Some chose albums by classic rockers (Elton John, Stephen Stills, The Cars). Others selected jazz artists (Miles Davis, Sonny Rollins, Alice Coltrane). Still others opted for hard rock or metal bands (Motörhead, Dio, Iron Maiden). But all the music critics featured in “Marooned: The Next Generation of Desert Island Discs” chose albums that they consider crucial to their peace of mind.

The book poses a simple question: If you found yourself stranded on a desert island and could only listen to one album, what album would you choose, and why? For true music enthusiasts, this is not a question to take lightly. Any serious listener can tell you how important albums are to a music fan’s development as a human being. Most could tell you how a specific album helped them get through the seventh grade, or how particular artists expanded their views of the world around them. Even in the iPod age, serious listeners always return to full-length albums for musical inspiration.

In “Marooned,” a total of 20 critics detail their selections, most with highly personal stories of how they became aware of the albums and how they changed their lives. Some of the selections are household classics from the 1970s, others are obscure discs from the 1990s. But, whether you’re familiar with the artist or not, the write-ups are a blast to read.

Many of the selections read more like short stories than CD reviews. Take Laina Dawes, for instance. A black woman who came of age on the music scene in Toronto in the early 1990s, she did not fit in with the other grunge and metal fans with whom she shared the mosh pit. Most metal-heads were unaccustomed to seeing fellow fans who were black or female, let alone both—and this black female had a shaved head, a nose ring and tattoos. In the book, Dawes describes what it was like to grow up feeling like an outsider, rendered voiceless by the constantly reinforced belief that she was an anomaly.

“For all the times I cried in silence so my parents couldn’t hear, I wondered what it would be like to scream, to shout in outrage and anger,” Dawes writes. “There was no one in my life at that time who could fully understand my feelings of being hated over physical features beyond my control, and of not being able to do what I wanted in a society where I was expected to be quiet and simply obey orders.”

All that changed when Dawes laid her eyes on Skin, front woman of ’90s metal band Skunk Anansie. Like Dawes, Skin was black, bald and pissed off. Unlike Dawes, she put herself onstage and wailed passionately into a microphone, driving her voice into the ears of audiences like a Mac truck driving into a nitroglycerine tank. Dawes’ love of Skunk Anansie’s second album, “Stoosh,” reflects not only her deep appreciation of the music itself, but how the band’s dynamic lead singer positively altered her perception of herself and her place in the world.   

“Marooned” is essentially an updated installment of “Stranded,” which posed the same question to music critics in 1996. Greil Marcus, editor of “Stranded,” provides a forward to the newer book, introducing the desert island concept as a metaphor that forces critics to put themselves in a place where their only companionship comes in the form of a beloved album. “Marooned” editor Phil Freeman, who previously authored a book about the electric years of Miles Davis, then takes over with his own introduction before diving into his personal selection, Motörhead’s “No Remorse.”

Other selections include Stereolab’s “Transient Random Noise Bursts with Accompaniment,” My Bloody Valentine’s “Loveless,” Scorpions’ “Virgin Killers” and The Meters’ self-titled album. The authors are editors, music writers and biographers with varying areas of musical expertise.

Whether or not “Marooned” accurately reflects the state of popular music in the 21st century—or pop music criticism—is questionable. In his introduction, Freeman makes a rather flimsy argument that the selections in “Stranded” are now outdated and irrelevant, while “Marooned” brings us up to speed on current trends. “Stranded is no longer anything like an accurate representation of the pop music universe,” he writes, noting that artists like Van Morrison, the Ronettes and New York Dolls are “more frequently mentioned in passing than played for pleasure.” Despite this claim, it is probably a safe bet that more people currently listen to Van Morrison for pleasure than Dio, Motörhead or Iron Maiden.

