Every so often aliens would ask me something of music on earth.

"Sparticus," they would say.

"Far and wide we have traveled across space and indeed time. We have heard the moving megaphones of Mercury, the sultry sounds of Saturn and the undulating ubervesence of Uranus. Give us now something from earth that we may speak with reverence of your blue planet. Give us but one CD, one album, one groov-ed disc, one Mp3 folder from your laptop if you must, give unto us the best and verily you will be ever after known as the man who sold the world."

"Aliens," I would say.

"But one I cannot give. You must take with you five. They shall be called Bleach, Nevermind, Incesticide, In Utero and Unplugged in New York. Upon the taking of five only will you know you're right."

"Sparticus," they would say unto me.

"We have but room for one. For one we have but room. No more room do we have but for one only."

"Aliens," I would say.

"Better you go with Nevermind than an empty hand. But know what you have missed and know that it is good."

"Sparticus," they would say verily.

"We will take this Nevermind and we will know it is good, but we will know there is other good. When we return we will take another unto us."

And they would leave. And there would be gnashing of teeth and pennyroyal tea for all for we could not give them Heart Shaped Box. We could not give them Rape Me. We could not give them Dumb. We could not give them Love Buzz and we could not give them Where did you sleep last night. Given unto them we had Smells Like Teen Spirit. Given unto them we had Come as You Are and given unto them we had Underneath the Bridge, but it was not enough.

We needed a compilation. Oh the Wishkah's banks were as muddy as the Jordan's, but they were not true. We needed not a live compilation, but a studio compilation with unmatched fidelity. We needed a greatest hits when we could take not five which we could put into our cars and our trains and our plane flights. Into our walkmans, our stereos, our boxes of boom, our computers, and thus unto the CD racks of our souls.

Our saviour has been born.

It's black on the front with a silver shiny NIRVANA logo and on the back cover is a picture of a man in a cardigan and torn jeans and he is playing a left handed guitar.

It's perhaps against the rules to officially announce the best album of the year in November and it's perhaps against the rules to announce the best album of the year is a best of. It is perhaps against the rules to give an album six stars, but less worthy hotels have been doing it for some time now.

Music does not get any better than this. Yes there is other music that is perhaps just as good, but there is nothing on the shelf above it.

Enough essays have been written about Nirvana's effect on popular culture in the 1990's and it seems their illegitimate musical offspring are finally, inevitably, angsting their way into the charts. But like a fine single mash sour malt bourbon whiskey, there can be no imitations. Grunge was about more than just Nirvana but Nirvana were about far more than just grunge. This is the album you take one a desert island. This is the album you play for aliens to show them what music is like on earth. This is the album you play at full volume and don't give a fuck what the neighbours think.

Hearing the newly released You know you're right on the radio is a goose bump inducing reminder of just what we've been missing for the last eight years.

What else should I write? I don't have the right...

Our grunge father art in heaven.
Hallowed be Cobain.