My Thirteen Favorite Albums

Thirteen is my favorite number. It is the perfect interval between small and large. Hence, I've drafted list of my thirteen favorites: songs, books and films. Here is the first article, brief eulogies to my favorite albums of all time:

Yeezus, Kanye West

Following the cataclysmic success of 2010's comeback My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and his 2011 collaboration with JAY-Z Watch the Throne, it was difficult to imagine where Kanye West would go next. He had established himself as capable of complex instrumentation and emotional lyrics as well as stadium rap anthems; he had been alternately criticized and lauded by American intellectuals, including the president. 2012 passed with little noise from Chicago's favorite son, then, in 2013, his face began to pop up, projected on buildings across the world, uttering the harsh, brutal bars of a new song, "New Slaves." Out of this came Yeezus.

Yeezus lacks the kind of obvious hits that made Fantasy a hit, and its tenuous emotional threads are more obscure as well. Its greatness comes in its complexity, in the depth and range of feeling that West showcases. Nowhere in his catalogue is he more triumphant than on "Bound 2," nowhere more defeated than on "Blood on the Leaves," nowhere more fiercely political than on "Black Skinhead." If his previous project marked the death of the Old Kanye, then Yeezus is the birth of the new man, the uncompromising, controversial genius that would define the next ten years of American rap.

Did You Know There's A Tunnel Under Ocean Boulevard?, Lana Del Rey

This is not Lana Del Rey's best album¹, yet it is her greatest. These songs are not her most perfectly crafted, yet they are her most unique, her most vulnerable. The deep sadness that took shape as catchy love songs on her first few records here are manifested as raw vivacity, sheltered strength, the way her voice breaks on the bridge of the titular track as she sings, "Open me up/tell me you like it/f*ck me to death/love me until I love myself."

It seems that Del Rey has given up on needless complexity, the literary references and subtle insinuations that were rampant on her first projects; the first line of "Margaret" acknowledges that it is "a simple song...[written] with a pen." Yet Del Rey's craft is invincible; her deep, resonant voice has never sounded better or had a clearer range, and the features, which range from Jon Batiste to Tommy Genesis, add delicacy and contrast. Ocean Boulevard is a brilliant album, a letter from a woman past her brink, settling into some kind of peace.

Ten, Pearl Jam

Nirvana is the most popular band to come out of the early '90s Seattle grunge scene. Alice In Chains is the most emotional. Soundgarden is the most representative of the era. But Pearl Jam is by far the best.

Eddie Vedder, the band's lead singer, grew up without his father. He met him shortly before the release of 1991's Ten. The anger he felt is evident across the album, whether in the haunted refrains of "Release" or in the scattered shouts of "Alive." He sings unlike anyone else, in a slightly rambled voice that jumps across tones and notes, backed by two screeching guitars. He encapsulates the perspective of a homeless man on "Even Flow," then just as quickly eulogizes a real teenager's suicide on "Jeremy." Nowhere is his lyricism more profound than on "Black," the breakup song that got me through my first heartbreak. He sings, "I know someday you'll have a beautiful life/I know you'll be a star/In somebody else's sky/But why, why, why can't it be mine?"

Anytime I hear those words, I'm fifteen again, wandering through Chicago in the autumn, full of sadness and hope.

Sublime, Sublime

Bradley Nowell was not on this planet for long enough. He died at twenty-eight, full of heroin in San Francisco. His legacy is his band's eponymous album, seventeen tracks on the nuances of a West Coast existence in the mid '90s. From robbing department stores during the Rodney King riots on "April 29 1992," to struggling in a abusive relationship on "Doin' Time," and even a surprisingly sexual interlude in the form of "Caress Me Down," Nowell's vocals and the post-raggae riffs shine.

The best song on Sublime has to be "Santeria," the anti-ballad that alternately threatens and cajoles the woman he loves after she leaves him. It is an energetic, summer song, one that doesn't quite match the darkness of the lyrics. Therein lies its power: Sublime renders the most despairing topics with a light, danceable beat and Nowell's wailing voice. It is music to listen to with the windows down, going down the highway sometime between dawn and dusk.

