840. crunchy granola suite

Neil Diamond‘s Hot August Night, possibly the greatest live album ever released, starts well indeed with Crunchy Granola Suite, the power of which is only slightly negated when you realize it really is about eating well, lots of nuts and berries. From the album’s liner notes: “Then softly, the music begins, the lights dim. The music rises, the stage is a smoky, opalescent jewel in the darkness. But one light shines brighter than the others, a white pool in the brilliance, and for an instant, sound hangs suspended, only the air breathing. Then he’s there, the crowd exploding, Neil Diamond, casual, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, those 5000 people demanding his soul.  And for the next 107 minutes, he gives it to them.”

846. big brother

Even Stevie Wonder could see it by 1972  – just how f**ed up everything was, particularly if you were stuck in the ghetto, and the whole world was a ghetto in 1972, even that quaint, white, dull as death suburb you called home. Yet there was still hope, there had to be, because the music was just so beautiful.

steviewonder-1972

891. Don Quixote

It’s 1972 and Gordon Lightfoot, Canada’s greatest ever upright (but never uptight) baritone folkie, is standing tall amid the wasteland of stoned hippies and corrupt elders that defined the times, tilting diligently at windmills as nobility demanded. Because somebody had to do it.

894. time hard

George Dekker (straight outa Jamaica) delivers a timeless anthem of rather uplifting despair, if such is possible. Because things are always getting worse, just turn on the news, which is no reason to stop moving. “I remember a work friend whose younger brother was dying of Hodgkin’s. She loved this song. I’d ask her how things were. She’d raise a triumphant fist and declare, Things Are Getting Worse.” (Philip Random)

929. LTD (life truth + death)

The Jimmy Castor Bunch are mostly known for their one-off mega-hit whose sexual politics were dubious even in 1972. The shock is just how good the rest of the album is — a blast of funk fused psychedelic soul that’s as serious as life, truth and death.

jimmycastorbunch

931. John Sinclair

In which ex-Beatle John cries foul at the imprisonment of his friend John Sinclair (artist, shit-disturber, manager of the MC5) who was busted for two joints of marijuana, thrown in jail for ten years. Welcome to Richard Nixon’s America. Found on 1972’s Sometime in New York City, an album which was not well received at the time. Or as Philip Random puts it, “Definitive proof that Yoko really can’t sing and John, for all his musical genius, still has to at least try for a album to be even half-way good. Feel free to skip this one, except John Sinclair, of course.”

johnyoko-1972