Lots of excellent albums in 1992, I’d say. The lesser part of my Top 6 all the way through most of my projected Top 20 are damned fine. In fact, it was a bit of a toss-up making my choices. On another day, I could easily have gone in a different direction. The good thing with that is that you can’t go wrong with your choices; the bad thing is that you also can’t go right. Some worthy albums won’t get the ratings they deserve—not that my silly blog posts are particularly important to the world at large….
Regardless, if the album you’re hoping to see isn’t here, it just might crop up in the just-about-as-worthy Top 20. Now, let’s get to it.
6 More Albums for
My Top 12 Albums of 1992
As always, you can jump to the playlist at the bottom of each post to listen while you read.
Within each tier (Top 6, Next 6, etc.), all albums are listed roughly chronologically (all release dates from Wikipedia, unless otherwise noted). Note: Entries for this post may have been written alongside the Artist Spotlight posts for the respective artists and might therefore contain some similar material.
Tori Amos
Little Earthquakes
Tori AmosReleased 1992/01/06
Back in the ‘90s, I had never heard of the ill-fated band Y Kant Tori Read, nor heard their self-titled 1988 debut album, and it’s just as well. I got to hear Tori Amos first in her best, unadorned version.
Whereas her earlier band had been an elaborate synth-pop affair, her solo debut Little Earthquakes pushes her voice to the forefront, with simpler arrangements and her acoustic piano replacing the synths. When I go back and listen to Y Kant Tori Read (briefly, I must admit), it seems her emotive vocals didn’t really mesh well with arrangements—it was just too much, all over the place. But here, she wisely pares back the excess of the music, putting the focus on her voice so it can work its magic.
“Silent All These Years,” one of the album’s most immediately striking songs, chronicles her sense of being voiceless in her relationships, especially in those rife with criticism and control. “Yes, I know what you think of me, you never shut up / Yeah, I can hear that,” Amos sings, giving voice in song to the responses she’s held back in person. When she’s dumped by a boyfriend who wants a girl who thinks “really deep thoughts,” Amos fires back, “Boy, you best pray that I bleed real soon / How’s that thought for you?”
“Crucify” adds a layer to the same theme, as Amos describes how she has internalized the criticism directed toward her. “I gotta have my suffering,” she sings, “So that I can have my cross.” Elsewhere, “Precious Things” explains her break from religion and the hypocrites of her youth, describing her female “nice” peers as pretty-girl demigods with nine-inch nails and fascist panties; she’s not any kinder to the Christian boys. And “Tear in Your Hand” offers some parting thoughts to a man who has just dumped her. When the arrangements grow more lush, as in “Girl,” the music begins to sound like Hounds of Love outtakes, but in a good way.
The harrowing, a capella “Me and a Gun” speaks of her rape after a live performance several years earlier. Rather than chronicling the events of the attack, she creates a necessary dissociation by describing the random thoughts that went through her head as she was raped, including an imagined conversation with Jesus, soft and sweet biscuits, and her desire to travel to Barbados. “These things go through your head,” she sings, her voice hushed and taut, “When there’s a man on your back / And you’re pushed flat on your stomach” of a Cadillac Seville. Amos wisely starts the song at the end, after she’s escaped, shattered and on the run with nothing but a tank full of gas and a bag of chips.
Often incisive and compelling, Amos reveals herself in convincing fashion, through astute analyses of relationships gone awry and her bruised self-esteem at times leading her astray. And if Little Earthquakes occasionally sinks into emotional excess, well, isn’t that the point? Why be half-assed about it? Bring on the full ravages of the wounded human soul, I say.
Basehead
Play with Toys
BaseheadReleased 1992/05/12 (Source: RateYourMusic.com)
I knew Basehead’s Play with Toys back in the day (from a SPIN best albums of the year feature) and listened to it a ton. Yet I hear absolutely nothing about it nowadays. It’s a bit of an anomaly, to be sure, a minor curiosity, with a sense of humor that might not appeal to everyone—yet it still stands as a rewarding listen.
