25 great albums turning 50 in 2024

Fittingly, Get Your Wings is where Aerosmith officially took flight. While their 1973 debut album was something more than a blueprint—it did, after all, contain the definitive power ballad “Dream On”—this sequel found the group sounding leaner and meaner, particularly on a version of Johnny Burnette’s old rockabilly standard “Train Kept A Rollin’.” But the original tunes are where Aerosmith really hit their groove: the sleazy boogie of “Same Old Song and Dance,” the carnal tension on “Lord Of The Thighs” and the moody balladeering of “Seasons Of Wither” is where the band figured out where their strengths lay.

Breaking free of Free, vocalist Paul Rodgers and drummer Simon Kirke teamed up with Mick Ralphs—a guitarist who had recently left an ascendent Mott the Hoople—and ex-King Crimson bassist Boz Burrell to form Bad Company. Signing to Led Zeppelin’s Swan Song—the two bands shared a manager in Peter Grant—the quartet proceeded to define the sound of album-oriented rock of the mid-’70s. Heavy but not metallic, bluesy but lacking any sense of rootsy authenticity, Bad Company could deliver rollicking rockers like “Can’t Get Enough,” but they were at their best when they leaned into their muscular, moody side, such as on the churning “Ready for Love” and the brooding ballad bearing the band’s name.

Chris Bell left the pioneering Memphis power-pop group Big Star after their 1972 debut #1 Record, leaving Alex Chilton as the band’s driving force on their 1974 sequel, Radio City. The difference can be subtle, especially as there are some remnants of Bell lingering in Big Star’s jangling chords, yet it’s palpable in the gorgeous melancholy undercurrents flowing throughout Radio City. The sighing sadness of “September Gurls” and “I’m In Love With AGirl” are countered by the hardened hooks of “Mod Lang” and “O, My Soul,” and echoes of both sounds could be heard throughout the indie rock movement of subsequent decades.

David Bowie brought down the curtain on his glam years with Diamond Dogs, an album recorded without the support of the Spiders from Mars. He disbanded his supporting group in hopes of leaving behind Ziggy Stardust, but Diamond Dogs isn’t quite a musical break from the persona that turned him into a star. Rather, it’s the sound of glam going to seed, a decadent and convoluted concept album that found Bowie at his most florid (“Sweet Thing,” “1984") but he was sharp enough to ground the record with “Diamond Dogs” and “Rebel Rebel,” two of his hardest and sleaziest rockers.

Jackson Browne went over budget when he made For Everyman, a sophomore set that failed to capitalize on the success of his initial breakthrough with “Doctor, My Eyes,” so he had to record Late For The Sky quickly and cheaply with his touring band. This turned out to benefit Late For The Sky. Led by guitarist David Lindley, Browne’s backing group epitomized the virtues of Laurel Canyon in the early 1970s, with their supple, sinewy interplay helping to accentuate the disarmingly earnest emotionalism of Browne’s songwriting.

Jimmy Buffett found his voice on A White Sport Coat And A Pink Crustacean, but its 1974 sequel, Living & Dying in ¾ Time, is where he figured out how to polish his beach bum persona. The shift is evident in “Come Monday,” a slick slice of heartbreak that glided onto adult contemporary airwaves in 1974, but the entirety of its accompanying album hits a similar warm, comforting note: it’s music made for the sun but somehow sounds even better in a colder setting, where lazy afternoons on a beach seem like nothing more than fantasy.

Remerging after a four-year hiatus—an extended break where he indulged in and then recovered from heroin addiction—Eric Clapton sounded revitalized on 461 Ocean Boulevard. Working with producer Tom Dowd, Clapton returned to his blues roots—half of the record is devoted to covers of old blues tunes—but he opted to give these interpretations slick, funky arrangements that seemed fresh and contemporary. These renditions paired well with a version of Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” and the rousing closer “Mainline Florida,” not to mention Clapton’s originals, highlighted by the sweet ballad “Let It Grow.”

Temporarily leaving his home of Columbia Records to record for David Geffen’s Asylum Records, Bob Dylan decided to up the ante of this momentous occasion by reuniting with the Band, his one-time supporting group who found fame on their own terms late in the 1960s. In 1974, the reunion and record label shift raised expectations for Planet Waves, suggesting that it could be a major statement. But the appealing thing about the album is that it operates at a small scale: the songs, including “Forever Young,” are more about domestic concerns, and the Band sounds as if they’re jamming in small room with Dylan, lacking the almighty roar that fueled that year’s live album Before the Flood.

Electric Light Orchestra had British hits right out of the gate but Eldorado, their fourth album, established Jeff Lynne’s symphonic-pop outfit as a force in America. Much of that is due to “Can’t Get It Out of My Head,” a shimmering ballad that highlighted ELO’s debt to the Beatles without specifically sounding like the Fab Four. The rest of Eldorado mines similar territory, its hazy song cycle gaining power from the band’s lush orchestrated pomp.

