What can I say, this was a great year for new music. And thanks to the magic of streaming music services (Rdio being my drug of choice there), I was pretty thorough on checking out new releases.
Please feel free to drop a comment below with your top albums.
-Pete
-Pete
*****
20. Frankie Rose - "Interstellar"
Frankie Rose strikes a cosmic tone in the very first minute of Interstellar, cooing about her travels moving swiftly on the interstellar highway. It's hard not to find yourself immediately sucked into her universe, but her soft, blank gaze through the hatch of her starship doesn't tip off the fact that she's got her finger on the warp button. There's no prime directive here - Rose very much sounds like she's composing and recording in a very big room. That's a good thing and a bad thing. While the record meanders quite a bit, it doesn't seem to suffer from it. At the same time, there are definite loose ends and thematic explorations that don't tie together or lead anywhere - she's definitely seeing what's out there. Rose takes major cues from legends like The Cure and Devo, and frequently dips a toe in the pool of some pretty well-established and more modern ethereal dream pop giants like M83 and Beach House, but she's at her best when you get the feeling she's been reading too much Carl Sagan. "Pair of Wings" feels a bit trite at the offset but when it gets going you can't help but get swept up in its utter gorgeousness - it's one of those rare songs that leaves you feeling totally afloat. "Had We Had It" boasts an infectious rhythm section and shows a ton of promise, even if it feels still a bit unrealized. But the album's last song, "The Fall," is also probably it's best. In it, Rose's angelic purring echoes effortlessly over warm cello and a simple driving chord. In case you were looking for a soundtrack for your 24 hour time-lapse video of the Earth from outer space, this would be my recommendation. Overall, Interstellar is a record that is less impressive than it is infectious, but that infectiousness takes many forms from different points of inspiration, and it remains interesting and infinitely hummable.
*****
Michael Render is like a grown-ass man with a degree in Hard Knocks from the University of Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik in sunny, beautiful Atlanta (inconveniently located between a bunch of projects where MARTA doesn't run). Render sounds like southern fried Ice Cube, and he's not flippant about the fact that he usually isn't having a good day. Above all else, he keeps it real. You're not going to find him name-checking brands or clubs or boasting about flicking off throngs of anonymous females who just won't leave him alone. Render raps about being stuck in the game, stuck in the hood, the victim of a casual systematic discrimination that confounds and enraging him. And he's not afraid to be eloquent about it, either, as he rather impressively takes down THE conservative demigod in incredibly impressive fashion with "Reagan." If you're looking for a straight up overview of the domino effect his policies had on the urban community - from the war on drugs to the prison industrial complex - look no further. Render even closes the book on this track with "I'll leave you with a word, I'm glad Reagan's dead" before the metaphorical mic drop. On the title track - one of the most infectious bangers of 2012 - he says "I've never really had a religious experience in a religious place, the closest I've ever come is listening to rap music. Rap music is my religion, Amen." It's the defiant defense of rap-as-church that 90% of rappers can't seem to pull off with conviction, let alone this type of vivid coherence. Taken straight up it may not read like sheet music for social justice, but that's exactly what this record is when you read between the lines.
*****
Recently, a friend/former co-worker accurately pegged me as "not doom of any kind," which is totally fair. I've generally got a sunny disposition and I like to consider myself an enthusiast...the kind of guy who gravitates towards the silver lining. But I also have a deep level of curiosity for all things, and I read way too much about doom itself (typically in the form of climate change). One of the main reasons I love this record is because it's what I imagine will be playing as our ancestors stand before the flaming hellscape that is planet Earth in 100 years (seriously, listen to "The Legend" and tell me it's not just the perfect soundtrack for surveying totally epic decimation of any kind). The science doesn't look good and if current worst-case-scenarios play out we're looking at up to 11 degrees (Celcius!) of global temperature rise, which doesn't sound too hospitable. Anyway, Pallbearer are just four dudes from Little Rock who play some crazy sludgy atmospheric SPACE DOOM while probably not thinking about the melting polar ice caps quite as much as I do. However, if you're writing an epic sci-fi novel about colonizing a strange planet or a thesis on the destructive power of black holes, it might be a good bet to make Sorrow and Extinction your soundtrack. Quick side note: I may not be Doom-y, but I spent my formative years listening to some pretty solid thrashy metal (Metallica, Testament, Iron Maiden, Anthrax, you name it). Ozzy comparisons are overused - even a non-practicing former tweenage metalhead like me knows that - but it really is uncanny here. This dude doesn't growl or garble or shout, he WAILS just like Ozzy in his hey.
*****
I love Grizzly Bear. A lot. And there's proof! Three of my most listened to albums of the six and a half years (according to my Last.fm, which doesn't lie about such things) are Yellow House, Veckatimest and Horn of Plenty, Grizzly Bear's first three records. I've been huge on these dudes since 2006, and nothing changes on that front with Shields. It has every element I've come to expect from and love about a Grizzly Bear record, from the slow, hesitant build to the delicate flourishes to the gorgeous shattering crystal crescendos that play like an epiphany. The thing is, Shields doesn't surprise me much, and although that isn't a quality I thought I valued quite so highly, it somehow applies for me here. So, is it better than a lot of the records that I somehow find a way to like more in 2012? Absolutely. It just isn't quite the rough-around-the-edges, living, breathing thing that Yellow House was for me (FYI, also one of my favorite albums of the last decade) or the wow-they-really-turned-it-up-a-coupla notches-on-the-drama/arrangements thing that Veckatimest was either. Shields is really quite good and I'm probably being a bit unfair, but my expectations really set quite a bear trap this time. When the album does swirl and splinter into unchartered territory - like the angular assaulting riffage at on the end of "Yet Again" - it seems to drive itself off a cliff and into the ocean as if we somehow need mercy. After dissecting Daniel Rossen's stellar solo EP earlier this year, you get the feeling that maybe his experimental George Harrison tribute alter ego would be a nice injection into the GB arsenal. Ironically, some of Shields' finer moments are also its least polished. "The Hunt" isn't exactly the kind of song you'll be humming to yourself later but it has a sticking quality in Ed Droste's vocal work, some of his rawest since Horn of Plenty (which was essentially an album he recorded in his bedroom). The biggest letdown for me is how the strength of Shields' first two singles (the aforementioned "Yet Again" and the stellar "Sleeping Ute") - far outpaces the rest of the record. Is this band worthy of your undying adulation? Absolutely. But the expectation that they're going to constantly challenge you like Radiohead does (while admittedly being a totally unfair expectation) still reads as a downer to this superfan.
*****
Perhaps its my own personal failing with the genre, but I feel like there hasn't been a compelling, raw new band in the Americana/alt-country vein that has seemed remotely interesting to me in probably five to ten years. No disrespect to the likes of The Avett Brothers and Mumford and Sons, but they've always struck me like a more indie version of country pop or too Death Cab for Cutie with mandolins-ish for my tastes. And my boredom with the genre isn't historic - I couldn't get enough twang in the late 90s and early 2000s (not coincidentally overlapping with the fact that I lived in South Carolina for a few of those years). First Aid Kit successfully ended my boredom, and The Lion's Roar is a stunningly beautiful statement of intent from - get this - two Swedish sisters. Nothing about this record seems Scandanavian, but it doesn't really even matter. "Emmylou" rightly channels legendary loves/duet partners like Gram and Emmylou, Johnny and June. It's one of the finest and most beautiful songs in this year or any recent year. Frankly, it warms my heart that these girls are wringing inspiration from such unbelievably worthy sources. Gram Parsons, in particular, is one of the most criminally overlooked musicians who ever lived, but dying way ahead of your time has a weird way of killing your legacy before it has a chance to start. Parsons, who is basically single-handedly responsible for any twang the Rolling Stones displayed in the early 70s, expired at the tender age of 26 - just a few months shy of making it to the 27 club - from an overdose of morphine and alcohol in Joshua Tree. The storytelling element is strong throughout, particularly on "Blue," one of the simplest and best songs on the record which tells of a girl who gives up on love after losing the love of her life in a car accident at the young age of 22. It's sad and beautiful - a combination that typically irks me (most songs that strive to be sad and beautiful just come off like someone's swimming laps in the shallow end of the pool). Not here. They're not asking you to pity this character, just presenting her to you. The Lion's Roar is a series of snapshots into people's lives, and the sun-drenched photo on the cover is a tell that these sister protagonists are profiling diner patrons from behind plates of hashbrowns and cups of sludgy coffee in the Cosmic American diners of the lonely, beautiful southwest. I'd like to think that if Gram and Emmylou had daughters, this is what they would've looked, dressed and sounded like. Maybe their next record will be about the magic of LA? It would certainly be appropriate.
