Billy Joel, The Nylon Curtain (1982)

Billy Joel’s eighth album appeared in early 1982, his first studio record since John Lennon’s murder in December 1980. It’s an unambiguous homage to Lennon and the Beatles, with an assortment of pop-infused, melodic tunes with layered production and Joel often sounding uncannily like late- and post-Beatles Lennon.

Thematically, The Nylon Curtain is aimed at baby boomers, with most of its songs’ subjects mattering more to Joel’s then-contemporaries (aged 30 and up) than to the preteen I was when I first heard it. In any case, the record somehow landed with me early on, and has stuck with me since.

The opener “Allentown” delivers an uncomplicated blue-collar-blues-type message about small-town America getting left behind in the wake of so-called progress. Not really identifying much with that, I’ve always applied the frustrations and unease of the town’s inhabitants to anyone unhappy with how life has turned out.

Besides, that “getting very hard to stay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ayeyeayea” is friggin’ irresistible. Only robots avoid singing along.

The grown-up “Laura” coming next utterly confused me as a kid (though the f-bomb landing in the middle intrigued). Now I find it one of the LP’s better tracks, a frustrated meditation on a destructive relationship. “Pressure” follows, smartly matching an urgent sound to urgent lyrics, though its impression is muted for me after oversaturation in the ’80s.

I recall Rolling Stone’s uptight Dave Marsh saying we shouldn’t like “Goodnight Saigon,” the six-and-a-half-minute paean to Vietnam vets closing Side One he insisted was shallow. But Marsh always wanted Joel and everyone else to be Bruce Springsteen. Meanwhile, I liked the song then, and I still do. And again, I can’t help but apply its message more broadly, thinking not just of doomed soldiers but how we’re all going down, eventually. Together or otherwise.

The first three tracks of Side Two aren’t remarkable but carry us along okay. The first two, “She’s Right on Time” and “A Room of Our Own,” are catchy if repetitive, and the downbeat “Surprises” a little tedious.

Then comes “Scandinavian Skies,” which Joel would introduce in concert as “the weirdest one off the new album.” Evoking “I Am the Walrus” and other “Blue album” tracks, the song ostensibly describes an international tour yet weirdly conjures up the fog of war. It’s a triumph, as is the closer, a post-modern, self-reflexive ballad titled “Where’s the Orchestra?”

Like pretty much the entire disc, “Where’s the Orchestra?” suggests a kind of existential loneliness caused by the failure of expectations. The singer describes an absurd-sounding experience of going to a show he mistakenly thought was a musical.

A larger meaning, though, is obvious, especially coming at the end of this group of songs -- life fails us, and we find ourselves alone at the end with nothing but stories we’ve collected along the way. The reprise of the “Allentown” melody -- another Beatlesque thing to do -- emerging amid the fade out reminds us of this fact. A brilliant touch, and easily my favorite moment from any Joel LP.

Harry Nilsson, Nilsson Schmilsson (1971)

For some he’s the “wha-wha” guy from Midnight Cowboy (on which he sings “Everybody’s Talkin’”). For others the name Harry Nilsson evokes “Me and My Arrow” and that funny cartoon about a land of pointy-headed people. Still others recall how the Beatles once dubbed him their favorite American performer.

For me Harry Nilsson’s legacy continues largely in replays of a half-dozen albums from the late ’60s and early ’70s, particularly the eclectic Nilsson Schmilsson.

A perfectly-constructed breakfast bowl of pure pop, “Gotta Get Up” kicks it off. The song has a carnivalesque feel, marked by a driving piano and well-placed accordion, with Nilsson’s vocal during the chorus uncannily squeezing in between beats. A forward-looking beginning to the day/album.

The equally upbeat “Driving Along” follows, though its message is less bright, describing as it does people separating from one another rather than getting together. A stripped down, inspired version of Louis Jordan’s “Early in the Morning” comes next -- nothing but Nilsson’s vocal vamping plus a sparse organ echoing through a large, empty space, the sound kind of mirroring the speaker’s melancholy. (Also fits well with that cover photo.)

