Wandering Through the Whiplash — The Best Music of 2023

If this year had a slogan it was about the unbreakable attraction of opposites. What goes up must come down. For every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction. It’s darkest before the dawn. It was a year constantly characterized by its yin yang duo of ephemeral excellence and the persistence of pests. Where every moment of happiness was accompanied by two or three confounding cotravelers — like getting a free plane ride to somewhere nice and having to sit between someone who takes off their socks and someone who starts yammering on about buttered sausage. (While also behind someone who immediately leans their seat back.) It often reminded me of that old joke about Pete and Repeat, sitting on a log. Pete falls off, who’s left? Over and over again… It was a year that tested limits and often felt like there was no refuge safe enough to avoid all the incoming missiles. This was the year the cracks started to show and I wondered whether it would all come crashing down again.

Last year’s themes centered around rebuilding — “Rebuilding, relearning, reorienting — just plain remembering” in year one of my potentially quixotic quest to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Year two felt a lot like those rebuilding years in the sporting world (we’ve got at least five of those going here right now, so plenty of parallels to check myself against) — progress on a few fronts, but continued frustration on a majority of others as those seeds start to take root, but haven’t matured enough yet to start fully bearing fruit. And so we flitted back and forth between bright spot and dark, fun and frustration, optimism and despair, like some princely Monarch working his way through a field of prairie flowers in the spring.

The endless seesawing affected every aspect of my life. Prestige projects at work that my teams brought back from the grave time and again still ended up leaving (or sticking around at a much smaller scale). This led the company to constantly teeter between “are we going to make it” and “we’re all getting fired” to “I think we’re ok?” on both fronts. (A level of certainty that’s as comforting as a jack in the box sitting silent in front of you after cranking on the lever for 45 minutes.) Those illusions of security getting dashed by not one but TWO rounds of layoffs, including the most recent — and worst! — batch a mere week ago. (Merry Christmas one and all!)

Even my normally uninteresting health turned into a neverending carnival of ridiculous ailments. My teeth turned into those of a meth addict, requiring a handful of crowns and root canals after spontaneously dying. The ‘rona finally found me after managing to avoid it for three years, highlighting just how lucky I was because I’d likely have been toast if I didn’t as it pounded me for a good chunk of the year. I lost half my hearing for a month and a half. My foot randomly started hurting and required steroid shots and funky footwear to finally (mostly) correct. My lungs got destroyed with a barking cough that persists to this day, despite it being over six months since I got hit. There was a good stretch of the year where I hobbled around like an old man without a walker, limping on a bad foot, unable to hear out of half my head, while my teeth throbbed like the bass at hell’s worst disco.

These ongoing annoyances were thankfully balanced by the small bounty of brilliance that constantly flows from my beloved city by the lake. New restaurants, breweries, and bars were discovered to recommend to visitors and work into my routine. The flurry of fests in the summertime, which found one of my overall faves Built to Spill playing in the street mere blocks from my house in a true pinch me moment. Or Bay brats Spiritual Cramp playing on a rainy Sunday and knocking back the clouds (and crowd) with their energy. Or the Hives inexplicably playing a room the size of my studio and blowing everyone’s face off with their endlessly enjoyable antics (and songs). Or those three magical nights with MMJ at the fairytale Chicago Theater, which gave us over eight hours of music (and months of lovely memories) and drove all of us into the stratosphere.

There were boatloads of books as I continued my resurgence with reading, crushing dozens over the course of the year as it remained part of my morning workout ritual. New page turners from King or lovely, immersive older ones from Harris, Ruiz Zafon, and Vazquez.  I continued my obsession with WWII, diving into the mostly overlooked Pacific side of things this time and again marveling that we managed to win the war. I spent a ton of time in Spain rabbitholing on ETA and the civil war again, trying to understand how/why we sat on the sidelines for the latter as the fascists did a dry run for what would turn into the aforementioned world war. (Not just because it was interesting, but because it might turn out to be relevant as thoughts of surprise coups or people otherwise undermining democratic institutions stop seeming so implausible. Even moreso if they started talking about opponents as vermin who are poisoning the nation’s blood again. Not that they ever would…)

There were outstanding shows like Peaky Blinders  (sweet geezus, I still can’t stop thinking about it) and Patria (a haunting, powerful watch — the opening scene remains seared in my memory) and equally impactful movies. (The Endless Trench and Argentina, 1985 being but two of many that took me back to my grad school roots and floored me.)  And above all, as always, there was loads and loads of good music.

The seesaw action of the year impacted us here, too — for every excellent arrival or discovery there were an equal number of disappointments from some normally reliable sources. Whether long time loves like Shakey, the Kills, Woods, both Gallagher brothers, and the National — TWICE! — or newer ones like Andy Shauf, Jungle, John Miller, and Tre Burt, seasonably solid structures were blown over by the winds and we were forced to reassess our sites of solace. At least here the bright spots outnumbered the dark ones in both volume and intensity.

Fittingly for the year we’re heading into there were 24 worthy of mention here, and in line with the aforementioned lack of reliability from the stalwarts the majority of them (15) are newcomers. (This in comparison to last year’s tally of 16 old timers and 15 fresh faced ingenues.) They cover the normal eclectic spread of genres (though no rap or electro this year, as those two continue their slide into oblivion for me) and offer a range of delights for you to dive into.

There’s a few less than last year (the lowest since 2018, in fact), but still plenty to make us optimistic for the year to come.  As in that rebuild the nine wily veterans will hopefully gel with those energetic upstarts in the offseason to give us something serious to look forward to soon. As always, they aren’t necessarily the best things released this year, just the best ones I found, so if you’ve got some more I missed — on any of the topics mentioned above — please send em my way! In the meantime I hope you find some new friends and faves within the list below — I know I sure did. Here’s hoping for some major league fireworks in year three and a run for the ages soon.

11. Generationals — Heatherhead; Beach Fossils — Bunny: we’ll start out easy with a pair of albums I wrote about together a month or two ago and who for whatever reason have remained glued together in my brain the majority of the year. Part of it’s probably their coming out on the same day, so I spent a good chunk of the summer hopping back and forth between the two. Part of it’s also their similar vibe, laid back and slightly shimmery, like the surface of the water as you float downstream on a sunny day. Regardless of the reason, these two are twinned for me, similar enough to finish the other’s sonic sentences, so it’s only fitting to keep them that way here.

The front half comes from New Orleans duo Generationals, back with their seventh full length (their first since 2019’s Reader as Detective). As I wrote before, this one is “a solid set of their strongest tricks — slick synth tracks, as well as bright, lush pop tunes, all bathed in the shimmering sheen of the pair’s gauzy vocals.” I still get echoes of Richard Swift on the poppier tracks like the opening “Waking Moment” and “Faster Than a Fever,” all soaring chorus and lush production. Meanwhile the pair’s more traditional synth tracks still slink seductively towards you — whether “Elena,” “Death Chasm,” or the Cure-like “Hard Times for Heatherhead.”

For their part Brooklyn’s Beach Fossils are back with their fourth album of original material (their first since 2017’s Somersault, which landed at #6 on that year’s list) and it finds them mining similar terrain, just a bit more wistfully this time. As I wrote before, “these guys have always nailed the laid-back, swimming feeling to their songs…and while they can instantly conjure that bright, sunny vibe, you miss out if you relegate them strictly to background ‘feel good’ music.” Traditional tracks like “Sleeping on my Own,” “Run to the Moon,” and “Anything is Anything” warrant that additional attention, while those like “Dare Me,” “Don’t Fade Away,” and “Numb” do so by evoking modern influences and peers. (Dehd, REM, and the Cure, respectively. Solid returns to form by both bands.

10. Charlie Cunningham — Frame; Flyte — Flyte; Oliver Hazard — Oliver Hazard: this slot’s for the soothsayers and a trio of albums guaranteed to calm even the most frayed of nerves. (A much needed commodity throughout the year.) Each are first timers on these year end lists — due entirely to my discovering them late and not a lack of prior quality — and two of them hail from the UK. We’ll start with the kingdom dwellers, the first of which is Charlie Cunningham, back for the first time since 2019’s Permanent Way with his third album, another elegant mix of piano, acoustic guitar, and quiet, contemplative lyrics of love and faith. Sonically Cunningham is a bit of a shapeshifter — there’s touches of Nick Mulvey (“Shame I Know”), Badly Drawn Boy (“So It Seems”), and Jose Gonzales (“Watchful Eye”) here — but his lovely, aching melodies tie all the disparate influences together well.

There’s the stately, somber lullaby of loss on “Frame” (“it’s over for us, this heart bled for all the time…so much for us, this half read lullaby was nearly enough — there’s no shame in trying…”) The haunting “Bird’s Eye View,” which roils like a slowly boiling cauldron as he sings of someone who’s left him behind. (“Slip away into the night — there’s nowhere to run, go where you hide. I wish you good luck, I’ll see you on the other side…”) The burned out testament to another on “Friend of Mine.” (“Friend of mine, I’m with you and I’ll be for all time — you’re the light in which everything resides. Where do I belong? Who should I now become? Cuz this doesn’t feel right… I love to play along, if just to survive til our moment arrives.”)

Those themes of quiet contemplation and unflinching devotion are buttressed by those of doubt and anxiety elsewhere on the album. Cunningham sings to himself to soothe his inner demons on “Downpour” (“why are you still wrapped in your head…boyhood dreams pulling you down to your knees… old fears, goodbye, you’ll surely be my downfall in good time”), as well as on “End of the Night” (“the devil, you know, he hides – I say I’m fine most days but he’s always inside me”) and “Pathways.” (“I won’t be defined by this shadow of mine, this cross to bear forever if that’s enough…”) It’s another really, really pretty album from this virtual unknown — add yourself to the in crowd and thank me later.

The back half of the British bloc comes from the London duo Flyte, returning with their eponymous third album. I’ve been meaning to write about these guys for months now, having discovered their last album a while back (2021’s lovely This is Really Going to Hurt) and falling for its mix of beautiful melodies and confessional lyrics. There were touches of the late Richard Swift in there (as on the killer “I’ve Got a Girl”), as well as loads of Laurel Canyon harmonies to really sink your teeth into. That one was all about the emotional rawness that comes in the wake of a long-term breakup (that of frontman Will Taylor).

This one seems to find him/them in a much happier place, as the songs almost glow with warmth and love. There’s the lovely little ode to another in the opening “Speech Bubble” (“let me be the pencil that holds up your hair… the long legs that stick out of the bed… Heartbreak, it takes practice, but I think I’m getting better at this… I just wanna make you happy”) and a flurry of wonderful images in the ones that follow. “Our arms are going to cradle, our hips are gonna kiss” on the defiantly upbeat “Bad Days.” “You’ll be my bedtime reminder and I’ll be your wake up call — a reason to lay down beside her and dream of nothing at all” on “Wake Up Call.” Not everything is roses and kitten kisses — there’s a touch of melancholy and fear in the song of trying to protect that aforementioned other in “Defender” (“I know that you’re behind the door spiraling away from me — it’s been worse before, I’ve got a good memory… I call your friends, they say good luck and I pretend I’m strong enough to be your defender”), but writ large this is a big, warm hug of an album.

The harmonies with bassist Nick Hill give off a mix of a Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel vibe (“Chelsea Smiles” for the former, “Perfect Dark,” “Press Play,” and “Better than Blue” for the latter) while the duets Taylor does with the female guest stars also shine — whether with Laura Marling on “Tough Love” or with Taylor’s true life partner Billie Marten on “Don’t Forget About Us.” This is another act that’s almost criminally unknown — lush, lovely stuff.

Last but not least is another band I’ve had in the queue to write about for a while, but never got around to for some reason. I found their debut 34 N. River a while back courtesy of some fan mail (Mad Dog sent me their tune “Illinois” and I quickly got into the rest of the album) and I enjoyed its mix of catchy melodies and earnest enthusiasm. Then as now the band has a bit of a Lumineers vibe to them, albeit without some of the lyrical depth or gravitas (tracks like “Saratoga” here, with its “witchy women” and “shibbity bop bops” and “oh hot damns,” or “Two x Four” with its “dosey doe’s” and “doggones” sound like a steamed up Jimmy Stewart rather than modern day adults), but the melodies are strong enough you’ll be singing along rather than focusing on those minor issues.

Tracks like “Use Me Up” or the glimmering “Northern Lights” shine, while others like the opening “Ballerina” or the aforementioned “Two x Four” are perfectly passable (and enjoyable) tunes about love and loss that mask their sadness with brightness and diffidence. (On the former frontman Michael Belazis sings “I know you left me on that Sunday, I know it’s what’s best for you…I’m not angry, I’m just through,” while on the latter he sings “brick by brick I tear you down, but I’m the one underneath it all.”)

Overall there’s an old timey, “aw shucks” wholesomeness to the proceedings that’s almost a defense mechanism, trying to distract you from some real hurt or sincerity. On “Fly Right” there’s kettles on the boil and mamas with aching feet before Belazis slips in “I don’t wanna hurt you like the way that you hurt me.” On “Let Down” there’s the almost anodyne “flying off the handle” before the “spirals and alcohol” and talk of “I watched you leave the house… and the talk of the town was about how I let you down.” On “Natalie” he sings to his “honey bee” before admitting “it’s January – the bees are dead. I withhold my love instead.” This seesawing between deflection and vulnerability undermines the impact a bit and leaves you wondering how seriously to take them — but the music is catchy and winning enough you’re willing to forget (or at least not fixate on too long) some of those other elements. Solid sophomore outing and a trio of newcomers worth some listens.

9. Cut Worms — Cut Worms; Duff Thompson — Shadow People: this slot’s for the throwbacks and a pair of artists who evoke eras long since past. Up first is the return of former hometowner Max Clarke (who for whatever reason committed the almost unforgivable sin of moving to NY), back with his first album in three years and his third overall. (His last, the double album Nobody Lives Here Anymore, landed at #6 on my 2020 list.) The recipe here remains the same — early era Everlys sound, bright, back-breaking melodies and warm guitar — but this time Clarke ditches some of the melancholy that was creeping in around the edges and instead gives us a more uniformly upbeat set of songs.

Clarke starts out on an positive note with a jaunty saloon piano and his ode to being tongue tied, imploring the object of his affection, “don’t fade out on me.” He continues the conversation in the lazy luau serenade of “Is it Magic?” (“I’ve got a love and it’s gonna be true without end”) and the infectious sock hop scramble of “Let’s go Out on the Town” (“I’ll go anywhere you like…let’s go dancin’ in the bright, bright lights, keep on dancing all night loooooong, yeah…”)

A hint of darkness creeps in along the way — whether from heartache (“when you’re broken in two, not much you can do” on “I’ll Never Make It”) or the world at large (“when it gets worse all the while, how can I just take it and smile?”) it’s a less rose-colored sense of nostalgia than before. “The summer’s almost gone, never seems to last too long and the nights that were so inviting now seem so cruel” on “Living Inside.” “I don’t mind if we’re dead, only eat to be fed…don’t they always try to make you feel so bad” on “Use Your Love! (Right Now).” “Something eating at my mind that I’m doing my best not to say. Just what all we stand to lose when at last we do depart. All the dreams you never had go like shadows in the dark. Too bad we never see em at all” on the beautiful finale “Too Bad.”

Maybe it’s because he’s coming off a double album (and/or because he’s masked some of the wistfulness that was prevalent there with these more buoyant melodies), but the impact of this one’s nine song, thirty minute duration is a bit more muted than his previous outings. That’s not necessarily a knock — I still listened to it a lot and really enjoyed the majority of its songs — but for whatever reason none of them broke me open the way some of his earlier ones did. (“Last Words to a Refugee” or “Veterans Day” off his last one, for example.) That said, this one’s still got plenty to enjoy and I’m glad there’s someone like Clarke keeping the past alive by making this type of music (even if he did defect for the dreaded Big Apple…)

Clarke’s slotmate is fellow time traveler Duff Thompson, back with his second album, Shadow People. Like Clarke it’s his first in three years (his 2020 debut Haywire is a really solid listen), a relatively brisk 30 minutes long (Thompson has 10 songs to Clarke’s nine), and also has elements of early Everly Brothers to his sound. And for whatever reason, as with Clarke, despite some really lovely melodies and solid craftsmanship the majority of this one’s songs don’t penetrate the cold, dark armor of my heart (with one noteworthy exception). That said, as with Clarke’s there’s plenty of positives to embrace and keep you coming back. (Whether the iceberg of your heart thaws or not.)

It starts strong with the lurching purr of a riff on “Just Like Me,” which bolsters the blackness of the refrain (“too many dark days are killing all my friends, messing with my friends”) before shifting to the swaying “Take it With You” whose warm refrain makes you want to hoist your pints and sing along. (“If you don’t taaaaake iiiiiit with yooooou I’m gonna bring it to you…”) As I’ve noted before, the similarity to the Walkmen’s Hamilton Leithauser is still strong, particularly as this album hits its back half. Starting with the slow burning siblings “A Little Time” and “A Long Time,” Thompson croons in laid back lounge lizard mode, while tracks like “Up and Go” and the closing “For the Moment” ride along with the jaunty abandon of the plinking barroom piano.

Aside from the ethereal stunner “Shapeshifter” — as pretty a song as you’re gonna hear this year — most of the songs don’t quite pierce through emotionally. Maybe that’s a me thing or maybe I’m looking for something that’s never intended to be there (like looking for gold dust in the canister of your vacuum or profound wisdom from the latest Jackass movie), but either way it’s ok because of how good this is at conjuring a warm, nostalgic vibe. It’s like walking into a bathroom after someone’s taken a hot shower — the picture of your surroundings isn’t totally clear, but you’re enveloped by the toasty, amorphous embrace of the steam cloud and able to lose yourself in the little you see. This is another one I’m glad is out there making music like this — not a lot like him left.

