: "We all hopin’ for the day that the powers see abdication and run/Said it gonna come…." First single "Preacherman" is similar, employing a wrangling, smoldering blues that indicts racism in the 20st century by referring to the violent death of Emmett Till, a catalyst in the then-emergent Civil Rights movement. A driving B-3, saxophone, and menacing lead guitar ratchet up the tension to explosive. A gospel chorus mournfully affirms Gardot's vocal as a harmonica moans in the background. "Morning Sun" and closer "Once I Was Loved" are tender ballads that emerge from simple, hymn-like themes and quietly resonant with conviction. "Same to You" evokes the spirit of Dusty Springfield atop the punchy horns from her Memphis period, albeit with a West Coast sheen. The nylon-string guitar in "Don't Misunderstand" recalls Bill Withers' earthy funkiness. The song's a groover, but it's also a warning to a possessive lover. "Don't Talk" uses spooky polyrhythms (à la Tom Waits) as brooding, spacy slide guitars, B-3, and backing singers slice through forbidding blues under Gardot's voice. "If Ever I Recall Your Face" is jazzier, a 21st century take on the film noir ballad with glorious strings arranged by Clément Ducol that rise above a ghostly piano. "Bad News" simultaneously looks back at L.A.'s Central Avenue and burlesque scenes. It's a jazz-blues with a sauntering horn section, snaky electric guitar, and squawking saxophone solo. Vocally, Gardot is stronger than ever here, her instrument is bigger and fuller yet it retains that spectral smokiness that is her trademark. Currency of Man is a further step away from the lithe, winsome pop-jazz that garnered her notice initially, and it's a welcome one.© Thom Jurek /TiVo