'A Night At The Opera' by Queen

Next time you have the opportunity, listen to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Really listen to it, rather than letting it play in the background. If ever a song was dulled by over-familiarity, it’s this one. Listen carefully, and it’s an incredibly clever song. Imagine what it would have been like to hear when it was first written. It’s extravagant, silly, well crafted. It’s a microcosm of the album as a whole.

It kicks off with ‘Death On Two Legs’, a remarkable slice of vitriol directed at the band’s former manager, before sliding abruptly into ‘Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon’ which is a brief throw-away music-hall sounding number. Rarely has an album started with such a contrast. The third track, Roger Taylor’s ‘I’m In Love With My Car’ is a great illustration of Taylor’s limitations as a songwriter and vocalist. The opening couplet (‘The machine of a dream, such a clean machine’) is a good indication of what’s to follow, though he redeems himself later with the line ‘Told my girl, I had to forget her, rather buy me a new carburettor’. Genius or idiocy? You decide. John Deacons ‘You’re My Best Friend’, in contrast, is a sign of a serious songwriting talent hiding behind the bass guitar.

Brian May’s ‘39’ is a folky song about space exploration – a line which would sound strange discussing most albums. ‘Sweet Lady’, however, is a tiresome load of sub-heavy-metal which is the only boring track of the album. ‘Seaside Rendezvous’ ends the first half of the album, characterised by a vocalised brass section from Mercury and Taylor.

The second half starts with ‘Prophet Song’, an epic slice of prog that Muse would chew their arms off to have written. It’s eight minutes long on it’s own, then it segues into ‘Love Of My Life’ – another baffling juxtaposition that somehow works beautifully. ‘Good Company’ follows, and deserves a special mention for Brian May’s guitar work. Truly the man is a genius player. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ brings the album to it’s climax, and then a suitably bombastic version of ‘God Save The Queen’ brings it to a close.

‘A Night At The Opera’ is not an album that would appeal to everyone – it is frequently daft, even ridiculous, but it’s sheer inventiveness is deserving of respect at very least. Queen would arguably never be this creative (or indeed, good) again.

'A Hundred Million Suns' by Snow Patrol

In an episode of Doctor Who a couple of years ago, the Doctor and his companions need to get close to the Master without him being aware of their presence. In order to do so, he creates a ‘perception filter’. This clever device prevented people from noticing them, even when they were being directly observed.

This album’s a bit like that. You can put it on, and try and listen to it carefully, then listen to it again afterwards, but when it’s finished, it’ll be like it was never there. ‘A Hundred Million Suns’ was Snow Patrol’s fifth album, and the third to make any commercial impression, following ‘The Final Straw’ and ‘Eyes Open’. It displays more confidence than the previous two records, but less memorable moments. And it’s difficult to say why.

Amongst the Snow Patrol standard guitar-bass-drums arrangements, there is some variety. ‘Lifeboats’ makes effective use of a swooping strings line. ‘The Golden Floor’ is an effective mix of acoustic guitar and jittering programmed drums. ‘Set Down Your Glass’ has a layered production of piano, finger picked guitar, strings and glockenspiel. But it’s not enough. The rest of the album just trudges on through a sea of mediocrity. Lead single ‘Take Back The City’ gives a burst of energy at the beginning, and ‘Disaster Button’ does the same at the end, but it’s too little too late. It’s as though they’ve distilled their essence down to the most basic and boring elements and made an album from them. If they continue in this trend, the next album may well consist of the chorus of ‘Run’ on repeat for an hour. It would be about as interesting.

‘A Christmas Gift You’ from Phil Spector

And so, to the letter ‘A’. And it’s Christmas, it would seem.

There will be a smattering of Christmas albums that appear on my list as I continue to work through the alphabet. This one, I think, will be the best of them. Released in 1963, when Phil Spector was seen as a bit of an eccentric genius, rather than a convicted murderer, this album set a benchmark for Christmas records that is unlikely to be beaten. It’s a set of Christmas standards, mostly, all enhanced by Spector’s wall of sound. Put it on, and you can almost feel the open fire and smell the roast potatoes.

‘White Christmas’ kicks of the album. A song which is often a bit soporific is transformed by sterling vocal from Darlene Love. It very much sets the tone of what’s to follow. ‘Frosty The Snowman’ by the Ronnettes is all vocal harmonies and clattering drums, and to be honest, by the end of the track, the template is set. It’s remarkable, really, that the album sounds so consistent in it’s approach, despite the number of different contributors. It’s a good illustration of the importance of the producer to a record. Spector keeps the energy, and the quality high without – only ‘I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus’ doesn’t hit the same heights, and that’s because it’s a rubbish song – there’s not much anyone could have done about that.

Only at the end does the album pause for reflection, as Spector himself mumbles a Christmas greeting over the top of a ‘Silent Night’ singalong. It’s a self-indulgent way to finish an album, but it’s well earned. And it’s Christmas.

'9' by Damien Rice

It would be fair to say that Damien Rice had mixed feelings about the success of album number one. '9', the follow up, seems to be one long attempt to ensure that fame would pass him by. The opening track ('9 Crimes', also, inexplicably, the album's lead single) is a mournful piano track which doesn't even feature Rice's vocals until halfway in - it's left to long-term collaborator Lisa Hannigan to do the honours. The term 'slow burner' doesn't come close to doing it justice.

