Bon Bon Pistolet: Songs of Love and Sunshine

In the midst of the unrelenting chaos that is my work life of late (or perennially, if I'm not being self-delusional), the following two albums have provided shelter from the storm, one an incredibly happy accident, the other a much-awaited follow-up. The former refers to what I still worry is a sign of my ever-fragmenting sanity --an album that was never released by an artist that seemingly never was. Honestly, if I didn't have a copy of it and hadn't been playing it on endless repeat the last month, I'd be sure I'd made the whole thing up. I don't even remember how I heard about him to first start sniffing around -- all I had was his name scribbled on one of my myriad Post-It notes, an apparent message from Providence written during a divinely inspired blackout. If this is the price of losing your mind, though, it's one well worth paying.

The album is 25 Songs and the artist is Jay Jay Pistolet (British folk singer Justin Hayward Young), but dig around on the internet and that's about the extent of what you'll be able to find. The album is not available commercially, and it appears the extent of Pistolet's official catalog is a lonely pair of singles released over two years ago. Yet somehow this magnificent album exists -- 25 songs of sheer and utter perfection. Songs about love, ladies, and the finer things in life (the few that exist outside those first two categories, that is); songs so peaceful and pretty they make your heart ache and knees weak with every listen.

There's folk songs, honkytonk pop blasts, whispered confessionals, and tiny electro raves. The last album that packed so much variety and heart into a single offering is the one that feels like this one's big brother, the Magnetic Fields' masterpiece 69 Love Songs. Like that album (one of my absolute favorites), this one is busting at the seams with charm and emotion, routinely leaving you on the edge of smiling or crying from the all loveliness. Songs like "Friend, We Weren't Even Lovers," "I Can't Let Go," "The Secrecy of Mon Amie," and "Holly" are absolutely devastating, shotgun blasts of beauty straight to the chest.

Then there are the songs that sound like they were unearthed from a time capsule or the ruins of some ancient civilization. "Saint Michel," "Vintage Red," "Come On," and "Postmodern Blues" sound like they should be coming out of the window of some house as you walk on the bank of the Seine in early century Paris or out of the dusty horn of a gramophone in some Victorian-style lounge. The effect is beguiling -- they feel antiquated, and yet immediately recognizable. For these reasons and others, the album feels like a found treasure; like having the password to some backalley speakeasy or your enemy's invasion plans the week before the attack. You feel lucky for what's been acquired and immediately want to share it with those closest to you.

So you should -- keeping something this good to your self feels greedy, so finish your old-fashioned and launch a preemptive strike. You can download the album here (don't worry, it's safe, and if it was available commercially I'd say you should buy it -- but it's not, so don't deprive yourself any longer) and check out two of its gems below, the folksy charmer "We Are Free" and the beautiful "Emily's Book."






The second album capturing my mind of late is the much-awaited follow-up for Bon Iver, the eponymous sophomore effort for the honey-voiced songster from Wisconsin. As is so often the case, the task at hand is daunting -- release something that can match or surpass the masterful debut, in this case the wonderful For Emma, Forever Ago. (An instant classic, one of the best albums released the last five years.) Rather than try to compete with that, though, lead singer/guitarist Justin Vernon rather wisely took the side door and went in a different direction.

Vernon seems to have realized that Emma was the product of a particular (and particularly painful) moment in time, one that happened to coincide (both in timing and content) with one of my own. For my part, I discovered that album at the beginning of my descent -- when my job situation was becoming untenable and I couldn't find a replacement; when the girl I was going to marry was growing more and more depressed and suicidal and our relationship began to implode; when savings dwindled and debt piled up in its stead; when life decisions were questioned and then abandoned; when the family I had long waited to reunite with had to be left again after seven short months.

For me, the album was catharsis -- by exploring it throughout my life's continued destruction, I found clarity, hope, and renewal along with hearty helpings of sadness and pain. By the time that chapter in my life was over I had been reduced to a broken, battered pile on the floor and the old version of me was gone, but I was still kicking. And it sounds like the process surrounding Emma was similar for Vernon -- he had been bludgeoned and was questioning where he was heading, and set about picking up the pieces by writing and recording those songs. While that album was a hushed, heartfelt affair, the product of a broken heart and a retreat to the isolation of a wintry cabin in the woods, this album is full of optimism and light. That album was Vernon with an acoustic guitar and a recorder; this album is Vernon plugged in with an entire band surrounding him. That album was love, loss, and recovery; this album is hope, joy, and sunshine.

So to try and recapture the thoughts and feelings of that time and replicate it on his new disc would be like a divorcee trying to write songs reflecting the joy of falling in love with their ex -- you might remember the specific events, but not the feeling or the sentiment; you're in a different place now. And it seems the place Vernon is in right now is a whole lot brighter. The lushness and beauty he's found beams from the album, a fact reinforced by all the new players around him. Saxophones, keyboards, and layered harmonies flesh out Vernon's quiet, ethereal vocals and create a serene, smiling atmosphere.

It admittedly takes a while to warm up to it -- especially the 1980s radio-ready closer "Beth/Rest" -- since you're expecting something more along the lines of Emma. (Though the three-song run of "Holocene," "Towers," and "Michicant" sound like extras from that era and are as good as anything off that album.) Once you take this effort on its own merits, though, it starts to make sense. Vernon's Auto-tuned voice still has the ability to make you want to curl up on the floor and cry, it's so pretty (see the aforementioned three songs, as well as the album's first single "Calgary" for proof), and his growth as an artist is palpable, from the seamless inclusion of all the new players and instruments to the various stylistic changes and shifts.

This is a man who's not afraid to take chances and switch things up -- I mean, who in their right mind would include a song like "Beth/Rest" on their album if they were worried about playing it safe? -- and that's something to be thankful for. To have someone who can take sadness and turn it into the beauty of Emma or capture the sunshine of its aftermath and give us this album is rare, and we're the definite beneficiaries of his doing so. Check out the joy on this one, the beaming, booming "Towers."

Until next time, mi amici...

Back to the Future: Soul, Sludge, and (as always) the Urge to Dance

Bom dia, meus amigos! Wanted to pop in during the momentary lull in the massacre that is work right now and highlight the latest 'pod bandits. Maybe it's because my life feels out of control right now that I'm thinking back to quieter times, or maybe it's mere coincidence from listening to the music, but these three albums are instant transports to those nostalgic days of old, when true or not things just seemed simpler. Maybe it's because we first hear music from those generations from the safety of our childhood that it feels that way when you listen (at least for me); maybe they really were soundtracks to a slower, sweeter slice of life -- who knows? Regardless, the below albums are the musical equivalent of that other legend of our youth, the hot tub time machine, and the minute you step in you're gone. So strap on the banana hammocks (or whatever you listen to music in), pop on these albums, and hop in -- the water's great...

First up is this cool blast from the 60s, Fitz and the Tantrums' debut album, Pickin' up the Pieces. From the first notes of the opener "Breakin' the Chains of Love" you feel it -- the strolling bass, skiffle drum lines, sax flourishes, female backing singers -- that old soul swagger grabs you and makes you wanna stand up and shake your tail feather. This style has, and forever will be happy Sunday mornings to me. (Our family's soul Sunday brunches, with Brother Ray, Reverend Al, and Stevie on the record player and waffles, bacon, and eggs on the plate.) Thus it always plants a smile on my face when I hear it, and this album is no different. It gets you grinning from the outset and scarcely lets up for the intervening ten songs.

