My Top 10 Albums of 2014

I release my Top 10 Albums list a little later than most. I need time to decompress, to reflect, to compare. I don’t finish a good book and immediately sour its sweet final sentences by delving into chapter one of a new volume. I close the book, place it on my chest and exhale, letting the breath of the characters mingle with my own world. So, too, do I set aside 2013’s music until it coalesces into a readable fashion, a hierarchy of personal taste that’s recordable. Like I said, comparison is the name of the game…and procrastination. I’d like to justify my belief in the former and protract the latter, by offering this brief aside before the envelopes are opened.

List-makers like me are often criticized for making art academic. Outside of my Make Every Song life, I have made, and still do make art academic. In fact, I spent six years at college practicing it. So that’s why I say, take your complaints elsewhere! But allow me to complain about lists anyway. We live in a world in which a bunch of websites I don’t look at publish 324 posts a day titled things like: “37 Reasons You Might Be Obsessed With Hot Sauce”; “The 23 Best Crime-Fighting Animals”; “19 Things You Shouldn’t Do on the 19^th Date”; “84 Ways to not Watch the Super Bowl.” Editorial note: a numerical list becomes unnecessary when the list contains everything you can think of in that category; the number attached to the list is not only rendered meaningless, but the list itself is annoying and pseudo-academic as well. However, a finite list can reveal nuances in my musical taste. Of course, I know I like things without comparing them to other things, but I may not know how much. My apartment burning down will usually be the worst part of my day, but not always, just as The National’s new album will only sometimes be the best album I hear in a year. I like it, and the things around it, to different degrees. This is my comparison. In this comparison, #1 is better than #2. Call me a doomsday prep-er, but I’m ready for my desert island.

10) Frog Eyes – Carey’s Cold Spring: I’m surely one of the few close followers of Frog Eyes and, having self-appointed myself that distinguished title, I’ll declare that Carey’s Cold Spring is maybe, perhaps, almost their best album. That’s strange to say because it’s their least, well, strange. There’s something openly optimistic about this record, something more major key than usual, and it’s manifested noticeably in song constructions that are closer to standard ones—and I love standard song constructions. In the end, Carey’s Cold Spring is full of engaging songs sung as passionately as ever by Carey Mercer. Listen and you will be pleasantly, fully engaged for nine great songs. Number 10 is their spot on this list.

9) Daughn Gibson – Me Moan: In my own conservative way, I usually try to give points for originality, and Me Moan gets a lot of them. On the other hand, I’m usually not a fan of very affected singing styles, but Daughn Gibson makes it fun, like his name. I’m not sure the instruments that make them, but this album has a lot of weird hooks that endear me to the songs, not the least of which is that computer-bagpipe thing on “Mad Ocean.” Perhaps most impressive is that this album, for as strange as it is, maintains a comfortable pace that makes the unusually crafted pop songs believable. “Kissing on the Blacktop” is the highlight.

8) Majical Cloudz – Impersonator: Last year, I had Dirty Projectors’ Swing Lo Magellan as my favorite album. For the same reasons, I have Impersonator on this list. I like its blend of non-standard instrumentation/production with classically affecting vocal melodies. I was tempted to include Spencer Krug’s Julia with Blue Jeans On in my ten albums, but I couldn’t because it was just him and a piano. Majical Cloudz keep me both sonically interested and also emotionally engaged. “Bugs Don’t Buzz” does it best, if understatedly. Devon Welsh also has maybe the truest voice I listened to this year. It flairs up only when it has to and his normal low register captures the subtle terror of moving through a day—a terror he clearly feels given the album’s title and content.

7) Bill Callahan – Dream River: This one was mired in my “maybe” pile for a long time, and I swear it’s not just because of the mantra, “Beer…Thank you,” that I came around to this album. Bill Callahan may seem lazy or scattered, especially on Dream River, but now that it’s finally sunk in, I’m certain that I’m hearing the creation of a very particular mind, placing sounds and images as carefully as it experienced the actual events that inspired them. “Summer Painter” captures the youthful American experience better than anything else this year. How can any of us ever know, having painted boats or not, who we work for, “The rich or the poor?”

6) David Bowie – The Next Day: We haven’t heard from this old-timer for a while and when he sings “Where are we now?” he may have answered the question: the royal “we” is in a pretty good place. Society, the Earth, musical taste at large, maybe not so much, but David Bowie is sitting pretty. Almost every song and lyric seems autobiographical here—a legend coming off of a hiatus, talking about it and it being good. More than anything, The Next Day definitely retains Bowie’s fun of old, as “Dancing Out in Space” attests. He clearly doesn’t give up on certain themes.

5) Eleanor Friedberger – Personal Record: As its title suggests, this is a very honest album and, like a friend divulging something awkward in the back seat of a late night cab, it’s funny in its truthfulness. Musically, it’s very Friedberger—very Fiery Furnaces, except that the majority of the pretentious bubbliness has been left behind. It’s more straight pop with an unusual singing cadence. Confessional albums can sometimes only reach so far, but a song like “Echo or Encore” absolutely gives itself to the larger world. It becomes the listener’s song: it will echo in your head and you’ll want more, surely the same effect the object of the singer’s affection has on her.