Then comes “The Moonbeam Song,” one of three genuine tearjerkers on the LP. Nilsson probably never sounded sweeter, even when describing the “bits of crap” along the bottom of a fence. Mesmerizing stuff. The first side concludes with “Down,” bookending the opener in which we got “up.” Like that first track, this one reminds us of the Beatles, too, especially “I’m Down” which similarly belies the speaker’s apparently depressed state with a rousing, rockin’ rhythm.

Side Two begins with the number-one smash and AM radio staple “Without You.” Originally a Badfinger throwaway, Nilsson turns it into a full-blown romantic epic, unembarrassingly melodramatic and cinematic in scope. Next is “Coconut,” and the juxtaposition couldn’t be more jarring. A faux-Carib novelty tune, Nilsson’s increasingly energetic reiteration of the nonsensical verses and chorus is impossible to listen to without smiling -- the perfect cure for the previous track’s despair.

“Let the Good Times Roll” is the last of the record’s three covers, another old R&B classic that is well-handled, though amid such brilliance seems relatively less notable. The raucous “Jump Into the Fire” follows, the LP’s loudest, most manic jam. At seven-plus minutes, the song always evokes (for me) Mo Tucker’s hard-pounding percussion from the old Velvet Underground, or even “Hallogallo” by Neu!

The meditative, achingly beautiful “I’ll Never Leave You” closes the record. One of those “it always gets me” kind of songs, the lyrics effectively evoke the transience of life and the importance of making real, meaningful connections during the short time we have. The track also invites the listener to look back over the album as a whole -- and indeed, most of Nilsson’s oeuvre -- and consider how those twin themes of loneliness and love tend to underpin his every expression.

Can’t recommend Nilsson Schmilsson enough. Kind of funny to think Nilsson would give his best album such a self-effacing name.

King Crimson, Red (1974)

By the time King Crimson’s seventh studio LP, Red, hit the racks in late 1974, the influential prog-rock outfit had already been through numerous line-up changes, having been trimmed to what was essentially an ultra-muscular power trio consisting of leader Robert Fripp (guitars, keys, mellotron), John Wetton (bass, vocals), and Bill Bruford (drums, percussion).

The album features important contributions by a fourth member, David Cross (violin, keys), who left the group during its recording, plus a well-utilized horn section adding significant oomph throughout. The album would mark the last studio work by this, already the third different version of the band, after which the Crimson would close up shop for half a decade until Fripp reformed the band in the early 1980s.

A concept-heavy group often found pursuing Fripp’s obscure aesthetic theories, King Crimson can be challenging at times, even for ardent fans. When it comes to the album format, there are a number of Crimson discs I enjoy from start to finish, although frequently there will arrive tracks (or passages within tracks) that almost seem designed to sabotage the listening experience in some fashion. The more-accessible-than-average Red is something of an exception in this regard. Indeed, of all the band’s titles it is the one I probably return to the most, and always stick with from beginning to end.

Three tracks of roughly equal length -- each hard-rockin’ in an almost commercial way -- easily carry the listener through Side One. The title track, a blistering instrumental, aurally approximates all of the connotations of the color: urgent warnings, dreadful sin, blood simple anger. Prototypical power-prog, the track could easily augment documentary footage of building implosions and/or land speed record attempts.

“Fallen Angel” follows, interchanging soft, mournfully-sung verses describing some NYC street deal gone wrong with an aggressive chorus in which the title is cried out repeatedly. A song about a person riding a bus while dreaming he’s in a plane about to crash, “One More Red Nightmare,” then closes the side. “Nightmare” reprises the potent “Red” with more head-bobbin’ heaviness, despite the song’s multiple time signatures. Former Crimson member Ian McDonald’s alto sax adds further punch during the track’s final minutes, just before the song suddenly stops -- like “I Want You/She’s So Heavy” (or, perhaps, a crash landing).

Side Two begins with the eight-and-a-half minute live improv “Providence,” easily the LP’s most avant-garde track. Starting with a lone violin meandering quietly amid a large, vacant-seeming space, other noises (overamped bass, cymbals, other percussion, guitar) gradually populate the area, building to a fusion-y fuss before resolving inconsequentially.

