The Impossible Journey: World Series 2016

Amici -- I know all I normally write about is music here, but at the risk of offending my eight readers wanted to post the below since it was such an incredible experience and huge thing for me. It's about baseball and my beloved Cubs, so if that's not your cup of tea I'll see you next post.  For the rest of you, hope you enjoy... #flytheW #gocubsgo --BS
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 You knew it before it started – the week was either going to end in total heartbreak or pure, unadulterated joy. However, in life as in baseball, things rarely fall so squarely into one bin or the other, so the subsequent seven days unfolded as an almost unrelenting mixture of the two.  Which wasn’t totally unexpected -- truthfully, they were just following the pattern of the previous two weeks and the correlating series.  The near-miss tension of the shortened series against the Giants before some late inning heroics, followed by back to back blanks against the Dodgers and the game’s best pitcher before coming to life and beating them both three straight.  

And while the subsequent pattern may have been the same, the intensity and frequency of the peaks and dips that followed were ratcheted to nearly unbearable levels over the final seven games.  From the disbelieving joy of Game 1 (“we’re finally here!”) slightly soured with the loss, to the tense rebound of Game 2 (“we can’t get on a plane to go home down 0-2…”) ultimately sweetened by the win. Some thrills, some scares, but the net gain was zero -- it was down to a five game series.

And then comes the return home, where you saw a constantly flowing stream of people wearing blue or flying the W from their houses, cars, or apartments, literally from the minute you stepped off the plane.  The airport (and your plane, for that matter) is full of people wearing Cubs gear, heeding the call home the same as you -- all hands on deck. It all leads up to the weekend, the biggest one for the club in the last 70 years (and maybe the city, too) for three straight games and a chance to spin the fairytale ending by winning it all at home. 

But that would have been too easy -- this is Chicago and this is the Cubs, so you knew you were going to have to suffer more before it was over, because the best stories follow the paths of our winters and need to nearly break you before letting up.  So the almost worst case scenario unfolds – the joy of Game 3 and our hosting the first Series game since the Second World War gets blotted out, quickly followed by an uncharacteristically terrible Game 4 where we compound the damage by piling several errors on top of our suddenly silent bats. 

And thus follows the first of what will ultimately be many days of high unease and uncertainty.  The giddy block party that filled the neighborhood the first two nights becomes a tense, stomach churning affair the following day you can see reflected in the eyes of passersby – instead of toothy grins you now exchange teeth-bared grimaces and nods, shifting from the self-assured to the self-assuring.  (“We can do this!” to “we can do this…we can do this…”)

This builds to the backs to the wall breakthrough of Game 5 and the feeling of relief that courses through the city in its wake.  (“You won’t sweep us at home and celebrate in our city; we will fly the white flag from our beloved field at least once; we will live to fight another day.”)  Cue two more days of uncertainty – two LONG days of anxious waiting – but days that are imbued with a flicker of hope stronger than the day before.  That flicker becomes fire in Game 6 with an explosion of runs and offense that brings us back to level.  

Which leads to the longest day – the all or nothing pressure of one final game; the possibility of fully climbing out of the biggest of holes on the biggest of stages; the hope of seeing something you’ve waited your entire life for (and your father, and your grandfather…); the fear of having come this close only to fall short yet again.  These thoughts swirl in your head like a hurricane up the coast and the weather matches your mindset, a black, blustery mix of rain and wind that sends you scurrying around town.  

But you soldier on.  You follow the same rituals – you listen to the same album as you’ve listened to before every game, you wear the same hat; your lucky socks and boxers.  You go to the same bar where the rally started, hit the same spots on the sidewalk as you walk around like a crazy person -- the wheel of fortune looking thing on the sewer covers, the blue W’s that follow the water lines, the “CWWs” you decide stand for “Cubs WILL win…”  (Which you say in your head as your foot hits the letters…) You do these things knowing it won’t matter, but unable to stop yourself and take the chance at this late an hour.  You fight off the urge to vomit for hours as you try to distract yourself with these minor insanities.

And then the game starts. 

Where the lead that’s acquired from the literal onset – against the pitcher who’s beguiled us two previous times, now going for his third victory – gets quickly dashed two innings later.  We renew and expand the lead immediately after that – knocking their starter out early! -- …but then our pitcher is suddenly and surprisingly removed, too (“he’d retired seven straight – what are you doing?!”) and the lead is cut in half by a couple errors. (“Here we go again, just like the other night…”) One of the errant parties snatches redemption on his next at bat, improbably homering to extend the lead again, while the other does so too, going two more innings on short rest to stretch the bullpen a little longer. 

And now we’re six outs away.  

Our shutdown closer comes in to work his magic one more time, set to throw fire for the remaining four outs and pitch out of a little jam... but he’s pitched the previous two games, too, including an epic outing three days ago, so is more human than super and they knock a run off the lead. No worries. (“Four more outs…”) He gets to one strike away from ending the inning (“almost there!”) …but then hangs a pitch that gets clobbered into the corner and somehow stays fair on its way into the stands.  Back to level again... (“Why did you pitch him last night – we were up five at the time!”) He rebounds the following inning, mowing the opposition down in order after we squander an attempt to take the lead in our half of the ninth. (“Three more outs…”)

And then the rains come. 

And you’re left to agonize over everything that’s come before, both in this game and in this team’s history. Goats and black cats, ’84 and ‘03, the spike before the sweep last year …and the urge to vomit comes back for the twentieth time tonight.  You’re going to extra innings. You’ve blown the lead twice.  Most recently with your ace on the mound. This is game 7.  And this is the Cubs. 

But twenty minutes or so later play resumes and we quickly put two more on the board.  (“Hey hey!”) A fresh arm appears from our bullpen and gets an easy out.  Then a second. (“ONE MORE OUT!”) And your stomach starts doing flips with every pitch.  With every second.  But then there’s a walk.  And a stolen base. And then a double to cut the lead in half again, courtesy of the guy who’d homered his previous at bat to tie things up. 

Another pitching change. More waiting. More pacing. More cursing. But then he gets a strike.  And another one.  And all of a sudden there’s a slow dribbler to our all-star third baseman…who slips when he throws it to first (“oh come on!”)…but after a seemingly interminable flight time………….it gets there.  And it’s over.  We’ve won the World Series for the first time in over a century. (“#$%@!”)

And then the city loses its mind. 

There’s jumping, there’s dancing, there’s more smile crying than you can believe from this many grown-ups. There’s mass running through the streets, like a herd of buffalo fleeing an unseen predator.  Shouting, cheering, hugging, dancing.  More running, more smile crying, more dancing.  Until the lights go out and you don’t remember anymore, your brain unable to process this much happiness and stress.  You lose your hat.  You lose your jacket, having thrown both off at some point like a jubilant graduate.  You face plant at least once, unable to even stand upright under the weight of all this joy. And you keep running.  Until somehow you manage to get home, work the keypad to enter the building, and find your way to bed. 

When you wake up the following morning you try and piece together whether it really happened because the end of the night is a fog.  You check the news.  You check the paper.  You check the phone because somehow it still could be a scam. But your screaming calves and scuffed up face are tangible proof – it really happened. And you start smiling.  And you don’t stop for the rest of the day.  Full face, teary eyed joy.  You walk around like this all day, making eye contact with fellow travelers and somehow grinning even more.  You high five.  You hug.  You walk around this city on possibly the most perfect fall day achievable and see hundreds of others seemingly on the same cloud you are. And it’s one of the best days of your life – one of your favorite memories of your favorite place on earth, seeing this many people this happy about something that hasn’t happened in over a hundred years and that you’ve been waiting your entire life for.

