It was time for Ludovic Tézier to finally provide his admirers with a recital. His performances as a Verdian baritone are impressive: Rigoletto, Simon Boccanegra, Falstaff, Giorgio Germont (La Traviata), Posa (Don Carlo), Le Conte De Luna (Il Trovatore), Renato (Un ballo in maschera), Iago (Otello). And almost all of these are reprised in this solo album. To this impressive list of stage roles, Tézier brings the welcome addition of arias from Ernani, Macbeth and Nabucco all accompanied by Frédéric Chaslin at the head of the orchestra of the Teatro Comunale in Bologna. It was in 1998 in Tel Aviv that the French baritone played his first Verdian role. He was thirty years old when he was Ford in a production of Falstaff. "There is an absolutely fascinating energy in Verdi, both for the audience and for the singers", he admits. "His roles are usually very challenging, but his music acts at the same time as a fountain of youth. Verdi is brimming with vitality, which is what allowed me to return to the stage just two days after my father's death". Now with a fully-matured voice, Ludovic Tézier is in demand all over the world for his Verdi roles. He is one of the best performers of Verdi's work, standing alongside the late Piero Cappuccilli who remains his great role model. This record offers timely confirmation of his stature. © François Hudry/Qobuz

Colin Davis' 2004 recording of Verdi's Falstaff is a strong entry in the LSO Live series, anchored by Michele Pertusi's wooly but authoritative turn as the titular anti-hero. Falstaff, though immensely entertaining on-stage, is one of the hardest operas to capture in recordings: the dense interplay of characters, the busy stage action, and the general ensemble nature of the piece make it a difficult listen unless your Italian and your attention span are both top-notch. The most any recording can hope to do is capture the madcap energy and vivid vocal characterizations and leave the rest to the imagination, and in that sense this is a very solid effort. The mere sound of Pertusi's voice announces his identity from the start, and his performance is invested with a giddy, self-important raunchiness that he seems born to deliver. Similarly, the voices of Bülent Bezdüz and Maria Josè Moreno are perfectly cast as Fenton and Nanetta; even if you're lost by the time they sing their first duet, you'll know that young love is in the air. Carlos Alvarez's dark, knotty baritone is perfectly chosen to convey the self-important and jealous aristocrat Ford, particularly in his signature rant against the trustworthiness of women. The rest of the cast, led by Ana Ibarra as Alice Ford (the target of Falstaff's affection), brings liveliness and admirable clarity to the ensembles. Davis and the LSO keep up the frenetic pace without sacrificing much in the way of precision, and Davis' sense of pacing serves the piece extremely well, although he rushes Dame Quickly's cartoonish Act I "Reverenza"s in a way that robs them of their comedy. The sound engineering and production are excellent. © TiVo

