Rock history is full of glorious triumphs – and equally glorious misfires.
For every Abbey Road or Dark Side of the Moon, there’s an album that promised the world but somehow missed its mark. Sometimes the failure was circumstantial: band tensions, management feuds, substance abuse, or the creeping pressure of fame. Other times, it was simple overreach – artists chasing reinvention only to lose their balance.
The results are fascinating: flawed masterpieces, misjudged experiments, and faded echoes of former brilliance. Goats Head Soup found the Rolling Stones slumped after their imperial phase; The Soft Parade saw the Doors swap menace for brass. Even Paul McCartney, usually the safest pair of pop hands, lost his way in the becalmed waters of London Town.
Yet these “almost” albums still hold a strange allure. They’re snapshots of artists in transition – brave enough to risk failure, human enough to falter. And sometimes, with distance, what once seemed like disappointment now sounds like a fascinating detour.
1. The Doors – The Soft Parade (1969)
If The Doors and Strange Days burned with dark poetry, The Doors' third album The Soft Parade was the sound of that fire flickering. With Jim Morrison increasingly detached – lost to drink, disillusionment, and courtroom drama – producer Paul Rothchild filled the gap with strings, brass, and studio polish. It was a strange fit: the orchestration swamped the band’s raw chemistry. The title track still shows flashes of genius, but elsewhere, it’s an uneasy hybrid of cabaret pomp and acid burnout. For a group that once turned minimalism into menace, The Soft Parade felt oddly grandiose – the Doors gone Vegas.
2. Todd Rundgren / Utopia – Deface the Music (1980)
Todd Rundgren, ever the trickster, decided to make a 'lost' Beatles album – and the result was both dazzlingly accurate and strangely hollow. Deface the Music mimics the Fab Four’s entire stylistic evolution in under 40 minutes: early mop-top jangle, Sgt. Pepper psychedelia, and even Abbey Road harmonies.
Technically, it’s an achievement; emotionally, it’s a shrug. Rundgren’s genius had always been for emotional immediacy (Something/Anything?, A Wizard, A True Star), but here he hid behind imitation. Fans expecting innovation got a musical stunt instead. It’s clever, yes – but like a museum exhibit of perfect forgeries, it leaves you longing for the real thing.
3. Jefferson Airplane – Long John Silver (1972)
By the time Long John Silver appeared, Jefferson Airplane were a band in name only. The Summer of Love’s wildest dreamers had splintered into factions, lawsuits, and separate bands (Hot Tuna, Starship prototypes). Recorded amid acrimony, the album feels like a ghost ship drifting through the wreckage of ’60s idealism.
There are flashes of that old rebellious spark – Grace Slick’s vocals still bite, and the title track snarls with outlaw energy – but much of it feels half-hearted, as if everyone’s already mentally checked out. Even the sleeve design (a fold-out box that turns into a stash container) hints at self-parody. What should have been a psychedelic farewell sounded more like a hangover.
Paul McCartney & Wings – London Town (1978)
On paper, London Town should have soared. McCartney was fresh off a winning streak – Band on the Run, Venus and Mars, Wings at the Speed of Sound – and had decamped to a yacht studio in the Virgin Islands. But the results were oddly becalmed. The title track drifts sweetly, 'With a Little Luck' charms, but the album’s soft textures and lack of edge left critics cold. Much of it feels too comfortable, too polite – as though Macca had retreated into domestic bliss at the expense of adventure. It’s pleasant enough, but after the bite and bounce of his earlier work, London Town felt like smooth sailing to nowhere in particular.
Crosby, Stills & Nash – CSN (1977)
By the mid-’70s, CSN were soft-rock royalty, the original Woodstock survivors now living the Californian dream. CSN reunited them for the first time in years – and while the harmonies remained honeyed, the spirit had shifted. Gone were the protests and personal confessions of Déjà Vu; in their place came lush production and mellow introspection.
Songs like 'Shadow Captain' and 'Cathedral' shimmer, but others drift into mid-tempo blandness. Perhaps the problem wasn’t the music but the times: America had moved on from the counterculture, and so, apparently, had CSN. What was once revolutionary now sounded like a beautifully mixed sigh.
Guns N’ Roses – The Spaghetti Incident? (1993)
The Spaghetti Incident? was billed as a Guns N’ Roses release, but it fell far short of expectations. A collection of punk and rock ‘n’ roll covers, it lacked the incendiary energy, swagger, and personal storytelling that defined Appetite for Destruction and Use Your Illusion. Slash’s guitar still dazzles, and Axl’s snarling vocals remain distinctive, yet the album feels scattershot, more a contractual obligation than a statement of artistic intent.
