One of the greatest mythological narratives in music today is the “What if Rivers Cuomo hadn’t sucked” question. It’s really a fascinating theoretical exercise, answering that question. Of course, no one can know. A songwriter of Cuomo’s talent and curiosity could have gone any number of different, equally intriguing ways with his career (he chose blowing – what can you do?). But until recently, this question has been purely a speculative one. Never before has a band surfaced that has made me say, “You know, this is probably the music Rivers Cuomo would be making if he hadn’t turned into a corporate, cookie-cutter caricature of himself.” It’s surprising, when you think about it, because there was a whole niche of the market thirsting relentlessly for a taste of what Rivers Cuomo might have been.
Consider Astro Coast, the stunning debut album from West Palm Beach’s Surfer Blood, the first sip on the way to slaking that thirst. Aptly named, it weds the bright pop of the beach with the wispy glow of space. At its heart, this is a pop record, oozing with fizzy guitar hooks and sing-along hooks. John Paul Pitts’s voice sounds suspiciously like a more silvery Rivers Cuomo. But this is no Blue Album. Astro Coast wisely introduces a range of other, more respectable influences into the mix, like a healthy serving of the 2001 Strokes and a twist of Dinosaur Jr. In that way, the band tempers the relentless accessibility and ease of Weezer with more thoughtful (or less sophomoric) production. This record is fuzzy but always sharp, and these gentlemen boast a pop sensibility that rivals the best in the business (read: Phoenix).
Like the Blue Album, there aren’t a lot of the bells and whistles indie kids are used to: no gooey synthesizers, brassy horns, or hand claps here. Rather, Surfer Blood rely upon a much more conventional palette of guitar, bass, and drums. Their focus is songwriting and not atmosphere, substance and not style. Their talent as songwriters far outweighs their talent as musicians, and Astro Coast seems as though it was crafted (happily) with that in mind. That offers some reassurance that this could be more than just a one off success – a band that recognizes its strengths and failures on its debut stands a better chance than a band that thinks it can do no wrong (read: Vampire Weekend).
There are too many instances of bliss on this record to name. “Floating Vibes”, “Swim”, “Harmonix”, and “Twin Peaks” are all exceptional tracks, but to be perfectly honest, there is nothing to skip here. “Slow Jabroni” drags a bit, but I’ll afford the group a moment of self-indulgence, and I think you will too. And while this is certainly no clinic on musicianship, it’s definitely one of the most adept displays of songwriting skill and pop command that I’ve ever seen from a band on a debut. In that sense, the group is very reminiscent of the early iteration of Weezer. But Rivers Cuomo hypotheticals aside, in Astro Coast, we have been given not just a great record, but a glimpse at the most exciting new band to emerge in years.
9.2 / 10.0
Beck has come under kind-of serious fire in recent years (it’s not really clear why, but that’s a different discussion for a different day). So I guess it’s not really that hard to understand why his latest effort would be offered from the safety of someone else’s name. Sure, he wrote, produced, and performed a huge portion of the heretofore unextraordinary Charlotte Gainsbourg’s new album, IRM, but I’m sure most people that listen to it wouldn’t know it. His footprint is not as overtly evident as, say, Britt Daniel’s was on White Rabbits’ sophomore effort, It’s Frightening. But once you know how integral he was, you start to hear him everywhere: the chord progressions, the charmingly idiosyncratic lyrics, and even the punchy, compressed Sea Change snare drums that crop up ever so often (like on the standout, “Le chat du Café des Artistes” – think “Lonesome Tears”).
Spoon has been around for the better part of two decades, so it’s tough not to think of their records as pieces of a timeline rather than self-contained efforts. That’s a hitch you’ll run into when you follow nearly any band, but it’s more pronounced with Spoon because their sound is more carefully constructed than that of most other bands around. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga was great not only because it was great, but because it picked up right where Gimme Fiction left off and continued the stylistic progression. It was richer, more developed, but still familiar. So when first I spun Transference, the question that immediately popped into my head was not, “Is this record good or bad,” or even, “How does this record compare to the rest of Spoon’s catalogue,” but rather, “Is this a fitting continuation of Spoon’s career?”