It’s the greatest.  

There’s the formal celebration and parade the following day that heightens the glow – you get there early to see the rally but can’t get farther than the parade route.   Because while you expected a lot of people, you’ve never actually seen this many in the same spot at one time.  An endless, undulating sea of people, all decked out in royal blue.  Flags, smiles everywhere.  In the road, in the trees, on people’s shoulders.  In all directions, for as far as you can see.  

It turns out it’s the sixth largest gathering of humans – IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! -- and it’s the happiest collection of people you’ve ever been around.  You sing, you high five, you smile some more.  You see the team go by, the trophy, all the heroes of the previous weeks (and the season overall), surrounded by a torrent of confetti and singing, dancing people. You hear the speeches and the remembrances of everyone who’s worn the uniform or waited for this day, but didn’t make it to the end. You remember the losses – of these games and people -- and it sweetens this victory and this unbelievable day.

And then you go home. The most epic, intense, and stressful week of your life is over. The Cubs have won the World Series. And you smile cry one more time, because you still can’t believe it. 

The Cubs have won the World Series – holy cow…

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Wanted to throw a couple tunes up here in line with the above that formed the soundtrack to the week, either being belted out at the bars or creeping from my headphones.  We'll start with the former, which besides impromptu renditions of the seventh inning stretch and eleventy billion choruses of "Go Cubs Go" was one of the more enjoyable rarities.  It's Eddie Vedder's ode to his beloved team, "All the Way," written during one of our failed playoff runs.  The lyrics are sweet, the chorus was what got belted out back home, and the video's pretty great too -- check it out here:

And we'll close with the song that got things started for me every game day, getting worn out along with the rest of the album as I played it on virtual repeat.  It's the lead track off Bon Iver's new album, 22, A Million, and the pinched falsetto of the title served as a hopeful harbinger of things to come as it wormed its way around your head.  It's a great song on an equally excellent album (we'll be seeing it in a few months on the year end wrapup...), so check out "22 (Over S∞∞n) in the meantime:

Lolla 2016: Bigger Than Kanye's Swimming Pool

It's been an eventful couple of months -- in addition to recovering from the disaster that was our kitchen renovation, which spawned additional projects almost literally the minute it was completed -- projects that required me to punch more holes in the walls, damaged our fancy new cabinets, and otherwise brightened my day -- I've been dodging possums hanging from our front door, mice that somehow snuck into our new kitchen, and rats that have apparently set up shop in our backyard.  Since we were supposed to be flying to a wedding today and that instead devolved into a monster hurricane, I figured I'd take a minute to check in before any more stupidity got in the way.

It hasn't all been bad at the Palazzo Rodentia, though -- in the midst of all the nonsense I've been processing all the music and positive memories acquired in my annual pilgrimage back home for Lollapalooza.  This year was a little different than the previous ten -- despite adding an entire new day to the festival, this was hand's down the weakest lineup in years.  The headliners were actually some of the best parts of the concert for a change and not take em or leave em throwaways like normal -- Radiohead was its usual amazing self and a rare treat to see this side of the pond (it'd been four years since their last appearance), the Chili Peppers put out a solid set of singalong songs for everyone gathered around the campfire, and LCD had one of the best sets of the entire weekend as folks went hellbent for leather and threw everything they had left into a gigantic danceparty before jetting out of town.

In between there was a lot of dead space, though -- a lot of first or second year bands still sharpening their teeth, stretching to fill their hour long slots with material, in addition to the unfortunate creep of monotonous DJs outside the confines of the electro stage ("ONE! TWO! THREE! GO!" and then cue monster sounds and plodding bass lines, over...and over...and over again), which for the first time affected almost every stage at some point or another, if not multiple at once.  It was a little unfortunate and felt like a missed opportunity for a 25th anniversary -- no big reunions, no special guests or appearances from bands that were there at the beginning (minus the Peps).  All in all, though, it was still a great time despite the mediocrity -- Foals destroyed their set in the middle of a monsoon and rocked so hard they stopped the rain (probably earning my vote for weekend champion), Danny Brown was a riotous good time as he ran back and forth whipping folks into a lather, and Silversun Pickups were pure fire in a blissed out set several years in the making.

There were some new discoveries of note, too -- first of which is Lewis del Mar, a duo from Rockaway Beach, NJ, of all places, who mix a swirl of thundering drums with a more laid back, trippy vibe to positive effect.  Frontman Danny Miller's honey-dipped voice and the songs' sauntering tempo give things an almost tropical feel, while drummer Max Harwood keeps you awake and moving as he rides the loud-quiet-loud tempo shifts into the sunset. The pair haven't released a ton, but what they have is pretty great -- "Loud(y)" was the single that took off earlier this year and is a combustible four minute ride (whose opening line is now one of my favorite things to "sing" at people, whether at concerts or at the office), "Painting (Masterpiece)" is a sunnier sounding jam with a great vocal hook, and "Memories" is another delectable spiral of sound effect snippets, juggernaut drums, and lyrics of a busted relationship.  "Malt Liquor" is the one to check first, a smoldering gem that ebbs and flows like the waves of the duo's name and waterfront home.  Check it out here:


Next up is the folksy three-piece from Boston, Honeysuckle, who kicked off day three in the shaded tree-lined cool and slowly woke the crowd from their heat and booze induced stupor. The band isn't doing anything fancy, just belting out song after song of warm three-part harmony, banjo, and plinking mandolin, but it works nicely.  Frontwoman Holly McGarry's voice meshes wonderfully with drummer/guitarist Benjamin Burns' and mandoliner Chris Bloniarz's, and the warm glow at times conjures memories of Out of Time-era R.E.M. and Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. (With more banjo!)  Songs like "Large Regardless" from their Arrows EP and "Canary," "Skincolor," and "Waking Up" from their self-titled debut are all lovely and the perfect soundtrack to a lazy Sunday afternoon. "It's Getting Late" is one of their strongest -- McGarry's voice and the overall melody are great, and when the trio pauses to bellow the title in unison you can feel your heart swell.  Check it out here:


Finally, we'll close with maybe my favorite discovery of the weekend, the snot-nosed skatepunks of FIDLAR.  Their set was a contender for the most fun I had during the festival and a strong contributor to why the last day was definitely the best.  Noisy, brash, "if you don't like us, we don't give a fuck" -- they may have been slightly out of place on such a big stage in the middle of the day in a park, but their attitude and the sloppy excellence of the songs put you in the dark, crappy bar in your head where it needed to be so you could thrash around without worrying. These guys absolutely killed it, tossing out track after track of irresistible punk -- "Got No Money," "Cheap Beer," "Stoked and Broke," "Blackout Stout," "40oz on Repeat," "Punks," "Why Generation..."  Time and again this  four piece from LA throws down three minute blasts about booze, drugs, surfing, and skating, calling to mind everything you want a garage band to sound like.  It's loud, it's messy, but damn if it isn't also a fucking blast.  For me, nothing tops their debut single "Cocaine" -- guitarist Elvis Kuehn's surf rock riff slowly lures you into the buzzsaw of his brother Max pummeling the drums, Brandon Schwartzel's thudding bass line, and frontman Zac Carper's unhinged wail thirty seconds in and you're paste after that. It's three minutes of punk perfection that'll have you pumping your fist and flailing in unison -- just crank it up and check it out here:

The Bitch is Back: Tats, Spaceships, and Shoegaze

Well -- I had been waiting to post until after the eight months long and counting nightmare that is my kitchen renovation was done, as for most of that time I've physically been unable to get to my computer behind the towers of boxes, cabinets, and other chaos clogging the arteries of my house like a hoarder's wet dream.  Unfortunately I'm worried that day may never come (it's been a week and a half since my contractor last returned any calls/texts about what exactly he's fucking doing -- but who's counting!), so wanted to take an opportunity before I dip home for my annual Lolla pilgrimage to toss out a couple recommendations that've been keeping me company amidst the relentless cuntpuntery.

