My third favorite album of 1972 (my birth year) is a record I consider among the most quintessentially 70s albums I own — Carly Simon’s No Secrets.
I’ve written about this on the blog before so I won’t dwell on it again here, but this record is forever cemented in my memory as one of those adult artifacts my parents shared with my sister and me, either directly or inadvertently.
My fourth favorite album of 1972 is Paul Simon’s self-titled solo debut.
Hard as it is to imagine now, there were serious doubts in the early 70s over Simon’s prospects as a solo artist once Art Garfunkel left the band to pursue his movie career.
One reviewer of this album, quoted on Wikipedia, wrote “”I gather…this album is merely Simon’s way of keeping his hand in while Garfunkel makes movies….I’m now wondering if Garfunkel’s arranging work doesn’t include sending Simon back to rewrite some of his songs before recording them.”
A few weeks back I decided to count down the best albums of my birth year, 1972.
When I dove into my collection to start the process, I was surprised to discover that I own only seven albums from that year, which certainly reduces the drama of the proposed countdown.
I guess it makes sense that I wouldn’t own a large number of records from one specific year more than 40 years back. But a little research revealed a couple of dozen albums that struck a nerve back when I was a mewling babe.
Ryan Adams has averaged an album per year since his 2000 solo debut, Heartbreaker (before that, he released a trio of albums with Whiskeytown).
I’m only familiar with a handful of those records, and I definitely have a preference for his alt-country work, including Heartbreaker and the albums he recorded with The Cardinals.
I’m also a big fan of the more rock-focused Gold, probably his best album.
Keane is like an NFL running back who has three and a half great seasons, then gets a knee injury, tries to come back the following year and just doesn’t have the same speed or ability to cut anymore.
He bounces around a couple of teams, clinging to a roster spot as a backup, then ends up out of the league selling mattresses or something. You just hope he was smart with his money during his heyday.
Meet Me In Montauk 