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By Kyle J. Hayes

Since I began this journey through the Greatest Albums of All Time, I’ve never been more excited to write about an album.

And that sentence feels too small for what I’m about to say.

Because this—Bob Marley’s Legend—is not just an album.

It’s a threshold.

A bridge. A sanctuary.

A memory you carry in your chest, even when the music isn’t playing.

I bought it first on cassette.

Played it until the tape hissed like it was exhaling its last breath.

Then again on CD, when silver discs felt like the future.

Later, I spent days—actual days—downloading it piece by piece on Napster, watching the little green bars inch forward like they held salvation.

Now, I pay for Apple Music just to keep it close.

Someday, I’ll buy it on vinyl, not just to play it but to frame it and hang it on my wall like a photograph of someone I once loved and never stopped missing.

I don’t even know where to begin.

Every song is a sermon.

Every note feels like it was written for the version of me that still believes music can heal.

There’s joy in his voice. Resistance.

Love.

Rage.

Truth.

No Woman, No Cry plays, and I’m no longer in my living room—I’m somewhere deeper, surrounded by people I’ve never met, singing along like we’ve known each other all our lives.

Redemption Song still feels like a prayer whispered through clenched teeth.

A man singing not just of freedom but of what it costs to carry hope in a world that demands you bury it.

I try to sing along.

And each time, I feel the pain in my throat, in my lungs.

Not because I’m straining for pitch,

but because I’m not him.

Because what he gave us can’t be imitated.

Only honored.

Legend is a compilation, sure.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

It feels like a conversation.

A reckoning.

A quiet reminder that revolution doesn’t always sound like a gunshot—sometimes, it sounds like a man strumming a guitar, smiling through sorrow, telling you that everything’s gonna be all right, even when the world tells you otherwise.

And that’s what makes this album eternal.

It doesn’t just live in the past.

It meets you where you are.

Wherever that is—joy, heartbreak, exile, return.

You don’t just listen to Legend.

You walk with it.

You let it hold your hand when there’s no one else to reach for.

So yes, it deserves to be on this list.

At the very top, if we’re being honest.

And when I finally hang that vinyl on the wall, it won’t just be decoration.

It will be an altar.

To the man.

To the message.

To the music that keeps playing long after the last note fades.

And if you’ve ever needed to feel seen,

to feel lifted,

to feel human—

Bob Marley left a legend just for you.

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By Kyle J. Hayes

There was a flash of excitement.

That kind of flicker that only comes from nostalgia when it meets recognition.

I saw No Jacket Required on the list, and my brain did what it always does—it leapt ahead of the facts, filled in the blanks with its own beautiful lies, and whispered, “In the Air Tonight.”

I could hear it already.

That low, ominous build.

The silence before the storm.

And then—boom-boom boom-boom-boom-boom—the greatest drum fill in the history of emotionally dramatic air drumming.

I’ve practiced that break. In the car. In the kitchen. At red lights. On the armrest of every couch I’ve ever owned.

It’s not just sound—it’s release. It’s anger, sadness, power, cool.

A universal moment of musical catharsis played out in invisible air with invisible sticks.

And then I looked again.

And there it wasn’t.

“In the Air Tonight” is not on No Jacket Required.

And in that realization, a small part of me sank.

Not because the album isn’t good—it is.

It’s damn good.

But because I’d already emotionally committed to that song, to that moment.

And now I was sitting with something else entirely.

But still, we have No Jacket Required.

And yes, it deserves to be here.

Because Phil Collins didn’t just make hits—he defined the sound of a decade.

His fingerprints are all over the ’80s.

Not just through his work but also through production credits, collaborations, and echoes of his sound showing up in places you didn’t expect but somehow always recognized.

He made the drums more than a backdrop—they became a presence.

Gated reverb. That big, cavernous, otherworldly crash that sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away and yet landed directly in your chest.

He turned rhythm into drama. Made percussion the story.

And maybe that’s why I remember the music videos so vividly.

The lighting. The close-ups. The moments he’d stare directly into the camera with that look—detached but deeply aware, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Was it MTV? VH1?

