Among my few gifts, The D Man can recall vast amounts of music, melodies, lyrics, and artists. Even more impressive, I can summon thousands of specific memories inextricably tied with the music I was listening to at the time, no matter how random or meaningful those memories might be. "Maneater" by Hall & Oates? Standing in a dimly-lit barn for a Halloween party, when I couldn't have been more than four years old. "Captain of Her Heart" by Double? Sitting in the Ford pick-up with my brothers after fielding grounders at the Spanish Fork baseball park. "Rush, Rush" by Paula Abdul? Talking with friends on the college quad during summer basketball camp at BYU. "Just Another Day" by Jon Secada? Hanging in Chad Hall's basement and expecting his Mom to come and tell us to turn off VH1. "Crossroads" by Bone Thugs N Harmony? Chilling in a St. George hotel room with my high school basketball teammates in between games. You get the idea. With the music playing, these and countless other moments stand in high relief, etched forever into my mind, some almost three decades later.
Of course, other musical moments carry more meaning in my inner, personal narrative. Listening to the Beach Boys while driving to California with my family for summer vacations. Making a music video for "It's Tricky" in our basement with Rizzo, Lizard, and J, complete with Adidas sweatsuits, gold chains, and killer footwork. (Need to get that fresh joint up on Youtube!). Watching "Undone (The Sweater Song)" debut at midnight on MTVs 120 Minutes and discovering the key to junior high. Attending my first Sting concert in Park City and chanting over and over again, Be yourself, no matter what they say. Listening to Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots for the first time in my car and smiling for an hour straight. Driving to early-morning law school classes through the fall fields of Ohio and being carried by Sun Kil Moon. Watching my boys dance to "Gobbledigook."
Music helps me defy the ravages of time. It fixes my memories in vivid contrast to the thousands of experiences that I have forgotten, suspending real moments before me as I survey the arc of my life. Perhaps this is what I like best about music: linked with my experiences, unique and mundane, it carves out reality that I will remember long after the haze of memory has swept over my senses.
This year will be no different. Twenty years from now, I will easily recall listening to Nocturne while driving to work that one morning at 6:00 a.m. I will remember Victoria Legrand's voice expanding across the summer concert lawn, filling up all of the empty space as I looked up at the stars. I will see the green bayou running past us in the car as my Dad and brothers soak in the anthem for our trip to New Orleans. I will hear Brandon Flowers every time I end up in Southern California. These and other moments will never fade from my view. How could they? They are the stuff of my life. And music was there.
December 1, 2012
1. Nocturne / Wild Nothing
The Year of Wild Nothing.
Even the name is evocative. A void, animated. A great surging cloud of mystery, trepidation, and beauty. Almost as if the name, the idea, the thought of this strange, moving abyss can enhance the actual music itself. And then, somehow, it does. So it goes with Wild Nothing's splendid second album, Nocturne.
Early morning drives when other headlights are still coming into focus. The slanting light of the canyon sun diving into the west. The late night considerations of where your life may go next. All of this and more may be accentuated by this ineffable record. A worthy soundtrack for every pause, every moment of self-aware solitude. How many records can be so appropriate, rain, snow, or shine? Dreamy enough, uptempo enough, open-ended enough for enjoyment and contemplation?
Truth is, Wild Nothing does it better than some of their influences. And the "it" is the pretty melancholy of indie-pop nostalgia. With influences from The Cure to the Smiths, from Echo and The Bunnymen to the Cocteau Twins, from Talk Talk to The Psychedelic Furs, countless bands have since tried to capture the forlorn loveliness emanating from a particular strain of UK guitar pop. With Nocturne, Jack Tatum and his bandmates do not merely capture that essence, they enhance it. In a year when the top five albums on The D Man's list could rightfully hold down the top spot, you will have to excuse this longtime Anglophile from selecting his favorite album of 2012 to stand supreme. (And please ignore for a moment that Tatum hails from Blacksburg, Virginia).
The sepia-toned, synth-and-guitar pictures from Gemini and the Golden Haze EP have been developed here with even more fidelity, and the results are vibrant and transportive. Lovelorn dreams echo throughout the record, a gorgeous sheen enveloping every guitar line, every sustained synth effect. The vibe is effervescent, the feeling possible.
Tatum's lyrics are simple, impressionistic, merely a jumping off point for your own projections. You can have me, you can have me all, he sings over and over again on the title track, making the invitation explicit. I try to feel something for you / but that's all I can do / give my shadow to you, he admits on "Shadow." In "Only Heather," Tatum sings, only Heather / can make me feel this way, and as listeners we just understand this bare truth, one we have felt before. Without the music, these lines really mean nothing. But with the music, they can mean anything we want.