4) Kurt Vile – Wakin on a Pretty Daze: I was a little anxious thinking about writing this short review, but then I realized it was written for me: Wakin on a Pretty Daze. As infuriating as the lack of an apostrophe in the title irks me, the album, and the sentiment behind it, is inherently un-irking. It’s hard for me to single out songs to talk about, or describe anything but the constantly churning rhythm of the album. Kurt Vile has a sound and the sound is good. It’s relaxing and intricate and those two things don’t often go together. But for my top album of the year, I probably put this one on the most, because, why not?

3) Phosphorescent – Muchacho: Maybe I’m jaded by my own love of the slow, serious stuff, but I’m trying to go with fun this year. This album has a mix of the two, but a drag it is certainly not. Phopspherescent write good songs to travel to and Phosphorescent is sixty or so damn good miles. “Song for Zula” is confounding in that it’s in between an anthem and a ballad, missing the forceful chorus of the former and the latter’s would-be depressing feel is killed by the uplifting and omnipresent wall of strings and keys. I was going to post a particular lyric from it, but it would be a disservice to the song to chop it up; it’s good poetry—all truth and failure and the rest. The entire album follows suit.

2) The National – Trouble Will Find Me: Oh, what is there to say? Maybe what my friend did recently—that The National are the best active American rock band. While their sound, especially on Trouble, may not exude “rock,” they display the rock characteristics of great guitar work and catchy melodies. And lyrically they’re not to be beaten on my particular list. It’s not a sexy pick, it’s just a good and true one. I can play this album on repeat and not only is it great every time, I discover something new as well. Side note: the end of “Heavenfaced”—U2 anyone?

1) John Wesley Coleman – Trans Am Summer Blues: This is the album I played the most this year—it was a go-to and, in the unlimited universe of streaming music, it’s hard to argue with such a practical, gravitational attraction. It’s hard for me to say that it’s a unique album, a trait I’ve already claimed to try to honor, given its derivative, laid-back, rock ’n’ roll musicality. But it is unique in the offhanded emotion it exudes. When I listen to TASB, I feel like, and it feels like, one of the cool kids; it’s an entity that can make fun of what it’s doing, while doing it the best and trying the least. It may sound like music from a garage in the 80s, though I’d like to see the best balladeers of that era match “Million Faces.” Maybe I’m just smitten with the hilarious appeals to Eleanor Friedberger for a gig—John Wesley Coleman also dabbles in standup comedy, among other pursuits—but he passed her on my list this year. Not taking anything too seriously still has its merits.

Forever: Squints, The Sandlot and “This Magic Moment”

Spoiler Alert! The following is from the screenplay of The Sandlot. I also discuss the film a lot. Everyone should watch it already.

                          

                          

                         

                          BENNY

Yeah she does. She knows exactly what

she’s doing.

                          SQUINTS

I’ve swum here every summer of my adult

life… and every summer there she is.

                          (LOSING IT)

Lotioning… oiling… smiling.

                          (TEETH CLENCHED)

I – can’t – take – this – no – more!

          THE GANG WATCHES AS SQUINTS

pushes through the water, pulls himself out, and walks really

fast to the diving board (taking off his glasses to impress

her as he passes.)

                          SCOTTY

What’s wrong with him?

                          YEAH-YEAH

                          (WORRIED)

Don’t-know, but that’s the deep end,

and Squints can’t swim!

                         SQUINTS

walks the plank to the end. Looks wantingly toward

                         THE LIFEGUARD 

who smiles back at him.

                         SQUINTS

holds his nose. Takes the deep leap. Hits the water and…

                         UNDERWATER    

…sinks like a stone. Squints grins as he founders.

                         THE GANG

lines the edge of the deep section.

                          BERTRAM

Squints!

                          HAM

Oh my God! He’s drowning!

                         THE LIFEGUARD

to the rescue. Seconds pass… she surfaces and lays a limp

                         SQUINTS

          ON THE DECK

Everybody at the pool gathers ’round. The Lifeguard lays

Squints flat. She administers mouth-to-mouth.

The gang watches on tense as hell.       

Squints peeks at them through a secretly opened eye. As the

Lifeguard is “saving” his sneaky life, Squints can no longer

restrain himself, he grabs her – gives her a sloppy SMOOCH!

She tears away. Stands up over his wimpy little form:

                          LIFEGUARD

You little pervert!

She grabs Squints by the scruff of the neck. Run-walks him

toward the exit, and chucks his boney butt into the hedges. The guys scramble

out, dragging their clothes after them. They help Squints

up.

The quality, quantity and omnipresence of early R&B and Doo Wop songs are such that everyone has a favorite and, with rare exception, all the favorites are different. In fact, because overwhelmingly the songs are so idealistically and musically pure, and I can recall them with such vividness, when I hear someone else’s favorite, I curse myself for it not being mine as well. In turn, my own favorite is constantly changing and this particular musical galaxy keeps on giving. At present, it’s given me The Drifter’s “This Magic Moment.”

To correct myself, The Sandlot actually gave me this song on a platter (not The Platters) when I was seven years old. It was a wonderful age to have seen that movie and the moment when The Drifters chime in is still an all-time favorite that prompted me to make a 15 Great Songs from Movies I Love playlist. Even though I’ve seen 143 times, I always thought that the sultry, romantically assaulted, but understanding lifeguard’s name was Wendy Peppercorn. Maybe I’ve eaten too many chain restaurant specialty burgers. Her name in the movie is Wendy Peffercorn which, although still strange, is a slightly more realistic surname. Her beauty, Squints’ cunning and me being seven are all woven into my love of this very special tune.

