
Billie Jean
That bassline, mixed and remixed until it gleamed, and the four minutes that integrated MTV.

That bassline, mixed and remixed until it gleamed, and the four minutes that integrated MTV.

Scorsese shot boxing as penance rather than sport, and audiences come out feeling bruised: De Niro's jealousy destroys everyone near him, in the blackest black and white imaginable.

Every adventure film since is measured against it: Spielberg and Lucas built a machine of chases and near misses so efficient that forty years of imitation have not worn it out.

Quincy Jones and Jackson remixed the whole record because the first version sounded thin, and Eddie Van Halen played his solo for free.
The record that proved hip hop could report and not just party, and the edge everyone's been close to since.

Everyone learned how to make a sequel from this: the pressure builds for two hours, the tone stays darker than anyone expected, and one line near the close rearranged a generation's childhood.

Sethe escaped slavery years ago and cannot escape the daughter she lost, who comes back to the house as a young woman. Morrison writes American history's worst chapter with unbearable tenderness.

Van Halen dropped in, played the solo for free, and Jackson made rock and pop the same building.

Vincent Price cackling over a disco-funk groove, and a fourteen-minute video that turned pop into event television.

Whole documentaries exist about what this film means: Kubrick threw out most of King's novel, sent a Steadicam gliding down those corridors, and left a dread nobody can explain away.

It flopped, then quietly redesigned the future: every rainy neon city of the last forty years is borrowing from Ridley Scott, and the mood still outlasts the plot.

Scalp hunters ride the Mexican border in 1849, among them a runaway Tennessee boy and the hairless giant Judge Holden. McCarthy writes the violence in Old Testament prose and never once looks away.

Bush built her own studio at home so nobody could interfere, then gave over an entire side to a woman drowning through one night.

The producers used sirens, squeals and feedback as rhythm instruments, which is why it sounds less like music than like an emergency.
Byrne borrowed a preacher's cadence, Eno hummed the chorus melody, and the band looped its own jams like samplers.

Spike Lee asked for a defiant anthem, and the Bomb Squad answered with layered samples and Branford Marsalis's saxophone.

The title flips Captain and Tennille into its opposite, and the single arrived a month after Curtis's death.

Screenwriting teachers use it as the worked example: every joke and every prop planted early comes back later, and the whole machine runs without a single wasted second.

Most of it is built on a single chord that never changes, with the interest coming entirely from layers of interlocking rhythm.

It was meant to be a triple album and the label refused. Some of it is sung by a sped-up alter ego called Camille.

Highest grossing film in the world for a decade, and it earns every cent: Spielberg shot at child height so the adults are legs and voices, and wrecks entire cinemas.

Dre and Yella built it in a Torrance studio on almost no money, and Compton stopped being invisible.

Take four, April 1982, a Yamaha synth from Roy Bittan, and the most misheard chorus in American rock.

It sold almost nothing for a year until MTV agreed to play Welcome to the Jungle once, at four in the morning. Then it never stopped.

During the siege of Stalingrad, a Soviet physicist receives his mother's last letter from a Nazi ghetto. Grossman wrote the war at Tolstoy's scale and said plainly that both tyrannies were one thing.

Slash was goofing through a warm-up he called a circus melody; an hour later the band had this.

Saleem Sinai is born at the exact midnight India becomes independent, which gives him telepathy and welds his life to the country's. Sixty years of history arrive as one unreliable, delighted confession.

Kurosawa was seventy-five and his eyesight was failing when he made it: King Lear moved to feudal Japan, with a great battle that plays to music and nothing else.
Structured as a mock trial with Dre presiding, and it drew a warning letter from an FBI assistant director.

Their singer had died five months earlier. They hired Brian Johnson, put out a record in an all-black sleeve, and sold fifty million.

Reagan's campaign tried to borrow the title song, which is sung by a veteran who cannot get a job. Seven singles went top ten.

Johnson was told the Bon Scott tribute could not be morbid, so he wrote a celebration over Angus Young's riff.

Almost no sequel changes genre and survives it: Cameron turned Scott's haunted house into a war picture, and an action performance drew a rare Academy Award nomination.

No other war film can follow it: Klimov put a boy's face through the destruction of Belarus and let it age visibly, and nobody watches it twice lightly.
A single voice and acoustic guitar close Uprising, with a line lifted from Marcus Garvey and Marley already ill.

It uses well over a hundred samples, which would be unaffordable to clear today, and it sold so badly the label gave up on them.

When Doves Cry has no bass on it at all, which Prince did deliberately. Several tracks were taped live at a Minneapolis club.

