1. Who’s Next (1971)

Songs that find their way into constant circulation on classic rock radio have a tough row to hoe: How can a tune you’ve heard hundreds, or even thousands, of times still be majestic, much less even enjoyable? And, worse yet, is there even an inkling of hope they can seem fresh? But the truly great ones find a way; Who’s Next is chock full of them.

Released between Tommy and Quadrophenia, Who’s Next is akin to Coppola’s The Conversation. Sandwiched between two epics, the work’s genius is in its restrain. Of course, Who’s Next isn’t exactly lo-fi garage rock. But, when compared to its predecessor and follow-up, the record is a relatively straightforward rock ‘n’ roll effort. It just happens to be one of the best of all time.

The album didn’t start off that way: Pete Townshend originally had designs on a rock opera which he named Lifehouse. The futuristic opus was abandoned in favor of a more traditional album, though many of its songs appear on Who’s Next and elsewhere in the band’s canon. The relative lack of concept turned out to be advantageous, allowing the band to explore disparate themes. “Love Ain’t For Keeping” adds twang the inevitable expiration of affection while “Getting In Tune” deconstructs song assembly. And despite Fred Durst’s best efforts to forever taint it, “Behind Blue Eyes” is a slow-burner nonpareil. A yearning heart and soul bleeds into badass escapism, the second half a sibling to the album’s cover art: men pissing on a monolith, all that is holy and right.

Who’s Next creates a sandwich of its own, two massive rock classics bookending the affair. “Baba O’Reilly” is best known for its organ-based synth-esque intro, but it also stands as the pinnacle of the Townshend’s empathy for — some might say “obsession with” — youth. Partially inspired by the drooling masses at Woodstock, “teenage wasteland” has entered the lexicon in a way that would make T.S. Eliot proud. On the flip side, “We Don’t Get Fooled Again” is as striking as ever for its unabashed bravado. After almost all of the nearly nine minutes of drum-bashing, power chord-exploding ferocity have expired, Daltry screams and proclaims, “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.” Driving to work on a Monday morning, could anything still ring more true?