Tag: #shame

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