This was a year where words often failed me. For someone who’s spent a good chunk of his life writing, whether for newspapers or online outlets, this was a troubling, frustrating reality. Whether anyone ever reads what I write is usually beside the point (which is a good thing because I’ve seen the data and they most definitely do not) — most times I do it to help sort out my thoughts and test my stance, while also capturing that moment so I can remember it later. (Spare brain cells being a scarcity these days, alongside non-gray hairs and undoughy body parts.) Time after time this year, though, that ability to make sense of what was happening and put it in words — in a way that wasn’t repetitive or rambling or just a series of “WTF?!”s — failed me.
Between the constant stupidities at work or their ever-profligate pals in the real world, this was a year of stunned silence and screaming in isolation. Of unbelievable surprises and illogical outcomes. Of hopeful glimmers and then gutwrenching tsunamis of anger and despair. Of staring blankly at your screen or fighting the urge to leap through it to strangle someone on the other side. (Often howling into your coffee mug as an alternative in order to preserve your cool demeanor…) It was a patchwork of prolonged punishment and temporary reprieve where no single salve was sufficient to soothe the damage, but rather a brief stop in your search for salvations in a futile effort to stem the continuing carnage. If last year was about the two steps forward, two steps back cycle of a rebuild in its second year, this year was about the “burn it down and start all over” temptations when it stalls out completely in year three.
The siren song of the scorched earth approach applied to both work and the real world where a continued inability to make meaningful progress on almost any front, despite years of trying, training, and tinkering, made the urge to invoke the nuclear option almost inescapable. You want to keep throwing stuff on our plates while continuing to fire good people (or let them leave) and not hire any reinforcements? Cool. You want to let the folks left continue to make promises (and problems) they have no ability to deliver or fix and not hold them accountable? Lovely. You want to torch every trace of merit, integrity, and logic and just let chaos reign? Can’t wait to see your face when it’s your house that gets burned down amidst the mayhem.
In the face of all that frustration I turned deeper and deeper to the comforts of my cave — both the literal one of my cozy apartment with the Rizz, and the broader one of my beloved city by the lake, reveling in their many delights. I dug deeper into history — still more Spanish Civil War, but also some Indian independence and Portuguese dictatorship rummaging to round things out. I devoured books on some of my favorite sports, teams, and figures (the ones on calcio, the Bears, and Bourdain being among my favorites), as well as modern classics. (A wonderful read…) I watched dozens of documentaries and shows to try and block out the present. (Chicago’s red summer and Somos being among the most affecting.) And as always I focused primarily on escaping into music, going to a number of excellent shows (returns from the Raveons and Soul Coughing being among the best) and spending hundreds of hours listening at home.
That constant search for solace impacted the music, as well, as I frantically scurried from band to band like a fighter fleeing mortars as he flits from foxhole to foxhole. My wrapup on the Spots called me out for this again, highlighting the number of artists and albums I blazed through rather than spend significant chunks with any one entity (a handful of noteworthy exceptions presented as always below…), but all that effort has yielded a bumper crop of good listens for the eight of you as a result. In contrast to last year’s 24 albums we’ve got nearly twice that total this year with a whopping 38 things to sink your teeth into. As is typically the case it’s a pretty even mix of old timers and newcomers, with this year’s tally tipping slightly towards those old friends — there’s 22 of those to reacclimate yourself with, leaving 16 fresh faces to get to know for the first time. (Last year we did the reverse and leaned into the latter with 15 vs 9 oldies.)
There’s a load of the aforementioned surprises here, too — sometimes from old dogs learning new tricks (or simply showing up alive for the first time in decades), sometimes from the young pups you never would expect to fall for. (Color me hot to go…) Thankfully almost all of them are of the positive variety this time, so there’s no need to scurry away like that soldier fleeing incoming fire. Take your time and relax — revel in the hours of good tunes (and equal amounts of rambling from yours truly as I extol their virtues) in front of you below. As always, these aren’t necessarily the best things released this year, merely the best things I found and connected with, so if you’ve got others I missed don’t hesitate to send em my way. It’s been a real bruiser of a year, so let’s battle what’s to come the best way I know how — by turning to the tunes and letting the melodies carry us away. Here’s a batch to get things started…
16. Shovels & Rope — Something Is Working Up Above My Head; Mr Sam & the People People — Again! Again!: this slot’s for the sunnier side and a pair of acts I almost left off because of how chronically crabby I’ve been this year. Their albums are full of positivity and love, two things I had trouble believing in thanks to the difficulties of my days (and the overall trend of the planet this year…), but I have enough of a heart left to know I shouldn’t penalize them for my inability to meet them where they’re at. If nothing else it’s a great incentive to try and get there, back to a place where squishy songs about love and odes to enjoying the simpler things in life don’t make me roll my eyes in disbelief. The odds seem a little stacked, particularly after November, but as a lifelong Chicago sports fan I know hope springs eternal, whether history, logic, or what’s in front of you on the field says it should.
The first of those sunny songbirds is a bit of a surprise, the return of a band I lost touch with over the years (one of many on the list) — this one I first fell for over a decade ago with their debut, the aptly titled O’ be Joyful, which landed at #13 on my list in 2013. It comes courtesy of the husband and wife duo from Charleston, Shovels & Rope, back with their seventh album and first in two years. What immediately grabbed my ears was the darker, edgier fare here — a handful of the album’s singles ditched the rainbows and puppy dog vibe and showed a new side to the band, one that matched my mood while also piquing my interest. Two in particular — the punky, pep rally stomp of “Piranhanana” and its equally fiery friend “Colorado River,” which rages menacingly like that waterway’s rapids — remain my favorites on the album, but they’re joined by cuts like the Spoon-sounding opener “Something is Working” with its sinister edge and plunking piano and the throbbing pulse of “Two Wolves,” which carry that vibe along nicely.
Those four are balanced out with the pair’s more traditional, sweeter fare — the swooning “I’d be Lying” and its equally earnest “Te Amo,” the sock hop sheen of “Double Lines” and the spiritual “Dass Hymn” — as well as the pinnacle of those styles, a literal love song about puppies. The latter was actually my gateway to the rest of the softer stuff, as I’m a) a blubbering baby when it comes to dogs and the thought of losing them (that Stapleton song still makes me tear up whenever I hear it) and b) a huge Gregory Alan Isakov fan, so far be it for me to disregard all three of them when they’re telling me to listen. My bitter, cynical side still bristles a bit at some of them, but by and large it’s a good album full of songs and one worthy of your time. (Whether you’re a hard-hearted monster like myself or a more normal human being.)
Their slotmate is New Orleans’ Sam Gelband (the titular Mr Sam) and his band of happy ruffians, the People People, back with their sophomore album two years after their debut. (Which landed at #12 on my 2022 list.) Both albums find Gelband coming across like a modern day Mr Rogers, full of positive affirmations and optimism as warm as a cozy cardigan. (Plus a load of “gees” and “oh me oh mys” that are about as out of place as if you dropped a starry eyed Jimmy Stewart into Washington these days (to call on yet another famous Mr…)) Gelband sings of “turning guilt into kindness (hip hip hooray, you made my day in your own way!)” on “Go Baby Go (Part One).” He reminds us “You’ve got to give what you’ve got, don’t let the getting get the best of you” on “Go Baby Go (Part Two).” He even sings of “filling one’s head with peanut butter and dreams” and seeing all the goodness in your surroundings on the closing “Monkey Business.”
Even the mildly melancholic gets a positive twist, with an “aw shucks, buck up, buckaroo!” attitude about giving it all to someone you love (happily) and showing them the love that’s in your heart, whether it’s warranted/reciprocated or not. (As on “Happily” and “You Are Kind,” respectively.) What saves it all from being too schmaltzy and kept me coming back was the music — the barbershop harmonies on “Every Time Everybody” (which reminds me a bit of “Everyday” by Buddy Holly). The Exile-era Stones of “Ask” and its amped up cousin “(Part Two).” The simple plucked guitar on “Now That I Know You” and “Monkey.” It’s a bit like another entry later on in this list where if you’re able to not fixate on the words it rewards you with some lovely melodies and tunes to enjoy. For as Sam would I’m sure be the first to tell you, it doesn’t have to be perfect to be just what you need (buckaroo!)
15. The Decemberists — As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again; The Felice Brothers — Valley of Abandoned Songs; Asylum on the Hill; this slot’s for a pair of bands that have bedeviled me over the years. Bands capable of incredible and beloved output, but also able to drive me insane with their inability to contain their worst impulses — to the point that I shut off the stereo or walk out in a huff. The Decemberists’ transgressions have been more multifaceted over the years — both bands lose me when they veer too far up their own a##es, making their esoteric wordplay and imagery a “break out the encyclopedia” exercise rather than a unique element in an expertly balanced cocktail alongside tenderness and sincerity. (The Felices make this worse by trying to be funny, cracking jokes to an audience of one hand to prove they’re the smartest kid in the room — but more on them in a moment.) The Portland natives have added to this error by going full prog (the still scarring nightmare that was Hazards of Love) and dance pop (following in the synthy shoes of fellow former beloved Belle and Sebastian’s late stage metamorphosis), rather than stay true to what they do best over the years. Thankfully both bands are on their best behavior here, keeping those egregious impulses to a minimum and thus delivering some of their best material in years.
