This was the year of percussive therapy and narrowly avoided breaks.
If it wasn't for the release of boxing, drumming, and the indefatigable efforts of a bashful belle from Jersey, this was the year I might have lost it. As it was, those three things (plus the surplus of great new music detailed below) were enough to keep Humpty together, and more or less in his right mind. While a lot of things remained the same -- the insults and inefficiencies of work foremost among them -- there were tremendous new discoveries for the intrepid explorer.
Amidst the collapsing global economy and seemingly endless amounts of bad news in the papers (entrenched unemployment, the tragicomic US congress, etc), these pockets of joy and goodness hidden in the rubble unsurprisingly often took us back to simpler times -- the retro soul of Fitz and Penate, the folk sunshine of the Dodos and Decemberists, the unabashed heat of the Kills and Graveyard. For many, this year was about finding a little shelter from the rain; a little break from the mental anguish; a little reason to sing or dance amidst the flames threatening to engulf you.
Thankfully, these albums provided that, time and time again. In a year that was so uniformly taxing and so super-sized in its burdens, we, too, have outdone ourselves and taken this thing to 11 rather than stop the party at ten. Hopefully you'll find some of what you need inside, as I did. There's plenty of goodness to follow, and hopefully more like it in 2012. Until then, here we go:
1. The Kills -- Blood Pressures: For the second time in four years, these guys top the year-end review, and this time it's by a landslide. As cool as Midnight Boom was when it won in 2008 (barely edging out the Black Keys' enormous Attack & Release), this one is somehow several orders of magnitude better, like taking a Mini Cooper and giving it a tank turret and the ability to fly. The band's fourth album is all gritty swagger and malicious intent -- from the scalding opener "Future Starts Slow" through similar scorchers "Satellite," "Heart is a Beating Drum," and "Nail in my Coffin" (as good an opening salvo as you'll find this year), the disc doesn't slow down until the sweet "Wild Charms" nearly twenty minutes in. (Which is only a momentary respite at 1:15 long.)Guitarist Jamie Hince remains one of the best examples of why you should pick up a guitar, all raw, explosive emotion instead of technical virtuosity, while the band itself remains the epitome of cool, bringing a sexiness and danger to everything they touch. Seeing them live only intensifies the effect, with lead singer Alison Mosshart writhing around Hince's slinky, black atmosphere. Nobody else is able to tap into our most primal instincts like this and force you to succumb to their song's imperatives. Even after repeated listens, the spell this casts remains -- this is serious business, and the Kills remain its most skilled purveyors. Highly recommended.
*1.5. See Below.
2. The Raveonettes -- Raven in the Grave: Showing that age doesn't have to mean diminishing skills, on their sixth album the Raveons follow the blueprint of their previous ones -- angelic vocals, walls of wildly distorted guitars, and simple, primal drums -- while adding a new wrinkle of synthesizers, giving the proceedings a shimmery, new wave feel that wouldn't sound out of place in the 1980s. The band has always managed to sound like a throwback to earlier eras -- be it early 60s doo-wop for the vocals, mid-40s biker gangs for the noir imagery and atmosphere, or late 60s proto-punk for the distorted guitars -- but they've always incorporated the best elements of those eras and added something new, rather than sounding like hackneyed knockoffs.The same holds on this album, with its atmospheric reverb, hazy silhouettes, and cigarette embers smoldering in the dark. "Evil Seeds" and "Apparitions" strike hard, all swirling guitars, black atmosphere, and loud-quiet-loud dynamics, while "Summer Moon," "Forget that You're Young," and "My Time's Up" provide the counterbalance, with sweet, hushed harmonies and bits of surfer-style guitar riffs bursting out of the calm. "War in Heaven" remains the centerpiece, a near five minute gem representative of the remainder of the album -- at turns dark and menacing, others sweet and innocent, like the two sides of your psyche at war with themselves. Solid as ever, this one gave my divided brain its soundtrack.