In fact, it’s pretty great, highly amusing once you sink past its rather downplayed exterior. The irony here is dialed to “high” even though its delivery is muted. Lead singer-rapper Michael Ivey’s mumbled and fumbling style sounds not a little depressed, possibly stoned—yet the self-deprecating humor here is spot-on.
Three main themes run throughout: heartbreak, the ills of the world, and beer (presumably the cure for the first two). In “Brand New Day,” a recently single Ivey finds himself too down in the dumps to enjoy his freedom, despite some encouragement from his pals and their promise of good times getting drunk ‘til they turn blue. “Not Over You” follows in the same humorous, post-breakup vein. “Hair” reveals that the narrator was dumped for playing around on the side.
Elsewhere, “Evening News” bemoans the state of civilization and “Better Days” expresses skepticism about the American Dream. “2000 B.C.” stands for 2000 lost brains cells, and “Ode to my Favorite Beer” is just that; it’s one of those playful songs that sounds like it’s about a girl but isn’t. Best of all are the bumbling comments of his pal as he compliments the song for putting his own feelings into words. (I suspect that many of the friends’ voices throughout the album are in fact Ivey himself playing different roles.) Throughout the album, songs pause for the players to get lost in conversation or spin the dial on the radio, and the entire album is framed by a pair of skits in which the players pretend to be a country hick band called Jethro and the Grahamcrackers.
The climactic title track retreats to the innocence of childhood for a burst of helpful advice. That Ivey retreats to the past for positivity is telling; he seems unable to be optimistic about his future. Ivey just can’t help himself—every dash of hope gets undercut by his unrelenting pessimism. It would make for a bleak listen if the album weren’t delivered with such humor. Almost every song provides several doses of understated wit. The more you listen, the funnier it gets.
Not exactly hip-hop, not exactly rock, either, yet certainly informed by both, Play with Toys is utterly unique. Check it out.
Playlist Note: Basehead’s Play with Toys appears to be unavailable on Spotify. My selections are “Brand New Day,” “Not over You,” and “Ode to My Favorite Beer.”
Th’ Faith Healers
Lido
Th’ Faith HealersReleased 1992/06/08 (Source, Discogs.com)
This just cranks. Th’ Faith Healers’ Lido rides a relentless, monolithic wave of rhythm and noise, to hypnotic effect. I had never heard of Krautrock or the band Can at the time (and wouldn’t know their music until around the turn of the century), but clearly th’ Faith Healers had been listening, as their terrific cover of “Mother Sky” makes plain. They’ve learned well the lesson of riding extended, repetitive beats beneath a surface of distortion in songs that that stretch out across time in a blissful frenzy.
On the pummeling “Hippy Hole,” vocalist Roxanne Stephen wails and gasps and shouts as if in a state of emotional abandon. “Don’t Jones Me” conjures up a more mellow groove, bursting forth in glorious noise at peak moments; it’s probably the disc’s most catchy, accessible song (aside from the Can cover). “Love Song” alternatingly surges forward and crashes in an overwhelming roar of guitar. “Spin ½” works a steady groove of guitar fuzz, with Stephen’s muffled, distorted vocals struggling to surface from beneath all that noise, as if gasping for air.
Throughout, the guitars drone and surge and rage and simmer. Lido is yet another album by a band that I loved for one album and never heard anything else about again. Their follow-up album, Imaginary Friend (1993), didn’t thrill me nearly as much, and then they just disappeared. But Lido remains an early ‘90s highlight.
Playlist Note: Lido, by a wide margin Th’ Faith Healers best album, seems unavailable on Spotify. (The band’s presence is confused by being split between Th’ Faith Healers and The Faith Healers, to boot.) My selections from Lido were meant to be “Don’t Jones Me,” “Hippy Hole,” and “Love Song.” I’ve inserted the song “Reptile Smile” as a placeholder. A track from the 1991 In Love EP, “Reptile Smile” was added to Lido for the U.S. release. It’s the only remnant of the album I could find on Spotify. In fact, before I learned it wasn’t on the original album, I had planned to select it as one of my three tracks. It also appears on my 1991 Singles playlist.
