i'm a thief and i dig it! i'm on a beef, i'm gonna rig it! i'm a thief and i dig it!

73.





the band
the band [capitol, 1969]

in apposite response to the wayward discord and unchecked chaos of the 'Nam era, maple-slurpin' Canadian Robbie Robertson and his Band of merry musicians scour America's past for inspiration, seeking the source of the turbulence; the origin of the discontent; the genesis of a musical heritage that stretches back to the mountains and the fields, parlors and playhouses; the roots. this is a Bande à part backstroking against mainstream currents, a group of self-aware hipsters shucking off flower-power head-trips for headlong excursions into the dark recesses of history; this self-titled record captures them at the pinnacle of their prowess. "across the great divide" is a woozy, boozy morning-after lover's lament fueled by Levon Helm's street-corner stomp, while Rick Danko's hell-raising fiddle on "rag mama rag" threatens to set the hay on fire during a barn dance. Garth Hudson's lantern-in-the-distance Clara Barton organ hovers over the opium-addled narrator on "when you awake," while Richard Manuel's barrelhouse piano gets kicked out of the saloon on "look out cleveland." with Manuel's distraught quiver and downcast, brokenhearted lyrics, "whispering pines" is the record's emotional zenith, branching out from the rollicking, drunken ruckus of "up on cripple creek," on which Hudson's Clavinette filters through a wah-pedal for that funky bayou croak later copped by Stevie Wonder. though the old folks' home creak of "rockin' chair" comes across as patronizing, the Band's obsession with the arcane is justified by the Dust Bowl fury of "king harvest (has surely come)" and the mournful Confederate elegy of "the night they drove old dixie down," which may be the fullest realization of their sepia-toned modus operandi. with shrugged-off, nonchalant virtuosity and expertly-forged, timeless songs that would make Stephen Foster blush, The Band excavates the ghosts of the past to critique the present, setting a precedent for the disillusioned and disaffected to, for better or worse, look backwards instead of treading forwards.

you talkin' to me? moment: The Last Waltz is known as the best concert film ever for many reasons - Martin Scorsese's direction [and by extension, Thelma Schoonmaker's incomparable editing], a groggy, elusive Dylan, Neil Young with blow stuck in his nostrils - but, i was impressed by just how badass the dudes in the Band dressed and acted. they were unflappable musicians, but they knew how to rock a fedora and three-piece.

i've seen your drugs and they don't look so good, suck the jaws like i wish you would

74.





you forgot it in people
broken social scene [arts & crafts / paper bag, 2002]

stylistic synthesis and grab bag eclecticism run rampant through the bushy fields of aughties indie-rock, as does the musical entity known as the "collective," an amorphous, ever-shifting conglomerate of like-minded musicians. Broken Social Scene co-founders and permanent members Kevin Drew and Brenden Canning aren't savants or savages; they're alchemists, turning the unprocessed ore of impromptu jam sessions with whoever happens to be in the studio into glittering pop gold. You Forgot It in People zigzags like an intestinal tract; it's a prodigiously diverse record with unexpected aesthetic detours down unexplored avenues. the spasmodic, herky-jerky pyrotechnics of "almost crimes" crash into the heavy-lidded hash brownie daydream of "looks just like the sun" which melts into the sun-kissed bossa nova of "pacific theme." the album is full of dazzling flourishes - the "tighten up" handclaps on "stars and sons" or Emily Haines' unsettling, broken robot vocals on "anthems for a seventeen year-old girl" - that elevate the songs above the humdrum monotony of guitar-based indie. "cause = time" may be the record's most reductive track, but it's also the most rousing - a shout-along, anti-media, anti-clerical anthem with glass smashing agent provocateur guitar freak-outs. "lover's spit" is a grandstanding, weepy Bryan Adams ballad filtered through poised detachment and winking irony, while the drum brushes and fragile guitar picking on "i'm still your fag" and the aching strings on ambient closer "pitter patter goes my heart" conclude the jamboree on a somber, quiet tone. by allowing contributions from a wide variety of individuals, You Forgot It in People achieves a sort of scattershot, paradoxical transcendence; it's sweepingly grandiose yet serenely tranquil, messily chaotic yet surprisingly cohesive, a celebration of the power of camaraderie and collaboration.

stephen dreams of pavement (another day) moment: Broken Social Scene's set at Lollapalooza in 2006 may just be the best concert i've ever witnessed. the crowd was relatively small, but completely engrossed. the band, then around ten members, was energetic and fun. and, because many of the other bands in the BSS periphery were also playing the festival, most of the guest vocalists - Feist, Emily Haines, etc. - appeared on stage. they played again in 2008, but it just wasn't the same.

do ya feel it when ya touch me? do ya feel it when ya TOUCH me?

