It was 50 years ago that the Beatles‘ released their first album, Please Please Me. In honor of that world-changing LP, we’ve compiled a list of the 100 Greatest Debut Albums of All Time. A note on how we made the list: Albums got docked points if the artist went on to far greater achievements (which is why Please, Please Me and Greetings from Asbury Park, great as they are, didn’t made the Top 10); conversely, we gave a little extra recognition to great debut albums that the artist never matched (hello, Is This It and Illmatic!). We also skipped solo debuts by artists who were already in well-known bands, which is why you won’t see John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band or Paul Simon. We focused, instead, on debuts that gave you the thrill of an act arriving fully-formed, ready to reinvent the world in its own image.
The title sounded like wishful thinking when Stefani Germanotta's album arrived in August 2008 to a shrug from radio programmers and record-buyers. By the spring of 2009, though, Germanotta, aka Lady Gaga, was famous indeed. Gaga's debut was a game-charger, making dark, booming dance-pop—buoyed by the almighty four-on-the-floor thump of Eurodisco—the dominant sound of the global charts. And it introduced the world to an outrageously plus-sized form of pop divadom—to a provocateur and fashion plate who treated the whole world as her red carpet. Those paparazzi she sang about weren't just metaphorical, after all.
The Flying Burrito Brothers
"We're a rock & roll band that sounds like a country band," Gram Parsons said of the Burritos, whose first album was an obscure Sixties masterpiece that drew the blueprint for both Seventies country rock and today's alt-country. Parsons and Chris Hillman formed the Burritos after they both quit the Byrds; in many ways, Gilded Palace picks up where the Byrds' Sweetheart of the Rodeo left off. Together, the mercurial Parsons and the levelheaded Hillman concocted a crazily coherent statement of irony-fueled hillbilly anthems, inventive covers and achingly beautiful two-part harmonies, all underscored by Sneaky Pete Kleinow's radical pedal-steel guitar.
He didn't have Elvis Costello's way with words, or Graham Parker's blue-eyed-soul-man style. But Joe Jackson's debut showed that he could match his rival angry young Brits where it counted: song-for-song. Look Sharp! is a near-perfect short, sharp New Wave-pop album, toggling from wiry punk ("Got the Time") to witty ballads ("Is She Really Going Out with Him?"), from social commentary ("Sunday Papers") to bruised romance ("One More Time"). Secret weapon: Jackson's ferocious little four-piece band, especially bassist Graham Maby, who nearly steals the show.
London/Mo Wax, 1996
Unlikely DJ savior Josh Davis nearly did for the turntable what Hendrix did for the guitar – bringing vibrant technical brilliance, wild beauty and multifaceted musical texture to an instrument some rock Luddites still didn't even consider to be an instrument at all. He came out of the Mo Wax trip-hop scene but tracks like "Permanent Slump" and "Changeling" had more in common with the spaced psychedelic rock explorations than they did with whatever DJ Krush was up to. But the rich, crackling beats themselves – culled from countless records discovered over a lifetime of crate digging – reminded everyone what was fun and free about hip-hop.
The artist herself would later dismiss the post-disco pop on her debut as "the aerobics album." But it didn't just succeed in introducing the most important female voice in the history of modern music, it's also aged much better sonically than Like A Virgin, her blockbuster 1984 follow-up. Loaded with hits like "Borderline" and "Holiday" (the latter produced by her then-boyfriend, John "Jellybean" Benitez) and the great communal anthem "Everybody," it put downtown New York electro grooves all over the Top 40. Fun fact: it also works great as aerobics music.
"I came from a family where my people didn't like rhythm and blues," Little Richard told Rolling Stone in 1970. "Bing Crosby, 'Pennies From Heaven,' Ella Fitzgerald was all I heard. And I knew there was something that could be louder than that, but didn't know where to find it. And I found it was me." Richard's raucous debut collected singles such as "Good Golly, Miss Molly," in which his rollicking boogie-woogie piano and falsetto scream ignited the unfettered possibilities of rock & roll. "Tutti Frutti" still contains what has to be considered the most inspired rock lyric on record: "A wop bop alu bop, a wop bam boom!"
The Who exploded out of the West London Mod scene and pushed rock and roll to new levels of intensity and volume on their debut. They're in maximum-R&B mode: power-chorded reductions of James Brown ballads hurled forward by a manic freight-train rhythm section. When Pete Townshend was badgered by a manager into beefing up his laidback demo of "My Generation," the resulting explosion knocked a hole in the future. In its raw, delinquent intensity, My Generation is a blueprint for much of the garage-rock, punk and heavy metal that flourished after it was released.
