Over what will likely be the next few years I’m going to be ranking and reviewing the top 5 albums - plus a fair few extras - according to users on rateyourmusic.com (think IMDB for music) from every year from 1960 to the present. If you want to know more, I wrote an introduction to the ‘challenge’ here. You can also read all the other entries I’ve written so far by heading to the lovely index page here.

Besides being the halfway mark of the 2000s, 2004 also saw gay marriages beginning in Massachusetts, the first state to legalise them; George Bush re-elected president and iTunes sold its 200,000,000th song. But what are rateyourmusic.com’s top 5 albums from the year? Well:

#1 Madvillain - Madvillainy
#2 Kanye West - The College Dropout
#3 MF DOOM - MM FOOD
#4 Arcade Fire - Funeral
#5 Natural Snow Buildings - The Winter Ray

And here’s a nunch of intriguing albums I’m going to throw in the mix from further down the list:

#6 Shibusashirazu - Shibuboshi
#7 My Chemical Romance - Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge
#8 Lamp - For Lovers
#13 Elliott Smith - From a Basement on the Hill
#18 Joanna Newsom - The Milk-Eyed Mender
#22 Brian Wilson - Smile
#31 Sufjan Stevens - Seven Swans

Off we go…

Lovers is a warm, nostalgic trip through 60s pop reverence, with echoes of The Beatles and The Beach Boys shimmering throughout its gentle melodies and lush harmonies. Even without understanding the lyrics, the melodic phrasing carries a clear emotional resonance — these songs feel like they’d be irresistibly catchy if you could sing along.

The production is beautifully crisp, every element placed with care. It’s an album that feels almost weightless at times, drifting along in a dreamy haze. That said, there are moments — particularly in the rhythm section — where the drums and bass lean into something a bit too squeaky-clean or kitsch, which slightly undercuts the more timeless aspects of the songwriting. Still, there’s something undeniably cosy about Lovers — it’s the kind of record that wraps itself around you like a soft, familiar blanket.

7/10

“Mm..Food is the fifth studio album by British-American rapper and producer MF Doom. The album peaked at number 17 on Billboard's Independent Albums chart. The title Mm..Food is an anagram of its performer’s name, "MF Doom".” - Wikipedia

MF DOOM’s MM..FOOD is a feast of language and rhythm, served with his trademark deadpan charm. His liquid-smooth cadence makes even the densest rhyme schemes sound effortless, flowing across beats that are as odd and colourful as the man behind the mask. The production is a patchwork of cartoon snippets, dusty soul loops, and left-field samples that somehow coalesce into something rich and nourishing. What makes the record truly remarkable is its literacy: DOOM is playful, sharp, and endlessly referential, packing each track with wordplay that rewards close listening but never loses its bounce. Even two decades on, it still feels startlingly fresh, a reminder that hip-hop can be both cerebral and fun, complex and inviting. MM..FOOD isn’t just an album — it’s a banquet of ideas, plated up with style and wit held back only by a few too many interludes and the fact that DOOM’s effortless delivery is at times so deadpan, it doesn’t hold me for the album’s duration.

8/10

10. Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge

My Chemical Romance

“Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge (often shortened to Three Cheers or Revenge) is the second studio album by American rock band My Chemical Romance. With this album, the band produced a more polished sound than that of their 2002 debut I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love.

The album received positive reviews from critics and was a commercial success for both the band and the Reprise label. It was certified platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) less than a year after its release.” - Wikipedia

Pulverising production and relentless pace make Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge perhaps the most lively record of its year. Gerard Way’s vocals are theatric and just unhinged enough to perfectly encapsulate emo’s 2004 peak, balancing angst with a flair for the dramatic. Although released before I went to university, it’s the record that most vividly takes me back there. Partly that’s the memory of countless nights at dingy alternative clubs where songs like these would tear through the smoke and sweat, but mostly it’s the way MCR managed to bottle the simultaneous excitement and anxiety of that time of life.

The album hardly ever lets up, sometimes to its detriment — it might be stronger trimmed by a couple of tracks. But even so, it’s a cacophony of memorable, powerful melodies, played and sung with such theatrical conviction that the excess feels part of its charm. Few records manage to be so melodramatic and so affecting all at once, and Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge still earns its place as one of emo’s defining statements.