For the Decemberists it marks their first album in six years and that awkward experiment in reinvention (which was a bit like your dad piercing his nipples and getting really into ecstasy when he’s well into his 60s) and what they offer this time is possibly the most perfect encapsulation of their career. It serves as something of a “best of” compilation of the aforementioned eras, unspooling along a similar trajectory, starting with their quirky folksier fare. There’s songs about tramps and chambermaids, hayrakes and reapers, malaria and burial grounds. (And that’s just the first three songs!) There’s more country-tinged tunes a la The King is Dead (which landed at #7 back in 2011) with the wonderful “Long White Veil” and “The Black Maria,” and there’s quaint, quiet ballads like “All I Want is You,” one of the best things they’ve ever written.
The back part of the album gets into those more troublesome times, but thankfully only for a song or two this time around. They jumble the sequence a bit, giving us the bloated, proggy bombast of “Joan in the Garden” as the closer (how this was released as a single remains a mystery to me with its nearly 20 minutes of nonsense) while tracks like “Born to the Morning” represent the more artificial forays to the dancefloor. Thankfully the first two thirds of the album are strong enough to counterbalance the mixed bag mediocrity of the last third (I actually kinda like the gleeful “America Made Me” and the Fleetwood Mac-ish riff of “Tell Me What’s On Your Mind.”)
For the Felice Brothers they’re returning after three years away with a pair of new albums. (I know technically one of them came out right around Christmas of last year, but because it was/is a Bandcamp-only release I didn’t find out about it until early this year and thus think it’s worth including here.) Their last, 2021’s From Dreams to Dust, was either their 11th or 13th overall, depending on how you count (the past is always something of a jumble with these guys, whether it’s the content of their lyrics or their back catalog) and it was another mixed bag medley of the egregiousness I mentioned at the top — full of both excellent tunes (“Valium” remains one of their best) and the aforementioned jokiness that unnecessarily undermines otherwise sturdy melodies or messages. (“Inferno” and its allusions to Jean Claude Van Damme and Kurt Cobain being a perfect example, marring an absolutely lovely little tune.) As with their slotmates, though, they’ve kept those impulses in check here, which is even more impressive as it means keeping it together for two full albums. (A bit akin to a Crossfit junkie not mentioning that obsession a single time on a flight from JFK to Singapore.)
Both were apparently going to be “internet only” outings — the “official” release Valley starting as a series of demos and outtakes scattered from across the years that frontman Ian Felice decided to pull together in a single spot. Until Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst heard them and decided to start a label to put them out, that is. Tracks like “Younger as the Days Go By” and “It’s Midnight and the Doves are in Tears” work great on the creative, transportive side of the ledger with lyrics about boxcars, birds, and the station at the end of the line, while “Stranger’s Arms” and “Flowers by the Roadside” serve the more sentimental side with swooning piano and softly strummed guitar. The Bandcamp-only Asylum has a similar mix of winners, with “Teeth in the Tabloids” and “Birds of the Wild West” representing the former and “Candy Gallows” and “Abundance” the latter. I had the chance to see these guys live again this year in a space the size of a big living room and their coziness and charm really came to the forefront. All in all a really nice reminder of how singular and special these two bands can be when they’re on their best behavior.
14. The Heavy Heavy — One of a Kind; Duff Thompson — Shadow People II: this slot’s for a pair of throwbacks and relics of another time, one of which I’ve written about this year and one I haven’t. The former refers to the full length debut of Brighton band the Heavy Heavy, otherwise known as guitarist Will Turner and keyboardist Georgie Fuller. As I noted before, the band’s retro sound of Motown meets Laurel Canyon goes down easy and they give us another dozen songs here of rose-colored wonder to revel in. Sonically the band they most resemble are the Mamas and the Papas with their bounty of beautiful harmonies balanced atop “simpler time” lyrics and that sensation remains strong here. And despite some of the lyrics’ simplicity what shines through most are those wonderful harmonies and melodies, as well as the earnestness with which they deliver them. These guys have nailed the music, energy, and vibe of that era and that rings true in person, too, with them transforming one of my favorite little spaces into a warm, cozy haven for peace and love during their set. If you let yourself focus on the music and the mood, it’s really tough not to respond to what they’re sharing.
Their slotmate is the one I didn’t write about — this year, at least, as I’ve done so several times in the past — and he’s back with a companion piece to last year’s Shadow People, which landed at #9 on my year end list. Thompson offers us another nine tracks from the same recording sessions, this time sharing the louder, heavier half of the proceedings. There’s plenty of familiar elements to enjoy — the Everly-style harmonies, the pinched howl that so often resembles Hamilton Leithauser — as well as the subtle playing and voice of fellow musician Steph Green that makes the whole thing glow. The comparisons to Ham remain high with Thompson channeling the submerged leviathan sound of his main band the Walkmen more than ever this time, showcasing the swampy guitar and under the water murk of their early tunes. From the haunting “Fog II” to the elegantly sashaying “Echo” or the jangling arpeggios of “You Don’t Know,” the memory of that beloved band is alive and well here.
Other tracks like the jaunty jamboree “Stranger” and the moody doo wop on “Girls” bolster the timeless sensation Thompson has perfected, like he’s unearthed priceless relics from another age. (He’s also captured some of my inner thoughts, as with the opening line of “It’s Good” — “I don’t like too many people and you know it. I would rather be at home hanging with my darling” [and/or dog].) I had the pleasure of seeing both Green and Thompson on tour together earlier this year and his performance was a revelation, one of the most impressive displays I’ve ever seen live as he played no less than three instruments at once in addition to singing — guitar with his hands, drums/tambourine with his feet, and harmonica/voice with his mouth. I stood there agog for more than half the show, unable to understand how he was doing it all and haven’t stopped thinking about it for months. This guy is ultra talented and one of my favorite discoveries of the last few years.
13. Gold Star — How to Shoot the Moon; Christian Lee Hutson — Paradise Pop. 10; Bright Eyes — Five Dice, All Threes: this slot’s for a trio of sad sacks and some darker, downtrodden discs. Two of them are from returning artists, so we’ll start with the newcomer, Austria-born and LA-bred Marlon Rabenreither, otherwise known as Gold Star. I discovered him almost a year ago as a #FridayFreshness champ when he released the first single from this album, which then inexplicably took nearly the rest of the year to arrive. (It just dropped the week before Thanksgiving!) It’s his fifth overall — his first since 2022’s Headlights USA — and he’s ditched the more synthetic elements of that one (namely the drum machine and keyboards) and returned to the late 60s sound of the Byrds and the open air balladry of his early albums here.
Rabenreither got his start opening for Lucinda Williams who encouraged him to write more from his perspective and he’s taken that guidance to heart, offering personal tales that still feel relatable to outsiders. This is a more uniformly somber affair than those earlier outings, dealing with such heavier topics as addiction and anxiety, the “wild eyed and restless,” the “born to lose.” There’s the stately shuffle of “I Think you Should Know.” The smoldering “Searchlights” with its nervous tale of near death. The exhausted ode to companionship “Look Around You,” which builds to an exhilarating conclusion for both the song and the broader album.
Aside from his lyrics Rabenreither’s voice and delivery have a Dylanesque quality to them (or his modern day scions like Kevin Morby), particularly on tracks like the galloping “Wild Boys” and its equally exuberant “Fade Away,” the album’s two unapologetic rockers. Like lightning, red wine in a Dixie cup, and/or the wildfire in your veins (to quote the latter) or “the rush, the flood, the vein, I am the high, the lonesome, the tracks and the train” on the wonderful “With You,” Rabenreither can bring the heat when he wants to. Outside those two noteworthy exceptions the album captures the feel of looking out the window on a winter day with nothing but bare trees and damp dreariness around you, but it’s done with a determination and resilience rather than depressing sense of defeat. Another really solid album from one of my favorite recent finds.
Up next is the fifth album from LA’s Christian Lee Hutson, his first since 2022’s Quitters, which landed at #9 on my year end list. Similar to his slotmate it’s a more somber affair than usual and something of a heavy listen. Where his last album was full of slightly funny, slightly sad stories (all channeling the spirit of my beloved Elliott with his dual-tracked vocals, quietly plucked guitar, and shapeshifting lyrics), this one is a more uniform meditation on heartbreak and reconciliation. Take the line from the opening “Tiger,” for example — “In my imagination I’m sitting on the fence between the life we almost had and whatever’s coming next…I will always be the one that got out of your way…” Or the one from “Water Ballet” with its wonderful guitar work — “I see you getting better, wish we could have done it together (when I was your man I got it all wrong, stuck in a trance disconnecting the dots…)” Or the more uncertain ones from the countrified “Candyland” and “Autopilot” — “What makes you so sure you want me back, I remember how it felt” and “finally finding myself — am I gonna lose you?,” respectively. There’s a stark vulnerability on display that’s particularly poignant without the levity lightening the load.