75.





fun house
the stooges [elektra, 1970]

lock up your daughters, stash away the drugs, and pour out the booze, Iggy Pop né Stooge né James Osterberg is out of his mind on a Saturday night. he's the unhinged, wild id; a spewing, blood-spurting hot mess; the puck-like prophet of punk; an unruly lunatic throwing punches and pissing his pants in the backseat of a cop car. the Stooges outstripped, outshone, and upstaged every ragged group of no-gooders and long-hairs bangin' on three chords in garages and dimly lit bars across the country; Fun House is evidence of their dominance, a whirling dust devil of sound and fury. the blazing heat from Ron Asheton's ferocious electric storm guitar could melt glaciers, while Dave Alexander and Scott Asheton pulverize the rhythm into a bloody pulp. then, of course, there's Iggy, the preacher from Hell espousing the sins of flesh, wailing above the clangor, fighting to be heard. the clanging stomp of "down in the street" scrounges the gutter for dropped change and revels in the depravity of the puke-stained pavement, while Iggy growls and Ron's guitar howls on the gigolo blues meltdown of "loose." "tv eye" is stalker-dodging, alley-hopping amphetamine paranoia, while the "troglodyte groove" of slow-burning monster "dirt" hypnotizes its prey before pouncing at the jugular. Steve Mackay's bleating, lecherous saxophone bulldozes into the mix during the eviscerating finale of "1970" and refuses to leave the party during the shit-faced stomp of the title track. the revelry concludes with "l.a. blues," a formless cacophony of noise and indignation. primal, urgent, and savage, Fun House eschews the fat, the padding, and the bullshit, targets the viscera and exposes the bleeding, palpitating core of what made rock n' roll so fucking subversive in the first place - threatening, sexual raw power.


street walkin' cheetah with a heart full of napalm moment: not to detract from its glory, but fun house is really the best Stooges record by default. their self-titled debut has a few incendiary tracks, but is littered with throwaways and the plodding dirge of "we will fall." the otherwise incredible raw power is plagued by production quality issues: the original Bowie mix is muddy and dull and Pop own 1997 remaster is just too fucking loud and clipped. if a decent-sounding mix was ever released, it would fight with fun house for the prime spot.

RECAP + totally RAD mix

i'm one fourths complete with the list! this is the farthest i've gotten on any such endeavor.

recap of 100 through 76:

100. endtroducing... [dj shadow, 1996]
099. parallel lines [blondie, 1978]
098. millions now living will never die [tortoise, 1996]
097. getz / gilberto [stan getz & joão gilberto, 1964]
096. untrue [burial, 2007]
095. q: are we not men? a: we are devo! [devo, 1978]
094. blood & chocolate [elvis costello & the attractions, 1986]
093. chelsea girl [nico, 1967]
092. goat [the jesus lizard, 1991]
091. ys [[joanna newsom, 2006]
090. cosmo's factory [creedence clearwater revival, 1970]
089. pretenders [the pretenders, 1980]
088. zombie [fela kuti & afrika '70, 1977]
087. paid in full [eric b. & rakim, 1987]
086. aja [steely dan, 1977]
085. untitled (led zeppelin IV, zoso) [led zeppelin, 1971]
084. dazzle ships [orchestral manoeuvres in the dark, 1983]
083. sweetheart of the rodeo [the byrds, 1968]
082. ramones [the ramones, 1976]
081. astral weeks [van morrison, 1968]
080. ready to die [the notorious b.i.g., 1994]
079. music has the right to children [boards of canada, 1998]
078. third [portishead, 2008]
077. disintegration [the cure, 1989]
076. maggot brain [funkadelic, 1971]

breakdown by decade:

60s: 4
70s: 8
80s: 5
90s: 5
00s: 3

there is currently a five-way tie between 1968, 1971, 1977, 1978, and 1996 for most represented year with two albums each.

and, to commemorate the occasion, a totally awesome mix, with a track from each album. i tried to avoid the big hits and well-known songs for the sake of variety.