First up is the self-titled debut from Prism Tats, which I discovered by complete accident a few months back.  I normally don't show up early for shows, usually opting to catch the last song or two of the opener to focus on the headliner, and if my timing's off and I miss the opener completely, that's the cost of doing business.  This night, though, because the art of posting accurate set times on your website or social media fora is too difficult for some to master (#2016isthenew1984 #whatsaTwitter #fuckyouandyourplans) we got there at the time for the headliner and instead got to see all of the opener's set first.  Thankfully that happened to be these guys, the normally solo lead singer/lyricist Garett van der Spek and a couple of onstage pals, and they were great.  Van der Spek sounds a little like Ours frontman Jimmy Gnecco at times, or even a punkier Jeff Buckley, with his soaring falsetto on songs, but it works -- both live and on the album.

They opened the former the same way they do the latter, with the drunken kazoo sounding intro of "Pacifist Masochist," which sets the tone well with its driving beat, catchy hook, and sharp lyrics.  Follow on tracks like "Never Been Shy," "Death of Fame," and "Haunt Me" all shine too, harnessing the band's brash energy and van der Spek's snarky, sometimes biting lyrics. ("I don't know where I'm going, but it's nowhere with you" on "Shy" or "sometimes I'd rather lose myself than prove myself alone" on "Pacifist.") Half the time you think he's kidding as he tosses them out with his high pitched delivery, but there's an acidic sincerity to the words that rings true and makes you wonder.  It's a great little album and definitely something to keep your eyes on moving forward.

Nothing tops "Weird Guilt" for me, though, which captures it all in a tight three minute package -- a killer riff, thundering drums, and those cryptic, catchy lyrics. ("I don't want to be your lover again, if being your lover means being your friend (no I no I no I don't), well does that make me just a little insincere?")  Pure sizzle -- check it out here:


Next up is a new layer to the continued obsession that's plagued me the last few years, that of Guided by Voices and their unrelenting frontman Bob Pollard. A buddy first introduced GBV to me fifteen-odd years ago when he gave me a copy of their classic Alien Lanes.  And while there were tracks on there that I instantly loved ("Game of Pricks," "Motor Away," "Blimps go 90") the album as a whole sort of overwhelmed me -- 28 tracks, some seeming afterthoughts ending almost as soon as they'd began ("Cigarette Tricks," "Hit"), others noisy oddities that seemed to be useless throwaways ("Gold Hick," the snoring overlay that drowns out "Ex-Supermodel"). It seemed too scattered and disjointed to me at the time, like it was rushed to market before an editor could get their hands on it and tighten it up.

It wasn't until Pollard put out the band's greatest hits compilation in 2003 that I really started to get into them -- killer tracks like "Everywhere with Helicopters," "Bulldog Skin," "Glad Girls," "Tractor Rape Chain," "Teenage FBI" were all over the album.  Those gems surrounded tracks I remembered from Alien Lanes, which gave me a new appreciation for the earlier material and the band itself.  You could hear the unmistakable influences more clearly now (The Who foremost among them) as well as the army of bands they inspired since I'd first been exposed (everything from Stone Temple Pilots and REM to Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel).  When they broke up the following year (in what I'd come to learn was the beginning of a trend for the restless Pollard) and said farewell in an epic New Year's Eve marathon in Chicago (four plus hours, something close to 75 songs) I was fully on board.

I spent the intervening months downloading tracks from their seemingly endless supply of albums and EPs (well over 50, depending on how you count), and slowly started picking through Pollard's equally prolific solo efforts and side projects.  And I realized that while my initial assessment was still partly correct (Uncle Bob most definitely needs an editor from time to time), some of my favorite tunes included the ones that could initially seem like throwaways ("Tropical Robots" being but one example that leaves you wanting more).

Keeping up with the ever-burgeoning GBV catalog was enough to keep me busy for a long time, dabbling in some of his solo stuff if I had a few spare cycles, but it wasn't until I got a chance to catch them again when they came through town a month or so ago that I found the latest layer to my addiction.  They were here in support of their latest album, Please Be Honest (I've lost count with what number this one is -- somewhere in the high twenties) and the show was brilliant as always -- two and a half hours, two encores, easily fifty-odd songs (including a pretty great cover of The Who's legendary "Baba O'Riley" to close things out), several of which were from this band he kept referencing, the Boston Spaceships.

They were good tunes, very in line with vintage GBV -- sort of British invasion style songs, brash and poppy -- and I made a note to investigate more once the show was over.  As I'm sure is no surprise at this point, it's yet another Pollard side project that I'd somehow missed the bead on, and it instantly became the food for my obsession since the show.  Like later-day GBV lineups, the band recorded with a rotating array of excellent musicians (John Moen from the Decemberists, Mick Collins from the Dirtbombs, J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr.) and together managed to reel off a slew of equally excellent tracks.  Check out the greatest hits album as a starter -- there were the ones I recognized from the show ("Come on Baby Grace," "Tabby and Lucy," "Question Girl Alright"), as well as several other winners -- "You Satisfy Me," "Earmarked for Collision," "Make a Record for Lo-Life," the unsettling drone of "German Field of Shadows." It's a great addition to the repertoire and will keep me going back to the well (as well as the original albums) for months to come.  Check out "Come on Baby Grace" for a taste:


We'll close with a track from a fun little lo fi discovery I stumbled on from another band I'd been introduced to years ago, but also let drift in the intervening years.  I'd first heard this London band back when it was a quartet for its self-titled debut and really dug on their fuzzy style of shoegaze. (I swear I caught them at Lolla that year but can't seem to confirm that so maybe I'm making it up...) Their follow-on was a bit of a let down so it was by chance I heard their new album, Stranger Things, was out and gave them another try.

I'm glad I did, because despite losing a member (original guitarist/vocalist Daniel Blumberg) the remaining three respond nicely on this tight little eleven track effort.  The band continues to call to mind Smashing Pumpkins and Built to Spill at times with their fuzzed up guitars and meandering melodies, but they do so without sounding derivative.  From tracks like the charging "Cannonball" and "Only Silence," to more dreamy downtempo ones like "As I Walk Away," "Like a Moth," and the epic closer "Yr Face" (which could easily be in either the Pumpkins or BTS' catalog) the album shifts styles nicely over its 45 minute duration.  "Hearts in Motion" is the purest distillation of the band's strengths -- solid riffs, all fuzz and thunder, while lead singer/guitarist Max Bloom's melodic coos hover over the din.  Great little track -- check it out here:

Do You Like American Music: A Winning Debut, A Stellar Return II

Thought I'd take advantage of the early spring weather and temporarily pause my weeks-long war with contractors (at home, not work -- THAT war's been waging for years...) to come in with a couple recommendations that've been keeping me busy after the fervent holiday season.  First up is a debut from a little West Virginia five-piece, Ona, that I stumbled on appropriately in the midst of a road trip.  We were driving north, but the album conjures imagery of the American south -- places like Amarillo, Louisiana, and Texarkana all get name-checked, and the tone is as warm as that region's middle months, part early Wilco alt-country, part early Wallflowers indie rock. Lead singer Bradley Jenkins' voice has the same inviting, gravely rasp as the latter band's Dylan, while the lyrics and Made in America mentality are reminiscent of the former's ringleader Tweedy.

