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It looks like Secret Treaties, Agents of Fortune, Spectres, and Mirrors are the ones I've heard.
Secret Treaties is awesome. The other three, not so much.
Their first 3 albums are great, as well as their unreleased first album for Elektra. Their live albums are good too.
Fire of Unknown Origin is like a freshly spray painted dungeons and dragons-inspired mural on the side of a shitty van in the land of Tron.
I thoroughly enjoy it, without apology.
I felt that they lost their mojo, a lot of what made them great, once they became mainstream, which often happens, and I think from then on their music became bland (with a few exceptions).
I felt that they lost their mojo, a lot of what made them great, once they became mainstream, which often happens, and I think from then on their music became bland (with a few exceptions).
They definitely became chart-chasers, and abandoned almost literally everything about their original sound. Spectres jettisons the punk and what little was left of the roadhouse, Mirrors sounds like a Paul McCartney soundtrack for the Hobbit cartoon, and of course later you have songs like Shooting Shark ( ) and the producer who worked with Loverboy.
I forgive them for their whorishness, and even revel in it at times, simply because...
A. They weren't very good at it. B. No matter how badly they wanted to sell records, they were never self-aware enough to go "Hey, maybe fewer songs about wizards and the undead. I dunno." C. They're such a great blend of absolute campy ridiculousness and stone-faced emotional sincerity.
Like the Elvis Costello, Coldplay, and Homicide: Life on the Street threads
theplatypus mentioning homicide in the same sentence as Elvis Costello is pretty high praise. Even if it is totally unrelated to the point he is making.
At their best, the Chili Peppers were a miniature orchestra of brilliant melodists -- in their greatest moments ("Soul to Squeeze," for instance, and the layered coda to "Easily" from "Californication"), Flea and Frusciante were simpatico on Townshend/Entwistle levels, weaving intelligently composed melodies together like quilt threads, virtuosity never coming at the expense of musicality. Those moments are rare, and the perverted sex-funk side of their act has aged very badly, but an 80 minute CDR of their best material totally deserves to exist.
One Hot Minute is the only RHCP album worth listening to.
thats a very good one.
Also, BSSM and Californication.
Good singles, but not worth listening to as whole albums.
I read Lord of the Rings when I was caught up listening to OHM. Now it just feels weird that there's not a funky bassline behind everything in PJ's movies.
Like the Elvis Costello, Coldplay, and Homicide: Life on the Street threads
theplatypus mentioning homicide in the same sentence as Elvis Costello is pretty high praise. Even if it is totally unrelated to the point he is making.
To be fair, the full list was Costello, Homicide, Coldplay, and the Blue Oyster Cult. And that really is a list that only has one thing in common.
I was just listening to the BOC while watching the kids run around a bounce house warehouse. I just love how lost in their own bullshit that band was willing to get. The world needs more artists that are prepared to be this ridiculous, and really really mean it.
Things I love about em:
This song is the sound of Neil Young and Crazy Horse dealing drugs in the Hotel California
None of that Frank Zappa sarcasm to be found. Here we have the ending of a song called Havester of Eyes and the beginning of another called Flaming Telepaths. And they totally mean it.
Fireworks is a song that blends alarmingly rapey verses with a chorus that, near as I can tell, is an enthusiastic celebration of female orgasm. Read that again.
It's also an attempt to rewrite Don't Fear the Reaper that sounds like it was done by a band who maybe heard that song once, on a car radio.
Halfway through it's play time, The Pact enters into a really dreamy bridge section. I mean, it's a bit "old metal band," but it feels. And then, having sufficiently lulled you, it speeds up and breaks into a very detailed tale of what I have to assume is the killing of a necromancer on a giant bird.
The first half of this song could easily be mistaken for an examination of the nightmares of grown abused children or a commentary on American culture. The streets are filled with junkies who laugh like hungry dogs and policemen whose eyes have turned "the color of frozen meat." Schoolgirls defiantly chain themselves to big trucks, only to hear the engines start up. Shivering angels hang uselessly in the sky.
But then the band quickly affirms for you that, whatever serious ambitions you thought you heard in the last two minutes...they certainly weren't aware of it. They first shit out a barrage of sound effect closet-finds so overwhelming that you start appreciating the Beatles for their restraint, and they drop down into a bit of theater the likes of which Meatloaf would probably call "perfectly fine."
Then, just to really drive home that lol we don't know, they filmed a video for it that involved the band hanging out by a pool, checking out teenagers, and hiding in bushes.
They weren't self-aware enough not to do this other stuff
Obviously, the Cult never picked up that their audience was made up of Kiss fans who thought Destroyer was a little too grounded in reality, because they made Mirrors and The Revolution By Night
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) and the producer who worked with Loverboy. 
