Here’s the question that’s been haunting me all week like a needle stuck in a groove: Who decides the greatest albums of all time? Is there really such a thing as an official Top 100? Or have we just collectively agreed to pretend that music — arguably one of the most personal, emotional, and subjective art forms — can somehow be boiled down into a master list, universally accepted by all?

Because lately, I’ve been looking at some of these lists — Apple Music’s just dropped one, Uncut Magazine’s got their Top 500 — and I’m confused. Not angry. Not outraged. Just… genuinely confused.

Let’s start with the obvious. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles. Not on Apple Music’s list. You heard that right — the record that basically invented the modern studio album, the one that said, “Hey, we don’t need to tour, we’ll just blow people’s minds through headphones,” didn’t make the cut. It’s the same album that cracked open the doors of experimentation and made tape loops, sound effects, and genre-blending a norm. But sure — let’s just leave that one out.

And don’t get me started on Uncut’s Top 500. Rumours by Fleetwood Mac sitting pretty at No. 220? This is an album that still floats on the Billboard charts decades after its release. It’s a masterclass in production, emotion, and heartbreak. Every track flows into the next like it’s been choreographed by heartbreak itself. How does that not land higher?

But before this turns into a rant — which, okay, maybe it already is — let me step back and ask: Who’s behind these lists? Are they built in a conference room by streaming service curators and execs in expensive sneakers? Are they handpicked by a rotating committee of critics? Or is it a marketing decision? A data-driven attempt to spark conversation, drive streams, and court controversy?

Because the more you look at these lists, the more it becomes clear: it’s all opinion. Sure, some of it’s dressed up as consensus — backed by metrics, popularity, and cultural “impact.” But at the end of the day, it’s still someone’s version of greatness.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because what makes an album “great,” really? Is it the number of units sold? The number of tattoos it inspired? The tears it caused? For some, Bowie’s Heroes is a generational masterpiece. For others, it’s just a weird, warbly detour. Me? I think it’s genius. But that’s me. That’s my experience with it.

And that’s the thing — these lists don’t define music. They don’t define us. Music is a memory machine, a cultural mirror, a mood ring. Some albums punch you in the gut on first listen. Others take years to crack open your ribs and nest in your soul. And no ranking can measure that.

So yeah, I’ll read these Top 100s. I’ll nod at some picks. I’ll scoff at others. But I’m not losing sleep over it. Because I’ve got my own top 100. It lives in my playlists, my record bin, and my head. It’s shaped by summer drives, heartbreak recoveries, headphone epiphanies, and late-night listening sessions. And that list? That one’s mine. And no one’s ranking it but me.

Because music isn’t meant to be classified — it’s meant to be shared, played loud, and passed on.