A batch of Cross Rhythms reviewers consider the merits of 25 mainstream albums

The second song, "Adam Raised A Cain" is of particular interest to us as it shows Springsteen's awareness of the richness of Biblical imagery, probably stemming from his early years at a Catholic school. Like many contemporary rock musicians, Springsteen is astute at seeing the problems but less aware of the solution. "The Promised Land" he longs for is reached by driving not by faith. He longs to escape from the banality of workaday life ("The Factory"), he has deep sympathy for the prostitute trapped with nowhere to turn ("Candy's Room") and knows that a comfortable lifestyle is not enough ("Darkness On The Edge Of Town"). As a poet of post-industrial working class America, Springsteen gives an accurate diagnosis but does not have a cure. "Racing In The Street" may give you a cheap thrill but there is no ultimate redemption in Springsteen's world view. Back in 1978 this record was hailed as a triumph (NME made it Album Of The Year) and it has consistently polled highly in various lists of great albums. 'The Promise: The Darkness On The Edge Of Town Story' was released as a box set in 2010. It has three CDs and three DVDs and shows that Springsteen fans still want more - as evidenced by the many unofficial releases of this material over the years. The Boss is surely an important figure in rock and roll history with some great songs in his back catalogue but, sadly, he seems better at describing the darkness than the light.
Steven Whitehead

1977
Various
Saturday Night Fever: The Original Movie Soundtrack
RSO
The white rock industry was always contemptuous of disco. Disco had evolved from uptown soul music and, with the exception of Hendrix and blues singers, rock culture had no regard for black Americans. And though there were early disco hits - like George McCrae's "Rock You Baby", Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder's "Love To Love You Baby" by and large the culture of clubland was unknown to most pop pickers and rock album buyers. It took a film, an adaptation of a short story by British journo Nik Cohn, The New Tribes Of Saturday Night, to catapult disco culture and disco music to international world renown. And it took a group of Australian-born, UK-based hitmakers to become disco's unlikely talisman. For a while the Bee Gees had been mired in lawsuits, booze and drugs and reduced to playing the Batley Variety Club. But then they signed with Robert Stigwood and cleverly relocated to Miami. There, singing in falsetto and embracing the rhythms of the disco, they emerged with their biggest hit in a decade, the US number one "Jive Talkin'". So like a repetition of that earlier era when white Bill Haley rocked around the clock to world renown and the Joe Turners and Lavern Bakers were air-brushed out of rock 'n' roll history, the disco bandwagon jumpers became the popularisers of disco for mass consumption and the providers of the key tracks in a soundtrack album which was to sell 30 million copies. The Saturday Night Fever film, starring John Travolta, has been called by Q magazine, "one of the great pop films." It was never that. But in the same way a kiss-curled Haley could show countless millions how to jive to a rockin' beat, now a young Travolta in white polyester flairs could show off his moves to those trilling falsettos and hissing high hats and the world audience could take up the call to boogie.

The Bee Gees had originally written and recorded the five original songs for the film, "Stayin' Alive", "Night Fever", "More Than A Woman" (performed in the film and on the soundtrack in two different versions - one by the Bee Gees, the other by the Tavares), "How Deep Is Your Love" and "If I Can't Have You" (sung in the movie by Yvonne Elliman) as part of a regular album. They had no idea about making a soundtrack album. But with two previously recorded Bee Gees tracks "Jive Talkin'" and "You Should Be Dancing" they formed the backbone of a hugely influential soundtrack. Three decades on critics are still divided about the songs in Saturday Night Fever. The same reviewer who thought the eminently pretty "How Deep Is Your Love" "as mushy as day-old Haagen-Dazs" thought "Night Fever" "the album's masterpiece and a fiendishly intelligent pop song." All I add is that the Gibb brothers were at the top of their songwriting game and the blend of that sweet falsetto and the sashaying syncopation is pop at its greatest. The soundtrack contained other gems as well - the fiery Philly soul of the Trammps "Disco Inferno", the crassly catchy discofication of Beethoven by Walter Murphy and a track by the true king of Miami disco KC & The Sunshine Band. This soundtrack heralded the beginning of the disco boom. But though the years that followed led to some seriously grotesque music from untalented Europeans and The Village People there were also some gems of the genre. Unfortunately, it all ended in tears. As journalist Stuart Maconie noted, disco "also begat a nasty little coalition of shock jocks, bonehead metal fans, racists and homophobics which culminated in the unpleasant 'disco sucks' record burning at Cominsky Park, Chicago." As Maconie observed, "It's always possible to tell the worth of a thing by its enemies."