8. Young Fathers – Heavy Heavy; Shame — Food for Worms: this slot’s for the kids and a couple of acts probably not intended for dinosaurs such as myself (but I love em anyway!) They’re both from the kingdom, two of my favorite album covers of the year, and another two albums I wrote about a month or so ago, so don’t have a ton new to share — but to recap, Scotland’s Fathers are back for the first time in five years (2018’s Cocoa Sugar landed at #10 on that year’s list) and similar to their previous outings this is another exciting, interesting listen.

As I wrote then, this one’s “another jewelry box full of influences and opulence” — from the excellent opener “Rice” with its bounty of African drums and chanting choruses to the throbbing pulse of “Drum” and “Holy Moly” that throw everything into the pot and shine.  Or the twitchy “Shoot me Down,” which jitters and shakes before blossoming into a TV on the Radio style track midway through. These guys remain unlike almost anyone else out there right now, which is very much a good thing.

For their part London’s Shame are back with their third album, their first since 2021’s excellent Drunk Tank Pink, which landed at #11 on that year’s list. As I wrote before, “nothing’s changed since then — they’re still dishing out taut post-punk gems, balancing furious rippers with moodier, more expansive jams.”

Tracks like “Six Pack” and “Alibis” represent the former, while songs like “Yankees” and “Adderall” showcase the latter, letting the band slowly build the tension before blowing things apart. (Guitarists Sean Coyle-Smith and Eddie Green deliver a particularly enjoyable run at the end of “Yankees,” to cite but one example.) The opening “Fingers of Steel” splits the difference and offers a slightly looser, more soaring vibe that’s reminiscent of bands like the Japandroids, while the slow burning “Orchid” calls to mind At the Drive In when it blooms at the end. This one’s a lean, mean delight from a recent fave and a pair of albums from bands that kids of all ages should enjoy.

7. RF Shannon — Red Swan in Palmetto; Angelo de Augustine — Toil and Trouble: this slot’s for the denizens of the darkness and a pair of albums that seem to soundtrack the shadows. Neither is particularly menacing or dangerous, but for whatever reason both albums call to mind the murky mysteries that occur at night rather than those that appear in the full bright of day. Both are first-timers on my year end lists and recent winners/discoveries from the sister site’s beloved ‘gram competition, #fridayfreshness. They’re also two more albums I wrote about a month ago, so will offer a quick recap in lieu of a full dissertation.

For his part Shannon is back with his third album and he sets the mood early with the sultry, sinister opener “Palmetto,” which smolders like a brush fire and could easily soundtrack the opening credits of some gritty detective show. The album is filled with alluring images and mysterious characters — the blue tattoo of a shape that goes on forever, stalking wild cats through an alley full of silhouettes on lead single “Abalone,” with its Andrew Bird style backend. Good mother Mary with her dancing boots in “Dublin, Texas.” The man with a salt dime in his left boot, jack vine in his hand on “Casinos in the Wild.” It’s all shadow and shade and disembodied spirits in the night, as in the stately “Cedar Perfume” (with its lovely notion of a chorus and a love that’s evergreen) or the luxurious “Raindance #11.” (“Let’s go out tonight and we’ll dance out in the street…”)

As I wrote before, “Shannon is something of a shapeshifter, effortlessly exuding a range of styles” including country (the slide guitar on “Midnight Jewelry,” the fiddle on “Dublin”), folksy ballads (“Raindance,” “Cedar Perfume”), and even glimpses of modern bands (Dire Straits on “Casinos,” Wilco on “So Down Low.”) Somehow it all works, held together by Shannon’s warm whisper and excellent melodies — really good stuff.

de Augustine earns his spot with his fifth album, which routinely calls to mind beloved favorite Elliott Smith. As I wrote before, his twin-tracked voice and whispered delivery perfectly capture Elliott’s spirit and sound, as do his cryptic, slightly elliptical lyrics, “which shift like sand on a dune depending on the way the winds of your mood are blowing — always a hallmark of Elliott’s best.”

There’s the frustration and despair. (“I cannot explain to you or anyone else. Like a dog that’s been suffering you need to put me down – I dare you to put me down” on “Naked Blade.”) The arm’s length defensiveness and “Angeles”-style open of “Blood Red Thorn.” (“On my own, I don’t need no one…oh my love, someday you’ll find your home. Life on the run is enough to wear one down.”) The heartache and plaintive poetry on “Song of the Siren.” (“All my thoughts come back to you like they did from the start…the love I knew, vocal and violent, uncontrollable like the inferno.”) The suffering and sarcasm of the closing title track. (“I’ll believe in anything if you take away all this pain…toil and trouble my only delights — I don’t know where I went wrong.”) There’s even hints of extreme darkness as on “I Don’t Want to Live, I Don’t Want to Die.” (“I keep a Colt 45 in my drawer if I change my mind – unpredictable, syringe and spoonful, eyes were blazing fire.”)

It’s a powerful potion when it all comes together — so much so that you almost forget you’re not listening to some unearthed trove of lost Elliott songs. The lush melancholy of “Dwomm” being but one of many gems, delivering an opening verse that is an absolute backbreaker. (“Despite all agency I’ve lost the path to love. I can read the silence on these walls that were put up. Though love is vilified it always hangs around. If you let me in someday I’ll never let you down.”) Beautiful, wrenching stuff.

6. The Nude Party — Rides On; Graveyard — 6: this slot’s for a pair that on their surface have nothing to do with each other, but everybody needs a buddy, so here we are — strange year, strange bedfellows, as we described at the top, after all… Back with their third album (their first since 2020’s Midnight Manor) the six-piece from Carolina continue nailing their homage to British Invasion bands with another batch of really catchy tunes. Along with one of the quintessential signatures of that era, the opening “Word Gets Around” adds a dash of danger behind its “bah bah baaaaahs” as frontman Patton Magee warns “I control what you hear — believe me, your nose ain’t as clean as yer ear.” (He later offers proof as a little bird has chirped about a former/current love coming out of a bathroom stall with a partner — never a good sign.)

It’s not all infidelity and mild menace, though — the effervescent lead single “Hard Times (All Around)” and “Hey Monet” quickly follow that one up and lighten things up a touch. For the former, aside from nailing the early era Stones sound (as they do so often here and on previous albums) it has such an infectious groove you joyfully ignore the ubiquity of the titular woes Magee is singing about. Meanwhile the vintage organ on the latter — which adds cow bell on top of another seriously strong groove, one infectious enough to get even the most stoic Mod moving — calls to mind bands like the Kingsmen or Standells.

This diversity runs throughout the album, both in influences/homages and instrumentation. There’s the warm neo-soul vibe of “Sold Out of Love,” which would be a welcome addition to a Houndmouth or Nathaniel and the Night Sweats set, and the Roger Miller vibe of “Tree of Love.” The weary slide guitar on “Midnight on Lafayette Park” and the plinking piano on “Polly Anne.” All of these ride alongside some incredibly vivid images — the white laced (VERY RED) cherry red knee high boots on “Cherry Red Boots,” or the old vaquero named Alfredo who rides bulls in Mexico on the title track.

It’s a really rich affair, one whose overarching feeling is one of unavoidable joy — particularly on the front half. It slows down a bit at the back with the swampy blues of “Hoodoo,” the solitary lament “where do the good times go when it’s all bled you dry” on “Stately Prison Cell,” or the mournful harmonica on the closing “Red Rocket Ride” (with its “fourteen megaton trillion dollar bomb to blow em all to kingdom come.”) In total, though, Magee and the boys have given us another set of really good songs with a load of flourishes to keep your ears satisfied for months to come.

For their part, acting as the Oscar to the Carolineans’ Felix in this aural Odd Couple, are one of two sets of Swedes on the list this year, storming back with their aptly titled sixth album (their first since 2018’s Peace) and another delicious dose of heavy sludge to pummel our ears and brains. In the five years they’ve been away the band appears to have mellowed just a smidge, offering us their most bluesy, mild mannered set of songs yet. (Mostly.) In addition to the slight shift in sound, it’s also a somewhat leaner affair with only nine songs to sink our teeth into, but they cram a lot in to every minute.

The band has always been something of a chameleon — at least if said animal’s sonic palette consisted solely of elements from the thundering greats of hard rock and metal — and they pack in a range of them again here. They start slowly, luring you in with the breezy blues of opening “Godnatt” before smashing you in the gourd with one of the best one-two combos of the year. There’s the fist in the air fury of “Twice” (“woke up this morning and I felt recharged — I’m in the graveyard getting tuned, hitting hard”) followed quickly by the ominous lurch of “I Follow You.” (“I’m in the wrong place at the very wrong time… there’s no time to sit this one out.”) These two amount to the most undeniably upbeat slammers on the album (the Sabbath-styled stomp of “Just a Drop” being the only other addition), but the overall focus on slower, more muted material still leaves plenty to enjoy.

There’s the bluesy Cream vibe of “Sad Song” (sung by guitarist Truls Mörck instead of frontman Joakim Nilsson, whose voice definitely has more of a Jack Bruce tenor to it). The soul-inflected smolder of “No Way Out” with its cooing choir of backup singers. The Zeppelinesque closer “Rampant Fields.” (“Since I’ve Been Loving You” style Zep, not “Levee.”) Despite lacking more of their characteristic juggernauts than normal, this is still a really enjoyable album.

I was lucky enough to see them live this year in their only US performance (Nilsson apparently is a bit averse to flying) and the weather perfectly suited the slower material — it was outdoors and windy AF that night so the songs picked up an additional hint of menace as gales blew the band’s hair (and riffs) helter skelter across the festival grounds as the storms rolled in, the skyline standing vigil in the background bathed in full moon. It was an awesome night and cool to see this part of the band’s repertoire flexed a little more since they’re definitely more known for the bangers. Hopefully it’s not another five years before we get another batch of tunes, slow or otherwise.

5. The Bones of Jr Jones — Slow Lightning; Josiah and the Bonnevilles — Endurance: this slot’s for the southern side and a couple of acts who evoke the sound and feel of life below the Mason-Dixon Line (even though one lives about as far north of it as you can get). Call it folk, call it Americana, call it country, I just call it good, and think you’ll do the same. We’ll start with the northerner — back after a brief pause following his excellent EP two years ago (the aptly named A Celebration, which landed at #10 on my year end list), upstate NY’s Jonathan Linaberry returns with his first full length in five years (2018’s Ones to Keep Close) and gives us a satisfying balancing act of those two outings.

Here Jones buttresses the haunting, ethereal tunes from the EP with a hearty helping of the uptempo tracks from those earlier albums. It works pretty well — personally I prefer those soul-chilling crawlers from his EP, which have a lush, pastoral feel that sound almost out of time (similar to Shakey Graves’ early stuff, where they feel like unearthed relics rather than modern material), but Linaberry’s got an ear for melody and can get things going on the uptempo tracks. (Think slightly less rambunctious BPF — particularly with the odd reliance on skeletal drum machine beats here, which sap some of the strength from the songs — but in person he can really get things cooking as he tours with a human behind the cans…)

In terms of the latter tracks there’s the funky grumble of “Heaven Help Me,” the cocksure chug of “The Good Life” (“I don’t care, I’m dancing with myself…I’ve seen the biggest dreams die out on the street — honey that ain’t gonna be me…there’s lightning coursing through these veins…”) and the shuffling, almost Margaritaville vibe of the title track. There’s the bare-hearted lyrics and jubilant “whoos” that punctuate the opening “Animals” (“I’m just a lover boy always wishing on a star…won’t you please just walk me home cuz I don’t know the way and I’d love some company…”) and the hand clap spiritual style of “I Ain’t Through With You,” each of which work well.

When the quieter stuff finally arrives it holds your attention all the more — from the stoic banjo of “Blue Skies,” the chilling howl of “Preservation” and its stately successor “The Flood,” (which sings “I ain’t trying to raise the dead” before slowly blooming into a bleary electronic buzz) this is what makes Jones so special. His voice on these tracks has a haunting, hollowed out bleakness to it that stirs something primal inside, like some ancient folk tune speaking of greater truths. (See the plaintive, plinking bar piano of the closing “Baby, Run” for one further example.) And so while part of me wishes these tunes made up the majority of the album (similar to the previous EP) it’s an all-around solid effort from one of my favorite recent finds. (And a heck of a nice guy in person, too.) Definitely check him out!

On the back half we have the actual southerner, Tennessee’s Josiah and the Bonnevilles, back with their second album of the year and third in the past two. (Their first, the aptly titled Country Covers, was full of the myriad singles they’d released recently in that vein, while last year’s equally on the nose 2022 was their last of original material.) This one returns to the latter with a pair of songs dealing with some of the mundanities of regular life — life on the job and longing for “Another Day at the Factory,” as well as suffering through the effects of a “Kentucky Flood.” (“This ole holler used to be my home and underneath that water is everything I own…now this lake in the middle of nowhere says there ain’t none of that no more” from the latter.)

There’s more typical, universal fare, too — the smoldering send off to someone who’s left him behind on “Burn.” (“If it’s the last damned thing I do I’m gonna burn this body down. I never really got over you I just learned to do without.”) The beautiful “Blood Moon,” which sings of a love (or at least connection) still in progress (“tell me that you’ll never leave, even if it’s a lie. I’ma double down on what I said in the morning light….nothing lasts forever, ‘cept maybe you and I”) while “The Line” tells a tale of unrequited love, as both parties traipse across that titular barrier. (“I drew myself a line between your heart and mine. A pretty little line, tells me I’ll be fine if I stay here on my side.”)

The band’s country side comes out most clearly on the album’s back half and its songs about the South and the Lord. “Keeping Love Alive” and the lovely love letter to their native state, the aptly named “Tennessee Song,” speak to the former (“if it runs like it’s never gonna die then it probably comes from the South” and “treasure of the world, home sweet home to me,” respectively) while the oddly affecting ode (at least for an atheist) to his mom/aunt/grandma on “A Gold Cross on a Rope Chain” and the brisk “God Made a New Chord” handle the latter. (“I just drove off, I was 17 and a day, left her holding on to her only claim to fame.” (The titular implements from the former.))

Frontman Josiah Leming channels the ghost of Tom Petty frequently here with his arresting first lines, sketching simple and straightforward images that grab you immediately — “when I think of you I think of growing old easy. Settling down real early in the evening, on a twin-sized mattress in the middle of a snowstorm” on the closing “Basic Channels.” Or “I’m lit up like the 4th of July — you’re out with one of your pretty guys who never worked a day in his life” on “Holy Place.” There are some slight missteps (the odd time traveling “Any Time or Place” with its lyrics of WWI and building the pyramids), but writ large his songwriting has gotten sharper, forming an even more solid accompaniment to his already excellent melodies. I’ve really become a big fan of these guys — really strong set of songs.

4. Guided by Voices — La La Land/Welshpool Frillies/Nowhere To Go But Up; Wilco — Cousin: this slot’s for the stalwarts and a couple of beloved bands who not only don’t seem to be slowing down in their old age, but somehow getting more prolific. For the lads from Akron this constitutes their fifth year in a row landing on my year end list (they landed at #6 in 2022 and #13 the year before) and the third time in that span they’ve released a trio of albums in a calendar year. This time around it’s La La Land, which came out in January, Welshpool Frillies from back in July, and Nowhere To Go But Up, which came out the day after Thanksgiving. Similar to recent years/outings it’s another set of good to very good songs, made all the more improbable because theyjustreleasedanalbumfivemonthsago/thisistheirthirdalbumthisyear/theireigththepastthree/theirfortiethyearasaband.

It may be a product of having been out the longest and thus having the most time to sink in, but La La Land is the most consistent of the three — from the opening “Another Day to Heal” and the sinister growl of “Instinct Dwelling” to back half tracks like “Face Eraser,” the guys can still dish out straight down the middle rock songs with the best of ‘em. Meanwhile tracks like “Cousin Jackie,” “Caution Song,” and the closing “Pockets” highlight shimmering guitar chords almost explicitly designed to make you strike poses akin to 2021’s It’s Not Them. It Couldn’t Be Them. It Is Them when you hear them. (And album midway point “Slowly on the Wheel” is another classic GBV epic that builds to an ever-satisfying flourish.)

Welshpool has a bunch of winners, too — opening “Meet the Star,” the furious churn of “Romeo Surgeon,” and the effervescent seesaw riff of “Why Won’t You Kiss Me” all sizzle, as do latter half tracks like “Awake Man” and “Seedling.” Slower burns like “Cruisers’ Cross” and the melancholic melt of “Better Odds” shine too, adding some soaring refrains beside Dr Bob’s croons. (And despite being brand new, early winners from Nowhere include “The Race is on, the King is Dead” and “Stabbing at Fractions.”)

Unsurprisingly these guys were my top band for second year in a row on the Spots’ year end review — with a listen rate higher than 99.5% of global subscribers again! — but with so much material to get through it’s really not that unexpected, particularly when it’s of such high quality.

As for Wilco it’s more of the same – another really solid set of songs, released right on the heels of another album. (Last year’s double album Cruel Country, which landed at #11 on my year end list.) Similar to their slot mates these guys almost release TOO much music — to the point where I worry I’m losing my objectivity or the ability to fully connect with the songs because they’re constantly being obscured by new things. It’s a bit like the snow that’s falling outside right now — it’s covering things I otherwise quite enjoy looking at, but the bright layer on top makes me forget them for a while and pay attention solely to the fresh things sitting atop the pile.