8.5/10

9. From a Basement on the Hill

Elliott Smith

“From a Basement on the Hill is the sixth and final studio album by the American singer-songwriter Elliott Smith. Recorded from 2000 to 2003, and faced with multiple delays due to Smith's personal problems that resulted in his death, it was released posthumously.

The album was initially planned as a double album, and was incomplete at the time of Smith's death. Many of the songs Smith intended for the album remained unfinished, in some cases lacking only vocals. Smith's family hired his former producer Rob Schnapf and ex-girlfriend Joanna Bolme to sort through and finish the batch of over thirty songs that were recorded for the album, although the estate retained final decision on which tracks to include.” - Wikipedia

From a Basement on the Hill is the most unguarded Elliott Smith ever sounded on record. The heavier, grungier textures push against his soft, plaintive voice, creating a tension that feels both unsettling and magnetic. Where earlier albums were polished into something delicate, here the edges are rough, jagged, and often deliberately left exposed. It gives the impression of hearing songs still alive in his head, unfinished in the best sense — buzzing with possibility rather than smoothed into certainty.

What makes it remarkable is how the storms make the quieter moments glow. The acoustic tracks don’t just offer respite, they feel warmer, more intimate, because of the chaos surrounding them.

It’s also the record that most fully embraces his contradictions — gentle and ferocious, melodic and discordant, hopeful and despairing. Listening feels like moving through someone’s inner weather system, where calm skies can break into thunder without warning. That makes it my favourite of his albums: less tamed, more vulnerable, and ultimately more human. It’s not perfect, it was never going to be with it being incomplete, but it’s beautiful.

8.5/10

I’m not sure what exactly is being celebrated by the Japanese jazz orchestra here—a new king, a child’s birth, a marriage, or maybe just another ordinary day. Whatever the occasion, Shibisashirazu are throwing one hell of a party on Shibuboshi. Every trumpet honks in delight, the drums pit, patter, and groove with easy contentment, while the bass struts with a playful spring in its step. The whole record is a joyous cacophony, stitched together from a jumble of influences yet somehow completely its own. This is jazz at its most infectious, its most energetic, its most miraculous.

9/10

“Seven Swans is the fourth studio album by Sufjan Stevens. It features songs about Christian spiritual themes, figures such as Abraham, and Christ's Transfiguration. The songs are primarily "lush acoustic compositions" with Stevens' banjo.” - Wikipedia

Religious themes run through Seven Swans, yet they’re never overbearing. Even as someone with no faith, I find its meditative, almost prayer-like atmosphere deeply moving. The stripped-back arrangements give Sufjan’s already intimate voice even more closeness, the quiet instrumentals breathing alongside him.

What makes the record resonate isn’t its theology but its artistry — graceful melodies, vulnerable performances, and songwriting that feels quietly timeless. In its best moments, it captures a sense of peace and certainty that faith can give, even to a listener who doesn’t share it. “In the Devil’s Territory” is a particular highlight, its echoed strums like bottled peace of mind, bouncing back for a hug.

9/10

Brian Wilson’s Smile is as much a resurrection as it is a release. Originally conceived in the mid-60s as the follow-up to Pet Sounds, the project collapsed under the weight of expectation, studio excess, and Wilson’s own struggles, leaving behind only fragments that became the stuff of legend among Beach Boys fans. Decades later, Wilson returned to the material, reworking it with his live band into the cohesive, finished piece we finally received in 2004.

Listening to Smile, it really does feel like the return of the Beach Boys. It’s clear much of the material was written in their orbit, even if what we hear here is re-recorded with Wilson’s solo band. The album is structured almost like a classical suite, in three distinct movements, which gives it an elegant sense of flow and artistic shape.

The melodies are, as expected from Wilson, simply gorgeous—radiant, playful, dipped in melancholy. What’s striking is how natural it all sounds: the arrangements and production place you firmly in that late-60s world, to the point where it could be mistaken for an album that followed immediately after Pet Sounds. For some listeners that might feel like nostalgia bordering on stasis, but to me it’s a triumph. The timelessness of the sound makes Smile feel like a lost classic finally unearthed.

It captures both the innocence and ambition of Wilson’s original vision while also serving as a moving reminder of what was almost lost to history. The album is impossible to listen to without—wait for it—a smile.

