Led Zeppelin—[Untitled]

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled] (1971)

[Untitled]—There are various reasons why writing about Led Zeppelin's fourth album is pointless. It doesn't need promotion—it's already one of the best-selling albums of all time anywhere. Even those who don't own it have more than likely heard something from it, be it the ubiquitous "Stairway to Heaven," "Going to California, "or the singles "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," either in their original forms or mangled badly by high school classmates. More than that, however, the album is notable for its continuing popularity; other all-time bestsellers like Meat Loaf's Bat out of Hell or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever have faded into relative obscurity, being relics of their time, but the nominal Led Zeppelin IV has more or less retained its significance since its release.

Nowadays, giving a piece of product no title is nothing extraordinary, but when Led Zeppelin did it, it was considered a risk. The Beatles released their eponymous all-white album four years prior, but the Beatles were also the Beatles, and the band's name was nonetheless printed in all capital letters on the front cover. Led Zeppelin's fourth album has nothing distinct on the cover relating to the band, though it has become iconic itself: an antique painting hung against a run-down wall. Fittingly, its songs in one way or another share this arcane quality. The military cadence "Black Dog" is a twisted blues that's hard to count, inspired partially by a black dog whose antics were a source of amusement for the band. The frenetic "Rock and Roll" features an augmented rhythm section with Ian Stewart of Rolling Stones fame (who also played on "Boogie with Stu," which was recorded during these sessions along with "Night Flight" and "Down by the Seaside," all three of which would later appear on Physical Graffiti [1975]) and is made by the always-stellar drumming of John Bonham. It can be seen as a response to the more insipid reactions to Led Zeppelin III ("It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled").The diacritic "The Battle of Evermore" is the band's most explicit citation of The Lord of the Rings, written on the mandolin (which was first introduced by John Paul Jones on Led Zeppelin III) and supplemented by the singing of Sandy Denny (Fairport Convention).

"Stairway to Heaven," for all that's been said about it both good and bad, probably is their crowning achievement. No matter how overplayed it may be, it's a marvelous three-part suite, even if the first segment is admittedly very similar to Spirit's "Taurus"—but that's only one small part of the song, and the rest of it, from Robert Plant's inspired lyrics to Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar solo, John Paul Jones' arrangements, and John Bonham's steady beat are a mix they never quite equaled again. The plodding, sardonic "Misty Mountain Hop" grates, though it is amusing. The primordial "Four Sticks" was the song that turned into "Rock and Roll" during rehearsals because of Bonham's frustration with the song's meter (it was named so because Bonham played it with four drumsticks), and gets its point across more on abstruse textures than it does its throwaway lyrics. The tranquilizing Joni Mitchell tribute "Going to California" obliquely references her songs "I Had a King" ("To find a queen without a king") and "California." The magnified Delta blues apotheosis "When the Levee Breaks" adequately evokes the sense of doom inherent in the original piece (by Kansas Joe and Memphis Minnie), if turgidly.

A less appreciated aspect of Zeppelin's fourth album is the chirality between its two sides: the related compositions "Rock and Roll" and "Four Sticks," the mandolin excursions "The Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," and the epics "Stairway to Heaven" and "When the Levee Breaks." It's ultimately an inessential observation to the listening, but it adds to the cohesive, timelessly cyclical nature of the record. Beyond that, it's a masterfully performed and produced album, and the fact that it's been so persistently conspicuous for more than forty years is a testament its excellence.

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons (1954)

Jacques Brel et ses chansons—Jacques Brel only began writing and performing music in 1952 when he was 23. Before then, his only apparent creative outlet was in amateur theater with friends. Otherwise, his upbringing was highly theological—he went to Catholic school in Belgium and spent most of his spare time as part of a Catholic philanthropic group. After a spot in the military, he began writing songs as a new creative outlet, having developed a relatively late interest in music. Unfortunately, the emotive nature of Brel's performances was not well-received by his family, and when he moved to Paris in 1953, audiences were almost uniformly indifferent and sometimes hostile. However, thanks to the talent agent at Philips who convinced him to move there in the first place, Brel was able to record his debut, Jacques Brel et ses chansons (known sometimes as Grand Jacques or Jacques Brel 1).

The brash "La haine" ("Hatred"), a frustrated lover's harangue, is full of great, stinging Brel lines like "Comme un soldat je partirai/Mourir comme meurent les enfants/Et si jamais tu en mourais/J'en voudrais revenir vivant" and "L'amour est mort, vive la haine/Et toi, matériel déclassé/Va-t'en donc accrocher ta peine/Au musée des amours ratées." On "Grand Jacques (C'est trop facile)" ("Great Jacques [It's Too Easy]"), Brel points out the arbitrariness of absolution ("C'est trop facile d'entrer aux églises/De déverser toute sa saleté") and criticizes the myopic nature of his peers ("Vous ne voyez donc point vos cimetières?") and the heavy-handedness with which they approach love ("Qu'il craque en deux parce qu'on l'a trop plié") while lamenting to himself the seeming pointlessness of his protests and concluding that it's too easy to go through life without asking the big questions. The "Alabama Song"-reminiscent "Il pleut (Les carreaux)" is sung from the point of view of a young man claiming his failure at romance to be out of his control, but "La lune danse pour moi le soir ... et son haleine, immense halo, me caresse." The mock-mischievous "Le diable (Ça va)" (The Devil [It's Fine]) furthers Brel's theme of societal disconnect ("On traite les braves de fous/Et les poètes de nigauds"), effectively deriding "Ça va" as an expression of flippancy. "Il peut pleuvoir" (Let It Rain), by contrast, is a straightforward, concise love song.

"Il nous faut regarder" ("We Must Look") reminds us to look beyond the world's ugliness to see its patches of beauty. The tragicomical waltz "Le fou de roi" ("The King's Fool") is a statement on class, while the cheeky "C'est comme ça" ("That's How It Is") exposes the stagnant lives of the common people, the two songs exhibiting conflicting sides of Brel's worldview. The parable "Sur la place" (In the Square), the best and most nuanced song here, alleges the hardened hearts of the masses.

Jacques Brel et ses chansons is something of an anomaly; by his second album, Quand on n'a que l'amour, Brel was already moving into a wider variety of more lush arrangements. The literary quality of his debut is more often than not on par with his more well-known songs, but it's unique for its minimalist guitar settings and more rustic feel of Brel's stricter cabaret origins. Thus, while it might not be his peak, Et ses chansons is an enchanting, thought-provoking collection—and just under 20 minutes.