Aside from the beautiful melodies Hutson continues to nail Elliott’s lyrical plasticity where a song’s meaning can change based on your mood. “Somebody use to love me, I ran away from it — sometimes I think it was the happiest I’ve ever been… Got a second chance at the nightmare of my dreams” on “Fan Fiction.” “You left the honeymoon suite at the last resort, you finally moved on and I’m proud of you for it. A bad habit is hard to lose, a good person isn’t easy to choose, but you can’t keep a good man down — I know you’re gonna figure it out” on “Forever Immortalized.” Hutson goes deep and channels Heatmiser Elliott when he includes a pair of rockers, which are something of a revelation, cranking the defiance and fury up along with the amps. He sings, “Jock Jams in the pickup truck, warm sangria in a Dixie cup. In a mirror universe time is moving in reverse — I’m gonna turn my life around” on the fiery closer “Beauty School” (which has a rare dose of humor, too — “I can shake pennies from the dollar tree…”) He follows that with, “Holding back, leaning in, and all of it hurts. Nothing changes nothing works. No you can’t touch me yet, I can watch my own back” on the equally combustible “Carousel Horses.” It’s an interesting addition to his repertoire and serves as a momentary reprieve from the melancholy, however beautiful it may be.
Last up is the return of Conor Oberst and his Bright Eyes bandmates, back for the first time in four years. (Their last landed at #11 on my year end list.) That one was the product of a long hiatus and surprise return after nine years away, finding the band reveling in their reunion with both high profile guests and an “anything in sight” approach to instrumentation. They’ve gone with a similar strategy here, demonstrating a tad more restraint this time around — that one had Flea and thunder god Jon Theodore, in addition to bagpipes, a full choir, and orchestral flourishes. This one has Cat Power, Matt Berninger, and Alex Orange Drink (lead singer of the Brooklyn band The So So Glos — had to look that one up…) and while bandmates Mike Mogis and Nate Wolcott are still taking a kitchen sink approach to the songs (there’s mariachi horns, banjo, and whistles, among other items), it has a less celebratory feel this time. That’s because frontman Conor Oberst is not in a good headspace right now.
Four years ago he was out touring the band’s album in addition to a separate one from his side project with Phoebe Bridgers, Better Oblivion Community Center. The latter endeavor reportedly led to a romantic relationship between the two, but whether it was with her or another someone broke Oberst’s heart, as a number of the songs here talk about lost love and broken relationships. And to make matters worse there’s rumblings his long-time struggles with substances have gotten out of hand as well, culminating with a number of sloppy performances where Oberst was slurring his words and forgetting lyrics that ultimately forced the cancellation of their recent tour. (The official reason given was voice issues.) This is why Mogis and Wolcott’s lovely instrumentation now seem almost intent on distracting from the disaster, like someone tap dancing and jazz handing to make passersby look away from the person sunken and sobbing in the corner.
It’s a tall order, as this is easily as dark an album lyrically as the band has released. (Which is saying something, as Oberst is known for “bright and sunny” like I’m known for “chatty and carefree.”) There’s songs about his unease with the perks of success (“Bells and Whistles”), about suicide and environmental disasters like wildfire and water shortages (“El Capitan”), as well as breakups, betrayal, and the general difficulty being alive (“Capitan,” “Bas Jan Ader”) — and that’s just the first three tracks! It doesn’t get much brighter after that. Oberst’s lengthy list of complaints includes puritans, prophets, half the Bible and major gods (so let’s just say “all organized religion?”), small talk, love songs, stadiums, sleeping, dreaming, and himself, as rattled off in one of the many uplifting tunes “Hate.” He also has gripes with societal indifference (“Trains Still Run on Time”), Elon Musk (“All Threes”), and our ultimate demise. (“The Time I Have Left,” “Tin Soldier Boy”) That broader fixation on dying, heartache, and self-loathing resonate loudly and really lend to the worries folks have raised in response to this album. It could just be poetic license, but the sincerity and sadness that emanates all too often here (“maybe if the sky aligns…I could have you one last time” on the aptly named sunbeam with the bleary horns “Tiny Suicides” or “I’m so bored of these intrusive thoughts coming after me, sick of my own voice, screaming right beneath my teeth…I can’t be what you need me to be” on “Rainbow Overpass”) makes you hope he gets the help he needs and pulls out of it soon.
12. Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats — South of Here; Jeremie Albino — Our Time in the Sun: this slot’s for the soul and a couple of Sunday singers set on getting you moving, if only to keep the devil at bay and your idle appendages from doing his dirty work. First up is the return of the beloved Nathaniel with his big heart and bigger voice, back for the first time since 2021’s The Future, which landed at #14 on my year end list. That one found the band in a bit of a tug of war between his two personas — the booming, boisterous soul man of his first two outings with the Night Sweats and the hushed heartbreaker of his four solo albums. It was a somewhat uneasy peace, one that was feeling its way about a bit for the proper balance as it toggled tone and tenor from song to song, but it worked on the whole thanks to the quality of Rateliff’s songwriting and his ever earnest delivery. (To say nothing of his band’s excellent accompaniment, which always erred on understatement rather than ostentatious embellishment.) This one continues that trend, treading the line between the two worlds again (only doing so within each song’s confines rather than across them) in what ultimately might give us the best of both worlds.
Thematically we find Rateliff restless and searching for change — “Can I get out of my head? I wanna feel different now” on the opening “Goliath.” “How was I to ever know it could get so bad? I want to feel something, honey, I want to feel something good” on “Heartless.” “Wouldn’t it be nice to see me gettin’ somewhere? I ain’t growing at all…I’m just up against a wall and I wanna be free” on the Paul Simon-esque “Remember I Was a Dancer. “I used to do it all, but I ain’t got the mind now. Just feel tied up and used” on the sonically triumphant “Used to the Night.” “I’m lost, but not abandoned but it’s hard for one to know — maybe go back home, remember who I was” on the Band-sounding title track.
Across the majority of the songs you can feel him flailing, trying to find his footing (and/or a sense of meaning). He sings about his apparently difficult upbringing (“my childhood left me so broken” on “Heartless,” “Was gettin’ nowhere, life was taking its time and I was staring out the window just wasting mine. All I wanted was peace and calm” on “Everybody Wants”) and about finding yourself (and salvation) in another. (“I couldn’t find the light myself, it led to falling down the stairs…and not a lesson lеarned” on the irresistibly buoyant (and the most characteristically Night Sweats of the songs) “Cars in the Desert.”) There’s a palpable sense of frustration and angst, but it never comes off as maudlin or insincere, no matter how bleak it may seem.
There’s always at least one song where Rateliff ditches the frog in his throat croon and reminds you what a powerful voice he has and this time it’s on the ferociously defiant “Call Me (Whatever You Like)” where he sings of resilience in spite of the doubters and the damage (while simultaneously blowing the doors off the studio with his delivery). It’s a momentary reprieve as the darkness and doubts creep back in on the closer with the energetic horns contrasting the lyrics of time making fools of us all (and I’m feeling it now) before cutting out abruptly like the Sopranos finale. It’s actually a fitting end for an album whose instruments often obscure the darker sentiments, which while definitely not a new trick is an interesting one here when it’s New Orleans style brass being beaten back by melancholy, like a storm consuming a second line. It’s an interesting metamorphosis, from jubilant early albums full of joy and ribaldry to more mixed bags of sour and sweet of late (which should probably not come as a surprise, as the forces of joy have been vanquished all over lately…), but a journey I’m glad to take with them nevertheless.
Rateliff’s counterpoint in this slot is a much more upbeat affair and a stark contrast to those aforementioned rain clouds, hearkening back to those happier early albums. It comes courtesy of recent #FridayFreshness champ Jeremie Albino and my discovery of the Toronto native’s latest album, which was recorded by Black Keys frontman Dan Auerbach and released on his Easy Eye label. It’s his fourth overall (he’s done three solo and one with singer/songwriter Cat Clyde since his debut in 2019) and he’s come a long way since his days of busking on Toronto’s streets to make a living. Albino’s style is a throwback to the soul sounds of the sixties, full of studio sheen and swooning lyrics about love and yearning, and vocally he actually sounds a bit like Auerbach. That’s not a knock — aside from being an obvious Auerbach/Keys fan, I imagine this is more akin to how you subconsciously mimic the mannerisms of the people you’re around, droppin’ consonants and pickin’ uppa twang, depending on the scenery — and even if it was, Albino packs so much into this one’s dozen tracks there’s plenty of things to like.