*****
You can't point to a inspiring story in the music industry this year than the rise of Ben Haggerty AKA Macklemore. Not only is this recovering drug addict/alcoholic more fiercely positive than anyone else in the game, but he's an entirely self made man. Macklemore blazed his own path, rising to #1 on iTunes with an infectious debut album that is not even close to being your typical hip hop record, The Heist is a potent mishmash of anthems that preach on rising above obstacles ("Can't Hold Us"), staying true to your roots ("Make the Money") and learning how to party ("Thrift Shop") without alcohol ("Neon Cathedral"). It's an uplifting album from a guy with an even more uplifting story, and Macklemore fittingly places struggle as the centerpiece of The Heist. The gem of the album, "Same Love," manages to to be the most (only?) beautiful, honest and direct affirmation of marriage equality yet to come out of the hip hop world and, yes, preaches positivity and progress even in the face of what can sometimes feel like insurmountable roadblocks. At the same time he doesn't let the rap game off the hook, lumping homophobia-peddling emcees in with conservative Republicans and bible thumpers (ouch). Because at the end of the day isn't hate speak one and the same? Kudos to Mary Lambert - one from a cast of impressive yet unknown players to appear on the record - for one of the most stunningly beautiful hooks of any ballad this year. "No freedom til we're equal - damn right I support it," Macklemore declares. It amounts to the kind of message nobody would dare try to step on. The record is at times an affirmation, a confession and an exultation of joy. You can almost imagine Macklemore decked out in a matted and stained fur coat drinking ginger ale out of a thrifted goblet with "Make the $, don't let the $ make you" written across it in sharpie listening to Frank Sinatra's "My Way" with a satisfied grin. I'm not a betting man, but if you cut Ben Haggerty open, I'd be willing to bet his blood type is B positive.
*****
It's 1989 in New York City, and the Ghostbusters have just ridden the statue of liberty to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to save a baby from the clutches of an evil spirit named Vigo who lived inside a painting there. Vigo's hobbies include baby snatching (obviously), hypnosis and crafting his own high quality armor. His biggest pet peeve is groups of singing people. Long story short, Vigo is vanquished by the Ghostbusters, sentenced to eternity in the ghost storage facility and added to the the U.S. database of registered sex offenders. A victory parade is planned, but Bobby Brown is on tour and unavailable on such short notice. Ray Parker Jr. played the last one, so that's off the table (come on!). Who you gonna call? Adan Bainbridge AKA Kindness. World, You Need a Change of Mind taps into a seriously spectral groove, but the beats are weighty and Bainbridge's airy vocals seem to hover. The absolutely gorgeous take on The Replacements' classic "Swingin' Party" sounds like it was designed to bridge the deep and bitter divide between punks and disco kids who have died and crossed over to the afterlife - "if bein' afraid is a crime, we hang side by side at the swingin' party down the line" - there is unity at the end of the line. With apologies to Westerberg and Stintson, who in their day probably would've thought this version an abomination, it's practically perfect. Granted, sometimes Bainbridge gives these songs a little too much room to breathe ("Gee Wiz" being a good example of this), but overall the record really seems to be stuck on the power of the groove - be it disco (the aforementioned "Swingin' Party") down tempo (the ridiculously beautiful "House"), or funk ("That's Alright," which sounds like "Walk the Dinosaur"-era Was (Not Was) teaming up with Bel Biv DeVoe for a song that appeared on 21 Jump Street...but really good). You can almost feel the springy loose bass strings reverberate on some of these songs - aspiring slap bassists, your moment has arrived! With apologies once again to Westerberg and Stintson, the highlight of the record is "Cyan," which features a seriously filthy funk groove ripped from the Gibb catalog ("Stayin' Alive," anyone? In case you doubt the influence, watch the video for this song). It's the perfect song for a hazy, unplanned summer night walk upon finding the door to the roof of your apartment building locked just when you needed some fresh air the most. "We dream by accident," Bainbridge muses, his heart ticking on although his mind has gone. This kind of cathartic clarity is why seemingly normal people (if occasionally a bit distressed) go out for walks at night. World, You Need a Change of Mind looks like a Benneton ad and smells like CK1 after you've had a hot day to sweat through it, which is to say it's stylish and appealing, with a ruffled charm that's fun enough to make you embrace its flaws as welcomed them as quirks.
*****
Alanis Morissette probably finds it ironic that grunge basically died with the triumphant return of irony itself. Well, she would, if she understood what the word meant (have you listened to "Ironic" lately?). Not saying the two are directly related, but teen angst has evolved over the years, to say the least. Many would argue that Nirvana's "Nevermind" is the penultimate expression of it. Cloud Nothings' Dylan Baldi is most likely one of those people. And traditionally I've found just about every artist or band influenced by Nirvana to be very hard to stomach, because the Cobanian sentiment is maddening and confusing and frustrating to adult ears. Just what the hell does that guy have to be so pissed about? There's a good reason you can't usually purchase a subscription to something that lasts longer than two years - shit changes. It's the nature of the beast. Ask Roger Daltrey how that whole "hope I die before I get old" thing worked out for him. We all know that if 1972 Daltrey knew that 2012 Daltrey would be gallivanting around on a stage with an "oops my shirt is open" attitude for a hurricane relief tribute concert in 40 years time, he'd probably be horrified. But every generation feels the same way at that age, and you can change the way you express yourself at any given time just because you might grow past that feeling someday. Anyway, my point is that Cloud Nothings tap into the burning angst thing really, really well. Because, you see, they're like 20 years old. So on the one hand older people (like me) will roll their eyes when Baldi's screams of "I thought I would be more than this" on the epic 9 minute long "Wasted Days" get increasingly anguished (think Cobain at the end of "Territorial Pissings," only he cuts it out before actually tearing his vocal chords to shreds). It's like, dude, you're TWENTY. But then that voice in the back of your head slaps your inner wise sage and reminds it just how fucked up everything felt at the tail end of those teenage years. The album's gem, "No Sentiment," is an anti-nostalgia scribe that booms over Baldi's guitar-trapped-in-a-blender and a booming rhythm section. "We started a war / attack on memory / no easy way out / forget everything / no nostalgia / no sentiment / we're over it then / and were over it then." It's not a song about feeling useless, it's a song about being useless. Baldi's angst isn't rooted in feelings. It's rooted in doings. And that's what separates Cobain-worshipping grunge pretenders from punks with a penchant for melody. Baldi is in the latter camp, and although Attack on Memory is far from perfect with good songs outnumbering great ones, the record's best moments shine bright like a diamond. Yup, I just went there knowing full well that Dylan Baldi would probably hate that I just used a Rihanna lyric to describe his album. But I'm just expressing myself the only way old guys know how in the face of enviable artistic angst: irony-drenched snark.
*****
Melody Prochet seems like the kind of girl who struggled with her first name throughout middle and high school. Because with a voice like that - so clean and perfect - of course she would be named melody. It's the kind of thing that causes perfectly normal kids to stop washing their hair and grow dreadlocks (more like one long gross dreadlock, am I right?). Thankfully, Prochet found a better and more productive outlet for her creative angst. She embraced her inner psychrock destructor and called Kevin Parker, the brains/brawn behind behind the future biggest band on the planet, Tame Impala. Thank God Parker is prolific enough to produce music beyond his own, because his kaleidoscopic acid-washed hooks are infectious enough to make 95% of the rock world seem boring, stodgy and formulaic. Melody's Echo Chamber works perfectly - call it Dame Impala - and if there aren't direct flights paths from Paris to Perth, this record establishes that route as legit. If Prochet was sick of being a twee modern version of Bardot, Parker is the perfect antidote. It's not that she was doing her thing in the wrong era, maybe just on the wrong side of the industry - Melody's Echo Chamber is like Bardot sitting in on the garages of every 'Nuggets' era psych band imaginable. It's a sound combination which, frankly, wouldn't be possible without Parker, and the record speaks volumes of his prowess as a producer. "Endless Shore" sounds like Broadcast if Pink Floyd's "Interstellar Overdrive" suddenly came crashing through the wall like the Kool Aid Man wearing swirling ray glasses (whatever you do, don't drink from him!). And "Crystallized" sounds like Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell (the Experience) repurposing some old studio scraps of Jimi Hendrix noodling in the studio on the new Stereolab record they've agreed to produce, then getting one-upping each other in a game to see who can turn the most knobs on the control panel. It's one of the most effortlessly enjoyable records of the year, and you're likely to find yourself coming back to it again and again. When Prochet decided to go solo (she was previously in a band fittingly called My Bee's Garden), she had the good sense to have Parker build around her unbelievable voice. If she was feeling pigeonholed in the world of twee, Melody's Echo Chamber blows the lid off that world. Is there anything wrong with "Snowcapped Andes Crash"? (Hint: No). Parker's production gives Prochet a sinister edge here in particularly, even recreating the sound of the crash itself with a series of low-level guitar blasts and enough reverb to cause a subsequent avalanche. You're left wondering who Prochet will eat first when the survivors inevitably inevitably turn to cannibalism. The lesson here is don't underestimate the twee. They may just come back to school next fall as a legit psychrock destructor.