Of course.

Collins thrived in the era of the visual.

He knew how to use the medium—not just to sell records but to create myth.

To make you feel like the man behind the drum kit was carrying a secret.

And sometimes, when the light hit just right, it felt like he might tell you.

There are many great Phil Collins albums, and this is undoubtedly one of them.

No Jacket Required is a snapshot of a man who had perfected his sound and leaned into pop stardom without losing that strange, moody undercurrent that always lingered beneath the surface.

And even if In the Air Tonight isn’t here,

he is.

And maybe—just maybe—another one of his albums will show up on the list.

The fill may be waiting for me there.

And when it comes, I’ll be ready.

Air sticks in hand and Muscle memory intact.

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By Kyle J. Hayes

I knew this day would come.

Not every album on this list could be a masterpiece. Not every record could shake my soul, move my spirit, or make me rethink everything I knew about music. Everything can’t always be perfect, or great, or even good, for that matter.

But I never expected this.

When I saw Appetite for Destruction on the list, my first thought wasn’t intrigue—it was suspicion. Who did they pay to get here? And more importantly, could I get a refund for the time I was about to waste?

Still, I pressed play.

And for the next hour, I endured what can only be described as an auditory assault. A grating, unrelenting, screeching sound that drowned out everything else—the guitars, the drums, the songwriting, the legacy of every other hair band that ruled the ’80s. That sound, of course, was the voice of Axl Rose.

Some call it iconic. I call it unbearable.

Axl Rose does not sing so much as he wails—a tortured, high-pitched, feline howl that claws its way through every track, turning what might have been decent rock songs into exercises in endurance. At times, it felt less like an album and more like a punishment, which should come with a disclaimer: Warning: prolonged exposure may result in existential questioning of musical taste and life choices.

And it’s not that Guns N’ Roses isn’t good. They are. Slash is a great guitarist. The band had energy, attitude, and undeniable influence. But the tragedy is that none of that comes through when the most dominant sound on the album is the screeching equivalent of a dying cat.

And so, I am left with only one wish.

Whoever was paid to put this album on the list—I hope they hear Axl Rose’s voice in their sleep for eternity.

Because Appetite for Destruction does not belong here. Not among the greats. Not on this list. Not in a world where other bands from the same era—bands with stronger vocals, deeper songwriting, and actual listenability—exist.

I came in skeptical. I leave vindicated.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to cleanse my ears with something else.

By Kyle J. Hayes

Some albums sound cool. And then some albums are cool.

Albums so effortlessly smooth, so drenched in style and swagger, that just pressing play feels like stepping into another world. Albums that don’t just make you nod your head but make you walk differently. Makes you feel different.

And Superfly?

Man. Superfly is one of those albums.

Curtis Mayfield didn’t just create a soundtrack—he created a mood. A statement. A soul-funk symphony that floats, struts, and glides with a kind of self-assuredness that cannot be faked. The grooves are deep, the horns are sharp, and the basslines carry themselves with the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly who he is and what he’s about.

And so, the question becomes—does listening to one of the coolest albums ever make you cooler by default?

I wish it did.

I wish just spending time with Superfly was enough to give you that Curtis Mayfield grace, that effortless style, that ability to turn the act of being into something cinematic. But cool isn’t just about what you hear—it’s about how you carry it.

And Superfly carries itself differently than most.

Because, yes, it’s funky. Yes, it’s soulful. Yes, it moves. But listen closely, and you’ll realize Mayfield wasn’t just making a soundtrack to a blaxploitation film—he was challenging it. At a time when Hollywood was painting drug dealers and hustlers as heroic figures, Mayfield turned the mirror back. Songs like Pusherman and Freddie’s Dead aren’t glorifications but indictments. They’re warnings wrapped in some of the most infectious grooves ever recorded.

That’s what makes this album deserving of its place on the list.

Because it’s not just a great soundtrack. It’s not just a collection of songs. It is commentary, art, and a document of its time that still feels as relevant now as it did then.

So, no, just listening to Superfly won’t make you cool.

