Richard & Linda Thompson "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight" [1974]

Be forewarned: Richard and Linda Thompson's "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight" is what happens when even studio hacks can't get anybody to finance their music project and they go ahead and do it anyway. Apparently recorded in the living room of their London flat, Fairport Convention survivors the Thompsons (not to be confused with the Thompson Twins -- these two were married until their lack of success drove them apart) offer a relatively useless glimpse into what Eric Clapton would have sounded like had he kept an old lady for more than five minutes. What was likely much more useful about this record was doubtlessly picked up by partners-in-crime Mick Fleetwood and John McVie, who'd already pitched their tent in LA and were just looking for a huge void to exploit; they found it in this failed experiment of what I'll for now call "burb-rock," and built the entire kingdom of melodrama that were the Buckingham-Nicks years directly on it. White as a bedsheet soaked in Clorox, "I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight" countrifies British MOR rock and Britifies anything that may have previously existed as originally American (and worthwhile), progressing at a mild, anti-aggressive tempo throughout, with plenty of show-offy accompaniments that fit right into the mix. These two are nothing if not well-trained mutts, after all. But just as Fairport Convention was unjustly lauded in the 60s, so its remnants are bestowed undue praise -- did one of these people perform the Heimlich maneuver on Jann Wenner at a dinner party or something?

Soundgarden "Badmotorfinger" [1991]

You can't spell "Badmotorfinger" without "bong," nor "Soundgarden" without "dude." This album has the musical appeal for most women that setting your farts on fire does. Drop-tuned trailer guitar and bass playing, screech-metal 80s-style Sammy Hagar singing, ham-fisted prog-rock time-signature switcheroos and a Seattle-centric lyrical landscape of waste and depression were what A&M thought were going to break through in the marketplace for this foul group of stoner lumberjacks. That they may have partially succeeded is to lay much of the blame of the glum 90s Gen-X attitude directly before their scuffed-up Doc Martens. Sluggish and pulverizing, Soundgarden set out to make Tool sound like Milli Vanilli on "Badmotorfinger," which helpfully illustrates the album as a classic case of reverse-reaction overkill. It's no wonder music fans were still clinging to Madonna at the time; they didn't want to be trapped in this jockstrap-reeking locker room one second longer than they had to. They clearly learned how to play their instruments listening to Aerosmith 45s at 33 1/3, knowing that smackheads could care less if anything was being played at a danceable tempo, just so long as the low-end was loud enough to turn your vital organs into mush. Between Nirvana and Soundgarden, the next five-plus years of indie rock were set in stone: it was to be a miserable, bleak, rainy place even though the economy was on solid ground and Americans were prospering. Hmm -- perhaps the Seattle grunge movement was a big conspiratorial set-up by the political wing of the Republican party.

Smokey Robinson & the Miracles "Going to a Go-Go" [1965]

Almost two full decades after Henry Ford kicked the bucket, somebody in Detroit finally had another good idea: music audiences liked female voices, but because the pre-sexual revolution 60s was still sexist as fuck, the music industry needed a guy who could sing like a girl (and preferably not a fairy). They struck pay-dirt with Smokey Robinson, a young Sam Cooke knock-off who sang like he had a clamp on his testicles. Motown chief Berry Gordy hadn't yet established himself as the totalitarian task-master (substituting Armani for typical military garb, like dictators from most second-world regions [upon which Detroit most certainly qualified] normally did), but he did already have a sweet tooth for strings, horns, vibes and other gooey sentiment. Smokey then employed this syrupy overproduction in his singles that make you feel like you're sinking into tacky 60s living room furniture at someone's home who don't really like all that much -- listening to "Going to a Go-Go" holds the same sort of awkward guilt. Don't be fooled by the puppy-dog looks of this album -- Motown meant serious business, and they were going to have everyone in America buy their 45s, even if you had to hide them from your racist parents. Thus, the operatives of this record company were early and fully conscious sell-outs, hell-bent on buffing the edges of the black American experience in the name of turning a quick buck. Not exactly honorable, but at least no one sicced any German shepherds on Smokey Robinson's ass.