Even decades after disco's golden age pop historians have been inclined to make mistaken generalisations about disco, either dismissing the musical content of its best records or pretending that the sexual excesses that developed in a small number of discos was prevalent across clubland (eg, in the book Saturday Night Forever: The Story Of Disco, authors Alan Jones and Jussi Kantonen describing it as a moment of "total hedonistic excess"). In fact in most of clubland it was never that and the Saturday Night Fever film and soundtrack today remind us of a less jaded age when joy could be found in dancing, however inexpertly, to dance records.
Tony Cummings

1975
Burning Spear
Marcus Garvey
Island
By the '70s I was surrounded by soul music. I had started a soul music record shop Black Wax and I was staff writer for Black Music magazine. But as well as soul I was also bombarded by reggae music. At first Jamaican music was alien to me. 'Screaming Target' by Big Youth was a big seller with Black Wax's Jamaican clientele but I didn't get it. But eventually the constant bombardment to those thunderous bass lines, ricocheting rim shots and sinuous singers made me a reggae fan and with Island Records giving reggae the big push to make Marley, Toots et al big sellers to white rock kids, and my fellow Black Music journalist Carl Gayle returning regularly from JA with batches of blistering imports, I was well up for this album. It sounded great. Shuddering rhythms put together by producer Jack Ruby, backing band The Black Disciples featuring exemplary roots musicians like Earl "Chinna" Smith, Robbie Shakespeare and Tyrone Downie laying down grooves white boys could only dream of and the rough, gutsy bellow of Winston Rodney (Burning Spear himself) rasping out his angry, passionate diatribes with Delroy Hines and Rupert Willington providing the sweet harmonies. The songs themselves were electrifying, "Slavery Days" with its withering denouncement of the racism that still enveloped the earth, and "Give Me" with the unexpected lithe embellishments of Carlton Samuel's flute were particular standouts. But though I enjoyed the "Marcus Garvey" opener with its brisk, undulating rhythm under the halting quaver of Rodney's voice, the lyric began to irk me. I'd done a little reading and discovered that American Garvey was a self-proclaimed prophet who was really no prophet at all and his near-deification by hardcore Rastafarians was nothing short of preposterous. As it turned out, the absurdity of some of Rodney's lyrical pronouncements didn't stop 'Marcus Garvey' from being heralded a classic by liberal rock fans and black militant journos. I remember Idris Walters calling the album, "The nectar from the salt of the earth. . . a defiant artistry built to last." But for me, despite all its compelling musical plusses, the preposterous tenets of Rastafarianism proved impossible to swallow, even when offered in such a delicious musical recipe.
Tony Cummings

1973
King Hannibal
Truth
Aware
The thing about gospel truth is that it can carry its profound message to heal and transform even when delivered by a decidedly unreliable and even ungodly messenger. Since the very first gramophone records appeared there were always plenty of African American artists prepared to sing of truth gleaned from a church raised childhood and stints in gospel choirs while seemingly remaining untransformed or back-slidden (it often being impossible to ascertain which). The music performed by such artists could swing wildly from the deeply spiritual to the luridly pornographic at a drop of a recording session and today's R&B Hall Of Fame contains many figures who demonstrated a spiritual schizophrenia in their lifestyle and songs. Back in 1973 when I first heard the 'Truth' album I hadn't grasped such nuances of African American culture even though I'd spent close to 15 years absorbing black American music. All I discerned at that time was that soul music/rhythm and blues was a vast reservoir of great music and that nearly all the singers whose music I idolised had cut their musical teeth in the Church.