Freeman also makes this claim in the introduction: “I gotta be honest and say that I don’t personally know a single person who listens to a lot of the Stranded artists with any kind of regularity.” Those artists include The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, The Eagles, The Kinks and Jackson Browne, each of whom are still played on classic rock radio stations about 90 billion times a day. Freeman might want to ask himself how many people regularly listen to artists like Skunk Anansie, John Martyn and Brand Nubian, all included on “Marooned.” 

The fact is, very few of the contributors featured in “Stranded” or “Marooned” selected newer albums that reflect the current musical atmosphere. To argue that Elton John and The Cars (both included on “Marooned”) are more or less relevant to present day pop culture than The Ramones and The Velvet Underground (both featured in “Stranded”) seems somewhat silly. It is the diversity of selections in both books that makes them so much fun. Each selection tells readers more about its author than about pop music culture, and the passion exhibited in the telling is what keeps things interesting.

The albums on “Marooned,” like those on its predecessor, span at least four decades. The fact that five different “Marooned” writers chose heavy metal albums for their desert island discs may reflect the choices Freeman made as editor, since he personally has “been listening primarily to metal for almost the last twenty-five years.” An accurate representation of popular modern music would probably include more hip-hop records and fewer metal discs, but reading about the critics’ love for ’80s metal bands was a lot of fun.

Regardless of whether “Marooned” gives us any important insight into modern music, it is a great read for any diehard music fan. Even if you personally despise the album being described, it’s fascinating to read along while some of today’s top critics eloquently describe the deep connection they feel to the music they love. Think of your own favorite album and you’ll probably be able to relate. 

If you were stuck on a desert island and could only listen to one album for the remainder of your natural life, what would it be? You don’t have an iPod. No MP3 player. All you have is a stereo made from coconut shells and palm fronds, and a single record of your choosing. The Wire asked an assortment of local musicians, critics and fans to select their own desert island albums. The results just might shock you—or at least fascinate you to some degree. You won’t see any of the obvious choices, like Floyd’s “Dark Side” or GNR’s “Appetite” or MJ’s “Thriller.” What you will see is a diverse spread of great, meaningful albums. Here are the selections in the order they were received:

“Swordfishtrombone,” by Tom Waits. While it was difficult to pick just one from his dozens of albums, the song “16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six” sold me. The pounding beat and howling vocals would be enough to scare away any hungry animals hiding in the bushes. Actually, if I could be stranded with any one person, I’d want it to be Tom Waits. He’s leathery, scrappy and frightening. He could wrestle boars, climb trees for coconuts. He probably wouldn’t make for good eating, however. Pork pie hats are tough to chew. —Liberty Hardy, The Wire contributor

U2’s “The Joshua Tree” is just too damn good to ignore. There are few songs in this world that can send chills up my spine, and, on a desert island, cooling off would surely be a top priority. Songs like “Where the Streets Have No Name” and “Running To Stand Still” would probably keep me alive even without food and water, provided I had a huge surround-sound stereo system to blast them through. Plus, the Edge is basically amazing—not really much of a soloist, but so totally solid that he sounds like five guitarists in one. I’d definitely be getting my album’s worth, too, because the only song I’d consider skipping would be “Bullet the Blue Sky,” and, depending on how long I’m stuck out there, I might even come to appreciate that. —Gage Norris, of The Vegas Report

“In a Silent Way,” by Miles Davis. It was hard not to choose this album’s successor, “Bitches Brew,” which blew holes in the jazz world in 1970. But “Brew” was one of the selections in the book “Marooned,” and I don’t want to be a repeater. Besides, 1969’s “In a Silent Way” has all the ingredients I need for a thoroughly pleasant life in island solitude. With a stellar musical entourage that included keys legends Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and Joe Zawinul, as well as guitarist John McLaughlin, drummer Tony Williams, saxophonist Wayne Shorter, bassist Dave Holland and, of course, Miles on trumpet, this album produces a delightfully hypnotic sea breeze of sound that never gets boring, no matter how many times you listen. —Matt Kanner, The Wire staff writer