There’s the Stax sounding soul of the opening “Don’t Mind Waiting,” which channels the spirit of the beloved Big O, and the jazzy “Since I’ve Been Knowing You,” which is as sweet sounding as its midnight kisses. There’s the serene sway of “Let me Lay my Head” and the majestic, punchy horns on “Time in the Sun.” The plinking, honkytonk piano on the rollicking road trip “Rolling Down the 405” and the smooth, sensual “So Many Ways to Say I Love You.” The anthemic “Give it to Me One Last Time” (which I’d love to hear slotmate Nathaniel take a crack at) and the island sway of “Hold me Tight” (which if Jack Johnson hasn’t stolen for his set yet he’s missing out). All of that is on top of the swampy stomp of “Dinner Bell” and the smoldering guitars of “Struggling with the Bottle,” which are the two most obvious echoes of the Keys. It’s a really good album, one that’s extremely difficult to not succumb to and forget what you were doing — what better reason to grab a partner and have a little sway? (Remember those idle hands…)
11. Devarrow — A Long and Distant Wave; Heart Shaped Rock; the Dead Tongues — Body of Light: this slot’s for a pair of two album mimics who were also #Fridayfreshness champs over on our ‘Gram site this year. The first is the better of the two, not just because both his albums were stronger top to bottom, but also because his music reminds me of so many favorite artists over their duration. Singer/songwriter Graham Ereaux (aka Devarrow) may hail from the tiny coastal Canadian town of Moncton, but his music spans the continents and generations. There’s the island inspired freakout at the end of “Heart Shaped Rock.” The surf rock guitar on “Half of You.” The mandolin and bass on “Race Car Driver.” There’s echoes of the classics — the Elton John jangle of “Else,” the McCartneyesque “In Time” — as well as modern acts like Wilco and the Shins.
The first album is chock full of the former — listen to the solo at the end of “Getting Old,” the sleepily dissonant “In Time,” and the anthemic closer “Hard Times Coming” and tell me you can’t hear Nels Cline playing those parts — while the second album leans more towards the latter. From the Shins style whistle on the opening “Lightning Bolt’ to the borderline delirium on “Together Again,” “Holy Ghost,” and “Talking Shit,” it’s as if Ereaux is James Mercer’s Canadian alter ego. Lyrically there’s a focus on the simple things — on morning rituals and breakfast of bacon and eggs on the aforementioned “Lightning.” On taking time to tell yourself you’re ok on “Likewise.” On showing gratitude for good fortune (“I am thankful that I am happy”) on “Falling into Pieces.” On appreciating and loving those you have around you as you never know when they’re going to be gone, as on the plaintive piano ballad “Pictures.” It’s a really good mix of songs and styles, one I reveled in often this year.
Ereaux’s slotmate is Appalachian singer/songwriter Ryan Gustafson (better known as the Dead Tongues) who recently recorded and released his sixth and seventh albums in his native North Carolina and they hearken to the environment from which they were born. Gustafson’s lyrics border on the poetic, creating vivid images with his spare, direct style. “Breakfast is beer, some cigarettes, some tears, and the morning after pill — someday it’s gonna get real” on the majestic tale of heartbreak at the start of the new year “Dirt For a Dying Sun.” “Young, kind, and reckless with a smile on your face, a gold and pearl necklace and a shirt made of lace. It all came to surface, a bittersweet taste, I was out in the darkness, some nothing kind of place” on the lovely lament “Fading Away.” “Goddamn it’s a thin line between here and the other side, ‘tween truth and lying, a laugh and crying” on the closing “Hard Times, Sore Eyes.”
There’s a theme of longing, leaving, and the passage of time across the two sets, the songs often littered with references to the nature one suspects surrounds him in his rural Carolina home — “there’s a change and a stillness in your eyes like looking through a spring full of melted ice” on “Dreamer.” “Rain on the ocean or the calling of the waves, riptide and vertigo pulling us away” on “Daylily.” Vocally Gustafson continues to remind me of Ryan Adams and his mix of melancholy and beauty frequently calls to mind his early work (only without the guilt caused by the alluded to’s later actions). There’s some really solid songs in here, even if the second album veered into spoken word and the avant garde more than I liked. Worth keeping an eye on these two.
10. The Black Keys — Ohio Players; Kings of Leon — Can We Please Have Fun; Vampire Weekend — Only God Was Above Us; Cage the Elephant — Neon Pill: the next two slots are for the return of elder statesmen and a slew of acts who have a) made appearances on this list a number of times over the years, meaning they’re some of my favorite acts and b) firmly entered their “don’t rock the boat” phase, meaning they’re not going to do anything overly surprising to turn away their legions of dedicated fans (though one in particular pushed that boundary more than I would have expected). Instead they’re going to stick to the recipe that got them to this point in their careers, which is obviously something of a double edged sword as the music can start to sound stale after this many years, the equivalent of a paint by numbers project in art class. That said, there’s a reason people still shell out hundreds of dollars to see the Stones every time they go on tour — that recipe generates some tasty fu#$ing tunes, no matter how many times you’ve heard em — so there’s no shame in acknowledging that’s the phase each of these bands is in. I enjoyed each of these albums a bunch over the year and wrote about a number of them earlier, so will spend most of the time focusing on the ones I didn’t (just so I don’t get accused of being stale!)
The first four we’ll fast forward through as I wrote about each of these albums earlier in the year. The Keys were the ones that pushed the envelope the most, opting to farm out songwriting responsibilities of all but one song to a pair of unlikely scribes — Beck and Noel Gallagher. As I wrote earlier, the Beck songs sound sorta like Beck songs, the Gallagher ones like his High Flying Birds, and the sole Pat/Dan song sounded not like their trademark blues rock but like their 2009 hip hop side project Blakroc, a move that overall could have gone horribly awry. Almost in spite of those odds, though, it mostly worked — the songs are pretty catchy, the hooks meaty and memorable, and I found myself going back to the well a bunch over the year. Same for the Kings’ outing, which found them trying to capture the album’s titular feeling and mostly succeeding, thanks to the bouncing bass lines of secret weapon Jared Followill. For the second outing in a row the bassist was the key to the album’s allure, offering a number of riffs that got stuck in your head and had you humming them later.
With Vampire we found frontman Ezra Koenig reuniting with his bandmates on their fifth full length after recording their previous album all by himself. (And Haim, for some reason.) Hopefully it’s a coincidence that it also finds him far less sunny and optimistic, rattling off lyrics filled with fatigue, futility, and a growing “f#$k it” attitude. The band disguises these depressions under their trademark blanket of sunny-sounding melodies and delirious energy, echoing both themselves and 90s one hit wonders in the process. It’s a surprisingly honest and embraceable set of songs (something that has always plagued the band) and a shift I hope they keep up in the years to come.
Last but not least comes Cage with their sixth album, which continues the band’s sonic evolution towards the more synthetic, 80s-inflected vibe started on the last one. It also carried forward the focus on more serious subject matter, trading the prior album’s lyrics about divorce for ones that chronicled frontman Matt Shultz’s tumultuous last few years of addiction, arrest, and rehab. Despite the darker material and songs full of disorientation and regret, Shultz’s honest and mature take on things (along with the band’s customary knack for hooky melodies) made this one a good listen.
9. Guided by Voices — Strut of Kings; X — Smoke & Fiction; the Orwells — Friendly Fire: part two of this slot’s for another trio of bands back on yet another year end list, only a somewhat brasher batch than the previous four. Keeping with the overarching theme of the year, each of them also represents something of a surprise, though for completely different reasons. We’ll start with the most frequently appearing of the bunch, Dr Bob and the beloved boys from Dayton, GBV. They’re on the annual list for an astounding sixth year in a row, though for the first time in that span it’s only for a single album (surprise!). For whatever reason the band decided to only put out the one album this year — and they didn’t cheat by releasing any side projects either — so for the first time since 2018’s Space Gun we had just a single set of songs to concentrate on and enjoy. And while the year and its incessant distractions/calamities conspired against that a little as noted in the intro, I still spent plenty of time with this one over the course of the year.
The shapeshifting mini-epic “Show me the Castle” starts things with a bang, giving us another patented blend of crunchy riffs, tempo shifts, and opaque lyrics to savor. That momentum is carried by later tracks like the bright, fist-in-the-air righteousness of “Fictional Environment Dream,” which calls to mind other high energy classics like “I am a Tree” and “My Future in Barcelona” and segues seamlessly into the strutting “Olympus Cock in Radiana,” another of the album’s tempo shifting, mini-epic winners. (Others include “Serene King” and “Cavemen Running Naked,” the latter of which contradicts its title and ominously lumbers between Cure-style glimmers and scrap metal shredding riffs.) The band’s clearly still having fun, throwing in little flourishes here and there just to keep things interesting — from the horns on “Bicycle Garden” to the synths lurking in the back of “Timing Voice” and “Bit of a Crunch,” it’s almost like the band is checking to see if you’re paying attention, playfully adding these atypical elements with a wink and a grin. If you don’t like (or are unfamiliar with) the band, this album probably won’t change your mind, but for those of us who long ago dedicated ourselves to Dr Bob’s School of Medicine and Musical Rehabilitation, it’s another much appreciated dose of therapy.
Sharing this slot is another seasoned veteran, the LA four piece X, who are back for the first time in as many years after their unexpected, triumphant return on 2020’s Alphabetland, which landed at #12 on my year end list. That album was something of a miracle — the first time in 17 years they’d put out an album and the first time in 35 they’d done so with the original lineup — so it was a bit bittersweet to see them reemerge this year with their ninth album, as it was accompanied by the announcement that it would be their last. (Surprise!) Thankfully they’re going out strong, capping a legendary career with another winner.