The last album showed this in small scale — lots of good songs, which got a bit overshadowed by the good enough — but it applies in the broader sense here as well. Tweedy is a prolific, daily writer, as I suspect GBV’s Dr Bob is. They do it out of habit, they do it as a ritual, they do it to make sense of what’s happening or to go someplace better. Tweedy for his part wrote a book on it (the predecessor to this year’s pleasant mixtape memoir World in a Song) where he convinced readers that writing a song isn’t this lightning in a bottle channeling of distant spirits (or at least it’s not only/always this). Sometimes it’s as mundane as brushing your teeth or making coffee in the morning — it’s just something you do, a habit you form on a daily basis to the point that you don’t even think about doing it anymore, it’s almost automatic.

The downside of all this production, though, is at times the polish a track receives is lower than it would otherwise be. Not that these are rough, unprofessional songs — they most definitely are not — but as with a stone that’s pulled prematurely from the tumbler, what’s lost is that high shine and glimmer that otherwise appears if you left it in there to roll around a little longer. And that absence manifests itself mostly in terms of emotional resonance here — I still haven’t fully connected with all the songs off Country and now I’ve been pulled into processing these. As this continues to happen over the years it becomes harder to fully digest things in the way I used to on earlier albums (classics like Summerteeth or Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, for example.) It’s why I can’t really name more than a couple tracks off last year’s album (“A Lifetime to Find,” “Hearts Hard to Find,” and “Tired of Taking it Out on You” come to mind immediately), but the rest run together a bit. Same with his solo album, which came out a year prior. Or Ode to Joy the year before that. They’re all quite pleasant (each of them made my year end lists, for example), but what I find myself lacking more and more is that deep click of connection with the songs.

There are a few that hit immediately here — the soaring closer “Meant to Be,” for example, which is an instant classic — but several of the others are going to take a little longer to achieve that deeper resonance. Lead singles “Evicted” and “Cousin” are upbeat bubblers (even if I don’t quite understand what Tweedy’s getting at, at least in the latter), while the shimmering “Sunlight Ends” and swirling beauty “A Bowl and a Pudding” serve as solid offerings in between. (I also quite like the opening combo of “Infinite Surprise,” with its trademark noise and tumult that build to a climax before segueing to the disarmingly warm sounding song about gun violence, “Ten Dead.”)

Writ large there are worse problems to have, that’s for sure — I’d much rather have too many songs to listen to than none ever again (a la Rage or Portishead, for example), but part of me feels like I’m not able to do justice to everything these guys (and GBV) are offering. That’s a fight I’m willing to keep waging, though — so keep it coming. In the meantime bask in the pleasant rays and try to find that more profound level of attachment before the next batch from both arrives.

3.  The Hives — The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons; Spiritual Cramp — Spiritual Cramp: this slot’s for the sh#$kickers and a pair of albums that were adrenaline shots to the jugular, able to immediately boost your spirits and energy and get you bouncing around the room in delight. First comes the riotous return of the beloved band of Swedes, back from the dead after a whopping eleven years away. It opens in irresistible fashion with the almost theatrical buildup to the simple, yet surgically sharp riff of “Bogus Operandi” before blowing the doors off the album and running wild. (The buildup is even more delicious live, as they’ve been opening their sets with this one on tour, working the crowd into an immediate frenzy.)

They quickly follow this eruption with the blistering “Trapdoor Solution,” the seductively slithering bass line on “Countdown to Shutdown” (with its jubilant “WHOOOOOOs” punctuating the proceedings), and the pep rally claps of “Rigor Mortis Radio” and “Crash into the Weekend” (both of which are unfailing party starters that positively sizzle.) The boys add some new wrinkles along the way — there’s the horns on “Stickup” and “Smoke and Mirrors,” which sports a marching band feel and felicity, and the slightly cinematic surf rock tinge of “What Did I Ever Do To You?” — but the bulk of the material remains their vintage punk and its undeniable blasts from the back of the garage.

Frontman Howlin Pelle Almqvist remains the perfect field marshal for the assault and the textbook definition of what you want a rock star to be. He’s 45 and been away for over a decade, but still acts like he always has onstage, preening and pogoing throughout the set, unleashing a barrage of high kicks while twirling the mic like it was in flames, and his antics remain hilarious. (I’ll admit to having stolen his over the top entreaties to the crowd for applause lately, furiously seesawing his arms front to back like he’s directing an airplane towards the jetway.) Almqvist actually smacked himself in the head with the mic so hard at one show it drew blood, but rather than be cowed he turned it into fuel for the rest of the show and the image was emblazoned on T-shirts for sale a few shows later. (The band’s merch/media game remains flawless — follow them on the ‘gram for additional proof/laughs.)

Neither he nor the band have lost a step in the time away, coming in guns blazing and leaving everything they’ve got on the album/stage. I got to see them in a room for maaaaaybe 150 people recently and the entire band was soaked in sweat by the time they were done, and it’s like this for every show I’ve seen of theirs — it’s honestly one of the more impressive demonstrations of stamina you’ll see. (And the crowd singing the bass line of “Hate to Say I Told You So” while he sings over it remains one of the coolest moments of the year.) Hands down one of the most consistently good times the year had to offer.

One need look no further for a second than this all out sprint of an album. With ten songs clocking in at a scant 26 minutes, this one makes its intentions clear from the outset — “I wanna know whose side you’re on,” frontman Michael Bingham blasts in the opening “Blowback.” If that side happens to be filled with folks standing around, overthinking their life choices and whether or not to cut loose, they’re about to get bulldozed. This one’s a hedonistic, almost nihilistic romp about living for the moment that’s virtually impossible not to move to (frantically).

The lyrics hit the aforementioned notes early and often and paint the picture of a protagonist who’s not quite well — there’s odes to flashy materialism (“I want the biggest house on the block with a yard” in “Slick Rick” (yeah baby say my name)) and maxing out your credit cards and living in debt on “Rick” and “Talking on the Internet.” There’s tales of going through a stranger’s drawers and rifling through their things on “Clashing at the Party.” Of getting into fights and lying to his wife on “Catch a Hot One.” Of always stressing and looking for trouble on “Better Off This Way” (or being stressed/bored/melting down/freaking out on “Can I Borrow Your Lighter.”)

It may not be the most embraceable or aspirational album as a result (“outta my way or I’ll burn you down” on “City on Fire”), but the songs are so damned catchy you almost don’t care (or even realize, in most cases) what Bingham’s saying. I got the chance to catch these guys live at one of our many neighborhood summer fests and it was every bit as exhilarating in person. (Bingham almost had to berate the crowd to loosen up at first — it was a rainy Sunday afternoon, so not entirely unwarranted with all the puddles and precipitation — but folks got the message and started churning around pretty quickly.) Like its slot mate, this one’s built for speed and one heck of a good time.

2. Queens of the Stone Age — In Times New Roman…; Cory Hanson — Western Cum: like its predecessor this slot’s another one for the rockers, but where the previous one was characterized by a need for speed, this one’s more about power. The last one was a pair of Formula One cars zipping around the race track whereas this is a set of muscle cars set to thunder you down the highway. The previous pair pummeled you with a flurry of jabs to dazzle your defenses, whereas these two unleash a series of haymakers to leave you breathlessly seeing stars from the canvas. We’ll start with the veterans and the return of the beloved sleaze of the Queens.

It’s been a tumultuous six years since we last saw these guys, riding high on the rollicking Villains (which landed at #7 on my year end list). Aside from the global chaos that’s continuously ravaged our screens and resolve since that point, frontman Josh Homme has had to deal with a very public (and very messy) divorce from his wife, which has involved numerous restraining orders and allegations of abuse. (The latter of which appear to have thankfully been dismissed as unfounded.) Unsurprisingly it’s resulted in a heavier, darker set of songs that are less dancey than the vibe at times on Villains, but no less captivating.

The allusions to his misery are there from the outset — “I don’t give up, I give in — there ain’t nothing to win…and you’re caught in the middle of what you made…empty hole where the empathy used to be” on the opening “Obscenery.” “We’ll never get back to where we were — stare into oblivion, oh it hurts…thought we were equals…” in “Negative Space.” Hold me close I’m confused, I don’t wanna go out. I told myself I could do this, but I’m having my doubts” on the killer closer “Straight Jacket Fitting.” It’s a less guarded, jokey version of Homme’s persona than we’ve seen before and it’s really effective. (There’s still some of his customary adolescent humor and puns — “rizzum jizzum” on “Obscenery,” indifference towards “what the peep hole say” on the song of the same name —but thankfully these are minor aberrations this time.)

Per usual the not-so-secret weapon for the band is thunder god Jon Theodore whose drumming here is absolutely vital. Pick almost any song and Theodore’s beats immediately grab a hold of you and draw you in. Sometimes funky, sometimes just brutal, they’re constantly engaging and get you tapping along (even if you aren’t a subpar drummer such as myself). The syncopated stutters midway through “Time and Place” or “Negative Space.” The ominous, slinky swing on “Carnavoyeur” or the closing epic “Straight Jacket.” The pure punishment of “Paper Machete” or “Emotion Sickness.” It adds a power to the proceedings that’s both pulverizing and primal, like an unavoidable heartbeat pounding in your ears after fleeing an assailant. (Or climbing a flight of stairs, depending on your circumstance/health. Stop judging me, damnit!) The force of Theodore’s kick drum here is absolutely ferocious — he’s possibly the first person since the late great Bonham whose idle toe tapping registers as seismic activity and can spark a tsunami in coastal areas.

For his part Homme remains one of the most undeniably cool people on the planet. He’s sadly left his swashbuckling phase behind and is back in his standard baby duck mode, but that more innocent appearance is belied by another set of searing riffs (his one on “Carnavoyeur” is a definite fave, just a couple notes but guaranteed to split your brain apart) and his Elvis-era hip swivels routinely make half the crowd (men and women alike) swoon. (I’m lookin’ at you, Allen…)

I listened to this one obsessively over the year (it comically comprised all five of my “Top Song” spots in my Spotify review) and was even better live. (Special shout out to their lighting guy whose elements on tour are always excellent accents to the songs instead of ancillary afterthoughts. A rare, but well-deserved salute.) These guys remain ferocious faves.

For his part LA’s Cory Hanson represents another newcomer to the list (but not the last, yet!) and a leggier, looser version of the rock their slot mates were dishing out. In a year that was a bit all over the place — it was one of the first times that I didn’t have an immediate, hands down winner for the top spot, for one thing — this was one of the few constants, an album I returned to repeatedly while others were more contained in their influence and enjoyment. (Unsurprisingly, it was also the closest to that top spot for the bulk of the year.) Stumbling upon Hanson was easily one of the year’s best discoveries — I found this and his 2021 Pale Horse Rider and constantly bounced between the two — and this one was emblematic of the year’s erraticism.

Lyrically, it’s a bit out there. He sings about solid gold binoculars and a snowman’s tears on the opening “Wings.” About “Nosferatu lost in his castle” on “Persuasion Architecture.” Of “submarines the size of sardines” in “Horsebait Sabotage” and the cocaine taped to your balls swinging around in the darkness on “Ghost Ship.” Hanson himself is a bit of an odd duck — I got to chat with him briefly before a show here and left it a little confused, almost like I was talking to someone from another planet.

But none of those things matter. They are mere pebbles bouncing off the armor of this rampaging rhino of an album. If you like guitar — and especially its classic rock deployments — then this is an absolute must listen. This album rules. It rules SO much. It is an epic love note to the power of power chords and the transcendence of soaring solos. Almost all of its songs have exhilarating dive bombing guitar sections that show off Hanson’s and the band’s considerable prowess. And as a result you will find yourself time and again muttering “FUUUUUU&*inghell” to yourself or anyone around you and bobbing your head in unison.

The proto-punk open of “Persuasion Architecture,” which starts at a furious pace before blossoming into a more laidback country vibe with pedal steel and back again, is but one example. The harmonics play in “Horsebait,” which foreshadows the furious solos and slowly segues into the wonderful weirdness of “Ghost Ship.” The delirious ten minute epic of “Driving Through Heaven,” which just keeps topping itself with one incendiary run after another before dropping us into the blissful close of “Motion Sickness.” It’s a fantastic album — weird warts (and terrible title) be damned. If you’ve ever thrown up horns or played air guitar to a tune, you owe it to yourself to listen to this album immediately. You won’t be disappointed.

1. Gregory Alan Isakov — Appaloosa Bones; Dean Johnson — Nothing For Me Please; Free Range — Practice: this slot’s for the soft-spoken and a trio of albums that aim for the heart. Two of them are newcomers and their perch at the top is a bit of a surprise — not because they’re not excellent albums. All three of them are delicate wonders that will almost certainly drive their arrows into your core. Moreso because if left on their own I’d probably have slotted them further down the list. But when I look back at the year with ALL its ups and downs, that battered but undying need for refuge and something that resonated emotionally — to things like hope, beauty, and love in lieu of frustration, disappointment, and anger — is what put them at the top. The three performed an unspoken relay race for the heart, quietly passing the baton from one to the other without losing a step, keeping the sunnier side of my nickname alive amidst a year full of shadows.

The one running anchor was Isakov’s, coming out in August and captivating my ears for the months since. It’s his first in five years (2018’s Evening Machines, which landed at #8 on my year end list) and per usual it captures the openness and feel of the west — there’s foxes and horses, coyotes and watchmen with torches, the skies flickering with lightning and the wind rustling past your ears. “Sweet heat lightning falls — blue crack of light and that’s all, calling you to sing” on the song named for said electricity. “Come midnight we’ll all be dreaming, it’s the owl who owns the evening” on “Terlingua.” “One day the waves will forget the ocean and wander their way to the shore…. One day these mountains will tire of standing, drop their shoulders into the sand” on “One Day.”

As usual Isakov juxtaposes those with songs (and images) of the heart. “Remember when the engine quit? You sparked up, began to grin — you and all your silver linings” on “Terlingua.” “Our love is untested, never arrested, slipping through our city fingers. Always dressed up, but never picked up” on “Watchman.” “Finally found us some good love, let’s see if it lasts” and “glad you found me when you did” on “Silver Bell” and the title track, respectively. There’s the lovely ode to unrequited love in the closing “Feed your Horses” (“Your crooked heart has left you to roam, looking for love, you forget to come home. I’ll wait for you, darling, like grain in the ground”) and the desolation of the hauntingly beautiful “Miles to Go.” (Something about the image of sitting heartbroken and/or homesick in a sad, empty hotel bar just wrecks me every time.)

I was lucky enough to get to see him perform twice this year and each time brought me to tears multiple times throughout the set. Isakov and his band just cast this intoxicating spell that renders the crowd almost paralyzed — they spend most of the show lowly lit or performing as silhouettes, encouraging folks to focus on the music rather than some on stage spectacle or show. It’s one of the rare instances where I actually spent the majority of the show with my eyes closed, just following the songs as they swirled around us, chasing those images around the dark night sky and succumbing to their spell. It was a bit of a magical feeling, both times it happened, and the album invites you to a similar experience at home. Close your eyes, lay back, and let this one wash over you.

Running second in the aforementioned relay was Johnson’s debut and the story here’s almost as good as the album. Comprised of songs written over the last twenty years, this is a magical little thing. Despite working as a musician in the Seattle scene that entire time (he’s the guitarist in Sons of Rainier and performs as a solo act in the area), some combination of laziness and fear (of imposing on others to help him, of failure, of such open hearted material, etc) Johnson refused to actually record the songs until 2018 (using listmate Duff Thompson as producer, no less) and then refused to put them out until five years after that. Whoever we have to thank for finally convincing him to do so deserves a holiday ham the size of a Volkswagen because this is a truly wonderful set of songs.

The lovely, languid opening track — another of the prettiest things you’ll hear all year — conjures the sights and sounds of the titular cowboy roaming on the range. (“Cattle calls and canyon walls, the jangle of spurs… Sunset over rolling hills, ghost rider sky…”) Things don’t remain that tranquil for long as the majority of the subsequent songs showcase the scathing honesty and bitterness of the heartbroken, balanced brilliantly with a mix of melodies that will make you want to weep at their beauty.

It starts immediately with the next track — “Darlin, you’ll never know in my heart the fire glows. You will not find one sign that you are always on my mind” in “Acting School.” “The past is dead, I made my bed, I’ll get it thru my head” on “Old TV.” “Back here it’s certain that no love will ever last” on “Possession.” “Too much and not enough — close enough to tear each other up” on “Shouldn’t Say Mine.” “I let my memories come in and dance with your shadow again” on the song of the latter name. “Now I know that all you said was written in the sand” in the smoldering “Annabelle Goodbye.” (One of the few with traces of anger in it.) “Eternity, I guess it’s not for me — find me the ledge” on the title track. (Which also sings about vampires?) Or the true hammer blow to the heart, “If true love hopes you’re happy, babe, I guess my love is false” on “True Love” — OOF.

It’s a time-honored trick to mask bitterness or heartache behind a blanket of bright sounds and sunny energy, but Johnson does it in devastating fashion here. The Everly Brothers were masters at it and Johnson channels their ghosts here frequently, both in sound and substance. (He name checks them in “Old TV,” just to make the influence crystal clear.) He does the departed proud, giving us a modern set of songs that extend their legacy while also speaking to the most universal of human experiences, love and loss.

Last but not least is the one that started things off, almost exactly a year ago in the dark days of winter, and did so fittingly from the same city as yours truly. It’s the debut album from hometowner Sofia Jensen, who happens to be an 18 year old kid, which only makes this album all the more impressive.

