Klinger: OK, so here we are with another slab of impossibly sweet 1960s R&B from the Queen of Soul, and I am at somewhat of a loss to talk about it. Much like our previous foray into Aretha Franklin’s work, I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, Lady Soul is so consistently good and so completely worthy that it’s hard to even think about covering it. It’s like when Michael Jordan won an MVP award or when Meryl Streep gets nominated for an Oscar—it just seems like a given.

Sure, it’s no surprise that the mathematical wizard behind the Great List has given us another Aretha Franklin album to grapple with. Lady Soul is brilliant. Aretha Franklin is great. Pretty much what we talk about when we talk about soul music. “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman”? Iconic! Is there much more to say? I suppose there has to be. So take it away, Mendelsohn.

When singer Lee Dorrian exited UK-based grindcore pioneer Napalm Death in the late ‘80s, few would have predicted his next musical venture would so drastically reduce the tempo and ramp up the theatrics. Dorrian, who had grown disillusioned with punk and death metal at the time, formed doom legend Cathedral in 1989 with bassist Mark Griffiths and guitarist Gary ‘Gaz’ Jennings. The band members’ love of bands such as Black Sabbath, Candlemass and Pentagram, as well as a host of other ‘60s and ‘70s cult rockers, provided the original spark. Twenty or so years and nine albums later, Cathedral announced that it was set to extinguish that flame, bowing out after its tenth studio album, this year’s The Last Spire.

It’s enormously sad to see Cathedral cease, although, given the group’s predilection for mournful suites, that’s all very apt. The band was still making vital, passionate music—in fact, Cathedral’s last few albums have been among the best of its career. However, there’s a great deal of goodwill and acceptance surrounding what would otherwise be a tragic event. Respect for Dorrian is assured due to his role as overlord of highly regarded UK label Rise Above, and there’s comfort to be found in the fact that Cathedral has called a halt to proceedings when it wanted to, before diminishing creative returns tainted the band’s prodigious legacy.

“I only ask because I’m a real cunt in Spring / You can rent me by the hour.”

And then there was “Dance of the Seven Veils”, the gobsmacking fourth track on Exile in Guyville, and our first taste of Liz Phair’s unparalleled ability to be haughty, naughty, playful, and pernicious all in the same breath. It is also serves as our introduction to Phair’s more abstract tendencies, stringing together erotic and vaguely menacing imagery in deceptive lullaby rhyme. It’s an apt successor to the pseudo-sexual-spiritual interlude “Glory”, but “Veils” seemingly forgets all the gentility of its predecessor; here, rather, Phair is at her wryly seductive best, disingenuously self-flagellating as she voices her demands and desires so her male subject needn’t do the dirty work (and is perhaps is robbed of his own sure to be underwhelming response).

That Phair marries a relatively straightforward plea for her rocker lover to quit being such a bastard (“Johnny my love / Get out of the business / It makes me wanna rough you up so badly”) with overt references to the Salome / John the Baptist beheading myth / Biblical passage / whatever veracious weight you prescribe it (“I have got a bright and shiny platter / And I am gonna get your heavy head”) is testament to the cunning complexities of Phair’s composer mind. Phair cherry-picks her allusions here, making substantial use of sparse ingredients, and sets a peculiar—but purposeful—tone by invoking a provocative cultural signpost and pairing it with what would otherwise be a pedestrian tale of romantic frustration.

Mendelsohn: It finally happened, Klinger. Disco. Disco on the Great List. I didn’t think it was possible. But there it is. The list does not lie. The Saturday Night Fever soundtrack is the 129th most acclaimed album of all time. On a no less interesting note, this album is also the first soundtrack to make the Great List—one of only five we will ever have to talk about, should we make it that far (the other four are, The Harder They Come at 213; O Brother, Where Art Thou? at 1592; West Side Story at 1632; and The Sound of Music at 2305).

The truth is, I had spotted this album a long time ago and have been waiting eagerly to actually listen to it. I have never seen the movie and probably should have watched it as research for this piece, but I understand it is pretty much just one long rape scene and not the feel-good dance picture I always thought it was.

I first became aware of Davis Fetter when he opened for Black Francis in March of 2013. Fetter appeared onstage with his Buddy Holly glasses, wife-beater, motorcycle jacket and pompadour (shaved on both sides for an edgier, punk-a-billy look) and might have fit in with some strange recast version of Happy Days if not for his blue Gibson Archtop and friendly, ernest introductions to his his songs and greetings to the growing crowd.