Coming as it does on the heels of the final curtain it finds Exene and the gang in a contemplative mood, reflecting on their career and their lives the last four and a half decades, but listening to it now there’s an alternate interpretation that keeps popping to mind. The band released this months before the disaster in November, but it’s almost like they were foreshadowing that event (and what it’s going to take to survive it). “Let’s go round the bend, get in trouble again” on “Sweet Til the Bitter End.” “Stay awake and don’t get taken, we knew the gutter was also the future” on “Big Black X.” “I still hurt a little bit, but there’s no cure for this” on the propulsive title track. It may be mere coincidence, but it’s compelling nonetheless — like watching A Wizard of Oz with Dark Side on. (“You stood your ground, a smile upon your face. You raised your chin to the sky…said, ‘I’ll be here. I’ll be free.,” almost as if trying to convince themselves on the opening “Ruby Church.”)
Guitarist Billy Zoom remains in top form (as does the entire band honestly), ripping off chicken fried slabs of delectable rockabilly, while effortlessly shifting to more elegant, wistful runs on slower songs like “The Way It Is” and its lament to leaving. (“I know you have to go…have to set you free. That’s just the way it is…”) For their part frontman/woman John Doe and Exene maintain their perfect pairing, their voices contrasting each other flawlessly as when they’re whipped into a lather in the howling chorus on tracks like “Winding up the Time.” Seeing them in such good form it’s a shame to know we’re not going to hear from them again, but thankfully we’ve got these ten tunes to keep us company over the coming years.
Last up comes the latest from the hometown Orwells, back for the first time in six years with another album released with zero fanfare and the band still firmly in lounge lizard mode, adding even more unheard of elements to their sound than before. (Surpriiiiiiiiise!!!) As on that last album (which landed at #8 on my 2018 list) there’s still piano/synths showing up — on the opening “The Consumer,” “Absent Friends,” and “Taken Back” — and frontman Mario Cuomo still croons more than he crows, but the band also throws in things like acoustic guitar and strings (?!?) here as on tracks like “Love Refused.” It’s not as jarring as you’d expect, as it’s subtly embedded in the broader, laid back vibe they’re purveying, but cognitively it still takes a moment to settle in — this is the same band whose guitar-driven, beer-soaked performances and bratty, infectious songs made them a runaway personal favorite, right?
Dealing with this new incarnation is a bit like confronting Mike Tyson if he were to come back to fight in his 60s (oh wait…) and while it may not be the version I love and want the most, as on the last album I find it hard to completely ignore. The songs, while more subdued than normal, are still pretty catchy and work their way into your head well past last listen. Guitarist Dominic Corso still delivers some solid hooks, as on the slippery solo from “Consumer” or overall on “Amy” and “Downtown.” (The latter being one of the two most traditional, old school Orwells songs on the album, alongside “USA” — upbeat, energetic, and real tough not to move and sing along to as the chorus kicks in…)
Lyrically Mario is a bit tougher to parse than on prior outings. There’s an abused woman in Kansas in “USA.” There’s an anonymous spender in the opening “Consumer” with a new car, girlfriend, and dead end job. (“Built a home and bought a lover…”) There’s an ailing friend or lover addicted to pills on the ballad “Caroline.” An unrequited love on “Love Refused.” (“I see in blue that your face is wet and no flowers could fix this mess…”) This mix of characters make for interesting imagery and contemplation, but it also makes it difficult to connect with songs in the same way as the past as some of the emotion is missing from Mario’s delivery, like he doesn’t quite know the protagonists either. (Or is telling the history of another country’s formation when he’s never visited or experienced the events firsthand.)
Not putting himself front and center is an interesting change for someone who so clearly loves the spotlight (“‘you’re a narcissist,’ said the narcissist” on “Bar Fly”) and it’s tough to tell when he slips into the song and sings as himself this time. There are moments that seem certain, as in “Amy” where he balances bravado (“don’t act like you’ve never played me”) with the vulnerable (“let me have your babies, I need some commitment”) or on “Bar Fly” where he adds in some melancholy (“gotta keep the children jumping…wasted all my perfect days, but I think I’m happier”), but others it’s tough to tell. Is he the messianic menace of “Evil Ed?” (“You will never еver find yourself in harm, I’m your god, I’m your leadеr, I’m your tender loving arms.”) Or the jilted narrator on “Absent Friends?” (“Never again shall I wait on a friend, I can shake on the hand
it’s a shame you’re a friend…”) They leave us uncertain, closing the album with a title track that mirrors their masterpiece’s epic conclusion “Double Feature” and stretches for a solid six minutes. They seem to allude to themselves and their new status in it (“face the facts, it’s the second act — the good years go fast, the good ones go fast…We’re turning into why the genre has died…”) before shifting to a cinematic close, leaving us with a wordless walkout akin to the music playing over the credits as the audience files out of the movie theater.
It will be interesting to see what comes next for the band — they went on a brief eight city tour earlier this year (notably NOT playing here, despite it being where they’re from) and then promptly disappeared. They haven’t posted a thing on their social media account since March, Mario has released a solo album of his own and seems to be doing Hollywood-type stuff out in LA, but there’s been no news of additional shows or when the next album (which has already been finished apparently) will come out. And so we sit in limbo, chilling in the dark at the back of the bar, listening to the tamer (yet still catchy) tunes of this version of the band, hoping the old one will return in a blaze of glory rather than offer us scarce glimpses as reminders, like a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of a suit coat. Maybe that version is gone forever and like their other slotmates (Kings, Keys, etc) this is what’s in store for the coming years, but part of me will always hope the old Mario/Evil Ed comes back to lead the cult.
8. Friko — Where We’ve Been, Where We Go From Here; Silverbacks — Easy Being a Winner; Dehd — Poetry; Chappell Roan — The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess: this slot’s for the kids and a four pack of scrappy upstarts that keep this crotchety old man feeling younger than his grizzled, grouchy age. The first comes from a pair of hometowners on their debut album, a gangbusters little blast that stops you in your tracks multiple times over its brief half hour duration. It starts strong with a trio of tunes that grab you by the ears with their furious guitar and full-throated vocals and only gets better from there. Fans of early Radiohead will eat this one up as its fiery barrage of hooks and melodies (and frontman Niko Kapetan’s voice) often evoke Sir Thom and the lads. The songs’ cryptic lyrics verge on being incantations, their lines repeated like they’re core components to casting a spell in conjuring class, and the effect is almost hypnotic. “Too old, too bold, too stupid to move I guess we’re caught in the wrong side of the shoe again” from the title track “Crimson to Chrome.” “It never gets better it only gets twice as bad (cuz you let it) so you better get numb to it” on “Get Numb to It!” Or the eleventy billion chants of “chemical” on the feisty song of the same name.
It’s an energetic, forceful punch in the face, one offset brilliantly by the trio of quieter songs that almost steal the show. The mournful strings of “For Ella,” the plaintive piano on “Until I’m With You Again,” and the solemn strum of guitar on the closing “Cardinal” are lovely moments of respite that shine with Kapetan’s naked sincerity. (Another high point is the Mellon Collie Pumpkins vibe of “Statues” that straddles the two tempos.) Everything here is sung with the unguarded earnestness and conviction only achievable by those closer to their teenage years than a mortgage and colonoscopy and it’s an excellent debut and listen.
We’ll stay at home for the next band, too, with fellow Chicagoans Dehd back with their fifth full length, their first since 2022’s Blue Skies, which landed at #12 on my year end list. Thankfully it finds them continuing the sound of their previous outings, full of surf guitar solos and xx-style harmonies between singers Emily Kempf and Jason Balla. They appear to be on a bit of a roll, packing the album with fourteen sassy, sprightly songs about bad boys in fast cars, rough and tumble men who are hard to love (or their cousins, tough and rumble men with a little bit of danger) as on “Dog Days,” “Hard to Love,” and Mood Ring.”
There’s a sweetness hiding behind the tough talk and tattoos, as on previous outings — wearing the titular accessory for protection on “Necklace” and noting “love’s all around you” on “Don’t Look Down.” Describing yourself as abnormal/alien before noting all you need is yourself (amidst the uplifting chants of “hope my love can take me higher”) on “Alien.” Professing to another that you’ll leave the light on for them (every day, every night, it won’t be a problem) and that your heart belongs to one (and that one is only you) as on “Knife.” Similar to their slotmates/neighbors from the Chi, there’s an unjaded earnestness on display that’s only possible from kids who think of the app rather than their expiring biological clock when someone says “Tik Tok.” Between the swimming guitar and sincere sentiments they make everything feel as easy and breezy as they sing on “Pure Gold.”
It’s not all starry eyed success stories, though, as the album closes with a pair of songs from the other side of the ledger, singing about heartache as on the otherwise shiny “Magician.” (Telling yourself to “keep it keep it together you belong to another — love was different yesterday”) and the excellent closer “Forget” with its majestic, dissonant swirl and its admissions of having problems letting things in and asking another to stay. (Missing them more than it seems and acting tough as a defense…) It’s a poignant punctuation mark on another really solid outing. These guys are definitely in a groove.
We’ll float across the pond and head to the UK for our third album in this slot. I’m sure you heard the hype, a well-loved (including by me) post-punk band from Ireland returned with a new album this year, one that pushed the boundaries of their sound and people’s conceptions of who they were as an act. Their multi-vocalist rotation took us beyond the confines of their edgy triple guitar attack, offering moodier slow songs and instrumentation, and music critics couldn’t stop themselves from gushing, with several calling it their best outing yet. Only it wasn’t the album from Fontaines D.C., which was something of a letdown for me. It was from the unheralded (but excellent) Silverbacks.