It’s a shame that, in order to maintain dramatic timing in the movie, the song is edited to omit the first bars of the song that are perhaps its most lasting feature—the frenetic strings. The omission is necessary in the film, but it takes away a fitting introduction into the fantasy that is the rest of the song. The magic moment that is musically manifested in the ensuing two and a half minutes is literally magic; it’s a place and time that is different from all others, like the lovers have fallen into an unsustainably blissful adventure that is the romantic equivalent of a Twilight Zone trip. I shouldn’t say unsustainably though, because I believe Ben E. King when he assures the listener that it will “last forever.” It can’t and won’t, but ignoring this complication is the point.

The brave Michael “Squints” Palledorous is himself immediately whisked away and unceremoniously dumped on the grass outside of the pool by the very woman with whom he lived his moment. The rest of the retreating kids, amazed and proud of their friend’s dangerous trick, probably aspired to a simpler happiness. Young boys playing baseball in the remembered heaven of summertime in 1960s small-town suburban America might have agreed with the first half of one of the song’s most seminal lyrics: “Everything I want I have.” Just given this portion, it seems like a naïve statement, or even a hardline stoic philosophy—like saying “I am complete”—but Squints wanted, or needed more. His actions mimic the culmination of the line: “Whenever I hold you tight.” Heroically speaking, it was a folly to reach so far and he was punished, albeit lightly. There is no such retribution in “This Magic Moment,” because there is no disgruntled lifeguard, only the silent second half of a lover’s union whose willingness is apparent by the look in her eye. This makes the artist-lover completely content, as he is in many other songs. Even Wendy herself gives Squints a forgiving, and suggestive, smile and wave.

It may be futile to speak of seminal lyrics in this song because the words are wonderful and few, making them all seem equally important. A post, or treatise, could be written about any one. The most physical of the lyrics, “Until I kissed you,” “While your lips are close to mine,” are actually the most pedestrian. Obviously, the song’s glorious message is the paradoxical ephemeral and eternal nature of the moment mentioned. It’s a paradox to which I devote no small amount of time because art in general is obsessed with it, and art itself is the paradox—the creation of something out of nothing with the intention that the something will impossibly outlast the nothing. I’m honestly trying, poorly, to avoid a treatise here. I’m enamored with the concept of the moment being “Like any other / Until I met you.” Meaning, it was unlike any other, but the surprise, the spark and tingle of something, or someone, new, is essential. I turn, for the sake of elegance, to Alain Badiou, and his words from In Praise of Love:

Love always starts with an encounter. And I would give this encounter the quasi-metaphysical status of an event, namely of something that doesn’t enter into the immediate order of things. […] On the basis of this event, love can start and flourish. It is the first, absolutely essential point. This surprise unleashes a process that is basically an experience of getting to know the world.

Given Squints age, somewhere between boyhood and adolescence, it was certainly a crash course in worldliness. This all-important surprise “event” is at the heart of why we are so entranced with romance, in our own lives and in the stories of others. There are two songs I’ve been listening to recently that remind me of this feeling. From Bob Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate”: “She looked at him and he felt a spark / Tingle to his bones; and Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ “Come on Eileen”: “Oh, I swear / At this moment / You mean everything / You in that dress / My thoughts I confess / Which are dirty / Ah, come on Eileen.”

For the sake of these examples elucidating something, instead of simply lyric-dropping well-known phrases, the latter is clearly about longing for a different moment that is explicitly stated in “This Magic Moment”; the appeal at the end is for more than a kiss. However, it’s not a stretch to imagine The Drifters using their moment as a euphemism. With such importance placed on it, and such eternal prowess involved in it, sex may be what the moment is all about. After all, only certain things are “Sweeter than wine / Softer than the summer night.” I don’t mean to sully, in comparison, the innocent intentions of Squints at the pool, but this is the largest disparity I have between the movie and the song. Writing this 20 years after I saw The Sandlot, my idea of magic moments has changed as well, although, it shouldn’t be forgotten, to the one who experiences it, if the feelings are true, whatever it is, all eternal moments are equal to all others.

This raises the question about the objective importance of the moment, however—that is, can there only be one? If it is to be for eternity, it seems likely that this is the case. To return to the opening, whirling barrage of strings, and their subsequent use throughout the song, the listener is hurled into a song that seems to have something of the eternal itself. The moment “Will last forever / Forever till the end of time.” Not only is it overstated, but the way King warbles it sends the song into its most cosmic sequence. The strings come in again like a vortex. The backing singers drone “Magic” like it will never end. The whole things moves as if mimicking some infinite radiowave, peaking and troughing past moons and quasars and galaxies until it will find the Platonic ideal of Wendy Peffercorn herself. Then it will smirk and look up with one devious eye and keep going. Even with the chaos, the song’s structure is so simple, its melody so beautiful that it seems like it could go on and on, in Squints’ own words about another timeless thing, “FOR-EV-ER!” King’s present-tense delivery confirms the feeling.

These are all the reasons I love the song and its connection with The Sandlot, but even that couldn’t make me write for so long about it. This moment, in the end, is one that I’ve had, as hopefully everyone has, and I can’t believe it’s singular. It’s irreplaceable and wonderful, essentially timeless, but more than one timeless thing comes to mind. A song like this celebrates it because it’s so precious, and, hopeful. It doesn’t have the loss of “Unchained Melody”—it’s concrete and youthful—“This Magic Moment” is chained, always, to itself; but it doesn’t end there. Here’s a short caption from the final narration in The Sandlot:

…Squints grew up and married Wendy Peffercorn…

Maybe, sometimes, it does last forever, pushing past rational understanding and an overwrought blog post.