What I’ve noticed in the reaction to Contra is that critics have been overwhelmingly positive, and fans (at least the fans that I talk to) have been overwhelmingly negative. But critics are human. They built this band up to almost godlike status. They over-hyped and oversold the band’s debut, and put a burden on these boys that they couldn’t bear. So, approaching Contra, they had started to believe in the miracles they’d peddled. They really bought into the idea that this band could do no wrong. Now, I didn’t think the band’s debut was a total miracle (I did think it was great, but not life-changing), so I’d like to think I am a little more realistic about their follow-up. But it’s not just me. I think more than a few of us suspected that Vampire Weekend didn’t really have a fruitful career in front of them. The sound of their debut wasn’t going to afford them mileage, and they knew it. That’s why, inside of a year, you had band members already going in other directions (case in point: Discovery, also known as Rostam Batmanglij’s attempt to show he wasn’t a one trick pony from a production standpoint)
The ascendancy of Annie Clark has to be one of the feel-good stories of the decade. It’s shocking to think that a talent like hers could have been lost in her career as a backing musician for Sufjan Stevens (I guess maybe that’s one good thing about Mr. Stevens’s inexplicably long hiatus from recording). When Marry Me came out a couple of years ago to much adoration, I adored along with everyone else, but was concerned that Ms. Clark was a flash in the pan and nothing more. With Actor, my worries have been put to bed. If anything, Actor, her second record under the St. Vincent moniker is better than the first, charming, rich, and ever-so-slightly kissed by a dark irony. Clark is still a crack vocalist, and her time as a backing musician has obviously benefitted her as an arranger. These songs are not only wonderfully crafted, but expertly executed. “Laughing With A Mouth of Blood” is the album’s stunning centerpiece, with brooding call-and-response verses giving way to the soaring chorus. “I can’t see the future, but I know it’s got big plans for me,” Clark cooes. Don’t bet against her.
Grizzly Bear’s an interesting case. Before Veckatimest, I couldn’t really formulate a cogent argument as to why I loved them so much, but I really did love them. Their sound has always sophisticated but understated, not to mention very pleasing. With Veckatimest, Grizzly Bear has made my life easier. They are some of the best songwriters in the world today, and this record shows it. Their penchant for vaguely creepy chord progressions and jarring harmonies is unabated here. But they’ve upped the stakes on this record; as though to prove to the world they aren’t just some brooding folk group. “Two Weeks” is the most obvious statement to that effect (it’s a piano vamp piece, for Christ’s sake). But many of the other songs here are quietly ambitious as well, with “All We Ask” featuring driving drums, backed in the songs numerous crescendos by palm-muted guitar and gently building harmonies. “About Face” is another quick-step piece that repeatedly, teasingly aspires to climaxes that never quite come. No matter where you look, though, the name of the game is still nuance and restraint. Grizzly Bear know their strengths and have not abandoned them here. They’ve just fleshed them out a little bit. If you know how far to push, pushing the envelope is almost always a good thing.
It’s always a little scary when hip-hop artists turn to acting. Especially when you consider how bad most of them are as actors, it really must mean their music careers are taking a particularly nasty turn. Most people had written off Mos Def as a rapper-turned-actor who wasn’t really relevant in either field. That’s really sad, especially when you consider just how gut-wrenchingly phenomenal Black on Both Sides was. Well, Mos proved just about all of us wrong with his latest, stunning, incisive effort, The Ecstatic. He’s absolutely at the top of his game here, his flows cutting and organic, his beats rich and purposeful. Mos makes no mystery of his political focus on this record; he shines the light on the hardships of inner city life most compellingly on the album’s heart-stopping centerpiece, “Life in Marvelous Times”, but the whole album undoubtedly paints a bleak picture of the American condition post 9/11. It’s thought-provoking, intelligent stuff with all the anger of the underrepresented, but with none of the vitriol so common these days. Musically, The Ecstatic effortlessly blends the modern with the classic, horns and synthesizers used to perfection provide the perfect backdrop for Mos Def’s beautiful delivery. Hey everyone, Mos Def doesn’t suck – on the contrary: he’s reclaimed his spot at the top.
Sometimes I think subtlety is going out of style. So many records wear their artistic impulses so hugely on their sleeves that it’s easy to feel like you’re getting beaten over the head. Have our ears for nuance been so blunted by this day and age? In a digital era, where every note is sharper than ever, I can’t help but feel as though music has become less about careful assembly of sound and more about thickness, more about esoteric walls of sound. Thank Phil Spector later. I mean, imagine what The Beatles would have done with this kind of technology. Seriously. Now, Dayve Hawk (aka Memory Tapes) may not be the second coming of John Lennon – in fact, he’s nothing like that – but Seek Magic, his latest solo endeavor, is a gorgeous, and – praise heaven – subtle, brooding album. It’s dynamic and alive; it ebbs and flows with grace and natural precision. Never forced, never pretentious, it’s always gorgeous and pure. It’s a strident, confident statement, but it doesn’t seek to command attention by way of novelty, but rather by way of sheer atmospheric beauty.