It's a winning mixture -- Jenkins and Co rattle through ten tracks of increasing excellence, from the muscular title track "American Fiction," "Ides of July," and lead single "World at War," which are pitch perfect Americana, to more subdued emotional numbers like "Lemon Sea" and "I Will Wait," whose harmonies are absolute kneecappers. Nothing tops "Pipestem," though, which represents the culmination of both aspects -- a propulsive down home groove courtesy of guitarist Zack Owens (along w/ bedrock-solid rhythm section mates Max Nolte, Zach Johnston, and PJ Woodard) alongside a beautiful melody driven by Jenkins harmonizing with the band. There's not a ton written about these guys yet, but with a debut as fantastic as this that's sure to change soon.  Check out "Pipestem" here:



Next up is the return of an old friend, one I'd lost track of and somewhat forgotten over the years, the Midwest legends Violent Femmes. They stumbled from the edge of memory rather unexpectedly, catching them by dumb luck on Colbert a few weeks ago, and it was like having a high school friend (which these guys very much were) show up unannounced on your doorstep.  They're back with their first album in sixteen years, and it's the best they've done in twenty five, capturing the rebellious charm and magic of classics like that year's Why do Birds Sing? and their legendary self-titled debut.  I spent hour upon hour with those two albums growing up, awkwardly singing along with frontman Gordan Gano's nasally whine and chunky acoustic guitar, and they're front and center again here, leading the way through the blistering thirty minute, ten song salvo of We Can do Anything. From lead single "Memory" to instant classics like "Issues" and "Foothills," the album is a return to form for the folk-punk trio.

The band's always been at its best when singing about love and teenage angst, filtering those topics through Gano's irreverent, flippant, and at times darkly humorous lyrics, and they do so again masterfully here.  In addition to the aforementioned trio, there's the lovely 50s-era ballad "What you Really Mean," the smirking "Travelling Solves Everything" (with its laughingly satisfying chant of "STEW! STEW! STEW!") and "Big One" (whose double entendres and twist ending are vintage Femmes), and the snarky, sarcastic venom of "Untrue Love," all of which sound instantly familiar and will quickly have you singing along.  There's nary a bad song to be found -- even when they veer a little too close to kid pop on tracks like "I Could be Anything," there's a winning charm and infectiousness that grants them an exemption.  All in all it's a fast, fun way to spend half an hour and a welcome reunion for these beloved old friends.  Get reacquainted the same way I did, with the lead single "Memory," which would sound at home on either of those aforementioned classics.  Check it out here:

At Least It's Friday: The Best of 2015

Well, it's been a heck of a year.  Easily the most consistently frustrating and infuriating year of my professional (and at times personal) life, this has been a year about testing resolve and one's belief in the bigger picture.  That for every battle lost on a day to day basis -- which at times seemed to number in the dozens -- the broader expenditure of energy and investment (and pain suffered as a result) would not only pay off, but was worth it. For everything from how to stand up (and then run) an enormous new venture to far more simple things like basic communication and requests, this was a war with a thousand fronts and no seeming end to the hostilities.

It was the year of the dick punching machine -- a fabled contraption that came to be emblematic of the struggle -- and standing in front of its fury for 12-15 hrs a day, sometimes longer, to get the ever-loving piss knocked out of you. You did it because you had to, you did it because it was unavoidable, you did it because you were too stupid (or tired) to find any acceptable escapes.  The phrase referenced in the post's title was a tragicomic refrain initially uttered at the end of one's wits on the appropriate day, but then gradually uttered earlier and earlier in the week until you found yourself muttering it by 9AM on a Monday and disbelieving the fact you had five more days to go.  Yes, the DPM was legion, and there was (and still is) no identified cure. 

That said, there were still bright spots hidden in the muck (I wouldn't be Bobby Sunshine if I couldn't find em!) -- I took more days off than in previous years in an effort to avoid as much punishment as possible and don't forfeit any leave at year's end for a change.  I built retaining walls and ornamentally decorated others with tiles.  I hand placed and leveled eleventy billion patio bricks. I designed kitchens and watched hockey (world champs, baby!). I read books (discovering Harry Crews and his masterful A Feast of Snakes and diving deeper into Neil Gaiman never disappointed) and watched movies (Whiplash and Interstellar blew me away as I caught up from last year). I bought expensive drums and relaxed with Ladypants.

And above all I listened to music.   I got to two festivals, a ton of shows in between, and burned through even more albums at home, the best of which are detailed below.  Some you'll recognize as I wrote about them earlier in the year, others will be completely new and appear here for the first time.  There's 29 in all, which is up a bit from last year and potentially a good reason for me taking more time off so I can find even more next year.

Similar to last year the top slot features an offering from an all-time fave that was ten years in the making, and the list is also a little lighter than previous years on electro and rap again (there's only three of the former and NONE of the latter (though I listened to "Hotline Bling" almost enough to warrant an entry), which has only happened once before on these year-end reviews).  What remains, though, truly is the best of the best.  For while the extra free time gave me the opportunity to find a lot more music, it also allowed me to scrutinize what I found even more than usual.  So what shows up below has withstood some pretty withering scrutiny (exacerbated at times by a unabashedly crappy mood), which hopefully is an indicator of its quality.  So take a walk through the forest of the unfamiliar with me and see what calls out to you -- you may not like every thing suggested below, but I guarantee you'll be able to find something.

Until next time, my friends...enjoy! (And Merry Christmas!)
--BS
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1. Sleater-Kinney -- No Cities to Love: This one had the top spot from the first listen and never looked back. Similar to a few others in the top five, this came out nearly an entire year ago and has managed to stand up to an unbelievable amount of listening, which would have exposed flaws in far lesser fare.  That it hasn't after this much time and punishment speaks to its exceptional quality -- ten songs of undeniable, irresistible listening that will leave you a breathless, spent puddle by the end of it. There's the hammer blow of the opening "Price Tag," "Surface Envy," and "Bury Our Friends," the rollicking "Fangless," "New Wave," and "Hey Darling."  There's the growling thunder of the closing "Fade" and the mindfuck of the year, "No Anthems."  There isn't a bad one in the bunch -- hell, there's barely one that's not "outstanding" -- and the fact that they were away one year for every song here is amazing.  To be gone that long and come back this potent speaks to why this is one of the best rock bands out there -- period.