There are moments of beauty throughout '9'. Some, like 'Dogs' and 'Grey Room' are a gentle pleasure, some, notably 'Elephant' are howling wails of pain. 'Rootless Tree' is pretty much the only song that screams "single", but it's blessed with a chorus that no radio playlister could touch with a bargepole. Deviations from the acoustic-guitar-plus-a-couple-of-stringed-instruments formula have a mixed success rate. 'Animals', which builds from sparse beginnings into a grand orchestral swirl, is very good indeed. 'Me, My Yoke & I' isn't - too simple an idea for too long.

The end of the album is something of a disappointment. 'Accidental Babies' is long, but forgettable, and 'Sleep Don't Weep' is much the same. It's easy to imagine Rice deliberately finishing this way, allowing the album to limp to a close as a further way of sabotaging success.

So all in all, '9' is a mixed bag, but even when it misses the mark, Rice's genuine talent shows through. He may be miserable, but I'd choose his misery over the vast majority of other singer songwriters. Damien Rice, or James Blunt? Easy.

'3, 6, 9 Seconds Of Light' by Belle and Sebastian

Not an album, but EP's are listed on the mp3 player as albums, so why not. Released in the very early days of Belle & Sebastian, this shows promise. It's lyrics are strong, and the music is ambitious, but perhaps a little too much. The first two tracks seem muddled, as if too many instruments are playing at once with little idea of how to complement each other. The final two are clearer, and better for it, though Stuart Murdoch's voice is still rather fragile, and the comparative lack of arrangement leaves it more exposed than it should be. They would get better.

'20/20' by The Beach Boys

Ah, the Beach Boys. The Beach Boys are one of those bands I’ve loved since childhood in the most simplistic sense. Mum and Dad had a greatest hits album that was always a bit of a favourite, but it was only as a teenager that I did any further listening, discovering Pet Sounds, then working forwards and backwards through the back catalogue in a doomed effort to find something equally good.

The trouble with the Beach Boys is they did too much. I remain convinced that the number of great Beach Boys songs is equal to the number of great Beatles songs. Trouble is, they’re spread over about three times as many albums. To find a Beach Boys gem, you have to wade through a lot of dross.

20/20 is an album that sums up this situation in a little over half an hour. Released at the end of their first record deal (and following the breakdown of Brian Wilson), this was the 20th album they’d released in about six years. It’s no wonder they couldn’t maintain any consistent quality. It sounds very much like a contractual obligation, and that’s what it is – a round up of orphaned single tracks, and a rag-tag collection of songs that sound like leftovers from other albums, padded out to the end with Smile off-cuts. Presumably they weren’t contractually obliged to provide a decent title or cover.

The album starts with ‘Do It Again’, a track generally considered to be the last great Beach Boys single, but I’m not convinced by this description. There’s a fine line between an affectionate nostalgic gesture and a tired retread, and I think ‘Do It Again’ is, at best, sitting firmly on that line. ‘I Can Hear Music’ and ‘Bluebirds Over The Mountains’ follow – the first is a reasonably forgettable slice of Beach-Boys-lite, the latter is livened up by a muted horn section and a bizarrely over the top lead guitar line.

Dennis Wilson’s ‘Be With Me’ follows, and is the most interesting moment so far. Due to his mental health problems, Brian Wilson contributed virtually nothing to this album, so it was up to the rest of the band to fill in the gaps, and ‘Be With Me’ is a wonderful illustration of Dennis’ developing talent as a songwriter and singer. That said, ‘All I Want To Do’, also co-written by Dennis, and the next track, is a bit rubbish. It sounds like a leftover from ‘Wild Honey’, where it probably would have sat nicely, but it jars here. Side one finishes with ‘The Nearest Far Away Place’, an instrumental by touring-band-extra-turned-full-member-in-an-emergency, Bruce Johnston. It’s nice enough, but a bit cloying, a description which aptly fits pretty much all his writing contributions to the Beach Boys catalogue.

‘Cotton Fields’ starts the second half. It’s an attempt by Al Jardine to follow ‘Sloop John B’ in putting a Beach Boys stamp on an old American folk song. It’s moderately successful, but lacks the Wilson-touch production of ‘Sloop John B’. ‘I Went To Sleep’ and ‘Time To Get Alone’ follow, and would have both fitted nicely onto ‘Friends’, the band’s previous album. ‘Never Learn Not To Love’ is another Dennis track. Any musical interest it provides is hugely overshadowed by the fact that Charles Manson co-wrote the songs lyrics – in retrospect, probably not a career high point.

The album finishes with two tracks from the aborted ‘Smile’ sessions. ‘Our Prayer’ is a brief but utterly glorious blend of acapella harmony, and ‘Cabinessence’ is a fascinating, if bewildering piece of music. It must have been a bittersweet moment for fans at the time – the chance to hear these tracks must have been very exciting, but the realisation that nothing recorded since could quite match them must have put a bit of a downer on it.So on the whole? Very patchy, but plenty to enjoy if your expectations aren’t too high. Let’s face it, the Beach Boys back catalogue contains far greater horrors than this.

'1977' by Ash

Another day, another hit. It's been ages since I listened to this. Ash passed me by in 1996 when this was first release, so this was an album I bought retrospectively (and cheaply) several years afterwards. It's great.

The noteworthy thing about this album is its energy. It leaks youth out of the speakers with a simplistic charm that completely makes up for the fact that most of the songs sound pretty similar, and that Tim Wheeler's had yet to wrestle full control of his voice. The singles - 'Girl From Mars', 'Oh Yeah' and 'Goldfinger' are obvious highlights, but the rest of it matches up nicely.