Musically it’s a lovely, muted album, one that rewards attentive listening and quiet contemplation as the lyrics of heartache and loss sink in. It’s the latter bit that’s so remarkable, though — to see someone so young address these weighty topics with such care and maturity is quite an accomplishment.

It starts with the lush pedal steel on the opening “Want to Know” (“don’t go back when you’re still the same — your intonation pushes me away”) and continues with the stately shuffle of “Keep in Time.” (“I long to feel that again, not pretend that I’m blending in with nowhere to end.”) There’s the unrequited ache of “For Me To Find” and “Forgotten.” (“Imagine that you’re reaching out a hand — you pick me off the ground and understand that I’m holding it together for as long as I can” and “To think you fought something conceived so naturally, to think I felt something believed so beautifully,” respectively.)

There’s the jaded bitterness of someone twenty years her senior on “All my Thoughts” and “Growing Away.” (“Maybe you’d tell me about how close you got to saying sorry — that’s just something I think about when I’m dreaming” and “Even when you’re out to get me, never thought that you wld come to regret me,” respectively.) Or the blurry fog of unrequited (or broken) love in “Running Out,” the title track, and the closing “Traveling Show.” (“Walking out in a daze where every color just looks the same,” “What did I see when the landscape blurred? This sound surrounds me — it took too long to realize I want you around me,” and “The day when all the colors seemed to turn, it felt enough and I just came undone,” respectively.)

For someone to sing with such delicacy about these things is feat enough, but to do so with such lovely melodies — and to do so before you’ve hit your twenties — is even more so. Really, really excited to see where she takes us in the future. For now, enjoy the heck out of this one.

That’s all for now, amici — happy holidays and we’ll see you in the new year!

–BS

 

Star Spangled Bangers — Classic Rock and a Four-Pack Finale

It’s been a busy couple of weeks — parades, festivals, races, culminating with even the simple act of breathing turning into an arduous affair — but with the prospect of crawling into a long weekend thought it was time to finally surface again so the legions of fans who hang on my every recommendation could enjoy their time away without stress. (More importantly, if there’s anything as synonymous with mindless celebration and endlessly transmitting your thoughts as wisdom as this country on its birthday, it’s the unsolicited, unread ramblings I pass off as posts.) As such, get ready for your own personal fireworks display as I share some of my favorite finds of late, certain to brighten your barbecue and dazzle your days off.

First I wanted to share some reading material for those of you who may be heading to the beach for the long weekend. I recently finished Steven Hyden’s Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock, which was one of many recent finds at my newest used book store. It’s a really fun read — Hyden (who used to write for the AV Club here and has several other books in my queue — one on Radiohead, another on Pearl Jam) systematically explains his love of classic rock by taking us on a tour of some of the biggest names in the genre. It’s part history lesson, as he talks us through dozens of legendary acts — from Springsteen and Dylan to the Beatles, Stones, Who, AC/DC, Aerosmith, Sabbath, Neil Young, the Dead, and even less respected acts like REO Speedwagon, Styx, and Phish. (Hyden says classic rock starts with Sgt Pepper and ends with NIN’s The Fragile, just to bound the debate.) It’s also part travelogue, as the topics often surface based on Hyden’s trips to the endless nostalgia/reunion tours these acts put on, part of his decades-long dedication to them, whether past their prime or not.

I almost categorically refuse to go see shows like this — the bands are often years (sometimes decades) past putting out new material (or material that’s any good, at least) and often have undergone so many lineup changes the only original entity left sometimes is the second bassist from the third album and the sound guy from the 60s. As such, they’re shells of their peak incarnations and thus almost always recipes for disappointment for me — so to hear some of the arguments from a fellow fan as to why he keeps going was interesting and enjoyable. (And I’m not made of stone — I briefly bypassed my boycott and went and saw the Walkmen recently, as I wrote about last time, and that was a solid showing from a long dormant fave.)

The whole book has that loose, engaging feel, as if you’re at the bar having a rolling debate with a similarly obsessed best friend. “Are you insane? There’s no way *** is a better band/album than ***!” or “That’s what I’ve been saying for years! *** really IS the best band/album!” (At least for me — though I am a similarly obsessed music fiend who’s spent decades writing a blog that next to no one reads, so maybe I’m the narrowly targeted demographic here…)

Sometimes he’s just debating himself — his internal dialogue over Pearl Jam vs Wilco (and subsequently Ed Ved vs Tweedy), provoked when he has to choose between which show to see as both bands are playing in his town on the same night, is fantastic. (Verdict — he chose to see Pearl Jam, but feels Wilco has the better discography, listens to it more often, and wishes to apologize to Mr Tweedy and the rest of the band as he feels guilt and remorse (though not regret) about his choice.) For the most part, though, it feels like Hyden is having the conversation with you, teeing up topics and statements almost guaranteed to generate a response.

He starts by establishing common ground, gradually growing into his potentially more provocative statements as the book carries on. Hyden’s early encapsulation of what drew him to the music is an example of the former and was particularly resonant to me — “What I loved about classic rock as a kid is it seemed to have been around forever. Classic rock was there before I was born, and I was sure that it would still be there long after I was gone. Plugging into that made me feel part of classic rock’s impermanence. Classic rock represented a continuum that had started long before me and reached all the way to the grunge bands that I loved in the present moment. It felt like the opposite of pop music, which was proudly disposable and all about the here and now. Pop was inherently nihilistic, whereas classic rock had roots that you could trace back as far as you cared to go.”

As a kid classic rock was this amorphous thing that I knew from listening to ‘CKG on the radio and from the records my mom and dad endlessly played around the house. The Beatles and Boss for mom, the Stones, Who, and Zep for Pops.  Plus countless other bands whose songs I knew all the words and melodies to, but took years to eventually learn who they actually belonged to, as my parents and the radio didn’t announce every track they played. (Or they got tired of me endlessly asking “who was that? Ooh who was that?” after something caught my ear.)

It was this established lineage that first appealed to my investigative spirit — this band was influenced by this one who had this guy on their album who worked with this other artist who used to be in this other band who opened for this other gal who was the daughter of this guy and on and on it went — you just kept pulling the thread and chasing it down countless rabbit holes until something else sparked your interest and sent you traipsing down other trails. This, in contrast to popular music of the day, which seemed either manufactured in a lab or deliberately opaque (or worse, actively rejecting the things that drove them to make music in the first place).

Fittingly — as they were the first classic rock band that felt like my own as a kid, as I wrote about a few posts ago — there’s a chapter early on about Zeppelin and it’s a good example of what’s in store for the other acts that follow. There’s clever, funny observations — “Led Zeppelin IV was so cool that it wasn’t technically called Led Zeppelin IV — it didn’t have a proper title…Fans called it Led Zeppelin IV, as opposed to Led Zeppelin 4, because Zeppelin albums had the weight of Super Bowls.” Or “Most albums — even others recognized as Greatest LPs of All Time — typically…[have] at least one or two tracks that are considered filler…but that’s the thing about Led Zeppelin IV — every song is important…Side one of Led Zeppelin IV is so great that it’s actually a little dull to talk about…it’s like explaining why oral sex is an enjoyable pastime — don’t blowjobsplain, dude…”)

There’s rules and structure to the analysis — “There are two unwritten rules about Led Zeppelin IV and the first is that your favorite track must come from side two. The other law is that Led Zeppelin IV is too popular to be your favorite Zeppelin album; this is why rock critics who try too hard always make a case for In Through the Out Door being Zeppelin’s best.” (In no way, shape, or form is this last bit even remotely plausible — gun to my head I still think I pick the original, just for top to bottom brilliance and overall importance (you never forget your first love, I guess), but NO ONE can make an argument for Out Door that isn’t laughable. To riff off his earlier analogy, that’s like someone talking about all the oral sex their ‘friend’ is having and how you don’t understand the obsession/mind that you don’t get any/want it even if offered — just ask nicely and maybe you’ll get what you’re after, buddy, but please stop spouting nonsense…)

And there’s just flat out great lines (which also double as good topics for separate debate) — “‘Stairway’ is what happens when the lights are on; ‘Levee’ is strictly lights-out material, conjuring the feral sound of pure sexual and spiritual foreboding. Never in recorded history has [something] seemed so seductive and terrifying.” (FWIW I pass both this and his previous test as “Levee” has always been, and probably always will be, my favorite Zeppelin track — and not just on IV — whereas I skip “Stairway” to this day when it comes on. The haunting harmonica and those incredible, otherworldly drums — which as we know from the Bonham post was a miracle we almost didn’t get to enjoy — destroyed my brain the first time I heard them and have continued to after decades of listens.)

Hyden has similar highlights for scads more bands/things along the way, almost always inviting a response as you read — here are a few others (along with my thoughts in parens, essentially capturing the dialogue I was having with the inanimate book in my hands as I read — and people say I’m crazy…):

On the importance of albums“I still care about albums, because I want to believe in albums…Our current world is a place where algorithms help us find an approximation of what we think we want. But the best albums deliver something you never knew you wanted. And it might take years of listening to the same record — over and over, because it hasn’t yet quite connected — before you finally get it.”

(There have been lots of these for me over the years — notable ones I remember being Portishead’s debut, which I loved the single from but couldn’t quite wrap my head around the rest of, before ultimately becoming one of my ongoing obsessions in college and overall faves. Or Nirvana’s In Utero, which I thought was good, but was so loud and raw sounding compared to Teen Spirit that it took me a while to come around to (its singing about turning black from cancer while my mom was slowly being destroyed by the same disease didn’t help either) but now I actually prefer to its predecessor.

Or NIN’s Downward Spiral, which I almost took back immediately after buying it at Best Buy and listening to it on the drive home. I loved the single there, as well, but the rest was just so different. So ANGRY. I hadn’t yet been knocked onto the path of grizzled, almost obstinate resistance and fighting that would characterize my following two-plus decades, so wasn’t ready for that level of ferocious rage. (I would be very shortly thereafter when Moms finally succumbed to her near-three year fight — then that album (and Rage’s first two — two other examples I didn’t really like/get at first) would become veeeeeeeeeeeery close friends…))

On guilty pleasures — “Now there’s even cachet associated with appreciating joyously inane mainstream culture. Which means that if you’re a forty-five-year-old man who loves Carly Ray Jepsen, you probably don’t ever shut the hell up about it. However, guilty pleasures haven’t completely gone away, the definition has just shifted. There are plenty of music opinions that you’re not allowed to share publicly without shame, it’s just that most of them have little to do with silly, frothy pop. Loving Carly Rae Jepsen is now acceptable, but loving, say, the jam-band stylings of Phish is not. I know this because I love Phish, and I can already feel you judging me about it…Phish proves that it’s possible to be well-known without being famous; for decades, they have existed in a bubble that has only slightly grazed the mainstream on a small handful of occasions. The only thing most people know about Phish is that they hate Phish.”

(I’m not a big fan (phan?) of the band — though I do still really like disc one of the double live album that came out when I was in college. And I DID spend a summer on the road serving pizza at shows on their (then) farewell tour, sleeping in the back of my Honda Civic and mesmerizing stoners with my dough tossing skills (and the stuffed crust pizza I created with them, subsequently stolen by the evil corporate henchman of Pizza Hut). And while I’m probably never going to say “hey let’s put on a Phish album” or go to another show, I appreciate the enthusiasm their fans have and the happy, joyful vibe of their shows.

Case in point, one of the shows during that summer was at a cow farm somewhere in rural Pennsylvania (or maybe New York? Or Vermont? It was a LONG summer) and as a result there was a literal mountain of cow shit right next to the camping grounds — maybe two, three stories tall and half a city block wide (or at least that’s how it looked/smelled when you sized up its impact.) It had rained (and continued to) for about 24 hours straight, turning the ground into a soupy, smelly miasma that everyone had to miserably trudge through — to get to their tents, to the port-a-potties, to the stages and back — and it was a hundred degrees outside once it finally stopped downpouring.  So the conditions were miserable, every person/thing was covered in a mix of mud, sweat, and liquid cow shit (and the swarms of flies and mosquitoes prone to feed on said substances), and yet somehow almost everyone was in a great mood for the affair. People were pumped for pizza, pumped for Phish, pumped for LIFE, maaaaaan!  Which taught me two very important lessons — a) some people — either thanks to their wiring, discipline, and/or sheer obliviousness — are able to be happy even in the most miserable conditions, which is something laudable to remember and strive for and/or b) marijuana is a hell of a drug, able to lift your spirits even if they’re drowning in a sea of patchouli and manure.)

On the Beatles — “Sgt Pepper is to Magical Mystery Tour what Is This It is to Room on Fire — the first Strokes album gets all the hype, but the follow-up that everyone always dismisses as crap is actually stronger.”

(I get what he’s saying here and mostly agree — both these second albums catch sh#$ for being disappointments, particularly in light of their much-hyped predecessors (although who in their right mind is going to say Room is a BAD album and dismiss it as crap?! That’s just ridiculous.) And I may actually prefer Mystery to Sgt Pepper (or at least don’t go back to the latter much, but do occasionally spin the former), but there’s no way Room on Fire is better than Is This It. At best you might be able to get me to entertain it as a close second, but there’s zero chance you’re going to get me to agree that it’s BETTER than that debut. I still have the British version of that one on a burned disc somewhere (before they re-recorded/balanced it for the US version, stripping out the rawness (and “NYC Cops”) and it’s still a near-perfect listen. So while I agree Room on Fire is a really GOOD album (“Automatic Stop” is still one of my absolute favorites) you’re out of your mind if you think it’s better than that classic.)

On Dylan“Dylan’s methods have always been primitive and slapdash compared with the pop geniuses of his time. He gets bored playing anything more than once. He’s quick to say ‘good enough…’ For years he routinely left some of the best songs off his albums…It’s not an exaggeration to suggest…that bootleggers have had better taste in Dylan’s music than Dylan himself.” [Which begs the question] “Does Dylan intentionally make it hard for his most ardent followers to hear some of his best material? Or is it possible that he’s held back so much music because he honestly believes that the best versions of his songs don’t yet exist?”

(Dylan, for me, is something of a mystery. I understand the importance and like some of the albums/songs — Blonde on Blonde, Bringing it All Back Home, and Highway 61 are albums I listened to a bunch in college and the greatest hits albums were filled with good stuff, but nothing since the 70s ever caught me and I don’t often find myself going back even to the aforementioned ones much — but don’t get the undying devotion so many folks show. (And definitely don’t get the continued “genius” critiques — or Grammy noms/wins — for recent outings.) I guess he’s sort of like the pyramids to me — they’re iconic, they’ve been around forever, and were the site of worship to a dedicated band of followers, but they look (/sound) a little ragged now and I’ve no real interest in seeing them in person.)

On women“Since the beginning of time, women have been the greatest rock fans. No band has ever formed with the intention of attracting a room full of guys. A guy-heavy audience is the absolute worst for rock ‘n’ roll — who wants to play for plain, basic, boring-ass dudes? Women dance. Women scream. Women look glamorous when they’re sweaty — unlike men, who just look sweaty. Women also have the best taste….Women will stand by you even if you’re considered uncool by so-called experts. They’re always the ones you want in your corner.”

(Women are great — no argument here. If you know any who love music, Chicago, and bald dudes with bulldogs and beards, let me know.)

On the irrepressible allure of Fleetwood Mac“Just try to find an uncompelling photo of Fleetwood Mac taken at any point between 1975 and 1987. I’ve spent hours scouring Google Images in search of a single Fleetwood Mac band photo to which I am not sexually attracted, and failed every time.”

(This is an attractive band — no argument here either. Let’s drink some cranberry juice and just bliss out to “Dreams,” shall we?)

Over the course of all these conversations I very rarely was not nodding my head in agreement — I’m still not a huge Springsteen fan (though obviously respect the craft, impact, and dedication to playing 3-hour shows every night for this many years), nor do Dylan or Phish do it for me (though really enjoyed both those chapters, as cited above). The one exception probably was when he took a shot at the Prodigy (“Virtually nobody remembers them now, but for about six months in 1997, some very overexcited music critics tried to convince readers that the Prodigy were the Sex Pistols of electronic music.”) (A) I very much remember them and B) still think their ’97 album Fat of the Land i) rocks and ii) remains a classic of the genre. (And there are plenty of good tracks off their first two albums — and the follow-on to Fat — too, which actually makes them more productive than the Sex Pistols, even if those other albums didn’t shred quite as hard as that big one.)

Overall, though, whether you like the bands/artists he’s describing, I think you’ll undeniably enjoy the journey — and maybe even be enticed to go back and revisit some of these bands, just to see if maybe you missed something before. Hyden’s summation at the end on the continued importance of classic rock brings it all home nicely — “When I was a kid, classic rock was a fantasyland populated by the impossibly cool and occasionally wise, where revelatory feats of daring and moxie were perpetuated in smoky concert halls and expensive recording studios by damaged geniuses and noble fools. Inside every album lay mystery, danger, sex, laughs, and maybe a good tip or two on how to live. It was a seductive place that I never wanted to leave, even after I grew up. And, I guess, I never did.”

So the next time you see an announcement for one of those ancient acts of your parents’ adolescence coming to town, don’t scoff and speak of them derisively — think of the Stevens in the crowd (or the Phish pholk!), showing their gratitude for what they were, not necessarily what they now ARE, and if nothing else maybe give them another listen. You might remember something you’ve loved/left behind!