4:44, JAY-Z

Shawn Carter has always been great. Since he graduated from selling drugs in Bed Stuy to performing alongside the likes of the Notorious B.I.G. and Puff Daddy, JAY-Z has been an incomparable superstar of rap, lyrically dominant with invincible street credit. He fostered the talents of Rihanna and Kanye West, and became one of the first Black men in America to be a billionaire. In the words of Shea Serrano, "the only thing JAY-Z likes more than double entendres is triple entendres."

This makes his 2017 album, largely a response to his wife Beyonce's Lemonade, in which she largely alleged his infidelity, so shocking. This is the first time we've seen Jay be so sincerely emotional, ceaselessly repentant, broiling in self-hate and sadness on tracks like "4:44" and the shocking opener "Kill JAY-Z". It would have been easy for a less talented artist to stay in this place, to wallow in his music, yet Jay finds hope and humor in his situation too, even featuring his wife on the airy "Family Feud." In this, he finds peace with his actions, and he's stayed in his marriage ever since.

A Seat at the Table, Solange

On the opposite side of Jay's marital strife was Beyonce's sister Solange, who allegedly beat him with her purse in an elevator security camera video, presumably after discovering his affair. Growing up in the shadow of one of the most famous popstars of our century, it is easy to criticize Solange as lacking, as a product of nepotism or her sister's coattails - that is, until you listen to her album.

Solange has a marvelously breathy voice. She seems to sing above the music, which, in any other scenario, would project a weak voice, but in hers gravitates strength. As opposed to the bright, poppy tones of much of her sister's work, Solange makes grounded R&B with an indie rap tilt, incorporating excellent features from the likes of Lil' Wayne and Q Tip. She often repeats words, but finds new meaning in each repetition, until the words themselves seem to disappear, gradually floating away as she reiterates them. Solange surpasses all expectations.

Full Moon Fever, Tom Petty

There's a certain kind of person you have to be to enjoy patriotic anthems by Toby Keith or Bruce Springsteen. You must have a complete and unwavering faith in your country, proudly flashing the red, white, and blue and sporting the kick-ass-take-names mentality. But anyone can enjoy "Free Fallin'," which makes it perhaps the most American of all.

On Full Moon Fever, Tom Petty presents himself for the first time as a solo artist, and his work shines. He combines folk and country with good old rock n' roll, blending touches of nostalgia and personal hardship with hopeful verses and songs to sing along to. He writes creative love songs on "Yer So Bad" and "A Face in the Crowd," but doesn't hesitate to appear fierce and bad on "Won't Back Down" and "Running Down the Dream." Petty is the perfect artist to play in the spring or summer at any type of gathering, someone who is confident to be enjoyed by everyone.

Gardens, Dirty Art Club

Likely the most niche choice on this list, Gardens is the first album by Dirty Art Club, the mysterious producer who's Spotify bio reads simply "beats."

Each song on Gardens is a sketch of music, sharp synths mixed with dark guitar riffs. The titles are as murky and vague as the artist himself, yet they manage to portray a grand sense of importance to each track. "Angeldust" sounds like a euphoric, perhaps drug-induced feeling, while "Bad Nerves" radiates irony and ennui, its tune approaching climaxes before abandoning them. A young, Joey Badass-esque rapper could do great things with the beats on this album, but I appreciate them for how they are now, light swoops of songs to listen to while completing a complex task or on a long car ride, interesting but not omnipresent, fulsome but self-conscious.

The Queen is Dead, The Smiths

There is perhaps no deeper sadness than Morissey's on "Never Had No One Ever." There is no greater hope than that which he produces on "I Know It's Over." There is no more playful refrain than that of "Cemetery Gates." The multifaceted The Queen is Dead, The Smith's most iconic album, remains an undisputed classic, capable of creating the genre of the sad girl.