*****
Reign of Terror is basically a remake of "Rock and Roll High School," From the onset of "True Shred Guitar," it's obvious that we're bearing witness to combination high school pep rally that's been hijacked by the skinny kid who's always wearing the too tight black metal t-shirts and that one cheerleader who dyes her hair black, smokes cigarettes under the bleachers and cuts a few extra inches off her miniskirt with a switchblade she brought from her dad's apartment. Instead of the football team emerging from a tunnel and busting through a wall of tissue paper, out comes songwriter/producer Derek Miller and an army of thrashers swirling their heads and whipping their long hair in a fury of guitars shooting cartoon lightning bolts. Meanwhile, Alexis Krauss is lighting one up while standing atop a human pyramid flipping the bird. If you've never been to a monster truck rally where the fog machines stood 20 feet tall and the show ended with Truckasaurus vaulting through a flaming hoop as fireworks blasted overhead, Reign of Terror is the next best thing. It's got all the ear-bleeding treble of Def Leppard's Hysteria (link is to the full album - try not to get sucked in!) and more Boss Round mojo than an 8-bit cover of Metallica's Ride the Lightning (ditto!). Everyone was really big on Treats but I found it to be a little too uneven for my own tastes (though "Rill Rill" was a perfect summer anthem - like driving to the beach in an exploding car). The follow-up is more well rounded while also tackling some heavier shit. "Leader of the Pack" reads like an ode from Miller to his father, who recently died in a motorcycle accident (how metal IS this family!), while "You Lost Me" - a power ballad by any measure of the phrase - centers around the infamous case of two teenage heavy metal fans who were allegedly driven to commit suicide by subliminal messages from Judas Priest records. So...metal with a message? Arguably the best song on the record, "Never Say Die," (with respect to "Demons" and "Crush" who could also claim that crown) has Krauss singing over a boss round riff and intense digital double kick drums that occasionally hit like landed power punches straight out of Double Dragon. And with a barrage like this, Shadow Boss and the Black Warriors don't stand a chance. Reign of Terror is one of the few albums this year that has the good sense to end in a fashion that leaves you wanting and expecting more, but what do you expect from a closing track titled "D.O.A."? So, cheerleader and metalhead team up, live fast, die young. It's got all the makings of a classic B movie with a spin off Nintendo game. Perhaps that was the plan all along. Either way, this is one helluva an infectious record \m/.
*****
10. Dirty Projectors - "Swing Lo Magellan"
My first encounter with 2009's absolutely incredible "Bitte Orca" was with its first single, "Stillness is the Move," which I still consider to be a bit meh. Needless to say I wasn't that impressed with the song so I didn't really dive into the full album until near the end of that year. Even at that point, I just thought it sounded pretty interesting. Lo and behold, my mind started to slowly envelop it like a python to its prey. Every time that record would breathe I would squeeze it tighter and tighter until I'd consumed it thoroughly. At this point I'd say it may very well be the best album of the past 5 years, so you might say my expectations for Swing Lo Magellan were pretty high. And initially I felt like it fell short. I listened to it way too much in the first few weeks after it was released and ultimately shelved it for other more immediately gratifying listens. Not to make, like, a wine reference here (oh God), but that's like opening a bottle of a really good wine, chugging it all, then being like "this isn't as good as I expected it to be but maybe I'm missing something" so you just keep opening bottles of and chugging them. No man, let it breathe. A WINE REFERENCE. I'm so sorry, really, it was the best metaphor I could come up with on the spot. The bottom line is that Dirty Projectors records don't really hit on the instant gratification scale. And that's maddening to some people (me at times, for sure). Here's the effect: Dave Longstreth writes weird songs that some people don't understand AND that other people try too hard to understand and study and talk about at parties like the day the album comes out. Both are equally maddening takes. That's what you get though, when you blend extremely unconventional song structures with an extremely unconventional singing style and totally bizarre lyrics that frequently sound like they came from a dude who fell asleep reading historical fiction novels while listening to Sun Ra's "Spaceship Lullaby" then woke up several times during the middle of the night to write down fragments of his crazed fever dreams. If you're not sure what that could possibly mean, listen to "Gun has no Trigger"...trust me. "About to Die" has Longstreath seemingly writing a crazed lovesick lullaby from the perspective of a jack-in-the-box to the box that protects him from the madness of the outside world. It's a brilliant song, and atypical of, well, there really is no such thing as a typical Dirty Projectors song, but they DO typically contain melodic guitars and harmonies which dissolve into schizophrenia crunchy string plucking, and that certainly happens here. And handclaps - always handclaps in there somewhere - as Longstreth dissolves into what sounds like a man angrily passing a kidney stone. I bet that seems like it would sound really terrible, right? Nope, it's endlessly interesting, unconventionally beautiful and with frequent bursts of unexpected blooming energy. Think of the most beautiful moment you ever had in what initially seemed like a really ugly place. What, a kiss in a parking lot? This is the band that soundtrack those scenes and those spaces after the scene ends.
My first encounter with 2009's absolutely incredible "Bitte Orca" was with its first single, "Stillness is the Move," which I still consider to be a bit meh. Needless to say I wasn't that impressed with the song so I didn't really dive into the full album until near the end of that year. Even at that point, I just thought it sounded pretty interesting. Lo and behold, my mind started to slowly envelop it like a python to its prey. Every time that record would breathe I would squeeze it tighter and tighter until I'd consumed it thoroughly. At this point I'd say it may very well be the best album of the past 5 years, so you might say my expectations for Swing Lo Magellan were pretty high. And initially I felt like it fell short. I listened to it way too much in the first few weeks after it was released and ultimately shelved it for other more immediately gratifying listens. Not to make, like, a wine reference here (oh God), but that's like opening a bottle of a really good wine, chugging it all, then being like "this isn't as good as I expected it to be but maybe I'm missing something" so you just keep opening bottles of and chugging them. No man, let it breathe. A WINE REFERENCE. I'm so sorry, really, it was the best metaphor I could come up with on the spot. The bottom line is that Dirty Projectors records don't really hit on the instant gratification scale. And that's maddening to some people (me at times, for sure). Here's the effect: Dave Longstreth writes weird songs that some people don't understand AND that other people try too hard to understand and study and talk about at parties like the day the album comes out. Both are equally maddening takes. That's what you get though, when you blend extremely unconventional song structures with an extremely unconventional singing style and totally bizarre lyrics that frequently sound like they came from a dude who fell asleep reading historical fiction novels while listening to Sun Ra's "Spaceship Lullaby" then woke up several times during the middle of the night to write down fragments of his crazed fever dreams. If you're not sure what that could possibly mean, listen to "Gun has no Trigger"...trust me. "About to Die" has Longstreath seemingly writing a crazed lovesick lullaby from the perspective of a jack-in-the-box to the box that protects him from the madness of the outside world. It's a brilliant song, and atypical of, well, there really is no such thing as a typical Dirty Projectors song, but they DO typically contain melodic guitars and harmonies which dissolve into schizophrenia crunchy string plucking, and that certainly happens here. And handclaps - always handclaps in there somewhere - as Longstreth dissolves into what sounds like a man angrily passing a kidney stone. I bet that seems like it would sound really terrible, right? Nope, it's endlessly interesting, unconventionally beautiful and with frequent bursts of unexpected blooming energy. Think of the most beautiful moment you ever had in what initially seemed like a really ugly place. What, a kiss in a parking lot? This is the band that soundtrack those scenes and those spaces after the scene ends.
