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.