“Starless” closes the record, a 12-minute ballad that begins ethereally with a melancholic mellotron, Fripp’s fuzz pedal, and another earnest vocal performance by Wetton, moves through a lengthy, pulsating middle section building in intensity like a series of sirens approaching, then concludes with a loud restatement of the theme by the ensemble.

Presenting what might be called a darker shade of Crimson, Red is both consistently heavy and consistently satisfying.

Klaatu, Klaatu (1976)

Klaatu is best-known as the band rumored to have been a secret mid-1970s revival of the Beatles. That notion first began shortly after the release of their first album, a self-titled debut landing on Earth seemingly out of nowhere in the late summer of 1976.

Following a similar trajectory as all of those “Paul is dead” stories once did, various clues were cited as evidence that the record indeed was the work of the Fab Four in disguise. It would take a few months, in fact, for the band’s true identity as a Toronto-based trio to be revealed once and for all, at which point the band apparently suffered some backlash for not being more forthcoming sooner.

Klaatu would ultimately record five LPs before disbanding in the early 1980s, though never came close to matching the inventiveness and fun of that sometimes-spellbinding debut. The LP features a nifty symmetry, with eight songs, four per side, all pop-song length other than the two double-length tunes that begin and end the record in bookend-like fashion, both of which evoke sci-fi themes reminding us the band’s name was derived from the 1951 classic The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Tiptoeing in quietly amid the sounds of bugs buzzing and a scratchy record effect, the seven-plus minute “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft” slowly builds into a catchy, melodic anthem of peace between planets. At times -- especially during the early, quiet passages -- the song is almost unbearably precocious, both lyrically with its summer-of-love-sounding sentiment delivered nearly a decade late and musically with that syrupy-sweet mellotron pushing things along. (In other words, it isn’t that strange to learn that the Carpenters once covered the tune.) But in the end the song stands as an utterly unique and accomplished introduction to the band.

“California Jam” follows, an upbeat, bouncing number that includes an a cappella-sung break that evokes the Beach Boys and a c’mon-let’s-go shout of “California!” near the end that could not sound more like Paul McCartney. (Seriously -- it’s uncanny.) The weird, potentially off-putting “Anus of Uranus” follows, a grittier-sounding tune that sounds like it might have been more fun to play than it necessarily is to listen to, although it doesn’t disturb the album’s flow that much.

Side One ends with the very Beatlesque “Sub-Rosa Subway” which tells the story of Alfred Beach who masterminded the first New York subway in the late-19th century. The tune pleasantly marches through the horn-and-percussion-laden soundscapes of “Hello Goodbye,” “It’s All Too Much,” as well as the “Strawberry Fields” and “I Am the Walrus” fadeouts.

Side Two opens with “True Life Hero,” a pedestrian pop song with a not-too-interesting message that features a kind of literal-minded approach to its subject that one finds on the band’s later albums, making them (for me) a little less enjoyable. Next comes “Doctor Marvello,” a spooky little tune that inches along with sitars, backward loops, and other freakiness. (Don’t ask me what’s about, though -- I’ve no idea.)

Then comes the inspired “Sir Bodsworth Rugglesby III,” an odd, novelty-type song that might recall the Beatles’ detours to allow Ringo a turn at the mic. Sung with a growly, faux-Brit accent and backed by joyous-sounding choruses of men and women, the song shares the legend of a wayward explorer, the “only man who’s ever been to hell and come back alive.”

Finally comes “Little Neutrino,” the title of which always makes me think of Stanislaw Lem’s great sci-fi novel, His Master’s Voice (1968). It’s a moody -- even dramatic -- eight-and-a-half minute psychedelicized opus that employs heavily-effected voices, keyboards, and other instruments to build a dense aural bed that successfully evokes the idea of floating through space. A tiny mouse squeak punctuates the final fade, a sound that opens the band’s next record, Hope, as a kind of goofy segue.

As stated, following that segue to the band’s subsequent output will prove disappointing to most, I imagine, although there are a few pop gems scattered among the later titles, too. Still, I’d recommend flipping the disc over and listening to “Calling Occupants” again.