TOTALLY RAD MIX!!!!

check it out!

more power to the people! more pussy to the power! more pussy to the people! more power to the pussy!

76.





maggot brain
funkadelic [westbound, 1971]

with an acid-fried gleam in his eye and a tie-died pot, peace, and pussy manifesto, George Clinton has based a long, wild career on his bizarreness; he's pop's manic poet-shaman, a mystic starchild, reveling in earthly good times with his head in outer space. as leader of the Parliament/Funkadelic collective, he solidified the foundation of funk and blasted it off into the stratosphere, brought the grit, the dirt, the piss, and the vinegar to spotless sheen of disco, and on Maggot Brain injected an intravenous drip of soul into hard rock's clogged bloodstream. Hendrix may have rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible the year before this record was released, but Eddie Hazel proves that the electric guitar wasn't buried with him in a rapturous ten-minute solo on the title track. the origin myth dictates that Clinton told him to "play like [his] momma just died." the result is incendiary: a multi-dimensional pilgrimage through the incomprehensibly vast sprawl of space and the cruel tragedies of time. using a wah pedal and echo effects, Hazel makes the instrument scream, cry, laugh, and sigh like it never has before or since. "can you get to that" is a boot-stomping folk-soul campfire shout-along, while "hit it and quit it" and "you and your folks, me and my folks" are massive funk juggernauts fueled by a subatomic organ and flanged interstellar drums, respectively. the botched drug deal parable "super stupid" takes the Black out the Sabbath and transforms it into a bacchanal celebration, while the raucous party on "wars of armageddon" persists until daylight breaks and beyond. the cover artwork on Maggot Brain encapsulates the tone of the record: ostensibly ecstatic and celebratory, yet rooted in muck; embracing decadence and excess to rise above and not drown in its own shit.

won't you come see me? moment: "can you get to that" is one of the many songs my girlfriend has declared as her "favorite of all time." i've been trying to get her to make a top 10/20/50/100 songs list for a long time and she promises that she will someday, though i doubt that. maybe my obsessive habits will rub off?

crying for sympathy, crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd, and three cheers from everyone

77.





dis-
integration
the cure [fiction, 1989]

though he may despise and disdain the term, Robert Smith, with his pot kettle black eyeliner, moussed, tousled hair and dour almost-dopey mopiness, will always be the archetypal goth, the poster boy for bedroom gloom and overwrought, affected misery. the Cure was far from a one-trick pony with a limp, but ANGST and DEPRESSION are stamped repeatedly on the forehead of Disintegration, the crowning achievement of Smith's career. his moody contemplation and inner turmoil goes Technicolor Cinemascope on this record; the guitars, flanged and phased beyond recognition, chime and soar, the vocals and drums reverberate through the cavernous bunker of the production, while layers of synthesized strings and weeping keyboards supplement the texture. these songs are sweeping and tenaciously grandiose - stadium-sized music for sun shy shut-ins and poetry scribblers. opener "plainsong" announces the record's sound, with Smith's voice echoing desperately across the freezing Wuthering Heights moor, while the "shimmering" [definitely among the most overused words in pop criticism] bells on "pictures of you" underpin the longing of the tea-soaked madeleine cake lyrics. the straightforward, sullenly heartfelt "lovesong" is the most accessible track, while "lullaby" is the sexiest, with a near-funky stop-start rhythm, punctured guitar jabs and whispered vocals. the desolate essence of the album can found within the watery twins "prayer for rain" and "the same deep water as you:" plodding, winding requiems of remorse and reprehension. though it nearly runs out of momentum by the time the wistful pump-organ of the untitled final track materializes in the haze, Disintegration is an elegy to loneliness, a bombastic display of histrionic pomp and the uncontrollable circumstance of just feeling sad, a true fucking epic blurred by flowing tears.