"Don't Gotta Work it Out," the title track, "L.O.V.," and the lead single "Moneygrabber" -- they all crackle with that generation's pop-timism and lushness. Simple lyrics about love or well-mannered protest, a solid groove, and stellar harmonies. It's like you've stumbled onto an oldies radio station loaded with Motown classics -- which is not to say they sound derivative or stale. Lead singer Michael Fitzpatrick and the rest of his LA bandits have managed to breathe new life into the sound, reviving its best elements (like similar retro band Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings) and reminding a modern audience that certain elements never get old. Check out "L.O.V.," for example -- despite the millions of songs written about love to date, I defy anyone not to start singing along as the spelling bee leads into the big, booming chorus.

The best of the bunch is "Dear Mr. President," though. It combines the dark, cool mystery of a cocktail lounge, a dose of menace with its spiritual-style grunts and "huh!'s" from the background, and female vocalist Noelle Scaggs' incredible voice, whose urgent, plaintive cries punctuate an already excellent song throughout. Check it out here:




Skipping into the 70s comes the second offering from Swedish (that's right, I said Swedish) band Graveyard, the masters of retro hard rock, and their album Hisingen Blues. I don't remember how I stumbled onto these guys a few months back -- I think it might have been one of those NPR music samplers, surprisingly -- but have been obsessed with them ever since. They combine the heaviness and force of that era's best with the slinky bluesiness that so often tempered the bludgeoning attack. Pick any song from this or their first album and you'd think it was a cut from early 70s AM radio.

Sounding like a hybrid of Cream and Black Sabbath, these guys erupt from the gate like a pissed-off Viking and lay waste to the subsequent 45 minutes (to say nothing of your head). Catacombs dark, sledgehammer heavy, and ready to steamroll whatever comes in their way, the band nimbly shifts between those two inspirations -- one minute lead singer Joakim Nilsson growls and shouts like a revved up Ozzy, the next he croons like Jack Bruce in his heyday, often times in the same song.

Stellar examples include the thunderous opener "Ain't Fit to Live Here," whose percussion alone is enough to level small African villages (honestly, when drummer Axel Sjoberg somehow adds more elephantine kicks to the final sortie at 2:30, your brain is a puddle -- the only appropriate response is, "geezus F#$K! that is heavy...") and "Uncomfortably Numb," which deftly navigates the tried and true quiet-loud dynamic and builds the pressure until the song absolutely explodes at the 4:50 mark. The album catches its breath midway through with the instrumental "Longing" before launching into the final assault with winners like "Ungrateful are the Dead" and "RSS," an all-out marauding sprint to the fortress gates.

None are more punishing and primally satisfying than "No Good, Mr Holden," though, five minutes of near perfection. Nilsson shouts and swoons like he's possessed, Sjoberg's snare runs roil the pot til it threatens to boil over, and guitarist Truls Morck and bassist Rikard Edlund fly around menacingly until everything erupts in a frenzy in the song's final minute. Sick, sick stuff -- check it out here:




Last up on our travels is a trip to the trashy punk sound of the early 80s with New York's Radio 4 and their second album, the appropriately named Gotham. Sounding like early dance rock pioneers Gang of Four and their modern day proteges (and fellow Brooklyners) The Rapture, the band has a knack for lighting a fire under your feet and getting you moving. All nervous guitars, propulsive drums, and throbbing bass lines, this music is engineered to make you shake your ass.

They set the table with the opener "Our Town," an effective warmup to the absolute onslaught of the following four tracks -- "Start a Fire," "Eyes Wide Open," "Struggle," and "Calling all Enthusiasts." These are as good a run as you could ever hope for-- the rest of the album is good, but nowhere near as solid as these four -- and worth the price of admission alone. From the enormous fuzzed up bass line of "Fire" to the agitated, buzzing guitars on "Eyes" and "Enthusiasts" (whose conclusion is positively batshit -- I challenge any of you to stay still for the final minute), the urge to move is irresistible.

Never more so than on "Struggle," a three minute heart attack that will have you spasming like an epileptic. The bass and drums are undeniable, vocalist Tommy Williams's repeated injunctions to "get behind the struggle" gets you chanting like a robot, and when the guitar drone starts buzzing at the 2:30 mark your resistance is gone -- your head will be shaking with the rest of you. So stand up, do a quick stretch, and get ready for the party here -- until next time, amici...


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We'll close with two tracks that have been stuck in my brain the last few months for unknown reasons, both quiet gems that have provided the salve to my battered body after another arduous slog in the trenches. First is Neko Case's "The Pharoahs," one of many pretty gems by a woman whose voice is so knee-buckling beautiful it could make the heavens feel shabby and drab. Neko's one of my absolute favorites and this song has been on endless repeat since I saw her live a few months ago (something I urge everyone to do if at all possible). Something about when she sings "you kept me wanting like the wanting in the movies and the hymns, I want the pharoahs, but there's only men" is like a kick to the stomach every time. Which am I, and what do I have/want? Quien sabe? I have my thoughts -- figure out where you stand by giving her a listen here:



The backside to this twin bill of solitude is from the band everyone seems to love these days, Mumford and Sons. And while I've battled my fair share of resistance to these guys thanks to their overwhelming popularity (you know how much I love doing/liking what I'm told to), but there's no arguing with the quality of songs like this one. A beautiful little batch of hushed harmonizing and finger-picked guitar, this one's a soothing blast of cold air on a hot summer's day. The uplifting comfort of the lyrics ("you are not alone in this...") adds a nice layer of heart to the proceedings. Check out "Timshel" here:

DC Easter Eggs: The Return of Greatness

Thought I'd take the opportunity of a sunny Sunday to offer a trio of Easter eggs dipped in black, a noir triptych that forms the soundtrack to a night on the prowl, all leather jackets, cigarette embers, and devilish intent. First up is the latest offering from the Swedish duo The Raveonettes, the husband and wife duo with strange names that continue to provide doo-wop style gems laced with menace. Their sixth album, Raven in the Grave, follows the blueprint of their previous ones -- angelic vocals, walls of wildly distorted guitars, and simple, primal drums -- while adding a new wrinkle of synthesizers. This gives the proceedings a shimmery, new wave feel that wouldn't sound out of place in the 1980s, all reverb, hazy silhouettes, and cocaine-induced blur.

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 -- often times on the same disc. But they've always managed to incorporate the best elements of those eras and add something new, rather than sounding like hackneyed knockoffs. They've grown well past the limitations of their first two albums where they recorded every song in the same key (first B, then B minor, respectively), which led some to criticize them as gimmicky and similar-sounding. Now they seem guided by more creative (versus commercial) motivations and the music has never sounded better.

"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. The album sounds a bit like your inner demons waging war with themselves -- at turns dark and menacing, others sweet and innocent, with neither holding sway for too long. Which side ultimately wins out depends on the mood and the track, but overall nothing tops "War in Heaven," a near five minute gem that builds momentum layer upon layer until its feedback-tinged close. Check it out here:





Next up is the 2006 debut from Austin's The Black Angels, Passover, which is appropriate today for the obvious associations of its title, but also the amount of time they avoided detection. The fact that it took me nearly four years to hear about these guys is something of a crime, as they're right up my alley -- all backlit black atmosphere, bluesy swagger, and solid, gritty rock. (The fact that they steal their name from one of the Velvet Underground's debut songs doesn't hurt either, and should give you an idea of both their aspirations and aesthetic.)