Quick Hit: “The Air That I Breathe”

It’s two months until my birthday, and as I creep into the nether regions of my 20s I find, like many others, that my interest in or attention for or time to give to new music is waning. I don’t think it will ever go away, but if its decline is parallel to my waking up with hangovers (a good thing), my interest in great albums and songs of old is working entirely conversely. I love discovering gems from the past, and I don’t mean hidden ones. With decades of what people still consider the best age of music prior to the time I was born, I have a lot to work with. Today’s discovery was Albert Hammond’s “The Air that I Breathe” and it was arrived at like this.

I heard Adam Carolla and David Wild talking about The Hollies. Since I was stuck in traffic on the 101, I turned from podcast to music to check out exactly what they were talking about. I played “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress),” “He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother” and “The Air That I Breathe.” All of them are great, but it was the last one that had me reeling. Upon investigation, it’s a song written by Albert Hammond and featured, as the last track, on his spectacular It Never Rains in Southern California (1973). I’d listened to this album before because I love the title track for philosophical and geographical reasons. That particular time, however, I may have been under the influence of one or more cocktails and tonight was like hearing it for the first time, but with a pleasantly, and surprisingly ingrained familiarity. It’s a wonderful album. It’s very Cat Stevens and very Beatles, but I rarely hear people complain about those things. There’s not really a miss on the entire record and it’s closed beautifully.

“The Air That I Breathe” is a romantic song in the simplest sense—it’s a song of devotion. The only ego in the entire ballad is the pure satisfaction of the singer being loved by his significant “you.” It begins, “If I could make a wish / I think I’d pass.” It’s immediately a little on the dramatic side, but Hammond is coming from a place of “peace” and immediate reflection—if you know what I mean. He’s satisfied and, at times, when satisfied like that, the whole world is satisfying and it’s all owed to one person. What is there besides the simple biology of living? The chorus, when he gets to it, is big and theatrical to be sure, but no more so than the moment and feeling that it’s celebrating: “All I need is the air that I breathe / And to love you.” I rarely write on songs that are fun to listen to when washing the car or waiting for laundry. This song will mean more than that to anyone that cares to listen—it has to. It’s about love, but what kind is up to the listener. Whatever the “you” is—you love it—and if that’s true, all you need otherwise is air to breathe.

Concert Review: Built to Spill

Sunday, April 28^th @ Slim’s in San Francisco, California

When Doug Martsch and crew played a packed Slim’s on Sunday night, it was the second time I’d seen Built to Spill. The first was at SOMA in San Diego on July 10^th, 2005. I had just finished my freshman year at college and a classmate from Orange County drove down to join a high school buddy and me. We saw Built to Spill and, to this day, it remains the only concert I’ve seen (at night, indoors) that featured a frontman in shorts. Afterward we drove north to the suburbs to a party where I ran into the girl from the burrito shop that had a crush on me. We drank rum in a fort atop a playground, slide adjacent. We went home to my house where I explained the concept of peloton to my college friend over veggie dogs. Finally, we lay down on the asphalt of my driveway for some star-gazing. The point of this fairly conceited story is to set a tone Built to Spill will admit to creating. Theirs is music for muted suburban outlaws, for kids wearing plaid who realize being frustrated by living in the town they live in isn’t as good as being mystified at all times—life. I was the Randy of the peloton that night, describing the universe of cycling to a joyous audience. I could have reached out from my driveway and swiped a feather at whatever metal sphere came near me.

With that out of the way, I believe I was talking about a recent event I witnessed as a slightly more legitimate adult. Martsch looked the same as ever, bulging slightly out of his t-shirt and having to mop his face and head after every song with a towel. He came across as honestly grateful the whole set—a simple “Thanks” after every song goes a long way. They started the show with “Goin’ Against Your Mind” and didn’t turn back from fan favorites. If there was a disappointment, it was the absence of songs from There Is No Enemy. Even though this most recent album is four years old, I still claim to love their “new album.” The best moments came during “Made Up Dreams,” when the majority of the audience sang along, “In the Morning,” which sung live gives its desperate feeling more of it and “Carry the Zero,” that has an energy that could never be a let-down. The latter song was the end of their initial set. Sorry for that brevity, but I’ve never been good at play-by-play accounts of concerts and the expensive beers don’t help with my recollection. Besides, isn’t a concert, and music and art, more about feel than facts?  Thankfully, as a means of extension, someone on setlist.fm came up with this nearly-clinical description about the end of the encore:

“Note: For the last song, BTS jammed for about 10 minutes before members from the first 3 bands, Junior Rocket Scientists, Slam Dunk and Ugly Winner joined them in a crazy jam fest. Doug and other musicians were in the crowd on top of podiums in the audience playing guitar. At one point, a photographer was playing cowbell and random members of the crowd were on stage playing the band’s instruments. This lasted about 35 minutes.”

These are the songs they played upon their return to the stage: “Heart (Things Never Shared)” (solo Doug Martsch), “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” (Blue Öyster Cult), “Joyride,” and “How Soon Is Now” (The Smiths). Weird, right? Not that there were 10 parentheses in that sentence, or that Built to Spill ended with a jam session, but that they only played one Built to Spill song and the cover songs were apparently picked randomly from a sticky karaoke binder. It was jovial and very fun, though, and before I reveal the climactic scene of the night, this brief aside.