i felt like i could die/it made me want to cry moment: as much as i love this record's scope, tone, sense of space, and quintessentially 80s production, i can't help but mention that i think that Smith is kind of a trite lyricist, darkening the "moon/June/spoon" tradition of simple rhyming with "eye/cry/die." as far as "mope-rock" [i hate that term] icons, he lacks the wit and self-deprecation of Morrissey and the sinister morbidity of Ian Curtis. maybe that's why i could never wholeheartedly embrace the Cure and also why they were much more popular than the Smiths or Joy Division - Smith's lyrics are broad enough to appeal to the masses.

i struggle with myself, hoping i might change a little, hoping i that i might be someone i want to be

78.





third
portishead [island, 2008]

this record is an abomination against the invisible hand of musical evolution; like a two-headed calf, a blobfish, or Andrew WK, the forces of nature dictate that it shouldn't exist. Portishead was driven to extinction by the changing cultural tides, another case of a group defined by and constricted within the context of their time - the mid '90s - and sound - "trip-hop." yet, like a lazarus taxon, on Third they rise from the ashes of obscurity with a record that captures the numbing dread and stultifying uncertainty of twenty-first century existence. Beth Gibbons is a harbinger of doom, an angel of annihilation, a priestess of post-modern anxiety; her reluctant, wounded wail radiates anguish and defeat. she quavers with trepidation on the throbbing "nylon smile," wrestles with desire on the swirling arabesque "magic doors," and confronts her debilitating self-doubt on the cathartic dirge "threads." the apocalyptic, ominous production by multi-instrumentalists Geoff Barrow and Adrian Utley complement Gibbons' laments of despair with battering ram PiL guitar abrasions on "silence," whirring Silver Apple oscillations on "we carry on" and Battle of the Bulge percussive earfuckery on the minimalist "machine gun." Gibbons finds temporary redemption in fanciful equine-derived escapism over the purring pulse of "the rip," the album's emotional focal point. Third is a disheartening, depressing, and yes, slightly melodramatic record, yet its timelessly timely lyrical concerns, the unassailable production, and Gibbons' piercing yowl dispel the foul odor left by the concept of the "comeback" and demonstrate how to gracefully embrace a new aesthetic without sounding like a hack or a has-been.

i love the aughties/statistics moment: Third is the most recently released record on the list and the only one from 2008, which was among the worst years for music this decade. fifteen of the hundred albums on this list were released in the aughties.

convoluted bitching about the "film as art" vs. "movies as entertainment" dilemma

i recently watched the above film after putting it off for a few weeks under the assumption that it would be shrill and manipulative. yes, the film ostensibly deals with a topical issue difficult to approach with grace [abortion], but it is actually more concerned with the power of solidarity and the stresses placed upon connection under the looming threat of a repressive regime. thematic concerns aside, it's a beautiful film: powerfully acted, simply written, and skillfully edited and composed with gorgeous tracking shots and painfully intense extended takes, simultaneously disturbing and eloquent. it's harrowing, it's powerful, and overwhelmingly engrossing.

so, usually after viewing a film, i check out the critical consensus via metacritic. this particular film is "universally acclaimed" with a 97 out of 100 rating. [Village Voice's J. Hoberman has the most compelling review, where he compares the film to recent Hollywood fare about the issue of pregnancy. best quote: "Otilia and Gabitia are not slangy wiseacres."] thus, the critical community has responded to the film with praise and commendation.

now, contrast the critical acclamation with metacritic's user reviews.

aside from the expected anti-intellectual mistrust of critics and bizarre French bashing, quite a few users seem to think that the film was "boring" because "nothing happens" and there's no "story" or "plot." what the fuck? did we even see the same film?

no. we didn't. i saw an elegantly constructed and riveting "film." the negative reviewers and the majority of the American public want to see a "movie" with easily discernible plot points and recognizable dramatic arcs, understandable shot-reverse-shot editing; where every scene, every shot, every line of dialogue exists only to push the "story" forward. these are the same people who say that Citizen Kane is a "stupid movie about a sled" and who think pandering bullshit like The Dark Knight is the best the cinematic world has to offer.

the idea that a film, or a television show, or a book, or a piece of music, has to be formulaic and predictable in order to be "entertaining" reflects sheer intellectual laziness, sorry. why is it so difficult to be "entertained" by being challenged, provoked, or moved, or by the appreciation of aesthetic qualities?

i've been labeled a "snob" by many people, and i suppose i am, but, damnit, why is it such a bad thing to have high standards?