Is this record the most complex, challenging, or epic record of the year? Not by a long shot. Is this music the highest degree of aesthetic difficulty? Probably not. Is it somewhat sleight, maybe too ethereal? Perhaps. But my final praise can be summed up this way: if The D Man had a band, our record would sound just like Nocturne.
2. Celebration Rock / Japandroids
There is no need to psychoanalyze the best rock album of the year. If they try to slow you down, tell them all to go to hell. This line pretty much sums up the record's ethic: go hard or go home. And if you go home, we will come get you out of bed and have you partying again.
Couched in slightly ragged, anthemic power-punk that leaves all nuance at the bedside, Celebration Rock's message is one of fist-pumping excess. Joyous, all-night, fist-pumping excess. The songs are not about the hard-hitting comedown (who wants to hear that?), but rather the upward flight of friends, adrenaline, and intoxication. In other words, the same stuff rock bands have been singing about for 50 years. Here, however, the tone is all celebration. Case in point: find me a better three-song run of rock than "Adrenaline Nightshift," "Younger Us," and "The House That Heaven Built." You cannot. These songs will get you to Hell and back, unscathed.
Too bad more listeners cannot escape the confines of their classic rock vault. Fans of AC/DC's straightforward approach would love this album, even though it has been informed by years of punk and alternative listening. The riffing is crowdpleading and the sing-alongs are glass-raising. It would be impossible not to love this record if rock'n'roll is in your DNA. Or if your blood-alcohol content is above the legal limit.
3. Bloom / Beach House
Bloom. On Beach House's sumptious fourth album, the band's luminescent realm engulfs listeners. A remarkable expansion of Teen Dream's ethereal lushness, Bloom sounds even bigger, almost cavernous. Long gone is Victoria Legrand merely plinking an organ and haunting a small chamber draped away from the world. Here, the record bursts forth in wide swaths, covering everything in an outsized, romantic dreaminess.
The Baltimore duo never stray far from their strengths. Alex Scally's guitar ripples with hypnotic intensity. And Legrand's voice, as always, is spellbinding. But Bloom is not just a high-water mark for their evocative sound. These are great songs. Strip away the abyss-making keyboards and swirling guitarlines, and listeners are left with lyrical, stand-alone songs. Legrand could sing any track with minimal accompaniment and it would retain its lovely aura.
Bloom sounds like the culmination of the duo's ever-increasing sense of what they can become. Like the best bands, Beach House inhabit their own private place, inviting listeners inside to experience their unique aesthetic vision. "Myth," for example, is one of the most majestic tracks of not only this year, but of any given year--indeed, its powerful allure is self-fulfilling and difficult to define: help me to name it! After the duo's first two records, it was difficult to conceive of them beyond down-tempo, sparkling bedroom pop. Now, it is hard to imagine them surpassing the depth and beauty of these last two records. Timeless. Gorgeous. Enthralling.
4. Channel Orange / Frank Ocean
Channel Orange is the finest R&B album The D Man has heard in a long, long time. Frank Ocean totally outclasses any of his peers. His smooth vocals and lyrical smarts are substantial; some in the game may be calling for wealth redistribution. It seems unfair that someone with such a silky voice should also be writing incisive, in-the-zeitgeist character sketches that luxuriate in richly textured soul music. This record could easily hold down the top spot on this list, were it not for The D Man indulging himself this year with three sentimental favorites. (Editor's note: The explicit version is not very explicit, but you can swing the clean disc and not lose any of your streed cred).
"The best song wasn't the single, but you weren't either," Ocean sings on "Sweet Life." Hiding away in "the black Beverly Hills," his muse cannot escape "domesticated paradise, palm trees and pools." Though he may feel resentment, he also understands the pull of "whatever makes you feel good, whatever takes you mountain high." But there is some sly criticism in his final assessment: "Don't know why see the world, when you got the beach."
The record is finely attuned to insightful details in the life of its characters, but grand enough to conceive of something startingly epic like "Pyramids." Ocean sings about Cleopatra, "the crown of our pharoah," and then traces the degradation of the black woman, "the jewel of Africa," at the hands of unworthy men. She goes from Queen/Godess to working the late-night shift at the gentleman's club, aptly-titled Pyramids. The song is masterful in its scope, precise in its personal touches, stretching from the glories of ancient kingdoms to the misery of a modern, urban apartment. It is difficult to think of another R&B song to rival its sweeping, groove-laden message. Ocean has arguably set the standard for a new class of R&B prose.
