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60 "Get Off In It"--Eddie Hinton, from Very Extremely Dangerous (Capricorn, 1978): It starts with a mangle of guitars and sounds like nothing else--ambient swamp rock, anyone? Eddie speaks the intro before the drums tick-tock their way in and the song settles into a somnambulant, slightly menacing Womack groove. Double-tracked in the style of Al Green or Womack himself, Eddie wrestles with his demons and bears down in an extraordinary performance. Finally, the track vanishes into the ether, leaving both performer and listener high and dry.

59 "Spellbound"--Siouxsie And The Banshees, single (Polydor, 1981): Their goth-pomp-pop couldn't be less fashionable today, but let's not forget glories like this thrillingly imperious hit, La Sioux swooping across the galloping rhythm section and the layered sheen-strum of John McGeoch's acoustic guitars. "We are entranced, spellbound..."

58 "How Many More Years"--Howlin' Wolf (Chess) The Wolf didn't not do intense. The Wolf was always on 11.

57 "I Am the Cosmos"--Chris Bell, single (Car, 1978): The departed Big Star man's simultaneously desperate and mystically lovely solo debut, like Radio City's "Back Of A Car" crossed with the fade on "You Never Give Me Your Money." Torment as poetry.

56 "Stormy Monday Blues"--Bobby "Blue" Bland, single (Duke, 1962): Blues balladeer extraordinaire Bland turns in an awesome reading of the T-Bone Walker song, building from a hushed purr to a gargled squall.

55 "There, There, My Dear"--Dexy's Midnight Runners, single (Late Night Feelings/EMI, 1980): Kevin Rowland's most potently evangelical anthem, a honking blast of neo-Jackie Wilson indignation. Maybe you should welcome the new soul vision.

54 "Take It To The Limit"--Etta James, from Deep In The Night (Warner Brothers, 1978): Who'd have put money on Etta reaching her volcanic peak on a friggin' Eagles song? Nonetheless, with Jerry Wexler at the helm, that's what she did on this perfervid outpouring from the late '70s. Jaw-dropping.

53 "Harlem"--Suicide, from Suicide (Ze, 1980): A nightmare on wax, with ghost rider Alan Vega patrolling the evil streets of the "big black city"--and only Martin Rev's relentless industrial beatbox and menacing one-note bass line for company.

52 "More Than A Feeling"--Boston, single (Epic, 1977): Cheesy as f**k, but so what. Tom Scholz will live forever after creating AOR's piece de resistance--and in the Year of our Punk, AD 1977, no less. Glisteningly clinical but utterly orgasmic, as young Kurt Cobain knew only too well.

51 "Don't You Love Me Anymore?"--Ray Charles, from Brother Ray Is At It Again (Crossover, 1980): OK, so Brother Ray is a Genius and all that, but the fact remains that he has sometimes displayed a worrying disposition to pure ham. Not here. On this gorgeous string-laden ballad, Ray rakes over the embers of a dying romance, baffled and dismayed by the turn of events. A delightful, "Shipbuilding"-esque trumpet solo is the only relief as he rails against the fickleness of life and womankind.

50 "Mother"--John Lennon, from Plastic Ono Band (Apple, 1970): Primal scream therapy as rock 'n' roll. Still shocking--and cathartic--after 30 years.

49 "Public Image"--Public Image Ltd, single (Virgin, 1978): Lydon's Pistols voice was one thing--sneering, railing, caterwauling--but this was something else again. A torrent of horrible, snarling defiance from the man who asked, "Ever get the feeling you've been had?," propelled along by the blazing guitars of Messrs. Levene and Wobble.

48 "Come And Go With Me To My Father's House"--Margo Dan Boone, (demo 1971): Ostensibly a gospel reading of an old slave spiritual, this feels like it comes from a much darker place: a world of Hot Foot powder, John the Conqueroo, goofer dust and bad, bad mojo. All of 14 when she recorded this at home in Jessop, Georgia in 1971 (self-accompanied on Hammond), Ms. Boone sounds like she's hurrying past the crossroads at midnight. Spooky.

47 "Tomorrow Never Knows"--The Beatles, from Revolver (Parlophone, 1966): Intensity as such was not a Fabs trademark, but this looped, dizzying hommage to Timmy Leary was trailblazing for its time and is still profoundly mood-altering. "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream"? Don't think so...

46 "Nights In Venice"--The Saints, from (I'm) Stranded (EMI, 1977): Final track on the first platter by the Brisbane psychos, "Nights" is nigh on six minutes of relentless neo-garage punk, hurtling towards pure sonic oblivion... a buzzsaw blizzard of noise that brooks no argument and takes no prisoners.

45 "Gimme Some Lovin'"--Spencer Davis Group, single (Fontana, 1966): A blue-eyed teenage soulgod before his time, Steve Winwood wails over his searing Hammond chords, brother Muff thudding underneath him. Eat your hearts out, all you Rascals and Roy Heads on t'other side of the pond.

44 "My Funny Valentine"--Ben Webster, from Music With Feeling (Verve 1995): An old geezer playing a jazz standard is "intense"? We're pulling your leg, right? Wrong. After a couple of choruses played straight, with his inimitable warm, breathy tone, Webster suddenly barks up the register. You can almost see the birds deserting the treetops at the detonation. From then on he throws himself into the tune, bearing his soul to the world. Breathtaking.

43 "Like A Hurricane"--Neil Young with Crazy Horse, from American Stars 'N' Bars (Reprise, 1977): Standing out like a beacon of blinding light on one of Neil's lesser collections, "Hurricane" is the sound of a man plunging into the eye of obsessive love: wave after wave of descending chords on the verses, followed by the surprisingly chipper choruses... and then a veritable tornado of squalling, lava-spitting guitar.

42 "The Last Ride"--Todd Rundgren, from Todd (Bearsville, 1974): The Runt in epic white-soul mode, mourning a dying love as he builds towards one of rock's great guitar climaxes: a squalling conjunction of multi-tracked, intertwined lines so powerful they verge on the unbearable.

41 "Lover Man"--Charlie Parker, from Complete Dial Masters (Definitive Records 2000): July 1946, and Bird is a million miles from home. Stuck in black-unfriendly L.A., strung out and desperate, Parker has reached the end of his tether. Coaxed into the studio by Dial boss Ross Russell, Bird is barely able to stand up. A fluffed intro is followed by some of the rawest bop balladry imaginable. Parker promptly collapses, and is dragged off to the Camarillo State Hospital, there to remain for the rest of the year.

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