Breaking free of Roxy Music, Brian Eno unleashed Here Come the Warm Jets, a bracing, imaginative record that galloped away from the possibilities suggested by glam. Eno still worked with the remnants of Roxy Music, refashioning its flamboyance and diamond-hard melodies into jagged art-pop. At this stage, Eno still could find sustenance in the noisy squalor of rock and that embrace of cacophony helps give Here Come the Warm Jets a visceral kick.

Peter Gabriel’s magnum opus with Genesis, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, is ostensibly a rock opera about Rael, a Puerto Rican who comes of age by delving into the bizarre underworld of New York City. The plot may be difficult to parse but the double-album has a narrative force in its construction and execution. Brian Eno aided in assembling some of the eerie soundscapes, his contributions emphasizing how The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway embraces exciting urban modernity in a way the group’s fanciful early albums did not.

Still seeking a hit after the exquisite blue-eyed soul of Abandoned Luncheonette failed to find an audience—its signature song “She’s Gone” only became a hit years later, after “Sara Smile” broke the duo commercially—Daryl Hall & John Oates turned to fellow Philadelphian Todd Rundgren for War Babies. The three musicians all shared an abiding love for soul, but R&B is a mere coloring on War Babies, a wild, careening record that echoes Rundgren’s bizarre interior psychedelia of A Wizard, A True Star. The swirling, trippy surface is intoxicating, so much so that it can occasionally hide the sharp satire and songwriting at the heart of the album.

Arriving on the heels of the sprawling double album Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Caribou is all flash and style—a record that gains momentum on its own sense of excess. “The Bitch is Back” opens the album, setting the pace for a collection of overblown rockers and fizzy pop, a relentless barrage of humor and hedonism that finds a needed moment of quiet in “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me,” one of Elton John’s greatest ballads.

The record where Little Feat finally started accumulating a cult following of significant size, Feats Don’t Fail Me Now finds the peerless jam band tightening up their grooves without losing the funk they cultivated on Dixie Chicken. They’re playing rock and roll but it’s not straight: there’s too much swing in their boogie, for one, not to mention a skewed sense of humor that separates Little Feat from the legions of blues-rockers of the mid-’70s. Lowell George, the band’s gregarious guitarist, may dominate—he sings “Rock & Roll Doctor” and “Feats Don’t Fail Me Now”—but Feats Don’t Fail Me Now is unquestionably the work of a band, not just in the way it emphasizes the group’s dynamics but in how keyboardist Bill Payne and guitarist Paul Barrere each get a moment to shine with “Oh Atlanta” and “Skin it Back,” respectively.

“Sweet Home Alabama” dominates Lynyrd Skynyrd’s second album, perhaps deservedly so: it is the quintessential Southern rock anthem, a celebration of the sound and sensibilities of the Deep South that can seem alienating to outsiders. Unlike so many rockers that followed in their wake, Skynyrd wasn’t simple. They blended blues and country with full-tilt arena rock, a combination that defied conventions at the time. Chief songwriter Ronnie Van Zant echoed this complexity, writing with a wry empathy and sharp wit that gives Second Helping its big human heart.

The pinnacle of Joni Mitchell as a commercial artist, Court and Spark featured three of the singer-songwriter’s biggest hits: “Raised on Robbery,” “Help Me” and “Free Man in Paris,” each gliding to a particularly smooth, slippery rhythm set by a bunch of Los Angeles studio pros. There’s a slickness to the execution that made Court And Spark suit adult contemporary radio in 1974, but underneath that gloss it was evident that Mitchell was incorporating elements of jazz into her folk-pop, setting the pace for the wildly adventurous records that would soon follow.

Teaming with producer Shadow Morton—one of the chief architects of the classic girl group sound—the New York Dolls managed to sound tighter and yet looser on their second and final album with the original lineup. Morton allowed the band to play up their camp side by covering old doo-wop hits, renditions that helped the band’s originals “Babylon,” “Who Are The Mystery Girls?” and “Human Being” sound even harder and dirtier. The result is the platonic ideal of a rock and roll record, as smart as it is sleazy.

Randy Newman’s satirical concept album about the American South can still startle—the casual slurs of “Rednecks” are jolting half a century later—but the passage of time allows his empathy to come to the forefront. Take “Louisiana 1927,” a gorgeous ballad about a devastating flood: it’s underpinned by a sense of loss that’s heightened by Newman’s cinematic orchestrations. Much of Good Old Boys operates on a smaller scale. Newman alternates character sketches with portraits of a particular place, weaving a tapestry that vividly captures the Deep South reckoning with itself in the wake of the Civil Rights movement.

Going solo after three albums with also-ran British rockers Vinegar Joe, Robert Palmer headed straight to America for Sneakin’ Sally Through the Alley. Taking particular interest in New Orleans R&B, Palmer hired the Meters as a backing band and brought aboard Lowell George, the guitarist who fronted Little Feat. Palmer winds up with his own inventive spin on this funky sound, transferring this loose groove to the confines of album rock: there’s no better opening sequence in classic rock than this record’s seamless segue of “Sailin’ Shoes” to “Hey Julia” to “Sneakin’ Sally Through the Alley.”