An absolute delight, the first full-length album from singer-songwriter supergroup boygenius truly plays to its members' individual and collective strengths. (Credits extend to Autolux's Carla Azar on drums and Jay Som's Melina Duterte on bass.) Each is allowed to shine equally, taking lead on their own songs—but also bring out surprising, shining qualities in the others. "True Blue" sounds like a track from one of Lucy Dacus' solo records, filled out with pure harmonies and grand, low-key drama. Dacus is brilliant at pinpointing fine, evocative details—bandmate Phoebe Bridgers says of her, "Lucy's a noticer"—and there's no shortage in this tale of real, messy friendship that thrills and bruises: "When you moved to Chicago/ You were spinning out … When you called me from the train/ Water freezing in your eyes/ You were happy and I wasn't surprised." Julien Baker's vibrant "$20," likewise, delivers her trademark nervous edge, but the trio take it to unexpected places: First, Bridgers and Dacus thread a gossamer string of ethereal sweetness through Baker's earthiness; later, the three sing over each other in a glorious round robin of conversation until Bridgers, desperate to get her message across, shreds her throat raw yelling out "Can you give me $20?!" They trade lines on "Not Strong Enough," playing around with Cure guitars (acknowledged in Baker's verse: "Drag racing through the canyon/ Singing 'Boys Don't Cry'") and interpolating Sheryl Crow ("Not strong enough to be your man/ I tried, I can't"). That one builds to an excellent '80s anthemic bridge, with the three chanting "Always an angel, never a god." "Cool About It" summons a Simon & Garfunkel-style folk melody and layers on 2023 cleverness with thoughts like, "I took your medication to know what it's like/ Now I have to act like I can't read your mind." "Satanist" delights in off-kilter and herky-jerky chords à la early Weezer, before sliding sideways into a woozy dreamscape. Even a tossed-off lark like "Without You Without Them"—with sweet, a capella Andrews Sisters harmonies—charms. Bridgers' "Emily I'm Sorry" is particularly moody and moving, while stoic "We're in Love" is a stark portrait of Dacus and a guitar for nearly eight tear-jerking minutes before the others float in for support. Perhaps the most revealing is "Leonard Cohen," so intimate you can hear fingers sliding on strings. It's a true story about the trio's friendship and a time Bridgers was so excited to play an Iron and Wine song for her bandmates that she lost track of her surroundings. "On the on-ramp you said/ 'If you love me you will listen to this song'/ And I could tell you were serious/ So I didn't tell you you were driving the wrong way on the interstate/ Until the song was done," Dacus sings, before showing off their grateful love for each other: "Never thought you'd happen to me." © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz 

It was designed to be a blockbuster and it was. Prior to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Elton John had hits -- his second album, Elton John, went Top 10 in the U.S. and U.K., and he had smash singles in "Crocodile Rock" and "Daniel" -- but this 1973 album was a statement of purpose spilling over two LPs, which was all the better to showcase every element of John's spangled personality. Opening with the 11-minute melodramatic exercise "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding" -- as prog as Elton ever got -- Goodbye Yellow Brick Road immediately embraces excess but also tunefulness, as John immediately switches over to "Candle in the Wind" and "Bennie & the Jets," two songs that form the core of his canon and go a long way toward explaining the over-stuffed appeal of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. This was truly the debut of Elton John the entertainer, the pro who knows how to satisfy every segment of his audience, and this eagerness to please means the record is giddy but also overwhelming, a rush of too much muchness. Still, taken a side at a time, or even a song a time, it is a thing of wonder, serving up such perfectly sculpted pop songs as "Grey Seal," full-bore rockers as "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting" and "Your Sister Can't Twist (But She Can Rock & Roll)," cinematic ballads like "I've Seen That Movie Too," throwbacks to the dusty conceptual sweep of Tumbleweed Connection in the form of "The Ballad of Danny Bailey (1909-34)," and preposterous glam novelties, like "Jamaica Jerk-Off." This touched on everything John did before, and suggested ways he'd move in the near-future, and that sprawl is always messy but usually delightful, a testament to Elton's '70s power as a star and a musician.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Dirt is Alice in Chains' major artistic statement and the closest they ever came to recording a flat-out masterpiece. It's a primal, sickening howl from the depths of Layne Staley's heroin addiction, and one of the most harrowing concept albums ever recorded. Not every song on Dirt is explicitly about heroin, but Jerry Cantrell's solo-written contributions (nearly half the album) effectively maintain the thematic coherence -- nearly every song is imbued with the morbidity, self-disgust, and/or resignation of a self-aware yet powerless addict. Cantrell's technically limited but inventive guitar work is by turns explosive, textured, and queasily disorienting, keeping the listener off balance with atonal riffs and off-kilter time signatures. Staley's stark confessional lyrics are similarly effective, and consistently miserable. Sometimes he's just numb and apathetic, totally desensitized to the outside world; sometimes his self-justifications betray a shockingly casual amorality; his moments of self-recognition are permeated by despair and suicidal self-loathing. Even given its subject matter, Dirt is monstrously bleak, closely resembling the cracked, haunted landscape of its cover art. The album holds out little hope for its protagonists (aside from the much-needed survival story of "Rooster," a tribute to Cantrell's Vietnam-vet father), but in the end, it's redeemed by the honesty of its self-revelation and the sharp focus of its music. [Some versions of Dirt feature "Down in a Hole" as the next-to-last track rather than the fourth.]© Steve Huey /TiVo

