Jane’s Addiction
– Ritual de lo Habitual
Crashing through the gates with a snarl and a painted grin, Ritual de lo Habitual is a mural scrawled across the cracked stucco of late-’80s excess and early-’90s collapse. It’s Perry Farrell’s wild sermon on life, loss, sex, and spectacle, slathered in Dave Navarro’s molten guitar and steered by a rhythm section that lurches like a busted carnival ride. There’s no attempt to tidy up the chaos. That is the point. The sound is raw, vivid, loud—and it never once apologizes.
Best of…
Side A (metaphorically speaking, if you grew up flipping vinyl) slams into you with sleazy bravado. These tracks strut and twitch, bouncing between punk tantrums and funk-driven breakdowns like they’re trying to outrun sobriety. Then the album flips, and suddenly you’re in the thick of Side B’s more sprawling, grief-soaked soundscapes. It’s less a comedown than a wake, full of incense, spiraling solos, and broken prayers.
The genius of Ritual is in its imbalance. One half screams, the other mourns. Together, they feel like two sides of the same cracked mirror. Farrell isn’t trying to make sense of anything—he’s just reflecting the mess, the ecstasy, the emptiness. And Navarro’s guitar never flinches, even when it feels like the whole damn thing might fall apart at any second.
Choice Tracks
Stop!
Absolutely on the album. This opener doesn’t wait. It pounces. Navarro’s guitar tears through the speakers, and Farrell jumps in like a preacher wired on amphetamines. The shifts in tempo hit like whiplash. You’re either along for the ride or you’re left in the dust.
Ain’t No Right
This one doesn’t groove—it jackhammers. A declaration of radical freedom that sounds like it was shouted from a cracked rooftop in downtown L.A. The rhythm section punches and jitters while Farrell rants with just enough melody to keep it musical.
Three Days
Clocking in at over ten minutes, this is the emotional and sonic centerpiece of the album. It’s a slow-build cathedral to lust and loss, featuring Navarro’s most transcendent playing and Farrell’s most haunted performance. The entire band stretches and breathes here, sounding both massive and intimate.
Then She Did…
Elegiac, ghosted by memory. Written in tribute to Farrell’s mother and a lost love, it pulls back the curtain to reveal a man stunned by absence. Navarro’s guitar bleeds melancholy. It’s not sad for show—it hurts.
Classic Girl
A fragile, oddly sweet closer that lets the smoke settle. There’s real affection here, without cynicism or irony. It’s Farrell letting his guard down long enough to remind us there’s still a beating heart underneath all the chaos.
Ritual de lo Habitual lives at the crossroads of rage and reverence. It’s filthy, beautiful, and completely unhinged. An album that parties with death, makes art out of wreckage, and somehow leaves you feeling cleaner for having survived it.