But understanding it? Feeling it? Letting it seep into your bones until you carry yourself with that same quiet confidence, that same unshakable awareness of self?

That just might.

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By Kyle J. Hayes

In 1984, Born in the U.S.A. was everywhere.

It was the sound of shopping malls, car stereos, and bars with televisions blasting MTV. It was a staple, a part of the background noise of America, a song that seemed as inescapable as the country it was named after. And back then, I heard it only on the surface—just another piece of pop culture, another anthem.

And, to be honest, I never thought Bruce Springsteen could sing.

My friends used to joke about it—Bruce Can’t Singsteen. That ragged, gravelly voice, more of a shout than a melody, seemed to lack the polish of the pop stars ruling the airwaves. And so, I didn’t give him much thought.

But the years have a way of changing the way you hear things.

Because Born in the U.S.A. isn’t just an anthem. It isn’t just a fist-pumping, stadium-shaking chant. And I still wonder how many people who blasted it from their radios ever actually listened—truly listened—to what Springsteen was saying. Because beneath the massive drums and the stadium-filling chorus, there is a story. A deeply American story, but not the one that blind patriotism wants to claim.

This is an album of struggle, disillusionment, lost dreams, and broken promises. Born in the U.S.A.—the song, not just the album, is not a celebration but a lament. The story of a Vietnam veteran, discarded by the same country that sent him to war, returning home to nothing. It is anger wrapped in a fist-pumping rhythm, a song of protest mistaken for a declaration of pride.

And that, in many ways, is the brilliance of this album.

Springsteen tells stories—real ones—the kind that don’t make it into history books, the kind that plays out in the quiet corners of small-town bars and kitchen tables stacked with unpaid bills. Downbound Train aches with heartbreak. I’m on Fire burns with restrained longing. My Hometown is a reflection of a place that no longer exists, a memory slipping further into the past with each passing day.

And then there is Glory Days.

I didn’t think much of it when I was younger. But now? Now, I hear it differently. Now I understand the weight of nostalgia, the way time slips away before you even realize it is moving. Now I know what it feels like to sit across from an old friend, talking about how things used to be, knowing—deep down—that those days aren’t coming back.

That’s the power of this album. It isn’t just about America. It’s about the people who live in it, struggle in it, and survive. It is about time, regret, and resilience. And that is why it belongs on this list—because it is not just great music but greatstorytelling.

I hear it now.

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By Kyle J. Hayes

Some albums exist within their time. Others are their time.

You cannot think of the late ’70s—its fashion, excess, and nightlife—without thinking of Saturday Night Fever. You cannot think of Saturday Night Fever without thinking of the Bee Gees. And you cannot listen to this soundtrack without feeling the irresistible pull to move somewhere deep in your bones.

I knew what was coming before I even hit play. I’ve heard these songs before—many, many times. But there is something about experiencing them again, consciously, with the intent to really listen.

And within seconds, I was gone.

If not for the fact that I was driving, I would have been doing a terrible impression of John Travolta’s dance scene, pointing my fingers in the air and gliding across an imaginary light-up floor. Instead, I smiled. I sang along. I let myself be taken.

And that is the thing about this album—it takes you.

The moment Stayin’ Alive begins that walking bassline strutting forward like it owns the room, you are in it. The world outside fades, and for a little while, you exist somewhere else—somewhere electric, somewhere vibrant, somewhere that smells of sweat and spilled drinks and neon light.

And for those who scoff at disco, I have to ask—why?

Is it because they couldn’t dance? Because it became cool to dismiss it without ever giving it a chance? Because they never understood that the truly cool people who walked onto the dancefloor without hesitation never cared what anyone thought in the first place?

Disco was more than music. It was movement. It was freedom. It was a moment when the dancefloor became a sanctuary, where rhythm could shake off the weight of the world and where, for just a few hours, the music was all that mattered.

And this album? It captures that perfectly.

I cannot stress enough how much it has earned its place on this list. If you doubt it or feel a little blah, put it on. Let the bass hit, the falsettos soar, and the groove take over.

And then, let’s see those moves.

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