(Their song choices that night brought to my attention that Built to Spill started out as a pop-punk band. I, being in middle school at the turn of the millennium, was immersed in this world like many of my peers. I still listen to Dude Ranch a lot. A lot of close friends still listen to a lot more of their favorites then, and have even branched out in the genre while keeping their credibility in my eyes. Now, Built to Spill aren’t a pop punk band—they’re a band that defines intelligent indie-rock of old. They’re not the only band to make such a transition, but they’re the best by a million miles. Maybe it’s that somehow, ten years before me at every turn, Doug Martsch was matching my musical evolution by evolving as a songwriter every step of the way. I don’t know how he did it, but this thought remains: it says a lot for pop-punk. Whatever you think of the genre and the time when it was king, it’s simultaneously a platform for greater things and a palace of earnest noise itself.)

When Martsch was on said podium playing in the crowd, someone handed him an empty wine glass toward the end of the post-Smiths-cover jam. He used it so make some messy noise on the guitar as a sign that the show was winding down, though it only got louder. He came down from his perch and the crowd parted to let him through like two half-drunken upright walls of indie-rock sea of which I was a rigid swell. It wasn’t Moses leading anyone out of slavery, it was a hero of mine passing by briskly, backlit from the glow of the street through the open doors of the entrance. When this fantastical image left me, Martsch actually walked past and looked at me briefly with a closed-lipped expression that seemed to convey an appreciation for my admiration which, with a handful of his sweaty shoulder, I verbally delivered as, “Alright, Doug.” The comma is important, as it always is. I didn’t cheer at him like I was watching a little league game. I said it like I was a British soccer manager congratulating a midfielder on a substitution after a solid 73-minute performance. But Martsch has done much more than 73 minutes, and my “Alright” meant an appreciation for it all—“Alright, Doug, I won’t say all the things I have to say and ask you to have a beer after the show like I want to; I’ll let this inappropriate word to do it for me.” Everyone reacts differently to a personal interaction with an artist that is very important to them, but everyone, however they show it or hide it or internalize it, is overwhelmed for a few brief moments. I went alone to that show on Sunday, and I was glad for it.

Quick Hit: Stevie Nicks, “Wild Heart” video

The Queen of Chorus

I’ve never tried to apply makeup to anyone, definitely including myself. However, if I was trying to, this experience with Stevie Nicks would be my worst nightmare. In this video, apparently preparing for a Rolling Stone photo shoot, Nicks is taken away by the music to her song “Wild Heart.” It’s the first track on her second solo album, The Wild Heart (1983). A lot of uncomfortable eye contact ensues with the poor makeup lady, as Nicks sings the song with some help on harmonies.

The good thing for this particular cosmetic artiste: she witnessed the best backstage, makeup application bootleg of all-time. I know there is a long list of such songs, but this has to be at the top. Nicks sounds incredible and the song is fantastic. It’s been on repeat in my apartment for the past few days, and shimmying around my head when I leave. The way her voice fills the room on an 80s video camera microphone is ridiculous. Her effortlessness is apparent as she’s sitting the whole time, singing at the makeup girl like she’s having a conversation. It feels like it’s in person, like it’s the coolest moment of the coolest Laurel Canyon party I never went to in 1982.

The bad thing for everyone else: it’s a million miles from the studio version of the song, which is an undeniably lesser creation. Part of the issue here is that the video is essentially Stevie showing off her pipes, which contributes a large part to the awesomeness of the “song.” The rest of the issue is that the “Wild Heart” represented here is either an extremely early sketch of the realized song, or a stripped down version apparently made for this kind of repetitive vocal performance. It got me thinking of all the songs that I’ve ever criticized for basically being puppets for an overachieving chorus; that is, the verses suck. There are too many to name, but if I had a dime for every four minutes of garbage I slogged through just to hear two good choruses, I’d be slightly richer than I am now. The defense for these songs, of course, is that music is like life and you need to have balance and a steady pace; all chorus, all the time is too much. But is it? The performance of “Wild Heart” in this video makes me wonder.

My Top 10 Albums of 2012

Internal dialogue:

“I just made it under the wire, so—”

“The deadline was the start of 2013.”

“Yeah, but it’s only—”

“It’s almost March. These are the top albums of 2012.”

“What?”

“It’s almost March, 2013.”

“Well, here it goes I guess. Sometimes I have to persevere in spite of you”:

10) The Walkmen—Heaven: Since I’m often attributing thoughts to friends and others on this blog, what better way to start 2013? Someone said to me about Heaven, “The Walkmen are doing something different, and I like it.” To the casual ear, it’s not much different; Hamilton Leithauser’s belting vocals are as overwhelming as always. But the music is less loud and the pace is slowed. I’m constantly comparing The Walkmen to The National, not in sound, but in career archs. Both are now elder statesmen of indie rock and they seem to embrace the role. The material of the lyrics hasn’t changed—it’s still full of angst and, in both cases, overtly disdainful of adulthood. The Walkmen do concede age in the most graceful of ways, singing “All the kids are laughing / I’m laughing too,” and “Patience will keep you alive.” In general, everything is more refined and relaxed, which is atypical of The Walkmen, especially when considering their first two albums. Plus, “Song for Leigh” is a peach.