In honor of the 4th we’ll close with a quartet of albums getting frequent spins lately — the first of which comes from RTJ fave Killer Mike, back with his first solo album since 2012’s R.A.P. Music. It’s got a bunch of guest appearances (including from the elusive Andre 3000) and has some solid beats to back up his ever-impressive verses, but gets a bit preachy for me at times (lots of talk about the Lord and what she’s done for him). That said, there’s enough good stuff outside of that to keep you coming back for more. (On album or otherwise, Mike almost always has something interesting to say, whether you agree with him or not.) The track with fellow jewel runner El and the opening track with former Goodie Mob mate Cee-Lo are two of my faves — give both of em a spin here:

 

Next we’ll jump to the opposite coast and a polar opposite in terms of tone and content — from Atlanta to Seattle and from rap to folk, courtesy of singer/songwriter Dean Johnson. I posted about him over on the ‘gram a few weeks back (lead single and #fridayfreshness champ “Faraway Skies” remains a little slice of heaven) and thankfully the rest of the album is every bit as good as that opening foray hinted. It’s Johnson’s debut, and a bit of an odd one at that (apparently he recorded its nine songs five YEARS ago?!), but is well worth the wait. Johnson’s voice is great (“soothing and pure like a soak in a cool, crisp creek,” to cite myself) and his playing is as steady and stately as that cowboy on the range conjured in the aforementioned single.  “Acting School” and “Shouldn’t Say Mine” are two faves on a rather flawless half hour — check em out below!

 

Next we’ll shift to the south and LA’s Cory Hanson whose recently released third album (the terribly titled Western Cum) just dropped and has been beguiling me ever since. In contrast to his last one (2021’s lovely Pale Horse Rider), this one finds Hanson plugging in his guitar and rattling off heroic rounds of riffage across the album’s eight songs. (None moreso than on the epic “Driving Through Heaven,” which stretches for over ten glorious minutes.) His voice is a chameleon — at times I get Chrissie Hynde, others Thom Yorke or Neil Young. As such, the songs sometimes call to mind early Radiohead or Crazy Horse, as well as Wilco, White Denim, or even Skynyrd as the guitars double or triple up their attack.  And just as soon as you think you’ve got it pegged, you hear a different influence coming to the fore as it shifts off in another direction. No matter who you’re hearing, it’s a really good listen — my favorite has shifted almost daily ever since I started listening, but these two remain high on the list. Check out “Wings” and “Motion Sickness” below:

 

Last but definitely not least we’ll close with the one I’ve been listening to most, the eighth studio album from faves Queens of the Stone Age, which has been a bit of a grower. Initially, aside from a couple of tracks I was a bit disappointed — there weren’t as many immediate face melters as on previous outings and what surrounded them was a somewhat underwhelming mix of Homme’s corny puns (“Obscenery,” “I don’t care what the peephole say” as replacement for “what the people say,” etc) and the band’s dark carnival music. At least at first. Then this thing sank its claws into my brain and I’ve been listening to it obsessively ever since. Thundergod Jon Theodore’s drums on “Negative Space” and the closing jam “Straight Jacket Fitting” got in first, then the blistering guitar riff on “Carnavoyeur” or rollicking bass on “Peephole.” Basically everyone got a turn after that. (Though I still kind of hate “Made to Parade”) The two that grabbed me immediately remain on constant repeat, though — so give “Paper Machete” and “Emotion Sickness” a listen and get your fireworks started early:


That’s all for now — enjoy the holiday, amici…
–BS

Macarons, Stones, and the Kings of the Dirty South

Thought I’d kick off the long weekend by giving the country what it’s clamoring for, three days of rest and more idle thoughts from yours truly. First thing to highlight was the quiet passing of a legend this week, that of the French Frank Sinatra, Charles Aznavour. I stumbled on Aznavour years ago, hearing him playing at some anonymous spot during my travels and immediately falling for his voice, a rich, warm croon that oozed class, charm, and a time long forgotten. Similar to Sinatra in all those regards, he was equally prolific, releasing dozens of albums over his decades long career.

He sang predominantly in French, but also recorded songs in Italian, German, and Spanish, and while I often have no idea what he’s saying, as I wrote last week regarding the Lizard, that really doesn’t matter. (The one and only time Aznavour has ever been compared to Jesus Lizard in his 65 year career.) You sense what he’s after and feel the emotion in the music, which is often as (if not more) powerful as understanding the words. There’s loads to like (his 40 Chansons d’Or album is a good starting point), but one of my favorites has always been “A Ma Fille,” which is like a time capsule to another era. Luxuriant, lovely, and instantly familiar, it draws you in like a warm bowl of your grandma (or meme’s, in this case) stew. Give it a listen here:

Next comes another pair of anniversary albums, reminding me (yet again) I am O.A.F. (and also that I’ve got pretty good taste). First up is an article from Stereogum on the 20th anniversary of beloved Queens of the Stone Age’s self-titled debut, which does a good job recounting how the band formed from the wreckage of frontman Josh Homme’s outfit of sludge rocking outlaws, Kyuss. Similar to that band, early era Queens was a family affair, a rotating roundhouse of members and kicks to the head, centered as always around the red-headed wrecking ball Homme. And while the band has continuously evolved in the intervening years, sometimes in directions that make you long a little for the grit and grime of their earlier efforts, the core elements have remained the same throughout — killer riffs, bludgeoning drums, and an irresistible groove (either to make you dance as on their last album, or to make you rock out as on most others.)

As the article notes, this album remains their most unadulterated — they hadn’t yet added Oliveri’s insanity or Hannegan’s grime (or Grohl’s, and subsequently Jon Theodore’s, demolition derby on drums) — but it shows how powerful those core elements are, still hitting hard 20 years later. I remember sitting in my basement, teaching myself how to play this thing front to back, yowling along in embarrassing “unison” and wishing I could capture a fraction of Homme’s cool. (20 years later that’s still got me like Godot…) Several setlist staples remain from this one — “If Only” and “Mexicola” are perennial favorites, but “You Can’t Quit Me Baby” remains the purest distillation of why this band rules. The slinking, slightly ominous bass line, the building groove of the drums, Homme’s inviting croon, all leading to an eruption at the end that’ll leave you panting and breathless once the dust has settled. It’s vintage Queens, a trick they’ve replicated dozens of times over the years (most recently/satisfyingly on the last album’s “The Evil has Landed”), but it never gets old. Crank this one to 11 and rock out to one of the originals…

Last up is another Stereogum retrospective, this one for the 20th anniversary of Outkast’s classic Aquemini, which as the article recounts is the fulcrum between the classic gangsta lean so wickedly deployed on their first two albums and the weirder, more experimental sounds of their later albums. This one blends both quite well, and at 16 songs, nearly an hour and fifteen minutes long, gives you a lot to enjoy. There’s the more classic sounding “Return of the G,” “Skew it on the Bar-B,” and title track right alongside funkier, stranger songs like “Synthesizer,” “Liberation,” and “Chonkyfire.” And then there’s the monster single “Rosa Parks,” which blends both and somewhat inexplicably was a runaway hit. (Besides the harmonica solo you’d think the cartoonish “BOINK!” that forms the backbone of the beat would be enough to turn people away — and yet this song remains an eminently quotable favorite for folks young and old.)

The article does a good job advocating for the importance of this album, and going back to listen to it it holds up well (“SpottieOttieDopaliscious” is still a sick, sexy little thing), but for my blood the ‘Kast of the first two albums is the one I’ll always love most. I recently watched a documentary on these guys and their producers Organized Noize, and while not a must see affair (note to music documentaries — talking about music in lieu of HEARING said music often isn’t the best way to roll), it was interesting to see the tiny Atlanta house where the Dungeon Family dwelled and hear some stories about the duo cutting their teeth. Case in point was learning that their first single, the permafave “Player’s Ball,” was supposed to be a Christmas song and was released on a compilation CD of other holiday tunes. The guys being who they were, though, thought that was a stupid idea and instead recorded their version of a holiday song, relaying how a bunch of ballers would celebrate while throwing enough allusions to the holiday to appease their label. It’s a great song made all the better by knowing that backdrop, showing both the pair’s creativity and independence. So celebrate the anniversary and give the album another listen, but when you’re done dine on an even older classic and see how many of those references you can catch:

We’ll close with a quickie, the latest single from Thom Yorke’s upcoming Suspiria soundtrack, which I wrote about a few weeks ago. It’s another winner, in line with the previous offering “Suspirium,” slowly slinking along in all its atmospheric glory with Yorke’s lovely voice as its companion. He’s two for two so far, so hopefully he keeps it up (unlike my beloved Cubs who couldn’t hit a baseball if it was the size of a weather balloon lately and thus are done for the year). We’ll find out shortly — in the meantime, give “Has Ended” a listen here:

Under the Avalanche: The Best of 2017

If 2016 was the year where every famous person died, 2017 was the year where every famous person that remained turned out to be a liar, a crook, or a degenerate who liked to sexually harass people (and had been doing so for years). From politicians to movie stars to comedians to the commander-in-chief, 2017 was an assault on the senses, an unrelenting freight train rolling over logic, intelligence, and integrity.  It’s almost like those famous people knew something when they started dying in droves last year – “You thought this was bad, just wait til you see what comes next!”

The pace was withering — an almost breathless, all-out sprint for the entire year. It was so fast it was almost overwhelming, both mentally and physically, like feeling gassed at the half mile marker in a marathon. During some stretches it seemed like almost literally every day there was a new revelation or story that made you say to yourself, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This can’t possibly get any worse” or more ridiculous or more over the top, out of your mind bonkers. And then it would. Again. And again. And again.

The entire year seesawed between stories coming from the carnival of stupidity here in Washington and those generated by the downfall of leading men in other industries. (And the disappointment was almost exclusively stemming from men — so this year had the extra indignity of not only having to answer for the uncomfortable actions of those atop your country, but also for those atop your gender.) One day it would be news about tweets insulting politician x or agency y or country z, the next it would be finding out this person raped or harassed half of Hollywood. One day it would be threats of nuclear war hurled back and forth via text, the next it would be finding out this person liked to jerk off into potted plants while making women watch. And that just got you to Tuesday most weeks.

It became a war of attrition. You would just hunker down and try to get through the barrage of incoming fire to get to the weekend when you could hole up in your house and not have to pay attention to the news or deal with the people around you. When you could have a drink or two in your refuge and try to flush away memories of the previous week. All while trying to gird yourself for the next round of punishment that would start again come Monday. Between the news, the job, and the horrible place both mostly came from, it was almost too much at times. But as in war, when you’re pinned in your bunker and being bombarded, your only options are to wait for a break in fire to make a move or stand up and get blown to smithereens.

So you do what you can to survive. Limit yourself to 30 minutes of news each night unless something particularly cataclysmic has occurred. Only listen to music in the car on the way to and from work instead of talk radio.  Mute the TV in your office or keep it off all together. Leave on time and take more days off so you don’t have to deal with the idiots at work. Apply to other jobs to get the fuck out of this miserable place altogether. But 2017 would not let up. It was the protein fart in a warm, poorly ventilated room. It hung in the air like a fog, seeping through cracks and creeping around your defenses. It watered your eyes and upset your stomach. It would not be deterred.

So the news would get to you anyway, either via incredulous texts from friends and family or a push alert you couldn’t ignore while sitting on the couch. Your attempts to do the things you love to unwind all became complicated and difficult. (Like writing this blog, for example, which I’ve spent the past few weeks dictating into my iPad and emailing to myself so I can post because my computer keeps spontaneously crashing for no discernible reason. Including at least 20 times today. Aaaagh, GOFY, 2017…) Your attempts to find other jobs either went unanswered or rejected, despite being overqualified or the preferred candidate and asked for by name. Nothing you tried seemed to matter or make it better, it just kept coming. If last year was about surviving an avalanche, this year was about surviving seventeen follow on waves that kept scuttling your escape and burying you under acres more snow and debris.

As always, the music helped, and more folks than ever seemed to care about my recommendations (I think we’re up to four now. Maybe five?) which was a nice reason to keep digging. So I wanted to share some more suggestions before the next wave of snow hits and I’m stuck unable to move again. As always, these represent the best things I listened to this year, not necessarily the best things that were released. There were three that stood alone above the others (and one well above both of those), and I’ve grouped the others according to the moods or themes I’ve identified in them as in previous years.  If you’ve got more you feel are worthy, please let me know so we can all benefit.

And as for those generating the avalanches of punishment, know that winter only lasts so long and some people were born diggers. This old quote struck me as particularly poignant as I thought about the year – “It is necessary, while in darkness, to know that in oneself there is a light waiting to be found. What the light reveals is danger, and what it demands is faith. One will perish without the light… Everything in our lives depends on how we bear the light.  The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.” Substitute water for snow in that metaphor and you see it makes the same point. So to the noisemakers – while you can keep trying to bury us with distractions and disingenuousness in an attempt to keep things as they are, know that some people will not stop until they get what they’re after, whether it’s the truth, accountability, or a way out of the misery to the surface for air. So keep that in mind. Winter only lasts so long, and the weather is warming. I, for one, plan to keep digging.

1. The Orwells – Terrible Human Beings:  hands-down my favorite album of the year. By a country mile. And I knew it almost from the moment it came out. One of two albums that stayed on the ‘pod the entire year and the only one I wouldn’t skip songs from by the end due to fatigue. In fact, I forced myself to stop listening to it the past month while writing this list so I could hear it with fresh ears and that choice annoyed me on a near-daily basis. Particularly because they released two excellent B-sides in that time that made me want to listen to it all over again. Each time one of its songs came on shuffle and I had to skip it, I grimaced a little. Despite listening to it in part/total literally hundreds of times this year. It still had me wanting to listen. And the crazy/amazing thing is, once I broke the holdout I couldn’t stop listening to it again. I’d wake up with a different song in my head and need to listen to it on the way to/from work (while continuing the trend even once at the office). Literally every day since the drought ended. (Including now, as I finish this post.) That alone tells you how much I love this album, if not also how amazing the non-me population will find it.

It’s got everything you need, though, particularly in a year such as this — great hooks, sharp lyrics, and an irreverent, “fuck you and everything around you” attitude that will get you bouncing around, whether you’re in public or the privacy of your home/room. It’s the sonic equivalent of Sherman’s march through the south or a raging forest fire — sometimes you just need to burn it all down and start over again new. The boys give you all of 10 seconds to get out of the way on the opening track. The drums lay out a stilted, spartan beat while the sound of a droning guitar slowly builds. And then at the 10 second mark it all snaps into focus and you see the danger flying above. The guitars begin dive-bombing your brain, with Matt O’Keefe’s air raid siren howling next to Dominic Corso’s sturdy riff. The punishment only briefly lets up as frontman (Super) Mario arrives on scene, before the guitars strike again two minutes later to finish off anything they missed the first time around. Two moments of irresistible destruction in three short minutes. And that’s just the first song. By the time you get to the album (and frequent set) closer just under 40 minutes later, the aptly named epic “Double Feature,” you’re ready to tackle a runaway elephant. (The album having just destroyed your inhibitions/ability to stand upright like said animal.) This thing is chock-full of some absolutely killer tunes –like “Kool-Aid man crash through the wall  because you just can’t help it” good. Mario and his misfit chorus shoot out song after song of infectious, invigorating rock and it’s pointless to resist — even your grandma would think this one slams.

It’s their first album since 2014 (the excellent Disgraceland, which landed at number eight on that year’s list) and they lay out their position in that opening track with as clear a credo as you could ask for from them — “all right, make it quick — good songs? Make you rich. That feeling? It’ll pass. Good boys come in last. Bad girl by my side, poppin’ pills on the fly, cold grave (go gray?) when I die.” As glib (and gleeful) a way of saying “I got mine — everyone else GOFY” as you can. And once that’s established, the boys turn their fire on everything in sight — old friends (“My friends are dead ends, where did they go? Hopeless and homeless” on “Creatures”); other trendy bands/poseurs (or themselves?) (“Have you heard that band? (Yeah I think they’re shit) And the way they dress? (Yeah they think they’re hip) And the things they say? (Yeah it’s all a bluff) And I know where they’re from… (Yeah it ain’t that rough)” on “Black Francis”); their peers (“And when they bark, yeah they don’t make a sound, this whole generation don’t make a _____” on “Heavy Head”); and the know-it-alls in authority (“Just because you took the easy way out doesn’t mean you know what you’re talking about, just because you took the long way home doesn’t mean your name is going to be known“ on “Hippie Soldier”).  There’s two songs referencing death (“Bayou” and “Creatures”), two songs highlighting the need to unplug from the daily nonsense in the news (“Vacation” and “Hippie”), a song rebelling against expectations and adulthood (“M.A.D.”), while the B-sides tackle the Heartland and broader society (“Middle America, you’re like radio/tv set/SUV/neighborhood/etc vanilla — you say you’re all for equality, but…when your kid starts to rock the boat you can pour some pills right down his throat” on “Vanilla” and “what’s so entertaining when nothing is ever changing?  The cup of hope is spilling… executive decisions… waking up screaming… Spend to get ahead to fall behind…” on “What’s so Entertaining”).  Nothing’s sacred and nothing’s safe.

Not that there’s any good solutions at hand.  The answer for how to cope with the coming apocalypse seems to be turn inwards, ride it out, and hope it doesn’t take long. “It’s fine, I’m gone in my mind. These times they left me blind. I’ll find a place to hide (and fry!)” on “Fry.” “Flip the pillow ‘til I’m fine, pull the sheet over my head, spend the next four years in bed” on “M.A.D.” “Could be a better way to right these wrongs than drinking heavily and playing songs. These possibilities that plague your mind — some better kept, some better left behind” on “Vacation.” “I’m in between happy and mean, waiting on time to stop” on “Last Call (Go Home).”  The frustration is evident (and shared), so the solution seems to be — stick close to your crew, fuck everything else, and revel in what the few of you can muster up. Not a bad remedy when so much of the surroundings are an aggravation or affront.  Popping these guys on and partying small scale seems like the perfect way to go, and I did so myself many a time.