An almost sampleless album, the music is vibrant and crisp, yet lived in just enough to pull you closer listen after listen. It works as an in-the-background aphrodisiac, as well as a wide-screen experience. In an era of overkill, Ocean unspools his vibe with sophistication. One critic noted that he brings substance with style, rather than style demanding to be considered substance.
Ultimately, Channel Orange demands listeners to up their game. Ocean refuses to pander to the lowest common denominator like so many of the genre's studio and radio lackeys. But it would be unfair to limit this record to a specific label or class of listeners. Destined to become a classic, Channel Orange is as alternative and indie as any record released in 2012.
5. Shields / Grizzly Bear
Like Grizzly Bear's last two records, Shields sounds strangely antiquated, as if plucked from a bygone era of indie rock. This time, however, the foursome crank up the force of their spiraling compositions. Stronger, louder, and more dynamic, Shields' aesthetic dimensions are considerable. The record can sound like Auntie Em's farmhouse spinning in the tornado--with old phones, silver-leafed picture frames, and yellowed photos flying around--and then in an instant the music shifts, landing in the unsettling calm of Oz's technicolor beauty. With Grizzly Bear, a song goes places. (On this same note, it is not a stretch to believe Shields could serve as a suitable psychedelic replacement to Dark Side of the Moon's popular soundtracking of the classic 1939 film).
Grizzly Bear has become one of those democratic collectives where you know each player's name precisely because of the unique contributions he makes to the whole. When performing, the band typically stands four across on the stage, emphasizing each musician's claim as a frontman. On any given song, listeners may hear Chris Taylor's swervy bass or keyboards framing the atmosphere, Chris Bear's snapping drum-kit jolting the rhythm forward, Daniel Rossen's roiling, unorthodox guitar strums circling and retreating, and Ed Droste's inimitable vocals, climbing through the music's difficult terrain and finding just the right places to rise and fall with melody.
Shields is arguably Grizzly Bear's finest album, which is high praise when considering the heft of Yellow House's hazy incantations and the precision of Veckatimest's splendid production. So where, then, does this band stack up? With a string of uncanny achievements, it is a question worth asking. Though the foursome may not possess the excitement or intensity of Radiohead's post-modern visions, it may be enough that Thom Yorke and company are one of the few comparable bands out there given the high level of Grizzly Bear's ambient originality and compositional complexity. In rarified air, peers are simply hard to see.
6. Among the Leaves / Sun Kil Moon
In a recent Uncut interview, Mark Kozelek was asked which record he was most proud of. His answer: 2010's Admiral Fell Promises, hands down. "Bury me with that one. That album is me at my best, my most focused. It's cohesive, beautiful." Long-time listeners can appreciate what he means in the wake of Admiral Fell Promises' intense, classical-guitar driven lyricism. That album may be the epitome of his signature prose and patient playing as a purely solo enterprise.
In stark contrast, Sun Kil Moon's fifth proper album, Among the Leaves, is a palette cleanser of sorts, and Kozelek has admitted as much. "My old approach sort of died, at least for the time being. I was probably working on a song and realised I'd already written it 100 times. I've done the romantic approach to death and wanted to have a laugh this time." Loose, autobiographical, and, yes, funny, Among the Leaves is easily the most off-the-cuff recording of the singer-songwriter's career. Where AFP was laced with classical embellishments and painstakingly poetic details, this record is direct and decidedly unlabored. Kozelek recorded many of the tracks in just a take or two, and the result is unadorned and engaging. Listeners have never been so welcome to inspect the artist's life as artist, with all of its glories, struggles, meaning, and mundanity.
Kozelek shares intimate experiences from life on tour and life at home in San Francisco. On the road, he sings about back-stage hook-ups, back pains, and crushing homesickness. At home, he recounts his past lovers (leaving him for riches or worse), his love of cats, and his sometimes painful relationship with writing songs. His honesty is arresting, even for his cult of followers.
His biting humor is also apparent. He titles songs such as "I Know It's Pathetic But That Was The Greatest Night of My Life," or the aptly autobiographical "The Moderately Talented Yet Attractive Young Woman vs. The Exceptionally Talented Yet Not So Attractive Middle Aged Man." In "Lonely Mountain," he reminds a friend jealous of the singer's relative freedom that "nothing came by luck / your Dad paid for your college / my Dad gave me five bucks." In "Track No. 8," he recounts the difficulities of being on the road: "You get on this plane / I'll sit at your desk / and I'll leave at eight and be home by five / call me from Warsaw if you have time." This theme of dislocation weaves its way throughout the record. In "UK Blues," he deals with being down during a European tour with numerous funny asides: "Denmark, Denmark / everyone rides bikes / everyone is white." And on his return home, while standing on the street in front of Lincoln Hall in Chicago, he remembers heady days long since gone: "My band played here a lot / in the nineties when we had / lots of female fans / and f--- they all were cute / now I just sign posters / for guys in tennis shoes."