Like the band of their moniker's inspiration, the Angels have perfected the simple formula of droning, buzzing guitars, throbbing, thudding percussion, and psychedelic, stylized lyrics and vocals. From the ominous opener of "Young Men Dead" to the chugging locomotive of the closing "Call to Arms" there's not a lemon among the album's ten songs. The band at turns sounds like a Velvet's cover band and a sibling of The Doors with its dark imagery and cryptic (and at times corny) poetry. Alex Maas' baritone swirls around guitarist Christian Bland's and bassist Nathan Ryan's hornet's drone riffs, all three driven along by drummer Stephanie Bailey's pulverizing rhythms. (Organist Jennifer Raines provides subtler support to the witch's brew.)

"Better of Alone," "Bloodhounds on my Trail," and "The First Vietnamese War" are propulsive gems, while "The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven" and "Manipulation" are throbbing, simmering infernos. Nothing tops "Black Grease," though, which captures all these elements in a tight four-and-a-half minute stampede. For an album that is meant to be played in the dark of night, speeding down the highway on the way to the kill, this is the apex -- halfway through the album, halfway through your consideration of what's to come. There's no turning back after this point -- liquid fire guitars, a sledgehammer backbeat, and a chorus of "killkillkillkill" burn away all resistance, leaving you a slave to the remainder. Consider yourself lucky, here:




Finally, we'll close with The Kills fourth offering, Blood Pressures. If the Raveons represented your conscience warring with itself in this noir analogy and the Angels represented those darker impulses winning out en route to the crime, the Kills are the culmination of that coming to pass. This 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, a point never more evident than on this album. Not because he's a technically gifted prodigy like Jimmy Page or Jimi Hendrix. You will find no Van Halen-style finger wreckers here that will inspire the various guitar rags to transcribe their every note. (He actually appears to fumble part of his solo in "Beating Drum.") Rather Hince makes you want to play guitar because, like similar deity Jack White, of how he makes that guitar sound. Hince's playing is all raw, explosive emotion -- his aforementioned flub in "Beating Drum" is actually one of the best parts of the album, as that solo melts your speakers with its incendiary heat.

Sexy, gritty, and raw, this album (as with each of the band's previous offerings) is not about a tender night of love with your significant other. This is intimacy of a different sort, of striding into your apartment, acquiring your target, and getting down to business with nary a word spoken. These guys remain the epitome of cool and the definition of why rock and roll will always have something over hip hop, electro, and all other forms of music -- for all the similar selling points the best of those genres have to offer (and they are plentiful), none of them will ever be able to tap into our most primal instincts like this and force you to comply. This is serious business, and the Kills remain its most skilled purveyors.

Check out "DNA" here, the killer backend to the aforementioned "Wild Charms," which forms a White Album-style soft-loud combo in the middle of the album. (And is every bit as skilled and diverse as that album's myriad offerings.) Sexy and self-assured, with Alison Mosshart's vocals practically writhing into your ears, if this doesn't get in your brain and start you salivating you officially have no libido. (You can stream it on the right side of the page at the below link...)

http://www.thekills.tv/index.php

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We'll close with a teaser, the lead single from French DJ dynamos Justice's new album. The proteges of Daft Punk and inheritors of their kingdom (you've got to hope those legends have something more in them than the lukewarm Tron soundtrack), this follow-up is something I've been fiending for for nearly four years, avidly checking the Interweb for any news of a release date or tour. Unfortunately only scanty live sets or DJ mixes were all that was available.

The fact that their debut hasn't gotten old in that span, despite repeated listens, is testament to its potency, and also a HUGE weight hanging over their return. Hopefully this single is a sign of what we'll find, as infectious as anything off that debut. (And one that wouldn't sound out of place on Daft's Discovery.) When the feedback drops in at 2:57, you're done -- ready to run through walls face first like Kool Aid. Crank up the volume and get ready for one of the summer's sure dancefloor igniters. Until next time, amici...

April's Fool: Summer in Mind, Spring by our Side

Welcome back, mah chitlins! Now that the crisis has officially been averted and we've been told it's safe to go about our lives again (no, Japan still smolders and the skirmish in Libya still rages, but the US government will remain OPEN! -- huzzah!), I thought I'd kickstart the party with a few tunes. It's been a veritable feast of good music lately, which has only served to accentuate my already stellar mood.

First up is the sophomore effort from Brooklyn-based songstress Sharon Van Etten, Epic. Weighing in with a mere seven songs, this one could have come across as a flightly, interim offering, more EP than LP as she rejiggered her sound. (Her debut Because I Was in Love was a more spare acoustic affair.) Instead what we're treated to are seven spectacular songs. From the fierily resilient opener "A Crime," where she spits the line "never let myself love like that again" at an anonymous lover, to the hushed, throbbing closer "Love More," where heartbreak has beaten her nearly into submission. Hope quietly burns like a Sterno flame amidst the wreckage -- low, blue, yet present.

There's nary a lemon to be found -- even the shambling dirge "DsharpG" works its way in, coasting out of the fog like a phantom funeral ship, all tattered sails and grimy lanterns. Throughout the album Van Etten sounds like pre-Nashville Cat Power. (Think You Are Free era, minus the slide guitar honkytonk of "Save Yourself," which wouldn't sound out of place on her modern day offerings.) She's not necessarily doing anything new, all twin-tracked vocals, folksy guitar, and lyrics of love and loss. But she's not doing anything bad either. So what if she's mining from an established well?

From the simple strum and driving kick of "Peace Signs" and "Don't Do It" to the aforementioned tracks. Her voice is fantastic -- at turns gutshot and heartbroken, others quiet confidence and fire. The album beckons you in immediately and hangs on your heart for its scanty seven-song duration. None moreso than the following track, "One Day," which is an absolute sledgehammer of a song. Encapsulating all the anxieties, uncertainties, and hopeful optimism of love, this one dances from verses of forlorn doubt to those of quiet determination, all amidst a beautiful melody and some of Van Etten's most evocative lyrics:

snow is outside but i'm by your fire
i feel all the love you'll bring
you gotta see how we can see this out
summer in mind and spring by your side
you'll see all the love we'll keep

Great images, great melody, great song -- one we've all lived through at one point or another. (Though maybe not as harmoniously.) Check it out here:




Next up is the third offering from San Francisco band The Dodos, a band built around the twosome of singer/guitarist Meric Long and drumming maelstrom Logan Kroeber, the latter the apparent human equivalent of Animal from the Muppet Show. After the more sedate affair of their sophomore effort, Time to Die, I was worried the fire that made their debut Visiter (one of my all-time favorite road trip soundtracks) explode was gone. Thankfully, this album is a return to form (and a close second to that debut), an unmitigated rocketship to exhilaration.

From the moment "Black Night" opens, charging from the gate like a bull down Estafeta, you're committed until the album closer "All Night" -- stop moving or fight the joyous flow and you run the risk of being trampled underfoot, just as those Ferminos do in Pamplona. Like that dance with lunacy, though, the result is pure adrenaline. I defy anyone to listen to this album and not be taken in -- Kroeber is a drumming encyclopedia, giving a clinic on the number of rhythms and beats possible with a basic five-piece kit and the result is magic. If you don't start twitching with the beat or find yourself fighting the urge to flail around the room like a hippie in a drum circle, you might be dead.