3. The Dodos -- No Color: The fourth offering from this San Francisco duo follows up their more sedate sophomore album, Time to Die, with an unmitigated rocketship to exhilaration and a return to form that rivals their classic debut. From the opening "Black Night" to subsequent gems like "Don't Stop," "Going Under," and "Don't Try and Hide it," the album takes off at full speed and you're strapped in for the ride.And what a blissful ride it is -- singer/guitarist Meric Long and drumming maelstrom Logan Kroeber again cram a seemingly endless array of rhythms, melodies, and sing-along choruses into the album's too-brief 45 minutes, seamlessly hopping from one tune to the next like frogs across the lilypads. Tying everything together is the devastating songstress Neko Case, who sings backup to the boys' exuberance on half the album's tracks. Despite best being enjoyed in its entirety rather than iPod shuffle nuggets, I came back to this album time and again over the year -- whenever I needed a boost, a smile, or a chance to sing to the heavens. Here's to regularly finding all three...
4. Fitz and the Tantrums -- Pickin up the Pieces: Easily one of the year's highest energy offerings, lead singer Michael Fitzpatrick and the rest of his LA bandits exploded onto the scene this year with this spot-on blast of 60s soul. The band pulls off a neat (and by no means easy) trick with their debut, paying homage to a well-worn era (that of such titans as Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, and the Supremes), while still modernizing and updating the sound. That they do it so effortlessly and with such panache speaks volumes about their potential, making them definitely one to watch the coming years.As I wrote back in April, the album makes you feel like you've stumbled onto an oldies radio station loaded with Motown classics -- "Don't Gotta Work it Out," the title track, "L.O.V.," "Dear Mr. President," and the lead single "Moneygrabber" all crackle with that generation's pop-timism and lushness and make you smile for a time since passed. And despite repeated, repeated listens, that sensation of familiarity and joy has only intensified the subsequent six months. Each time a track comes on shuffle, I'm blasted back to 1964 and singing along like a teenager before the Sullivan show. Somehow the band has managed to do the impossible -- create an album full of songs that, like that radio station of old, makes you happy and sing along no matter how many times you've heard the tunes. A great time at the jukebox, every time...
From the album opener "Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)" to subsequent tracks "If You Wanna," "Blow it Up," and the lead single "Post Break-up Sex," your feet will start moving and your body will be compelled to follow. It's all high-energy stuff, which is not to say it's superficial or cheap, as pop so often is -- Hayward Young's lyrics continue to be full of subtle sweetness and sarcasm. (Check out the lead single or the similar blast "Norgaard" for two stellar examples.) "Wetsuit" remains a favorite, showing how the band shines even when they slow things down a bit and let their songs unfold. All in all, a total winner. This album was endless amounts of fun this year, providing a much-needed release after my endless toils at the office. I can't wait to see what they've got in store for us next...
In a year full of fantastic discoveries, this was the one I obsessed over most -- I must have listened to this album (as well as their debut) at least fifty times since I first heard them this summer. Something about how they combined the heaviness and force of the 70s best hard rock with the slinky bluesiness that so often tempered its bludgeoning attack was irresistible. I suppose when you're working 60-70 hours a week for the entire year, it's not surprising an album that's catacombs dark, sledgehammer heavy, and ready to steamroll whatever comes your way will be resonant. This one definitely hit the spot, and will likely continue to in the coming year.
7. The Decemberists -- The King is Dead: After the utter debacle of their last album, the prog rock nightmare The Hazards of Love, this album definitely had its work cut out for it. Thankfully, this album is a simple, straightforward delight -- ten songs, forty minutes, and not a forced phrase or complicated conceit to be found. It just bursts with heart from the blissful opener "Don't Carry it All" to the soulful gem "Dear Avery" at its close.Along the way you're treated to bouncy winners like "Calamity Song," which sounds like early-era REM (a fitting memory as guitarist Peter Buck helped out on several tracks here), the stolid, resilient "Rise to Me," which is belt it to the rafters inspiration, and the twin shot of "Down by the Water" and "All Arise!," which are such country fried goodness you want to don your Ariats and learn how to line dance. All in all, it's a great return to form, made all the more poignant with the band announcing an indefinite hiatus with its release. If they end up not regrouping, it's a heck of a way to go out, all boot stomps, hand claps, and heart.
That voice remains a thing to behold -- as delicate and austere as an eggshell in volume, but as beautiful as a Faberge in sentiment. Listening to tracks like "Graveyard," "Anti-Pioneer," "Cicadas and Gulls," and the devastating "Caught a Long Wind" showcase the duality, her voice softly gliding alongside restrained guitar or piano with the emotional weight of a velvet sledge. Throughout it all, Feist remains true to her earlier work -- weaving a slinky sensuality ("How Come you Never Go There," "Comfort Me") into even her quirkier fare ("A Commotion," "Undiscovered First") to create an album that's at turns bright, beautiful, and winning.