But there is still some vintage Kozelek, too. In "The Winery," an exquisite tale of coping with a former girlfriend leaving him for a rich man, his poetic contrasts are striking, the transitions of the song sublime. It is a master-class in traditional songwriting, and even includes some of his well-known boxing allusions. In a closing nod to the riches unearthed throughout the 17 tracks on Among the Leaves, it is a song well worth considering here, in the same format of the prose provided in the liner notes.
you moved up near the winery i'm down by the oil refinery you left my rags for his riches left a note best wishes our cats still go out at night coolin' in the moonlight and the lights of martinez scatter on the carquinez i play guitar 'til morning light alone with it i've built my life met some lovers through my skills some have lasted others just fill time remembering you there with me taking walks along the sea years fly by cursing us all end of summer end of fall winter spring listening to almeida play pavane for a dead princess tarrega and albeniz and his own discantus santos vs benitez espada vs quevas ray leonard vs duran no mas no mas my tv glows my ceiling fan hums iron mike broke bones julian bream played the chaconne bobby fischer took rooks smokin' joe threw hooks roburt burns wrote poems ed gein dug up bones martin luther had a dream you never did anything you're up there in the vineyards using some pretty words eat at french laundry burnin' through money and i'm here eatin' pistachio nuts over by the taco truck scribblin' words on receipts just get stuck in repeat i walk along the service stops and the antique shops come home in the evening hear the dogs howlin'
7. Heaven / The Walkmen
Since their 2002 debut, Everyone That Pretended to Like Me Is Gone, the Walkmen have evolved from a skittering, vintage indie band into something far more driven. A highlight along the way, of course: the New York band's teetering-on-the-edge masterwork, "The Rat," which is easily one of the decades' great unhinged rock performances. So now comes Heaven, arguably the band's most cohesive album to date, tighter and grander than anything we have heard before.
That rare rock'n'roll record chronicling domestic contentment, Heaven glories in the strength of lasting relationships. "We'll never leave / we can't be beat / the world is ours," sings Hamilton Leithauser on the jangly, opening strummer, "We Can't Be Beat." Later, he recognizes "these are the good years / the best we'll ever know / these golden light years." Little wonder the album's photos include the band with their spouses, girlfriends, and children; these guys are genuinely giddy about their current good fortune. For goodness sakes, Leithauser even adds a sweet song about singing to his daughter ("Song for Leigh").
Though this is not the messied-up and raging version of the band from ten years ago, Heaven is a welcome and varied collection of clear-eyed rock songs with the unmistakeable mark of golden experience. The clean, luminous guitars are also noteworthy. The record's pristine production, wisely, allows them plenty of space to sparkle. So there is also room for Leithauser's gruff warble--here, stretched out to its finest capacities--to carry the emotional weight of marriage, children, and friends. On the album's remarkable title track, he sings "stick with me / oh you're my best friend / all of my life / you've always been," and closes with the powerful reminder, "remember remember / all we fight for." Indeed.
8. Gossamer / Passion Pit
Michael Angelakos has some problems. But making intricate, vibrant, maximalist pop music isn't one of them. Taking his songs at face value, his drinking has led him to dark places. His shifting personalities has cost him friends. His overwhelming anxiety has paralyzed his efforts. Yet, if there is one constant he can cling to, he has been carried (perhaps literally) by his girlfriend. In a way, Gossamer is his unblinking gratitude.
Like Passion Pit's debut Manners, the tracks on Gossamer are buoyant electro-pop confections, bubbling up and spreading out in colorful swaths of effects and melodies. But the canvas is much bigger this time, both in terms of the advanced arrangements and the deeply-personal lyrics. A song like "I'll Be Alright" feels supercharged with a million pop particles firing in all directions. And it is difficult to think of another artist creating a sunny, sophisticated R&B slow-jam like "Constant Conversations," while at the same time rendering genuine insights into alcoholism and relapse. Angelekos examines his life with an unflinching eye, and when his unsettling behavior is intertwined with the self-assured brightness of the music, it makes for jarring juxtapositions. In reference to his drinking, for example, Angelekos notes his "life has become some blurry little quest," while the music bounces along with synth-gurgling glee.