It’s their third time appearing on my year end lists and their third album overall (their previous two landed at #4 and #14) and it starts with a model of democracy in action. Similar to slotmates Dehd they rotate vocals between several singers, but they go one better than my hometowners and do so among three different singers, kicking the album off with a trio of songs helmed by each of them in succession. As usual it remains a family affair, only now moreso than ever as brothers Daniel and Kilian O’Kelly split the writing duties (Daniel had previously been the primary/sole songwriter on their last two) and Kilian having married fellow singer Emma Hanlon, who remains the band’s secret weapon. Vocally Daniel continues to call to mind Franz Ferdinand’s Alex Kapranos, particularly on tracks like the opening “Selling Shovels” or “Spinning Jenny” with its jagged guitar riffs and oh-so-danceable groove.
In addition to the vocal variety the band also flexes its muscles musically, throwing in a number of new instruments to further broaden their sound. There’s the feedback and radar pings at the end of “Shovels.” The knotty, country tumbleweeds of guitar on “Look at All You’ve Done.” The delicate piano flourishes on “Flex ’95” and the wheezing clarinet on “Something I Know,” the latter of which adds an ominous element to a killer bass line from newcomer Paul Leamy. (Alongside Hanlon’s bewitching, ethereal vocals and drummer Gary Wickham’s groovy backbeat, which rolls into a funky freakout at the end.) Despite clocking in at almost the exact same amount of time as its predecessor, several of the songs feel longer as the band drops the vocals and stretches out, dedicating the back half of them to extended jams that really whip things into a fervor — from the title track to “No Rivers Around Here” and aforementioned gems like “Shovels” and “Something,” these guys earn all the praise that went to their countrymen and deliver another excellent album worthy of far more consideration and acclaim.
We’ll close with probably the biggest surprise — because it technically came out at the end of last year, because I’m probably as far from the album’s intended demographic as possible, but most importantly because of how much I love most of these songs. I may not be a particularly big fan of pop (nor teenaged, female, or queer), but when you put songs like “Red Wine Supernova” or “Pink Pony Club” on I’m belting out the words like a bear in Boys Town and couldn’t care less. These are some of the most irresistible songs you’re going to encounter, a bunch of pitch perfect pop songs that make you take notice no matter your background.
Aside from being able to construct intoxicating hooks that can make a mass of humanity sing to the heavens, Roan also writes some excellent lines. (She has a few clunkers — getting it hot like Papa John’s, for one — but the hits far outnumber the misses here…) Whether singing about heartache (as in “Casual”) or heartbreak (as in “My Kink is Karma”), Roan gives credence to the old adage about a woman scorned. (The latter is a withering takedown that just happens to also be a delight to listen to…) The full-throated singalongs may garner all the attention (“Hot to Go” and “Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl,” amongst the aforementioned), but it’s the album’s quartet of slower songs that nearly steal the show. From the aching “Coffee” and “Kaleidoscope” to the mournful and slightly more upbeat ode to her home state of Missouri in “California,” Roan captures the powerful, universal sensations of heartache and homesickness.
She’s on another level though with “Picture You,” a masterful ode to masturbation that’s possibly the brightest of the albums many (red wine) supernovas. It starts with a sigh and slowly builds from there, adding strings and three minutes of naked yearning and vulnerability that ultimately results in a torch song for the ages. It’s an impressive feat — the showiest gem in her resplendent tiara — and a sign of her notable talent. She’s already followed this up with the monster single “Good Luck Babe” (which will show up again two slots later on the list) so this is only the start for this newcomer. Can’t wait to see what else she delivers.
7. Sierra Ferrell — Trail of Flowers; Hurray for the Riff Raff — The Past is Still Alive; The Lostines — Meet the Lostines; Abby Webster — Livin’ by the Water: the next two slots are for a little southern hospitality and an octet of acts who call to mind the slower, simpler way of life below the Mason Dixon line. We’ll split them up speed dating style, guys on one side, girls on the other, and per usual it’s only courteous to start with the ladies. This half focuses on the southern belles who captivated my ears, drawing me back to their albums time and again. All four were a winning mix of folk and country and all four were written up earlier in the year, so similar to the lads we’ll do a light recap in lieu of a retread, letting you read the full links at your leisure. The first of the femmes is West Virginia’s Sierra Ferrell whose fourth album showcased a bounty of musical styles, born out of her years of rough living as a nomadic rail-rider. Back in her twenties she bounced between Seattle and New Orleans as a struggling busker and this album hopscotches genres like she used to cross state lines, giving us an excellent mix of country, bluegrass, and more modern fare. Somehow it all fits together despite the ever shifting tones and colors, in no small part thanks to the strength of Ferrell’s voice and her winking sense of humor.
Our second artist is New Orleans’ Alynda Segarra, better known as Hurray for the Riff Raff, whose ninth album was recorded in the wake of her father’s passing, a loss that left her looking backwards and employing the introspective folk style and confessional lyrics that characterized her excellent early albums. It’s one of three albums on this list bearing the imprint of Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst (he duets with Segarra on one of the many highlights here) and a much more personal listen than Ferrell’s, full of the resilience and vivid imagery that’s characterized Segarra’s best work. It’s a bruised, but brilliant album, one as heartfelt and sincere as you’d expect for someone dealing with the death of someone so dear.
The back half of the slot is reserved for a pair of newcomers making their full length debuts, the first of them also hailing from Segarra’s Big Easy (one of four on the list), the duo known as The Lostines. I love the thought of these women meeting over a campfire there one night, as the seamless, spine-tingling way their voices fit together seems like some sort of supernatural spell born out of flames. They pulled out the stops on their debut, throwing everything from guitars and strings to theramin, fiddle, and piano — as well as guest appearances from Mr Sam and the People People and the Deslondes — into the pot as accompaniments for their angelic voices. Those voices are the undisputed stars, calling to mind forbears like the Everly Brothers or modern day disciples such as Lucius, and it leads to an excellent listen.
The final debut is probably my favorite of the four albums here — no small feat as you can tell from what I’ve already written. It belongs to the self-described recluse from Livingston, Montana, Abby Webster, whose recently found confidence led her to release this wonderful batch of songs after years of holding back. As I wrote before its mix of country and folk (as well as more introspective ballads) shines, but what sets it apart is the acid sense of humor Webster subtly slips in to some of the songs. She takes chunks out of both herself and her misbehaving mister several times, crafting vivid mental images on everything from the simple pleasures of nature to relationships in varying degrees of solidity. The humor, the melodies, and the imagery made this a home run of a debut, one I hope she follows up with more soon.
6. Red Clay Strays — Made by These Moments; Charley Crockett — $10 Cowboy; Visions of Dallas; Josiah & the Bonnevilles — Country Covers II; Yes Ma’am — How Many People How Many Dogs: this half of the slot’s for a quartet of cowboys, each worth a whole lot more than a mere ten dollars. Half of them I’ve written about before, so as we’ve done elsewhere we’ll offer only a recap of those, opting to spend our time focusing more on the pair who haven’t gotten their due here til now. We’ll start with the more raucous and recent of the two, the Mobile quintet Red Clay Strays. Their sophomore album was a high energy star of the summer, marrying frontman Brandon Coleman’s gruff voice and lyrical focus (on God, gittin’ down, and other country stalwarts, both of which remind me of Chris Stapleton) with the ripsh#$ riot that is his backing band, who call to mind Lynyrd Skynyrd when they let loose. The band does a nice job balancing the Stapletonesque slow songs where Coleman’s soulful swoon can shine with the best of the aforementioned legends’ triple guitar attack, letting loose a fury as potent as the titular twisters they helped soundtrack.
They’re balanced by the more stately showman from the Big D, Mr Charley Crockett, who continued his relentless release schedule with a pair of albums, his thirteenth and fourteenth in nine mere years. The first of the two was another fantastic blend of country, blues, and soul songs, all sung with his customary Cash-style baritone and swagger. His second was a split between original songs and covers, giving his spin to songs from legends like Townes Van Zandt and Bob Dylan to lesser known artists like Hoyt Axton and Bobby Pierce. There’s loads to latch onto between the two, making it only fitting he’s finally starting to see some more mainstream recognition as a result — Cowboy earned Crockett his first Grammy nomination and he also took home the coveted Sunshine Captivation Award for being my most listened to artist, per my Wrapped recap on the Spots. (Ending the two year streak of GBV) Crockett’s as consistent as they come, live or at home, so do yourself a favor and check him out in both.
Mirroring both Crockett’s prolific nature and his approach on the last of the two albums, Tennessee’s Josiah Leming follows up last year’s excellent Endurance (which landed at #5 on my list) with another batch of remakes, giving us his second album of country reinterpretations in as many years. This time around he decided to bring a few friends, splitting the album between solo efforts and communal affairs, which broadens the appeal even further. As he showed the last time, Leming has an impressive knack for reinventing the originals, making them sound almost unrecognizable and (more importantly and impressively) unthinkable inhabiting anything but their new western wear. Last time he pulled that trick on everyone from Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift to Bon Iver and Creed. (That’s right, that Creed.) This time he again tackles massive pop stars like Chappell Roan and Billie Eilish, as well as relative unknowns like Braden Bales. He also hits seasoned indie darlings like Wilco and David Gray, as well as older artists like Patty Loveless and Harry Nilsson. Despite the wide-ranging source material, he again does justice to each of them, inviting his listeners to explore the originals and understand his inspiration.