The follow-up to 2022's excellent, Grammy-winning album Crooked Tree, Molly Tuttle & Golden Highway's latest continues the youthful, feminine-but-not-girly bluegrass thread woven by Alison Krauss and Sara Watkin; it would be wrong to call Tuttle's femininity incidental. It's fascinating to hear a woman's point of view about the butch and burly California gold rush, as on "El Dorado." "I'm Gold Rush Kate from the Golden State/ With a nugget around my neck/ I keep the red lights burning bright/ from here to Hell and back," she sings against fleet banjo, clear-as-a-bell dobro and her own spirited guitar; it's true-blue mountain music recast for dusty goldfields. Tuttle also celebrates her home state on "San Joaquin," a spritely number about riding the rails out west written with Old Crow Medicine Show's Ketch Secor, a frequent collaborator on City of Gold. Loose and meandering in a comfortable way, "Yosemite" is inspired by Tuttle's true story of taking a cross-country road trip with her partner and breaking up along the way: "When all that remains is the gas in the tank/ The tread on the tires/ What's left in the bank," she sings alongside duet partner Dave Matthews. There's what Tuttle calls "a love song about death" (ballad "When My Race Is Run") about wanting a romance so big it carries over to the afterlife and one about falling in love with yourself: the Jerry Jeff Walker-esque "The First Time I Fell in Love," which finds Tuttle delivering a quick tongue-twister ("topsy-turvy wild and whirly in a hurry full of worry roller coaster ride"). "Next Rodeo'' is a cowgirl romp, "Down Home Dispensary"—a plea to Tennessee legislators to legalize marijuana—turns on the boogie-woogie charm, and "More Like a River" flirts with a gentle jug-band melody. Stomper "Alice in the Bluegrass" reorients Alice in Wonderland in a backwoods country setting. Erie, swampy-sounding "Stranger Things" showcases band member Bronwyn Keith-Hynes' keening fiddle alongside hummingbird dobro by bluegrass legend Jerry Douglas, who also produced the record. And it's a bracingly cold creekwater shock to hear Tuttle spin the gothic tale of "Goodbye Mary," a ballad about a man encouraging his girl to cause a miscarriage she doesn't want. It all leads to her death which, viewed through a modern lens and told by a woman, feels like a frightening survey of a post-Dobbs world. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

After the success on their Love It to Death album and its hit single "I'm Eighteen," Alice Cooper seemed poised to make a giant leap to the head of the hard rock class. Killer delivers on the promise and then some as it offers moments of sweaty rock & roll brilliance, oddball horror ballads, and garage rock freak outs, all wrapped up in a glammy, sleazy package. Working again with producer Bob Ezrin, the band craft a sound that's powerful and lithe with guitars that slash and snake around each other, drums and bass that provide a solid foundation but also aren't short on melody and hooks, and of course Alice Cooper's one of a kind vocals. Whether he's strutting, crooning, or going slowly insane, his voice is like the character in a movie you can't take your eyes off for a second because you might miss a small gesture or look that will shock and surprise. The one-two punch of "Under My Wheels" and "Be My Lover" is one of the great album operners of all time, both songs taking classic rock & roll tropes and giving them a evil twist with romping horns, doo wop background vocals and the kind of libertine lyrics that are guaranteed to drive parents crazy. After this, the album takes off in a variety of directions including the horror prog ballad "Dead Babies," the raucous rockers "You Drive Me Nervous" and "Yeah Yeah Yeah" that come across like Steppenwolf tracks made by real bikers, the Western gunfighter ballad "Desperado" -- which juxtaposes some lovely orchestrated strings against Cooper's croaking vocals -- and the oddly rollicking title track where Cooper does a convincing carnival barker imitation while guitarists Mike Bruce and Glen Buxton get a chance to unwind and kick up some dust. Each and every track is handled with the same kind of unbridled glee that lets the listener know the band is having a blast; it's hard not to be swept along for the ride. The album's centerpiece "Halo of Flies" is a stunning work of rock & roll that encompasses the gutter freak psych of the band's earliest work, the expansive scope of prog rock, bits of the Sound of Music, martial drum solos, very stoned blues riffing, and Cooper's alternately pleading and withering vocals. It's the work of a band who can barely control all the ideas flowing out of them, yet somehow manage to corral their energy and creativity into something epic and unique. Indeed, there was no other group quite like Alice Cooper operating in 1971 and Killer is the moment where they put all the pieces together and began to soar.© Tim Sendra /TiVo

