Thin Lizzy found their trademark twin-guitar sound on 1975's Fighting, but it was on its 1976 successor, Jailbreak, where the band truly took flight. Lynott no longer let Gorham and Robertson contribute individual songs — they co-wrote, but had no individual credits — which helps tighten up the album, giving it a cohesive personality, namely Lynott's rough rebel with a heart of a poet. Lynott loves turning the commonplace into legend — or bringing myth into the modern world, as he does on "Cowboy Song" or, to a lesser extent, "Romeo and the Lonely Girl" — and this myth-making is married to an exceptional eye for details; when the boys are back in town, they don't just come back to a local bar, they're down at Dino's, picking up girls and driving the old men crazy. Thin Lizzy is tough as rhino skin and as brutal as bandits, but it's leavened by Lynott's light touch as a singer, which is almost seductive in its croon.

Blondie turned to British pop producer Mike Chapman for their third album, on which they abandoned any pretensions to new wave legitimacy (just in time, given the decline of the new wave) and emerged as a pure pop band. But it wasn't just Chapman that made Parallel Lines Blondie's best album; it was the band's own songwriting, including Deborah Harry, Chris Stein, and James Destri's "Picture This," and Harry and Stein's "Heart of Glass," and Harry and new bass player Nigel Harrison's "One Way or Another," plus two contributions from nonbandmember Jack Lee, "Will Anything Happen?" and "Hanging on the Telephone." The result is state-of-the-art pop/rock circa 1978, with Harry's tough-girl glamour setting the pattern that would be exploited over the next decade by a host of successors led by Madonna.

With Rain Dances, Camel began exploring shorter, more concise songs, but it wasn't until its follow-up, Breathless, that they truly made a stab at writing pop songs. Although they didn't completely abandon improvisational prog rock -- there are several fine, jazzy interludes -- most of the record is comprised of shorter songs designed for radio play. While the group didn't quite achieve that goal, Breathless is nevertheless a more accessible record than Camel's other albums, which tend to focus on instrumentals. Here, they try to be a straightforward prog rock band, and while the results are occasionally a little muddled, it is on the whole surprisingly successful.

Abandoning the lovely soundscapes of Snow Goose, Camel delved into layered guitar and synthesizers similar to those of Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here on the impressive Moonmadness. Part of the reason behind the shift in musical direction was the label's insistence that Camel venture into more commercial territory after the experimental Snow Goose, and it is true that the music on Moonmadness is more akin to traditional English progressive rock, even though it does occasionally dip into jazz-fusion territory with syncopated rhythms and shimmering keyboards. Furthermore, the songs are a little more concise and accessible than those of its predecessor. That doesn't mean Camel has abandoned art. Moonmadness is indeed a concept album, based loosely on the personalities of each member -- "Chord Change" is Peter Bardens, "Air Born" is Andy Latimer, "Lunar Sea" is Andy Ward and "Another Night" is Doug Ferguson. Certainly, it's a concept that is considerably less defined than that of Snow Goose, and the music isn't quite as challenging, yet that doesn't mean that Moonmadness is devoid of pleasure. In fact, with its long stretches of atmospheric instrumentals and spacy solos, it's quite rewarding.

Winds of Change opened the psychedelic era in the history of Eric Burdon & the Animals -- although Burdon's drug experiences had taken a great leap forward months earlier with his first acid trip, and he and the group had generated some startlingly fresh-sounding singles in the intervening time, it was Winds of Change that plunged the group headfirst into the new music. The record was more or less divided into two distinctly different sides, the first more conceptual and ambitious psychedelic mood pieces and the second comprised of more conventionally structured songs, although even these were hard, mostly bluesy and blues-based rock, their jumping-off point closer to Jimi Hendrix than Sonny Boy Williamson.

The Sopwith Camel gained some passing mentions in rock histories as one of the first San Francisco psychedelic-era bands to record for a national label; in fact, they were the first to have a Top 40 hit, with the vaudevillian "Hello, Hello" in early 1967. They were not, however, one of the best San Francisco bands, nor were they even very good or psychedelic. Usually they sounded like a second-rate Lovin' Spoonful (with whom they shared producer Erik Jacobsen), emulating the more unfortunate camp aspects of that group with sleepy, good-timey pop-folk. Personnel changes delayed completion of their first album until nearly a year after "Hello, Hello" was a hit.

After proving they could keep 10cc alive as a duo act with 1977's successful Deceptive Bends, Eric Stewart and Graham Gouldman pressed on in 1978 with Bloody Tourists. Although it scored some notable hits, it was a less consistent and less memorable affair than its predecessor. The problem with Bloody Tourists is that it feels like a group of session musicians trying to come up with songs in the 10cc style instead of a proper 10cc album. The eccentric humor that once flowed freely feels forced on this album: "Reds In My Bed" is a lame stab at Cold War satire that never really succeeds in saying anything while "Shock On The Tube (Don't Want Love)" tries to be daring with its tale of a subway sex fantasy and instead comes off as smutty and dull. Another problem is that the music propping up these narratives is lacking in both hooks and inspiration: the backing track for "Take These Chains" is a dull attempt at rockabilly that sounds like an especially poppy Eagles outtake and "The Anonymous Alcoholic" has a disco-parody portion that merely sounds like a mediocre example of the music it is supposedly sending up. However, the album's singles present a few bright moments: "For You And I" is a lovely ballad that fortifies its attractive melody with some strong vocal harmonies and "Dreadlock Holiday" chronicles the exploits of a hapless tourist in Jamaican against a catchy pop-reggae backdrop.