The Hold Steady
Even on their first album, these Brooklyn-via-Minneapolis dudes had it all: drugs, sex, Catholic guilt, trashy bar-band guitars. Craig Finn splutters his crazed one-liners about killer parties gone bad, from "Mary got a bloody nose from sniffing margarita mix" to "I did a couple favors for these guys who looked like Tusken Raiders." "Certain Songs" pays tribute to a bar where the jukebox has the perfect ratio of Meat Loaf to Billy Joel. Commercial? Not exactly. Yet the Hold Steady sounded so real and raw, so loaded with wit and compassion and energy, this made them a word-of-mouth sensation.
What a beautiful mess Moby Grape were, and what an amazing noise they made on their debut album, a stunning artifact of San Francisco rock at its '67 peak. Jerry Miller, Peter Lewis, Don Stevenson, Bob Mosley and Skip Spence all sang like demons and wrote crisp pop songs packed with lysergic country-blues excitement. And the band's three guitarists – Miller, Spence and Lewis – created a network of lightning that made songs like "Omaha," "Changes" and "Hey Grandma" shine and sizzle. Columbia hyped this album to near death (issuing five singles at once), but the music is just as thrilling now as it was in '67. This is genuine hippie power pop.
"London calling, speak the slang now," crowed Anglo-Sri Lankan rapper Maya Arulpragasam, and no one could begrudge her the Clash reference. Arular was the sound of punk and agitprop meeting the 21st century – a protest march, a street riot, and a carnival, conducted over rousingly rackety beats. The production, by M.I.A. and her then-beau Diplo, recast hip-hop as low-fi global party music. But it's M.I.A. who commands the spotlight, whether flirting ("My finger tips and the lips/Do the work, yeah/My hips do the flicks), sloganeering ("Pull up the people, pull up the poor"), needling ("You can be a follower but who's your leader?"), or talking glorious nonsense: "Purple Haze/Galang a lang a lang lang."
Alex Chilton and Chris Bell were the Memphis whiz kids at the heart of Big Star. They mixed British pop finesse with all-American hard rock, from the surging "Feel" to the acoustic "Thirteen," one of the most beautiful love songs ever written. Chilton, who had been a teenage star with the Box Tops, sang in a high, bright voice that bristled against jagged, ringing guitars. Big Star's back-to-basics idealism didn't sell many records in the progressive-rock-dominated early-Seventies but over the years they inspired artists such as the Replacements and R.E.M..
The ultimate Eighties synth-pop manifesto. Alison Moyet was the brash girl singer with the soul pipes. Vince Clarke was the keyboard geek punching the buttons. Together, they made an album full of club classics like "Situation," "Too Pieces" and "Don't Go," along with "Midnight," a torch ballad Smokey Robinson could have written for Dusty Springfield. Clarke had already tasted fame with Depeche Mode; he famously quit in a huff after they rejected "Only You," which became Yaz's first hit. He moved on to Erasure, Moyet to solo hits, but their short-lived partnership was the essence of sideways-haircut romance.
Daft Punk's debut is pure synapse-tweaking brilliance. French duo Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo proved that techno and house could be as elastic, catchy and, at times, as funny as the poppiest pop without diluting its hypnotically driving, acidic essence. Homeawork had standout hits – like "Da Funk" and the anthemically bloopy "Around the World." But it was paced like a great album, weaving hip-hop and funk (and, on "Rock N Roll," even some Seventies glam) into the mix, with pauses for oceanic contemplation (the guitar-washed "Flesh") and hip-hop influenced skits like "WDPK 83.7 FM," in which a French-accented robo-DJ promises "the sound of tomorrow and the music of today." Considering their towering shadow over all subsequent EDM, that brag sounds like truth in advertising.
The New Pornographers
"Where have all sensations gone?" Neko Case asked on this Vancouver band's debut. A lot of indie-rockers were wondering the same thing during the music's late-Nineties nadir. The New Porno's gave the scene a jolt of energy and sorely missed fun. Burt Bacharach fan Carl Newman, Bowie obsessive Dan Bejar and alt-country barnburner Case didn't have much in common on paper but on songs like "Letter From An Occupant" and the title track they came up with music that surged with electric smarts, roundhouse drum-pump and hooks atop hooks. It's power pop that never lets up for a minute.
Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope, 2012
The last thing hip-hop was expecting in 2012 was a record like Kendrick Lamar's debut: a mainstream triumph by a leftfield star, a classic album that built on narratives not punchlines or braggadocio, a cracked lens view of one of rap's sacred terrains, Compton, California. In good kid, m.A.A.d city, Lamar sets spiritual yearnings and moral dilemmas against a stark backdrop of gang violence and police brutality. When Lamar does unleash a hair-raising boast – "I pray my dick get big as the Eiffel Tower/So I can fuck the world for 72 hours" – the triumphalism feels well-earned.