Album opener "Sail Away," "Blue Bird," and "Children" are borderline giddy with their soaring positivity, all hand claps and harmony, while tracks like "Can you Find a Way?," the title track, and "Miss You" retain some of the band's edgy charm, hearkening back to their previous classics Echoes and Pieces of People we Love. ("How Deep is your Love?," the aforementioned exception to the church-dappled vibe, is pure youthful fire, six-and-a-half minutes of sheer dance fury and one of the year's best tracks.) Jenner and Co. weave in left field outliers, too -- the Brazilian samba of "Come Back to Me," the odd glam jingle of "Roller Coaster," the languid float down the river of "It Takes Time to be a Man" -- they make a somewhat motley crew, but manage to hang together on the back of Jenner's earnest positivity. As noted before, in a year that so uniformly sucked on the good news front it was nice to have at least one source of unabashed sunniness, warranted or not.
Songs like "Guns Out," "Strings," "12 Fingers," and "Garands" keep the energy up, while "God Made Man" shows the band slowing things down before building to a satisfying summit. Only occasionally do they veer too close to Coldplay-like territory, but even these fleeting moments of weakness are forgiven on the strength of everything around it. This is just a great little album -- a hearty dose of happiness that continues to shine. I caught the tail end of their set at Lolla this year and was won over by their jubilance -- here's to betting you will as well.
There's an undeniable sexiness to it all -- Penate's echoing croon and reggae guitar dance provocatively over the full, throbbing bass and jazz drums, and I've had more than my fair share of dancing around the apartment with my Jersey girl to the album's tracks. In fact, if there's a knock against the album it's that there aren't more of them -- its nine songs, clocking in at a scanty 33 minutes, are far too brief. If you're going to hit on every song, though, I suppose it's a fine critique to incur. And hit he does -- songs like "Every Glance" and "Give Yourself Away" are brilliant, and like the rest of the album leave you wanting more. Here's to hoping he doesn't make us wait long.
The two, along with fellow indie lasses Mary Timony and Rebecca Cole, wage war through 11 songs of epic rock bliss, sounding like a more melodic version of Heart -- think RiotGrrrl, only with three-part harmonies. They run roughshod through gems like the opening "Romance," "Future Crimes," "Black Tiles," and "Glass Tambourine" (which could easily have been released in 1974 without sounding out of place.) Brownstein's vocals still slightly grate (I was always more a Corin Tucker fan in their old three piece), but the music is what matters most here -- after minor lyrical offerings, the gals repeatedly break away into epic little jams, with incredible guitar runs and "ooh/aah" harmonies swirling throughout Weiss' increasing fury.
That the bulk of the songs somehow stay under four minutes speaks to their amazing ability at compression. (The major exception being the jaw-dropping "Racehorse," which is nearly 7-minutes of pure fire and easily the album's best track.) You will not feel cheated, though -- this disc is dense and hearty like cassoulet, so fire it up and get ready to rock until you drop.
Rather than it being a divided album like latter-day Outkast albums had become, where each of the tandem's diametrically opposed halves gravitated to their own songs, sections, or entire discs instead of melding with their counterpoint, this allowed each man to play to their strengths while still forming a cohesive whole. Jay-Z was able to drop the ultra-materialistic verses I normally abhor, rapping about things most one-percenters would have no idea about (Audemars, Margiela, Miele -- I felt like a hayseed from Kansas, I had to look so much crap up), while Kanye offered his from-the-heart, emotional (some say delusional) lines while exploring his seemingly endless inspirations, creating another album that's chock full of divergent interests and styles.
The album just FEELS big -- and that has nothing to do with the amount of money spent or the cache of its participants. (Which are obviously rather elephantine.) There's something here for everyone -- the smoldering opener "No Church in the Wild," the soul-sampling single "Otis," the haunting and hard "Gotta Have It," the thuggish "That's my Bitch," the social consciousness of "Murder to Excellence." The album seems to draw from everywhere, but like Kanye's masterful My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, doesn't sound weaker or harried as a result. Hell, one of the songs -- the positively gonzo "Ni**as in Paris" -- samples the Will Ferrell ice skating laugher Blades of Glory and winds up being one of the best party jams of the year. When you think of how titanic a bust this could have been, with all the hype, egos, and expectation behind it, even the album's more mediocre tracks shine. Proof positive of the benefits of taking risks and setting your sights high.