9/10

Every night my son picks an album from those I’ve downloaded for this challenge as the song to go to sleep to with me. Usually it’s something to do with the cover—Kid A for example, because it had “mountains.” The Milk-Eyed Mender has become bedtime listening every night since he spotted the aeroplanes on the cover. The boy loves aeroplanes. I now think this album will forever remind me of this precious time, lying beside him as he talked about his day and drifted off in my arms (or armpit as the case often is…). Somehow Joanna Newsom has been a perfect accompaniment to that.

On The Milk-Eyed Mender, Newsom announces herself with a debut that feels utterly singular. Her voice is often called divisive, but it’s precisely its sharp, quivering presence that makes these songs impossible to ignore. There’s a command here—of language, melody, and mood—that recalls Dylan’s Freewheelin’, though her lyrical world is far stranger and more enchanted. Verses land with the memorability of choruses, packed with vivid and sometimes abstract imagery that lingers like half-remembered dreams.

The sparse, homespun production deepens the intimacy, allowing her harp and piano to frame words that flicker like fire—fragile one moment, incandescent the next. The result is a record that feels both rooted in folk tradition and yet untethered from any particular time. It’s timeless, idiosyncratic, and for those willing to embrace its eccentricities, a revelation.

It’s odd what can lead to albums defining times of our lives. Sometimes it’s as predictable as a release date lining up with a life event. Sometimes, as I’ve found, it’s as unpredictable as a couple of aeroplanes hidden on a cover.

9/10

I’m not going to go into Kanye West’s more recent years and the controversies that have followed him—it’s enough to say that I don’t align with his current outlook. What I’m interested in here is the art itself, and The College Dropout deserves to be judged on its own terms. This record, arriving in 2004, feels like a breath of fresh air in the hip-hop landscape of its time. Where much of mainstream rap leaned heavily into bravado, hyper-masculinity, and hardened seriousness, Kanye carved out something different: an album that was soulful, playful, and surprisingly vulnerable.

Listening to The College Dropout is like being handed an ice cream cone on a hot day—sweet, refreshing, and delightfully indulgent. The production is bursting with colour, packed with warm, gospel-infused samples and beats that bounce around like a pile of multi-coloured bouncy balls spilling across the floor. It has an energy that never quite sits still, yet always feels meticulously crafted. And over it, Kanye raps with a delivery that’s equal parts smooth and slightly nerdy, brimming with confidence but also carrying a sense of self-awareness and charm.

The features only add to the richness of the album—guests like Jay-Z, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli broaden the palette without overshadowing the core vision. From the playful skits to the personal reflections on family, education, and ambition, there’s a real sense of humanity that anchors the record. Kanye manages to balance sincerity and wit in a way that makes the album endlessly replayable: one moment sharp social commentary, the next a grin-inducing hook or joke.

What’s most impressive is how The College Dropout still feels fresh today. Every listen reveals something new—whether it’s a hidden detail in the production, a clever turn of phrase, or simply a shift in mood that resonates differently with where you are in life. It’s infectious from start to finish, and no matter how many times I return to it, the album puts me in a good mood. More than just a debut, it’s the arrival of an artist who redefined what hip-hop could sound like, and it remains, for me, a genuine masterpiece.

9.5/10

“Madvillainy is the only studio album by American hip-hop duo Madvillain, consisting of British-American rapper MF Doom and American record producer Madlib.

Madlib created most of the instrumentals during a trip to Brazil in his hotel room using minimal amounts of equipment: a Boss SP-303 sampler, a turntable, and a tape deck. Fourteen months before the album was released, an unfinished demo version was stolen and leaked onto the internet. Frustrated, the duo stopped working on the album and returned to it only after they had released other solo projects.

Madvillainy received widespread critical acclaim for Madlib's production and MF Doom's lyricism, and is regarded as Doom's magnum opus. It has since been widely regarded as one of the greatest hip-hop albums of all time, as well as one of the greatest albums of all time in general, being ranked in various publications' lists of all-time greatest albums.” - Wikipedia

Madvillainy isn’t an album so much as a labyrinth. MF Doom and Madlib never seem interested in delivering songs in the traditional sense; instead, they build a shifting collage where beats slide in and out, verses cut off mid-thought, and samples appear like apparitions. It feels like flipping through a secret notebook, fragments of brilliance tumbling onto the page.