If I were stranded on a desert island—which I wouldn’t be, as I avoid desert islands like the plague—but theoretically, I might wish for Mozart or Chopin. Mozart would make me smarter as I lay beneath my coconut tree beside my hand-cranked record player. Chopin would soothe me to sleep. If, on the other hand, I wanted something more contemporary, something with lyrics, I’d choose Bjork’s “Vespertine.” That way, I’d remember the exquisite thrill of falling into true love—something I’d never, even in unending solitude, want to forget. —Elizabeth Antalek, of Foxlove

“Close to the Edge,” by Yes. This has probably been my favorite record since I was nine years old. I’ve played it hundreds of times but still hear new things every time I listen. It’s an emotional album for me. Musically, it’s an incredible piece of work, but it’s the feeling of it that always gets me. It really transports me to another place. And, after hearing Chris Squire play bass, I had to try it myself. —Tim Webb, bassist for Equal Time and co-founder of Avant Coast

For me, this is a tough one, having to choose between two recordings that are very special to me: John Coltrane’s “Blue Train” and Stevie Wonder’s “Innervisions.” In the end, I would choose the Wonder recording simply because, if I were alone on a deserted island, I would want a disc that has the sound of another human voice, along with some great, timeless music. —Alan Chase, musician and Jazz Universe columnist

There are so many albums I’d like to give a nod to, but I’ll tip my hat to Rustic Overtones’ “Viva Nueva.” That band is so original, innovative, and powerful, and the album is representative of what they could do with money behind them. It shares a common trait with all my favorite albums—every time you listen to it, you can find something new and exciting. Also, surely, desert island living will get depressing, and this album is a huge “upper.” Dig the David Bowie, Imogen Heap and Funk Master Flex cameos, as well. —Joseph K. Murphy of Murkadee

Without a doubt or hesitation, The Band’s self-titled album. This 1969 record helped me push through many a trying day, so I imagine it would help on a desert island. —Brian Michael Roff, of The Underpainting

My choice, after much reflection, is Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue.” When I first listened to this album back in 1980, it was one of those rare moments in which you hear something completely new, yet it feels as if you have known it your whole life. I was completely transfixed. The amazing thing is that, 27 years later, I still get something of that sense every time I listen to it. What could be better than Miles, John Coltrane, Bill Evans and the rest creating perfectly crafted, yet completely spontaneous improvisations—pure genius. I guess if I haven’t tired of it by now, it would serve me well if ever marooned. —Keith Sabella, The Wire contributor

I would probably choose Townes Van Zandt, “Live at the Old Quarter, Houston, Texas.” I’ve never heard an album that makes me feel lonelier, and since I’d be marooned on a desert island, the theme of loneliness seems appropriate. I read somewhere that singing the blues is supposed to make you feel happy. Maybe listening to this album would make me feel as if I were surrounded by other people on my desert island. —Patrick Law, The Wire staff writer

“Everybody Knows This is Nowhere,” by Neil Young. With songs like “Cinnamon Girl,” “Everybody Knows This is Nowhere,” “Down by the River,” and “Cowgirl in the Sand,” how can you go wrong?  This album is full of classic tunes, and it has the perfect title for a desert island disc ... no? —Chris Hislop, managing partner at The Stone Church

“Smiley Smile,” by The Beach Boys. It’s just perfect. All in one song, it can be fun, sad, exciting, ridiculous, artistic and completely strange. The lyrics are absurd, and it’s just all around what I enjoy from music. Songs like “She’s Going Bald” make you laugh, but, in a way, make you realize that getting old really is that way. Songs like “Wind Chimes” make you feel like you’re melting. It’s got the old-time favorite “Good Vibrations,” as well. This record has been by my side since I was a pimply teenager, and will remain there until I’m an old man with a hunchback and a bad wheeze. —Andrew Tomasello, of Eat Cloud and Glass Cloud