George Clinton launched Parliament—itself a variation of his old soul group the Parliaments, whose lone hit “(I Wanna) Testify” is reworked here—as a way to chase a commercial R&B audience that the decidedly underground Funkadelic tended to alienate. Parliament was still plenty freaky, as Up For the Down Stroke—their second album, but effectively the beginning of band’s hot streak—made plain, but it also showcased a band that was looser, funkier, and funnier than Funkadelic, not to mention one that wasn’t as confrontational or political. They were all about the groove and the funk, elements that still give this record its potency.

Gram Parsons didn’t live long enough to complete Grievous Angel, his second solo album. He died not long after finishing its sessions, leaving his widow to assemble the record. While there were undoubtedly some alterations in the final product—“Sleepless Nights,” a masterwork slated to be the title track, was excised—the resulting Grievous Angel was still a major work, a record that found common ground between hippies and rednecks, a space that would be commonplace in the Americana of the 21st Century.

Prior to Sheer Heart Attack, Queen dedicated themselves to pursuing a path carved out by Led Zeppelin, devoting themselves to guitar theatrics and otherworldly fantasy. Here, the group incorporates pungent elements of glam and pop, most notably on “Killer Queen,” a sashaying music hall number that gave the group their first masterpiece. The introduction of pop helped focus Queen on their heavier moments too: “Stone Cold Crazy” is a frenetic piece of metallic rock that paved the way toward trash metal, as evidenced by Metallica’s subsequent cover.

The final Rolling Stones album to feature guitarist Mick Taylor is also the first to be produced by the Glimmer Twins—the name Mick Jagger and Keith Richards adopted as a production pseudonym. Fittingly, it’s a transitional affair, one that finds the Stones attempting to reckon with glam, reggae and funk without losing their essence. It’s a formula they’d perfect on Some Girls but the ungainly execution of It’s Only Rock N Roll has its appeal.

The album that turned Linda Ronstadt into a superstar, Heart Like A Wheel is a highwater mark of L.A. ’70s studio craft. Backed by an all-star band featuring Andrew Gold, J.D Souther, Sneaky Pete Kleinow, and Glenn Frey, Ronstadt balances reinterpretations of classic oldies with tunes from such contemporary songwriters as Souther, Lowell George, and James Taylor. What unifies the disparate styles is Ronstadt, whose forceful personality and impassioned performance tie connections between genres and cuts through the studio gloss.

Country Life marks the moment where Roxy Music starts to treat art as an accent, not their focal point. The furious swirl of “The Thrill Of It All” sets an appropriate keynote for the record: the band sounds urgent but also intent on sharpening their hooks, delicately balancing their arty instincts with melodic skill and rock muscle—a combination that gives Country Life an intoxicating kick.

The third successive album where Todd Rundgren makes a great fanfare of escaping rock and roll conventions, the double LP Todd isn’t as purposefully tuneful as his masterwork Something/Anything, nor is it as coherent as A Wizard, A True Star, the album where he attempted to mimic an acid trip on record. Todd revels in its own mess, piling on the puns while subverting its accessible melodies with woozy synthesizers, drowning out its spirituality in heavy metal noise. With its cheap jokes and Gilbert & Sullivan covers, it runs the gamut from low to highbrow, the closest rock & roll ever got to the anarchy of MAD magazine.

On their eponymous debut album, Rush didn’t make much effort to hide their deep debt to Led Zeppelin. Without the anchor of Neil Peart—he’d arrive the next year, bringing rhythmic and lyrical complexity—guitarist Alex Lifeson’s riffs come to the forefront as do the piercing vocals of Geddy Lee. While the combination can sometimes seem a little off-kilter, it’s still possible to hear the band’s potential and “Working Man” is a potent blue-collar rock anthem.

After attempting to act like a conventional rock band on Countdown To Ecstasy, Steely Dan decided to emphasize jazz on Pretzel Logic: the band covers Duke Ellington, writes an ode to bop legend Charlie Parker, and builds “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” upon a soul-jazz riff from Horace Silver. A few years later, Steely Dan would deepen their grooves and elongate their guitar solos, but here Donald Fagen and Walter Becker still have an eye on the pop charts, so they write tight, dynamic tunes that are elevated by their barbed wit.

Initially buttressed by the support of Dutch millionaire Stanley August Miesegaes, Supertramp severed ties with their benefactor after releasing their second album, Indelibly Stamped, in 1972. This raised the stakes for the art-rockers’ third album, Crime of the Century. While they still indulged in far-flung spacey explorations, they also demonstrated the pop savvy that would make them a classic rock institution: “Bloody Well Right’ splits the difference between jazz-funk and prog-pomp, while the unabashed starry melodicism of “Dreamer” gave them an enduring pop hit.

The second installment of Neil Young’s “Ditch Trilogy,” On the Beach almost plays like two complementary EPs. The album’s first side lurches to its own pace, alternating between the swirling storm clouds of “Revolution Blues” and the aching beauty of “See the Sky About to Rain,” with the ramshackle “Walk On” and “For the Turnstiles” functioning as lighter counterpoints. The second side is a slow, stoned descent into self-doubt, culminating with “Ambulance Blues,” a number whose nine minutes seem to stretch out for an eternity. Taken together, the two sides provide a gripping journey into the depths of Young’s haunted melancholy.