With 1971's Killer, Alice Cooper released a classic album that encompassed psychedelia, horror movies, musicals, prog and biker rock and compressed it all into timeless nuggets of hard rock gold. It also propelled the band into the rarified upper reaches of the charts and into larger concert halls too. While the next step for most bands would be to stick the the formula and double down on the hooks in ever more commercial ways, on 1972's School's Out these weirdoes did nearly the opposite. Apart from the brilliantly, brutally dumb title track, which indeed does strip their sound down to the thrilling basics and unleashes a perfect marriage of naggingly sharp riffs, hilarious lyrics, and sneering vocals -- the album flies off weird tangents that are barely related to anything the band had done before -- and also the last thing one might expect from them. Case in point the late night jazz ballad "Blue Turk" which comes complete with a finger snapping bass line, multiple horn solos, and a lounge lizard vocal by Cooper. Granted the subject matter is the joys of necrophilia, but the music is a million miles away from what rock fans who were clamoring to hear more Killer-style rockers might expect. "Alma Mater" is another plot twist of a song; a gentle doo wop-inspired ballad that flips the sentiments of the title track on their head as Cooper nostalgically laments his impending matriculation in tones that almost come across as earnest. These pale in the weirdness stakes next to "Gutter Cat vs The Jets," a loping. light-hearted tale of cool cats that morphs into a high-kicking version of "Jet Song" from West Side Story. Alongside these oddball gems, the band sounds locked in on the rockers like the piano-led "My Stars" and the happily vicious "Public Enemy #9"as well as suitably theatrical on "Luny Tunes" a deceptively melodic and orchestrated song about being locked up in the psychiatric ward. All these songs, and the album itself, have a light and almost swinging underpinning, almost nothing rocks as hard as Killer, some of it isn't even rock at all. Half the joy to be derived from listening to School's Out is to marvel at how daringly the band took all the goodwill they had engendered to this point and blew up their just barely established template in fascinating, aolmost reckless ways. The end result is a bewildering, impressively contrary album that's a glorious kiss off to expectations while also showing the band's range and ambition in glorious technicolor.© Tim Sendra /TiVo