Morrissey is probably a depressive, and it is true that the mentally challenged often make the best music. Who else could craft lines like "I know it's over/still I cling/I don't know where else I can go?" Who else could infuse each song with a particular kind of despair and euphoria, make each strum of Johnny Marr's guitar seem correct, even meaningful.

I recall walking around lost in the world in the autumn when I discovered The Smiths. I kicked the leaves up around me, thinking of what I had lost and what I never had to gain. I know it's over, and it never really began, but in my heart, it was so real. Nothing felt right, yet I learned something somewhere, right as the song shifted.

2001, Dr. Dre

Locked out of the label he helped create with the notorious Suge Knight and embarking on a new venture of his own, Dr. Dre was a wild card in 1999. His last few projects, including supergroup The Firm, had flopped, and his clout had diminished as a result. He did what he does best: discovering new talent and making beats.

The result is the chaotic, energetic 2001, a sequel to 1991's The Chronic, bursting with L.A. energy and old school verve. He leaves much of the lyricism to his faithful ghostwriters and disciples: on "Forgot About Dre," he introduces his latest prodigy, the ultimate white boy rapper Eminem; on "Still Dre," he unites the East and West Coast with verses written by JAY-Z. Snoop Dogg forms a crucial backbone of the album as he did with the original, but this time he is part of a small posse that includes 50 Cent and Mary J. Blige. Dre acts as elder statesman among them all, the Godfather of gangsta rap all over again. It is the ultimate comeback, ruining the opposition and leaving lyrical bodies littered.

The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We, Mitski

On the opening track, "Bug Like an Angel," Mitski sings in her subtle, textured voice, "As I got older, I learned I'm a drinker/sometimes a drink feels like family." A chorus joins her, backed by a throaty guitar, all singing in unity. Family, they repeat.

And that is what The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We is about: family, grief, the way one grieves for the family they never had. Mitski is haltingly sincere on every track, vulnerable in her completely debased emotion on "My Love Mine All Mine," in which she declares that her "nothing in the world belongs to me," except for her lover. She is devoid of any guile, and her voice is as pure as her intentions, as she renders her life again and again in slow strokes of songs. She sings; she breaks; she keeps singing. Rinse, repeat.

Workin', The Miles Davis Quintet

I have always loved Miles Davis. No jazz musician can capture the same depth of feeling, the same deep sadness, that Davis exposes in just a few bars of mournful trumpet. His quintet united the masters of a generation, with Herbie Hancock on piano and John Coltrane's signature saxophone. He is better known for Kind of Blue or Bitche's Brew, yet his best work remains the desperate, vital Workin'.

He brings the listener on a musical journey on "In Your Own Sweet Way," harnessing the melody in short bursts of music. He incorporates slow wails of his trumpet with a hurtling piano to create pure despair on "It Never Entered My Mind," perhaps his most emotional piece. This album reminds anyone who hears it of why Miles Davis is the greatest, and why the particular combination of musicians on the album is so holy. I will continue to listen to it, perhaps until I drop dead.

Goat's Head Soup, The Rolling Stones

Mick Jagger had gone through a breakup. Keith Richards was struggling with immense drug addiction. The band was on the precipice of greatness, facing the 1970's as the biggest rock act in the world, capable of superseding their reputation as second to the Beatles and asserting that Exile on Main Street was not a fluke. Out of this came Goat's Head Soup.

While their earlier work tackled the anthem, here the Stones master the balled. On "Angie" and "Coming Down Again," Jagger sings of the necessity of leaving a partner and the sadness it brings, yet he is unafraid to embrace the joys and ephemerality of his life on tracks like "100 Years Ago" and "Dancing with Mr. D." This is the Stones at their finest, the ultimate '70s group comprised only of greatness. It shines.

1. Arguably, it is either 2014's Ultraviolence or 2019's Norman Fucking Rockwell!