The Dodos are the best thing to come out of San Francisco ever, probably. Like, seriously. I feel genuinely goofy listening to most music that San Franciscans have made (although I’m not opposed to occasionally getting hyphy…I’m actually pretty opposed to it). But the Dodos? They’re awesome! I don’t need to feel guilty or stupid about listening to them, because they’re so consistently good! Time to Die is their second record, and they’ve proven their first album, Visiter, was not a one-off fluke, but rather the beginning of a potentially profoundly kickass career. It’s gorgeous, simple folk music. Meric Long not only has an amazing set of pipes, but he’s also right up there with the best songwriters in the world (I’m talking the Will Sheff / Colin Meloy echelon here – this man is not fucking around). The most amazing thing is how much they manage to do with so little. Their arrangements are charming and uncomplicated, and their execution is straightforward and confident. Something to be excited about from San Francisco. Who knew?
Go God Go, the latest album from Irish pop veterans Fred, flew more or less under the radar, but it’s tough to understand why. It’s an eclectic offering with something for everyone, whether it’s swaggering funk (“Skyscrapers”) to straight-up 60s powerpop (“Good One”) or the subdued reserved 6/8, violin-kissed lilt of “Evergreen”. And it’s one thing to be versatile, but it’s another thing entirely to genre-hop with such ease, so sound as natural as Fred do in so many different aesthetic iterations. Go God Go is a remarkably fresh, vibrant effort that matches the richness of experience with the freshness of youth. But perhaps the most defining aspect of the record is how it manages to be simultaneously approachable and sophisticated, being catchy but never kitschy, refined but never aloof. It may be an uncommon pleasure, but it’s certainly not a guilty one.
Nick “Diamonds” Thorburn’s past has been solid, but he’s always come up a little short. His records have never lived up to the massive potential that so many of his songs hinted at; it always seemed as though there was an immense reservoir of untapped creative potential bubbling beneath the surface of all his records. Thorburn has never seemed to have full command of his artistic ability; as a result, Islands records were charming but never compelling – until now. Vapours is a stylish, polished, relentlessly inventive effort, where Thorburn has held himself to more rigorous standards than ever. “Switched On” is quite simply the best song he’s ever written, and it’s one of the best songs of the year. “Tender Torture” recalls the rough around the edges impulses of Return to the Sea, but with a new polish and sleekness that makes its pop appeal sharper and more prominent. And “Heartbeat” continues the work of 808s and Heartbreak, proving that AutoTune can be used for good as well as evil. “Everything is under control,” Thorburn crooningly assures on the closing track. For the first time in his career, we can believe that.
If anyone made the mistake of writing off Yeah Yeah Yeahs as a unidimensional garage rock outfit after hearing the singles from this album (like I almost did), then they missed out on one of the most artistically surprising and nuanced efforts of the year. It’s Blitz! finds YYYs guitarist Nick Zinner seriously showing off his chops while never taking the limelight away from Karen O’s tortured, often gorgeous, vocal performances. There’s surely some wailing on this album, but on the whole, it’s a far darker affair, definitely a change of pace for this group. The big danger with a move like that is that it’s too often motivated by restlessness, too often forced rather than natural, and that tends to come through in the music. But It’s Blitz! is delivered with all the casual cool of any of the band’s former works. Dave Sitek’s production adds a little verve – as would be expected – but doesn’t make it’s blitz too frantic an affair. It’s urban to be sure, but melancholy urban, not churning industrial urban. Yeah Yeah Yeahs know how to dial it back and still turn out a great record. Ultimately, It’s Blitz proves that they have what it takes to dominate outside of the niche so many of us thought they’d occupy for their whole career. Look out world.
It’s kind of hard to understand why, but this record stirred up quite the controversy. “It’s too bubbly!” “He can’t really sing that high!” “It’s so annoying!” “What do those lyrics even mean?” Such were the cries of the haters. But come on. Lighten up. It’s just dance-pop. It’s a marvel to this blogger that anyone can actually listen to Manners all the way through and not feel genuinely happy at least once. Michael Angelakos’s vocals are indeed otherworldly, but in the context of Passion Pit’s larger than life sound they fit perfectly, only adding to the frenetic, joyous exuberance brimming from even the mellowest of moments on this record. And besides the obvious winners like “Make Light” and “Moth’s Wings”, there are some moments of genuine beauty here, not least being the (dare I say it) anthemic “To Kingdom Come”. The biggest mistake we can make with this record is to underrate it: it’s much more than a good pop record. This band shows the beginnings of a striking artistic flexibility, a command of their genre that usually takes several albums and years to achieve. It’s not unlikely that this band will get your attention in the not-too-distant future. If hating on Passion Pit is in vogue now, I’ll say enjoy it while you can, because it certainly won’t be for long.