[this is from last october, but for some reason i didn't post it then. HERE IT IS NOW!]

twenty-four, forty-five, sixty-ten, six, seven, fifty-six, sixty-five, forty-four, fifty-three, forty-four, seventeen, eighteen, twenty-three

79.





music has the right to children
boards of canada [warp, 1998]

puckered wallflowers and clucking seekers of "authenticity" may deride electronic music for its toot, whistle, plunk, and boom ostentatiousness and inherent artifice, but the creaky rocking-chair austerity of Boards of Canada leaves little room for the tiresome debate on musical purity. this is wispy music for decaying autumn leaves, a hushed soundtrack to the scintillating blast of white when peering out the window on Christmas morning, or a somber sonic companion piece to the blinding neon lights on an abandoned highway at three in the morning. constructed on the skeletal remains of skittish hip-hop breakbeats and a lush topsoil of woozy, warm keyboards, Music Has the Right to Children is haunted by ghosts of a technologically overwhelmed childhood: toys that yelp "i love you!" on "an eagle in your mind," distorted cassette tapes on "telephasic workshop," and the joy of voice simulation software on "the color of the fire." the abandoned in the shopping mall terror of "turquoise hexagon sun" is sabotaged by the unmitigated skee-ball exhilaration of "roygbiv." birds chirp gleefully while the synthesizer swells and gurgles during the hike in the park of "rue the whirl" and the percussion cracks and fizzles like busted boombox speakers on "pete standing alone." all the elements that make this record such a satisfying listen fuse on "aquarius," a hypnotic swirl of train-in-the-distance organ riffs, ominous trip-hop rhythms, giggling children, and a defective automated counting machine. with its speciously simplistic yet richly evocative soundscapes, Music Has the Right to Children exemplifies the gauzy grandeur and quiet power of instrumental electronic music.

in my ears and in my eyes moment: this album runs on two of my favorite themes: the overwhelming power of technology and the loss of youth and innocence and thus reminds me of two important, technology-laden locations of my childhood: Wagnalls Memorial Library in Lithopolis, Ohio, where i would borrow old, warped Scholastic VHS documentaries and book adaptions, and COSI Science Center in Columbus, which had a bubble-making machine, frightening computer set-ups about living with cerebral palsy, and an "ages of Man" exhibit with an absolutely terrifying display on the Black Death. that shit kept me awake at night.

i got my honey on the amtrak with the crack in the crack of her ass

80.





ready to die
the notorious b.i.g. [bad boy, 1994]

the leering specter of Thanatos loomed larged over Christopher Wallace; Glock under the pillow paranoia, disenfranchised cynicism, and self-fulfilling death-drive prophecy dominate his recorded output as the Notorious B.I.G. plagued by inner turmoil, operating against the harsh socioeconomic realities of his upbringing, and driven by a vindictive desire to undermine his naysayers, Biggie squashed the competition with unmatched lyrical dexterity, vivid, semi-autobiographical narratives, and seemingly unrepentant immorality. Ready to Die is an archetypal, self-aggrandizing debut rap record, functioning on dichotomous mythological themes: birth and death, defeat and triumph, love and hatred, sin and punishment. Big epitomizes self-contradiction; he's a gleefully gun-toting sociopath on "gimme the loot" and a recklessly misogynistic Lothario on "big poppa," yet full of lament and remorse on "things done changed" and histrionic self-hatred on "suicidal thoughts," where he describes himself as a "piece of shit." his cleverness is disarming; puns, self-deprecation, and wordplay help elevate the tales of debauchery and debasement, murder and mayhem from violent smut to lucid street poetry. the unobtrusive production, mainly by Puff Daddy and Easy Mo Bee, either revels in decadent soul samples or skitters by with hard-edged percussion, depending on the tenor of the rhymes. "juicy" is the record's definitive moment, a rags-to-riches story full of bravado and wit, detailing Big's ascension from disillusioned petty thug to the unquestioned Don of hip-hop. though gratingly obnoxious and unnecessarily crude skits impede its intensity, Ready to Die is not only a nihilistic piss-take on the American Dream, an unflinchingly harsh depiction of the struggle to achieve power and success in the face of despair, but also a portal into the twisted psyche of a troubled, complex personality.