In 1973 I heard a brilliant soul single called "The Truth Shall Make You Free" by King Hannibal. I'd long admired the occasional singles of James Shaw otherwise known as The Mighty Hannibal or King Hannibal. This larger than life figure in outlandish clothes and a pink turban had previously grabbed my attention with a searing piece of deep soul which was also a powerful anti-Vietnam war song, "Hymn No 5". In '73 "The Truth Shall Make You Free" had just the same impact on me. Hannibal had updated his sound and it had some Hendrix-style guitar which bit home. The lyric too was a powerful denouncement of heroin abuse, a bit like James Brown's "King Heroin". The subsequent album, bought as an import, had more of Hannibal's soulful vocals and some more flourishes of rock guitar. But it wasn't as good as the single and I lost touch with the singer's erratic career. In fact, I lost touch with soul music. After a turbulent period in the USA I'd returned to the UK completely disengaged from the obsessive soul record collecting that had been the focal point of my life. Some wilderness years followed and by 1980 I was battered and broken. Of the tens of thousands of records I had once obsessively listened to it was a line from this track that would often come back and haunt me. "The truth shall make you free" seemed to perfectly sum up my conviction that I was a prisoner, trapped in my own prison of selfishness. I had no idea what this truth was that could release me from my cell. I even fantasised about going on a spiritual quest - to the Himalayas or somewhere - to try and find a guru who could explain this truth to me. But then a back-slidden Christian explained to me that "the truth shall make you free" wasn't just a line from a King Hannibal R&B hit but were the words of Jesus Christ. And astonished though I was within weeks I found myself free from my prison. Decades later, as a Christian journalist, I began to research the life of Hannibal, this Atlanta soulman who was a key figure in the events leading up to my conversion. It seemed he had made many bad choices in his life. He'd worked as a pimp in Los Angeles, got into heroin, recorded semi-pornographic songs and to this day, I've no idea whether this loose cannon soulman ever settled into a church. But whatever his character defects he was for me a powerful messenger of truth.
Tony Cummings

1973
Bread
The Best Of Bread
Elektra
This multi-platinum compilation, when released in 1973, seemed to demonstrate that Bread's frontman and songwriter, David Gates, was right up there with the McCartneys and Bacharachs as a composer of truly exceptional, melodic pop songs. I say seemed to, because after gradually through the '70s Gates seemed to lose his way creatively and where once his songs were poignant and melodically captivating they gradually became more mundane and sometimes downright banal. Probably contributing to this decline were the ongoing squabbles inside Bread, particularly between Gates and Bread's other songwriter, Jimmy Griffin, with the group breaking up and reforming on two or three occasions. But those early '70s singles, gathered together here, remain classics of their kind. "Make It With You" made number one in the US in June 1970 and remains as wistfully haunting decades on. The romantic pop rock of Bread helped define the sound of the early '70s and those Gates-led gems, originally from the 'On The Waters' and 'Manna' albums, were haunting delights and "It Don't Matter To Me", "If", "Everything I Own" and "Baby I'm-a Want You" the prototype for countless lesser attempts to make classy harmony pop. No doubt some rockers will find Gates' wistfully pure tones and songs of reflective love "cheesy". But in truth they were a high point in the development of mass appeal pop songs.
Tony Cummings

1968
Jimi Hendrix
Electric Ladyland
Polydor
Building on the success of his previous two releases 'Are You Experienced?' and 'Axis: Bold As Love', Hendrix chose to up sticks from his London base in the spring of 1968 to the newly opened Record Plant Studios in New York to record his third and final studio album - its original sleeve infamously garnished by a horde of naked women much against Hendrix's will at the time. As the recording progressed, it became clear that things had changed and Hendrix's perfectionism soon drew a wedge between himself and producer Chas Chandler - who objected principally to an increasing number of hangers-on in the studio and a perceived lack of preparation prior to recording - resulting in Chandler walking out early on in proceedings. With Hendrix reportedly recording the album's "Gypsy Eyes" over 40 times in an attempt to nail the perfect take, bassist Noel Redding also became frustrated and would occasionally leave the studio to cool down only to find on his return that Hendrix himself had re-recorded Redding's bass part. Nonetheless, Redding stuck around and, despite the tensions surrounding its recording, 'Electric Ladyland' is a monument to Hendrix's genius which warranted enough quality material to secure its release as a double album. Opening with a psychedelic mish-mash of sound effects, Hendrix preaches love in the somewhat lightweight "Have You Ever Been (To Electric Ladyland)" before getting down to brass tacks in the Chandler-produced and paper and comb-laden "Crosstown Traffic" which sees Hendrix at the height of his music and lyrical brilliance. Whilst "Crosstown Traffic" and a definitive version of Bob Dylan's "All Along The Watchtower" were certainly radio-friendly, a 15 minute long blues exposé "Voodoo Child" sees Hendrix move away from the three minute single formula in what by many is seen as the high point of the album.