Whether they titled the album in reference to themselves or the world around them (or both – Mario DID spit on and then wipe his ass with the Chicago flag the last time I saw them, which is nearly a capital crime in my book…) it’s a perfect choice for those around us in 2017.  I managed to see the band three times this year (including on my anniversary due to a scheduling change — bad girl by my side, indeed!) and it was the one consistent happy place I could find. Rough day at the office/on the news/at home? Close your eyes and you’re back in Chicago at a free show, with free beer, losing your GD mind in a converted warehouse while these guys destroy, otherwise known as “the single best night of my entire year” (close second being Black Pistol’s recent show in the equivalent of my living room). That exhilaration and feeling of unrestrained happiness from folks in that room — all that mattered was those four walls, the band, and the people around them — was the picture of bliss I called on time and again this year.  I ended that show soaked in sweat and beer, having found myself drawn into the floor-wide pit/party that erupted, for probably the first time in 15 years.  The album evokes a similar feeling. These guys are without a doubt my favorite discovery the past five/six years (a title shared with Parquet Courts, who I fell in love with around the same time for many of the same reasons) — and the fact that this l hasn’t shown up on a single major year end list is insanity. Pop them on and fight back against Armageddon.

2. Run the Jewels – RTJ3:  dropping for free on Christmas last year, this was the gift that kept on giving and the first album I knew would make the list this year. I haven’t had any doubts since then despite twelve months of solid listening either — it’s good from head to toe. And where previous albums found the guys in a more playful, jokey mood as wowed underdogs who can’t believe they made it to the party (as on 2014’s Run the Jewels 2, which landed at number four on that year’s list), here they’re cocksure heavyweights who will flatten anyone trying to keep them out. And they’ve got something to say this time too.

They lay down the gauntlet in the opening track “Down,” letting the competition/world know what’s to come – “You’re gonna need a bigger boat, boys, you’re in trouble. Gonna need a little hope, boys, on the double.” But hope’s in short supply here, as the songs reflect the times, and the topics are serious. “This is spiritual warfare…this is a fight against principalities and evil doers and unclean spirits” (as well the devil with a bad toupee and a spray tan) on “Talk to Me;” there’s financial inequality on “Hey Kids (Bumaye);” race, crime, and the police on “Don’t Get Captured” and “Thieves! (Screamed the Ghost);” the death of loved ones on “Thursday in the Danger Room.” Life may be “a shitnado” as El mentions on “Call Ticketron,” but the pair is ready for battle and taking no prisoners. As they explain on “Report to the Shareholders/Kill Your Masters” (“El spits fire, I spit ether. We the gladiators that oppose all Caesars”) and elsewhere on “Ticketron” (“We be the realest of the killers of the fuck shit squadron, movin’ through the streets and we lootin,’ robbin’”), the two are more focused than ever before, and the beats match their lyrical sharpness.

Despite the aforementioned subject matter, it’s not all doom and gloom though. Tracks like “Panther like a Panther” show the duo in braggadocious full flourish with Trina helping on the chorus (“I’m the shit bitch — everybody down, throw the pistol and fist.” And similarly “Stay Gold” has them rapping about their better halves, as well as their continued bromance. (“You’re gonna love how we ride to the gates on a lion, high and smiling. Me and Mike, we just think alike — we can’t stop high-fiving.”) It’s a heck of a mix, balancing the heavy with the light, but they do so effortlessly. Or to put it another way, as on the aptly named whopper “Legend Has It,” “RT&J — we the new PB&J. We dropped a classic today.” Indeed.

3. Ron Gallo – Heavy Meta: this is the sneering thumb in the eye (or flippant middle finger) to everything around, a brash, bratty splash of water in the faces of those in power. Tall and scrawny with a shock of wild hair, like a stalk of broccoli bursting from a garden full of potatoes, Gallo is the incendiary insurgent intent on tearing everything down around him in this, his debut. His lyrics have a playful, ruthless edge to them that cuts through his fiery guitar playing: When we were young they said ‘one day, honey, you and I we’re going to share a grave’— I didn’t think it’d come so soon. Trying to please everybody, you let everyone down — you made a fool of yourself. Kids got nothing to look up or forward to. No one can stand you. Sorry not everybody looks like you. Why do you have kids? Am I beast or am I human or am I just like you? Young lady, you’re scaring me.

The album is part British invasion, part beat punk, balancing Gallo’s jangly guitars and snarky lyrics with some really winning melodies. As tiresome as this year was, causing even some albums to become unlistenable by year’s end, this one joined the previous two and stayed on the ‘pod from the minute I found it. No matter when one of its songs came up on shuffle, it almost always felt right and picked up the mood, if only for its brief duration. There’s nary a bad song in the bunch — from opening track and lead single “Young Lady, You’re Scaring Me“ to follow on blasts “Put the Kids to Bed,“ “Kill the Medicine Man,“ “Poor Traits of the Artist,” and “Please Yourself,” Gallo rarely slows down. (Whether live or on the album — when I caught him at Lolla he wowed almost as much for his maelstrom of motion as for his songs/guitar.) He pauses briefly on tracks like “Black Market Eyes” and “Started a War” before ramping back up on “Can’t Stand You” and “Don’t Mind the Lion.” He released a handful of solid singles to keep the party going (“Am I Demon?” and “Sorry Not Everybody is You,” both of which are quoted above) and has another EP set to drop in the coming weeks. It’s a rip roaring good time and one heck of a way to beat back the bullshit.

4. Kevin Morby – City Music; Feist – Pleasure: to start the grouped/themed section of the post, we’ll mirror the seesaw (some would say whiplash) dynamic the year followed, bouncing from moments of anger and noise to pockets of serenity and quiet to recover. And if the first three entries shy more towards the former and middle finger rebelliousness, this one’s for the soothsayers, two islands of calm in the midst of this year’s hellish storms, evoked by two otherworldly voices. I turned to them a lot over the year, for some peace and much needed quiet, but also for the reminder that things don’t always have to be so cataclysmic. These two make you want to curl up in front of the fire and forget your cares, which you just might do (say if you’re in Connecticut and foolishly decide to take the night feeding for a friend’s baby that comes at 3am instead of the expected midnight). Whether in the wee early hours or the light of day, they have a restorative power that’s undeniable, and you’ll likely find yourself calling on them often as I did.

The first comes from ever prolific recent favorite Morby, who’s back with a more motley mix of songs than normal this time. (He’s also back after only a year away, 2016’s Singing Saw, which landed at number six on last year’s list.) Similar to slot mate Feist’s album he covers a range of terrain — there’s the sultry opening number “Come to me Now,” the punky Ramones ode “1234,” the hypnotic “Dry your Eyes,” rollicking songs about transportation (“Aboard my Train” and “Tin Can”), even spoken word interludes on “Flannery.” It (like hers) all hangs together on the strength of that voice — that amazing voice — which is warm and inviting like a steaming tub on an icy night. Put on tracks like “Night Time” and “Downtown’s Lights” (or “Baltimore (Sky at Night)” and “No Place to Fall” from his many singles released this year) and try not to be sucked in. There’s a gravity and weariness to his voice that’s irresistible — simultaneously heartbreaking and invigorating, hopeless and hopeful, depending on your mood. It’s this timeless, chameleonic quality that’s so wonderful — as is how freely he deploys it (this is his fourth album in as many years, along with a slew of singles) so there’s hopefully lots more from him on the horizon. Easily one of my favorite artists from recent years.

Leslie, by contrast, is a more reclusive creature. She’s back with her first album in six years (2011‘s Metals, which was number eight on that year’s list), but clearly hasn’t missed a step. She builds the suspense of her return on the opening title track, starting with the equivalent of a voice coming out of the fog before slowly ratcheting up the resolution with a thumping bass drum and a slinky guitar line that eventually erupts in one of her characteristic dissonant squalls before cooling back down into the blissful calm of her voice. It’s a catchy, slightly odd track that sets the tone for the rest of the album.  This segues into the naked beauty of “I Wish I Didn’t Miss You,“ which highlights her ability to lay bare her emotions with no varnish, an honesty that catches you with its vulnerability, like seeing a baby bird lying on a busy sidewalk.

The rest of the album (like the year) follows this pattern, alternating between songs whose serenity is shattered by spiky guitar parts or howls, a move that seems intended to shock you out of her voice‘s reverie to potentially appreciate it more in the aftermath, and songs whose spell is never disturbed, lulling you to sleep with her bewitching ways. Tracks like “Lost Dreams,” “Any Party,” and “Century“ all fall into the former category, while songs like “Get Not High, Get Not Low,“ “A Man is Not His Song,“ and “Baby be Simple” all fall into the latter. Feist is a sneaky good guitar player – a skill that comes out even more starkly live, as when I saw her perform this album in its entirety earlier this year – but you can hear it on songs here as well, such as the stately, bluesy “I’m Not Running Away.”  She surrounds those chops with her customary and aforementioned eccentricities, similar to on Morby’s album — there’s the repetitive chants on “Dreams,” crowd sing-alongs on “Party” and “Not His Song,” the spoken word interludes (or other sonic departures) on “Party” and “Century” – but similar to her slot mate they never overwhelm the songs. Everything is held together by her amazing voice and her refreshing openness — she has long seemed like the living embodiment of that phrase about loving like you’ve never been hurt and dancing like no one’s watching. She’s a special creature, and like that bird on the sidewalk you instinctively want to keep her close and protect her. Enjoy the journey back to the nest.

5. Jesus and Mary Chain – Damage and Joy; Black Pistol Fire – Deadbeat Graffiti: if the last one represented one of the calm spells, this one takes us back to the moments of agitation and noise with the unexpected returns of two favorites, one you never thought would come, the other you didn’t think would happen this fast. Both come from bands who are great at conjuring a mood and taking you out of your current surroundings (a remedy much in demand this year), the first transporting you to a corner of the night and an anonymous dark bar where this glorious, fuzzy clamor blares from the speakers, the other taking you to some deep water roadhouse in the holler where you see this incredible twosome whip you into a frenzy in the hot, humid, night.

For the former, it’s a return nearly twenty years in the making and a complete stunner — both that it happened at all and that the quality of the product is this good. It’s the unexpected return of fellow Scots JAMC, back for the first time since 1998s Munki, and after the shock of its even being here wears off you get to grapple with that latter, almost larger fact — that a band who hasn’t released songs in this long could come back with a near perfect album of 14 of them to keep you company. But boy did they. Showcasing everything the band does so well — from reverb-laden rockers to blissed out, moody dirges, the album is full of good tunes. (Listening to them you realize the debt that favorites like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the Raveonettes, and so many others owe them…) There’s tracks like the opening “Amputation,” “All Things Pass” “Get on Home,” and “Facing up to the Facts” for the former, while “War on Peace,“ “Song for a Secret,” and “Mood Rider” all serve as examples of the latter.

The band has always wrapped its noisy, brash side in a warm pop veneer and it does so again here, marrying the slightly sneering vocals of brothers William and Jim Reid with feminine counterpoints as in the past, done brilliantly here on tracks like “Always Sad,” “The Two of Us,” “Black and Blues,” and “Can’t Stop the Rock.” The brothers’ diffident lyrics are another hallmark on proud display throughout, as on another apt anthem for the year, “Los Feliz (Blues and Greens)” where they sing “God bless America, God bless the USA, God lives in America… wishing they were dead instead,” a sarcastic splash of water in the MAGAphone blasting on the daily news. It’s one of the year’s few pleasant surprises, and man it’s a good one. Plug in and bliss out.

As for the back half, the surprise comes not in the delay, but in how quickly the duo from Austin return, having last seen them just last year with the excellent Don’t Wake the Riot (number three on that year’s list). The pair must be riding a creative wave right now because the album’s 12 tracks show no signs of slippage, taking what worked so well on that album (and actually throughout their entire career) and expanding upon it. There’s still the irresistible barnburners (such as opening track “Lost Cause” and “Don’t Ask Why,“ both instant classics) as well as slower bluesier affairs (“Bully” and “Watch it Burn”), but frontman and guitarist Kevin McKeown’s solos are longer and more impressive than before — check out the runs on “Speak of the Devil“ or “Yet Again” for two blistering examples. It’s a sign of a band that knows its strengths and is intent upon flexing and stretching them a little vs doing anything radical. And it works. Really well.

In addition to the above, tracks like “Last Ride” and “Eastside Racket” are both winners, and songs like “Fever Breaks” highlight just how inexplicable it is that these guys haven’t broken big yet. It builds slowly, gradually turning the temperature up before exploding in a frenzy at the end, evoking a feeling of joy and relief as when the titular malady subsides. It’s a potent effect and one of many songs the band has that can whip you into a lather, something they do almost effortlessly. It’s even more clear in person. The pair is a powerhouse live – besides McKeown’s guitar prowess and penchant for flying around the stage/into the crowd (hence his affectionate nickname in our house, the Ragin’ Rooster) drummer Eric Owen is an absolute beast on the cans, flailing away in a tornado of hair, flesh, and what quickly become two gnarled sticks (hence his moniker of Animal). I caught them twice again this year, including once front row in what was immediately one of the best shows I’ve seen — and it’s then that the fact of their obscurity becomes even more unbelievable, as you run around like a revivalist trying to exorcise your demons. They’re incredible (and really nice dudes to boot), so show off your smarts and spread the word — there’s plenty of room in the tent.

6. Alvvays – Antisocialites; Beach Fossils – Somersault: this slot’s back to blissed out oblivion and two albums I turned to repeatedly to just black everything out and find the quiet of magic hour, to quote Alvvays lead singer Molly Rankin. Both of these albums are achingly pretty, the sonic equivalent of floating downstream on a sunny day without a care in the world. It’s the second for Alvvays, the third for the Fossils, and neither does anything radically different (a point I hope others later in the list take note of), but both sharpen what they’ve shown before to almost scalpel’s precision.

Alvvays fills their return with ten near-perfect pop songs, but Rankin tricks you a little, hiding some withering lyrics under the joyful sounding noise. She slips some absolute daggers between the ribs, coolly asking, “What’s left for you and me? I ask that question rhetorically — there’s no turning back from what’s been said” on opening “In Undertow;” “You’re the seashell in my sandal that’s slicing up my heel…and you’re getting me down down down you’re getting me down” on “Plimsoll Punks;” gleefully singing “I die on the inside every time — you will never be alright, I will never be your type!” over and over on “Your Type” (one of the best “kiss off” songs in recent memory) or “Now that you’re not my baby I’ll go do whatever I want. No need to turn around to see what’s behind me cuz I don’t care“ on “Not my Baby,” spitting the last part of the line with the weight of a boot to the gut. After all the lyrical damage, though, they close with the wrenchingly unguarded “Forget about Life,” which finds her asking “Did you want to forget about life… underneath this flickering light, did you want to forget about life with me tonight?” As naked a sentiment as coming into a room with nothing on and hoping not to be spurned. It’s intoxicating stuff, and its brisk 30 min leaves you wanting much, much more.

The Fossils use a similar tactic, hiding some bitter pills amid the pillowy mousse of frontman Dustin Payseur’s gauzy vocals. “I know you’re gonna try and bring me down…not gonna be in town when you’re around…This year I told myself would be a better one, trying hard not to fall back onto the knife” on “This Year.” “Used to be up for anything, you were the highway star, and now all of your sparks keep moving on…that’s all for now” on “That’s All For Now.” And so on. It’s a rich, lush affair — there’s a string section sprinkled throughout, tossing gold dust on tracks like “Tangerine,” “Sugar,” and “Saint Ivy” (which also sports a flute solo — that’s right, Burgundy’s BACK, San Diego!) Even more stripped back songs like “May 1st” with its jangly guitars or “Down the Line” with its bouncing bass line sound opulent with Payseur’s vocals dancing overhead. Similar to Alvvays, this one’s brisk 35min duration ends the reverie too quickly. Hopefully it won’t be another four years before we see them again.

7.  Queens of the Stone Age – Villains; Death From Above – Outrage! Is Now: we’re back for the last of the loud/quiet/loud alternations and one more for the unabashed rockers with a pair of albums from long time favorites, DFA and Queens. Both find the bands deviating from their classic sound to an extent, opting for a more polished, at times dancier feel, but both have enough moments of the old glory to keep you interested and coming back. Truthfully, these two albums have four of the tracks that I listened to most obsessively this year, songs whose breaks were so exhilarating they cut down any bad mood and absolutely blew my brain apart time and again.

For Queens there was that much ballyhooed partnership with producer Mark Ronson, a pairing that gave many fans (myself included) great pause in the run-up to the album for fear that the redheaded Elvis (a.k.a. frontman Josh Homme, the coolest motherfucker on the planet) and his band of merry miscreants would come back sounding like some glitzed up version of Bruno Gagahouse replete with soul samples and porn horns. Thankfully those worries were largely misplaced, for while the band definitely showcases Ronson‘s studio polish, they haven’t lost their signature combination of pulverizing grooves and stone cold swagger.  (They last appeared on 2013’s Like Clockwork…, which landed at number eight on that year’s list.) You hear it from the outset with lead track “Feet Don’t Fail Me,“ which takes nearly a full two minutes of buildup, chugging along like an ominous freight train before the riff drops in around the 1:50 mark and the band is off to the races. It stomps along with its heavy funk before arriving at what could be the band’s manifesto where Homme croons, “Me and my gang come to bust you loose — we move with an urgency between pleasure and agony.”