When Alice in Chains' debut album, Facelift, was released in 1990, about a year before Nirvana's Nevermind, the thriving Seattle scene barely registered on the national musical radar outside of underground circles (although Soundgarden's major-label debut, Louder Than Love, was also released that year and brought them a Grammy nomination). That started to change when MTV jumped all over the video for "Man in the Box," giving the group a crucial boost and helping to pave the way for grunge's popular explosion toward the end of 1991. Although their dominant influences -- Black Sabbath, the Stooges -- were hardly unique on the Seattle scene, Alice in Chains were arguably the most metallic of grunge bands, which gave them a definite appeal outside the underground; all the same, the group's sinister, brooding, suffocating sound resembled little else gaining wide exposure on the 1990 hard rock scene. Neither hedonistic nor especially technically accomplished, Alice in Chains' songs were mostly slow, oppressive dirges with a sense of melody that was undeniable, yet which crept along over the murky sludge of the band's instrumental attack in a way that hardly fit accepted notions of what made hard rock catchy and accessible. Although some parts of Facelift sink into turgid, ponderous bombast (particularly over the erratic second half), and the lyrics are sometimes immature, the overall effect is fresh, exciting, and powerful. While Alice in Chains would go on to do better and more consistent work, Facelift was one of the most important records in establishing an audience for grunge and alternative rock among hard rock and heavy metal listeners, and with its platinum sales certification, it also made Alice in Chains the first Seattle band to break through to a wider, less exclusively underground audience.© Steve Huey /TiVo

There are aficionados and champions of Alice Cooper's many albums and eras. Some fans insist that Easy Action is one of the most criminally underappreciated records of the rock era, while others feel that Killer is the most rockin' album in the band's entire catalog; heck, there are folks out there who vociferously advocate for the wild charms and unexpected pleasures of Cooper's solo "blackout era" of the early '80s (and those folks are not wrong!). However, one thing that is widely agreed upon is that Billion Dollar Babies is Alice Cooper (the band) at the peak of its powers. The commercial sheen—and success—of its predecessor, School's Out, is seamlessly fused here with relentless, riff-fueled propulsion, decadent arrangements (brass band on "Elected"? Sure!), some of Cooper's most wittily deranged lyrics to date, and, of course, fantastic production from Bob Ezrin, who masterfully balanced all of the band's disparate elements. Babies is where commercial, creative, and critical success convene, and the result is not just a '70s rock masterpiece, but also that rarest of things: a '70s rock masterpiece that still manages to yield surprises. While packed with radio staples—the title track, "Elected," "No More Mr. Nice Guy"—and canonical classics ("Raped and Freezin'," "I Love the Dead"), there are also eyebrow-raising numbers like "Unfinished Sweet" (spaghetti western meets fuzzbox freakout meets rock opera) and "Mary Ann" (a sweet piano ballad that turns on an unexpected plot twist) that reiterate that, despite their success on the charts, Alice Cooper was still a delightfully transgressive band. The track lineup on this 50th anniversary "Trillion Dollar" deluxe edition slightly expands on 2001’s reissue. A 1973 Texas show featured earlier is rounded out with two additional, non-BDB songs from the concert, and the selection of outtakes is now accompanied by four single edits of album tracks. This edition also brings with it a warm, dynamic remastering that delivers on the original mix's maximalistic approach, making this the definitive rendition of a classic. © Jason Ferguson/Qobuz

Beyond the neglect of French Baroque music in general, it is a bit hard to understand why composer Pancrace Royer was almost completely unknown until Christophe Rousset came along to champion him, first in harpsichord music and now, with these suites of music drawn from operas, in orchestral music. In the 18th century, Royer was quite well known and admired among others by Rameau, whose music he helped along considerably. Royer certainly inhabited Rameau's stylistic world, but from the evidence here, his music is distinctive and merits the adjective "surprising" that Rousset has attached to it. It is colorful, given to unexpected turns of harmony, and vivid in its evocation of the exotic scenes of French opera. Sample the "Air pour les turcs" ("Air for the Turks") from Zaïde, reine de Grenade, with its crackling percussion. Royer challenged his orchestra with virtuoso ensemble writing in the likes of the "Premier et second tambourins" from Almasis, and Rousset and Les Talens Lyriques step up with precise, vigorous readings that one imagines would have made the composer overjoyed. The inclusion of two alternate versions for movements from Zaïde is also unusual and gives insight into the compositional thinking of the day. Essential for specialists and enthusiasts interested in the French Baroque, this album is a lot of fun for anyone, with only overdone church sound detracting from the overall effect. © James Manheim /TiVo