10cc's third album, The Original Soundtrack, finally scored them a major hit in the United States, and rightly so; "I'm Not in Love" walked a fine line between self-pity and self-parody with its weepy tale of a boy who isn't in love (really!), and the marvelously lush production and breathy vocals allowed the tune to work beautifully either as a sly joke or at face value. The album's opener, "Une Nuit a Paris," was nearly as marvelous; a sly and often hilarious extended parody of both cinematic stereotypes of life and love in France and overblown European pop. And side one's closer, "Blackmail," was a witty tale of sex and extortion gone wrong, with a superb guitar solo embroidering the ride-out. That's all on side one; side two, however, is a bit spottier, with two undistinguished tunes, "Brand New Day" and "Flying Junk," nearly dragging the proceedings to a halt before the band rallied the troops for a happy ending with the hilarious "The Film of Our Love." The Original Soundtrack's best moments rank with the finest work 10cc ever released; however, at the same time it also displayed what was to become their Achilles' heel — the inability to make an entire album as strong and memorable as those moments.

Talking Heads' most immediately accessible album, Little Creatures eschewed the pattern of recent Heads albums, in which instrumental tracks had been worked up from riffs and grooves, after which David Byrne improvised melodies and lyrics. The songs on Little Creatures, most of which were credited to Byrne alone (with the band credited only with arrangements) sounded like they'd been written as songs. Perhaps as one result, the band had been streamlined, with extra musicians used only for specific effects rather than playing along as an ensemble. Byrne, who was singing in his natural range for once, frequently was augmented with backup singers. The overall result: ear candy. Little Creatures was a pop album, and an accomplished one, by a band that knew what it was doing. True, Byrne's lyrics were still intriguingly quirky, but even his subject matter was becoming more mature. "I've seen sex and I think it's okay," he sang on "Creatures of Love," and suddenly the geek had become a man. Where he had once pondered the hopes of boys and girls, he was now making observations about children. And even if his impulses remained strange — "I wanna make him stay up all night," he declared about a baby (presumably not his own) in "Stay Up Late" — he retained his charm and inventiveness. Little Creatures was, in a sense, Talking Heads lite. It was hard to think of this as the same band that produced "Psycho Killer." But for the band's expanding audience, who made this their second platinum album, that was okay. And their popularity was being accomplished with no diminution in their creativity.

This combination of the Tubes' first couple of albums really does feel like two distinct releases slapped together -- and it's the Grand Canyon-sized gap in quality that makes the demarcation about as subtle as a farting elephant hanging from a chandelier. The innovative San Francisco band's 1975 eponymous debut was, and is, a masterpiece. Creative, intelligent, sardonic, theatrical. By contrast, 1976's Young & Rich was, for the most part, uninspired, insipid, short on ideas, and lacking in color. However, it does contain the more-cheese-please, boy-girl-melodrama hit "Don't Touch Me There" -- a great track in any critic's language. And that's the good, the bad, and the ugly of it. You get one superb (remastered) re-release featuring such camp/spoof classics as "Mondo Bondage," "What Do You Want From Life," and the deliciously over-the-top title track, plus one "bonus" hit and little else. Unless you're an obsessive-completist collector, there are better ways to approach the Tubes catalog than getting weighed down with all this filler. But one way or another, you have to have the first album.

Talking Heads found a way to open up the dense textures of the music they had developed with Brian Eno on their two previous studio albums for Speaking in Tongues, and were rewarded with their most popular album yet. Ten backup singers and musicians accompanied the original quartet, but somehow the sound was more spacious, and the music admitted aspects of gospel, notably in the call-and-response of "Slippery People," and John Lee Hooker-style blues, on "Swamp." As usual, David Byrne determinedly sang and chanted impressionistic, nonlinear lyrics, sometimes by mix-and-matching clichés ("No visible means of support and you have not seen nothin' yet," he declared on "Burning Down the House," the Heads' first Top Ten hit), and the songs' very lack of clear meaning was itself a lyrical subject. "Still don't make no sense," Byrne admitted in "Making Flippy Floppy," but by the next song, "Girlfriend Is Better," that had become an order -- "Stop making sense," he chanted over and over. Some of his charming goofiness had returned since the overly serious Remain in Light and Fear of Music, however, and the accompanying music, filled with odd percussive and synthesizer sounds, could be unusually light and bouncy. The album closer, "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)," even sounded hopeful. Well, sort of. Despite their formal power, Talking Heads' preceding two albums seemed to have painted them into a corner, which may be why it took them three years to craft a follow-up, but on Speaking in Tongues, they found an open window and flew out of it.

