The Ramones built their music around a crass glue-sniffing fantasy: What if you took only the giddiest peaks of your favorite songs--the second verse, which is the same as the first, in Herman's Hermits' "I'm Henry VIII, I Am," or the roller coaster screams in the '60s AM nugget "Palisades Park"--and played them over and over? And what if you left everything else for Traffic fans to bother with? The result would be Ramones, the founding punk rock record. The Ramones' dessert-only approach resembled that of the hip-hop DJs who started making noise in New York around the same time, especially in that their first priority was rhythm. Joey's stuttered vocals, Dee Dee's bass and Johnny's guitar fuzz were all submerged into the fastest beats ever manufactured, and before you appreciated their songs for their wit, arrogance, or melodies, you had to absorb Tommy Ramone's drumming into your own bodily rhythms. Ramones burns with the rage of fuckups who find comfort in recognizing and renaming each other, refusing to play the victim, insisting on a "Palisades Park" of their own. It kicks off with "Blitzkrieg Bop", beats on the Beatles with a baseball bat, rants against the world, sniffs some glue, demands your spare change, asks you to dance, and finally swandives into the garbage can with "Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World". The sinus-clearing album of all time.