Patrick Leonard co-wrote it, Prince played the intro guitar, and Pepsi pulled its five million dollar ad but paid anyway.

The FBI wrote to their record label objecting to one of the songs, which did more for sales than any advertising could.

Where the Streets Have No Name took so long to record that Brian Eno considered wiping the tape to force them to start again.

Slash's riff, McKagan's breakdown recycled from his old punk band, and roughly three hours from nothing to finished song.

The band were in a legal fight with their label while making it, and the title track opens with a clip from a 1962 British film.

Eno reckoned half the album's sessions went into it and nearly wiped the tape; the Edge's delay does the rest.

Nobody recommends this one lightly: Takahata put two children through the last months of the war in Japan, and being animated makes it harder to bear, not easier.

A die-cut sleeve modelled on a floppy disk, an Oberheim drum machine, and the best-selling twelve-inch single ever pressed.

Pessoa invented an assistant bookkeeper in Lisbon and gave him hundreds of fragments on being alive in a rented room. Open the book anywhere and someone is already thinking your thoughts.

Turned down as a young man, Florentino Ariza waits fifty-one years for the woman he loves to be widowed. García Márquez makes old age more erotic than youth.
Bowie lived near Mountain Studios, dropped in, and one evening's jam became a UK number one with a disputed bassline.

Jones thought nobody would play something so morbid; Sherrill spent eighteen months coaxing the vocal onto tape.
Marr faked the strings on an Emulator, credited them to the Hated Salford Ensemble, and Britain waited six years.

The first half is the most quoted boot camp ever filmed: Kubrick found a real Marine drill instructor, let him write half his own material, and made basic training terrifying.

They sampled so freely that the Turtles sued them, and the case helped make sample clearance the expensive business it has been ever since.
Bambaataa welded Kraftwerk's Trans-Europe Express to a Roland 808, and Tommy Boy paid Kraftwerk a dollar per record.

Children's films almost never dare to have no villain: Miyazaki made eighty minutes of pure safety out of two sisters and a forest spirit, and it became Ghibli's emblem.

Sting woke at Fleming's Goldeneye with the melody; Summers cut that arpeggio in one take and made surveillance sound tender.

No American film has been braver about refusing to resolve: one Brooklyn block on the hottest day of the year, and Lee will not tell you who was right.

Simon recorded with South African musicians in defiance of the cultural boycott and was condemned for it. Bakithi Kumalo's fretless bass runs through everything.
Marr's shudder came from four Fender Twins with their tremolos fighting, and Morrissey put a lonely man in a nightclub.

Bergman meant it as his farewell to cinema and made it the warmest thing he ever did: five hours in its full version, of Christmas light, ghosts, cruelty and childhood.

No war film has ever been this claustrophobic: Petersen ran a camera the length of a U-boat again and again until the steel walls start pressing in on you.

No singles and no videos, and it sold millions anyway. Bassist Cliff Burton was killed when the tour bus crashed in Sweden months later.

Hollywood spent the next decade pitching films as Die Hard on a boat, a bus, a plane: McTiernan built the action machine everyone has been copying since 1988.

The Sledgehammer video was shot frame by frame with Gabriel lying under glass for sixteen hours. Youssou N'Dour sings the end of In Your Eyes.
The Edge was sent a prototype Infinite Guitar by Michael Brook, and U2 had their first American number one.

Lynch invented his own genre here and the word Lynchian dates from it: a severed ear in a field leads into the underside of an ordinary American town.

The three of them recorded in separate rooms because they could no longer stand each other, and then made the biggest album of the year.

Recorded on a secondhand eight-track in a Chalk Farm attic, and an American number one by September.

American distributors cut ninety minutes out of it and destroyed the reviews: restored to full length, Leone's fifty-year gangster elegy drifts between decades like an opium dream.

At a London crossing in 1933 a physicist grasps how a chain reaction could work. Rhodes follows the idea to Los Alamos and Hiroshima, making the physics clear and the human cost unbearable.

Cameron made it for six million dollars and launched two careers and a franchise: a machine that cannot be bargained with, cannot be reasoned with, and absolutely will not stop.

McPherson carries the whole Civil War in one volume, from the fights over slavery in the 1840s through Antietam to the surrender at Appomattox, and it reads like dispatches filed the same day.

It sent a whole generation out to buy Mozart records: Salieri narrates his own jealousy from an asylum, and the music keeps making his case better than he can.

It fires jokes at a rate almost nothing before it attempted and lands most of them: the trick was casting dramatic actors and telling them to play everything straight.

Marr stacked roughly fifteen guitar tracks and dropped a knife on the strings; Morrissey lifted a line from Sleuth.