The production is dusty, fire-lit, and playful, with Madlib pulling loops and textures from every corner of the record bin. Doom, with his liquid cadence and dense, literate wordplay, glides over it like he’s annotating the beat in real time. It’s often funny, often surreal, and always hypnotic.

What’s striking is how the record thrives on incompleteness. Many tracks clock in under two minutes, sketches rather than full statements, but together they form a masterful tapestry, glowing brighter than an industrial strength bulb at the bottom of a well.

And through all its fragmented genius, Madvillainy never stops moving. Even when it dissolves into strange corners, I’m always bopping, always caught in its gravitational pull. It’s a hip-hop landmark, not because it’s polished, but because it dares to be unfinished and still feels complete.

9.5/10

“Funeral is the debut studio album by Canadian indie rock band Arcade Fire. Its lyrics draw upon themes of death, change, and the loss of childhood innocence. It received widespread critical acclaim and topped many year-end and decade-end lists, now often considered one of the greatest albums of all time.” - Wikipedia

Of all the albums from this year, Funeral is the one most deeply etched into memory. Its relentless bass-drum marches, soaring dramatic melodies, and sudden shifts in power make it feel less like a collection of songs and more like a single, urgent statement. Born out of grief—several band members lost family during its creation—it resonates as a communal shout into the void, a work steeped in both mourning and catharsis.

What makes it remarkable is how it transforms sorrow into something both fragile and defiant. There’s a melancholy acceptance in its quieter moments, yet always the sense of life pushing back against the darkness. The choruses bloom with a sense of shared survival, as if everyone is holding one another up. It feels at once raw and meticulously crafted, intensely personal yet universal.

Even now, it’s hard to find fault in it. Funeral captures the paradox of grief: the ache of loss and the strange, almost life-affirming energy that comes from knowing your time will come too, and you’d better live while you can.

10/10

Natural Snow Buildings are one of those cult projects that feel like they’ve been quietly working in a parallel dimension to the rest of music. The French duo—Mehdi Ameziane and Solange Gularte—have been releasing sprawling, often homemade records since the late ’90s, mixing elements of drone, folk, ambient, and noise into something that feels both personal and cosmically scaled. They’ve always thrived on excess, whether in length, in texture, or in atmosphere, and The Winter Ray might be their most audacious statement: a two-and-a-half-hour epic that stretches the boundaries of what an album can be.

At its core, The Winter Ray is less about songs in the traditional sense and more about landscapes. Across its length, the duo conjure images of collapsing governments, wars, and societal decay—not in any direct or literal way (other than the odd barely audible voiceover), but through sound alone. You get twinkling piano lines that could just as easily belong in a children’s lullaby, gently plucked guitar motifs that shimmer like fragile light, and endless, patient drones that feel like the earth itself humming under the weight of history. The pacing is deliberate: movements build with near-imperceptible slowness until they crest into tidal crescendos, only to ebb away into silences so delicate you almost hold your breath.

What makes The Winter Ray remarkable is that, on one hand, it’s perfectly possible to let it wash over you as background ambience—it has the patient, enveloping quality of music designed to blur into your environment. But give it your full attention, and it becomes a different beast altogether. Suddenly every shift in tone feels monumental; every drone note carries unbearable weight; every quiet passage feels loaded with tension. In that way, it functions almost like a mirror to the world outside: a reminder that chaos and beauty are often entwined, and that history unfolds not just in headlines but in long, quiet stretches of waiting.

Listening through all 180 minutes is less like playing an album and more like entering a space, one you can’t quite leave until the music releases you. And when it does—when the final notes fade and you remove your headphones—there’s a subtle disorientation, as though the everyday world has been tinted differently, as though you’ve been carrying the weight of centuries in sound.

The Winter Ray is not easy, nor is it meant to be. It demands patience, stillness, and trust. But if you’re willing to surrender to it, it’s an extraordinary journey—an unspoken history lesson, a meditation on society’s fragility, and a powerful testament to Natural Snow Buildings’ ability to create an entire universe out of drones, whispers, and silence.

10/10

Since 2020, I’ve been ranking and reviewing the top 5 albums - plus a fair few extras - according to users on rateyourmusic.com (think IMDB for music) from every year from 1960 to the present. If you want to know more, I wrote an introduction to the ‘challenge’ here. You can also read all the other entries I’ve written so far by heading to the lovely index page here.