I listened to this album more than any others this year by far, and in a year that was as infuriating and frustrating as this one was, it was the perfect accompaniment -- to either blow off some steam and shred (as a firm believer in the merits of percussive therapy, Janet Weiss' work is one of the best to thrash along to) or to muster the resolve to pick myself up and keep punching back. No other album had as many mind melting "holy F#$K!" moments as this one, and none were even remotely of the same magnitude.  This will fry your neighbor's brains when you put it on, it's that powerful.  These ladies remain one of my overall faves and true titans of rock. I can't think of anything more to say about them than I did earlier this year, other than they continue to blow me away ten months later.  Put this one on again and turn it up -- WAY up.

2. Alabama Shakes -- Sound & Color: This one didn't miss the top spot by much, representing the most surprising, vibrant, and at times difficult album -- both to categorize and digest, based on the expectations set on the debut -- but also the most continuously rewarding.  It's an absolute masterpiece, one I turned to relentlessly over the year and was never disappointed.  As I wrote before, the band took a huge risk putting out an album so different from their first, but it pays off magnificently.  What we get in return is an album that hits harder, registers deeper, and stays with you longer, shifting effortlessly from vintage soul, R&B, and blues, to their brand of Southern-tinged rock.

It's difficult to capture just how good they are here.  The blissfully warm title track, the powerhouse lead single "Don't Wanna Fight" (which was a personal, if not also professional theme song this year), the unbelievable "Dunes" and its Stax-style siblings "Future People," "Gimme All Your Love," "Miss You, and "Guess Who."  They all continue to amaze after repeated listens, and they give the more contemplative, quiet numbers like "This Feeling" and "Over My Head" even more power. Seeing it performed live was an almost religious experience, one that actually brought a tear to my eye at one point.  Frontwoman Brittany Howard and the boys have gone WAY above and beyond here.  This is one for the ages...

3. Built to Spill -- Untethered Moon: This is another one I wrote about earlier in the year (this will be a trend, as you might already have noticed), and another that's more than held up to some heavy listening.  Idaho legends Doug Martsch and Co. charged back after a six year hiatus (their longest to date) with their eight album, and it's a seamless addition to their already impressive catalog.  There are some bands who you might want (or tolerate) changing their sound and pushing the boundaries of what they can do as a unit, just to see what comes back. (See the Shakes above for one example of how it can go really well.)

This isn't one of those bands.  BTS is SO good at what they do -- smart, thoughtful indie rock, full of incredibly intricate guitar parts and melodies, constantly shifting tempos, and an array of thoughts and moods -- that I don't want them to change a thing.  They already find so much variety within the lines of such high quality that I don't want them to color outside of them. (I'm sure it would be amazing, but I don't want a Doug Martsch R&B album anytime soon...) They're essentially the pigs of the music world -- the best, most delectable and versatile being that I want every time it's offered to me, and more of every time I'm done.

That they've been doing so at this level for 20 years is pretty remarkable, and they don't show any signs of slowing down now.  They throw down the gauntlet with the first song, "All Our Songs" (honestly, there's not a band out there that does tone-setting, monster openers better than these guys), and don't slow down much from there.  "Living Zoo" and "Another Day" are among the best things they've recorded (I must have listened to both of them nearly a hundred times this year), "So" and "Some Other Song" slowly build towards explosions, "C.R.E.B." is a shape-shifting juggernaut, and "Never the Same" and "Horizon to Cliff" show Martsch's softer, sweeter side.  There's nary a note out of place (I still think "When I'm Blind" could use a slight trim in the middle, but its bookends are great).  Add this one to the pantheon of greatness.

4. The Districts -- A Flourish and a Spoil: The sophomore album from the boys from Philly gets off to a sizzling start with "4th and Roebling" as an expectant bass line and kick drum thump along, building incrementally as singer/guitarist Rob Grote comes in with the verse, and then exploding in full flourish with the second verse.  (When Grote sings what was often a piece of inner dialogue this year, "Sunshine, I believe we're headed the right way, but then again I can't quite tell for sure...") It shows right away what the band does so well -- build songs to frantic explosions that're so fulfilling you'll find yourself circling the room punching the air or drumming along in tandem.

These guys are hands-down one of my favorite bands to come along in the last few years, and I worked the shit out of this album from the time it came out in February and it hasn't diminished an iota since. The payoffs in tracks like "Hounds" and "Bold" are still irresistible, the singalongs for tracks like "Peaches," "Sing the Song," and "Heavy Begs" are still exuberant, and even the two hushed solo moments on "Suburban Smell" and "6AM" work nicely. Grote's lyrics continue to improve, as well, with notes of bitterness and anxiety whose origins (or target) may not always be clear, but that feel honest and true, allowing you to take them as your own from song to song. (Not that I have anything to be bitter about...)

Whether you pay attention to the lyrics or not, though, these guys just flat out slay -- this is an album chock full of gems from a band that should be twenty times bigger than they are. They're even better live, and never moreso than when they play their ready-made encore epic, "Young Blood," which remains nine minutes of pure perfection. They closed both shows I saw them at this year with it, and it destroys every time (as it does every time it comes on in my car). The shouted refrain at the end felt like a mantra of mine many times this year -- "it's a long way back to the height from where I am" -- but you're pumped to go smash back into that wall every time after listening.  Another killer album from a band that hopefully has half a dozen more like it in them.

5. Father John Misty -- I Love You, Honeybear: This is another one that came out really early in the year and that has spent more than a few spins on repeat on the stereo since.  Similar to the above, it's the second album for Misty, but unlike the Districts' follow-up effort that kills you with its climaxes, what kills you here is Misty's withering lyrics.  (His amazing voice and the lovely melodies don't hurt either.) As I wrote earlier this year, every song has at least a couple lines that are sharp enough to pierce stone, and that's what makes his stuff special -- how he juxtaposes that honey-laden croon with his snarky, at times wickedly funny lyrics. 

The potency hasn't been diluted at all in the intervening months -- lead single "Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins)," "Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Goddamn Thirsty Crow," and "Strange Encounter" still kill, while more subdued tracks like the opener and the last three on the album only got better with more listens. (I still hate the dancy "True Affection," which just sounds out of place, and skip it every time it comes on.) The album ages really well and rewards repeated listens, particularly on those last few songs.  When this first came out my brain was fried by the time I reached the halfway point of "Crow" and I'd just go back and listen to those opening tracks again, to see "did he just say that?" or to immerse myself in the brilliance of tracks like "Chateau" or "The Night Josh Tillman Came to Our Apt.," which remains my favorite song on the album and the best song that came out this year.

As the year went on, though, and I got to sit with some of those quieter numbers -- particularly the last three -- I saw that they were every bit as good as the early obsessions. I especially love "Bored in the USA," which is both hilarious and so perfectly representative of the bitter cynicism and malaise that Misty radiates (and I sometimes share) it should be a national anthem. (The opening line is "How many people rise and say, 'My brain's so awfully glad to be here for yet another mindless day?'" -- and it only gets better after that.) It's a hell of an album and worth every ounce of effort to sit down and just listen to it (and nothing else).

6. Shakey Graves -- And the War Came; Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats -- Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats; Black Pistol Fire -- Hush or Howl: This slot's for my Southern soul and a couple albums that kept it going this year.  First up is Shakey's sophomore outing, which marks a dramatic leap forward from his uneven debut, Roll the Bones.  This one's borderline perfection, with songs so winning and melodies so infectious you're all but powerless to sing along.  He doesn't change the recipe -- it's still primarily him on guitar with his suitcase kickdrum and tamb -- but the songs that pair him with a full band (or better yet, his knee-buckling harmonies with Esme Patterson) give the songs an extra oomph that was often missing on the debut.  There's nary a bad track to be found -- "The Perfect Parts," "Dearly Departed," and "Big Time Nashville Star" all are rollicking, big-hearted singles, while "Only Son," "Hard Wired," "Pansy Waltz," and "House of Winston" all hit the softer, more sentimental side.  The effect overall is an unqualified success -- a little bit of heart and a little country swagger, like ole Sunshine after a couple sazeracs.  Fantastic album.