Peter Gabriel, Peter Gabriel (1980)

As most know, well before he sledgehammered his way to pop stardom via MTV in the mid-80s, Peter Gabriel spent the late 60s and early 70s fronting the U.K. band Genesis during its formative prog-rock years.

After leaving Genesis in 1975, Gabriel began his solo career with four studio albums, all confusingly self-titled. While all have nifty moments scattered throughout, Gabriel’s third outing -- the “Melt” record produced by pop-minded Steve Lillywhite (XTC, U2) -- has always stood out for me as the best of the quartet.

The record kicks off with “Intruder,” introduced by a pounding “gated” drum sound played by Gabriel’s former bandmate, Phil Collins (and which would come to be associated with much of Collins’ solo work). What follows is a kind of dramatic monologue by the titular character, creepily whispered over a suspenseful amalgam of percussion, guitars, synth, and piano.

“No Self-Control” follows, a more upbeat but equally anxiety-filled track that rapidly builds into a kind of horror-movie like crescendo, with Kate Bush’s backing vocals adding chills along the way. A short instrumental, “Start,” comes next, briefly combining synths and a Dick Morrisey sax solo in a kind of maudlin yet moving meditation. That segues into the rocking “I Don’t Remember,” a loud, chant-like petition sung by an amnesiac.

Then comes the record’s finest moment, the mini-opera “Family Snapshot,” another dramatic reading, this time sharing the thought processes of a political assassin. The narrative gets a bit literal in places, but is nonetheless effective, and provides the perfect setting for Gabriel’s brand of theatrics. It’s an unforgettable track, starting softly as we meet the character and learn a bit about his motivations, building to a loud climax as he strikes, then returning to a quiet coda to reveal the real reason for the shooter’s desire “to be somebody.” Side One then closes with “And Through the Wire,” a pleasant bit of pop the meaning of which is a bit elusive to me.

Side Two opens with the quirky “Games Without Frontiers,” also prominently featuring Bush on backing vocals. The highly original, anti-war track marches along in a military-like fashion, the association encouraged further by some Bridge Over the River Kwai-type whistling. Next is “Not One of Us,” a sometimes-groovy, sometimes-frightening observation about exclusivity, the pounding, tribal-sounding coda of which aurally approximates a bloodthirsty mob running down a hapless scapegoat.

The brief “Lead a Normal Life” that follows is a pleasant, mostly instrumental track that offers a somewhat superficial, haiku-like portrait of mental illness. The record concludes with the seven-plus minute “Biko,” Gabriel’s commanding condemnation of apartheid that memorializes Steve Biko, the activist who died while in police custody in 1977. The context has fallen away, but the message of protest against authoritarian regimes is still forcefully delivered, a remarkably successful pairing of politics and pop.

A consistently satisfying collection of arty pop/rock, Peter Gabriel (1980) is a real achievement, the product of an artist who after a lengthy apprenticeship had finally discovered a suitable form of expression.

Can, Ege Bamyasi (1972)

Ege Bamyasi is the fourth album by Krautrock pioneers Can, first released in 1972. This is the one with the picture of a can of okra on the cover -- a playful reference to the band’s name.

Although I also dig Can’s earlier, more obviously avant-garde or “psychedelic” LPs, I tend to play those less frequently than Ege Bamyasi and other so-called “classic”-era discs, records which on the whole are comparatively less noisy and a bit more focused sounding.

That career turn began in part with the band’s prior release, the brilliant double-LP Tago Mago (1971), although that one still has a few a those free-form “freak outs” along the way that interrupt the flow. By contrast, Ege Bamyasi presents seven relatively more accessible tracks, even producing the band’s first top 10 single in Germany.

A short burst of feedback heralds the opening track, the nine-plus minute “Pinch.” The song presents a highly funky, Electric Miles era-type groove over which Damo Suzuki, the band’s Japanese lead singer, improvises nonsensical word associations (in English).

The next track, “Sing Swan Song,” begins with the sound of running water, followed by a soft, lullaby-like tune that gradually fades up to reveal what sounds a bit like an incantation amid its many layers of effects-laden guitars. By contrast, the driving “One More Night” that closes out Side One features crisper-sounding clarity, with harmonics propelling the tune forward not unlike an Eno-era Talking Heads track.

