A couple years later, Mayer would release a much more popular live record called Keep Me Where The Light Is, both a popular lyric and a reference to his desire for fame and happiness. That record is a sham. This is the real deal. It features Mayer singing his own songs, with stripped-back guitar and a fantastic duo of musicians accompanying him (Gravity is particularly stellar here), but it also includes a ton of covers of popular blues song done in what now feels like the trademarked Mayer style.

A lot of people compared early Mayer to Buddy Guy, which might be a bit much — particularly with the benefit of hindsight. But what hindsight has also revealed is how much Mayer got right about the blues. What Quentin Tarantino is to blaxploitation films, John Mayer is to the blues: a white man paying such incredible homage to what’s typically been considered a black genre (with roots going as far back as slavery), that it’s hard to consider him anything less than a genius in most circles. But John Mayer’s just a man who listens to a lot of blues. It shows. Try! is an essential part of any respectable blues fan’s library.

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I was attracted to Strange Geometry because of tis great cover-art, which is very neutral and somehow obvious. The record is a classic in its genre though, which sounds that have since been imitated countless times by more acts than I can think of off the top of my head.

What’s unique about the record is that its spaced-out instrumentation feels at least five years ahead of its time, as if the band had a magic ball and saw some of the dreampop style well in advance. And while the second half of Strange Geometry isn’t perfect — the album slows considerably — it’s an interesting listen purely because The Clientele appeared to know something everybody else did not.

This is not the sort of record you put on when it’s time to rock out to something righteous, but it is the right sort of music for striking a melancholic Monday or Tuesday morning. And for fans of indie, or for bands like Beach House, this ahead-of-its-time precursor is highly recommended.

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If you haven’t heard it, Vheissu feels like the sort of record that comes along only once or two every genre. It’s post-punk’s Master of Puppets or Thriller, a set of tracks so monumental that it’s hard to ignore them.

Thrice basically used the record to experiment: from even the first track, you know this is going to be an unusual record. And when it’s a post punk track with a beautiful piano leading the way, or a music box taking charge, it feels entirely like a legitimate idea. There’s no sign of emo anywhere (thank God), and it’s clear that the band hasn’t lost their edge.

While there often are moments of screaming rage or intensity, Thrice benefits from introspection here. And somewhere in there, they put out a record about sacrifice and friendship that few bands have managed to beat. If you’re into punk, hardcore punk, post-punk, hard rock, or post-hardcore (which this record is usually described as, but I don’t like genres to be so specific), this record needs to be in your collection.

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In a lot of ways, Tender Buttons feels like an experiment in minimalism. While not out of place today, critics observed at the time that it felt like certain tracks were missing pieces. Now, we recognize this sound as a sort of minimalist shoe-gazing dream pop, but Tender Buttons feels like it was a psychedelic tour-de-force ten years ahead of its time.

The vocals on this record are in a particularly special place: thanks to minimalist production and a lack of other in-your-face instrumentation, the vocals really stand out. And their airy nature, but post-punk surroundings mean that this can fit in well next to Girlpool or Beach House.

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Nothing Is Sound is reportedly the album the band dislikes the most from their repertoire, because it was a period filled with strife with Sony, who was their record label at the time. From that strife, though, came a beautifully sad record about death and finding peace and happiness in the dearth of seemingly meaningless existence. Although the band may not look back fondly on their time making Nothing Is Sound, what resulted is a record that climbs past compromise and becomes better than the forces against it.

The album’s best known for Stars, the lead single, but Happy Is a Yuppie Word is one of my top-five favourite songs of all time, (and based on a Bob Dylan quote to boot). The Shadow Proves the Sunshine is a rare glimmer of hope on the record, but at only four tracks in, Jon Foreman has already proven himself as a modern-day lyrical Psalmist. The Fatal Wound lives on as one of the most memorably sad songs of all time, and Daisy is profoundly uplifting and builds to an immense climate.

To me, Switchfoot was always that lone rock band doing what few of the other 90210-types were doing — a modern-day under-rated American Beatles of sort — and Nothing Is Sound is easily their best work. The songs are catchy, but the lyrics offer astounding depth.

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Listen to Shuffle Your Feet. That opening track defines a record as one that’s both wise in soul and foolish at heart. The album’s a nearly-uncomfortable close look at a tormented soul, haunted by the devil and almost taunted by Jesus. It’s captivating. Devil’s Waitin’ and Ain’t No Easy Way capture their respective tones better than any modern rock band can. The whole album is one of my favourites of all time, and if it were up to me, you’d be forced to listen to every track in order. There’s also an EP with outtakes from the record called Howl Sessions that’s really hard to find, but absolutely worth taking the time to do so. It’s beautiful as well.

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