One of those reasons is his time on tour and a number of songs serve as mementos from the road and his rather remarkable year. He did shows with everyone from Wilderado (who join him on the aforementioned Nilsson song) and Trampled by Turtles (who join him on an excellent rendition of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High,” which they rightly performed when they were together at Red Rocks) to the much loved Gregory Alan Isakov this year. (He covers his “Stable Song” to close the album.) It’s been great to see someone so genuinely grateful and earnest succeed in such a fickle, often unfriendly world and his star only continues to rise. I’m a huge fan of this guy — just pop this one on and hit the road.
We’ll close with one of the year’s quieter surprises — not in terms of content, which is as subtle as a hand grenade in a telephone booth (more on that in a moment), but rather its discovery. I blindly stumbled on this one as I was running through my rolling lists for one of the year’s Bandcamp Fridays, checking out my favorite artists’ pages to see if any rare material had come available that I could snap up and support them by buying. Turns out these guys had posted their fifth full length late this summer with little to no fanfare (their last landed at #8 on my year end list in 2021), so I giddily snatched it up and haven’t stopped listening to it since.
It picks up right where that one left off, offering ten more pitch perfect slices of Bayou bliss to revel in. (They are the last of our N’awlin’s-based bands, and quite possibly my favorite…) Per usual, frontman Matthew Bracken comes in hot, bursting through the front door two hours after your holiday party began and then proceeds to kiss your wife, chug from the punch bowl, and grab his guitar to whip up a frenzy in the living room with a barrage of high energy gems that show you NOW the party has started. Despite any of those theoretical affronts I challenge anyone to be offended (or resist). Bracken’s rapscallion brand of winking jokiness is still intact — “Listen here baby, gonna make me sick — won’t ya come on over and sit on my…..couch” from the opening “Bad Dog Blues,” or “Jumped on an alligator — thought it was your mom…I rode that gator to the promised land” on the irresistible “G Burns.” As is his infectious sense of instrumentation, which throws his native town’s mixture of fiddle, banjo, and upright bass into the gumbo in heaping handfuls.
Similar to his last album he closes with a cooldown, this time in the form of the stately lament “Paradise Lullabye.” It sets aside the bacchanalia for a moment of real introspection, singing with a sincerity that slices through its jovial surroundings and hits you in the chest. (“Work in a small town I don’t like, work 40 years just to die…the way that I’m goin I ain’t got nothin but hell on my side.”) When he howls after each refrain you can feel his heart aching, providing another poignant close to what otherwise is easily the most reliable good time of the year. Instant party starter…
5. Wilderado — Talker: heading into the top five we separate ourselves from the pack a bit with a batch of albums I spent a disproportionate amount of time with — not that any of the aforementioned were flashes in the pan, just that I could draw these ones from memory while I might need a prompt or two for some of the others. First up is the Tulsa trio Wilderado, back with their sophomore album two years removed from their excellent self-titled debut, which landed at #7 on my 2022 list. Every bit the earworm as that debut, this one had a number of teaser singles released throughout the year (at least four before the official album drop this fall), which got me to keep coming back to its songs about smoke and the open road repeatedly. Frontman Max Rainer sings of driving down the westbound looking for someone to waste his time on in “Simple.” Of floating down the freeway on the closing “What Was I Waiting For?” or finding a love (and hotel) on the carousel of love in “Bad Luck.” “Smoke my way to a better man” on the opening “Talker” and combating loneliness by getting higher than most on song of same name. There’s an easygoing effortlessness in evidence as you find yourself singing (or humming) along and I spent months with this one’s winning tunes.
Per usual they throw in some quality love songs, such as “In Between” (which originally was a duet with the National’s Matt Berninger) where Rainer contemplates how long his partner will stay with him or the slightly melancholic “Longstanding Misunderstanding” with its admission “Can’t remember what I was demanding, all I know is I want you home.” The band will often borrow at least one of those first two elements (the driving or the smoking) to match up with the loving, such as on “Waiting on You” (“I’m driving all night cause it’s what I said I’d do, I wanna make it to my city and lie down next to you”) or the literal (and figurative) high point, “Sometimes,” which sings about hiding his high (but not his heart) from his significant other. (“Just between you and me there’s no place I’d rather be than back at home…what I know is when the wind starts to blow, I’m gonna love you so…) They throw a few musical wrinkles into the mix, from the Kings-sounding “Tomorrow” to the Pixies-like squall of “After All,” but for the most part this is a straightforward, solid follow up to their debut. Hopefully lots more like this in their future.
4. Jesus Lizard — Rack; Jack White — No Name: this slot’s for probably the biggest surprises of the year and a pair of returning favorites, neither of which I expected to see on here again. Both were years beyond when they last put out anything of note (one at all, the other of anything resembling his old quality), but they both returned with a vengeance this year with music that was as vital and irresistible as in their prime. The first is from our final batch of Chicagoans and the return of the beloved Lizard, back with their first new album in nearly two and a half decades (?!?). After that much time away, despite the occasional (and excellent) reunion show, there was little reason to believe these guys were ever going to put out new music again. So when I heard the first single and how good it was, my biggest fear was that it was a fluke and the rest of album wouldn’t live up to that example. Thankfully the guys repeatedly dissuade you of such foolish notions, offering 11 songs that show them at their ferocious former best.
From the playful pugilism of the opening “Hide and Seek” (the aforementioned single), which pops its head up like a kid in the titular game to punch you in the face before ducking out of view again, the guys let you know from the outset they’re not here to mess around. Frontman David Yow is in top form, bellowing and barking like a rabid dog throughout. He howls “the pain is returning” on the smoldering “Armistice Day,” gleefully wails “we saw this coming” on its successor “Grind,” and screams “I’M FORECASTING STUPID” on “Is That Your Hand?” (Making each of them appropriate theme songs for the coming year…) He builds the tension as the quietly menacing psychopath on “What If” before wielding the queasy anxiety of Alexis, which sports some of his most unhinged deliveries as he moans like the titular persona wrapped around the toilet in agony on the bathroom floor. He follows this quickly with the amped up anarchy of “Falling Down,” which has him frothing at the top of his lungs alongside another buzzsaw riff from guitarist Duane Denison and a ferocious rhythm from drummer Mac McNeilly and bassist David William Sims.
Despite each of the members being in their 60s the guys deliver with more energy and precision than a band a third their age. Tracks like the chugging locomotive of “Lady Godiva” or later tracks like “Moto(r)” and “Dunning Kruger” (with its ripshit solo from Denison) show they haven’t lost a step. They seem to be having fun here, as on the snarling closer “Swan the Dog,” which sports a demented REM-style mandolin (if you funneled it through a fu#$ed up funhouse first) and lyrics about Yow busting a nut and going on a killing spree (and opening a bakery?) This sense holds up in person, too, as I caught them during a blistering homecoming show that again found Yow surfing in the crowd from the opening song before they blasted through nearly two dozen songs over the two hour show. Let’s hope this has lit a spark in them that they’ll continue to mine, cuz they seem to have plenty of napalm left in the plane.
Sharing this slot with them is the prodigal son Jack White, an artist I used to think was unassailable based on his work with the mighty Stripes (whose final album IckyThump showed up waaaaaaaaaaay back on the inaugural list/post at the old site in 2008!) Since that time, though, he’s almost intentionally driven his old audience away through a series of erratic solo albums and prickly press sessions (not to mention underwhelming live performances, even when he plays the old tunes). So it was almost unbelievable when I put on his sixth solo album, almost out of a sense of duty to see if any of the old magic was there, and I was immediately and unequivocally floored.
From the opening strains of “Old Scratch Blues” you can almost feel the difference — the slightly ominous little solo, which slowly pulls you into the crunching buzzsaw of White’s riff fifteen seconds later, followed by him barking at the listener “Jackie said she warned you, so tell me how you’re gonna be” as if he’s testing you to see if you’re ready for (and/or worthy of) what’s about to transpire. By the time he shouts “this machine is out of order, it stole my quarter, now there’s nothing left to take from me!” and the beat thunders in a second later your doubts are pulverized and you’re salivating for more. White doesn’t let up for the subsequent twelve songs, offering us non-believers a bounty of bangers to revel and rejoice in.
When he gives his old squeal towards the end of the second song and starts howling “ARE YOU FEELING BLESSED?!” you not only hear a conviction and fire that’s been absent for years, but a feeling he’s having fun again — and he’s definitely not alone. (That maniacal squeal shows up several more times throughout the album, as do those pinch me moments of “I can’t believe how fu#$ing good this is!”) White rattles off a series of monsters, each more delectable (and undeniable) than the last, spitting his slogans with a venom that reflects our reality — “the world is worse than when we found it” on the slippery stomp of “It’s Rough On Rats (If You’re Asking)” “I’m here to tear all the walls down…to tear down the institution…You need to see me right away so I can fix this” on the thundering “Archbishop Harold Holmes.” “Therе’s nothing left to sacrifice, time is tight” on the blistering speed punk of “Bombing Out.” The world is burning and the end may be near, but he’s not going down without a fight.