Side Two begins with a moody number titled “Vitamin C” in which Suzuki enigmatically croons to someone about losing his or her vitamin C (a symbol for strength?). The track throbs along, giving Can’s legendary bassist Holger Czukay lots of room to caper about, before finally resolving into the uncanny electronic warbling that becomes the next dish, the ten-plus minute “Soup.” After a few minutes of percussive head-bopping, “Soup” slips back into the avant-garde, with an extended sequence of weird chirrups, crashes, sirens, and shouting.

All is made nice again, though, with “I’m So Green,” a track whose super catchy, toe-tapping vibe evokes thoughts of a band of hipsters sneakily sauntering down some trippy sidewalk. The LP then concludes with “Spoon” -- the single -- which begins with metronome-like clicking over a vaguely Eastern sounding organ, then builds into yet another fun, trance-like slice of Krautrockin’ pop.

Julian Cope, the post-punk rocker who has authored an entire book on the musical genre Can helped to launch (Krautrocksampler), refers to Ege Bamyasi as “the closest to a pop LP that Can ever got,” full of “clear cut songs with grooves of delightful melody and moment, plus a teen-appeal that still leaves me gasping with love for Damo Suzuki.”

There are other Can titles that demonstrate a similar accessibility, but Ege Bamyasi may indeed be the most consistently “poppy” of the bunch. A good place to start, I’d say, if looking for somewhere to open your first Can.

Tortoise, Millions Now Living Will Never Die (1996)

Tortoise is a multi-piece instrumental outfit from Chicago who first formed in the early 1990s. They bear affinities to 70s progressive rock and other fusion-based groups, although their sound is quite original and ultimately hard to classify.

Millions is the group's second studio album, following a self-titled debut from a couple of years before. It is one of those discs I've found myself returning to again and again, both as an ambient soundtrack for writing or other activities as well as a densely-packed, sonically-rich record that rewards careful attention, often revealing something new with each listen.

Side One is entirely taken up by the 21-minute long "Djed," a tremendous, multipart triumph of aural architecture.

The track begins with a kind of rhythmic rumbling soon shadowed by a lurking bass line, the combination providing a kind of ominous feel to the proceedings. Soon the sounds resolve into a kind of medium-tempo electronic groove that is very cinematic-seeming, like we're moving through the opening credits of a low-budget indie offering the plot of which will likely be hard to predict.

That initial Krautrock-like section pulses along for several minutes, with various elements -- guitar, bass, electric piano, percussion, samples -- fading in and out of prominence before finally resolving into a single helicopter-blade-like sound on top of which the ensemble then proceeds to construct a Steve Reich-like minimalist fortress that occupies us for the next few minutes.

Then, about two-thirds of the way through the track, there occurs what sounds like a tape malfunction -- in fact a clever segue to the next section. (I'll admit the first time I heard this album was on a cassette, and I was convinced the machine really had eaten the tape!) A couple of quiet minutes of driving head-bopping follows, ultimately fading into a leisurely-paced coda that faintly recalls the opening.

Side Two begins with "Glass Museum," a triptych (slow-fast-slow) that seems more modest than it really is after "Djed." For me, that track's opening and closing tend to evoke a similar feeling to Zappa's "Watermelon in Easter Hay," a soothing sound that almost always instantly puts me in a pleasant mood.

Next comes "A Survey," a brief bit of muffled-sounding brooding that serves mostly as a transition to the next track. "The Taut and Tame" begins and ends as an energetic, percussion-driven sonic workout with a short, less frantic detour in between.

"Dear Grandma and Grandpa" follows, probably the least song-like track on the record, consisting mainly of samples and echoing signal-like noises. That one leads into the album's closer, "Along the Banks of Rivers," another quiet, contemplative composition that perhaps recalls some mid-period Pink Floyd experiments.

While other Tortoise discs are also worthwhile -- especially 1998's TNT and 2009's Beacons of Ancestorship -- Millions has always stood out for me as a special disc that perfectly exploits the old LP format, with the multipart "Djed" unifying the first side, and the five tracks on Side Two together providing another suite-like series serving as a neat complement to "Djed."