I hesitated while writing my Never Learned to Swim review of Album. I thought I would look back on that review and think that I was overstating the significance (and the quality) of the record. It was a solid record, sure, but was it really so transcendent that it could and would save pop music as we know it? And then it struck me: it didn’t need to be transcendent to save pop music. Nor was it aspiring to be. That was precisely the reason I thought (and still think) that this record will do a lot to keep pure pop music alive and vital. It is not groundbreaking; it keeps one eye fixed firmly to the past and its feet planted squarely in the here and now. Christopher Owens and company sculpt immersive, razor-sharp rock songs. “Lust for Life” and “Laura” are plaintive but electric, overflowing with verve and charm. “Hellhole Ratrace” is expansive, gorgeous, and sad, anchored by Christopher Owens’ vocals, which invoke the best of Jens Lekman and Elvis Costello. But few of the tracks on Album are as daring or challenging as “Hellhole Ratrace”. But this record’s simplicity is its greatest strength, and it (hopefully) will help keep pop music relevant and active as we move in the next decade.
It was January when the album of the year race was declared over by most critics. Obviously, the adulation surrounding Merriweather Post Pavilion has been unwarranted, the praise it has been receiving excessive. But that should not blunt our understanding of this record’s strong points. It is no exaggeration to say that there are moments of absolute brilliance here (“My Girls” is just so fucking good). And it’s true that Animal Collective are an innovative, talented group, even if they aren’t the musical geniuses of our generation. Just because this record doesn’t deserve the praise it gets doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t stand up and listen. Rarely in music do experimental and pop influences coexist so effortlessly, with reverby samples backing sugary melodies. Avey Tare and Panda Bear are at the peak of their game on this record, that much I can agree with. I just don’t think that peak is as transcendentally high as other people do.
The opening chords of “Contender” scream exuberance. The song is a fitting preamble to the entire eponymous debut from this oddly named noise pop group: simple, straightforward, uncomplicated, and earnest pop songs. Structurally, the band’s work is undemanding. If you were a negative Nancy, you’d say it was conventional and uncreative. But in truth, it’s just a solid musical decision. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart embody – intentionally or otherwise – everything about growing up: it’s a time when romantic fascination, pain, and anxiety are all simultaneously fresh and familiar. If you want to make a real stretch, you might even say the structural choices of this album are the same kinds of choices teenagers make: the quick and dirty choices that get them where they want to go and get the point across. And not unlike teenagers, The Pains might not always be eloquent or elegant, but they’re always earnest, always honest, and always give their entire self to express what they’re thinking and feeling.
Look all you want. I doubt you’ll find a more exhausting, demanding album released this year. There can be no doubt that A Sunny Day in Glasgow don’t put out music that could be considered “easy” by any metric. But their deeply complex noise is rich, intricate, beautiful, and hugely satisfying. Their latest effort, Ashes Grammar, calls to mind some hybrid of Explosions in the Sky, Sigur Ros, and My Bloody Valentine. But Ashes Grammar, unlike their previous album, Scribble Mural Comic Journal, is a stylistically diverse record, as broad as it is deep – “Passionate Introverts (Dinosaurs)” is a gorgeous dance-inspired miracle, and you might conceivably mistake “Starting at a Disadvantage” for a Passion Pit song, with its bright churning energy and shimmery guitars. But A Sunny Day in Glasgow have an almost unparalleled talent for commanding the texture of their music, piling on layers and effects without their songs ever sounding overbearing or cluttered. It’s pristinely produced music, deeply independent in spirit, conception, and in execution, and truly is one of the gems of 2009.