"Black Night," "Going Under," "Good," "Don't Stop," and "Hunting Season" are all irresistible, and while they stand well enough on their own, what makes the album truly great (as with their debut) is how well the flow into each other. To truly appreciate the album you've got to listen to it in its entirety, riding the ebbs and flow into the stratosphere. (Hence the brilliance of the road trip usage.) Scarlet siren Neko Case helps out on roughly half the tracks, and while her voice has the capacity to be heard outside Saturn, she blends so effectively with her harmonies that you barely notice she's there.

Case (no pun intended) in point, check out "Don't Try and Hide It," just one of the many great tracks on display here. This one's got everything, though -- Long's great voice and percussive strumming, Kroeber going batshit on the cans, and Case mellowing out the mania with her backup of the shout-it-out song title chorus. A perfect motto for the album writ large, give it a listen and let it do to you what it will...




And now, for something completely different... While the previous two spoke to the heart, giving off a sense of hope and exuberance, this one is more cerebral and cool. Not that this is surprising considering the artist -- I'm speaking of the latest offering from British giants Radiohead and their ninth disc, The King of Limbs. Released with relatively little pomp and circumstance directly via their website, their latest batch of eight songs are in line with recent albums like In Rainbows (I and II), all nervous energy and twitchy electro beats. However also in line with those albums is the sexiness pervading their music that never was there before.

While albums like Kid A, Amnesiac, and even the masterful OK Computer experimented with electronic elements, the result was often cold, desolate, and somewhat depressing. (Though this being Radiohead, being upset over that would be akin to lamenting the sun going behind the clouds to find a pile of gold previously obscured by the glare.) Compounding the fact was Yorke's ethereal moan and cryptic, apocalyptic lyrics. The Rainbows twins, however, added a slinkiness to the songs that warmed the electro cool and augmented their power. Songs like "Nude," "Reckoner," and "Up on the Ladder" were perfect examples, combining a sensuality with the sturdy elements of old. Yorke even jettisoned some of the mystery in his lyrics to be literal, singing to a woman about lovelorn neediness and lust.

So while there are still songs here that wouldn't sound out of place on Eraser -- the opener "Bloom" and "Feral" positively pulsate with nervous energy, while "Morning Mr Magpie" might just be the epitome of what the style can achieve, crackling with anxious urgency -- the album's back half (and some of its best tracks) are redolent with the aforementioned slink. "Separator," "Give up the Ghost," and "Lotus Flower" are excellent, filled with Yorke's soaring voice and the band gliding along in lockstep.

Nothing tops the muted gem "Codex" for me, though. Stylistically (and numerically) there's not much there -- it's just Yorke at his piano, alone with his wounded wail again, pouring his heart out to the heavens. Something about the song just grabs you, though -- the echoing voice, the naked honesty, the pretty melody. The song comes out of your speakers in a whisper, suffused with blue light and mystery. Is it about suicide, or a midnight dip; gutshot depression or uplifted freedom -- who knows? It just works. The fact that a band that's been at it this long can continue to add, adjust, and perfect new elements while stripping away so much of what once made them popular is laudable -- that the music is still this good is nothing short of remarkable. Enjoy:

The Ides of March: Snow in the District, Dubstep Soul

Greetings, sunbeams! Wanted to pop in to give an update on the tunes ravaging my brain as it snowed last night -- that's right, snow on the edge of April! -- in case that actually is a sign of the apocalypse and I can't write again. First up is a bit of an oldie, 2009's debut from Swedish synth-pop artist Miike Snow. Maybe it's just the goofy, gleeful mood I've been in lately or the weather finally turning to spring (last night's dusting excepted), but this album's been on endless repeat the last month and change. (Here's to people inviting themselves out on a Saturday night and changing everything, making you break all your tried-and-true rules for dating...)

The album has you from the opening, a sunny remake of the reggae standard "Animal" that somehow comes off sounding entirely fresh and new. (I'd bet most people don't even realize it isn't an original tune it's so reconfigured, overflowing like so many other tracks with Snow's bright vocals, upbeat synths, and killer electro-beats.) The album doesn't look back after that, running roughshod through winners like "Burial," "Silvia," and "A Horse is not a Home," each sing-it-to-the-heavens pop gems. Snow balances these with songs like "Plastic Jungle" and "In Search Of," tunes that showcase absolutely lethal flourishes, the beats stuttering and lurching through your brain as relentlessly as Frankenstein's monster.

A perfect taste of what Snow has to offer comes with "Song for no One," combining all of the above elements in four minutes of pure sunshine. Great vocals, syncopated rhythms, and a bright, shining melody, this one's a perfect welcome mat for the impending summer. Crank it up and belt it out -- summer's almost here...



Next up is the debut from British DJ James Blake, a 20-something dubstep artist, which would normally be enough to send me running for the hills -- dubstep's giant bass lines often lie in stark contrast to the cold, empty atmosphere they charge through, full of twitchy synths and electro sounds that make for a listening experience that's less inviting than a naked embrace with a frozen Eskimo. On his eponymous debut, though, Blake has created something entirely new, the equivalent of a dubstep soul record -- at turns sexy, slinky, and self-assured, the album sounds like a cross of Massive Attack, Bon Iver, and Al Green, mixing the best elements of trip hop's spacey, throbbing beats with Iver's naked vulnerability and R&B's sensual, urgent croon.

Blake's voice is fantastic -- warm, inviting, and surprisingly soulful -- and it carries that glow throughout the record. This being dubstep there's still acres of open space here -- if something like The XX's debut is considered expansive, this makes that feel like a shoe cubby in someone's closet. Yet unlike so many of his other colleagues' work, this space never feels isolating. Blake's slow, methodical beats and undeniable voice beckon you along, like flickering candlelights in a darkened tunnel. Songs like "Give me my Month," "To Care (Like You)," and "Why Don't You Call Me?" all simmer like polenta in the pot while "Measurements" is pure electro-gospel, with double- or triple-tracked harmonies dancing above a spare bass line.

Nothing surmounts Blake's cover of the Feist's "Limit to your Love," the masterful execution of the aforementioned elements and easily the album's best track. Blake's voice is phenomenal, the constant hovering above the pulsating bass and hushed piano that drop in and out, Soulful, sexy, and entirely new, this one is a standout. Check it out here:



We'll close with a couple of singles, pure blasts of retro magic that've been captivating me of late. Like I said, maybe it's because I've gone goofy for a gal, but these mixes of 60's simplicity and zeal sound perfect right now, all sunshine and high contrast home videos in my head. First is a tune from Austin's The Strange Boys, the lead single from their second album of the same name, "Be Brave." This one's a great mix of garage rock guitars, delirious children's choir backing vocals, and lead singer Ryan Sambol, who continues to sound like the reincarnation of a young Bob Dylan. A great track from a pretty solid album in its own right -- check it out here:



And we'll close with a sweet little ditty from Cass McCombs and Karen Black, "Dreams Come True Girl," which marries McCombs' simple strumming and heartfelt lyrics with Black's soaring harmonizing to evoke a song that wouldn't sound out of place at a 1960s prom. So grab your gal and slow dance the night away at your own Enchantment Under the Sea ball, this one's pure heart. Until next time, amici...

Taster's Choice: Drugs, Surfing, and Country Songs!