Welcome to 2003, the year Britain and the US launched the war on Iraq, Libya accepted responsibility for the Lockerbie bombing and agreed to pay $2.7 billion to the victims’ families, and Schwarzenegger was elected governor. Here’s the year’s top 5 albums according to our ever-reliable rateyourmusic.com users:

#1 Sweet Trip - Velocity: Design: Comfort
#2 Songs: Ohia - The Magnolia Electric Co
#3 Boris - Feedbacker
#4 The Microphones - Mount Eerie
#5 Ween - Quebec

And some more I feel the need to grab from further down the list:

#6 Sheena Ringo - Kalk Samen Kuri no Hana
#7 Viktor Vaughn - Vaudeville Villain
#8 Sun Kil Moon - Ghosts of the Great Highway
#11 Tim Hecker - Radio Amor
#17 Sufjan Stevens - Michigan
#20 The Postal Service - Give Up
#25 Radiohead - Hail to the Thief
#30 The White Stripes - Elephant

That’s 13 albums - let’s get cracking.

13. Kalk Samen Kuri no Hana

Sheena Ringo

“Kalk Samen Kuri no Hana, also known as Kalk Samen Chestnut Flower and Chlorine, Semen, Chestnut Flower is the third studio album by Japanese singer-songwriter Ringo Sheena. The album's lead single was a massive success, topping the Oricon charts for the first time in her career.” - Wikipedia

Even without grasping a single word, it’s obvious the lyrics matter here—and that language barrier does feel like a bit of a wall. Still, Kalk Samen Kuri no Hana bursts with so much sonic invention that it’s hard not to be drawn in. It’s a chaotic, brilliant collage of styles—classical strings, glitchy electronics, jazz, prog, all tumbling into one another—and somehow, it remains engaging throughout. Cohesion might be elusive, but it’s clearly a triumph of creativity. The production still has a lo-fi edge, and I’d love to hear this with a bit more space to breathe, but it’s already a step up from the more confined, tinny feel of her 2001 release.

Even if I can’t follow the story, I’m still glad to be along for the ride.

7.5/10

“Radio Amor was inspired by Jimmy, a fisherman and shrimper that Hecker met during a visit to Honduras in the mid-1990s. In an article from The Wire, Hecker said that "I was totally obsessed with the idea of fishermen in the Caribbean".” - Wikipedia

Radio Amor feels like music composed by the wind—shifting, ghostly, and elusive. While it’s clearly the product of sequencers and electronics, there’s a natural, almost elemental quality to its flow, as if it was born from weather rather than machines. There’s a haunting undercurrent throughout, something quietly ominous beneath the distortion and static. Knowing it’s inspired by a Honduran shrimper adds a strange poetry to the listening experience, though without the track titles and cover art, you’d never guess it. I was intrigued by its textures and drift, even if I never fully lost myself in it.

8/10

“Quebec is the eighth studio album by the American rock band Ween. It was the first album released after the band's contract with Elektra expired, and marked its return to independent labels. Recorded during a period of strife in the band members' personal lives, Quebec was described by Dean Ween as a ‘very negative’ album that takes on a darker tone compared to the band's prior work.” - Wikipedia

I listened to this in bed before sleep, and Quebec had me double-checking that the tablet I took was magnesium, not something hallucinogenic. Ween are singular - singularly mad. Quebec ricochets between genres with zero concern for cohesion, it feels like a cracked mirror of the band’s inner turmoil at the time, their sadness cloaked in absurdity and smirking pastiche. It’s playful, unhinged, and oddly poignant.

8/10

“Mount Eerie is the fourth studio album by American indie folk and indie rock band the Microphones. The album is named after the mountain Mount Erie near Anacortes, Washington, which is the hometown of Phil Elverum, the band's frontman. The album received generally positive reviews from critics, including accolades such as Pitchfork's ‘Best New Music’ title and inclusion on Treblezine's list of essential psychedelic folk albums.

