Some will argue for the rawer early albums with Paul Di’Anno, but really the true Iron Maiden — the Iron Maiden that conquered the planet — is the Bruce Dickinson version. And Powerslave is the pinnacle of Dickinson Maiden’s imperial phase. Every flavour of boys’ own adventure — fighter pilots spiralling to their demise, ancient Egyptian spirits trapped in limbo, Coleridge’s cursed Ancient Mariner and on — are spun into preposterous riff mania, with twin-lead guitar melodies writhing around them like technicolour lightning. There’s no punkiness, no blues, and very little darkness here, just an electrifying urge to stimulate every synapse all at once, and for all its silliness it is the most spectacular fun imaginable.