*****
9. Pond - "Beard, Wives, Denim"
Holy Perth Fever! Yes, the members of Pond hail from Perth, the wild fringe of the outback. If that's giving you a quick moment of pause, it's likely because you know in the back of your mind that Perth is also Tame Impala territory. Well, Pond (2 of 3 members, anyway) also double as Tame Impala singer Kevin Parker's touring band. Quick aside on/fun fact about Tame Impala - Parker writes and records under the name Tame Impala and he does so himself. Which, let's face it, should make a lot of people feel bad about themselves. But when the dudes are not adding some dark and hefty hooks to Parker's hazy power chords, they come together as Pond. And when that happens, it's like the members of Voltron getting together without Commander Keith (nothing against Keith in this metaphorical comparison - he just likes to roll solo sometimes). The result is much looser in both form, function and subject, with nearly just as deadly with the pedal pushed to the floor and reverb occasionally spilling into unexpected spaces like water through cracks in a broken spigot. The majority of the tracks on Beard, Wives, Denim feel much jammier than your standard Tame Impala fare, and that's because they're all recorded that way (in what sounds like an old garage, actually). But this record is incredibly sneaky, a fact that seems to hit right as "Elegant Design" gets going. Volume knobs were invented for head bobbers like this, and frankly it's the kind of song that makes me glad I keep a tennis racket on the wall for emergencies (it's a cool looking old wooden racket, but I hope I don't need to explain to you how it easily doubles as an air guitar, cause if so, you've got some work to do). "Sorry I Was Under the Sky" toes that magical mystery line between "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" and Piper at the Gates of Dawn-era Floyd. Meanwhile, "Eye Pattern Blindness" somehow manages to feel loose and tight at the same time, and the blacklight is lit as you're dragged through a headtrip that explodes into a four-wheeler relay through the desert at night under the watchful eye of Uluru (it's that giant rock in the middle of the Australian Outback, FYI). Through the music, they seem like they're having a deeply spiritual experience. But more importantly, it's evident that Pond are having an incredible amount of fun making this record, and are likely writing much of it as they go. It's what you and your two besties WISH you could've done in your early twenties (if only you'd kept the band together!). Pond's reverence for the likes of Syd Barrett, Ozzy Osbourne and the other mad hatters of the psych rock world is clear. Blessed with time to burn, space to think and plenty of inspiration - and yes, talent - they have quietly recorded and released the loudest, catchiest and most enjoyable garage psych rock record of the year. You can run and tell that.
Holy Perth Fever! Yes, the members of Pond hail from Perth, the wild fringe of the outback. If that's giving you a quick moment of pause, it's likely because you know in the back of your mind that Perth is also Tame Impala territory. Well, Pond (2 of 3 members, anyway) also double as Tame Impala singer Kevin Parker's touring band. Quick aside on/fun fact about Tame Impala - Parker writes and records under the name Tame Impala and he does so himself. Which, let's face it, should make a lot of people feel bad about themselves. But when the dudes are not adding some dark and hefty hooks to Parker's hazy power chords, they come together as Pond. And when that happens, it's like the members of Voltron getting together without Commander Keith (nothing against Keith in this metaphorical comparison - he just likes to roll solo sometimes). The result is much looser in both form, function and subject, with nearly just as deadly with the pedal pushed to the floor and reverb occasionally spilling into unexpected spaces like water through cracks in a broken spigot. The majority of the tracks on Beard, Wives, Denim feel much jammier than your standard Tame Impala fare, and that's because they're all recorded that way (in what sounds like an old garage, actually). But this record is incredibly sneaky, a fact that seems to hit right as "Elegant Design" gets going. Volume knobs were invented for head bobbers like this, and frankly it's the kind of song that makes me glad I keep a tennis racket on the wall for emergencies (it's a cool looking old wooden racket, but I hope I don't need to explain to you how it easily doubles as an air guitar, cause if so, you've got some work to do). "Sorry I Was Under the Sky" toes that magical mystery line between "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" and Piper at the Gates of Dawn-era Floyd. Meanwhile, "Eye Pattern Blindness" somehow manages to feel loose and tight at the same time, and the blacklight is lit as you're dragged through a headtrip that explodes into a four-wheeler relay through the desert at night under the watchful eye of Uluru (it's that giant rock in the middle of the Australian Outback, FYI). Through the music, they seem like they're having a deeply spiritual experience. But more importantly, it's evident that Pond are having an incredible amount of fun making this record, and are likely writing much of it as they go. It's what you and your two besties WISH you could've done in your early twenties (if only you'd kept the band together!). Pond's reverence for the likes of Syd Barrett, Ozzy Osbourne and the other mad hatters of the psych rock world is clear. Blessed with time to burn, space to think and plenty of inspiration - and yes, talent - they have quietly recorded and released the loudest, catchiest and most enjoyable garage psych rock record of the year. You can run and tell that.
*****
8. Frank Ocean - "Channel Orange"
With every critic and their grandma picking apart the subtle emotional nuances and undercurrents of Channel Orange this year, I'm really surprised that nobody has really gotten to the core of the record: Frank Ocean has reimagined The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Whereas the Will Smith vehicle was a fun, slapstick comedy, Frank Ocean's Southern California experience takes a docu-drama approach (call it "scripted reality") that inspects the complexities of love and friendship and family through a clear lens. Ocean's post-Katrina move from New Orleans to LA's Black Beverly Hills is a heavier catalyst than a fight on a b-ball court and subsequent potentially rash decision from mom, but like Smith he immediately plugs into a network of super rich kids, this time around they're fronted by the gang from Odd Future (I guess that makes Tyler the Creator the Jazz of this equation, with Earl Sweatshirt as...Carlton?). In short it's a modern take on the classic "fish out of water" storyline that's as old as storytelling itself. Hell, the record even has a song centering around a conversation with a cabbie - the stellar "Bad Religion," widely regarded to be the emotional core of the record. The obligatory Stevie Wonder references are appropriate for sure. Frank Ocean's got pipes and he's got funk and he can write a beautiful song that's interesting, smart and honest. It's rare to excel at a few of those areas, let alone all of them. There isn't a song on the record that doesn't have Ocean exuding an effortless soulfulness that should be the envy of artists who has toiled for years trying to establish a formula for making a smash hit record that wows critics and sells copies. Ocean ignores that formula and lets it be known right off the bat that he's not holding anything back here (kicking off the record with its most raw track, the staggeringly beautiful "Thinkin' Bout You," is a statement). "Super Rich Kids" borrows that legendary lurching piano bounce from "Benny and the Jets" (Elton John is reportedly a big fan) - think for a minute about how hard that must be to pull off with any degree of originality. Ocean gets an A+ here, and the song plays like a modern take on Smith's intro to Bel-Air Academy party scene, as we're at the house of a friend's parents surrounded by expensive wine, drugs and joyrides in a Jaguar while channeling Mary J between white lines in a callow cry for real love. It profiles a shallow crowd, yes, but this is definitely the funnest party on the record even if there's no real love to be found. The epic "Pyramids" (Will's gf Lisa as a stripper named Cleopatra?) balances on the back of a hook that sounds like classic Stevie mashed up into a modern club anthem. It's a spacey pillpopped hallucination which transports our protaganist from ancient Egypt to The Pyramid, the gentleman's club where Cleopatra works. It's an epic 10 minute funk anthem that's over before you even know it. Quick aside: I doubt anyone has made a song this epic in the R&B genre in the past 10 years, and the only dude in recent memory who could channel this kind of supremely honest confidence was probably D'Angelo in his prime. One of the most unheralded and gorgeous moments on the record is the aforementioned "Bad Religion," one of a small handful of songs on the record that get to the complex core of the man himself, who earlier this year penned an extremely brave letter confessing that his first love was a man (considering the hip hop/R&B game, this kind of sentiment isn't usually embraced let alone accepted). Despite the excesses and numb pleasures that act as the flowing river that guides Channel Orange, Ocean seems mostly unmoved by it all. It's a Southern California rich kid cool that he wears more like borrowed t-shirt than badge of honor, and his approach here is all honest, just-rolled-out-of-bed, thrown on. Ocean isn't at home here, but he hasn't felt home in so long that it doesn't even register that Channel Orange is an album that channels the hyper-awareness of a stranger learning about himself through a strange new homeland.