Though the personal difficulties are undoubtedly real--Passion Pit canceled shows this summer so that Angelekos could regroup--it sure embeds a pop record with extra gravitas. The soul-baring struggles, paired with the heady hooks, are immediate and immersive. And despite the bewildering problems portrayed throughout the album, one thing is certain: it may take some time for Angelekos to figure out his personal life, but his music is only getting better.
9. The Haunted Man / Bat for Lashes
On the album's actual cover photo, a naked Natasha Khan carries a naked man on her shoulders. The private parts, ahem, are covered up, barely. (Yeah, I expected all of you would click on the link before reading this parenthetical--some readers you are). The D Man imagines the provacative photo is a feminist metaphor for the emotional and physical burdens that women must carry for the haunted men in their lives. Perhaps this is too literal of an interpretation, but I doubt it. After all, we are somewhat problematic as a gender and species and, well, you saw the photo, didn't you?
So if you are an emotionally stunted male, it looks like this record could pose some problems. But there is hope. Once the music begins, all potentially contrived attacks will glance off your (brawny?) chest, and you will be hardpressed to excuse yourself from listening. Because the songs are visceral enough, so right in front of you, so intoxicating, the only thing that will matter is the dark beauty of another Bat for Lashes record.
Artful and unguarded, The Haunted Man is Natasha Khan at her most elemental. Her lyrics are raw, her melodies succinct and urgent. Unlike the embellishments in past records, the production here is meticulous, cutting away unwarranted intrusions into Khan's subterranean world. On tracks like "Laura" and "All Your Gold," there is little to interfere with her direct, emotive ambitions. Yet she remains just as mysterious, sensual, and compelling as ever.
The songs are mostly flights of fantasy. On "Winter Fields," the track swirls over a bed of strings, and then marches forward with perfectly-placed drum fills, evoking a bleak scene from a dream: Oh mother, I'm scared to close my eyes / Some winter dreams make you dive and dive, and dive down. On "Wall," Khan sings over stretched-out synth lines, sultry and confident, imagining a woodland path to redemption: when you see a wall, I see a door. On "Marilyn," her tremulous falsetto rises above dark-shaded electronica for a brief, shining moment: holding you, I'm touching a star! Steeped in pop-culture romanticism--turning into Marilyn, leaning out of a big car--Khan's marriage of sound and voice is sublime.
Though some artistic chanteuses overdo the drama, Khan is not content to draw out her pain and longing with slow, dirge-like compositions. There are no look at me writhe before you moments that, for better or worse, frighten away many would-be male listeners. She prefers movement, pulsating rhythms, flashes of color, carrying songs forward with purpose and emotional thrust. Some of her songs could even be described as club music cloaked in arthouse cinematics. Indeed, songs like "Daniel" from Two Suns, or "All Your Gold" from this record, are really just Phd versions of Ke$sha dance tracks. This may be the best thing about Bat for Lashes: she moves.
10. Kill for Love / Chromatics
Kill for Love's spacious electro-synth pop casts an alluring gloom over the after-party. Listeners will not want to leave. Grand and foreboding, the record is replete with the kind of pulsing, nocturnal Euro-disco that can carry you off deep into the night.
Johnny Jewel's evocative soundscapes are well-suited for Ruth Radelet's thin, dimly-cast vocals. The multi-instrumentalist indulges in spectral beats, with founding guitarist and synth-man Adam Miller pushing the songs through dark, glossy, New Order-inspired territory. The promise of the band's 2007 release, Night Drive, is fulfilled here with icy studio precision.
The album opens with a cover of Neil Young's "Into the Black," foretelling the descent into enveloping shadows. The engrossing run of songs includes the excellent title track, "Lady," and "A Matter of Time." The album turns in at 77 minutes, and while the music is refracted through a narrow prism, it never feels like too much. There are changes in tempo, rhythm, and texture, keeping the record sounding like a consistent, if not cryptic, whole. By underscoring tragedy and romance with masterful atmospherics, Kill for Love is a downright cinematic pleasure.
11. Blunderbuss / Jack White
Though Jack White is no longer lording over a record with wrecking-ball riffs (see Elephant or Icky Thump), Blunderbuss is a strong first album as a nominal solo artist. Instead of blasting away at the blues idiom with anthemic aplomb, White sits down lower in the grooves, a flotsam of old-rock guitars, pianos, and drums delivering a compellingly strange batch of songs. But do not worry too much, as there are still moments of uncanny guitarness in the midst of rag-tag, blues doo-wop mish-mash.