White has always had an element of Zeppelin to his work, both in sound and impact (soooooo, so heavy…), but this time he lets any attempts at artifice go and openly channels the band, offering up riffs so thick and juicy Jimmy Page would flick his plectrum in pride. (Listen to “Morning at Midnight” and tell me you don’t echoes of the Led-gends…) I’m not sure what brought him to this point — a dare? An eff you to the fans? (“If those idiots want rock, I’ll give them rock…”) An honest admission of missing the past and wanting to recapture the magic?– but I couldn’t care less. All I need are songs like the rawking righteousness that is “Tonight (Was a Long Time Ago)” to forget my troubles and bliss out for a bit. (I DARE you to not respond to that beat and start pumping your fist/doing Diamond Dave karate kicks when it’s on…) I can’t imagine he’s going to repeat himself after this, but that’s ok — this should keep us satiated for at least the next five years. Instant classic.
3. IDLES — Tangk: keeping with the mood (and sheer power) of the pair from the previous slot comes the return of the British punks IDLES, back with their fifth studio album. It’s been three years since their last one, the pummeling Crawler, which landed at #3 on my 2021 list, and they offer up another killer mix of ripsh#$ ragers and cooler, moodier fare. Things get off to a fiery start with the rambunctious “Gift Horse,” whose combustible chorus has frontman Joe Talbot howling “WHOOOOOOOOO! Look at it GOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!” with joyful abandon. (And you likely doing so by his side.) Somewhat surprisingly it’s one of the rarer moments of unbridled energy as the album finds them expanding on the slower, more muted songs they began playing with on the predecessor.
There’s the eerie trip hop of “Pop Pop Pop” (which got a pretty cool remix recently with a guest verse from the Motor City madman Danny Brown) and the smoldering, swampy “Roy.” The skittering “Grace” and the throbbing murk of “Monolith” with its small sax outro. The barren (and beautiful) ballad “A Gospel,” which sports piano and Talbot delicately crooning. The album is supposed to be a series of love songs (it’s the ‘fing, as Talbot tells us several times), so maybe that explains the slightly softer sound, but don’t expect gushy tunes to coo to your lover (unless you have a far more interesting relationship than I). Even in the aforementioned tracks the band takes the theme and filters it through their gritty lens. Some of the sentiments are straightforward (“she’s a freight train man watch her swing” as on “Pop”), others more abnormal (“It feels like Hall & Oates is playing in my ear
every time my man’s near” on the song named after that duo), but per usual you don’t come for lyrical platitudes or depth.
This is a band that’s built on feel and how songs like the aforementioned “Gift Horse” and “Oates” or back half bangers like “Jungle” and “Gratitude” (or even the LCD teamup “Dancer,” which I hated at first, but have since come around on) make you respond. These guys specialize in primal, primitive responses and sometimes (as in our current climate of neverending indignities) that’s all you really need. That effect is even more pronounced in person, as I got to see them live again this year, turning the theater into a whirlpool of flailing fists and pogoing heads. This one was a reliable companion throughout the year, always there to amp me up and let off some steam when work and the outside world were proving to be too much. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion there’s more in store the coming four…
2. Waxahatchee — Tigers Blood: finishing a very close second comes the second album in a row from Ms Katie, aka Waxahatchee, in the guise of a country chanteuse. (Third if you count the album she did with Jess Williamson as Plains, which landed at #8 on my 2022 list.) As fans of her know, she started her career off more on the indie side of things, giving us three excellent albums full of naked vulnerability, lo-fi heartache, and quiet honesty, but after 2017’s fiery Out in the Storm she shifted to this new sound, one born out of the music of her youth and her upbringing in Alabama. It’s worked marvelously, exuding a comfortable confidence that continues to envelop the listener like a warm, weighted blanket, and she shows no signs of slowing down here with another dozen near-flawless tracks.
It’s been four years since her last outing, the excellent Saint Cloud (which landed at #8 on my 2020 list), and she seems to have perfected that one’s formula in the time away. Sonically it’s like no time has elapsed, as if they kept recording in that session and only belatedly released the rest of the songs, though she has added at least one new element to the mix this time, that being critics darling MJ Lenderman who lends his voice to at least four tracks on the album. He’s the secret weapon this time around, somehow providing even more sparkle and shine to a crown already studded with jewels. His voice blends perfectly with Ms Katie’s, adding a nice contrast to her pristine alto and a richness to the overall feel. (The best of the four being the slice of perfection that is “Right Back To It,” a flawless love song and instant classic that represents this album’s “Lilacs” or “Can’t Do Much.”)
Lyrically she remains on point, singing with an openness and precision that’s rare these days. “I make a living crying it ain’t fair and not budging… I don’t see why you would lie, it was never the love you wanted” on the opening “3 Sisters.” “What you thought was enough now seems insane” on “Evil Spawn” and “You play the villain like a violin” on the muted “Crimes of the Heart.” “You’ve been proving yourself wrong with or without me here. You don’t look around, you don’t check the score, you cause all that trouble then you beg for more…” on “The Wolves.” And while she may be unsparing to old flames and friends, she always saves her sharpest thoughts for herself. “I’m an outlaw in the court of strong opinions… my failure’s legendary, babe. I get caught up in my thoughts for lack of a better cause. My life’s been mapped out to a T, but I’m always a little lost” in the stately, shimmering “Lone Star Lake.” “I left your heart of glass in my unmade bed… if I’m not back soon don’t come looking for me” on “Crowbar.” “I get home from working hard, honey. State the obvious and watch it work its way in” on “Burns Out at Midnight.”
Sometimes she’s funny (“you drive like you’re wanted in four states”), sometimes she’s sweet (“365,” “Right Back To It”), sometimes she’s just poetic. (“I take a sip of something I can barely taste, dull as dusk”) As on its predecessor there’s a feeling of comfortable, joyful warmth throughout, like those quiet moments around loved ones at the holidays when you look around the room and silently smile with gratitude. She closes on a high note (maybe the highest) and the masterful title track, which is another duet with Lenderman, one that almost manages to surpass the aforementioned perfection of “Right Back.” This one has more bitter notes, but it’s the sharpness of the imagery and their spine-tingling presentation that makes it a perfect punctuation point on another near flawless album. When the army comes in on the final chorus, quietly singing “it might bring me something, it might weigh me down,” you can’t help but join in the uncertainty and sing along.
1. Palace — Ultrasound: every year since I’ve been doing this there’s a clear and away favorite, an album I keep returning to no matter how many times I’ve been there before (or how long I’ve been away), and one I know almost instantly upon finding that it’s going to end up sitting atop this list come year’s end. This year may have been closer than most (Ms Katie’s was that good and frequently visited), but this one gets the edge because it was wrapped in a broader sense of discovery that excited and sent me rabbit holing for good chunks of the year.
I stumbled on these guys courtesy of my ‘Gram-merly rituals, crowning them #FridayFreshness champs way back in October of last year. That was after they’d released the second EP of songs that would form the spine of this eventual album, representing over half its eventual tally. I’d never heard of them before, but immediately fell for their dreamy, lush mix of Boxer Rebellion, Coldplay, and the like, and spent the next few months listening to everything they’d put out. I quickly became a fan, so by the time the rest of the album was released earlier this year I attacked it ravenously and have continued to do so over the intervening months. (It was my most listened to album on the ‘Spots and held three of my top five songs.)
It’s the band’s fourth overall (though they’ve got a handful of equally excellent EPs under their belts as well) and was a much needed oasis of calm, cool, and beauty in an otherwise tumultuous, bruising year. They set the tone with the opening “When Everything Was Lost,” which belies the swooning beauty of the sound with lyrics like “I dreamt it was different…and now everything is fucked.” (Making it the unofficial theme song of 2024.) Subsequent gems like “Son,” “Rabid Dog,” and the closing “Goodnight, Farewell” continue the spell, lavishing you with their lovely, luxurious shine. The album was written in the aftermath of frontman Leo Wyndham’s loss of his child in a late stage miscarriage, so that sense of grief and despondency — already perfectly suited to the moment we’re living through in this country — hits even harder once you know the backstory. (Try listening to the latter song with its closing refrain of “I’ll never forget who you were” over and over again without being moved now…)
In spite of that terrible experience there are moments of brightness and positivity scattered throughout. There’s the joyous energy of “Bleach,” which highlights domestic pleasures like dying your hair and substance-fueled dance parties with your loved one. There’s the simple bliss of being in that person’s presence and hoping you make them proud on the song of the same name. (“Your head on my chest is sweeter than I’ve ever known — the night’s still young, just stay forever.”) There’s the quiet resilience of “How Far We’ve Come” with its affirmations to ride out the rockiness. (“I’ll hold my head up, straight spine, and pray we’ll be just fine.”) It’s a really good album, full of really pretty tunes, and one I thoroughly enjoyed (and continue to) throughout the year. Don’t sleep on these guys…
