Tag: blog

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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By Kyle J. Hayes

There is a mythology surrounding Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is a kind of unquestioned reverence that borders on gospel. They say it is the album that changed everything, the moment when pop music became art. It is the greatest Beatles album, the greatest album, period.

And yet, I wonder.

Not about its influence—because that is undeniable. Not about its ambition—because that is clear. But about the conditions under which it was made and whether those conditions elevated or limited its greatness.

The sheer fact that this album was inspired by the group’s use of LSD is mind-boggling—no pun intended. The Beatles, already masters of melody, storytelling, and sonic experimentation, dove headfirst into psychedelia, allowing their altered states of mind to guide their creative process. And what they produced was bold, colorful, and immersive—a kaleidoscopic fever dream that still ripples through the music industry today.

But genius under the influence is a paradox.

Because it makes you ask—what could have been accomplished with a clear and focused mind? What if the experimentation had been intentional rather than accidental? What if the creativity had been sharpened instead of unchained?

That’s where Sgt. Pepper’s loses me.

It is innovative, yes. It is good, yes. But great? That is a different conversation. And to call this the Beatles’ greatest album feels like a disservice—not just to the band but to the very work that came after it.

If you strip away the myth, the influence, the cultural moment, what you are left with is a solid, experimental, sometimes brilliant, sometimes indulgent album that does not hit as hard as their later work. Abbey Road, The White Album, Revolver—these are the albums where the Beatles felt fully formed, where the songwriting reached its peak, and where the music became something truly transcendent.

Sgt. Pepper’s was a necessary step, but not the destination.

Yes, it belongs on the list. But not as their greatest. It was good, maybe even essential, but great? That came later.