The release of Brett Morgen’s documentary Montage of Heck has inspired new discussions of the legacy of Kurt Cobain, the Nirvana frontman who upended popular music before committing suicide in 1994. Few artists have straddled the line between nonconformity and commercialism like Cobain. Consider the three-album arc of his band’s life: though Nirvana boasted of producing its debut album Bleach for $600, Cobain became a Generation X icon by releasing its follow-up, Nevermind, on a major label, and by having a hit single, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” that dominated MTV.
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Chris Smith is a music journalist and professor of cultural criticism at the University of British Columbia. In his most recent book, 101 Albums That Changed Popular Music, 
he presents his opinion of the albums that changed music - we know you may disagree and Smith addresses this issue below. Be sure to check back tomorrow for a look at this book through music videos.
What is this human obsession with lists? What is the source of our compulsion to compare, to rank, to lord one work of art just inches over another when their differences can barely be defined? Is it genetic? Is it cultural? If vervet moneys had opposable digits and the intelligence to use them, would they strap on giant foam rubber “We’re #1” fingers and taunt the other species at the watering hole?
These were the questions I asked in December, 2007, when I embarked on a two-year project naming the 100 Greatest Albums of all time in a weekly column for the Vancouver Sun. I had been involved in the Rolling Stone list machine as a music critic in the late 1990s, and in 2006 published my fourth book, 100 Albums That Changed Popular Music.
The answer to my soul-searching inquiry was an unexpectedly satisfying copout: “Who cares?” It’s fun to make lists, and as philosophers from Aristotle to Saussure have noted, we understand things by virtue of their contrasting relationships to their peers. So if the Hendrix’s groundbreaking Are You Experienced was forbidden access to the top of the charts by the Beatles’ Sgt Peppers, then the takeaway detail isn’t that it was Number 2, but that it wasn’t Number 1.
But my book eschewed such hierarchal contrast, instead detailing these albums in chronological order to show how each album influenced (and was influenced by) its peers (hence the book’s emphasis on the most “important” albums rather that the “greatest.”) The Sun editors, however, insisted on a “countdown” list, so the readers could follow along for two years, each week coming one step closer to “the world’s greatest album.” The problem is, I don’t believe such a thing exists—while enough objective data can be gathered to loosely construct a list of the “most influential” albums, the notion of “greatest” albums infuses the equation with subjective criteria based on individual aesthetics, thus changing the nature of the criteria from person to person. (The same is true of all such ranking systems, whether they rate your favorite albums, movies, politicians, or family members).
The solution was simple: surrender to subjectivity. We titled the column “100 Albums You Have to Own,” and told our readers: “Agreeing or disagreeing with our picks is beside the point—write us a letter, rant to your friends, or sit down and make your own list. Great works of art invite such engagement, and we hope these will catch your ear. We only ask you to listen.”
Ultimately, I believe, such lists do serve a vital purpose as a stepping off point for critical engagement with a work of art—provided the author is honest about his intentions and criteria. My second favorite part of the entire process is discussing my selections with readers who object to my choices. My favorite part, of course, is ranking their objections.