With every critic and their grandma picking apart the subtle emotional nuances and undercurrents of Channel Orange this year, I'm really surprised that nobody has really gotten to the core of the record: Frank Ocean has reimagined The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Whereas the Will Smith vehicle was a fun, slapstick comedy, Frank Ocean's Southern California experience takes a docu-drama approach (call it "scripted reality") that inspects the complexities of love and friendship and family through a clear lens. Ocean's post-Katrina move from New Orleans to LA's Black Beverly Hills is a heavier catalyst than a fight on a b-ball court and subsequent potentially rash decision from mom, but like Smith he immediately plugs into a network of super rich kids, this time around they're fronted by the gang from Odd Future (I guess that makes Tyler the Creator the Jazz of this equation, with Earl Sweatshirt as...Carlton?). In short it's a modern take on the classic "fish out of water" storyline that's as old as storytelling itself. Hell, the record even has a song centering around a conversation with a cabbie - the stellar "Bad Religion," widely regarded to be the emotional core of the record. The obligatory Stevie Wonder references are appropriate for sure. Frank Ocean's got pipes and he's got funk and he can write a beautiful song that's interesting, smart and honest. It's rare to excel at a few of those areas, let alone all of them. There isn't a song on the record that doesn't have Ocean exuding an effortless soulfulness that should be the envy of artists who has toiled for years trying to establish a formula for making a smash hit record that wows critics and sells copies. Ocean ignores that formula and lets it be known right off the bat that he's not holding anything back here (kicking off the record with its most raw track, the staggeringly beautiful "Thinkin' Bout You," is a statement). "Super Rich Kids" borrows that legendary lurching piano bounce from "Benny and the Jets" (Elton John is reportedly a big fan) - think for a minute about how hard that must be to pull off with any degree of originality. Ocean gets an A+ here, and the song plays like a modern take on Smith's intro to Bel-Air Academy party scene, as we're at the house of a friend's parents surrounded by expensive wine, drugs and joyrides in a Jaguar while channeling Mary J between white lines in a callow cry for real love. It profiles a shallow crowd, yes, but this is definitely the funnest party on the record even if there's no real love to be found. The epic "Pyramids" (Will's gf Lisa as a stripper named Cleopatra?) balances on the back of a hook that sounds like classic Stevie mashed up into a modern club anthem. It's a spacey pillpopped hallucination which transports our protaganist from ancient Egypt to The Pyramid, the gentleman's club where Cleopatra works. It's an epic 10 minute funk anthem that's over before you even know it. Quick aside: I doubt anyone has made a song this epic in the R&B genre in the past 10 years, and the only dude in recent memory who could channel this kind of supremely honest confidence was probably D'Angelo in his prime. One of the most unheralded and gorgeous moments on the record is the aforementioned "Bad Religion," one of a small handful of songs on the record that get to the complex core of the man himself, who earlier this year penned an extremely brave letter confessing that his first love was a man (considering the hip hop/R&B game, this kind of sentiment isn't usually embraced let alone accepted). Despite the excesses and numb pleasures that act as the flowing river that guides Channel Orange, Ocean seems mostly unmoved by it all. It's a Southern California rich kid cool that he wears more like borrowed t-shirt than badge of honor, and his approach here is all honest, just-rolled-out-of-bed, thrown on. Ocean isn't at home here, but he hasn't felt home in so long that it doesn't even register that Channel Orange is an album that channels the hyper-awareness of a stranger learning about himself through a strange new homeland.
*****
7. Bat for Lashes - "The Haunted Man"
Holy crap, where have I been on Natasha Khan? How have I managed to (criminally) ignore her for the last 5 years or so? The Haunted Man sounds like something that would come out of a Kate Bush/Bjork/Cocteau Twins-run summer camp for kids with special powers. Which is a roundabout way of saying that Khan has a knack for making things levitate - eleven tracks here, specifically. But she's much too honest and earnest to use them for harm or hurl them at anyone. Mostly they just float and sparkle. The record's opener, "Lillies," is a blast of perfect blissful transcendence...the soundtrack to the best moonlit walk you've ever taken. It's just the right mix of airy, soft sleeplessness and longing for bed, and when Khan brings her dreams to drink, then half breathes half screams "thank God I'm alive," it sounds like she's realizing that she's awake for the first time in a long while. Aside from the obligatory Kate Bush comparisons, Khan also takes all the right queues from Vespertine and Medulla-era Bjork. When "Oh Yeah" kicks up with a chorus of overlapping robotic angels singing the title refrain over a pulsating beat, you almost think for a minute that Rahzel is pulling the strings somewhere behind the scenes. "Winter Fields" swoons and swells into dark orchestral maneuvers with strings that morph into synths that swell and pulsate. The title track features a mid-track choral breakdown over infantry drums before Khan sends in the strings and steals the song back once again. And everything comes to a head on the soaring "Marilyn", a straight-up Cocteau Twins lead in has Khan seemingly throwing all her cautions to the wind like a fistful of plucked petals, exploding with a lovesick triumphalism..."holding you, I'm touching a star," she wails, her voice echoing deep like it's bouncing around in the spires of a cathedral, electric beats clapping like the wings of startled sleeping bats. I guess my point is that this is an exceedingly gorgeous record. Yes, she wears her inspirations on her sleeve at times but in no way does The Haunted Man come off like someone doing an impression of a Kate Bush/Bjork/Cocteau Twins record.
Holy crap, where have I been on Natasha Khan? How have I managed to (criminally) ignore her for the last 5 years or so? The Haunted Man sounds like something that would come out of a Kate Bush/Bjork/Cocteau Twins-run summer camp for kids with special powers. Which is a roundabout way of saying that Khan has a knack for making things levitate - eleven tracks here, specifically. But she's much too honest and earnest to use them for harm or hurl them at anyone. Mostly they just float and sparkle. The record's opener, "Lillies," is a blast of perfect blissful transcendence...the soundtrack to the best moonlit walk you've ever taken. It's just the right mix of airy, soft sleeplessness and longing for bed, and when Khan brings her dreams to drink, then half breathes half screams "thank God I'm alive," it sounds like she's realizing that she's awake for the first time in a long while. Aside from the obligatory Kate Bush comparisons, Khan also takes all the right queues from Vespertine and Medulla-era Bjork. When "Oh Yeah" kicks up with a chorus of overlapping robotic angels singing the title refrain over a pulsating beat, you almost think for a minute that Rahzel is pulling the strings somewhere behind the scenes. "Winter Fields" swoons and swells into dark orchestral maneuvers with strings that morph into synths that swell and pulsate. The title track features a mid-track choral breakdown over infantry drums before Khan sends in the strings and steals the song back once again. And everything comes to a head on the soaring "Marilyn", a straight-up Cocteau Twins lead in has Khan seemingly throwing all her cautions to the wind like a fistful of plucked petals, exploding with a lovesick triumphalism..."holding you, I'm touching a star," she wails, her voice echoing deep like it's bouncing around in the spires of a cathedral, electric beats clapping like the wings of startled sleeping bats. I guess my point is that this is an exceedingly gorgeous record. Yes, she wears her inspirations on her sleeve at times but in no way does The Haunted Man come off like someone doing an impression of a Kate Bush/Bjork/Cocteau Twins record.
*****
6. Japandroids - "Celebration Rock"
From the fireworks that kick off "The Nights of Wine and Roses," you know you're about to embark on one helluva ride - and if you can make it through that song without succumbing to the urge to raise a drink in the air or pump a fist or push the pedal to the floor (please not all at once - be safe), you're lacking something fiercely and primitively human. Stop being so evolved for a minute and just let go. Japandroids didn't exactly take the music world by storm with 2009's Post-Nothing, but there was enough of a surprise in the level of attention to bring them back from the precipice. By all accounts, that record was intended as the last dying cry of defiance from two dudes who felt they'd pushed their band to the absolute limits of possibility, a going away party of sorts. But as with so many of the best going away parties, it made them feel like kings and they decided to stick around a bit longer. We are glad they did. Celebration Rock is living proof that the limits of possibility don't really exist. Restless nights can turn to restless years. What I'm saying is they probably really love Chuck Yeagar. Anyway, whether or not you were raised on "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Born to Run" or defiant punk anthems of any kind doesn't really matter here. Raw waves of epic glory blast from every corner of this record, and of course they do, it's called Celebration Rock for chrissakes. What kind of idiots would name an album something they didn't fully intend to live up to (does Born to Run make you wanna run? Do bears shit in the woods?). Brian King and David Prowse charge the listener through a 35 minute-long adrenaline high that may very leave you physically exhausted when it ends. But if that exhaustion makes you feel like youth is wasted on the young, don't fret too hard - these dudes are in their 30s (they just sound 24). This is music to lose yourself in, and it makes me (also a dude in his 30s) want to order a round of Wild Turkey for everyone the house and pound a can of cheap beer, because it wasn't so long ago that being crazy, irresponsible and reckless was called the weekend. The fact that Japandroids have done their share of living/rocking makes it feel like you're bearing witness to two seasoned daredevils who scrapped it for years trying to get attention and only got it when they threatened to retire. Now every show is an encore. Every one of these songs exudes party in attitude but more often than not frets the post-party reckoning (what a reviewer would call "mature"), and they resonate because they deal with holding tight to the sacred memories of last night, last weekend, last year and as far back as you can remember - the sweet ones, the painful ones, all of it. "The House That Heaven Built" - arguably the best song on the record - exudes a confident and sad maturity. It's finding clarity in that homemade "I love you but I've chosen party" t-shirt after your girlfriend leaves you and muddles through the realization that sometimes the decisions you didn't even know you made are the most painful. "When they love you, and they will, tell 'em all they'll love in my shadow," wails King, supremely confident of his own awesomeness, "and if they try to slow you down, tell 'em all to go to hell." It's an I fucked up, I love you, goodbye anthem. Sweet sentiment, sans bitterness. This is when you realize they're not kids. So, if we're doing senior superlatives here, Celebration Rock wins Most Likely to Get You Drunk and Drenched in Beer/Sweat. Literally this is post-post nothing, which is to say it's really something. And when "Continuous Thunder" fades out bookended by fireworks, don't forget that you are awesome. Keep that glow longer than you feel like you possibly can, because on the other side of that wall you'll achieve true glory.
