Ten days before the opening of Woodstock, a single solitary album changed everything. It was a commercial bomb, an embarrassment to all the suits involved, the producer’s original mix abandoned, the band decried as troglodytes and animals from the literal trailer park. But it also is the ground zero for every angry album of noise that came since; without it, you don’t get glam, you don’t get British or American punk, and you maybe don’t get the evolutions that happened to bring us every type of metal music. You don’t get any of it. Instead, we’re living in a world where Flower Power inherits the world, where there’s no one to say "F*** you" and there’s no one to say "We’re f***ed and we’re mad about it." Thank God, and Michigan, then, for The Stooges.