Mount Eerie has been described by Elverum as being about mountains, earth and space. The album is a concept album, consisting of a linear narrative spanning its five songs. Elverum establishes a metaphor for life in which he depicts the womb, birth, and through to death, in the second-last track. His lyrics depict a cast of characters, while the music includes cinematic drums, choirs and drones. Sonically, the album is a continuation of The Glow Pt. 2, the previous studio album by the Microphones.” - Wikipedia

Mount Eerie feels like the moment The Microphones fully disappear into the fog—there are breathtaking stretches, but also long, uncertain detours that don’t quite land like The Glow. The dense, cavernous drums are a highlight, but where The Glow felt mysteriously unified, this leans harder into chaos, sometimes at the cost of emotional pull. I probably need to live with it more, but right now it feels like brilliance slipping into something murkier and harder to hold onto.

8/10

“The Magnolia Electric Co. is the seventh and final album by Songs: Ohia. It was recorded by Steve Albini at Electrical Audio in Chicago and released by Secretly Canadian on March 4, 2003. It was critically acclaimed on release.” - Wikipedia

Released just a few years before Jason Molina’s untimely death - due to alcoholism, Magnolia Electric Co. stands as a raw and poignant statement from one of alt-country’s most quietly profound voices. Molina’s vocals have a delicate, personable nature—wavering and intimate. His lyrics are laced with sharp turns of phrase, capturing sorrow and resilience with poetic precision.

The songs are long, but never indulgent. Each one feels focused, with the band locked into a groove that allows the emotion to breathe. The lead guitar work is especially striking—adding weight and texture without overcrowding. Steve Albini’s production is predictably transparent, giving the recordings a live, almost documentary feel that suits Molina’s stark honesty.

If there’s a misstep, it’s the appearances from guest vocalist Lawrence Peters (on “The Old Black Hen”) and Scout Niblett (on “Peoria Lunch Box Blues”). While strong in their own right, their presence dilutes the album’s otherwise intense sense of personal connection—it’s Molina’s voice I want to be close to.

8/10

8. Transatlanticism

Death Cab for Cutie

“Transatlanticism is the fourth studio album by rock band Death Cab for Cutie. At this point in their career, the group had toured and recorded for nearly a half-decade. With tensions rising, the band decided to take time away from one another; notably, Ben Gibbard collaborated with electronic musician Dntel (Jimmy Tamborello), and released an album, Give Up, under the name the Postal Service. Death Cab regrouped in late 2002 to create Transatlanticism, which was recorded in a leisurely manner over five-day stretches until June 2003. The record is a concept album, exploring a theme of long-distance romance.” - Wikipedia

There was a time when Transatlanticism felt like it was stitched into the lining of my life. After university, it became a kind of quiet companion—on long bus rides, flights, and late-night walks. Part of that was the band’s presence in my circle of friends—many of my closest mates were into Death Cab—but part of it, too, was the way Ben Gibbard’s lyricism and clean, unadorned melodies seemed to speak plainly and beautifully to that strange, floaty post-uni period of life.

I’ve always admired Gibbard’s way with words: wistful without tipping into maudlin, direct but still poetic. And the guitar work throughout Transatlanticism—especially on tracks like “Title and Registration” or “We Looked Like Giants”—still hits a satisfying emotional groove. There’s a clarity to the production, a richness in the textures, and a melancholic yet somehow hopeful current that runs through the whole record.

That said, it doesn’t land quite like it used to. Maybe it’s overfamiliarity—this album was on a lot in my twenties. Maybe it’s the emotional flattening of antidepressants. Who knows? But where it once gave me a proper case of the fuzzies, now it just gives a nod and a gentle smile.

Still, even if it’s not as emotionally potent as it once was, Transatlanticism remains a record I respect deeply. It held me once, and that counts for something.

8.5/10

“Give Up is the only studio album by American electronic duo the Postal Service, The Postal Service was a collaboration between singer-songwriter Ben Gibbard, best-known for his work with indie rock band Death Cab for Cutie, and musician Jimmy Tamborello, who also records under the name Dntel. The album is a long-distance collaboration. The duo named the project for their working method: the pair would send demos on burned CD-R's through the mail, adding elements until songs were complete.” - Wikipedia

Ben Gibbard again, but this time stepping away from the indie rock polish of Death Cab and into something more bedroom-born. Give Up wasn’t a big part of my adolescence in the way Transatlanticism was—it arrived on the periphery for me—but weirdly, it might be the one I return to more these days.

