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**Yoko Ono/Plastic Ono Band**
★★★★☆

In the shadow of her husband's revolutionary primal scream therapy sessions with Dr Arthur Janov, Yoko Ono crafted her own sonic exorcism that makes John's concurrent album sound like a gentle lullaby. Released simultaneously with Lennon's *John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band* in December 1970, Yoko's debut proper remains one of the most uncompromising artistic statements ever committed to vinyl – a raw, unflinching journey into the darkest recesses of human experience that predates punk's nihilistic howl by half a decade.

The album emerged from the same Tittenhurst Park sessions that birthed John's masterpiece, with the same crack rhythm section of Klaus Voormann and Ringo Starr anchoring proceedings. But where Lennon channeled his childhood trauma into confessional folk-rock, Ono unleashed something far more primal and disturbing. Having already established herself as a significant figure in the avant-garde art world through her Fluxus movement connections and conceptual pieces like "Cut Piece," she approached rock music not as a convert but as a conquistador, determined to tear down its conventions from within.

The opening salvo "Why" sets the template immediately – Ono's voice spiraling from whispered vulnerability to banshee wails over a hypnotic blues shuffle that could have soundtracked a particularly harrowing episode of *Twin Peaks*. Her vocal approach throughout defies every Western singing convention, drawing instead from Japanese traditional music, free jazz, and what sounds like genuine psychological breakdown. It's deeply uncomfortable listening, which is precisely the point.

"Why Not" continues the interrogation, its title serving as both sequel and philosophical statement. Over churning guitars and Starr's relentless drumming, Ono poses questions that have no answers, her voice fragmenting and multiplying like a fractured psyche examining itself in a broken mirror. The effect is genuinely unsettling – this isn't performance art posturing but something that feels dangerously real.

The album's centerpiece, "Green Field," offers momentary respite with its pastoral imagery, but even here Ono's delivery suggests someone grasping at nature's healing power while drowning in urban alienation. It's the closest thing to a conventional song structure on display, yet her vocal gymnastics ensure it never settles into comfortable familiarity.

"AOS" returns to more experimental territory, its title referring to the sound Ono makes when experiencing extreme emotion – a wordless vocalization that bypasses language entirely to communicate pure feeling. Over minimal instrumentation, she creates a sonic landscape that's simultaneously ancient and futuristic, suggesting both prehistoric ritual and space-age breakdown.

The album's most notorious moment arrives with "Touch Me," where Ono's extended vocal improvisations reach their most extreme point. Her voice becomes an instrument of torture and transcendence, stretching human vocalization to its breaking point. It's the sound of someone refusing to be silenced, demanding to be heard regardless of conventional notions of palatability.

Musically, the album exists in a genre of one, though its DNA can be traced through free jazz, blues, and what would later be called noise rock. The Plastic Ono Band provides muscular support without ever overwhelming Ono's vision, creating space for her voice to roam freely while maintaining enough structure to prevent complete chaos.

Critics at the time were largely baffled or hostile, dismissing it as the indulgent shrieking of Lennon's wife. History has been kinder, recognizing it as a crucial bridge between the avant-garde and rock music, influencing everyone from Sonic Youth to Björk to contemporary noise artists. The album's confrontational nature and refusal to compromise make it a touchstone for any artist seeking to push boundaries rather than merely polish existing forms.

Fifty years on, *Yoko Ono/Plastic Ono Band* remains as challenging and vital as ever. In an era of focus-grouped musical products, its commitment to authentic expression – however difficult that expression might be to digest – feels almost revolutionary. It's not an album that reveals its secrets easily, demanding patience and openness from listeners willing to engage with its uncompromising vision.

This isn't music for passive consumption but active confrontation – a primal scream that echoes across decades, reminding us that art's highest calling isn't to comfort but to challenge, disturb, and ultimately transform.