my double, my brother moment: i always thought that there was a guest rapper on "gimme the loot." apparently, the "guest" is Biggie himself, using a higher-pitched voice. the only "real" guest rapper on the album is Method Man on "the what."

every every EVERY time i try to speak, my tongue gets tied

81.





astral weeks
van morrison [warner brothers, 1968]

ephemerality is bittersweet; the insatiable longing for the past, for the innocence of youth, for before the heartbreaking realization that the world is rotten, erratic, and cruel, is a constant wellspring of inspiration for starry-eyed romantics everywhere. like the wispy seeds of a dandelion floating across the breeze, the fluorescent dance of fireflies, or the comforting cacophony of crickets, Astral Weeks evokes humid summer evenings of years irrevocably lost. Van Morrison reaches deep into his childhood and adolescence, swells up with half-remembered, half-dreamt memories and bursts with yearning. this is impressionistic, aqueous music; it ebbs, flows, cascades, and recedes, enthusiastically building up with anticipatory crescendo then slowing reeling down in hesitant decrescendo. Morrison gave the musicians little direction, telling them only to follow his lead and play how they felt; indeed, the record sounds "organic," stemming from the source like twisting brambles. the strings gently climb and ascend on the title track and then come crashing down in a torrential downpour on "sweet thing," while the horns explode in rapturous ecstasy on "the way young lovers do." if Van isn't moaning, sighing, or belting lyrics about the "viaducts of your dreams," sleepy car rides down suburban lanes, or tragic transvestites, his voice gesticulates with broken syllables and wordless improvisation, like a wounded cherub or an uproarious drunk. Astral Weeks is a sweeping, grandiose record, encompassing forlorn tragedy and earthy sensuality, a spelunking journey down the caverns of memory in search of lost time; few records are as recklessly imaginative or as ruefully spiritual.

slow burner moment: i received Astral Weeks as a Christmas present when i was thirteen or fourteen; at the time i was burning through the established canon like ravenous raccoon. it literally made me fall asleep the first few times i tried to listen to it. however, as i grew older i began to appreciate it more. in fact, when listening to it again for the purposes of this project, i realized that i definitely should have ranked it higher, much higher, actually. like, top thirty. so, first official SHOULD BE HIGHER designation from the listmaker himself.

second verse same as the first

82.





ramones
the ramones [sire, 1976]

armed with four chords and an irreverent attitude, four tough-looking dorks from Queens bludgeon the bloated pretensions and self-important grandeur of mid-70s rock, spark a still-resonating musical revolution, and alter the pop landscape forever! the mythology has become ingrained in the popular consciousness; it's a classic David v. Goliath underdog story. by stripping the sleazy glam of Bolan and the New York Dolls of its libido, speeding it up, and mainlining a healthy dose of girl-group pop sensibility and straight-out-of-the-garage fervor, the Ramones forged the template for punk rock: unlearned, untamed, RAW. their debut album is an exercise in economy and brevity: fourteen songs with unwaveringly similar structures in a half hour. Joey barks lyrics about glue sniffing, child abuse, and not wanting to go down to the basement/walk around with you while Johnny shreds furiously like a screaming wood chipper. the rhythm section - Dee Dee's pulsating bass and Tommy's pounding drums - socks you in the gut, steals your wallet, and leaves you to rot in the gutter. however, for all its unhinged ferocity, Ramones is more dopey and bashful than grumpy; "i wanna be your boyfriend" wallows in saccharine, and "Havana affair" and "today your love, tomorrow the world," flippant, politically incorrect send-ups of the Bay of Pigs invasion and Nazi Germany, revel in camp mockery. "53rd and 3rd," a tribute to the street corner where Dee Dee would whore himself out for drug money, is perhaps the Ramones' darkest, most disheartening track, even if it abides by the restrictions of the formula. with its obsession with trash culture, cheap thrills and cheaper drugs, and unrelenting ennui towards the musical and political establishment, Ramones distills the attitudes of disenfranchised, disillusioned post-hippie youth culture.