Diehard fans appreciated the glimpses of raw roots, but for most, it was a muted, unfocused effort, a missed opportunity to channel the band’s notorious chemistry into a record that could have matched their legendary reputation. Honourable exception: 'Attitude', a cover of the Misfits’ snarling punk anthem, whose raw energy and aggressive delivery capture some of the grit and bite that defined early Guns N’ Roses.
Oasis – Be Here Now (1997)
Three years after the landmark (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, Oasis returned with Be Here Now, an album that epitomized overindulgence. Bloated guitars, dense production, and songs stretching to eight minutes tested even loyal fans. Hype, fuelled by tabloids and fan mania, made disappointment inevitable. Despite its flaws, the album contains glimpses of the swaggering anthems that made the band great, serving as a reminder that excess can both define and drown an artist’s vision.
Lou Reed & Metallica – Lulu (2011)
This was always going to be a challenge: Lou Reed’s dark, spoken-word poetry colliding with Metallica’s thundering thrash guitars. On paper, it promised an avant-garde shockwave; in reality, it tested the limits of endurance for most listeners. Reed’s detached, theatrical delivery rides over riffs that range from bloated to oppressive, and the album’s narrative – inspired by German playwright Frank Wedekind – feels almost impenetrable.
Critics savaged it, fans were bewildered, and yet there’s something oddly compelling about the audacity of the project. It’s a masterclass in ambition over accessibility, a record that’s as fascinating as it is exasperating. For some, it’s an acquired taste; for most, it’s a cautionary tale of artistic collision.
The Byrds – Byrdmaniax (1971)
What should have been another cosmic-country Byrds adventure – in the manner of Ballad of Easy Rider and 1970's untitled ninth album – instead became a case study in producer overreach. The record label, without band consent, added lavish strings and choirs over the original mixes, smothering The Byrds’ airy harmonies and jangly guitars.
Songs like 'I Trust' and 'Glory, Glory' feel syrupy and overly sentimental, far from the freewheeling charm of, say, Sweetheart of the Rodeo. While there are glimpses of brilliance beneath the orchestration, the album largely frustrates: a talented band drowned by well-intentioned but misjudged production. It’s a lesson in how interference can transform potential gold into heavy, gilded lead.
And... three we're really not sure about
The Rolling Stones – Goats Head Soup (1973)
Coming off 1972's magisterial Exile on Main St., the Stones were untouchable – rock’s reigning kings, exiled, decadent, and at their creative peak. But Goats Head Soup found them drifting in the haze of exhaustion and excess. Recorded mostly in Jamaica, the sessions were clouded by heroin, tax exile fatigue, and creative drift. The murky mix and languid tempos made it feel like a comedown after Exile’s brilliance.
'Angie' was a hit, and 'Star Star' still snarled with attitude, but overall the album lacked focus – more weary sigh than primal swagger. Actually, Goats Head Soup has aged far better than its reputation suggests, but at the time, fans sensed a band sliding into autopilot.
Yes – Tormato (1978)
By 1978, Yes had conquered the world with symphonic ambition. But Tormato proved even prog rock’s titans could lose the plot. The album’s title – a pun inspired by someone hurling a tomato at a promo photo – sums up the tone: indulgent and confused. Rick Wakeman’s synths, once celestial, now sounded plasticky; Jon Anderson’s lyrics were adrift in cosmic vagueness.
Band tensions boiled over, production turned brittle, and the once-seamless interplay grew clunky. There are moments of melodic beauty ('Onward', 'Don’t Kill the Whale'), but mostly it’s a document of burnout – virtuosity without vision. Tormato didn’t kill Yes, but it marked the end of their golden age.
The Smashing Pumpkins – Adore (1998)
After the bombast of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, Billy Corgan pivoted hard into electronic textures and subdued moods. Synths replaced guitars, drum machines replaced brute force, and Corgan’s melancholy vocals carried the weight of personal grief. Tracks like 'Ava Adore' are sleek and intoxicating, yet for fans craving the snarling guitars and cathartic fury of earlier hits, Adore feels withdrawn. It’s an album of intimate beauty, but in 1998 it was misunderstood: a masterpiece of subtlety overshadowed by the expectation of bombast.