Acknowledging his black musical roots, "Voodoo Child" is a moody powerhouse of slow blues that owes a great deal to preceding bluesmen such as Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf's Hubert Samlin and Buddy Guy whilst simultaneously setting the precedence for blues guitarists of the future. Featuring Traffic's Steve Winwood on organ, Jack Casady of Jefferson Airplane replacing Redding on bass and Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell still on the drummer's stool, the recorded jam is notable for the intuitive instrumental interaction between Hendrix and Winwood amidst Hendrix's dubious claims of having been set on an eagle's wing by, er, mountain lions shortly after birth only to be taken to the outskirts of infinity. Elsewhere, Dylan's keyboardist Al Kooper checks in on the funky "Long Hot Summer Night" whilst Band Of Gypsys drummer Buddy Miles alongside Freddie Smith on sax shine on the laidback and presumably cigarette smoke-filled "Rainy Day, Dream Away". In terms of lyrical content, Hendrix adds weight to the overall expression of love of the time - promiscuous or otherwise - and even ponders an apocalyptic subterranean future in the trippy "1983...(A Merman I Should Turn To Be)". "Voodoo Child" paints Hendrix as an all powerful supernatural being and, despite an argument that he was deeply involved in the occult, it may also be the case that he was simply referencing the same murky spiritual world that Muddy Waters did in the likes of "Gypsy Woman" and "Hoochie Coochie Man" two decades earlier. This vein is continued in the album's final track "Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)" which sees Hendrix pull off a powerful wah wah infested guitar performance that sums up this eclectic album but also Hendrix's tragically short-lived but stunning recording career.
Lins Honeyman

1965
The Beatles
Rubber Soul
Parlophone
The Fab Four's sixth album released late in 1965 marks the point where the band had mastered the art of writing the perfect pop song and began to mature and experiment a little. 'Rubber Soul' was the first western pop record to feature a sitar (played by George on "Norwegian Wood") sparking the '60s trend for bands to incorporate unusual instruments into their work; it arguably features the first Beatles song not written on the subject of love (the smart and cutting "Nowhere Man") and there's certainly a little of Dylan's folk rock influence entering their sound. The album features some of John's best work: "Drive My Car" is the perfect opening number with a twist that still raises a smile and the oft-covered "In My Life" is beautifully bittersweet. Unfortunately, though, the album closes with Lennon's threatening "Run For Your Life" - a song that probably isn't as in-character as the listener might like to believe. Harrison's songwriting took a great leap forward at this time too and 'Rubber Soul' features two of his compositions - the grooving "Think For Yourself" and the sublime Mersey jangle of "If I Needed Someone". The album also includes one of McCartney's great love songs, the beautiful "Michelle", which is part-sung in French to great effect. From this point on The Beatles' career got a little weirder and more experimental and many would argue that 'Rubber Soul' is their finest work. It's certainly up there with 'Revolver' and 'Sgt Pepper'.
Peter Timmis

1964
Jerry Lee Lewis
Live At The Star Club, Hamburg
Philips
In 1964 Jerry Lee Lewis' career seemed set on a relentless downward spiral. Once he'd been a pivotal figure in rock 'n' roll history, his blistering boogie piano and snarling vocals making songs like "Whole Lotta Shakin'" and "Great Balls Of Fire" as excitingly primeval as anything in the charts. His intuitive fusion of hillbilly and rhythm 'n' blues boogie had helped forge a new style, dubbed rockabilly, and while the hits continued he and Sun Records seemed unassailable. But his career took a huge knock after a media scandal followed his marriage to an underage cousin and the Beatles hadn't yet reintroduced the world to the rock 'n' roll originators of the '50s through their own interpretations. And so it was in 1964 that Jerry Lee accepted a booking at the same Hamburg nightclub which was the first venue to idolise the lads from Liverpool. For his accompanying band, the Star Club wouldn't pay for American accompanists so a then unknown British beat group, the Nashville Teens (later to hit with "Tobacco Road"), were drafted in to accompany the Memphis rock 'n' roller. By the most happy of decisions Philips decided to record the concert - originally intending to release the album only in Germany - and in doing so put on tape one of the greatest and most exciting performances in the history of rock music.