***

9) Dwight Yoakam—3 Pears: A contemporary country guy over that band I saw very drunk after staying at Pizza Port for too long!? It’s true, Dwight has claimed the number nine spot. Maybe it’s the novelty of the album for me, but I couldn’t help it. Dwight Yoakam almost singlehandedly makes country relevant again. He’s a modern cousin of the Bakersfield Sound and, though the relatives would cringe at this, he’s more sensitive and well-produced in a good way. 3 Pears has the bright punch of good country and the dark taste of great music: “But even when it’s better / It’s never alright.” The best song of the album, and probably the year, is not dark…maybe. “3 Pears” is a pun given that the first line of the song is “3 pears of glasses;” however, what the hell is he talking about? Without getting too deep into it, and with a recommendation to listen to the song and decide for yourself, my best guess is that this song is a humorous and superstitious homage to an eclipse.

***

8) Wild Nothing—Nocturne: Besides the many that I will mention as such, there was perhaps no better song than “Nocturne” in 2012. The juvenile echo in the guitars mimic the hopelessly romantic theme of the song: “You can have me.” Nocturne is the same; it sounds like 14-year-olds have grown up, but are still pining after whatever and whoever they were pining after back then. Sometimes, we’re all the same. I’m not sure what to call this ubiquitous genre of our day: Shoegarage? Garagegaze? In any case, the album isn’t only fun, it’s thought provoking. Like a good novel, Nocturne is one piece of a larger puzzle, but it seems like it contains it all.

***

7) Mac Demarco—2: This is music for the mind on vacation, and I like vacation. Like most, I didn’t know anything about Mac Demarco until I was turned onto his two albums this year by a friend. When I put on “Cooking Up Something Good,” I wasn’t sure if I’d stumbled upon a warped, unreleased Bradley Nowell outtake. I was intrigued by the laid back filial, micro-geographical lyrics of the first few lines: “Mommy’s in the kitchen, cooking up something good /
And daddy’s on the sofa, pride of the neighborhood / My brother’s in the ballet, it seems he’s got it set.” They are reminiscent of Dylan’s “Tombstone Blues” or Cheap Trick’s “Surrender.” Maybe we have a new genre on our hands. The standout track is the dreamy “Ode to Viceroy” and “Together” is honesty at its flightiest.

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6) Bob Dylan—Tempest: The Titanic didn’t go down because of a typhoon, but the hail and turbulence of life is always preferred to drowning in the freezing ocean. I won’t defend this pick on the basis of bias for a legend. I’m not the one who snubbed Scorsese for Raging Bull. Given the chance, I would have put Blonde on Blonde at least #9 on my 1966 list. Tempest is fun and soulful and sad; it’s the voice of a man reflecting on the storm because he’s found shelter. Admittedly, I thought the old man had gone soft after listening to the first few bars of “Duquesne Whistle,” but it turns out it’s as delightful as the wistful romantic disaster in the video. I’ve already written about “Long and Wasted Years,” but its greatness always deserves mention. Furthermore, Dylan might have outdone James Cameron (I’m not sure whose depiction of Leo is best) in describing the sadness of the Titanic’s sinking in “Tempest.” Also great and sad is “Roll on John,” Dylan’s musically accurate tribute to John Lennon. I should mention that The Tempest was Shakespeare’s last play…

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5) Leonard Cohen—Old Ideas: I’ll refer you here. I love Leonard.

 

 

 

 

 

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4) Beach House—Bloom: The most astute thing anyone ever said to me about Beach House is that if they make another album that sounds like the rest of their albums, it’s going to be one too many. It’s true because they said it after this one came out. Many would argue that it’s already too much, but I disagree. On Bloom, the sound is as nuanced as ever and the vocal melodies are that much more developed. “On the Sea” is not a musical revelation, but the melody meanders in such a way that if finds that singular place in the mind for such astral-marine summonings. The end of “Myth” is likewise enchanting with its quiet urgency. There are limitations in creating music that can only conjure one mood. For Beach House, Bloom is that beautiful limit.

***

3) Father John Misty—Fear Fun: J. Tillman is all grown up. With plenty of spiritual namedropping, he’s now Father John Misty. Maybe it’s my love of Los Angeles or my greater love of baseball references in music, maybe it’s my long lost love of Devendra Banhart or my own journey to imitate him as an eighteen-year-old songwriter, but this album does it for me. Its one knock: it’s boring. It is at times because of the unvaried instrumentation, but the sheer personality of it and the inventive aura make it well worthwhile. “Only Son of the Ladiesman” is brilliant; “Everyman Needs a Companion” is the smartest song of the year. If you were looking to pray at a musical alter in 2012, Father John Misty’s is second only, perhaps, to Leonard Cohen’s.

***

2) Fiona Apple—The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do: Fiona Apple has been regarded as the missing link between mainstream pop and indie music. I don’t care much about evolution when I hear “Werewolf,” but maybe I should because its lyrics are so concerned with the smallness and history of all things—including choppy careers and failed relationships. I’m inclined not to write too much, as the album’s title did most of the work for me in this paragraph. Plus, I already wrote about “Every Single Night” when it came out as a single. Apple harnesses the rogue melodic philosophy of Joni Mitchell, and she makes it seem cooler. The Idler Wheel is a way more urban version of Blue, an album that was never approached in vision in 2012.