John Cusack’s character in High Fidelity talked about the art of making a great mixtape. And he was right – it’s tough. A great mixtape doesn’t just have great songs on it, a great mixtape is one on which the sum of the parts is far less than the whole manages to be. So while it may be an unorthodox move to put a compilation on this list, who in their right mind could not mention Dark Was the Night in a conversation about the best records of the year? The big miracle here isn’t just the sheer star power on these records; it’s how well they hang together as a single, 32-song album. Listening to it, I almost take for granted that Grizzly Bear, (electronic) Sufjan Stevens, Spoon, Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, David Sitek, and Stuart Murdoch can coexist so seamlessly on a single record. But Bryce and Aaron Dessner curated this record magnificently, including standouts from The Books, Ben Gibbard and Feist, the aforemention Mr. Stevens, Yeasayer, Antony and Bryce Dessner, and Beach House. It’s a stunning record, not just a bunch of really good songs. Oh yeah, related public service announcement: it was for a phenomenal cause (AIDS relief in Africa). So buy it, don’t just illegally download this one. There’s absolutely no need to be that guy. Or girl.
Noise is getting huge. Artist after loud-ass artist is emerging from the (kinda gross) cocoon we know as The Smell in Los Angeles and getting super famous. But so many of those artists, talented though they may be, hide mediocre songwriting behind lots of crunch and too-high gain. The noise rock revolution has been quickly losing sight of its rock side. Japandroids don’t sacrifice a shred of energy – there may only be two of them, but they know how to rock the fuck out – but on Post-Nothing, they bring to the table stellar songwriting, and they let it shine through. It’s a fresh new addition to the noise genre, and it makes them a name to watch in this genre as we head into the next decade. They’re a group that sounds convincingly like they’re drenching their songs in crunch because that enhances they’re charm, not because they’re hiding anything. It’s about time.
If this were the list of the most underrated albums of the year, then Hometowns would certainly find itself near the top. Far more infectious than swine flu, the RAA have delivered an album of wide-eyed, head-in-the-clouds folk-pop gems. More polished than (but clearly inspired – at least vocally – by) Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, but with the same organic energy, Hometowns is vivacious but never overbearing like CYHSY can be. More importantly, though, The Rural Alberta Advantage are refreshingly unpretentious. Brimming with constant and unfettered energy while never sacrificing its outright and aching sincerity, it’s a visceral, raw listen. Oh yeah, and it’s also super fucking catchy.
It’s really kind of tragic. John Mayer’s impressive skill, both as a songwriter and as a guitarist, goes essentially unnoticed or ignored by those who purport to know about music, and it is completely unappreciated by the sect of our population who is concerned only with the fact that he’s a handsome man with a guitar. So his considerable musical evolution over the span of what has become quite a long career is not the subject of as many headlines as his relationship with Rachel from Friends. It’s a shame, really, because Battle Studies is Mayer’s most consistent, mature effort to date, not to mention that he’s crafting some of the warmest, sharpest pop music available today. Silkily delivered melodies soar over instrumental arrangements incorporating influences as diverse as U2, Eric Clapton, and Peter Gabriel, all brought together beneath the jazzy umbrella under which Mayer likes to operate. It’s one of the year’s biggest surprises – or safest bets, depending on whom you ask.
The nice thing about creating your own stylistic niche in the music world is that there’s less pressure on you to evolve. Andrew Bird has become eponymous with “quirky” these days, and now, most of his fans will be content to hear a new assortment of songs where he’s just kind of noodling around with all those instruments that he knows how to play, whistling, and murmuring some hyper-abstract lyrics. With Noble Beast, Bird seems to have adopted the mantra of, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Is it unfair that we expect so (relatively) little from Mr. Bird? Probably. But the fact remains that he carved out his own little artistic space, and it’s still compelling to listen to him exploring it.
What a strange record: freaky, disconcerting, mildly disturbing, challenging, beautiful, dangerous, stark, and warm, Callahan wears his slowly but surely advancing age wonderfully, bringing the full weight of his experience to bear on Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle. These songs are about the survival of hope but the sobering, and maybe inevitable fade of idealism. But for all its idiosyncrasies and its uncompromising uniqueness, the record’s biggest strength is its directness, its honesty, its brutal, unforgiving simplicity. It’s far from a relaxing listen, but it’s most definitely a gratifying, complex one that gets better with every spin.
I know. I was negative about this record in my Never Learned to Swim review, and now it ends up here? Certainly, this is a head-scratcher. What’s certainly true is that no song on this record even approaches the churning, glorious splendor of the lead track, “Percussion Gun”. And in that sense, it’s disappointing. But here is what I have come to appreciate after a few months with It’s Frightening: the other songs are more than just filler. They do far more than just occupy space. They are part of a much larger experiment – a stylistic experiment. This record finds White Rabbits moving away the bright polish of their excellent debut and into the dusty world of Britt Daniel. And as a record, it fits together well; the whole is far greater than the sum of its parts. “Percussion Gun” is unique, but the rest of the record’s being different doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad. Quite the opposite, actually.