The title of Talking Heads' second album, More Songs About Buildings and Food, slyly addressed the sophomore record syndrome, in which songs not used on a first LP are mixed with hastily written new material. If the band's sound seems more conventional, the reason simply may be that one had encountered the odd song structures, staccato rhythms, strained vocals, and impressionistic lyrics once before. Another was that new co-producer Brian Eno brought a musical unity that tied the album together, especially in terms of the rhythm section, the sequencing, the pacing, and the mixing. Where Talking Heads had largely been about David Byrne's voice and words, Eno moved the emphasis to the bass-and-drums team of Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz; all the songs were danceable, and there were only short breaks between them. Through the first nine tracks, More Songs was the successor to 77, which would not have earned it landmark status or made it the commercial breakthrough it became. It was the last two songs that pushed the album over those hurdles. First there was an inspired cover of Al Green's "Take Me to the River"; released as a single, it made the Top 40 and pushed the album to gold-record status. Second was the album closer, "The Big Country," Byrne's country-tinged reflection on flying over middle America; it crystallized his artist-vs.-ordinary people perspective in unusually direct and dismissive terms, turning the old Chuck Berry patriotic travelogue theme of rock & roll on its head and employing a great hook in the process.

Another bit of clever packaging outside (the record label featured an iris that appeared through a cutout on the sleeve) and inside, where producer David Foster and even more members of Toto help the Tubes punch up their new radio-ready sound with added energy. If their last record showed a newfound dancefloor sensibility, Outside Inside is absolutely funky. There are plenty of over-the-top arena pop numbers on here, including the hit "She's a Beauty," "No Not Again," and "Tip of My Tongue." Yet with so many cooks in the kitchen, the record is peppered with some strange entries, like "Wild Women of Wongo," "Drums," and "Outside Looking Inside." Maybe the Tubes were trying to exorcise their own artistic demons, the better to play a song like "Fantastic Delusion" or "The Monkey Time" with a clear conscience. Outside Inside is definitely a party record, which is fine, except that the Tubes were never a party band (after all, their most radio-friendly album to date, The Completion Backward Principle, was still pretty dark). The change in direction will probably alienate old fans, just as it clearly attracted new ones (the record reached the U.S. Top 20). If you enjoyed their hits from the '80s (e.g., "Talk to You Later," "She's a Beauty"), this is the album to own.

The group's second album is pretty much definitive, especially in its remastered version from Columbia's Legacy division (issued in 1996), which has really crisp, loud sound. Joe Maphis' "Dim Lights, Thick Smoke (And Loud, Loud Music)" is a great opener, a honky tonk-style number featuring David Nelson's lead vocals and Nicky Hopkins' piano sharing the spotlight with Nelson's and John Dawson's axes. The guitars on Dawson's "Rainbow" are nearly pretty enough to be a Flying Burrito Brothers or Poco number. Most of what follows is as good or better, especially Dave Torbert's "California Day" and "Contract," and Dawson's "Sweet Lovin' One." The one letdown is their cover of "Hello Mary Lou," a flat, dullish rendition that could be any bad country-rock bar band, and which isn't going to make anyone forget the numerous versions before and since -- they do somewhat better with Johnny Otis' "Willie and the Hand Jive." Powerglide is a fun record and offers one virtue that the Dead, in particular, sometimes forgot -- they know how to end a song. Jerry Garcia is present on banjo ("Sweet Lovin' One," "Duncan and Brady") and piano ("Lochinvar") -- Bill Kreutzmann and Nicky Hopkins also turn up -- but the best lead guitar work here comes courtesy of David Nelson and Buddy Cage, who plays the pedal steel.

Not long after You're Gonna Get It, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers' label, Shelter, was sold to MCA Records. Petty struggled to free himself from the major label, eventually sending himself into bankruptcy. He settled with MCA and set to work on his third album, digging out some old Mudcrutch numbers and quickly writing new songs. Amazingly, through all the frustration and anguish, Petty & the Heartbreakers delivered their breakthrough and arguably their masterpiece with Damn the Torpedoes. Musically, it follows through on the promise of their first two albums, offering a tough, streamlined fusion of the Stones and Byrds that, thanks to Jimmy Iovine's clean production, sounded utterly modern yet timeless. It helped that the Heartbreakers had turned into a tighter, muscular outfit, reminiscent of, well, the Stones in their prime — all of the parts combine into a powerful, distinctive sound capable of all sorts of subtle variations. Their musical suppleness helps bring out the soul in Petty's impressive set of songs. He had written a few classics before — "American Girl," "Listen to Her Heart" — but here his songwriting truly blossoms. Most of the songs have a deep melancholy undercurrent — the tough "Here Comes My Girl" and "Even the Losers" have tender hearts; the infectious "Don't Do Me Like That" masks a painful relationship; "Refugee" is a scornful, blistering rocker; "Louisiana Rain" is a tear-jerking ballad. Yet there are purpose and passion behind the performances that makes Damn the Torpedoes an invigorating listen all the same. Few mainstream rock albums of the late '70s and early '80s were quite as strong as this, and it still stands as one of the great records of the album rock era.