From the fireworks that kick off "The Nights of Wine and Roses," you know you're about to embark on one helluva ride - and if you can make it through that song without succumbing to the urge to raise a drink in the air or pump a fist or push the pedal to the floor (please not all at once - be safe), you're lacking something fiercely and primitively human. Stop being so evolved for a minute and just let go. Japandroids didn't exactly take the music world by storm with 2009's Post-Nothing, but there was enough of a surprise in the level of attention to bring them back from the precipice. By all accounts, that record was intended as the last dying cry of defiance from two dudes who felt they'd pushed their band to the absolute limits of possibility, a going away party of sorts. But as with so many of the best going away parties, it made them feel like kings and they decided to stick around a bit longer. We are glad they did. Celebration Rock is living proof that the limits of possibility don't really exist. Restless nights can turn to restless years. What I'm saying is they probably really love Chuck Yeagar. Anyway, whether or not you were raised on "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Born to Run" or defiant punk anthems of any kind doesn't really matter here. Raw waves of epic glory blast from every corner of this record, and of course they do, it's called Celebration Rock for chrissakes. What kind of idiots would name an album something they didn't fully intend to live up to (does Born to Run make you wanna run? Do bears shit in the woods?). Brian King and David Prowse charge the listener through a 35 minute-long adrenaline high that may very leave you physically exhausted when it ends. But if that exhaustion makes you feel like youth is wasted on the young, don't fret too hard - these dudes are in their 30s (they just sound 24). This is music to lose yourself in, and it makes me (also a dude in his 30s) want to order a round of Wild Turkey for everyone the house and pound a can of cheap beer, because it wasn't so long ago that being crazy, irresponsible and reckless was called the weekend. The fact that Japandroids have done their share of living/rocking makes it feel like you're bearing witness to two seasoned daredevils who scrapped it for years trying to get attention and only got it when they threatened to retire. Now every show is an encore. Every one of these songs exudes party in attitude but more often than not frets the post-party reckoning (what a reviewer would call "mature"), and they resonate because they deal with holding tight to the sacred memories of last night, last weekend, last year and as far back as you can remember - the sweet ones, the painful ones, all of it. "The House That Heaven Built" - arguably the best song on the record - exudes a confident and sad maturity. It's finding clarity in that homemade "I love you but I've chosen party" t-shirt after your girlfriend leaves you and muddles through the realization that sometimes the decisions you didn't even know you made are the most painful. "When they love you, and they will, tell 'em all they'll love in my shadow," wails King, supremely confident of his own awesomeness, "and if they try to slow you down, tell 'em all to go to hell." It's an I fucked up, I love you, goodbye anthem. Sweet sentiment, sans bitterness. This is when you realize they're not kids. So, if we're doing senior superlatives here, Celebration Rock wins Most Likely to Get You Drunk and Drenched in Beer/Sweat. Literally this is post-post nothing, which is to say it's really something. And when "Continuous Thunder" fades out bookended by fireworks, don't forget that you are awesome. Keep that glow longer than you feel like you possibly can, because on the other side of that wall you'll achieve true glory.
*****
5. Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti - "Mature Themes"
Spoiled rich dude hates parents, goes to art school and makes really weird music designed to piss them off while rocking pink hair and cross-dressing. It's a story as old as time itself. Well, not really. People either really hate Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti (usually this one) or really love Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti (sometimes this one). There isn't room for much in-between. Even his live shows usually come off as some kind of twisted performance art piece designed to frustrate and confound the audience. For Ariel Rosenberg (his actual name, when he's not making art), it was either making really weird pop music or building sculptures of religious idols out of dog poop. He is a creep for art, and Mature Themes toes the line between 'I like my music' and 'I bet you won't like my music.' Some rightly see that as pretention, others as genius. He's out of the basement now, and this record maintains the sleeked-up production values first seen on 2010's Before Today, but it also seems to dial it back a bit to the time when his songs were little two-to-three minute am radio jingles written by a crazy person in the 70s. "Is This The Best Spot?" sounds like the owner/proprietor of a car dealership decided to drop some acid and watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show just before filming a spot for an ad to run on local networks hawking low low Presidents Day Weekend prices. The title track seems like it was written by a creepy 16 year old kid in an extremely religious household who has a bright future as a registered sex offender (you can almost imagine the protagonist having to go around knocking on doors in 20 years after an unfortunate incident in a bowling alley snack bar). I know, it sounds super revolting! But honestly it all goes back to Pink's penchant for wanting to fuck with his audience. And the record has some moments that approach the mainstream sensibilities of his breakout hit "Round and Round." For example, "Only In My Dreams" is a perfect 60s California beach pop masterpiece. And even the one song that seems like it was most directly written to shake off half the audience - "Schnitzel Boogie" - is a stroke of lo-fi pop genius. It is literally two minutes of Pink singing about schnitzel, and it sounds like it could've been ripped from The Doldrums, Worn Copy, or House Arrest (three of his low-fi albums from the mid 00s). A lot of people hate this song, and it seems like that's the intended point. It's great. "Symphony of the Nymph" features cartoony Dracula's castle synths and seems like the perfect soundtrack to an as of yet fully conceptualized gothic spaghetti western currently awkwardly unhatching from somewhere deep within Pink's psyche. As if he's not getting weird enough, imagine getting an evite titled "Let's dine on pink slime - table for two?" That's how "Pink Slime" begins, and it's enough to make you wonder how this dude's teachers made it through the year (especially during the "what should this year's school play be?" conversation). The record is predictably surprising from start to finish, and it ends on its most beautiful (and conventional) note, a soulful cover of Donnie and Joe Emerson's "Baby," itself a song with an incredibly interesting backstory. "Baby" is the most innocent and genuine moment on Mature Themes, and likely the only song not designed to make the listener uncomfortable. It has the effect of putting a nice sheen over the entire experience. That's the thing about Ariel Pink - he's a man who desperately wants to challenge his audience but like a moth to a flame can't help but be drawn towards a simpler and more sincere convention, in part because it probably feels so foreign to him.
Spoiled rich dude hates parents, goes to art school and makes really weird music designed to piss them off while rocking pink hair and cross-dressing. It's a story as old as time itself. Well, not really. People either really hate Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti (usually this one) or really love Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti (sometimes this one). There isn't room for much in-between. Even his live shows usually come off as some kind of twisted performance art piece designed to frustrate and confound the audience. For Ariel Rosenberg (his actual name, when he's not making art), it was either making really weird pop music or building sculptures of religious idols out of dog poop. He is a creep for art, and Mature Themes toes the line between 'I like my music' and 'I bet you won't like my music.' Some rightly see that as pretention, others as genius. He's out of the basement now, and this record maintains the sleeked-up production values first seen on 2010's Before Today, but it also seems to dial it back a bit to the time when his songs were little two-to-three minute am radio jingles written by a crazy person in the 70s. "Is This The Best Spot?" sounds like the owner/proprietor of a car dealership decided to drop some acid and watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show just before filming a spot for an ad to run on local networks hawking low low Presidents Day Weekend prices. The title track seems like it was written by a creepy 16 year old kid in an extremely religious household who has a bright future as a registered sex offender (you can almost imagine the protagonist having to go around knocking on doors in 20 years after an unfortunate incident in a bowling alley snack bar). I know, it sounds super revolting! But honestly it all goes back to Pink's penchant for wanting to fuck with his audience. And the record has some moments that approach the mainstream sensibilities of his breakout hit "Round and Round." For example, "Only In My Dreams" is a perfect 60s California beach pop masterpiece. And even the one song that seems like it was most directly written to shake off half the audience - "Schnitzel Boogie" - is a stroke of lo-fi pop genius. It is literally two minutes of Pink singing about schnitzel, and it sounds like it could've been ripped from The Doldrums, Worn Copy, or House Arrest (three of his low-fi albums from the mid 00s). A lot of people hate this song, and it seems like that's the intended point. It's great. "Symphony of the Nymph" features cartoony Dracula's castle synths and seems like the perfect soundtrack to an as of yet fully conceptualized gothic spaghetti western currently awkwardly unhatching from somewhere deep within Pink's psyche. As if he's not getting weird enough, imagine getting an evite titled "Let's dine on pink slime - table for two?" That's how "Pink Slime" begins, and it's enough to make you wonder how this dude's teachers made it through the year (especially during the "what should this year's school play be?" conversation). The record is predictably surprising from start to finish, and it ends on its most beautiful (and conventional) note, a soulful cover of Donnie and Joe Emerson's "Baby," itself a song with an incredibly interesting backstory. "Baby" is the most innocent and genuine moment on Mature Themes, and likely the only song not designed to make the listener uncomfortable. It has the effect of putting a nice sheen over the entire experience. That's the thing about Ariel Pink - he's a man who desperately wants to challenge his audience but like a moth to a flame can't help but be drawn towards a simpler and more sincere convention, in part because it probably feels so foreign to him.