Sonic Youth
Dirty
Sonic YouthReleased 1992/07/21
f Sonic Youth’s Dirty wasn’t so uncompromisingly great, it might have seemed like a desperate bid for mainstream acceptance. After all, it was produced by Butch Vig, who had already brought success to Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins. As a result, the sound here is fuller, more solid than ever before, yet it hardly sounds conventional. Indeed, Dirty comes across as great combination of the driving art-punk of Sister (1987) and the orchestral wash of Daydream Nation (1988). And while it might lack the instant classics of its predecessor, Goo (1990)—“Tunic” and “Kool Thing,” for example—it’s a better album.
Once again, Kim Gordon’s contributions are prominent, with three of the best songs on the album. “Drunken Butterfly,” surges and swells, opening with jagged, scraping guitar riffs before segueing into a crunching groove backed by a fluctuating guitar drone. Surprisingly enough, many of the song’s lyrics are culled from various songs by Heart. “Orange Rolls, Angel’s Spit” is another heavy-hitter, a roller coaster ride of guitar squall and Gordon’s alternately shrieked, sung, cooed, and purred vocals.
And “JC” bathes the listener in a delightful wash of aural fuzz—far from hook-filled or catchy, it has always been one of my favorite tracks on the album. I love the way it resolves from a chaotic jumble of noise into a hypnotic trance-like beat—with Gordon trading lines back and forth with herself—only to dissolve once more into a wash of noise. (It’s yet another unheralded Sonic Youth song for which I would trade the entire catalog of My Bloody Valentine.) Gordon’s “Crème Brûlée,” after an initial bout of chaos, settles into a nice, mellow closing for the album.
Lee Ranaldo, as usual, assumes the George Harrison role on the group—he’s allowed to contribute a song or two per album, one of which almost always seems to be among the best. Here, it’s “Wish Fulfilment,” which alternates between gentle, hypnotic passages and surging abrasion. Ranaldo’s lyrics feel grounded in real-life relationships and the ways they mismatch and crumble (as opposed to Gordon’s lyrics, which always seem to toy with male fantasy as much as they confess her own desires.)
The (relative) hit from Dirty, Thurston Moore’s “100%” has always been one of my least favorite tracks on the album. Not that it’s bad, but I feel Moore is more successful on the melodic, propulsive “Sugar Kane,” for example, or the charged, catchy “Purr.”
Quite possibly the best way for a mainstream alt-rocker (how’s that for a real-life oxymoron for you?) to get to know Sonic Youth, Dirty remains an essential alt-rock listen and one of the best albums of the band’s storied career.
Rage Against the Machine
Rage Against the Machine
Rage Against the MachineReleased 1992/11/06
Any evaluation of Rage Against the Machine should acknowledge both the primal power of their songs and the fact that after an entire album of same, the end result is a brain bludgeoned into an unsettling ennui. They can be so electrifying in small doses, but too much of this energy starts to wear you out.
But about that power: Holy cow. I don’t think an English-speaking human alive could listen to “Killing in the Name” all the way through without feeling swept up by emotion—most likely either thrilled, anarchic rebellious glee or, on the contrary, disgust and outrage at the band’s disrespect. (I speak of the album cut, not the radio-edit that cuts off the fuck-you climax of the song.) It has a sense of urgency that is undeniable. If they never hit quite that high a mark elsewhere on the album, it’s no wonder. Few bands do in an entire career.
In an exhilarating fusion of rap, funk, and metal, the guitar throbs heavy, the bass pops and pulses, and the drums pound and throttle. Zack la Rocha raps his lines in a shrill, piercing voice, unafraid to break into a shout when the spirit takes him. In fact, the music isn’t a far cry from that of the fun-loving Red Hot Chili Peppers. But the vibe here feels altogether different. A glimpse at the striking album cover—of a burning monk sitting calmly in lotus position as the flames engulf him—tells you this a highly charged political affair.
Album opener “Bombtrack” functions as a statement of purpose; de la Rocha expounds upon the strength of his convictions and his ability to set down hard, hardline lines to encourage his listeners to stand up to the politicians and warmongers and businessmen who try to control their lives. Tough and explosive, the track is the bomb, in more than one sense. It even endorses flag-burning as a means of political protest.