There’s something about Gibbard’s voice—soft, plainspoken, that ‘guy next door’ quality—that just makes sense over the drum machines and synth pads that Jimmy Tamborello lays down here. It feels introverted in a way that’s not self-conscious. Where Death Cab often paints in fuller, band-sized brushstrokes, Give Up sketches with circuit boards and soft-focus melancholy. And it suits him.

The opening stretch is particularly strong. “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” and “Such Great Heights” tap into a kind of early-2000s digital romanticism—industrial but emotional, understated but sticky. The mechanical simplicity of the beats somehow captures that era’s weird blend of isolation and connection. It’s music that could only have come from a time when texting still felt futuristic.

The second half doesn’t quite hold the same magic—it drifts a little—but overall, Give Up is a quietly brilliant record. It’s one I’d recommend to almost anyone. A perfect marriage of voice and vehicle.

8.5/10

“Hail to the Thief is the sixth studio album by the English rock band Radiohead. After transitioning to a more electronic style on their albums Kid A and Amnesiac, which were recorded through protracted studio experimentation, Radiohead sought to work more spontaneously, combining electronic and rock music.

The singer, Thom Yorke, wrote lyrics in response to the election of the US president George W. Bush and the unfolding war on terror. He took phrases from political discourse and combined them with elements from fairy tales and children's literature. The title is a play on the American presidential anthem, "Hail to the Chief".” - Wikipedia

It’s the fate of every Radiohead album post-OK Computer to live in the long shadow of greatness. Hail to the Thief was no exception—unfairly but inevitably measured against the seismic impact of its predecessors. And yet, while it may lack the singular focus of Kid A, this is still an album teeming with ideas, textures, and unease.

In many ways, Hail to the Thief feels like a convergence. The band’s classic guitar-driven setup re-emerges after years submerged beneath glitchy electronica, but it’s not a full return to form—at least, not the form casual fans might expect. The sonic palette still leans heavily toward the digital and the oblique, with twitchy beats, eerie synths, and Thom Yorke’s vocals offer more ghostly intonation than pop hook. There’s a restless, shapeshifting quality here that feels more in line with Amnesiac than OK Computer.

It’s also, admittedly, a bit too much. Clocking in at nearly an hour, even the band has since acknowledged that a more concise version might’ve made a sharper impact. Still, even if it lacks the cohesion of their most revered work, Hail to the Thief remains infinitely absorbing. The experimentation is bold, the atmosphere oppressive and magnetic.

Interestingly, this is also the album that, fairly or not, helped seed a reductive caricature of the band: vague political unease, skittish drums, and a moody, abstract vibe. There’s some truth to that here—but applying it broadly to their catalogue does them a disservice. Hail to the Thief might be the most overtly “Radiohead™” album in that sense, but it’s far from representative of the band’s full range.

Is it a masterpiece? No. But it’s a fascinating, murky entry in a discography defined by evolution.

8.5/10

5. The Ghost of the Great Highway

Sun Kil Moon

Ghosts of the Great Highway is the debut studio album by San Francisco quartet Sun Kil Moon, led by Red House Painters' founder Mark Kozelek, who composed all of the lyrics and music on this album. Three of the album's songs are named after boxers. The band name is also a pun on the Korean boxer Sung-Kil Moon. The song "Carry Me Ohio" was listed at #462 on Pitchfork's Top 500 Songs of the 2000s list. - Wikipedia

Mark Kozelek has a rare talent for making simplicity feel meaningful. On Ghosts of the Great Highway, his first full-length as Sun Kil Moon, he leans into slow, spacious acoustic guitar work—gentle, looping progressions that feel both grounded and quietly transportive. There’s nothing flashy here, just chords that unfold patiently, with a warmth and clarity that make them linger. On songs like “Gentle Moon,” the repetition becomes its own kind of spell.

Kozelek’s voice floats just above the surface, rarely pushing forward. It’s unadorned, conversational, almost passive at times—but that restraint is part of the appeal. His vocals feel less like a performance and more like a presence—something you notice more for how it shapes the atmosphere than for any standout line. The melodies drift in naturally, and the lyrics often require close attention, rewarding repeated listens without insisting on it.

The production is clean and carefully arranged. Compared to his earlier work, the addition of full-band textures might make things feel a little more distant, a little less immediate—but that distance fits the tone. There’s a subtle shimmer to everything, and the slightly detached quality adds to the album’s quiet sense of motion.