*****
4. Animal Collective - "Centipede Hz"
It seems kind of preposterous to argue at this point that an Animal Collective record can be criminally underrated, but in a very strong year for sonically complex, interesting music, Centipede Hz somehow seems to have gotten buried. Maybe it's a Merriweather Post Pavillion hangover? In any case, a lot of folks were pretty quick to write this one off, and nobody can really explain why or why not when it comes to their feelings on this record. It just seemed to wash over everyone. That begs the question: Since when did instant gratification seem like a realistic expectation of these veteran tribal psych freak folks? Ten years ago when the world was quite a bit flatter in terms of music's digital footprint, brilliant, multi-layered and complex records could easily get lost or overlooked. Historically, Animal Collective listeners were expected to dig in a bit. That said, Centipede Hz is (surprise!) an incredibly layered record that requires repeat listens to peel those layers away. At its core, it sounds like dropping acid then doing some birdwatching at a circus-themed bowling alley where everybody rolls a 300 and gets carried off by a rejoicing crowd of headhunters for a little cannibal stew. Not only it the grower of the year (meaning its rewards are great but require patience, so check your "I really loved Merriweather Post Pavillion" expectations at the door), it also generally seems to gather steam get better as the record progresses. "Applesauce" bombards the listener with more tonal shifts and beat change-ups than the average human brain is used to processing. It's like an aural kaleidoscope, and you can almost feel your goosebumps getting whiplash. "New Town Burnout" sounds like Sung Tongs being thrown into a centrifuge and spun up gradually until every single element can be separated, and the way it effortlessly bleeds into "Monkey Riches" feels like someone pulling the camera back revealing that they're in the CDC frantically searching for the cure for something that ails them. I know they're all firmly in their mid-30s here, so wondering why they're looking for a golden age kind of comes with the territory. "Pulleys" builds quickly, but manages to reign in the urge to let the song explode before pulling the leash tighter still and asking the listener to sit and be good. I know it'd be weird for an established band like this to be dropping their finest record here and now, but I certainly think it's a contender for the crown there.
It seems kind of preposterous to argue at this point that an Animal Collective record can be criminally underrated, but in a very strong year for sonically complex, interesting music, Centipede Hz somehow seems to have gotten buried. Maybe it's a Merriweather Post Pavillion hangover? In any case, a lot of folks were pretty quick to write this one off, and nobody can really explain why or why not when it comes to their feelings on this record. It just seemed to wash over everyone. That begs the question: Since when did instant gratification seem like a realistic expectation of these veteran tribal psych freak folks? Ten years ago when the world was quite a bit flatter in terms of music's digital footprint, brilliant, multi-layered and complex records could easily get lost or overlooked. Historically, Animal Collective listeners were expected to dig in a bit. That said, Centipede Hz is (surprise!) an incredibly layered record that requires repeat listens to peel those layers away. At its core, it sounds like dropping acid then doing some birdwatching at a circus-themed bowling alley where everybody rolls a 300 and gets carried off by a rejoicing crowd of headhunters for a little cannibal stew. Not only it the grower of the year (meaning its rewards are great but require patience, so check your "I really loved Merriweather Post Pavillion" expectations at the door), it also generally seems to gather steam get better as the record progresses. "Applesauce" bombards the listener with more tonal shifts and beat change-ups than the average human brain is used to processing. It's like an aural kaleidoscope, and you can almost feel your goosebumps getting whiplash. "New Town Burnout" sounds like Sung Tongs being thrown into a centrifuge and spun up gradually until every single element can be separated, and the way it effortlessly bleeds into "Monkey Riches" feels like someone pulling the camera back revealing that they're in the CDC frantically searching for the cure for something that ails them. I know they're all firmly in their mid-30s here, so wondering why they're looking for a golden age kind of comes with the territory. "Pulleys" builds quickly, but manages to reign in the urge to let the song explode before pulling the leash tighter still and asking the listener to sit and be good. I know it'd be weird for an established band like this to be dropping their finest record here and now, but I certainly think it's a contender for the crown there.
*****
3. Tame Impala - "Lonerism"
When the absolutely epic psych explosion that was Innerspeaker dropped on me like an errant weather balloon experiment falling from the edges of space in 2010, I did a whole lot of talking about this awesome new band from the edge of the Outback in Western Australia who sounded like John Lennon fronting Cream in a Scooby Doo cartoon. I also predicted they would be the biggest band in the planet in 5 years. Two years later and all it took was the first minute or so of "Be Above It" to convince me that they're very much on track. The stellar Lonerism opener features a fade-in of frontman Kevin Parker repetitively whisper-chanting "gotta be above it" - like a muttered daily affirmation from a man coping with social anxiety in a crowded subway - over a looping drums that sound like they're playing themselves inside a taped-up cardboard box. Lazy wah-wah guitars cut in and out until he gets his level just right, then BOOM...you feel like the Maxell man. "And I know that I gotta be above it now, and I know that I can't let them bring me down," it's like Parker can almost anticipate what happens next: The fame, the girls, the drugs...all at his fingertips. The very concept of attention is a tough sell for a loner, and its not something he's interested in. Parker is an ideas man, and his genius is very much rooted in the wild, wide open spaces around Perth. And as Lonerism gets rolling, it's pretty evident that Parker has been doing some traveling these past few years as the band has been invited to play around the world. "Everything is changing, and there's nothing I can do," he laments on "Apocalpyse Dreams." I think we've all had dreams like that - things are moving too fast, he's having trouble keeping control of his own life. It may be a good problem to have but it's gotta be tougher to rectify that as a dude who enjoys the peace and quiet he's left behind. "Feels Like We Only Go Backwards" is the kind of agonized love song that you wouldn't immediately recognize as the shining gem of this record. No, before that happens you need to experience the stunningly gorgeous cover from NYC's PS-22 choir, which is the kind of thing that really reminds you how amazing Youtube is. "Elephant" is probably the most accessible song on the record (also possibly the best). Anyway, this is a really really really great album and Tame Impala are just three years from fulfilling my prophecy. By 2015, Biggest Band on the Planet Or Bust.
*****
2. Beach House - "Bloom"
What do you think of when you think of Stevie Nicks? Jesus, I feel like I should be holding up cue cards with various ink blots on them or something. But seriously, isn't it just something totally ridiculous? Like, Stevie Nicks is standing in the middle of a sweeping green plateau next to a white horse with a perfectly windswept mane and soulful gaze - the horse, not her - and meanwhile she just looks empty and lost...almost like the horse is leading her. In all seriousness, it's hard to tell the difference between real Stevie Nicks and fan art Stevie Nicks most of the time. There's a point here. Victoria Legrand fits perfectly into that same picture, except she is leading the horse. Victoria Legrand is in command. I mean no disrespect to Stevie Nicks, but Legrand has been out-Nicksing her on a historical level these past few years. Bloom finds Beach House at the top of their game, which is a pretty big acknowledgement from a dude who has loved this band since he first heard Devotion in 2008. Despite having incredibly high expectations for Bloom, it managed to hurdle them convincingly and nail a high score on the coveted GPS (Goosebumps per song) scale. Leading the charge on that front is "Lazuli," which hits on all cylinders as Legrand's gorgeously soulful breathy vocals fill up a vast atmospheric landscape she laid out with bandmate Alex Scully. The first time I heard this song was on a night drive through Central California with Esme, and for the first time in years I felt like a moon was following me. The soaring, magical "Wishes" employs the classic Beach House build up to the bridge, which crosses you over some void that feels enthralling and vaguely possibly dangerous. You almost slip and fall just before getting to the other side but you make it, and the journey was worth it as Legrand and Scully blow it out and fade away. On the album's closer, "Irene," perhaps it's dreamiest and most mysterious song, Legrand declares "it's no mystery at all" before repeating "it's a strange paradise" over a slowly building crescendo underneath which she coos "you'll be waiting." Dudes swoon over Victoria Legrand, but it's more than the crazy the hair and the sultry, vulnerable voice masked in defiant strength. As with Stevie Nicks, Legrand has the rare ability to personalize a level of wistful charm that leaves the listener occasionally feeling like she wrote this song for them. Yes, Bloom is a beautifully executed record. But it's also an extremely lush and dramatic portrait - painted brightly but with dark colors - of Legrand leading a lost-looking white horse across a strange paradise.