The Kinks, The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society (1968)

The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society is the sixth studio album by the English band, first appearing in late 1968. The album’s 15 songs all more or less concentrate on ordinary characters and/or subjects, with the English “village green” providing a central location or setting throughout.

The result is a kind of a musical Dubliners or Winesburg, Ohio -- a short-story-slash-pop-song-cycle that ultimately advances a central thesis about so-called modern “progress” and its effects on individuals.

The sing-a-long title track with which the album opens establishes a light, wistful mood from the start, with the lyrics introducing the band as the VGPS, a kind of community service outfit interested in “preserving the old ways from being abused [and] protecting the new ways for me and for you.”

As with many other Ray Davies compositions, there’s an ironic distance to consider here and throughout the record. On the one hand, the LP is a sincere homage to those “old ways,” although I can’t help but always be aware of a more critical undertone as well, one that suggests a more censorious (if sympathetic) view of such (desperate?) clinging to traditions.

The next four songs all similarly articulate a kind of nostalgic “looking back” though in different ways. “Do You Remember Walter?” reminisces about a long-lost friend. “Picture Book” is a more abstract (and upbeat) traipsing through a photo album. “Johnny Thunder” recalls a town tough guy of semi-legendary status. And “Last of the Steam Powered Trains” has the speaker use the metaphor to refer to his own unwillingness to change.

“Big Sky” might have the most infectious melody of any of the tracks, although the uplifting sound belies the song’s existential complaint (the “Big Sky” representing an unfeeling, uncaring God). Side One then concludes with a relatively innocuous -- even sweet -- pastoral ditty, “Sitting By the Riverside.”

Side Two begins with another especially catchy pop gem, “Animal Farm,” this one conveying a Wordsworthian desire to reject urban problems and go back to nature. Then comes “Village Green,” a kind of reprise of the title track that again focuses on the sense of a simpler, richer past having been lost.

For me the next few songs -- “Starstruck,” “Phenomenal Cat,” “All of My Friends Were There,” “Wicked Annabella,” and “Monica” -- are all fine but not as noteworthy as are the other songs on the LP. One could argue as well that the conceptual coherence of the album gets weakened through this sequence just a tad. For example, the Edward Learish “Phenomenal Cat” seems like a weird little detour from the characters and situations of the other songs.

The closer, “People Take Pictures of Each Other,” another reprise-like song (pointing back to “Picture Book”), reaffirms that ironic distance I was mentioning before. Coming at the end of a series of musical “snapshots,” the line “people take pictures of each other just to prove that they really existed” seems to possess an added poignancy.

Gavin Bryars, The Sinking of the Titanic (1975)

This LP originally appeared as the first album issued by Brian Eno’s suitably named Obscure Label. Eno would produce ten LPs in all for the label, all of which spotlighted minimalist-slash-experimental composers like Bryars, Michael Nyman, John Cage, John Adams, and the like.

The record consists of two side-long pieces. Side One presents the title track, a somber, droning, slow-moving dirge that gradually “immerses” the listener (pun intended) over the course of its 24-plus minutes. For those familiar with Eno’s Discreet Music, the effect is not unlike Side Two of that record, in which Pachelbel’s Canon gradually decelerates into a kind of druggy unrecognizability. (Not such a coincidence, as Bryars conducted and co-arranged that performance of "Three Variations on the Canon.")

Apparently an Episcopal hymn, “Autumn,” was the source material for “Sinking,” but it is difficult not to conjure “Amazing Grace” as well. Some added ambient noise in the right channel -- including a recording of a woman survivor of the crash and other musical sounds -- occasionally diverts attention from the strings, but only briefly interrupts the tune’s hypnotic quality.

From a conceptual standpoint, Side Two, taken up by the 26-minute long “Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet,” bears an affinity to “Sinking” insofar as it, too, could be said to illustrate steadfast faith amid adversity. As Bryars tells it, a friend was filming a documentary in London in which he captured a homeless man singing this brief religious tune. Bryars used the short sample (about 20 seconds) and looped it -- think Steve Reich’s “Come Out” or “It’s Gonna Rain” -- then added a slowly-evolving orchestral arrangement to accompany the tramp’s song.