The band does that better than almost anyone, riding the line between “FUCK yeah” and “fuck ME” in song after song. Tracks like “Fortress,“ “Un–reborn Again,“ “Hideaway, and “Villains of Circumstance“ all fall into the latter category, slinking along with sinister intent, while tracks like the opener, lead single “The Way you Used to Do,” “Domesticated Animals,” “Head like a Haunted House,” and “ The Evil has Landed” (the latter two being Queens’ half of the aforementioned obsessions, with “Evil”’s break being one of the most consistently joyous moments of my year) filling out the former. Seeing people lose it live once “Evil” explodes (including myself), after Homme unleashes the hounds from 10 feet in front of you, was one of the high points of the summer. Seven albums in these guys remain the epitome of cool.

As for the back half of the slot, the duo of beloved noisemakers from Canada, they aren’t showing any signs of stopping either. Back with their second album in three years, Jesse and Sebastian show that their ten-year hiatus between their debut and 2014’s return (Physical World, which tied for number one on that year’s list) didn’t leave them with a shortage of ideas, only albums. Similar to Queens, the boys continue expanding their sound, sporting a little more polish than their signature raw punk roots, which takes a little getting used to for the longtime fan. Case in point is lead single “Freeze Me,“ which one friend described as Linkin Park-y with the nu-rock feel of its chorus and it sounds almost completely unlike their other stuff. Hearing them play it live, though, it starts to make more sense — you hear Jesse’s riff more clearly, you focus less on the keyboard, and you recognize the freak out at the end as one of their classic mashups of feedback, a killer riff, and Sebastian’s raucous drumming. (Side note, whoever was the sound engineer on this album deserves a medal because Seb’s drums sound fucking AMAZING throughout the album — super crisp, super loud, and oh so satisfying…)

Similar ventures on tracks like “Moonlight“ and “Statues,“ where Seb channels his inner David Bowie, crooning in a way we haven’t heard before, work better once you’re able to latch on to the vintage bits mixed in with the new — the crunchy feedback and killer line of “some boys cry while others fight and fuck” on the latter, the jittery riff and mind blowing kick drum explosions on the former. Even the title track takes a little getting used to with its subdued throb, quiet vocal, and processed bass line before it erupts into the fuzzed up roar of the chorus. It’s worth the work to adjust, though, not only because the new sounding stuff adds to the repertoire (and hopefully life expectancy of the band), but also because it heightens the enjoyment of the traditional stuff, making it hit just that much harder.

And there are some gems in that vein –“Nomad” is an instant classic, “Caught Up” may be the most perfect distillation of old and new (both being DFA’s half of the aforementioned headsplitters, with breaks at the end that will make you lose your fucking mind. Every. Single. Time.) and the tandem of “nvr 4vr”and “Holy Books“ at the album’s end make sure they kill you up front and kill you at the close. It’s another banger from one of my unabashed faves — I caught them live twice this year, too, including once front row, and I think my ears are still ringing several months later. Totally worth it — these guys, and the lads from Queens, just fucking rock.

8. Manchester Orchestra – A Black Mile to the Surface; Hurray for the Riff Raff –The Navigator: having completed the whisper/scream shuffle of the previous four slots, we’ll close this half of the couple’s skate with the last set of albums whose sincerity and earnestness are unquestionable. This pair is a little different than the previous four, in that their aim is several thousand feet above the others – in short, this one’s for the grandiose and folks shooting for the heavens. Maybe it’s in response to being “led” by someone so full of bombast that everything he does is the biggest/greatest/most unprecedented thing in human history (part of me is convinced he’s got a stool log that tracks in intimate detail the majesty of the number one’s number twos) that these two albums came out as an antidote, a form of equally self-assured (yet not self-important) expression meant to counterbalance the blowhards.

For Manchester it finds the Georgia boys back on their fifth album, their first since 2014’s Cope (number eight on that year’s list) and it finds them going even bigger than that album’s monster gravity. To quote the aforementioned blowhard, this is a YUUUGE sounding album, their attempt to hit stadium-level status (or at least fill those venues with a big enough sound) and it comes pretty darn close. Good enough on their own, the songs work best as a cohesive whole, similar to their slot mate. And doing so finds the band seamlessly transitioning between tracks that carry on the groove/riff of the previous for an even bigger effect (see the run from “The Alien” to “The Sunshine” to “The Grocery,” for example). Coupled with frontman Andy Hull’s incredible voice, which is borderline angelic when soaked in all the reverb, it’s an intoxicating, overwhelming spell.

Unlike their slot mate’s clear narrative arc, I couldn’t tell you what most of the songs are about here – there’s some romantic turmoil (the opening line on “The Gold” is a cannonball to the belly – “Couldn’t really love you anymore, you’ve become my ceiling. I don’t think I love you anymore”) and a couple references to his father/fatherhood (his “old man’s heart attack” on ”The Gold” and the lovely ode to his daughter on “The Sunshine”). There’s a few mentions of the supermarket, too, to further obfuscate (as an avid a cook I love that place, I’m just not sure I could write several songs about it), but short of that it’s — to quote Hull and the title track — a maze.

It doesn’t really matter though. What matters most is the mood and feeling the songs are able to evoke — and THAT comes through loud and clear. A sense of hope and belief in something greater that was a refreshing change of pace this year. And whether those sentiments turn out to be warranted or not, the joy is in the listen. And it is a joy — this is a REALLY pretty sounding album. Like knee buckling so at times. And whether it lyrically makes sense from song to song, there are moments that ring thru loud and clear — like a later line from “The Gold,” which gives the album its name and captures my sentiment from the opening metaphor perfectly: “Black mile to the surface. I don’t wanna be here anymore, it all tastes like poison.” It’s a poignant mix of emotions, a dark, moving affair that shows the band really reaching for that deeper resonance, and mostly succeeding.

For Riff Raff their shot for the heavens takes the form of a Broadway show, the story of front woman Alynda Lee Segarra’s life growing up as a young Latina in New York. It’s a grand concept, but one that works well with its simple execution. It paints in colors and phrases, allowing you to latch on to details as she sketches aspects of the characters in efficient shorthand like most good musicals do. So after a brief scenesetter of “Entrance” it jumps straight into the ode to her hometown, introducing the charms and challenges of “Living in the City” (it’s hard hard hard) before starting in on her childhood. She’s been a lonely girl, but she’s ready for the world in “Hungry Ghost;” she’s lost her daddy, best friend she ever had in “Life to Save;” she was raised by the street, do you know what that really means in the title track. And then someone sang a song, said a prayer, and said you’re only halfway there.

If Act One was coming to terms with the loss of her father, Act Two finds her doing so with her heritage. “First they stole our language… then they stole our streets, then they left us to die here on Rican Beach” on the song named after said beach. “My father said it took a million years, well he said that it felt like a million years just to get here” on “Fourteen Floors. “A little patch way up in the sky says you can leave here anytime you like and I wonder how long I’m gonna settle” on the song of the last word. “I just wanna prove my worth on the planet earth and be something…but lately I just don’t understand what — I am treated as a fool, not quite woman or man” on “Pa’lante.” It all culminates — as it should — in the “Finale,” which finds the titular girl from Act One embracing the Hispanic heritage she was questioning in the second, a fusion signified by an explosion of hand drums and Spanish beats that reluctantly take you to the curtain’s close. It’s an impressive idea and well executed, whether digested as a whole or just bite by bite on shuffle.

9. The National – Sleep Well Beast; Spoon – Hot Thoughts: for the back half of the tandem bike ride we get to five slots of music whose sincerity isn’t so easily swallowed. Whether they just want to dance or put on a façade or are just too new to quite know whether to trust them, these albums – while containing some great songs and working well enough to land here – don’t have the unabashed heart or honesty of the previous five.  Or at least leave you questioning it a little, like the rogue dissonant note that mars an otherwise lovely recital.  Maybe that sensation will fade in time, but for now they’re on probation, to be eyed a little warily like an old dog does a runaway toddler.

So without further ado, this slot’s for the restless elders and the sometimes questionable decisions made as one’s age grows (and/or one’s supply of fucks given recedes), courtesy of a pair of five pieces and frequent list attendees. The National are back with their seventh album (their third on this list, the last being 2013’s Trouble Will Find Me, which was number seven on that list) and Spoon with their ninth (also their third on this list, the last being 2014’s They Want my Soul, which was number 11 on that list) and both find the bands exploring new terrain, presenting versions of themselves that don’t quite seem right in the end. For some reason both bands veer towards the electronic and dancy, continuing the trend of every band on planet earth feeling the need to include synthesizers on their albums. (Honestly, some things are OK to write off as irredeemable and steer clear of — many have been captivating the news on a nightly basis this year – and for me one addition would be the 80s. There were all of a handful of bands from the entire decade still worth listening to — everything else was a disaster. There’s a reason people were doing blow by the bucket — it was to forget what was going on around them. So knock it off with the fucking synths already. )

Plenty of bands have done this before for some reason — everyone from U2 and Coldplay to Kings of Leon, the Strokes, and a hundred others (Belle and Sebastian, The Districts, etc) and the results are usually a disappointment. Because it’s not who the band is — it’s a marketing ploy to boost sales or stay relevant, it’s the product of boredom or doubt instead of a natural progression. And you can hear it in the music. Or see it in the performances. The band knows they’re not a rave unit. Or an arena filling riff rocker. So why are they trying to be? No one is going to confuse Spoon with Phoenix or the National with Radiohead. Nor should they. And yet both bands try to mine some of those sounds here, and it leaves us with uneven (albeit still intermittently pretty great or they wouldn’t be here) albums.

In addition to Radiohead, the National adds in some more amped up rockers, too, which again feels a bit like posturing, the old guy who suddenly starts wearing leather and getting tattoos. The National are known for their knee buckling beauty, in both melody and their wrenching lyrics. No one puts them on to get amped up before a big game or a night at the club. Maybe a big wine tasting or a night of turning in before 9 PM. So the changes here feel a little forced at times, almost like they come at the expense of those more heartfelt moments of the past. Maybe it’s a product of the year we’ve just gone through, where open, heartfelt emotion is impossible right now, people are too bombed out and overwhelmed for that type of introspection and nakedness. Queens frontman Josh Homme said he just wanted people to dance with their new album, in part due to the harrowing experience of his friends and fellow bandmates from Eagles of Death Metal in the Paris Bataclan attack (and I can’t recommend the HBO documentary on that evening‘s events more strongly, Eagles of Death Metal: Nos Amis (Our Friends) — an incredible, harrowing account of that evening that will make you hug your loved ones and somehow love Homme even more. (Until he kicks a female photographer in the face while on stage, that is… oh, 2017, why must you ruin everything I love…))

Maybe that’s what these two are feeling, too. (Although I’m not quite sure I get everyone’s urge to dance in response to all the nonsense — my impulse is to pour myself another glass of bourbon and hole up in the basement. But maybe I’m doing it wrong.) Maybe this is the bands’ Zooropa period, where they feel they have exhausted everything they can from their old personas and they try and invent new ones, but don’t quite get there on this first attempt. Maybe that means we’ve got a Pop or two in our future from them (and not a slew of watered down efforts trying to recapture their original sound after that). Or maybe they get it out of their systems now and go back to their old methods with the next release. We shall see.

Either way, as I mentioned before there is enough of the old glory on these albums to warrant their inclusion here. For the National tracks like “Nobody Else Will be There,” “Born to Beg,” and “Carin at the Liquor Store” all showcase that signature subdued, melancholic beauty, “Turtleneck” and “The System Only Sleeps in Total Darkness” channel some of this newfound energy well, while “Guilty Party” and “Dark Side of the Gym” walk the line between old, sweet sentiment and new, glammed up piano band well. Even lead single (and U2 knockoff) “Day I Die” eventually breaks you down. For Spoon tracks like “Do I Have to Talk you Into it,“ “Can I Sit Next to You,“ and “Shotgun” are all vintage affairs, while “whisperilllistentohearit” and “I Ain’t the One” work as products of their new explorations. We’ll see where both these guys end up — they’ve given more than enough reasons over the years to stick around, so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

10. Arcade Fire – Everything Now; LCD Soundsystem – American Dream: this one’s for the lovers of self who just want to make you dance. In a year full of bombast and almost insufferable self-importance comes two returns from bands who traffic in the same. The first comes from the wild pack of Canadians in Arcade Fire, the second from the band of Brooklynites in LCD Soundsystem. Both suffer from varying levels of delusion, the former weighed down by false notions of cool profundity, the latter by overestimations of being profoundly cool. And yet, they’re both still here. That’s because in spite of those afflictions there’s still plenty of good medicine within.

For the Fire, back with their first album in four years, they continue the vibe set on their last one (2013’s Reflektor, which landed at number six on that year’s list) and set about re-creating a 1970s disco again. On that album (coincidentally produced by fellow slot mate James Murphy of LCD) the band fused elements of the Caribbean with disco to get people moving, whereas here they merge the latter with more 80s-era elements in search of the same effect. It’s an uneven affair, bogged down by frontman Win Butler’s cloying and at times infantile lyrics (as well as the band’s cutesy, faux corporate iconography plastered on posters, jackets, stickers, etc in the run up to the release — get it? They’re protesting the overbearing ads and infinite content in society…by distributing their own overbearing ads and infinite content! It’s ironic!) Whether it’s reciting the days of the week in “Signs of Life” or talking about a girl who nearly committed suicide to the band’s first album on “Creature Comfort,” Butler has a way of making you roll your eyes and wanting to punch the speaker because he’s trying so damn hard. To be deep, to be cool, to be both and five things beside. (One of the lines here is the shouted entreaty “God, make me famous!” which is one of the few times he jettisons the artifice and seems sincere, although probably not intentionally.) He, much like his slot mate, is just someone it’s very easy to dislike.

And yet he, like anything redeeming from this year, is bailed out by the music. The band plays shapeshifter across the album’s 13 tracks, bouncing between the 70s and 80s and some of those era’s hitmakers as they move. They go from aping Abba on the lead single and title track to Nile Rodgers and Chic on “Good God Damn.” There’s the Tom Tom Club reprise on “Electric Blue” and the answer to the question you never knew you had of, “What would it sound like if a second line band had a Beat It-style showdown with Daft Punk?” that comes on “Chemistry” (which somehow makes sense when you know that half of the latter duo helped produce this album). So whether you impugn them for their mimicry or applaud their homage, the band sounds pretty good doing it. Assuming you tune out Butler’s lyrics and just give yourself to the groove, there’s enough here to keep you coming back. (In addition to the aforementioned songs the closing duo of “Put your Money on Me” with its rotary bass line and winning refrain and “We Don’t Deserve Love” with its fluctuating power grid throbbing in the background close things well.)

As for the self-appointed prince of cool, Murphy, and his band of merry men (and women) from New York, they return after a much hyped retirement six years ago only to rather rapidly decide to come back on this their fourth album. Which despite the infuriating cash grab their “retirement“ now calls to mind (a take all but confirmed by Murphy in an interview leading up to the album’s release), and Murphy’s general insufferability, the band sounds as good as ever. If previous albums were hedonistic soundtracks to the throes of being covered in sweat on the dance floor, this album feels a bit like the hangover the following day. From the hazy slowburn of opener “Oh Baby“ to later tracks like “How do you Sleep,“ the title track, and the closing 12 minute epic “Black Screen,“ there’s a gauzy, swooning feel that suffuses the album, like waking up on the couch the morning after with a black eye and a ringing in your ears. (Murphy even croons “I’m still trying to wake up” repeatedly on the track “I Used To.“)

Interspersed in the fog are memories of the previous evening, though, jubilant songs that will be mainstays of the setlist for as long as the band decides to stick around this time. From the sizzling “Other Voices“ to the 1-2 punch of “Tonight,“ whose jittery exhilaration steadily builds before exploding into the instant classic “Call the Police,” which captures the band at its best. And then there’s “Emotional Haircut,” which in addition to being a great (albeit completely inscrutable) little song is the single most fun thing I shouted out loud this year. Each of these are bright moments of sunshine to savor while you come back around on that couch, and they work great live, too. (I actually caught both bands live this year and the new stuff for both fit well with their older material, sounding less jarring than they may in isolation here.) As insufferable as both bands may be at times, they give you a reason to keep coming back for more. (Just like the folks in the news! Wait — no, that’s not true…)

11. Liam Gallagher – As You Were; Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds – Who Built the Moon?: this one’s for those who refuse to let things go or for an opponent to have the final word. In this case it’s the ever entertaining Gallagher brothers from Britain, formerly of 90s titans Oasis. The brothers have made a career of fighting each other whether in the band or not, and this past year sees them continuing the trend. They officially broke up Oasis in 2009 and have spent the intervening years as frontmen of two dueling bands – Liam has released two albums with Beady Eye, while Noel has notched three with his High Flying Birds. This time the ever cantankerous Liam is out on his own and as the feud between the brothers has intensified, it seems no accident that big brother Noel’s band released its album within a week or two of ole Liam. Lucky for us neither album feels as superficial or spiteful as some of the public shenanigans — both feel like they’ve got something to say or prove.

Liam stays closest to his famed former band sonically, as was evidenced by his set at Lolla this summer where he opened with two Oasis songs (never a good sign for a solo debut) before playing one of his new songs and then promptly walking off stage midway through his fourth song, never to return. Thankfully this album overcomes such inauspicious beginnings and delivers a pretty decent punch over its fifteen songs. There’s the requisite rockers — Liam still has one of the more anthemic voices so it’s nice to hear it stretch out over a bed of guitars on songs like lead single “Wall of Glass,” “Greedy Soul,” “You Better Run,” and “I Get By.” As was the case in his former band, the slower songs often packed as much (if not more) of a punch, and there are some winners in that category here too. “Paper Crown, “For What it’s Worth,” and “I’ve All I Need” are all solid, as is the quiet venom of closer “I Never Want to be Like You” (which you can’t say for sure is about his brother, but it’s tough to picture anyone else earning such ire with lines like “good luck scumbag, be home soon” and “fanboys who’d stop sweating you if they only knew.”) Whoever is earning the arrows, it makes for a compelling listen.