Just wanted to pop in before I head to the office again (yay, holiday!) to give a little taste of what's been flowing out of the speakers of late. First up is Kid Cudi's sophomore effort, Man on the Moon II: The Legend of Mr Rager. This one's been tough to pin down -- it's a good album. Listening to it straight through there aren't many tracks that I dislike. I actually went back and forth about including it on the year-end wrapup before opting to exclude it at the last minute. For whatever reason it just doesn't resonate the way it should.

Part of it could be the subject matter. Reading up on Cudi's life between his heralded debut and this follow-up has apparently been a tumultuous time, one spent grappling with the difficulties of adjusting to an endless parade of fame, models, and cocaine. To the average human this sounds like a preposterous confluence of "difficulties" to be dealing with, akin to having a hard time figuring out how to spend your $5 billion windfall inheritance. Mustering some empathy, though, you can understand how jarring this lifestyle must be for a kid from Cleveland, and thus the album jitters with this anxiety. It is all nervous tension, twitchy beats, and Cudi's languid, soporific flow.

Despite the titular rage and similarly named songs like "Maniac," the album is devoid of any real emotional fire. With minor detours, the album casts a thick blear that never quite dissipates. (It's admittedly a difficult balance to strike, but not impossible -- for a case study in quiet fire see the brilliant Elliott Smith, whose lyrics sear like a cattle brand, but rarely rise above a whisper...) Absent too are the soaring optimism and energy of debut tracks like "Up Up and Away," "Heart of a Lion," and "Soundtrack 2 My Life." Like he sings with Mary J. Blige, this album is like that track's "worries" -- heavy. Which as I said before is not necessarily a bad thing. It's just that thematic dissonance -- songs describing rage with no fury, statements of recovery amidst paeans to "Marijuana" and dope -- that prevents this from fully grabbing hold.

Nevertheless, there are some undeniable winners -- "Erase Me" throbs with the venom missing from the rest of the album; the album's opening one-two of "Scott Mescudi vs. the World" and "Revofev" sizzle, while "Wild'n Cuz I'm Young" and "We Aite" harness the drug-fueled haze sharply. My personal favorite is "Mojo so Dope," which encapsulates the pervading melancholy and weight of the album without getting lost in the fog. Solid stuff -- check it out here:




Next up is the debut from Surfer Blood, Astro Coast. I stumbled on this at one of our frequent dance parties and was pleasantly surprised -- it's a refreshing blast of reverbed vocs and guitars, California sun, and carefree surfer vibes, all from a little band from West Palm Beach, Florida. (Which admittedly is something akin to a Basque fisherman singing songs about life in a Pittsburgh steel mill, but just go with it...)

Songs like "Swim," "Floating Vibes," and "Harmonix" all capture the smooth, breezy mood, while "Neighbour Riffs" wouldn't sound out of place in a Tarantino flick, a classic speedster of an instrumental. The album has a lot of fun crammed into its swift 40-minutes, perfect to blast with the windows down along the coast, but none crackle more than "Take it Easy," the track that first turned me on to these guys. Brisk, pretty melodies swirl around a vintage surf guitar riff and skittering drums -- if this doesn't get you moving, you might be dead, friend. A great track by a band worth keeping an eye on.




Finally, we'll end with the return of the Decemberists and their sixth studio album, The King is Dead. After the utter debacle of their prior offering, The Hazards of Love, this album had its work cut out for it. Honestly, that last album was so bad, so cloyingly needy with its "look at how smart we are" pretension -- as perfect an example of a concept outpacing the content and forcing the issue (like a Kenyan distance runner challenging Goober Grape's mom to a race) -- that I was certain I was done with these guys. The physiological cringe this album's release induced even hearing about it was not promising.

Which is a shame, because this has long been a treasured little band for me -- the sweetness of previous offerings back when they weren't trying so hard: "Leslie Anne Levine," "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," "Song for Myla Goldberg," "We Both Go Down Together." These are great, great songs (to say nothing of vivid timepieces like "Legionnaire's Lament," "The Chimbley Sweep," and "The Mariner's Revenge Song) and at times nearly whimsical ("Valerie Plame," for one). Unfortunately these traits got lost in a miasma of prog rock and polysyllabic detritus on Hazards.

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 to line dance.

Nothing tops the aforementioned "Avery," though. It is a perfect reflection of the band's biggest strengths -- beautiful melody, heartbreaking lyrics, and pure sentiment told through the eyes of another. (I must confess, there is more than a fair share of the titular character in yours truly, which might explain the connection.) It's just a beautiful song, one of quiet resilience and triumphant soul -- and like the album it's on, a tremendous recovery from failure. Enjoy!



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I wanted to close with a couple of mind-blowing mixes to fuel your solo (or preferably communal) dance parties in the coming weeks. First is from Villains, who just released their second Vendetta mix, a devastating medley of tunes from Diplo, Boys Noize, and Felix Cartal, among others. (Honestly, the ten minutes after the 16:00 mark are positively lethal.) You can check out part II, as well as part I and their numerous remixes (I like their remix of The Bravery's "Slow Poison") here:

http://soundcloud.com/wearevillains/vendetta-pt-2
http://soundcloud.com/wearevillains/vendetta-part-one

The other one I wanted to clue you in to was Designer Drug's Datamix series, in particular Volume 11. They've been doing these a while, just releasing part 12 a month or so ago, and are all guaranteed firestarters, but in my eyes nothing tops Vol. 11. It's as pitch-perfect a DJ set as you're going to find, a blistering good time from start to finish. (The beat dropping in at minute 13 is head-leveling and sets off a pulverizing run that doesn't stop until near the end...) Check it, and all its partners (available for free download) out here:

http://chemicaljump.com/2010/10/13/designer-drugs-datamix-11/

(Free plug -- if you haven't checked out Chemical Jump, you need to. It's the single best source I have for new electro sets and remixes and is updated on a near-daily basis. The fact that you can download almost all the tracks to sample yourself is even better. Check them out!)

The Winter of Mixed Drinks: The Best Music of 2010

Welcome back, one and all! It's been a while, since I've written anything and certainly since anyone wasted any time checking on the site. (That's bound to happen when nearly two thirds of your audience disappear, one to run from an engagement and the other to run into her 90th birthday and a new-found fear of technology.) Not that I blame them. Frankly I haven't had much I felt like saying.

This has been a year of renovation, of rediscovery -- of myself and the criticisms I'd earned in the Great Disintegration, as well as the many flaws I'd unfairly accepted as true in that painful crumble; of the ability to reinforce those areas you knew were your most truest expressions and not your biggest faults, to trust in them again and reconfigure the elements around them, selecting new ones as they appeared while dusting off old ones from the depths of your persona; of the numerous great things around me, be they expressions of art or expressions of sentiment from the people in my life, some old and familiar, some new and exciting. After so many months in the darkness, constantly being told your belief the light would come again soon meant you were ignoring the void's existence and its ultimate return, it was invigorating to see I wasn't alone in my belief. That if delusion and denial were appropriate labels for my behavior, there were dozens of incredible people who shared in my disease and were eager to join rank.

It ended with an explosion and started anew with a blizzard.

Out of the devastation that blast wrought staggered a battered, dazed lad with a broken heart and a spectacular beard. He was followed by a gaggle of the aforementioned afflicted who aimed to help him rebuild and then reconquer the place they'd called home for eight years. And what's resulted in the interim has been a campaign of utter annihilation. Since my last post it has been a barrage of adventure, rejuvenation, and many of the titular mixed drinks, all to the soundtrack you'll find below.