Next comes one of my accidental, but probably most prized, discoveries this year, the outstanding debut from Rateliff and his band of merry men.  Rateliff has been doing the solo singer-songwriter thing for several years now, but was struggling to break through (which is a shame because his solo stuff has some beauties tucked away), so he decided to take one more swing at it, this time ditching the melancholic man on stage and replacing him with a raucous gang of ruffians to see if that resonated.  The result was nothing short of a bomb blast, as the band offered up some of the most ebullient, uplifting music of the year -- part Mardi Gras second line, part tobacco fields spirituals, this is revival music at its finest, food for your heart and soul.  Both sides will go away more than nourished here, the former from tracks like "Howling at Nothing," "Wasting Time," and "Mellow Out," the latter from booming tracks like "I Need Never Get Old," "Trying so Hard Not to Know," "Look it Here," and the irresistible "S.O.B.," which is a close second for my favorite track of the year.  It's an infectious blend, one that'll get you moving early and often, no matter how many times you listen to it.

Last up is one that came out late last year and got lost in the shuffle of prepping for the holidays and processing the year's worth of music that came before it, but luckily wasn't lost completely.  That's because once I got around to it, it completely knocked me on my ass -- I put it on regular repeat and haven't stopped since. This is only the second album for the Austin-based blues duo, yet they sound as confident and self-assured as a band with three times as much output.  The album's brisk 30-odd minutes are chock full with some monster songs (at 9:2 it's a lot more "Howl" than "Hush") -- the opening trio of "Alabama Coldcock," "Dimestore Heartthrob," and "Baby Ruthless" are an irresistible onslaught that pauses only momentarily before thundering through another sterling triple -- "Hipster Shakes," "Run Rabbit Run," and "Honeydripper."  "Show Pony" is the album's final major assault, and it's every bit as good as its predecessors, with breaks that could smash concrete.

The band (and album) are reminiscent of the Black Keys/White Stripes with glimmers of Zeppelin (who they weave into their mixtape-like live sets, along with Marley, Springsteen, and others) as guitarist Kevin McKeown and drummer Eric Owen thrash away, but don't write them off as derivative.  This is a fantastic album, one that somehow manages to sound even better live. I've caught the guys twice this year and it didn't matter whether I was in a field with hundreds of people or a living room with a few dozen, they absolutely shredded the place.  Pop this one in and crank it up to eleven -- it's about to get swampy.

7. Astral Swans -- All my Favorite Singers are Willie Nelson; Foals -- What Went Down: This slot's for strange bedfellows -- one a strange, hypnotic debut, the other a much awaited return from a recent fave -- but a duo that worked in tandem to keep the Sunshine Express moving this year.  For the former, in a year that was a brutalizing as this past year was, little pools of solace were often all I had to keep going.  So like a shimmering pond and palm tree in the desert, I found myself pulling my bloodied husk towards the refuge and relief of things like this album time and again.  Calgary native Matthew Swann's hushed voice, fractal lyrics, and the resulting foggy, fuzzy atmosphere formed the sonic representation of my emotional resolve this year.  When he sings "it's a teeeeeeeeerrible state" over and over on "Please Don't Leave me Strange" or things like "I will never forget, even when my mind is gone" on "Holly Drive" in scarcely more than a whisper, you can picture him lying there battered on the floor, croaking out the lines that way because a whisper's all he could muster. (And that may or may not be how/where I would be listening to it, in a very similar state.)

It's a great, strange album -- part 60s folk and psychedelic, part 90s grunge -- that's tough to categorize and even tougher to turn off. The album's twelve songs fit together perfectly to create this warm, intoxicating haze, as Swann's voice and his catchy melodies reach out from the speakers and envelop you.  High points remain the opening "There are Ways to get What you Want," the punky "Let Their Faces All Blur Out," and the plaintive "What Calms you Down, Freaks me Out." And for the busted up listener on the mat, the versatility of Swann's cryptic lyrics will keep you coming back for more, as they at times seem like fragments of your own thoughts. ("Let's have the weekend, until the beginning of the end" from "Beginning of the End" or "when my mind broke to the point of not feeling" on "Grass Girl.") A strong debut, which hopefully has a near-term follow on.

The back half picks up where the former leaves off, getting me moving once I've finally gotten off the floor, completing a ritual I performed hundreds of times this year. It's the fourth album from the British five piece and it finds them sounding better than ever after a couple years off, continuing the momentum from that strong last outing. (2013's Holy Fire) It's their fullest assault to date, showcasing the band's numerous strengths -- the knotty, jaunty guitar parts that crisscross and swirl like dive-bombing birds ("Birch Tree," "Albatross," "Night Swimmers"); the insurgent rockers that trample forward like charging bulls (the title track, "Snake Oil"); the blissed out, downtempo numbers that stretch out into the black ("Give it All," "London Thunder").

All of them are propelled by frontman Yannis Philippakis, whose intensity helps lend a number of the songs a grandeur and urgency not previously seen.  The band's always had a raw, buoyant energy, but it's tended to tip more towards the cerebral side in years past.  Here Philippakis and Co. seem to be aiming more for the heart, with more unadorned lyrics and his plaintive wail, which gives the album an anthemic feel at times. It translates well live, too, with lead guitarist Jimmy Smith gleefully singing along mike free to each of the album's tracks while drummer Jack Bevan uncorks some utterly head-scratching rhythms. (I was intently watching him and still don't know how his movements match up to the sound on some tracks.)  It's a potent mix, and the band does a nice job shifting between the moods and colors to keep you off-balance.  It gives the album a rich, varied feel that keeps you coming back for more.

8. Cold War Kids -- Hold my Home;  Modest Mouse -- Strangers to Ourselves: This slot's for the bald, bearded guys who work as quality control technicians for the DPM, and a return to form for two of their favorite bands (though not necessarily their ladies'). First up are the Cold War Kids whose fifth album finds them continuing the resurgence they found on their last, Dear Miss Lonelyhearts, and stepping ever further from the overwrought mess of a middle album.  It's a welcome sight -- I'd all but written them off after that album, and it wasn't until the swing for the fences earnestness on "Miracle Mile" that I decided to give them another shot.  And I'm glad I did -- Lonelyhearts was a solid return to form, if a bit meek at times, almost like the band itself was testing the waters and seeing how it felt. This album shakes off all the shyness and is far more self-assured, as evident on songs like "Drive Desperate," "Hotel Anywhere," the title track, and "Flower Drum Song," which crackle with energy.  They shift seamlessly to slower songs as well, tracks like "First," "Nights & Weekends," and "Harold Bloom," where lead singer Nathan Willett breaks into a convincing croon. It's an eclectic mix, which is what the band has always offered at its best, and this marches them a whole lot closer to the greatness of their debut.