Rage Against the Machine
"I believe in this band's ability to bridge the gap between entertainment and activism," declared Zack de la Rocha, whose radical politics found sympathetic muscle in Tom Morello's howling one-guitar army. On songs like "Killing in the Name" and "Bullet in the Head" Morello's effects-soaked guitar sounded like a DJ scratch, an air raid siren and Led Zeppelin all at once and hardcore punk vet de la Rocha's righteous voice was louder than a bomb: "They say jump/ you say how high" They spawned a million rap-rock imitators but blaming them for Limp Bizkit it like blaming sunshine for garden weeds.
The blockbuster debut of the 21-year-old Whitney, a great pop singer with the voice of a great soul singer. She could do steamy R&B like "You Give Good Love," she could do bubble-pop electro-boogie like "How Will I Know," she could do Hollywood schlock like "The Greatest Love Of All." And – this was the confusing part – she sang them all like they meant the same thing, which to her they did. Whitney had bigger triumphs ahead of her – she hit her creative peaks as a full-grown woman. But the vocal firepower of her debut changed the way pop voices emoted for the next 15 years.
Erik B. and Rakim
4th and Broadway/Island 1987
Laid-back and diamond-sharp, Rakim was the finest rapper of the Eighties, and this album is a big reason why. Paid in Full was one of the first hip-hop records to fully embrace Seventies funk samples on stone classics such as "I Know You Got Soul" and the title track. But it was Rakim's impossibly cool voice and seemingly effortless flow that stunned listeners, along with the fearlessness of lines like: "It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you/Without a strong rhyme to step to/ Think of how many weak shows you slept through."
Black Ark, 1977
With all due respect to the Wailers, this 1977 set by the vocal duo of "Ashanti" Roydel Johnson and Cedric Myton is probably the most psychedelic and spiritually potent roots reggae set ever made, and the greatest achievement of famed Jamaican producer Lee "Scratch" Perry. Unearthly harmonies bob in a whirlpool of echo and reverb alongside lowing cyber-cattle and other sound effects as the men sing of Jah, Africa, and the Bible, making art that's as much religious ritual – and mind-altering substance – as it is music. Which is exactly the point.
Gang of Four
Warner Bros., 1979
The Clash and the Sex Pistols had raged at rock's corporate structure but Marxist punks the Gang of Four dug into "the dirt behind the daydream" of capitalism without sounding like pallid grad students. In fact, Entertainment!'s mix of punk fury and funk attack was a revelation. Andy Gill's staccato guitar hits played perfectly off of singer-lyricist Jon King's bleat. The stiff, jerky aggression of songs such as "Damaged Goods," "Anthrax" and "I Found That Essence Rare" influenced everyone from the Red Hot Chili Peppers to the whole DFA Records dance-rock scene.
"Wow, man, you can even dance to that!" said Bob Dylan when he heard the Byrds' heavily harmonized, electric twelve-string treatments of his material. The Byrds' tender-but-tough debut defined folk rock with Pete Seeger and Dylan covers, Los Angeles studio savvy and punchy, ringing guitars. Its influence on generations of "jangly" rock and roll makes it one of the Sixties most visionary albums and while the Dylan songs got most of the ink, their originals ("I'll Feel A Whole Lot Better") were just as great.
In November 1955, RCA Records bought Presley's contract, singles and unreleased master tapes from Sun Records for $35,000. His first full-length album came out six months later, with tracks drawn from both the Sun sessions and from further recording at RCA's studios in New York and Nashville. "There wasn't any pressure," guitarist Scotty Moore said of the first RCA sessions. "They were just bigger studios with different equipment. We basically just went in and did the same thing we always did." On tracks such as "Blue Suede Shoes," that meant revved-up country music with the sexiest voice anyone had ever heard.
The Stone Roses
Before Oasis, Blur and their kin "invented" Britpop, there was the self-titled 1989 debut by the Stone Roses, who rose from Manchester's ecstasy-addled proto-rave scene with a sound that reaffirmed the glory of chiming, heady UK rock & roll. If they owed something to the sugar-smeared tunefulness of U.S. peers like R.E.M., their day-glo attack owed nothing to indie-rock coyness. The album's manifesto, after all, is titled "I Wanna Be Adored" – a line that in fact sounds a lot like "I wanna be your dog" when they sing it. Which is appropriate: The Stooges were punks who wanted to be adored, too.