White is razor sharp as a songwriter, and his songs on Blunderbuss are as direct as he has ever been. He is contradictory, mysterious, and magnetic. His bemused, almost maniacal lyrical and vocal approach emphasizes the serious emotional baggage he unloads. He rages at his independent and elusive woman, then he places her on a pedestal for being just that. He rips out his heart for love, then he wants to take it back and lock it away in the deep. On "Hypocritical Kiss," he chides incredulously: "And who the hell's impressed by you? / I want the names of the people / That we know that are falling for this." He never gets a straight answer, despite his constant hounding.
As Jack White the solo artist, he is free to run down any rabbit holes, get entangled in any thicket. The White Stripes' overwhelming canon may serve as a counterpoint rather than a burden. On Blunderbuss, he plays Brer Rabbit with a fierce musical curiosity, and the chase is at once thrilling and befuddling.
12. I Know What Love Isn't / Jens Lekman
So let's get married . . . but only for the citizenship. Ah, yes, it can only be Jens Lekman. Hard to believe it has been five years since his masterful album, Night Falls Over Kortedela. Lekman's first proper album, When I Said I Wanted to Be Your Dog, established the Swede as the go-to troubadour of pop earnestness and romantic melancholy. How many times has he fallen in love since then without ever quite getting it right?
Lekman's witty, sample-laden tracks are unforgettable, and his Morrissey-esque voice carries tunes to exquisite little epiphanies. His early efforts contained a wistful majesty to the lo-fi production, while his subsequent output is arguably better in terms of melody and polish. Indeed, his ear for melody is impressive, bringing magic to the small (and funny) stories of heartbreak and misunderstanding. Meeting chicks at anti-war demonstrations. Cutting his finger while slicing avacadoes. Visiting an Iraqi barber in her apartment salon. Singing with the perspective of Rocky Dennis from Mask. There is very little that Jens can stay silent about.
On I Know What Love Isn't, Lekman embellishes the sweet and the bitter with lovely piano lines, rich saxophones, and lilting flutes, drawing out the songs into fluid verses and choruses. Call it emo for people with graduate degrees in melody and heartbreak. Lekman sings, "A broken heart is not the end of the world / Because the end of the world is bigger than love," which ultimately seems like a grand conceit to convince himself otherwise. Listeners with dark, cold hearts may find this all to be a bit too much, but others will revel in the humor, pathos, and sweetness that Lekman reveals in his clever songs.
13. Move, Lord / Markarians
Chad Murphy has recently released some excellent EPs under the moniker Markarians (so cosmic and deep!). He is a micro-culture renaissance man of sorts, as he has fronted bands, obtained his masters, painted with oils, and generated all-around good vibes. He just wrote this excellent piece regarding his father's rightful place in the baseball Hall of Fame.
Markarians' dreamy DIY sound is riddled with laid-back galactic energy, a sweet amalgamation of soft-pyschedelia, acoustic strums, and bedroom thoughtfulness. There are faint sonic traces of Kurt Vile's ambling guitar passions, but Murphy's lyrical dexterity surpasses even those comparisons.
On Move, Lord, easily Murphy's signature work to date, he is downcast, hushed, and conflicted. One can almost hear his weary, existential sigh, as the heaviness of the universe consumes his inner world. The weight of his dilemma is enhanced by deft religious allusions, seeking the Divine and worrying about its elusiveness. On "Domino," Murphy's literate concerns tumble forth:
True believer
There's no end to times like these
It's no wonder
She speaks unknowingly of grief
and talks of death in dulcet tones
You will never understand
So will you comfort them?
Or comfort you?
She dreamed this:
A white horse running through the fog
Helpless
Aching thunder, you were wrong
If so, what's that say for joy and hope?
So what.
Put that collar on my throat
And lead me on, I need the peace
of pretty fictions, mercy seats
If this sounds like poetry, it is. The record's most impressive achievement is the way these words roll effortlessly off Murphy's tongue, sluffing off in a half-whispered intimacy that only conspiring spirits could understand. If Murphy needs a lift, the music's subtle gorgeousness will have to do. Otherwise, he may need reminding that heaven is not in the grain of sand, but in the glass of water, as comforting the weary is sharing in that same love that formed the stars.
(Enjoy "Rip Through Sunsets," from another fine EP, Ten Means Heaven).
14. Confess / Twin Shadow
If you must reassert loverboy bona fides, this is your record. If you are aiming to get her back, this is your roadmap. If heartbreak is your modus operandi, if relationship drama is your preference, if emotional wreckage is your thing, Twin Shadow is your muse. If you feel inclined to throw on your black leather and motorbike your way to redemption, this is your Purple Rain. (No doubt Confess could provide the overemoting backdrop for a biker gang trying to save the leader's girfriend from the clutches of a less worthy lover. Oh, wait, the record actually did provide the overemoting backdrop for a biker gang trying to save the leader's girlfriend from the clutches of a less worthy lover).