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1) Dirty Projectors—Swing Lo Magellan: The impregnable question, for me, was never if this was the best album of the year, but how it would be regarded in five or ten or twenty years. That may be overstating it, especially because I was never the most serious Dirty Projectors fan. However, when you compile the great moments from this album, of which there are at least one on every song, the question remains. This is, above all else, a rock album. Its energy, speed and dedication to constant entertainment are unrivaled this past year. Dirty Projectors are often victims of hatred because of the rambling, warbling nature of David Longstreth’s vocal tendencies. He might not have the pipes of Freddie Mercury, but the insistence and phrasing are there—see “Offspring Are Blank.” Speaking of songs, “Impregnable Question” is surely the worst named love song and still the best one this year; “Irresponsible Tune” is a marvelous introspection. Swing Lo Magellan makes you feel its proximity, like the old Portuguese’s cracked wooden hull might even be too low.

***

Other good ones:

Neil Young & Crazy Horse—Psychedelic Pill

Mount Eerie—Clear Moon

Merchandise—Children of Desire

Spiritualized—Sweet Heart Sweet Light

Titus Andronicus—Local Business

DIIV—Oshin

Japandroids—Celebration Rock

Cat Power—Sun

Concert Review: Leonard Cohen

The real LC

Wednesday, November 7^th @ HP Pavilion in SanJose, California.

After Leonard Cohen had finished playing for three and a half hours, a friend I was with said, “He’s a spiritual man.” It was his brief and final declaration of what he had experienced. At the time I agreed because I myself was in some spiritual state between exhilarated and exhausted, and Cohen had put me there. But I would have agreed that he was a spiritual man before the concert, I just wouldn’t have known how much. I wouldn’t have known that his spirituality is inseparable from his personality, his sexuality, his humor; I wouldn’t have known how it all spills out at once from a 78-year old man in a fedora kneeling on the floor.

Even so, maybe personal is a better word to describe the evening in its entirety. Cohen is truly a showman of old, a poet with a “golden voice.” No one has ever said to me before—such was the level of intimacy in that gigantic arena—that the happiest day of their life was the end of World War II. I did some quick math and it checked out—ten year old Cohen, the rubble of Berlin, my newborn father, two atomic bombs, me in San Jose 67 years later. It was as if Cohen came out of a history book himself to read a dark, folky gospel on the next page, written by him.

He sang “Bird on a Wire” early, well before the intermission. It was the song I most wanted to hear and the first to get a resounding round of applause. It transported me to the lamp-lit room where I first heard the song, where “I tried in my way” was first and always true, for me. It also took the whole arena, every member of the audience, back to Cohen’s heyday. When the ever-changing light was right, or when his eyes were closed as they usually were, I could see the Cohen of old that I never knew. He was the man behind the microphone in some smoky club in New York in the 1960s, muttering the song-poems from his first two albums; he was the man on stage in some 1970s club with the dirty charm that exploded, as candidly as possible, off of the cover of Death of a Ladies Man, screaming for the blondest girl.

Apparently, however, his aversion to the Spector-produced record is still strong as none of the songs from that phenomenal album made it on the set list. The performance was dominated by 80s tunes—Various Positions and I’m Your Man were focused on heavily. The songs throughout the night were astonishingly true to their original versions, the only change being that they were presented more personally, as little gifts to the audience. The primarily aging crowd, and I, left with our pockets stuffed with bits of wisdom and melody—it was a concert for us. There was no bombastic, “Goodnight, New York!” shout at its conclusion, but a heartfelt, “Thank you, San Jose.”

The consensus greatest moment of the concert was the singing of “Hallelujah.” It might be overexposed and there might be better versions of it, but when it began it was the only song that existed, written and sung by the thousands of people that had penned its words. The religiosity of the song has always amazed me and it is certainly its most defining characteristic. The inclusion of the story of David and Bathsheba explains the song: an immoral tale expressed in the most chaste of languages. The same was of the performance that night. As giant lights lit up the audience to queue their cry of “Hallelujah,” I couldn’t help but think, the day after the presidential election, of the changing course of America. All of the patrons in the arena that night seemed to know and agree that secularism is no longer an alternative, or even a viable term, it just is. Cohen’s music, poetry and statements were at home in what he’d turned into a cathedral for intellectuals, a place where wit and whimsy met sadness and truth and formed a reverence of a whole other kind, an invisible thing replaced by something else unseeably new—Godlessly special. I don’t think Cohen would appreciate the phrase, though. The Buddhist in him would gently reprimand me in verse.

After his humble thanks and an encore capped with the incomparable “First We Take Manhattan,” he doled out a brief blessing to the audience and their families, or, as he conceded, to them in their solitude if that was the case. It, too, was unlike anything I’ve encountered at a music venue elsewhere. Each member of the audience had been sprinkled with whatever that “bastard in a suit” had to ordain. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had disappeared right then like the smoke that was curling up behind him the entire show, his musicians musing at the trick they’d seen a thousand times; but he didn’t. He raised his crushed fedora one last time and skipped off stage.

Doing it in Dublin:

Quick Hit: “Coconut”

Looks like he needs the lime in the coconut

After much prodding by a few informed, if pushy friends, I sat down and listened to Harry Nilsson’s Nilsson Schmilsson (1971) and I’m very glad I did. I have one question, though: why is “Coconut” the song I know from the album? Because it rose to #8 on the charts? Yes. Because it’s really silly? Even more. While listening I was immediately drawn more strongly to “Gotta Get Up,” one of the best songs I’ve heard about getting older (read: having responsibilities), “The Moonbeam Song,” a beautiful tune about dealing with the outside world inside your own head and “Without You,” which is so powerful and personal when compared to the original because of the (somehow) even more lonely charm Nilsson brings to it. These songs are better, right?