As with “Sinking,” the song moves hardly at all, though the cumulative effect of the repeated message and gradual build-up of accompanying music is nonetheless, well, moving. Stories abound of the song having been played over radio stations and listeners being emotionally affected -- sometimes to tears. The song probably will evoke various associations for different listeners, though something in there -- either the melody or perhaps the overwhelming pathos -- for me always conjures up the Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home.”

The listener’s reaction is probably somewhat affected by the individual’s own faith and/or ability to experience empathy for the homeless man’s seeming perseverance. He reminds me a bit of Felicité in Gustave Flaubert’s short story “A Simple Heart,” one whose unwavering faith despite her poor lot in life seems cause for pity, envy, joy, or celebration, with the reader’s response depending entirely on what his or her own experiences bring to the text.

A side note: I much prefer the original, shorter version of “Jesus’ Blood” to the expanded, embellished version later made for CD. I particularly don’t care for the addition of Tom Waits -- whom I otherwise like -- to the redo of “Jesus’ Blood,” which to me makes the track sound too much like a battle between the singer and the tramp, with the singer ultimately triumphing.

The Soft Boys, Underwater Moonlight (1980)

Recorded at the peak of their preternatural powers, the Soft Boys’ Underwater Moonlight is generally regarded as the band’s one true “masterpiece,” perhaps the only example from their chaotic five-year tenure of an album-length project seen through from beginning to end as a fully realized demonstration of the group’s demented genius.

There had been several memorable singles, a couple of EPs, and one other long-player -- A Can of Bees (1979) -- a crafty collection of cracked classics in its own right (“The Pigworker,” “Leppo and the Jooves,” “The Rat’s Prayer,” “Sandra’s Having Her Brain Out”), all penned by the inimitable Robyn Hitchcock. Still, Bees doesn’t quite possess the unfettered focus of Moonlight.

Side One kicks off with the loud and fun “I Wanna Destroy You,” which reads like an ironic punk anthem -- kind of a clever reimagining of the unfocused aggression so many bands of the late 70s were trying to articulate. It also rocks in a nearly headbanging way. The wonderfully surreal “Kingdom of Love” follows, a pure pop gem that more formally introduces the way-above-average guitar work from Kimberly Rew one finds on this piece of wax. “Positive Vibrations” -- the only non-masterpiece on this side of the LP -- resembles a fast-paced cheer, voicing unfettered optimism (with a little sitar thrown in to make it sound at least a little “weird”). “I Got the Hots” -- possibly my fave track of the bunch -- is an infectious, slinky serenade with bad intentions. The side concludes with “Insanely Jealous,” an incredible, momentum-gathering paean to paranoia that must be heard to be believed.

Side Two opens with what is probably the weakest track of the lot, the generic-sounding “Tonight.” The hard-driving, 7/4-time instrumental “You’ll Have to Go Sideways” comes next -- a nice save -- followed by the freak-out “Old Pervert.” The latter comes in several versions, the best (in my opinion) appearing on the original Armageddon LP, a climactic moment for Rew’s jaw-dropping guitar. The solo (coming -- in that original version -- after Hitchcock spews the line “skin it back”) is a mind-melder. Next is the “The Queen of Eyes” -- an uncanny simalcrum of The Byrds, appropriately twisted into something utterly Soft Boys. The title track that concludes the record is yet another triumph, an endearing, multipart pop workout that neatly punctuates the proceedings.

In the liner notes to The Soft Boys 1976-81, a 1993 double-CD chronicling the band’s twisty career path, Hitchcock recounts a conversation with bassist Matthew Seligman. “‘Look, let’s make this one brilliant album,’” said Hitchcock, adding “‘The world can then end, but at least we’ll know we made it.’”

The Soft Boys’ subsequent demise (setting aside that one-off reunion disc in 2002) does lend an added apocalyptic layer of sorts to this one, heightening the sense of urgency one feels from the initial power chords that ring in the opener, followed closely by the band’s expression of a desire to destroy. And even if the band found it hard to go on afterwards, they did manage to make that one brilliant record that kills.