One thing I have learned over the decades is that there is just no way to predict or account for personal taste in music. You either get it or you don't--or somewhere in between. That can even vary among albums by the same artist. For instance, I adore the Grateful Dead's "American Beauty," but I cannot make it all the way through a single one of their 10,000 concert albums to save my life, nor do I care about a great many of their other studio albums. But "American Beauty" has been ringing my bell for thirty years or more.
My wife loves Dave Matthews, but to me he's as boring as a bowl of warm milk. I love Ornette Coleman, but his music sends her screaming out of the room. And so it goes.
I love Big Star with all of my heart, but their music is, well, stranger than most of the Beatles catalog, and Alex Chilton has that tremulous voice that does not exactly translate easily to pop the way John Lennon's or Paul McCartney's do. In that sense, maybe they are an acquired taste for some. It knocked me right out from the start, but I get that they may not be for everyone.
Radio City will always be a deserted island album for me, and the other two are not far behind.