Them Crooked Vultures "Them Crooked Vultures" [2009]

This makes it official: Josh Homme clearly must have pushed Dave Grohl out of the way of a speeding bus at some point. It's the only thing that remotely justifies not only Grohl's Jay Leno-like installation of himself into Homme's band Queens of the Stone Age earlier in the decade, but his impetus for cobbling the phony Led Zep tribute band Them Crooked Vultures together -- with himself playing Bonzo, Homme noodling like a cut-rate Jimmy Page (and for some reason crooning like Jack Bruce; somebody was confused what the game was) and John Paul Jones himself, who apparently had never picked up golf as a retirement activity. That they could get this group signed to RCA was a no-brainer, but of course neither it nor the album went anywhere. Led Zeppelin was instrumental in stomping the guts out of prog rock even before the band became a shell of its former self -- and that was 30 fucking years before "Them Crooked Vultures" was released. Jesus Christ, talk about clueless. Maybe Homme needed the money after a decade and a half of busting his ass to become a complete unknown on the contemporary rock scene. Maybe Jones' royalty money finally ran out? Fat fucking chance -- it's entirely possible Them Crooked Vultures owe Zep even more in royalties due to having ripped off their licks at every turn. Ultimately, it's fine if rock stars want to dress up like other rock stars once in awhile, but to expect that anyone would be interested in listening to it means either guys like these don't actually live in the real world or they just don't give a fuck what anyone expects from them.

The Doors "Morrison Hotel" [1970]

It's likely Jim Morrison always had a screw loose, but even after he stopped dropping acid it was clear his brain was cashed anyway. Following the monumental "Doors-in-Vegas" flop of the previous year's "The Soft Parade," Morrison's band of hack-lackeys -- who'd already put up with the most asinine and infantile behavior from their front man (at least until Elvis got back into music full-time) -- retreat back to however close they could get to garage rock while simultaneously existing as worthless, coddled rock stars. And still the Englebert Humperdinck conceits are there in "Morrison Hotel," in between Morrison's drunken rants about how shitty the world outside is, and how critically deranged he'd allowed himself to become. Amazingly, his poetry only got worse -- and he hadn't exactly set a high bar in the first place -- and still no one had bothered to tell Ray Manzarek his comicly horrid circus organ had to go. So here the Doors were, stuck as fuck with nowhere to go but down. I'm sure Elektra Records was fed up with them by now, too, especially now that Jim was turning into a fat-ass before their very eyes; they probably advised him, "Hey Jim -- yeah, just go ahead and whip it out next time you're onstage. Let's see what happens." I guess they felt maybe the liability of burning down "Morrison Hotel" with the Doors still in it might have come back on them somehow. Much easier to set Jim up with a flat in Paris and a smack dealer, and let things work themselves out.

My Bloody Valentine "Loveless" [1991]

Ever wonder what Enya's music would sound like if she was forced to live a tool shed for an entire Irish winter? That would be My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless," an album that actually achieves what had long been thought impossible: it made Sonic Youth sound somewhat palatable. Dour creeps The Jesus and Mary Chain have more dynamics -- and more fun -- than My Bloody Valentine does here. Call these slo-mo sad-sacks Tangerine Nightmare. Aural corrosives gross out the stretched-out soundscapes of disinterest and petulance, with the overall effect coming off something like Beth Orton dying at the bottom of a well. By all means crank the "Loveless" CD at your apartment if you never want to meet any new people. And if you do, it'll be those types of hopelessly miserable schmucks who are drawn to walls of moody noise. Apparently there were plenty of them around in the early 90s, when the new era was eager to shed their boat shoes and pastel sweaters tied over their shoulders. But settling here in what is pretty much the sonic version of what the pissed-on Blarney Stone looks like under a microscope reeks of unnecessary haste and extremely bad taste. Perhaps My Bloody Valentine is engaging in a similar action to what the local drunks relieving themselves are; by listening to "Loveless" the joke's on us as we pucker up and give ourselves a hideous face-full of germs.

Squeeze "East Side Story" [1981]

If you're looking for the oldest-sounding new wave album of all time, you've just found it -- these tunes fart dust. White people -- especially the English -- always tend to water down the styles of music they play, but on "East Side Story," the faceless gang of pastey, verbose pub-rock lame-asses named Squeeze (as in "we can only ever get to second base, even though we're in a band") set themselves miles apart from the mild genre-faking of even the second-most boring group in the UK at the time. The Zombies as watery gruel, the Kinks as a tasteless lollipop, George Jones with a bullet through his head, "East Side Story" has everything one needs to know about how someone as rigid and visionless as Margaret Thatcher could come to rule that country. Largely produced by Elvis Costello -- as most sub-par efforts were in the early 80s -- Squeeze sounds like nothing so much as Paul McCartney if he'd had no talent and never made it. And that's before the flat, low-voiced putz gets a crack at singing lead, at which point it becomes pretty clear Squeeze is ultimately a mean-spirited joke band, parodying all the torturous mediocrities of their time and place. Add to the mix arrangement experiments that flop repeatedly, and all you really need to know is that "East Side Story" is one book you'd be wasting your time checking out.