This one grew on me over the year, as I think it did with the band -- once they figured out how to play these songs live (as in their fantastic performance on the Colbert Report, for example), the songs really came to life. Opener "Bloom" and "Feral" began to positively pulsate with nervous energy, while "Morning Mr Magpie" solidified its spot as the epitome of what this style can achieve, crackling with anxious urgency. Juxtaposing these tracks with the album's back half (and some of its best overall songs) worked even better than on first listen. Songs like "Separator," "Give up the Ghost," and "Lotus Flower" became redolent, filled with Yorke's soaring voice and the band slinking along in lockstep, while the muted gem "Codex" remained king with its simple beauty -- just Yorke alone at his piano with his wounded wail, pouring his heart out to the heavens. Like the band, this album just kept getting better with age.
The intervening 12 tracks are a dance between those goalposts -- the smoldering "Black Moon" and delicate "Rising Red Lung" and "Open Mind" shy toward the band's quieter, more insular tendencies, while "Dawned on Me," the title track, "Born Alone," and "Capitol City" are all bright, poppy blasts. Substantively, some of the band's signature lyrical impact is gone -- Tweedy seems to have muted his autobiographical (or at least more baldly emotional) impulses on this album, opting instead to write more generic, impersonal lyrics -- and the album lacks some emotional resonance as a result.
This is not to say the songs are flimsy or phoned in -- it wouldn't be on here if they were -- but rather evidence of a band opting to flex their muscles and have a little fun, rather than work out their emotions and anxieties in public. (Check out the tracks "I Might" and "Standing O," which are pure swaggering showtime, for proof.) Considering all the bad news permeating our everyday lives this year, choosing not to dwell in the darkness is an excusable sin, especially when it sounds so good. Let's just hope Tweedy doesn't wall off his introspective side forever --we need artists with voices like his to help make sense of the things around us, good and bad. In the meantime, I'm all for a little play...
The Keys are somewhat akin to Hall & Oates in how vastly their sound differs from their look. To only use your eyes you'd see two sets of somewhat nerdy looking white boys up on stage -- close your eyes and engage your ears, though, and you're treated to a relentless parade of songs that make you want to move and shake. Songs that are at turns sexy, soulful, and -- if you're the Keys -- blissfully fuzzed out rockers. Neither duo does anything complicated -- both take the most traditional song forms of the urban experience (R&B if you're Hall & Oates, the blues for the Keys) and funnel them through what appear to be a couple of guys on break from the nearest suburban Staples.
It once again proves the folly in surface assessments, though, because what a string of songs it is -- the buoyant opener "Lonely Boy" with its surf rock-style guitar and jubilant one-man dance party video; "Little Black Submarines," a perfect modern day Zeppelin cut with its delicate, finger-picked start that abruptly explodes into percussive fury two minutes in; "Run Right Back," with its howling guitar line sliding over Carney's thudding tribal drums; "Sister," with its irresistible metronome and straight-up blues swagger. There's not a bad song in the bunch. And as with every great album, your favorite shifts the more you listen. (My current fave is "Hell of a Season," with its skittering high hat leading you into the glorious flail of the chorus.) A promising sign for an album I'm already wearing the hell out of. (The HELL!) These guys just continue their onslaught...lucky us.
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We'll close with a couple of singles, the first an absolutely gonzo mashup of Johnny Cash and Eazy-E -- that's right, the prince of Nashville and the gangsta from Compton -- who collide on this track from DJ Topcat. The result (other than possibly causing cerebral hemorrhages) is a roll down the windows and crank the stereo jam that works in spite of the lunacy of its pairing. Check it out here:
The second is a debut from the latest young Youtube ingenue, Lana del Rey, a twenty-something pop belle who has issued a couple of 60's style retro soul singles, including the fantastic "Video Games" below. Del Ray's voice seesaws between sweet delicacy and sultry huskiness, and it works to haunting effect on the sun-dappled lead single. Coupled with the video and its home movie-style footage, there's something eerie and nostalgic about the song, and it had me listening to it on repeat for the first dozen or so times I heard it. The follow-up single "Blue Jeans" causes a similar effect, but this one remains the most potent. Check it out here:
Until next time, amici...
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