Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time: A Sonic Journey through Music, Criticism, and Quarantine
By: Selena Dieringer
Tags: Rolling Stone Magazine, Covid-19, Isolation, Race Relations, Music

Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time: A Sonic Journey through Music, Criticism, and Quarantine Selena Dieringer Jan 17·16 min read

March 29th, 2020. New York City was in a full lockdown due to Covid-19, with most of the USA at a similar standstill. My job duties had dwindled to a state of pointlessness, with little to do and reduced hours and pay anyway. It seemed likely that my role would be eliminated altogether as the worsening pandemic took further grasp of the country.

A social creature by nature, I hadn’t seen anyone I knew in weeks, and it was not lost on me that it would be several more before any in-person contact could even pseudo-safely be made. I had exhausted most options for outreach: excessive FaceTiming, Houseparty games, and enough Zoom happy hours to grant concern for all of our collective drinking habits. As a music obsessive, I had already created more Spotify playlists than imaginable and was involved with four ongoing “30 Day Music Challenges.” There were no venues open, no shows to see, and none to look forward to. I was staring down the barrel of a year of pointless existence, both personally and professionally, with no end in sight. I knew I needed to do something to keep myself occupied.

I pulled out my stash of Rolling Stone Collectors Issues and decided to embark on an extremely long, often enjoyable, and occasionally painful undertaking: I was going to listen to Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, published July 25, 2012. Starting on the back page of the issue (as I often do anyway), the magazine informed me that this would take 25,552 minutes to complete. I mean, what the hell else was I going to do? With a seemingly never-ending amount of rare and complete free time on my hands, this would certainly occupy my time and my mind for a while.

I enforced stringent rules upon myself: I would listen to each record with total attention and intention, and would listen to each album to full completion. If I absolutely detested something, I could skip the song, but I had to listen to it three-fourths through before making that choice. At the conclusion of each record, I would pick one song from it and put it on a playlist. The song could either be a personal favorite, or a song that I felt most embodied the work. No matter how much I loved the album, I could only choose one song (or conversely, no matter how much I hated the album, I still had to choose one anyway). I was excited at the prospect of exposure to artists that I wasn’t very familiar — I looked at it as a way to discover new music that was new to me. I looked forward to revisiting albums I hadn’t heard in years. And at the end, at minimum, I knew I would have a badass playlist.

Beginning the process, I had many anticipated reflections: of criticism as a form of social commentary, of favoritism, elitism, of the music itself, of the subjectivity of art, of the relationship between popularity and consumerism versus what is deemed “great” by those who are allowed to dictate the narrative of what is esteemed and what is not. I assumed these more critical reflections, in addition to my own exposure to music, would be my most valuable outcomes of the project post-completion. But there was so much value to this process that I did not necessarily foresee when I began: of course, the emotional power of music, of memory, of generational connection, but also, the inherent need to have something to do each day that exists within some structured guidelines and timeline, particularly during a time of complete chaos.

Starting at 500 with Outkast’s 1998 album Aquemini (which was once on heavy rotation in my Chevy Cavalier back in Minnesota), I started to approach the project as time-passing recreation. I finally got around to listening to The Stone Roses. I remembered how Kiss is overrated (sorry, Chuck Klosterman), and found it insanely difficult to choose just one song off of Cyndi Lauper’s She’s So Unusual, a long-time personal favorite. I realized how much I love Loretta Lynn, mourned the underrated voice of George Michael, and discovered for the first time Richard and Linda Thompson.

For years leading up to the pandemic, my dad and I have talked on the phone every two weeks or so. It’s usually the same shit that everyone talks to their dads about: the weather in Minnesota, the weather in New York, how our family is doing, work. By early April, these conversations were dominated by Covid fears and concerns about the future. During our routine call, I told him how I had been put on partial furlough and wasn’t working much, so I decided to start this project. He got really excited to talk about it (we frequently debate the polling and lists put out by rock critics) and was immediately skeptical about the list itself. He only collects albums made from 1973 or before and was sure there would not be enough representation from that era, and expressed deep concern that there would be too much of “that rap.” I told him album by album what I had listened to so far, and we talked about each one along the way. This became the template for our next nine months of conversation, and something that I believe helped us both cope through an otherwise incredibly difficult and isolating time.