Left-wing politics dominate the discourse throughout the album. “Killing in the Name” equates police forces with the Ku Klux Klan, defying listeners to question and rebel against the ways in which they are controlled. Tom Morello’s piercing, squiggly guitar solo that precedes the finale is classic. “Take the Power Back” urges listeners to resist the political indoctrination fostered by the existing power structures in society and reinforced by schools. “Bullet in the Head” describes the media as a form of mind control, firing propaganda bullets at its viewers. It’s powerful, radical stuff that taps into the listeners frustrations and fears and sense of unconformity in ways that very little other music can, even to this day.
So, yeah. When I love Rage Against the Machine, they thrill me beyond belief. They’re that good. For this alone, they deserve heaps of praise. And if I often find myself unable to listen to them for more than 20 minutes before needing to take a break, well, that’s just a trade-off for the intensity they deliver. It’s worth it.
Now that I think about it, Rage Against the Machine would probably have been even better in the LP era. At 53 minutes, it isn’t a long CD by any means. But a shorter delivery can increase the intensity. Here’s my attempt as a short-but-sweet-LP-length version of Rage Against the Machine’s stellar debut:
- Side A: Bombtrack, Killing in the Name, Take the Power Back, Settle for Nothing
- Side B: Bullet in the Head, Wake Up, Freedom
I’m pretty content with (and thrilled by!) just those seven tracks, in two doses, each under my 20-minute threshold.
The Pharcyde
Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde
The PharcydeReleased 1992/11/24
Masterfully conjuring the fun-loving creativity of De La Soul and jazziness of A Tribe Called Quest, the unbridled silliness of Funkadelic, plus the call-and-response obnoxiousness of the Beatie Boys—all in one seamless package—Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde is an essential, lovable treat, one of the most enjoyable rap albums ever.
The sarcastic intro of “Ya Mama” posits itself as a message of wisdom and social consciousness before descending into a litany of ludicrous yo mama jokes. You don’t like them? Think they’re offensive? Yeah, well, “Ya mama got a glass eye with the fish in it.” And “Officer” uses a Public Enemy backdrop (borrowing some of their favorite samples and gently parodying some of their lyrics) to tell an amusing tale of driving without a valid license or registration in front of a police car.
“Passing Me By” weaves a plethora of samples into a tight groove to tell the tale of a high school crush on a teacher. In “Oh Shit,” the trio recounts some embarrassing romantic and/or sexual encounters, including a Crying Game moment with a drag queen. Terrific, fun-filled boasting tracks like “I’m That Type of Nigga” (with its highly amusing “Uh, uh, well, excuse me” refrain—not a sample, by the way) and “Soul Flower” round out the fun-filled vibe.
Like earlier rap classics like 3 Feet High and Rising, Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde feels like the work of a young band playfully and un-self-consciously experimenting in rich, rewarding ways that more mature adults seem to lose track of how to do. As with many of the rap albums of its time, it flew far below my alt-rock-focsued radar at the time, and I was happy to discover this more recently. Check it out.
Here’s the 1992: The Year in Review playlist for you—three tracks per album.
I’ll be building the playlist as I go, adding to it as I complete different tiers of commentary. By the time I finish all Year in Review posts for the year, the playlist will be complete! Enjoy!
More 1992, The Year in Review
More Years in Review of the 1990s…
Cover Art Citations:
- Little Earthquakes: By The cover art can be obtained from Atlantic., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1962453
- Play with Toys: By Amazon, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21598101
- Lido: By May be found at the following website: [1], Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=73606471
- Dirty: By The cover art can be obtained from DGC., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65058553
- Rage Against the Machine: By The cover art can be obtained from Epic., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=196363
- Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde: By Derived from a digital capture (photo/scan) of the album cover (creator of this digital version is irrelevant as the copyright in all equivalent images is still held by the same party). Copyright held by the record company or the artist. Claimed as fair use regardless., Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=303909
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