Speaking of eclectic mix, next is the return of Modest Mouse, six years since their last EP (the middling No One's First, and You're Next) and eight since their last studio album (the masterful We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank).  Thankfully it tips far closer to the latter, a characteristic smorgasbord of weirdness and charm as only frontman Isaac Brock could offer up. There's straightforward winners like lead single "Lampshades on Fire," "The Ground Walks, With Time in a Box," "Be Brave," and "The Best Room," slower fare like the lovely "Coyotes" and the lurching "Shit in Your Cut" and "The Tortoise and the Tourist."  And then there's the vintage Isaac weirdness -- the carnival soundtrack of "Sugar Boats," the indecipherable fragment "God is an Indian and You're an Asshole," and the serial killer on the phone vocals of "Pistol (A. Cunanan, Miami, FL 1996)," which is infectious insanity and what I imagine a clown's inner monologue sounds like. Somehow it all hangs together, though, and what would sound like an unholy mess in less skilled hands sounds like a carefully crafted monument in Isaac's. Here's to him not taking the better part of the decade off again and coming back soon.

9. Bear's Den -- Islands; James Bay -- Chaos and the Calm; The Hunts -- Those Younger Days:  This slot's for pure prettiness, with a couple of bands whose debut albums offered some of the year's lovelier tracks.  I found all of them at festivals -- the first two at my annual pilgrimage home to Lolla, the last one at the party in my backyard that was Landmark -- and each of them has stayed with me in the months since.  On paper there are a couple stark differences -- the Lolla ones are comprised of four unrelated lads from London, the Landmark one seven siblings from Maryland; the first two are mid/late twenty year olds singing of love and loss, the last one kids in their late teens/early twenties singing with the unvarnished optimism to which their relative youth typically subscribes -- but each aims for the heart and routinely finds their target.

Wielding a mess of acoustic guitars and supplementary strings, the bands offer up albums full of top notch melodies that'll weaken the knees and wound the ticker -- for Bear's Den it's tracks like "Agape," "Isaac," "Bad Blood," and "Above the Clouds of Pompeii," which still draws blood half a year later; for the Hunts it's ones like "Valentina," "Illuminate," "Douse the Flame" and "Make this Leap," which still borders on pure jubilation with every listen. 

And then there's Bay, whose album (and age) walks the line between the two, as the title implies  -- full-throated pop songs like "Craving," "If You Ever Want to be in Love," "When we Were on Fire," and "Get Out While You Still Can," each of which will have you belting the words out alongside him. He mixes these with slower gems like "Hold Back the River," "Let it Go," "Move Together," and "Need the Sun to Break," which smolder with Bay's voice and honest lyrics. In a year that was filled with frustration and fury, I often found myself turning to these for solace, to bask in the warmth of their hearths and find quarter from the unrelenting storm.


10. Chemical Brothers -- Born in the Echoes; Skrillex and Diplo -- Skrillex and Diplo Present: Jack U; Major Lazer -- Peace is the Mission: This slot's for the electroheads, and despite not being in the mood to boogie much this year thanks to my relentless friend the DPM, there were a few selections that managed to punch through the punishment and get things moving.  First up is the latest from the veteran Chems, their first studio album in five years and their eighth overall, and as I wrote earlier it's a perfect summation of their previous offerings.  There's the hard charging "Sometimes I Feel so Deserted" and "EML Ritual," the hypnotic "Under Neon Lights" and title track, the big beats of "Go" and "I'll See you There," and the spacy "Reflexion" and "Taste of Honey." It's a wide ranging affair, one that culminates with the buoyant "Wide Open," which serves as the equivalent of daybreak after the album's soundtrack to a night in the club.

Next comes the ballyhooed pairing of two of electro's biggest names, the EDM equivalent of Kanye and Jay-Z teaming up a few years back.  And similar to that offering (which also ended up on the year end list) it lives up to the hype, showcasing the strengths of each of the participants without sounding dissonant or disjointed.  Which is saying something, as I'm normally not the biggest fan of Skrillex -- his monsters-fucking-a-space-station sound can be grating at times, but here it blends nicely with Diplo's more motley assortment of tones and influences, sometimes seamlessly as on tracks like "Beats Knocking" and "Febreze."  Other tracks tip more towards Diplo's style, and actually call to mind his work on the Major Lazer album that would come out several months later (more on that in a second).  Tracks like "To U," "Mind," and "Take U" (particularly the mind-fryingly good version with Missy's verses) all soar and wouldn't sound out of place on that album. Even the track with Justin Bieber ("Where Are You Now") works well. (Bieber hands to the sky!)

It's a perfect companion to the third Lazer album, which as I wrote earlier shows Diplo and Co slowing things down a bit to powerful effect. Similar to those last few tracks on Jack U, the best moments here are the half steppers, the ones that glide along on the backs of some killer female vocals and even better beats.  Tracks like the opening "Be Together," the closing "All my Love," and the monster duo of "Lean On" and "Powerful" in between outshine almost everything around it. The uptempo tracks still sizzle, though -- maybe a little more so for the juxtaposition -- "Blaze up the Fire" and "Roll the Bass" are pure dancehall grime, while "Too Original" is the track that would burn the dancehall to the ground; an absolute fucking monster. Diplo keeps his title as electro's Midas with two more notches in the win column here.  Crank it up.

11. Catfish and the Bottlemen -- The Balcony; Hippo Campus -- Bashful Creatures/South; Atlas Genius -- Inanimate Objects: These three represent the poppier side of things, a mix of big hooks, bigger choruses, and more synth than I usually allow myself close to, but it works so I'm not going to fight it (or apologize).  First up are a couple of debuts from bands I found back at Lolla -- Catfish and company come our way from across the pond, Hippo and the kids from Minnesota -- and both were instant faves at the festival.  They've held up well in the intervening months, Catfish on the backs of their insanely catchy tunes (the opening trio of "Homesick," "Kathleen," and "Cocoon" are absolute whoppers, followed by equally winning tracks like "Pacifier" and "Business"), while Hippo does so on their pure effervescence.  (Songs like "Sophie So," "Little Grace," and the seal barking "Suicide Saturday" are pure sunshine, as are later releases "Dollar Bill" and "South.") Pop either on to put a kick in your step -- you'll be dancing around and singing in no time.

Last up is the follow-on album from Aussie synth pop dynamos Atlas, whose first album was an infectious blend of jangly guitars, shimmery keys, and big pop choruses, and this one's no different.  From the opening one-two of "The Stone Mill" and lead single "Molecules," to latter gems "Stockholm," "A Perfect End," and "The City we Grow," the band shows they can still wallop a pop hit like the best of 'em. They show some respectable range as well, on tracks like the smoldering "Where I Belong" and the lovely duo of "Balladino" and "Levitate," the latter of which closes the album on a blissful, serene note.  It's a solid showing for a band trying to stand up to some serious pressure thanks to their hit maker of a debut.  They handle it nicely, though, and keep us interested in what round III will hold.

12. The Arcs -- Yours, Dreamily; Avers -- Empty Light: This slot's for the throwbacks and a couple of albums that winningly conjure up sounds from decades past.  First up it's Black Keys frontman Dan Auerbach's side project debut, a mix of 60s psychedelia and 70s soul that for some reason calls to mind spaghetti westerns and 70s cop movies to me. A number of songs/riffs seem tailor made for movie soundtracks of that era -- "Put a Flower in Your Pocket," "Pistol Made of Bone," "Cold Companion" -- they all crackle with that vintage feel that's part scuzzy fuzz, part shimmering sunlight. Tracks like "Velvet Ditch" (which switches from a Sergio Leone style whistle to a classic funk riff before the song even starts) and "Come & Go" (which sounds like the movie it's backing is already playing in the background) only deepen the effect.  More straightforward tracks keep things from going too far into the ether -- lead single "Outta my Mind" and "The Arc" are busting with energy rockers, while "Stay in my Corner" and "Rosie (Ooh La La)" are pure soul.  Auerbach's got a hell of an ear for melody, and as with his regular gig (and solo stuff) he doesn't disappoint here.