It’s an undeniably beautiful record—softly lit, deeply immersive. Some listeners might find it too reserved, too slow to reveal itself. But if you’re willing to follow its pace, Ghosts of the Great Highway has a strange and lasting pull.

8.5/10

“Michigan is the third studio album by American indie folk songwriter Sufjan Stevens. It is Stevens' third studio album and features songs referencing places, events, and persons related to the U.S. state of Michigan.” - Wikipedia

Michigan is one of those albums that doesn’t so much ask for your attention as quietly unfold beside you, like a companion whispering stories late at night, careful not to wake the rest of the house. Sufjan Stevens’ voice, soft and barely above a murmur, adds to this hushed intimacy, and the lush arrangements—filled with woodwinds, piano flourishes, and delicate strings—wrap each track in a warm, slightly melancholic haze.

It’s a long record, and that can be both a gift and a challenge. On certain listens, its sheer sprawl makes it hard to hold onto; on others—like right now—it feels like a blessing to have so much to return to, so many little corners to explore. This isn’t an album of singles or big emotional peaks, but more of a slow, contemplative journey, unfolding in thoughtful chapters rather than hooks.

There’s a gentleness to the sadness here, a kind of collective melancholy that reassures more than isolates. Stevens seems to say: yes, things are hard, but we’re in it together. That sense of shared sorrow, paired with the album’s peacefulness, makes Michigan oddly comforting. It’s a record you don’t just hear—you inhabit. And the longer you stay with it, the more it quietly reveals.

8.5/10

“Vaudeville Villain is the third studio album by British-American rapper-producer MF DOOM, released under the pseudonym Viktor Vaughn.” - Wikipedia

Vaudeville Villain really pulls you in—the flow is so tight and sharp it kind of locks you in from the first track. DOOM (as Viktor Vaughn) sounds completely in his element, riding the beats with this effortless cadence that’s somehow both laid back and razor-edged. The production gets more and more sci-fi as it goes—by the end it feels like you’re being sucked into a black hole made of warped samples and VHS fuzz. I didn’t fully follow the narrative, but it still feels like one whole world, like you’re watching a late-night bootleg cartoon from another planet. I totally see why this is seen as a slept-on gem. It’s got me hyped all over again for Madvillainy in 2003…

8.5/10

“Boris at Last -Feedbacker- (or simply called Feedbacker) is the sixth studio album by Japanese experimental music band Boris. The album, a single 43-minute track broken into 5 movements, incorporates many different rock elements. The band frequently revisits the song in concert.” - Wikipedia

Feedbacker captures Boris in a state of controlled chaos, where freedom and form coexist. Wata’s lead guitar writhes like a rogue AI — unpredictable, alive, and ever expanding — while the band holds down a loose but deliberate backbone beneath her. The album’s structure feels mapped out, yet open to the moment, with each movement building suspense not just toward the final crescendo, but as a visceral thrill in itself. By Part 4, the sound becomes a blur of velocity, like cycling at 500mph through a wind tunnel. It’s a séance of sound, with Wata channeling the ghost of Hendrix through sheer feedback and force.

9/10

1. Velocity: Design: Comfort

Sweet Trip

“Velocity : Design : Comfort is an album of juxtapositions — where featherlight vocal lines and soft ambient pads coexist with frantic, bit-crushed drums that sound like they’re chewing themselves apart. It’s chaotic, glitched-out, and yet somehow deeply soothing. Sweet Trip manage to turn digital noise into something nostalgic and human.

Initially released in 2003 to little fanfare, the album found a surprising second life in the 2010s thanks to internet forums, YouTube recommendations, and a generation of listeners hungry for something that blended dream pop sentimentality with IDM precision. As its cult following grew, so did its reputation — with some now calling it a genre-blurring masterpiece.

That said, I’ve always found a slight disconnect between the more vocal-heavy, structured tracks and the more abstract, drifting ones. At first, it can feel like two albums stitched together. But that tension seems to dissolve on repeat listens. Over time, Velocity : Design : Comfort becomes less a collection of songs and more a space you live in — like a childhood bedroom, where everything feels familiar, safe, and faintly magical, even if it’s also a little messy.

9/10

2004 - Clive's Top Albums of Every Year Challenge

2003 - Clive's Top Albums of Every Year Challenge