What do you think of when you think of Stevie Nicks? Jesus, I feel like I should be holding up cue cards with various ink blots on them or something. But seriously, isn't it just something totally ridiculous? Like, Stevie Nicks is standing in the middle of a sweeping green plateau next to a white horse with a perfectly windswept mane and soulful gaze - the horse, not her - and meanwhile she just looks empty and lost...almost like the horse is leading her. In all seriousness, it's hard to tell the difference between real Stevie Nicks and fan art Stevie Nicks most of the time. There's a point here. Victoria Legrand fits perfectly into that same picture, except she is leading the horse. Victoria Legrand is in command. I mean no disrespect to Stevie Nicks, but Legrand has been out-Nicksing her on a historical level these past few years. Bloom finds Beach House at the top of their game, which is a pretty big acknowledgement from a dude who has loved this band since he first heard Devotion in 2008. Despite having incredibly high expectations for Bloom, it managed to hurdle them convincingly and nail a high score on the coveted GPS (Goosebumps per song) scale. Leading the charge on that front is "Lazuli," which hits on all cylinders as Legrand's gorgeously soulful breathy vocals fill up a vast atmospheric landscape she laid out with bandmate Alex Scully. The first time I heard this song was on a night drive through Central California with Esme, and for the first time in years I felt like a moon was following me. The soaring, magical "Wishes" employs the classic Beach House build up to the bridge, which crosses you over some void that feels enthralling and vaguely possibly dangerous. You almost slip and fall just before getting to the other side but you make it, and the journey was worth it as Legrand and Scully blow it out and fade away. On the album's closer, "Irene," perhaps it's dreamiest and most mysterious song, Legrand declares "it's no mystery at all" before repeating "it's a strange paradise" over a slowly building crescendo underneath which she coos "you'll be waiting." Dudes swoon over Victoria Legrand, but it's more than the crazy the hair and the sultry, vulnerable voice masked in defiant strength. As with Stevie Nicks, Legrand has the rare ability to personalize a level of wistful charm that leaves the listener occasionally feeling like she wrote this song for them. Yes, Bloom is a beautifully executed record. But it's also an extremely lush and dramatic portrait - painted brightly but with dark colors - of Legrand leading a lost-looking white horse across a strange paradise.
*****
1. Father John Misty - "Fear Fun"
There's a sneaking spiritual vulnerability throughout Fear Fun that even its title hints at. Joshua Tillman's relationship with L.A.'s seedy underbelly feels, in his storytelling, as if he is playing the casual observer to doppelganger FJM's drug-altered ego trip to Disneyland, an entertained onlooker taking (slightly embellished) field notes of this caricature's misadventures. Even opener "Funtimes in Babylon" seems to toe the line between choir boy Tillman and an L.A. transplant learning that the City of Angels doesn't seem like it did in the brochure. Tillman's embrace of Father John Misty as his new persona is less Lynchian bizarre than Dylan/H.S. Thompson noir, a screenplay exploring faith centered around a lunch meeting between Id and Ego. Long story short, Id covertly slips a tab of acid into Ego's reuben sandwich only to have him send it back to the kitchen because they didn't provide the thousand island dressing on the side like he asked. The record on the whole is a drunken arm wrestling match where both sides of the man don't fully realize they're involved (Id is winning but fake struggling and telling Ego he won't be able to hold on for much longer...it's almost cruel). Psychobabble aside, the struggle here is really tangible. On "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings," one of the standout tracks of the record (and of the year, IMHO), Tillman - over spacious, stomping bass drum/high hat and a loose, latenight riff worthy of Exile-era South of France Keith Richards - paints a pretty dark picture of taking the tattooed girlfriend you don't want mom to meet around to several funerals (all for Grampa!) in the course of a week. And as the song progresses, you wonder...are they just having a bad trip or is this a Bonnie and Clyde or Thelma and Louise-type situation? The track closes with an almost frantic Tillman repeating "someone's gotta help me dig" before it abruptly drives off a cliff, presumably on the PCH. So...killing spree or bad mushrooms? It's a question that seems to find an answer on the very next track, fittingly titled "I'm Writing a Novel," a formulaic yet extremely well-done adaptation of a never written Bob Dylan track from some session between Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Tillman is all over the map here, but splintered as it comes across, the record exudes a soulful charm that artists - be they actors, painters, writers or musicians - reach for and frequently miss over the course of an entire career. Fun fact about Joshua Tillman: He was formerly the drummer in Fleet Foxes, as if that isn't evident here (it is). And although Fear Fun is about new directions and new experiences - be they real or made up - he pulls plenty out of that playbook as well. Tillman alternately comes off as stoned, coy and playful throughout the record - with "Nancy From Now On" really toeing the line perfectly between all these moods. But the album's closer, "Every Man Needs a Companion," rips away the layers of hedonistic swagger and undercuts his flippant braggadocio (it's just a mask, people!) for a dose of much needed sincerity. He may not be the most talented musician out there and this may not even be the most ambitious or challenging or even the best record of the year, but it has become my favorite and this song is one of the main reasons for that. "Joseph Campbell and the Rolling Stones," coos Tillman, "couldn't give me a Myth, so I had to write my own." 'Fear Fun' taps into the Power of Myth. That, my friends, is no easy task.
There's a sneaking spiritual vulnerability throughout Fear Fun that even its title hints at. Joshua Tillman's relationship with L.A.'s seedy underbelly feels, in his storytelling, as if he is playing the casual observer to doppelganger FJM's drug-altered ego trip to Disneyland, an entertained onlooker taking (slightly embellished) field notes of this caricature's misadventures. Even opener "Funtimes in Babylon" seems to toe the line between choir boy Tillman and an L.A. transplant learning that the City of Angels doesn't seem like it did in the brochure. Tillman's embrace of Father John Misty as his new persona is less Lynchian bizarre than Dylan/H.S. Thompson noir, a screenplay exploring faith centered around a lunch meeting between Id and Ego. Long story short, Id covertly slips a tab of acid into Ego's reuben sandwich only to have him send it back to the kitchen because they didn't provide the thousand island dressing on the side like he asked. The record on the whole is a drunken arm wrestling match where both sides of the man don't fully realize they're involved (Id is winning but fake struggling and telling Ego he won't be able to hold on for much longer...it's almost cruel). Psychobabble aside, the struggle here is really tangible. On "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings," one of the standout tracks of the record (and of the year, IMHO), Tillman - over spacious, stomping bass drum/high hat and a loose, latenight riff worthy of Exile-era South of France Keith Richards - paints a pretty dark picture of taking the tattooed girlfriend you don't want mom to meet around to several funerals (all for Grampa!) in the course of a week. And as the song progresses, you wonder...are they just having a bad trip or is this a Bonnie and Clyde or Thelma and Louise-type situation? The track closes with an almost frantic Tillman repeating "someone's gotta help me dig" before it abruptly drives off a cliff, presumably on the PCH. So...killing spree or bad mushrooms? It's a question that seems to find an answer on the very next track, fittingly titled "I'm Writing a Novel," a formulaic yet extremely well-done adaptation of a never written Bob Dylan track from some session between Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Tillman is all over the map here, but splintered as it comes across, the record exudes a soulful charm that artists - be they actors, painters, writers or musicians - reach for and frequently miss over the course of an entire career. Fun fact about Joshua Tillman: He was formerly the drummer in Fleet Foxes, as if that isn't evident here (it is). And although Fear Fun is about new directions and new experiences - be they real or made up - he pulls plenty out of that playbook as well. Tillman alternately comes off as stoned, coy and playful throughout the record - with "Nancy From Now On" really toeing the line perfectly between all these moods. But the album's closer, "Every Man Needs a Companion," rips away the layers of hedonistic swagger and undercuts his flippant braggadocio (it's just a mask, people!) for a dose of much needed sincerity. He may not be the most talented musician out there and this may not even be the most ambitious or challenging or even the best record of the year, but it has become my favorite and this song is one of the main reasons for that. "Joseph Campbell and the Rolling Stones," coos Tillman, "couldn't give me a Myth, so I had to write my own." 'Fear Fun' taps into the Power of Myth. That, my friends, is no easy task.
