Most end-of-year “Best Of” lists are a huge waste of time.

If we’re talking art — or even pop-culture product — I don’t buy that a few months or even weeks are enough time to gauge the true impact of an artist and his/her work. Still, I watch the Oscars and the Grammys, mostly expecting free entertainment rather than cultural significance.

Also, I loathe the “Most Popular” lists that just rehash sales figures. Although those can be interesting like a car crash can be interesting, I find them mostly sad, depressing, sobering commentaries on exactly where American culture isn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to enforce a rigid aesthetic view, I just think my cultural product should have at least some intelligence behind it.

This end-of-decade business is a little better. There’s enough time gone by for trends and influences to take form more clearly, and even if the handwriting isn’t fully on the wall, at least there’s some fairly clear scribbling up for view.

It was with this in mind that I sat down with Rolling Stone’s “100 Best Albums of the Decade” — not the least because I actually was sitting with a copy of Rolling Stone after many, many, many years away (something to do with relevance).

It’s an interesting take on things. I’m sure their “Best” decisions involved a lot of internal argument and bruised feelings, but hey, they gotta do something to earn their pay.

The list also reminded me of what musician/producer/genius Brian Eno famously said about the Velvet Underground: that while few people actually bought their albums, everyone who did went out and started a band.

I was in a band for four/five years back in the ’90s — don’t waste your time asking, nearly all of our recorded material sucks, and we were held together by a commonality of emotional issues. That, and we changed our names pretty much with the seasons, so building a following was beside the point.

What brought us together was, really, one thing: Nirvana. They dropped an album that was the sonic and cultural equivalent of Fat Man, coming in just as unexpectedly and leveling all the Potemkin-Village music industry creations, and leaving behind what many of us believed was a new world just waiting to be built up. But the Nirvana analogy seems a little too trendy and recent, so I’m going with Velvet Underground on this one.

What’s the criteria for my list? Eh, mostly an instinct as to who’s doing work that makes people start bands or — for people already in bands — gives them enough reason to explore different directions.

Is this list complete? Hell no. I’m adding at least a second part. Is it fair? Nope. Could you do better? Probably.

“They were such a huge early influence on me…”

Radiohead: These Oxfordians showed you could rock out HARD, stay intelligent, and not devolve into some dickhead stereotype. Plus, you can rock out while completely de-emphasizing guitars. Quite the trick for a rock band. And tell me no song on “Kid A” gave you goosebumps. Liar.

Jack White (and all his incarnations): Because he loves and lives the blues, and can make better, more interesting music with a battered guitar, three days and $16 than some people can with $16 million and 14 years.

Jay-Z: Because he can do it all, and does. And he’s managed to hold on to huge success without going insane from drugs/booze or get himself shot. And he can make careers, which is a big deal.

Beck: This one would seem obvious, in terms of starting low-fi and moving on to huge artistic and commercial success, again without burying himself in groupies or releasing a crappy self-indulgent concept album.

Amy Winehouse: Because even though she’s done a great job of destroying herself, she cleared the path for real crooners to get out and croon again. And “Back to Black” will always be a heartbreaking album. Deal with it.

To be continued…