It's been an incredible year, with music to match every mood and situation, which explains the sheer variety below -- there's the heartache and tranquility of the National and the Walkmen; the hopeful swells of the Arcade Fire and the pop joy of Rogue Wave and Guster; the dancehall flamethrowers of Guetta and Deadmau5 and the swagger and soul of the Keys and BRMC. And there's Kanye, which wraps all of that into one amazing package. To be honest, the top six here are really interchangeable. I have listened to each dozens of times over the course of the year and they are all flawless albums.

Some stay in one genre, others span the entire universe, but each delivered any number of devastating moments as they unfurled -- verses that would lay you flat with their poetry or power, melodies that would stick in your head for weeks, if not longer, or moods that would radiate and reverse the orbit of the earth, to say nothing of the course of your day. Their supremacy depends only on your mood at any given moment, and have naturally changed frequently. What I've laid out below is the version as of right now, though.

Each of the six contains the essential elements to a year of rebirth and have provided fuel for that fire throughout, their final order reflecting the restorative power at their core -- heart, soul, serenity, power, swagger, and hope. The remaining choices reflect the myriad shades and variations of these moods, and thus the abundant variety within. One wasn't enough (it rarely is) -- I needed each of these to fully satisfy a particular mood, and frequently hopped among the slot mates to fully satiate myself. Hopefully you'll find the same to be true. Until next time, amici...

The Best of 2010:

1. The National - High Violet: No album so effectively consumed my year, my ears, and my heart as this album did. I fell in love with it instantly and returned to it time and again, constantly finding some new phrase or feeling buried in its depths that spoke to my ever-changing mood. For a band whose last album, the dark masterpiece "Boxer," was so emblematic of my busted engagement and the Great Disintegration, this album was the perfect counterpoint, the soundtrack to remembering who you are and falling in love again. That album was beauty tinged with sadness, a hollowed-out blackness that left you gutshot and weeping. This album is beauty bursting with optimism and light; warm, inviting, and limitless.

There's not a bad track to be found -- from the smoldering opener "Terrible Love" to the wrenching "Vanderlyly Crybaby Geeks," the album has you in its grasp. "Anybody's Ghost" rides along on Bryan Devendorf's spectacular syncopated drumming, "Afraid of Anyone" is an epic swell that builds to the urgent chanting close, and "Runaway" is quiet, furious resilience with singer Matt Berninger spitting emotional lyrics in nearly a whisper. You don't always know what the heck Berninger is singing about (lyrics involving swarms of bees and fears of eating someone's brains turn up), but that doesn't matter. While the meaning may be muted, the sentiment always rings through, like a siren song through the fog. Two perfect examples are "Lemonworld" and "Conversation 16" (the latter of the zombie-like lyric), which showcase the band at its best -- swirling guitars and vocals, propulsive drums, and cryptic lyrics, all subordinate to the unmistakable bursting heart at its core. Beautiful, beautiful stuff, yet again.

2. The Black Keys - Brothers: The two boys from Ohio continue to make one phenomenal album after the other, following on the heels of 2008's best album with another rich with mountains of howling blues, but what's new this time is the soulful sensuality. From the album's falsetto opener "Everlasting Light" to tunes like "Never Give You Up," "She's Long Gone," "Too Afraid to Love You," and "The Only One," there's a softness and flirtatiousness to Dan Auerbach's vocals that wasn't as obvious before behind the wailing guitar. Call it maturity, heartache, or merely aging, but there's an urgent, almost imploring, quality to his voice (and lyrics as well) that shines through and grabs you by the lapels. At times it feels like a Motown doo wop era record, there's so much heartfelt earnestness in his voice. Pat Carney's drumming remains one of the main reasons I daydream about quitting my job and starting another band -- glorious, blistering barrages that make you weak in the knees -- but Auerbach's voice is the soul of the album.

Never is that more evident than on the one-two combo of "Ten Cent Pistol" and "Sinister Kid," which display the band's two killer capabilities and a rock dynamic as old as the hills -- first hit em soft, then hit em hard. The former borrows from the soul side of things, casting a bewitching spell about a woman scorned that sounds like it's 60 years old without sounding dated. The latter is pure blues swagger, propelled by Carney's relentless kick drum and Auerbach's shredding guitar for four minutes of bliss. This is another band that you owe it to yourself to see live, somehow managing to hit heavier than they do on these albums, which practically ignite your speakers as it is. I caught them again at their faux-residence at Lollapalooza (Auerbach or the band have been there four of the last five years) and the memory of that glorious racket stretching out along the skyline with the breeze off the lake still makes me smile, and has all year long.

3. The Walkmen - Lisbon: Hamilton Leithauser and the boys return with what is hands-down the most serene, tranquil album of the year, the sonic equivalent to blissfully floating downstream, bathed in full sunshine. The guitars are crisp, clean, even incandescent, and Leithauser's voice remains a revelation, soaring into the stratosphere with ease. Gone are the shambling days of yore, with the songs that sounded like the band woke up on the floor of the bar and started playing whatever instrument was nearest them. (Their second album will forever remain a favorite for that reason, so perfectly representing what a hangover sounds and feels like.) What's left instead is brilliance, in tone, light, and quality.

Songs like "Angela Surf City," "Juveniles," "Woe is Me," and "Victory" all crackle with energy -- they're sharp, bright, and irresistible, and the image of Leithauser singing them live with his fist clenched like a thrown uppercut is perfect. It's a pose you'll instinctively find yourself striking as you listen to the songs as well. The band balances these up-tempo tunes with the slower gems that form the heart of the album, the ones that hit you right in the stomach and put you at peace. "Stranded" sounds like a sad marching band (what I envision/hope a New Orleans funeral march would sound like before the party started), while "All My Grand Designs" builds to a pair of warm crescendos on the back of Leithauser's haunted croon. Nothing can compare to the album's closing quartet, though. The aptly named "Torch Song," along with "While I Shovel the Snow, "Orange Sunday," and the title track are all slow burning masterpieces, packed with more sexiness and grace than seems possible from the hushed vocals and guitar. These slink out of your speakers and put you out to sea, flat on your back and smiling.

4. Kanye West - My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy: Coming off a year where his impetuousness got him embroiled in yet another round of publicity scrapes and communal backlash, Kanye decided to lay low in the islands and turn his relentless energy inside, plumbing the depths of his scattered impulses to see what he uncovered. And what he's returned with is an absolutely monstrous album -- in size, ambition, scope, and overall quality. This album has a little bit of everything, exploding at different stages like an elaborate firework on the 4th of July -- from the tribal rave of "Lost in the Woods," to the spoken word fury of "Who Will Survive in America;" from the Rihanna-laden club anthem "All of the Lights," to the classic Kanye sped-up soul sample of "Devil in a New Dress." There's even a Chris Rock faux-standup bit that somehow works, to say nothing of the gritty, thumping "Hell of Life," the seismic (and aptly named) "Power," and the heartfelt (and at times heartbreaking) "Blame Game," which shows Kanye at his most unguarded and honest as on his previous album "808s and Heartbreak." (Almost weeping "I can't love you this much" over John Legend's beautiful piano.)