At the strange intersection of nu-wave and R&B, Confess lays bare George Lewis, Jr.'s bleeding, how-could-you-do-this-to-me heart. The songs are pointed barbs, confessionals, pleas, and arguments, making a case for love that was always there for the taking. He ditches the synth-and-guitar driven subtleties of Forget in favor of direct vocal confrontation, underscored by driving beats and slick production. The result: an over-the-top performance filled with glittering confrontations and comebacks. He is betrayed. Then he betrays. You don't run my heart, he says, so don't you dare.
Lewis, Jr. is a musical chameleon, and for the most part his channeling works. Though he apes down-and-out Bowie, glides through rainy-day Morrissey, and gets desperate like Prince, he convinces as an obviously talented vocalist and stylist, even if he is still searching for that final voice that will be his alone.
By several accounts, Twin Shadow emerged as a surprising guitar hero during last summer's festival circuit. Apparently, he rips. Here, his guitar is often a mood-inducing sidelight to the record's big production of backbeats and keyboards, which largely push the singer's heart-searing agenda forward. On "Run My Heart," for example, he employs Andy Summers-style guitar pick-ups before launching into the song's chorus payoff. Although this record eschews his debut's more overt and pristine nods to new wave, and it certainly increases some of the stylized bombast, it still feels like an exciting ride in the right direction.
15. Coexist / The xx
At the same time beguiling and isolating, Coexist is almost an extended metaphor for intimate relationships. If you could ever just get close enough to truly see the other person. To have your hearts beat in unison with each other. "Separate or combine? / I ask you one last time," sings Oliver Sim, to which Romy Madley Croft responds, "Did I hold too tight? / Did I not let enough light in?"
The understated vocal tension between Croft and Sim is intriguing, providing the perfect nighttime passage for lovers. Where the interpersonal drama never seems to fully resolve itself, the music also hints at beat-filled drops that never come. Instead, Jamie xx's production is restrained, mirroring the notion that suspense (and sexiness) is sometimes better than actual fulfillment of the real thing. Stretched out with quiet moments, the record allows for austere rumination over subtle, treasure-filled listens.
16. Port of Morrow / The Shins
On the strength of the radio-friendly single, "Simple Song," The Shins' fourth album, Port of Morrow, merits Top Twenty inclusion. Men have drowned in their tears trying to create a song so splendid and accessible. The overarching melody and chorus is exceptionally strong, it seems almost irrational to deny the song's multi-faceted pleasures. It represents another polished pop gem that will continue to garner The Shins all of those Beatles comparisons.
Of course, Port of Morrow is really James Mercer's album, as was the case for the band's first three records. A largely new cast of players took the challenge to develop his superbly-crafted songs into larger sonic spaces. Mission accomplished. Listeners can hear some of the residue from Mercer's recent work with Danger Mouse; the record's production sounds gigantic when compared to The Shins' earliest material.
That said, Mercer attempts to cull the best sounds from prior records, too, from the elliptical indie rock of Oh, Inverted World, to the propulsive intracacies of Chutes Too Narrow, to the glossy production sheen of Wincing the Night Away. He is mostly successful, and the finished product is safe harbor for listeners seeking refuge from the storms of unoriginal, overprocessed pop music.
Port of Morrow's pleasures come from its cohesive variety: the pyschedelic folk strum of "September," the golden AM radio of "Fall of '82," the hypnotic trip-hop of the title track, the spindly guitars of "Bait and Switch." Without ever abandoning his big-tent appeal, Mercer's musical ideas are legion. So it makes sense that The Shins remain one of the biggest bands in indiedom, if that realm even contains the mainstream success at this point in time; most listeners have long since figured out that "New Slang" will change their lives. Though this record may not be that transformative, one cannot help but hope that Mercer will be writing songs for as many listeners as possible, for a long time to come.
17. Boys & Girls / Alabama Shakes
Feels much better now that he's a black chick. The D Man texted that message to Stark the Vinyl Shark after listening to Alabama Shakes a second time. The first time listening to the band's debut, Boys & Girls, I actually thought the singer was a stringy-haired white dude from the South. Nice to have that cleared up. And nice to have this notable response from Stark: This is the best text I have ever gotten, no matter the context.
