Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg's books don't do him justice. In order to tap into the full power of his long, Whitman-esque lines, one needs to hear them read aloud. The centerpiece here is the 21-minute version of "Howl," where Ginsberg stacks tales of desperate proto-hipsters and "concrete voids" one atop another in a turgid monotone both sad and godly. When, at around the 17-minute mark, his voice fractures into electrified echoes, you're not sure whether his microphone is on the fritz or if he's become inhabited by a divine, maddening spirit. Call it "a hopeful bit of hallucination," but we'll pick the latter.