Jerry Lee's set consisted largely of his old Sun hits - "High School Confidential", "What'd I Say", "Great Balls Of Fire", "Lewis Boogie" interspersed with a few classics from other '50s rockers (Carl Perkins' "Matchbox", Little Richard's "Long Tall Sally"). Secondly, his performances were truly frantic. Mojo wrote, "The permanently touring, biphetamine-addicted rocker and Liverpudlian house band The Nashville Teens raced each other to the end of every song. This might be the most exciting performance ever recorded." Rock 'n' roll as exhilarating feral as this stunning performance came at a cost, of course. Mojo mentioned his drug addiction but even more crucial in Jerry Lee's steady emotional and creative decline in the decades after the 'Live At The Star Club' album was his tortured spiritual state. Jerry had grown up immersed in the Gospel message but in the tangled version of the Gospel of grace heard from people like his cousin and TV preacher Jimmie Swaggart, rock 'n' roll was the Devil's music. Indeed, the way Jerry Lee chose to live out his rock 'n' roll lifestyle, the demons of lust and licence did seem empirically linked to the pounding rhythms of the Big Beat. In 1970 Jerry momentarily seemed to have overcome his inner demons and surrendered himself to the living God whose pull he'd fought to ignore for so long.

Recently Bear Family Records released Jerry Lee's 'Old Time Religion' album of gospel songs recorded in a church on Memphis' Highway 61 after he'd turned his life over to Christ. Tragically, the veteran rock star didn't continue in the Christian life and old habits of excess re-established themselves. We hope and pray that the grizzled rock 'n' roll veteran will do, what hymn writer John Newton once did, and abandon himself for the second time in the protective and amazing grace of God. And maybe he may yet come to see that there's nothing "demonic" in exhortations to "shake it baby, shake it", even if a bit too sexual for tight collared fundamentalists. But to a God who invented sex I suspect Jerry Lee's hits as well as his hymns will bring a smile to God's face.
Tony Cummings

1963
The Kingsmen
The Kingsmen In Person
Wand
There is a brilliant scene in the movie Mr Holland's Opus in which an idealistic music teacher battles to connect with a classroom of barely controllable kids in a run down inner city school. Unable to make any headway with the classical music he plays them, he hits on the idea of playing "Louie Louie" by The Kingsmen, pointing out that though the group can hardly play, the record, which instantly connects with the classroom of malcontents, is, in Mr Holland's opinion, brilliant. Indeed it is. If ever there was a record to demonstrate that the appeal of pop and rock music is not dependent on musical technical ability, "Louie Louie" is it. The Kingsmen were a barely competent garage rock band from Portland who paid 50 dollars for a one hour recording session to make their record. The song is based on a rhythmic 10-note 1-2-3 1-2 1-2-3 riff with the riff. That riff had originally been sung by the bass singer in '50s doowop group The Pharaohs, the original song written by the Pharaohs' lead singer Richard Berry. In its original genesis it had a distinctly Latin American feel but after Richard Berry & The Pharaohs had a small regional hit with "Louie Louie" it was forgotten until the early '60s when the song began to enter the live sets of various R&B and garage bands on the Pacific Northwest. In 1961 garage band the Fabulous Wailers recorded the song and it was their arrangement with the hypnotic riff now played on Hammond organ which was the template for the Kingsmen's rendition of the song. The Kingsmen's record with its raucous atmosphere, twangy guitar break and impossibly slurred vocal by Jack Ely is utterly electrifying and became a multi-million seller. It also, bizarrely, triggered an FBI investigation after bemused parents, unable to translate Ely's mumbled, slurred vocal, believed an utterly unfounded rumour that the lyric was obscene! The quickly cobbled together 'The Kingsmen In Person' album showed that the Kingsmen (who, at the time of release had been blissfully unaware that there was a well established Southern gospel group of that name) were distinctly limited only really able to perform garage rock renditions of R&B standards. But their "Louie Louie" lives on, a massive hit that demonstrates that even the most limited bunch of musicians can occasionally record a pop classic.
Tony Cummings