Brittany Howard and the boys do some serious soul-shaking and self-affirmation on the album's opening track, "Hold On." "Must be somebody up above / saying c'mon Brittany / you got to get back up!" Howard's soulful, nearly-there, but always reaching delivery sets the positively great groove on fire. She knows how to simmer, too, on tracks like "I Ain't the Same" and "You Ain't Alone." Though the record's vibe hails back to numerous old-school influences, it sounds urgent, in the here and now. Stark the Vinyl Shark later noted that this was the record he wished Kings of Leon had made. Listeners will nod their head in agreement, understanding that Boys & Girls is authentic, southern-rock soul music.
18. Break It Yourself / Andrew Bird
By my count, Andrew Bird's albums have appeared on The D Man's year-end list four times. As I've written before, "his baroque, lyrically whimsical chamber-pop has no other peers, largely due to his violin virtuosity and looping build-ups performed with multiple instruments." My loyal cadre of readers know this blog is getting long in the tooth, or I am running out of things to say about Bird, when I have to quote myself.
If you have never seen Bird live, well, you should. His considerable gifts are on full display. His pipes are nimble and strong, which is a necessary skill if you are pulling off some of the taffy-stretching lyrics he offers up. And his astute musicianship is readily apparent, to say nothing of his compositional acumen. Bird's music beats with a Midwest heart, but it is set to the metronome of classical European training. And did I mention that he is a world-class whistler?
So it seems routine that our master of picking and palindromes recorded another fine album, Break it Yourself. One critic said that if you like smart pop music and are not familiar, hearing Bird for the first time will feel like discovering a new planet. This observation is a welcome reminder for long-time Bird listeners, too. Because we should never take for granted an artist so gifted, an artist sharing tonal and melodic moments that are so lovely, so likeable.
19. Runner / The Sea and the Cake
Chicago's veteran post-rock musicians, The Sea and Cake, somehow just keep getting smoother. Helmed by Sam Prekop's lush and unhurried vocals, tenth album Runner is the band at its comfortable best. Trading in some guitars for even more synths, these guys are finding subtle but ever-welcoming ways to dazzle.
The band rarely strays from its seemingly effortless formula: precision guitars + smooth rhythm + Prekop's delivery = brainy pop escapism. On Runner, the songs are constructed with such a cool restraint, the record is more of a paean to tone and efficiency than to any overzealous sense of songcraft. The band's cult-like staying power has been strengthened by its devotion to always-pleasing intracacies that sound so unforced. These talented musicians do not yell for attention, but they know how to make seriously fine indie pop records.
Highlights include album opener "On and On," breezy single "Harps," and light-as-a-feather "A Mere." The rest of the songs on Runner follow suit--smooth, immersive, and easy on the ears.
20. Battle Born / The Killers
Brandon Flowers is your man. The Desert Highway King. The Trans-Am Warrior. The Arena Rock Balladeer. The Sad-Eyed Sage of the Vegas Strip. Neither the cords of time nor the rust of cars can prevent him from immortalizing every magical moment, every epic makeout, that still, in hindsight, stings the best of us.
To say Battle Born is all earnest nostalgia is an understatement. But the album is less about memories of intense loves and big dreams as it is providing the right soundtrack--the right overwhelming feeling--to frame those loves and dreams. Served in oversized pop anthems and overwrought rock ballads, it just may be The Killers best album since their loaded debut. It is essentially hair metal for dudes who prefer pop over thrash, keyboards over six-strings.
Though Battle Born does not have the same tantalizing glow of singles lit up by Hot Fuss, or even that one transcendant moment like Sam's Town (see "When You Were Young"), the record possesses a consistent collection of songs that can carry listeners to the mountaintop by the strength of Flowers' undiminished belief. If he can sing it, you can believe it.
Not too long ago, Flowers mused that his band could be as big as U2. While this will never happen, it is not for a lack of trying. These songs reach for a populist connection that would make the Boss blush, but not with contrived working-man tropes. Here, Flowers talks about fast cars, tan girlfriends, and fighting against the march of time that will prevent us from realizing our neon-light dreams. Sure, Flowers can be redundant as a lyricist (see his penchant for couplets like "eager eyes," "neon nights," "golden nights," and every other kind of nights), but his ability to tap into the exaggerated essence of our attachment to youth and its exhilaration, his reaching for the big universal moment in a song, is uniquely suited to his rock-vocal prowess.
Two passages sum up the album best. The first is from "The Way It Was." "I remember driving in my daddy's car to the airfield / Blanket on the hood, backs against the windshield / Back then this thing was running on momentum, love, and trust / That paradise is buried in dust." That description just might be the fate of our golden past, but it will not stop Flowers from looking back at the brilliant flash. On "Miss Atomic Bomb," he resolutely sings, "Making out, we've got the radio on / You're going to miss me when I'm gone." And we don't doubt it for a second.
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