On April 4th I listened to LL Cool J’s Radio. Man, that album did not age well. I wondered about the relationship between cultural impact and significance versus the music itself. How important is cultural impact when considering the “greatness” of an album? Sure, when it was released, Radio was certainly more listenable than it was in 2020. So how do we define the “greatness” of an album? Is it the cultural impact, the music itself, how the content has aged over time, or a combination of all of this? There’s also the question of how the music has aged from a sonic perspective. I suppose some music that sounds sonically dated can be nostalgic or referential, but some just plainly isn’t fun to hear anymore. A few albums later, Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black showcased the other side of this: an album that sounds as if it could have been released in any decade over the last 50+ years and seems impossible to “age” at all.

Upon starting this undertaking, I of course knew that the list would be fundamentally flawed from the start. The same questions that have been addressed for centuries by critics of all artistic mediums would be present here: not only that of how we define greatness, but the sheer subjectivity of what is “good” and what is not. Art is and will always be subjective, even when applying any “rules” of validity, ability, or progress. Not to mention, most “ranking” lists are created by people who are often featured on them, or work within micro-circles of a relatively like-minded community. There is an ever-present air of pretentiousness in criticism that elevates critics above not only the works they assess, but moreover, the “general public,” creating an otherness between critics and consumers. Hence why we seldom see the likes of pop artists not taken as “seriously” on these kinds of lists, regardless of how much their songs resonate with a mass audience. Lest we forget that “pop” just means “popular” and because of that, many albums of “other” genres have ranked on the pop charts. Surely a lot of “pop music” is pure trite, but that doesn’t mean the category as a whole is. There is a minimal amount of pop on the list and there are some albums that immediately come to mind that are missing. Surely Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream should be listed? Where was Adele? Beyonce?

The result of this is also the opposite; that more “serious” or “important” artists deemed to be more intelligent or impactful somehow manage to get most or all of their work included, even though some of it, simply, sucks. For example, just because the Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten created a new project does not mean it was a) great, b) one of the greatest of all time, or c) (in my humble opinion) remotely listenable (Public Image Ltd’s Metal Box helped me appreciate my 3/4ths-through skip rule). Not every Bruce Springsteen album needed to be on here, and I love Bruce. Same for Dylan. And Randy Newman? Come on now. Wayyyy too many.

I also faced the question of influence. Several albums here were in no way commercial successes or often, even well known by a mass audience at all, but influenced great work from future artists. One example here is Big Star. I was aware of Big Star before I started the project by way of a small handful of songs (which I do enjoy) but I was surprised to see that three of their four studio albums all listed on the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time — no doubt in part due to their heavy influence on future greats, most notably, The Replacements. Simply, there are far better albums in the scheme of time than at least two of their three that made the cut.

As I proceeded through the list, I also noticed that the “influencers” albums almost always placed lower on the list than the “influenced” albums, even in times that the “influenced” work was not as good as the “influencer” piece. My imagination tells me this was not done by accident and there was some semblance of timeline attempted here, but it most definitely flaws the placement of the rankings. One notable exception is The Velvet Underground, who outranked most of the bands that credit them as an inspiration.

It’s also probably important to note that when Rolling Stone was founded in 1967, it was focused on rock and roll music and politics, as well as the relationship between the two. With that in consideration, it’s not surprising that artists like Bob Dylan are almost canonized and that the bulk majority of the albums featured on the list would be rock-based. (The new list, put out September 2020, features a much wider array of music overall, with all the same critical issues already addressed.) It also explains why there are significantly less women on the list than men.

Back to the list itself: the experience of listening became incredibly motivating and personal for me. Throughout April and the beginning of May, there was essentially nowhere to go and nothing to do. The project gave me a reason to get out of bed. I woke up each day with a sense of purpose to listen. I refused to submerge into the fear-laden 24-hour news cycle and found other activities to occupy my mind, all accompanied by these records. I took hours-long walks in Central Park multiple times a week. I cooked extensively. I invented new cocktails. I sat on my balcony and watched the streets empty more and more, with the addition of healthcare worker buses lining 7th Avenue below. The albums I listened to will forever be tied with photographic moments.

In sad coincidence, I reached John Prine’s self-titled album the day after he passed away from Covid. I scaled some rocks near the southwest corner of the park and listened to his masterful illumination of hypocritical patriotism, with little idea of how applicable his words would be in just a few weeks’ time and the summer’s upcoming events.

I got a call on May 19th that after 14 years of tenure with the same company, my position was eliminated and I was no longer employed. For the first time in 21 years, I didn’t have a job. I did not cry. Instead, I listened to The Temptations’ Anthology and let the music carry me to the next day.