Each captures your ear at different times -- holds it hostage, more aptly -- but none moreso than "Runaway" and "Monster," the album's two absolute juggernauts. The former is a 9+ minute epic singalong to the world's "douchebags" and "assholes" (ie those like Kanye) that still somehow manages to be beautiful and sincere, swelling and shrinking like an engorged python before ending with a Frampton-style vocoder flameout and Kanye's urging a lover to "run away fast as you can." "Monster" is as standard as this album gets, a who's who rap-off with some of the biggest in the game battling over an enormous beat -- Jay-Z, Rick Ross, and 'Ye himself. None hit with more impact than Nicki Minaj, though, who drops a verse that's as incendiary an intro to the general public as Busta in "Scenario" or Snoop in "Deep Cover," raging through personalities and lyrics like a chipper through oak -- if you didn't know her before, you definitely do now. Mark my words, this verse will be talked about for years, and rightfully so.

I know it pains people to say it. The amount of wrangling shown in the various music reviews is gymnastic. But love or hate the public persona, the endless braggadocio, the need for attention and aggravating sense of indignance or aggrievance -- it's all irrelevant. Simply put, there is no one as relentlessly creative in music right now as West, not by a long shot. In other hands such a variety of thoughts and styles could come off as cluttered, cloying, or catastrophic -- every song has numerous guest stars, from rappers, to pop stars, to comedians, spoken word rebels, and indie boner-inducers like Bon Iver. Each song could have failed multiple times over their 5-9 minute lengths from all the dissonant styles packed in, let alone the album as a whole. And yet with Kanye they are a delight - a flawed, over-reaching affair at times, but one that's quickly and consistently redeemed. In a word, pure genius.

5. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Beat the Devil's Tattoo: Yet another winner from what remains my favorite go-to rock band -- at turns black, grimy rock, with fuzzed out guitars buzzing around thudding drum beats, and soothing American gospel, the band continues to grow on this its fifth full-length album, comfortably straddling the line between swaggering and soulful. The interplay between Peter Hayes and Robert Turner still dazzles, with their delicate voices dancing over howling walls of guitar, but the addition of new drummer Leah Shapiro seems to have reinvigorated them, taking songs into overdrive with her concussive beats. Take songs like "Mama Taught Me Better" or "Conscience Killer," which are solid songs to begin with before she drives them into fits of rabid frenzy at the end. Same goes for "River Styx," the title track, and "Shadow's Keeper." There's something primal and utterly irresistible about her drumming on this album, which makes you salivate for the band's next offering before this one even closes.

The sweet songs are more poignant as a result -- "Sweet Feeling," "Long Way Down," and "The Toll" all provide soothing, soulful respite from the artillery barrage, but that relief is ephemeral. This is an album built around Shapiro's thunderous backbeat and it was meant to move, charging like a rhino from the African bush. If you've never seen the band live, you owe it to yourself to do so. I caught them again this year and they somehow manage to sound even better in person, roaring through a two hour set and two encores that leaves you feeling invincible. A high-point of the year, built around one of its most continuously enjoyable albums -- throw your devil's horns in the air, this one rawks...

6. Arcade Fire - The Suburbs: For a band as heavily touted as these guys, it would be easy to rush into albums, throwing things together to keep the train rolling and the money flowing in. (***A-Coldplay-choo!*** Excuse me, I had to sneeze...) They are so universally revered in indie circles -- almost messianic, depending on where you're reading -- that they know anything they put out will sell. Thankfully, though, Arcade Fire is not that type of band. They took three years between this album and "Neon Bible" (perhaps not coincidentally the same amount of time they took between their epiphanal debut and that follow-up) in order to get things right. And right they did. These songs bear the distinct mark of extended care -- there's no sense of haste or sloppiness evident. These songs have a depth and gravity that could distort solar systems and are very clearly fully baked.

From the jaunty opener of "The Suburbs" to the playful lilt of "Rococo;" the propulsive rave of "Empty Room" to the stately shuffle of "Suburban War;" the jittery menace of "We Used to Wait" to the fiery "Month of May;" the utter perfection of "City With No Children," which will have you screaming the chorus to the rafters like "No Cars Go" and "Wake Up" of old. There is an urgency and epic swell to the songs that is undeniable. Win Butler's vocals are laden with melancholy and malaise -- at times it sounds like he can barely get his words off the ground they're so weighted with emotion -- but there's a hopefulness to all the songs that bursts through the more you listen. Take "Wasted Hours" and "Deep Blue," which at first blush sound like Butler's adrift in the middle of the ocean, lost with no chance of rescue. The heaviness is palpable, his voice sounding almost defeated, but then that sense of hope and sturdy resilience erupts through, growing with each successive listen. And that's when you understand the magic of this band, one that grows with every day as their songs do with every listen. Fantastic.

7. Rogue Wave - Permalight; Guster - Easy Wonderful; Frightened Rabbit - The Winter of Mixed Drinks: For the growing number of times this year where emotions soared and energy and fun followed close behind, the urge to belt out tunes at the top of one's lungs was often irresistible, and there were no three albums that more consistently let the notes fly than these three, pitch perfect pop gems to a one. Rogue Wave's latest continues the highly melodic, heartfelt sentiments of their previous offerings that keep them one of my favorite little secrets. (Honestly, someday people will figure it out -- I saw them twice this year and both times the venues were half empty.) On songs like "Solitary Gun," "Good Morning (The Future)," "Stars and Stripes," and the title track, the album is a pure blast of sunshine, all exuberant optimism and smiles. While on "Fear Itself," "I'll Never Leave You," and "All That Remains," the delicacy and pristine melody are almost enough to break your heart. And then there's songs like "We Will Make a Song Destroy," which combines both, along with a healthy dose of swagger and menace. (At least as much as bands like Rogue Wave can ever muster.) A beautiful mix of sunny positivity and slightly overcast sadness, this one is a top-to-bottom winner.

Guster's latest continues the themes outlined above (as well as those displayed on their previous albums) and fills another album with pure pop bliss. The band has an incredible knack to create songs that make you feel like you've heard them before, even on first listen; songs that make you want to sing along with them the instant you hear them despite not knowing any of the words. The album's opening salvo of "Architects & Engineers," "Do You Love Me," "The Ocean," and "This Could All Be Yours" are absolute gems, which lead into the stately beauty of "Stay With Me Jesus" before plowing back into the skies again with "Bad Bad World," "What You Call Love," and "That's No Way to Get to Heaven." The sheer joy and happiness these guys effortlessly convey remains impressive and unwavering. A new wrinkle though is the reflectiveness of the lyrics, which has them singing about the events of their twenties and the broader themes of life and death. (Heaven and hell come up numerous times, as do characters reflecting on events 20 years or more in the past). If this is a sign of the band aging, I hope my own maturation and charge into the back end of my third decade is as uplifting, optimistic, and pretty as this.

As for the final leg of this trilogy of the sun/heart, Frightened Rabbit's third offering not only gave me the title for this post and a summary for the year's events, it also gave me no shortage of warmth and joy as I repeatedly explored the album's songs. Fellow Scotsmen (albeit from Glasgow), these guys effectively walk the line between uplifting, heartfelt sentiment without falling prey to cliche or cheese and are yet another well-kept secret. (Seeing them live at Lollapalooza this year, five feet from the stage in an area smaller than my backyard growing up, remains one of my favorite memories from the year and almost like a spiritual event.) Songs like "Swim Until You Can't See Land," "The Loneliness and the Scream," "The Wrestle," and "Not Miserable" all build to exhilarating crescendos, with lead singer Scott Hutchison striking a balance between earnestness and exuberance, but nothing is better than "Living In Colour." It's a song of such uplifting, unbridled awesomeness it almost doesn't seem fair, mixing the band's playful lyrics, great melody, and big beating heart into just under four minutes of perfection. The title to my year and the soundtrack to many of my favorite moments, this song is everything I hope to remain, pure hope and optimism in spite of everything around.