Noel takes a different tack and strays farthest from his Oasis past with an album that has none of his signature wall of guitar sound, but has virtually everything else. A horn section? Check. Soulful backup singers? Check. Indian influences and French flourishes? Check. Somehow the wide ranging and potentially over-the-top indulgence holds together, though. (Contrast this with, say, Oasis’ third album, which had a similar kitchen sink approach to it and instead felt bloated and overdone.) This has an epic, cinematic feel to it, where you can picture almost any song on the album playing on top of various scenes in a movie. A shot where the lead character is cutting loose and energetically dancing in their apartment? Cue up “Holy Mountain” or “She Taught me How to Fly.” A tense chase scene, either in car or on foot? Cue up “Keep on Reaching.” A montage of characters in various modes of travel, planes taking off and landing, cars weaving in and out of traffic while characters stare out the window of the train or the back of a car? Cue up “It’s a Beautiful World.” A shot of the lead character in the midst of a nighttime stakeout, or quietly sketching his plan to rob a bank (or maybe cleaning his gun) at a dimly lit kitchen table? Cue up “Be Careful What you Wish For” or “The Man who Built the Moon.” There are even three instrumentals if the others don’t tickle your fancy with all the words getting in the way. It all adds up to a solid listen, though, either for the movie in your head or the one you’re shooting living life – so pop this on and find your soundtrack.

12. Dan Auerbach – Waiting on a Song; The Shelters – The Shelters: this one’s for the untrustworthy time travelers and two albums that sound like they were unearthed in one of those old community time capsules or a trunk locked in someone’s basement. And while they sound great, like lost treasures, part of you doesn’t quite trust their authenticity — the part of you that knows they were made in modern day. Like Marty McFly, though, they may turn out to be well-intentioned interlopers and not the Biffs they may seem to be on the surface.  Time shall tell.

Auerbach gets pegged as a carpetbagger with his numerous projects – in addition to his main band The Black Keys there’s his side group The Arcs, his previous solo album as a folksy bluesman (2009’s Keep it Hid), his work producing everyone from Dr. John and Ray LaMontagne to Lana del Rey and performing with the Ettes, and now there’s this album of glossy 50s radio pop. In many ways Auerbach’s path is comparable to that other peripatetic ambler who was frontman of a brash, bluesy twosome that blew up in the 2000s (who now also finds himself playing with multiple side projects, recording/producing other people for his label, and adopting a different persona in his solo projects — Mr. Jack White). And while the paths are very similar, personality seems to be where they diverge – White comes across like a cat, cool/indifferent to people with a possibility of scratching their faces off with little/no provocation. Auerbach is very much the Labrador, all warm and loving with the possibility of licking their faces instead.

The knock on both (rightfully applied at times) is the old chestnut of if you try to do everything, you do nothing well, which isn’t right in the technical sense – all their stuff is really well done and they’re both VERY talented musicians — but is in the emotional one. As these two hopscotch from project to project and sound to sound, nothing has a chance to connect or resonate on a deeper level. It’s the equivalent of changing the radio station every six seconds or switching topics in conversation that quickly and hoping to be moved by an argument or song. The material to spark that reaction might be in there, but your odds of grabbing it are highly diminished.

That said, putting those concerns aside and ignoring the pedigree/history to just focus on the music, they are some pretty good songs. Auerbach sets out to make a pop album with dustings of country and soul and that’s exactly what you get.  He recorded with a host of Nashville studio stalwarts and doesn’t skimp on the accessories — everything from chimes to bells, strings, and backup singers make their way onto the album — and it nails the polished gleam of that era’s sound. From the opening “Waiting on a Song,” a catchy little ditty about the fickleness of creating said items, to tracks like “Malibu Man” (the carefree ways of a former city boy living on the ocean) “King of a One Horse Town” (its self-effacing, slightly melancholic twin) and “Show Me” (a challenge to a love interest) the songs sound as if from another era. (Which is of course the intent.) Auerbach shows some of the winking charm and earnestness from his early days as well on “Living in Sin” and “Never in my Wildest Dreams,” respectively, which helps take this from mere academic (or archaeological) exercise to something a little more meaningful. Auerbach clearly can write good songs, you just wish he slowed down a little bit to capture that connection to his heart or gut more instead of just his head.

The Shelters come forward from the following decade, sounding more like 60s-era British invasion and rockabilly, but evoke similar suspicions as the previous that prevents you from fully giving yourself over to the music at first. It’s not as powerful as with Auerbach – likely because this is their first album and not the latest in a long string of similar experiments — but it was heightened when I saw them live, as one member looked the psychedelic stoner part and another looked like the slicked back leather-sporting “rebel” who probably rolled in on motorcycle, all of which made it feel a little artificial. Which is not to say it wasn’t a good performance — with a triple guitar attack and songs as catchy as this, it definitely was — it just means you have to close your eyes and turn off your brain to just listen to the music.

Once you do that, you’re golden. Because the band does have some REALLY catchy songs — all polished to a blinding gleam by none other than Tom Petty (RIP) — and you can hear the elements of that man’s legendary band throughout. Tracks like “Liar,” “Gold,” “Never Look Behind Ya,” ”Fortune Teller,” and “Down” all sound like something he and the Heartbreakers could just as easily play. While others like “Rebel Heart” and “Dandelion Ridge” (or the cover of the Kinks’ “Nothin’ in the World can Stop me Worrying Bout that Girl”) nail his influences from those early British bands. It’s a fitting swan song for the beloved legend — if these guys turn out to be his true protégés it will be worth seeing what they turn up next. In the meantime, close your eyes and enjoy the nostalgia.

13. Barns Courtney – The Attractions of Youth; Mondo Cozmo – Plastic Soul: this one’s the pop stop, for a pair of newcomer solo acts, both of whom I caught at Lolla in my annual pilgrimage home. Barns is a bratty Brit who writes more straightforward pop anthems, Mondo is a Philly boy living in LA who has a tougher to describe cocktail of influences on his album. As it goes with all pop songs, you’re never sure whether they’re just manufactured confection or true confessions, but both turn out some pretty irresistible little tunes on their debuts, which forces you to afford them the benefit of the doubt.

Barns’ is an album of home run balls, towering hits that you know are gone from the crack of the bat. They just SOUND huge — opening track “Fire” starts relatively calmly, a muted drumbeat and Barns’ staid voice luring you in before the song erupts into the chorus. “Golden Dandelions,” “Kicks,” and “Rather Die” follow the same model, starting quietly before exploding with the chorus. Others like “Hellfire,” “Hobo Rocket,” and the monster lead single “Hands” start hot and continue to burn. Barns does show off a less bombastic side later in the album with the back to back beauties “Goodbye John Smith” and “Little Boy” and it’s a welcome addition. He just has a knack for the huge, soaring chorus that makes you want to sing along, though, so that ebb doesn’t last long. When I saw him at Lolla he started his set performing from a gurney because he’d broken his leg, but as shown on the latter two songs he couldn’t contain himself and stay still long and eventually was hopping around on stage with a crutch (and later without even that), making myself (and at least his girlfriend/minder who’d been pushing him around stage) nervous that he was going to take a header off stage and break his other leg. Thankfully those worries won’t trouble you in your car or in your house (and he ended the set just fine, if you were wondering), so just crank ‘em up and sing along.

As I mentioned, Mondo is a little tougher to pin down. His voice sounds like a young Dylan at times, earnestly singing about love and spirituality, but surrounded by an array of samples and electronics flourishes that make him sound wholly modern. It works surprisingly well — the songs have an uplifting, anthemic feel to them that draws you in and gives your mood a boost. From the sleepy opening title track to follow on tracks like “Come With Me,” “Shine,” “Automatic,” and “Chemical Dream,” the overarching message is clear — don’t worry, everything will be alright. Which based on how this year has gone may seem improbable, but at least while listening to this album you think it might make a comeback someday. Just try listening to “Thunder” and not believing — it’s a rollicking, windows-down racer with a perfect line for its time: “It’s been a long fucking year that I can’t wait to leave behind.” Indeed.

14. Shakey Graves – And the Horse he Rode in On (Nobody’s Fool and the Donor Blues): having completed the bloc of sincerity and the bloc of suspicion, we’ll close with two final doses of pure, unquestionable intent – one sweet as a jug of sun tea on a hot summer day, the other as jagged and dangerous as if you threw that jug on the ground and rolled around on top.

The first one’s for the former and one more for the throwbacks, this one from Austin native Shakey, who earns his spot not on a proper follow up to 2015’s excellent And the War Came (number six on that year’s list), but a compilation of EPs that had previously seen limited release on his website. The first was recorded in 2012, two years before his major breakthrough, while the second was released just after that album, but neither sounds dramatically different from what appeared on War. Per usual Shakey sounds as if he’s been dropped here from the previous century, some bumpkin from rural Oklahoma who somehow managed to find his way here and sing songs normally reserved for the confines of his porch at night. Honestly when you put this album on with its 16 tracks (and a couple throwaway joke tracks) it’s like you’re transported back to 1940s Dust Bowl and can picture these warm, scratchy tracks coming out of some antiquated radio while the wind howls outside your door.

Shakey’s stuff tends to work best as a complete whole (he’s not really a singles kind of guy) and there’s a bounty of winning tracks to warm your hearth with this winter. The imagery, like his sound, evokes days gone by — old bones and the call of the past (“The Donor Blues” and “Nobody’s Fool”), church, God, love and family (“War Horn” and “Family Tree”) and a touch of danger coming down the road (“Wolfman Agenda“ and “Seeing all Red”). Over all of it is Shakey’s incredible voice, a perfect mix of inviting warmth and rasp, and his impressive finger plucked guitar (check “Stereotypes of a Blue-collar Male“ and “Pay the Road” for two of many examples.) It’s another bunch of great little ditties and an unexpected gift to have so many finally see the light of day.

15. METZ – Strange Peace: we’ll close with one last singleton and the perfect counterbalance to Shakey’s sweetness, ending with the sonic equivalent of a sledgehammer to the teeth. In a year that gave you almost daily invitation to raise your fists and march around to protest the latest news, this was the perfect soundtrack. Loud, brash, and filled with words that were often unintelligible and yet sparked a tremendous sense of anger, it’s only fitting that the best distillation of how our current American malaise feels would come from…three Canadians? But as with everything else these days, truth is stranger than fiction, and the latest from the lads from up north is one I turned to again and again.

As mentioned several times above, whether due to an infuriating day at the office or infuriating day in the news (or both) I often found myself cranking this one on the drive home to blow off some steam. At turns sounding like a mixture of Utero-era Nirvana and Jesus Lizard (with a little At the Drive-in thrown in for good measure) this captures the best of both those bands – thudding percussion, visceral, raw guitar riffs, and howling (yet melodic) vocals.  It’s the third album for the band (their first since 2015‘s outstanding II) and while I still prefer that outing to this one, there still some tremendous pressure valves of songs here.

The opening trio alone nearly warrants inclusion on this list – “Mess of Wires,“ “Drained Lake,“ and “Cellophane“ are a brutal assault. Frontman Alex Edkins howls about being tired of losing, says he won’t do what you want, and vows that it’s all about to change, his anger as menacing as the pulverizing drums and roaring guitar. The band gives you a brief moment of respite on the droning “Caterpillar” before resuming the attack on “Lost in the Blank City” and “Mr. Plague.“ There’s one last chance for breath with the chiming “Sink” before the all-out sprint to the finish with “Common Trash,” “Escalator Teeth/Dig a Hole,” and “Raw Materials,” which sounds so much like a lost Drive-in song you can almost picture Cedric and the boys smashing thru it live. It’s a blistering thirty-odd minutes and sounded like the year felt – noisy, bludgeoning, and almost overwhelming. Here’s to never having to see 2017 again.

 

I Predict a Riot (Fest)

I’ve had a week to process the bounty of delights experienced back home at Riot Fest and wanted to stop in and share (just in case I erase them in a few hours at the big beer festival).  I’d been excited about this weekend for months since barring one or two omissions, the lineup had most of my absolute favorite bands on it, so was super jacked to go see em all again in the city I love.  And despite being hot as fuck for September (which is not a good thing for a crowd of punks with an unrestrained love of black clothing and denim) the weekend somehow surpassed even my unrealistically high expectations.

There was the free show the night before the festival (with free beer to boot) to see my beloved Orwells, which was so good it got me in a pit for the first time in probably 15 years and left me soaked in sweat and beer (and happiness).  There was Black Pistol Fire’s furious early afternoon set that nearly blew out my hearing (and my insides) five feet from the stage.  There was the magic of Built to Spill playing their entire classic Keep it Like a Secret and lulling the crowd into a blissed out waking dream.

There were solid sets from old faves that reaffirmed your love (DFA, Gogol, At the Drive In) and better than expected sets from headliners that put caps on already excellent days (instead of being lame and driving you home early like normal festival headliners — NIN, Queens). There was the chance to see vintage acts that peaked before my time whose sets still captured the energy of their early years and made me go back and re-listen to their albums (X, Buzzcocks, GBH). There was the chance to see acts you’d never check out on their own, but you gladly did here (and you came away happy that you had — New Order, even the cartoonish gore of Gwar) and the new discoveries you happily stumble into that’ll generate some winter spins (That Dog., The Smith Street Band).

No discovery was more surprising or powerful than the third night’s headliner, though, Jawbreaker. There was a ton of noise about the festival getting this band back together, playing their first show in 20+ years after an apparently spectacular flameout, which had struck me as curious leading up to the show.  Both the amount of chatter and their getting such a prestigious slot — closing night of the festival with almost no other concurrent acts — seemed strange as I’d somehow never heard of them.   Despite being big in the east coast punk scene and even touring (briefly) with Nirvana, word of these guys never made it to my high school self, so I had no idea what I was missing.

Until Sunday night, that is.  When the big band that never was came onstage and blew away my ignorance with one of the many songs I’ve been obsessing over this week, “Boxcar.” It’s an irresistible little ripper (one so good Green Day basically rewrote it years later) and a great thumb in the eye of the punk purists who had turned their back on the band once they signed to a major label. (“You’re not punk, and I’m tellin’ everyone — save your breath man I never was one…1-2-3-4 who’s punk, what’s the score?”) And the band didn’t let up from there — other tracks instantly jumped out during the set: “The Boat Dreams From the Hill;” “Save Your Generation;” “Sluttering (May 4th);” “Accident Prone;” “Jet Black.”  Others were found on repeated listens throughout the week: “Want;” “Chesterfield King;” “Tour Song;” “Indictment;” “Fireman;” “Lurker II: Dark Son of Night.”  Each of which reinforce the question of “how the fuck had I never heard of these guys?!?”

Frontman Blake Schwarzenbach’s gravelly voice and snarky, lovesick lyrics call to mind early Replacements at times (a band that DID register with young Sunshine and consumed his middle school years), but the band’s rhythm section is what really stood out on Sunday.  Bassist Chris Bauermeister threw down some solid, nimble riffs, while drummer Adam Pfahler absolutely destroyed his fucking kit (literally) by the end of the set.  The band’s shifting time signatures, howling guitar, and bruising lyrics were an infectious counterpoint to the singalong choruses and I was instantly converted. I spent the better part of the week tearing through these guys’ albums in an attempt to make up for lost time and I’m enjoying the heck out of that fool’s errand.  Check em out yourself here, starting with the one that got me from the jump — “Boxcar.”

Cat Scratch Fever: Early Morning Transmissions

Well — since I’m awake for the sixth night in a row in the wee hours of the morning trying (and largely failing) to not claw my skin off thanks to an unrelenting case of poison something or other (acquired not in the deeps of a verdant backwoods cabin but in the rugged middle of my urban backyard — this city truly is a magical place…) — thought I’d post the quick hitters I’d contemplated posting earlier in the week, but didn’t get a chance to.  So without any fuss, here’s what I’d planned to post for you during the week.  Enjoy!


Sunday:

Wifey found this one and like the author of the hosting link, I have mixed feelings about Macklemore writ large.  Love him or hate him (and you often do multiple times in a song, let alone album), you can never question his earnestness — and in this case the love of his grandmother turning 100 is the focus, which comes through loud and clear.  A pretty great, touching little video (and not a bad song either) — check it out…


Tuesday:

Stumbled upon this one today in the feed from the upcoming American Epic documentary on PBS (arm your DVRs now) — it’s a nice little duet between Sir Elton from across the pond and fellow iconoclast Jack White.  Simple little blues number w/ Elton on the ivories, Jack on acoustic, and lyrics about my beloved brown…


Thursday:

Found this one today on Pitchfork — nice little cover of an old Sparklehorse song by DIIV — which took me to the embedded jump to the article on why it’s been so long since I heard anything from the latter band.  Pretty great/sad writeup on the band — I’d listened to them some back in college but lost the thread on them (obviously, as the events of the article are from 2010). The stuff frontman Mark Linkous was going through (and ultimately succumbed to) reminds me a lot of my beloved Elliott.  Worth a read (and a listen to the embedded videos while you do)…


Friday:

Fuck. YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS…

Can’t wait to see these guys again this summer.  One of my absolute faves. That’s it for now — back to scratching…

–BS