On May 25th, I had chosen “Rednecks” off of Randy Newman’s Good Old Boys. Hours later, an unspeakable and sadly predictable tragedy occurred when a police officer in my hometown murdered George Floyd. I watched the news until I fell asleep on my couch in front of the TV. The next day I chose “Across The Universe” off of Let It Be. This time I did cry. For weeks to follow, Covid was no longer the life-threatening pandemic the USA was facing, as centuries of systemic racism were in full vision for all to see. The rationalization of this racism disgusted me while the power of hope and a better future drove millions to take action. I watched footage of “counter-protesters” of Covid and racism (aka — morons), misappropriating Rage Against the Machine for their own use: the timing of Rage Against the Machine on June 10th felt more than coincidental. BLM protesters organized and again I witnessed the streets changing. On June 13th I marched with them through the East Village and Downtown.

With the changes due to Covid and city uprisings, many people decided to leave New York. Just a day after marching, The Yardbirds walked me back down to the East Village to spend one last rooftop night with some of my best friends who were moving out of state. On June 23rd, Moby’s Play soothed me after I packed up their moving truck and sent them to Georgia.

Some of my favorite full albums, or as I have dubbed them, “front to backs,” came through for me to help summer feel a bit brighter: Big Brother and the Holding Company’s Cheap Thrills, Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville, The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers’ Damn The Torpedoes, Lauryn Hill’s The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.

On July 28th, Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet resonated like bombs. It was just as applicable, if not more so, than in 1990 when it was released, particularly given the 2020 climate. I was incredibly thankful for this album. I recalled my brother and I listening to it when we were quite young and really processing what it was about. Now, it certainly felt as though 911 was a joke. I was thankful we were brought up in a musical household that gave us the ability to learn about the world through others’ stories. This album should be required listening for everyone. In contrast to Radio, the album is just as, if not more so, culturally and sonically significant today.

A year older and summer coming to a close, the list granted me more hot takes: Janet Jackson is wildly underrated. When she sings “Minneapolis!” in “Escapade,” I swell with pride as a lover of the Minneapolis Sound. Grateful Dead studio albums are better than their live albums. Bands like that are almost always better live and with the experience that live music brings. Jay-Z albums don’t age well. Eric B and Rakim are responsible for way more than I realized: how did I not know this sooner? I miss Prince. This, I already knew.

If you are ever in a bad mood and need a pick-me-up, or simply just want to feel extremely ALIVE (even if that means you are alone in your bathroom dancing in a mirror because there is jack shit to do and nowhere to go), listen to Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection. You will be hard-pressed to not enjoy yourself and feel like a million dollars when you are done. Also — I totally forgot that Lenny Kravitz produced “Justify My Love,” and that it has a Public Enemy sample!

With summer officially at a close, the nation had seemingly forgotten that Covid was, in fact, real. Due to anti-maskers, “Covid fatigue,” a rise in misinformation and conspiracy theory (likely as a result of desperation and a general sense of boredom), Covid was worse than ever before and no one wanted to admit it. The country was in a perpetual state of political turmoil due to a terrible tenure by an unqualified stoker of hatred and divide, lack of justice for the Black community, and no federal support for those unemployed and in financial turmoil. Many people had left the city and the streets felt eerily empty and unsafe simply for lack of human presence. For me this meant a return to more selective human interaction and many more long, solitary walks in Central Park, accompanied by music.

Arcade Fire’s Funeral had me dancing in the living room. CSNY’s Déjà Vu saw me loudly singing to myself as I meandered through The Ramble. Derek and the Dominoes’ Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs accompanied me on a photography journey around an empty Midtown Manhattan. Personal favorite Sam Cooke took me by The Pond and rushed back memories of aimlessly walking and singing with my best friend in Minneapolis. Suddenly I was at the top 100 albums and felt pangs of bittersweet excitement, knowing that soon I would accomplish my goal but that it would also be over.

On October 27th I waited for two hours in a New York City mist to early vote in a historic election, and laughed to myself at yet another coincidence — I was listening to Prince’s Sign ‘O’ The Times. As early voting continued a few days later, I listened to John Lennon’s “Imagine,” a song I have heard a million times if once, with different intention. On November 3rd’s official Election Day, knowing nerves would be raw and no information would be clear, I focused on my love of Led Zeppelin IV and decided that the aptly named “Rock and Roll” was in fact one of the ultimate best rock and roll songs of all time. On November 7th, it was finally announced that we would have a new president. It was 75 degrees, the streets were alive, and “Hot Fun in The Summertime” was my obvious choice from Sly and the Family Stone’s Greatest Hits.