8. David Guetta - One Love; Deadmau5 - 4x4=12: In a year where dancing returned as as steadfast a part of the night as sleeping and dreaming for me, no album packed more power than Guetta's to start a fire on the dancefloor. From gigantic radio hits like "Sexy Bitch" and "Memories," which became an official anthem for the year, the album is overflowing with songs that inspired no shortage of solo hotel room raves and full on club bangers. "Gettin Over," "On the Dancefloor," and the Kelly Rowland trilogy were all undeniable, with beats that could bludgeon even the most belligerent body into motion, but none were more exhilaratingly lethal than "I Wanna Go Crazy." (The album's other much visited anthem...) Proving once again the best DJs always come from France, Guetta and his album radiate Parisian sex and cool. Guetta had a summer residency in Ibiza this year, spinning every single night until the wee hours of the morning, and with beats this consistently beguiling and irresistible, it's easy to see why. Makes you want to quit your job and move to Spain, (if he hasn't returned to France)...

Just as Guetta's album was beginning to show signs of fatigue from overuse, Deadmau5 rode to the rescue and reinvigorated things again, starting yet another round of binge dancing for the final few months of the year. Instead of being a collection of killer singles like Guetta's, Deadmau5 comes in with a traditional DJ set that captivates and controls for its entire 69 minutes, building to some hair-raising highs. Instrumentals like the album opener "Some Chords" warm things up, establishing the push and pull nicely before dropping into the blazing "Sofi Needs a Ladder," which features vocalist Sofia "Sofi" Toufa on its near seven minute spree. The vocals then fall back into silence for the next 35-40 minutes, resuming the instrumental destruction until the two penultimate songs, the haunting "Raise Your Weapon" and the jittery, taut "One Trick Pony." The album shows not only Mau5's technical skill and sonic range, but hints at the ecstasy his live shows offer. Seeing him two years ago at Lolla was my first taste of his talent, and this latest album guarantees it won't be my last.

9. M.I.A. - Maya; Sleigh Bells - Treats; UNKLE - Where Did the Night Fall: These are the three that defy convention; that defy easy description. Part rock, part dance, part spaced-out atmospherics, these highlight the diversity (some would say schizophrenia) of my moods this year. M.I.A.'s latest lacks the undeniable devastation that wrecked so many minds and dancehalls on "Kala," but makes up for that deficiency with one of the most wide-ranging, rewarding albums of the year, one that takes months to fully reveal itself and sink in. There are the immediately accessible songs that open the album like "Steppin Up," "Xxxo," and "Tekqilla," which worm into your brain like a parasite and again showcase M.I.A.'s remarkably unique beats. Outside of maybe Kanye, nobody has more consistently irresistible, unusual beats than M.I.A. -- nobody sounds even remotely like her.

And then there are the songs on the fringes that take so long to reveal themselves -- "It Takes a Muscle," "Tell Me Why," and "Space," for example. The contrast between these and the aforementioned songs -- as well as the searing "Born Free" and "Meds and Feds" (which takes a killer riff from Sleigh Bells and somehow manages to improve upon it, turning it into one of the most bludgeoning, primal beats of the year) -- is so sharp that these initially come off as flimsy and weak. With a little time, though, they come to be seen for what they really are -- the album's sweet, beating heart, the honest, defenseless core that lies behind all of M.I.A.'s prickly, snarling defenses.

Sleigh Bells' debut is a mindfuck of the highest order, a 32 minute bombardment that will leave you a bloodied, confused mess by its conclusion. ("What the fuck WAS that?!") Part sugary pop, part eviscerating punk, part I-don't-know-what, this is DIY music at its best -- gloriously distorted guitars, thunderous beats, and sweet, simple vocals (supplemented at times by spine-tingling shrieks), this sounds like something you could potentially have made in your bedroom. (If you were wickedly, wickedly talented, that is.) "Tell Em," "Kids," and "Infinity Guitars" hit with the force of a roundhouse to the face, while "Rachel" and "Rill Rill" provide the counterbalance, the soft, sweet voice drawing you back to consciousness while you lay in a quivering pile on the concrete. "A/B Machines" is the pinnacle of what they can do, though -- throbbing guitar riffs and a gigantic beat piled on top of nonsensical lyrics that nonetheless get stuck in your head for hours before building to lead singer Alexis Krauss' battle cry scream that sets the pandemonium loose once and for all. An absolutely awesome debut that hopefully is just a sign of things to come -- you gotta think if you're getting sampled by M.I.A. (as on the closing titular cut "Treats") you're on the right track, though...

The last of the indescribables is UNKLE's latest, which puts a little more distance between their electro past and this offering, a mix of more traditional Britpop-style songs played by bands and instruments instead of machines. (Though all still with the slightly eerie UNKLE finish.) It's a mix of disparate vocalists and styles, each song a new combination and flavor, but somehow hangs together as a cohesive whole -- it's like an hour-long slice of programming from the coolest radio station that doesn't exist. From the ethereal vocals on "Follow Me Down" and "Joy Factory" to the soulful pull of "Natural Selection" and "The Answer" or the sexy contortions of "The Runaway," it may be tough to pin down and describe, but this is simply a great album. Uplifting, propulsive, and eclectic, it is the perfect soundtrack to a roadtrip out of town.

10. Dead Weather - Sea of Cowards; Kings of Leon - Come Around Sundown: This pair represents the more straightforward rock side of things this year, with the Weather nourishing the gritty, dirty blues side while the Kings handle the more anthemic, 85-in-a-Camaro type thing. The Weather continue to cast the sexy, black spell of their debut, offering a blistering 35 minute album that never pauses for breath, but slinks and swaggers across your synapses until the final note. From "Blue Blood Blues," "Hustle and Cuss," and "I Can't Hear You" to "Jawbreaker" and "No Horse" (proving that the band reaches even more spectacular heights on songs referencing our equine friends), this is as good an argument as you'll find for the continued power of albums as an art form. This needs to be experienced in its entirety, with each song building on the twists and turns of its predecessor until the jaw-dropping, creepy closer of "Old Mary." (Which is so unsettling and strange, it feels like something unearthed from the depths of a forgotten tomb.) This album is Zeppelin-esque in many respects -- dangerous, cocksure, and enticing, a sexy, heavy beast laden with fuzzed out guitars and bewitching vocals.

The Kings, for their part, remain a point of internal contention. Gone forever seem to be the days of boozy, brawling hellfire that was in evidence on their first two albums, and here to stay appear to be the shoot-for-the-rafters type anthems of heavy radio play, which garnered so much praise and made them international superstars on their last. Knowing that they're capable of the former makes me resist the latter that much more, like a surgeon quitting his job to work as a seamstress. However, while there were moments on "Only by the Night that felt forced and cloying in their need for acceptance, those same desires feel largely natural on "Sundown." And what's left as a result is just an enjoyable rock album, one that's full of sunny, sing-it-out songs that will have you reaching for the volume instead of ruing the shambling, sloppy fire of the early days. Songs like "Radioactive," "Mary," "Mi Amigo," and "The Immortals" all glisten and soar, but nothing can top "Back Down South," which is likely the best thing the band has ever written. A beautiful melody and solid lyrics build to a soulful crescendo, this is the anthem the band always wanted to write.