For the last of this week's look at my votes for The 20 Greatest Eponymous Albums Of All Time, as prompted and published by No Badger Required last month, I'm skipping #10 and focusing on #9 and #8, respectively occupied by Blur and Gorillaz.
Yep, it's a Damon Albarn double bill.
If this has immediately got your hackles rising, then I can only offer by way of consolation that you will not be seeing Mali Music (2002), The Good, The Bad & The Queen (2007) or Rocket Juice & The Moon (2012) in next week's final three posts, as none of these Albarn-fuelled projects made it to the NBR longlist, let alone shortlist.
So, let's start with Blur, the self-titled fifth album by Blur from 1997.
I didn’t mind Blur, but I was just never really into them. And I only really rooted for them during the fabricated Blur vs. Oasis face off because I found the Gallagher Brothers and their band tedious. Truth be told, I couldn't really give a shit either way.
In February 1997, I didn't own any Blur albums and I was not inclined to buy their latest release. I ended up hearing it a lot because my friends Vicky and Simon played Blur by Blur pretty much every time I visited them for a couple of months in early 1997.
That in itself was weird as, with the exception of Pulp who they both loved, their music tastes veered very much towards either the Spice Girls and Kylie, or the kind of kitsch deep cuts and 60s and 70s TV theme tunes to be found at the World Of Cheese club night in Bristol that we frequented.
But there was something about this album that clearly appealed to them both, and then me. And not just for Song 2, which is still bloody brilliant, nearly thirty years later.
I've mentioned previously that, with a few exceptions, the Britpop movement did little for me and although Blur predated the label, previous albums Parklife and The Great Escape were cited as defining records.
The eponymous Blur was something of a reaction against this, angry and introspective with sharper edges yet losing none of the singalong melodies that the band were renowned for. Each of the four singles displayed a different facet of the band, and there was more to be found in album tracks, such as Death Of A Party and Movin' On.
Although I didn't bite straight away, Blur's fifth ended up being the first album of theirs that I acquired. Given how fragmented the band reportedly were at the time of writing and recording Blur, it has stood the test of time as a surprisingly cohesive record.
Gorillaz beat Blur by a point in my scores because frankly it’s the best thing that Damon Albarn’s done. Ironically, Albarn has been quoted as saying that On Your Own, the third single from Blur's eponymous fifth album, is "one of the first ever Gorillaz tunes".
Collaborating with Jamie Hewlett and Dan The Automator and (possibly literally) a cast of thousands and hiding behind simian-based cartoon alter egos may have looked good on paper. In reality, their 2001 debut album was even better than that. Geniuz, even (sorry!)
Subconsciously, what I like about Gorillaz the band and the album is that although Damon Albarn is clearly the creative driving force, he's also in the background, regardless of whether it's a true democracy in reality. Yes, you hear his voice pop up throughout, but on singles like Clint Eastwood and 19/2000, the stars of the show are Del Tha Funkee Homosapien and Miho Hatori.
And, if you're a fan of Jamie Hewlett's art, as I was, then the visual aspect of Gorillaz, which shaped not only the music releases and videos, but also the translation to live performances and the interactive elements of the website were unlike anything else out there.
My love of Gorillaz' debut extends to it's remix companion, Laika Come Home, released later the same year. In characteristically contrary fashion, I ended up buying this one before the album that birthed it. I'd never heard of Spacemonkeyz before (or since), but the promise of Gorillaz songs given a dub and reggae rinse was irresistible.
At the top of the page, the unrelated telly swipe is a scene from the Adventures Of Robinson Crusoe, the 1954 film adaptation of Daniel Defoe's 18th century novel, directed by Luis Buñuel.
The titular character is played by Dan O'Herlihy, seen here having just taken a big glug from a barrel of grog, discovered in the bowels of the shipwrecked vessel that marooned him in the first place.