It’s a funny old thing, songs like “Coconut.” They’re really a challenge to the evangelical fan, above all. I’ve had the experience of trying to get people to listen to Warren Zevon and, like a desperate salesman, I eventually always end my pitch by saying, “He was the guy who wrote ‘Werewolves of London.’” It must be the same for Nilsson fans. The thing is, I love “Werewolves of London.” I’m not trying to be a spoilsport for a little bit of fun, these types of songs are just interesting because they’re so well-known so far out of their context. I guess it’s a matter of time, because of how impressed I was with the rest of the album, that I capitulate and start putting my own lime in the coconut and drinking ’em bot’ up. See, maybe I’m beginning to already.

Quick Hit: “Long and Wasted Years”

Not, “The Tempest,” though both have a shipwreck

I’d be wrong if I said that “Long and Wasted Years” is my favorite song from Bob Dylan’s new album Tempest (2012) for any other reason than it being the most Dylan-y song on the album. Tempest probably has better songs on it (“Soon After Midnight,” “Pay in Blood,” “Roll on John”), but this one is the closest to ’70s era Dylan that I love so much. I know enough about his current sound that I don’t hold my breath waiting for the next “Isis” to come blowing through my speakers. That’s why this song caught me so much by surprise. The exclusively Dylan vocal intonations—long-winded for emotions’ sake or cut short for coyness’—are present on “Long and Wasted Years,” as much as they can be when his throat is lined with seventy-one years of gravel. He seems to care enough in, and about this song to put a little spin on the blues formula he’s adopted. Furthermore, the beginning of it, before it gets really plushy like all of his others, sounds a bit like the noodling guitars I might hear on Rolling Thunder Revue cuts. I say plushy not in an entirely bad way, the guitar playing on this track is probably some of the most interesting in recent memory. It’s simple, but integral. It’s odd to hear, this late in Dylan’s career, the acoustic and electric sounds so intentionally separate, and we all know how sensitive Dylan fans are to the discrepancy.

I have to go back to his voice though, to do my thoughts justice. There’s an urgency I haven’t heard for a while on this song, and this entire record. Together Through Life (2009), for its few gems, felt like it came from a lazy king on his throne, like the implied couple in the title wasn’t Dylan and some woman, but him and his fans who will agree with anything at this point. “Long and Wasted Years,” in particular, is more like a sensation than a song. Of course, no melody or vocal performance can do itself justice without the lyrics to support it. The song is a character tale and it doesn’t fail to attract empathy. Who can disagree that this line captures simply and beautifully the impermanence of too many, too-short loves: “One time / For one brief day / I was the man for you.” This may be one of those times when me describing what I’m feeling doesn’t do the feeling justice, but how can I ever hope to approach the feeling of this song?

Four Strong Comparisons

A weak comparison beard

The title of this post is less an indication of my rhetorical confidence, and more a weak reference to the excellent Neil Young song “Four Strong Winds.” The song is a Canadian folk song, not written by Young, but it still exemplifies a lot of his truest characteristics. Most of all, it gets me to my point: doesn’t it sound a lot like Built to Spill; or rather, doesn’t Built to Spill sound like it? The former question is maybe more apt though, if chronologically inaccurate. Since making this sudden connection in my head, I haven’t felt like Built to Spill is a new incarnation of Young, I’ve just noticed that the songwriters, Neil Young and Doug Martsch, do a lot of the same things from record to record. The comparison has been aptly noted elsewhere, nowhere less than by Martsch himself, but allow me to add to the discussion. For experiment’s sake, “Four Strong Winds” is perhaps best compared to the Built to Spill song “The Weather,” not least because of the meteorological leanings of the titles. With those two in mind, here are my findings corralled neatly into four mediocre thoughts:

1. Neil Young’s most defining feature is his voice; Doug Martsch’s is probably his voice as well. Young sings in a much higher pitch, but maintains a seemingly soft tone. Martsch is lower and more aggressive, but when comparing them to most male singers, they both very intentionally climb the scale towards a point which can only be described as painful. But they only approach it. In practice, their voices soar atop their music, each careful phrase searching for something in the wrath below.

2. And search they do, with the help of precise, intelligent lyrics that contain the ultra-realistic blend of the philosophical and the emotional. They can both be direct, but favor metaphor. They’re both capable of humor, but only deploy it in the midst of melancholy. Young and Martsch have a way of wrapping the giant and the celestial around the smallest kernel of personal doubt. It makes me want to say to them: “As long as I’m listening to you, lyrics about the weather will do.”

3. They’re both extremely talented guitarists who can really bend out some barn-burning solos. This being said, they have more in common with each other, as opposed to other guitarist-frontmen, in that they choose more often than not to restrict their guitar playing to only the role that suits the song as a whole; that is, they’re not guitar-for-guitar’s-sake kind of writers or players. This is most arguable in Martsch’s case, but he layers more than he covers when it comes to guitar tracks.

4. This is where it really gets good. Both “Four Strong Winds” and “The Weather” are the last tracks on ten-song albums. I’m not exactly claiming there’s some actual cosmic, spatial or temporal connection between the two songs. I am mentioning, though, that Young and Martsch both agreed, separately of course, that these are the kinds of songs, the kinds of feels, that should end records of the types and lengths they respectively created. Martsch named his album in question Ancient Melodies of the Future. Any chance that “ancient” means October of ’78 when Comes a Time came out? Probably not.