Time moved on and so did the albums. Trout Mask Replica by Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band has got to be one of the most overrated albums of all time, unlike The Rolling Stones’ Beggar’s Banquet, which is phenomenal. I personally think The Allman Brothers’ Eat a Peach is better than At Fillmore East, but I am sure its place in history as one of the best live albums ever knocked it up the list. Legend by Bob Marley and Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd sound just as good now as they did when I was passing a bong around my basement back in 2000. The Doors are very underrated in the scheme of rock music. The Beatles deserve every inch of credit they have been given. The Eagles’ Hotel California is beyond overrated and converse to my previous statements regarding popularity, there is no doubt that their extreme and enduring record sales elevated them on the list.

On November 23rd, I reached my final Led Zeppelin album of the list, which ranked at #29. This sincerely pissed me off. Yes, I am biased, because I love Led Zeppelin. But having listened to 471 albums before arriving here, I felt incredibly validated in my bias. Led Zeppelin is arguably the best rock group of all time. Each member of the group possessed extreme talent and all four together were a perfect storm. When combined, they created some of the best ensemble work that has ever been recorded. If anyone is interested in hearing me blather on about this, please just ask.

Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours should be higher than #26. Nothing more to say about this. I reached my peak of irritation with the rankings when, after a delightful listen of this incomparable classic followed by James Brown’s Live at the Apollo and Stevie Wonder’s seminal Innervisions, I came to Plastic Ono Band by John Lennon. What in the actual hell.

This is the error of criticism in its clearest light. Let me start by saying that I am an insane fan of The Beatles. When people ask me who my favorite band is, it doesn’t even occur to me to say The Beatles, because to me that is the equivalent of saying “I breathe oxygen and require sustenance to survive.” But let’s be clear — The Beatles were the best when they had one another to balance their talents and instincts, specifically McCartney and Lennon. I am not saying that Plastic Ono Band is not a good album, and not groundbreaking in its own ways, but to say that it is better than anything that Led Zeppelin ever released? That is absolutely insane. Led Zeppelin managed to put out record after record full of great songs, no skipping required, outperforming only themselves. Plastic Ono Band ranking at #23 showcases a complete inability for critics to separate the work from the creator, again reiterating how some of the albums on this list even placed at all. John Lennon is rightfully revered. I do not disagree with this, or with why. But that should not elevate the work beyond its actual “greatness.”

Moving to The Complete Recordings by Robert Johnson, the same can be said but in this case reflecting on influence. Yes, the songs are incredible, and yes, they have massive cultural significance. But to rank this album this high is a reflection of its relationship to the other albums present, most notably, anything by The Rolling Stones or Clapton, and not a reflection of the album itself.

Reaching this level of ranking is again completely subjective. MJ’s Thriller deserves its spot. Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks? I personally prefer Moondance. Springsteen’s Born to Run is a classic. Nirvana’s Nevermind changed music forever, and it sounded good then and now. And so it goes.

I listened on through the top albums and revisited some of my favorite songs of all time as well as some that I felt were exceedingly overrated. I disagreed with placement, and questioned methodology. I loved every moment.

On the morning of December 8th, as I stood in line for several hours in the cold waiting for yet another Covid test, I listened to the last record on the list: The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The imagery-laden and sometimes surrealistic album was the culmination of an unimaginable and surrealistic year. Somehow it was the perfect ending. The song I chose to represent the experience, the months that had passed, and most importantly, the record itself, was “A Day in the Life.” I read the news today, oh boy.

Throughout the process of listening to these albums, I gained much musical knowledge and insight I didn’t previously have. To say it was enriching certainly undermines the experience. It also reiterated to me the power of music in all its purest forms: holding memories in multiple layers, speaking for a moment or a generation, sharing a collective emotion, providing genuine connection between people, and most importantly, keeping someone company. As isolated as I often felt, I was never alone when I had the music. And most importantly, my own self-inflicted, rigid rules helped create a sense of order and structure in an otherwise untethered time. Going from constant hustle and travel and movement to a purposelessness and stillness overnight was extremely daunting, but the project gave me something to accomplish — something that, for once, was for me and me alone. What began as a time-passing activity took on many other, larger, and more significant shapes.

Of course, I don’t agree with much of the list. And that is more than fine. The beauty of art is in its subjectivity. No one will ever agree on what is “best,” nor do they have to. This drives artists in the pursuit of making their new “best” music, and critics and listeners excitedly ready to hear more. That being said, some things are just of excellent quality and cannot be denied, even if it is not a preferred genre or taste. The key is in the appreciation.

I’ll be moving on to the newest 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, looking forward to appreciating even more, and all that it will (undoubtedly) unexpectedly bring.

“Anyone who puts on an album is a critic.”

— Mark Dieringer, my dad