After the Gold Rush (1970)

Ah, more high school memories. In this case, the debate centered on the quality of Neil Young's voice. Everyone agreed, however grudgingly, that there was something amazing about Young and his songwriting. But many – including myself, I'm sorry to say now – couldn't handle the turns of high-pitched wheedling. "I just can't stand that voice," our ignorance spoke to eternity. Two decades later I would hear the same argument applied to actress Rosie Perez, but even by then I was well over it or anything like it. This is where so much begins and exists for all time with Neil Young. If I had to pick only one of his many, many albums to pack for the proverbial desert island this would likely be it. His songwriting is rarely so strong track to track – everything, even the two clocking in at less than two minutes, is perfectly realized, and the typical division for him between folkie and hard rocker is rarely so hard to draw. Not to mention other divisions along the lines of melody master, politically outraged spokesperson for a generation, and man of disaffected alienation. It's all here, and it just doesn't get much better than this.