The back half's for the debut from the Richmond six piece Avers who I managed to catch at Landmark festival and was blown away -- in part by the volume (which with a five vocalist, four guitar attack was epic), but mostly by the killer mix of psychedelic haze and garage rock they conjure up.  As I wrote then, they shift effortlessly between British invasion style rock ("The Only One," "Girls With Headaches") and fuzzed up noir ("White Horses," "Harvest," "Evil") and the overall effect is a knockout.  Even slower, more ethereal songs like the title track, "Barrel to Mouth," or "Top of the Stairs" work with their smoldering moodiness.  With so many vocalists taking the lead throughout the album, each with a unique sensibility and tone, it leads to a wide range of textures and depth that's continuously fulfilling.  This is another debut that leaves you longing for a quick follow-on.

13. Ex Hex -- Rips; Honeyblood -- Honeyblood: This slot's for the lady killers -- not hunky slabs of man meat who'll melt your heart and captivate your dreams such as myself, but rather a gang of ladies who will knock those guys, and everyone around them, on their butts.  First up is DC-native Mary Timona's latest project, a three piece I discovered at Landmark and immediately dug as they whipped the crowd up with their Joan Jett-style rockers. As I wrote then, the lyrics may not knock you over, but the attitude and hooks will, and they've got ample helpings of both to do the job.  Tracks like "Don't Wanna Lose," "Beast," "You Fell Apart," and "Waterfall" all continue to invoke the album title and rip, while songs like "Waste Your Time," "How You Got That Girl," and "Outro" smother the sneer and show a little vulnerability.  It's just a flat out fun album, chock full of energy and hooks.  Pop it in and start pogoing.

Next is the Scottish duo Honeyblood, who I sort of stumbled into by accident.  Their lead single "Bud" came out a couple years ago and I'd really enjoyed it, but hadn't heard anything more from them.  Until, that is, I bought tickets for the wrong show and ended up catching their tour for their full length debut earlier this year.  (As with everything this year, reading was apparently too taxing for me so when I thought I saw "Houndmouth" was playing and bouth tickets, this was who actually showed up...)  It turned out to be a happy accident, though, because lead singer/guitarist Stina Marie Claire Tweeddale and drummer Shona McVicar offer up a bunch of catchy, punky songs that'll get stuck in your head. From tracks like "Fall Forever" and "Super Rat" to "Killer Bangs" and "All Dragged Up," the album is chock full of brash, pissed off songs about breakups and love that are as catchy as they are unguarded.  Slower tracks like "(I'd Rather Be) Anywhere But Here," "No Spare Key," and "Joey" round things out nicely, and Tweeddale's Glaswegian accent makes everything sound more alluring throughout.  Here's to intermittent literacy and strokes of fortune (and all things Scottish!)...

14. Two Gallants -- We Are Undone; Benjamin Booker -- Benjamin Booker: This slot's for some good old fashioned blues, the first by the San Francisco twosome on their sixth full length album, the latter a solo affair by the New Orleans-based newcomer on his first.  The Gallants offer more of what we expect here -- a hearty mix of uptempo stompers (the title track, "Incidental," "Fools Like Us"), smoldering gems ("Invitation to the Funeral," "Some Trouble"), and heartfelt, winning shufflers ("My Man Go," "Katy Kruelly," "There's so Much I Don't Know").  It's even better live, as lead singer/guitarist Adam Stephens and drummer Tyson Vogel fill the room with an unexpected amount of earnest noise for a twin bill.

Booker is even more unabashed and raw on his brash, unbridled debut.  From the punky opener of "Violent Shiver" to fellow thunderpunches "Have You Seen my Son" and "Old Hearts," there's very few missteps for the 26-year old.  Add to the aforementioned the hard charging "Always Waiting," "Wicked Waters," and "Kids Never Grow Older" and you've got an album whose winners more than outpace the minor detractions.  This one came out late last year and similar to BPF's latest got caught in the end of the year frenzy that kept me from discovering it until the snow was past the roof.  I'm glad I finally dug into it, though. Even the slower tracks work well -- "Slow Coming," "I Thought I Heard you Screaming," and "By the Evening" showcase Booker's raspy voice and unvarnished heart nicely.  It's a winning affair, rough edges and all.

15. Houndmouth -- Little Neon Limelight; Thunderbitch -- Thunderbitch: This slot's another one for my backwater leanings and two more fragments from my Southern soul. First up is the follow-up from the Louisville foursome I wrote about earlier this year. As I wrote then, it's an album that showcases the band's fantastic four-part harmonies and winning melodies, but what kept it from fully resonating with me (then as now) is a mix of false bravado and insincere (or overly contrived) lyrics. That still stands -- on the songs where it's most flagrant it still sticks out like the chick throwing her hair around and dancing like a pole dancer in a crowded club -- but in the intervening months my annoyance with those aberrations has diminished.

That's probably in part to seeing them live at Landmark this summer.  What came across as cloying and slightly annoying on the album seemed more sincere in person when the four bandmates seemed to honestly be enjoying themselves and the songs; it came across as more playful and earnest than artificial and engineered. I still maintain they're at their best when they ditch the posturing and sing what they know -- tracks like "Sedona," "Honey Slider," "Gasoline," and "Darlin'" still shine this many months later -- so you hope they find that sweet spot on their third outing and really take it to the next level.

If the knock on the first one is limited sincerity in the lyrics, the knock on the second one could be limited depth there.  In its brief ten song, thirty-odd minute duration well over half the songs make references to rock and roll, guitars, parties, and a leather jacket. If you take the album for what it is, though -- Alabama Shakes frontwoman Brittany Howard's unbridled id -- it's a more excusable offense.  Impulses of the id aren't supposed to be deep, they're supposed to be raw, primal, and fun.  And these are (or to steal a line from the song on the aforementioned jacket, "totally fuckin' awesome") -- said song of bovine backwear, "I Don't Care," "I Wanna Rock and Roll," "Eastside Party," "Wild Child," "My Baby is my Guitar," "Let Me Do What I Do Best" -- these tracks are loud, rough eruptions of Howard's reptilian part of the brain (or her ample pair of she-balls). It actually calls to mind what I picture the Shakes' early days sounded like, banging away in the back room of a bar, the crowd packed in, drunk, and sweaty, but loving every minute of it.

Howard balances these songs nicely with three key emanations from her softer side, the side displayed more nakedly (and to masterful effect) on the Shakes' follow on, as noted above. Tracks like "Very Best Friend," "Heavenly Feeling," and the sledgehammer of a song, "Closer," are all perfectly positioned to break up the blitzkreig pace of the songs around it.  They're the equivalent of a tall glass of water in the midst of a night-long bender. (Shot! Shot! Shot! Water. Shot! Shot! Water.) Overall it's a fun sidestep from her day job and the soundtrack to a solid evening on the tiles for you and yours.