D.A. Pennebaker moment: Ramones: Raw is probably the most gratuitous example of a shrill, lazily-edited fly-on-the-wall band documentary. instead of providing compelling insight into the band, it just presents them [mainly replacement drummer Marky] as obnoxious, self-obsessed idiots. it is literally painful to watch.

in south carolina there are many tall pines, i remember the oak tree that we used to climb

83.





sweetheart of the rodeo
the byrds [columbia, 1968]

country music is the antithesis of "hip:" rural and reactionary; inherently suspicious of all things new, urban, and youthful; unapologetically banal, from the trite, mawkish lyrics to the cornball cowboy hat showmanship borrowed from vaudeville. thus, when the Byrds traded in their chiming Rickenbackers for the rickety lilt of a dobro, the pulsating folk-rock throb for a languid clippity-clop, ponderous drug-induced existential dread for cloying, unaffected schmaltz, it marked an audacious and potentially divisive aesthetic shift. thank Gram Parsons, the yearning wunderkind with a death-drive gleam in his eye and megalomaniacal ambition that sensed something magnificent and quintessentially American in a style of music that most in the rock community emphatically dismissed. Sweetheart of the Rodeo is a joyous, spirited record, punch-drunk off the simple pleasures of the simple songs. bookended by two Dylan covers, the raucous, celebratory tribute to mail-order brides "you ain't goin' nowhere" and the bread-line ballad "nothing was delivered," the album runs through a gamut of country styles, from the po' boy Woody Guthrie shuffle of "pretty boy floyd" to the white-boy gospel of the Louvin Brothers' "the Christian life." the record's highlight is the tear-in-the-beer Gram Parsons original, "hickory wind," a wistful, sad-sack ode to lost youth and corrupted innocence. Sweetheart of the Rodeo is unprecedented in its un-ironic embrace of a style of music most of the Byrds' contemporaries avoided like a drunk leper - especially in the midst of a hostile culture war - and still unsurpassed in its rambunctious jocularity and unexpected profundity; it may be a lighthearted record, but it reveals more about the American experience than most of the horribly dated, pretentious hippie drivel released the same year.

dance the chicken reel moment: the Byrds appeared on the Grand Ole' Opry in Nashville to promote this record. those in charge were suspicious of allowing "long-hairs" to perform on the vaunted stage, and when Parsons ripped into "hickory wind" instead of the announced Merle Haggard cover, it firmly "pissed off the Nashville establishment." so much for winning favor with the yokels!

changing, designing, adapting our mentalities, improving our abilities for a better way of life!

84.





dazzle ships
orchestral manoeuvres in the dark [telegraph, 1983]

from the Paleolithic Age to the digital age, from chipped flint to microchips, technology and history have been inextricably linked, bound together in mutual causality. in simplified terms, social, political, and economic developments lead to new technologies lead to social, political, and economic developments; it's the mechanism that fuels the grand historical narrative of "progress." released near the whimpering conclusion of the Cold War, Dazzle Ships explores the utopian promises and the dystopian realities offered by the perpetual love affair between history and technology. it's a remarkably forward-thinking record, peppered with snippets of "found sound" - robotic toys, automated telephone messages, newscasters reporting atrocities in an impassive deadpan - that predict not only the experimental moments of major twenty-first century recording artists but also the inexplicable loneliness of hyper-connected techno-post-modern society. it's a rather dour affair; the tracks alternate between downtrodden, shimmering synth-pop ballads like the sighing "silent running," and more abstracted musique concrète sound collages. the few uptempo songs, like the effervescent, Brave New World-evoking "genetic engineering," are laced with gloom or smirking irony. in the face of a technologically overwhelmed future, a strong half-sentimental, half-mocking nostalgia for the archaic and the arcane permeates through the album, from its title and other World War II allusions to the metaphorical references to dead or dying forms of technology - radio and the telegraph. it may not be as accessible as OMD's other material, but Dazzle Ships is a complex, innovative record illuminating the tension between the past and future, technological progress and social stagnation, man and machine.


techno-kitsch moment: though this album was panned by critics and shunned by the record-buying public when it was first released - it's considered one of the most notorious "flops" in British pop - a recent reissue has led to critical re-evaluation. Pitchfork's Tom Ewing, one of their best writers, wrote that Dazzle Ships is a more pleasurable album now than in 1983 because the then bizarre, "futuristic" use of electronic voices and instruments has become kitsch and comforting, like playing a game on the NES. i don't agree necessarily, but it's an interesting theory.

and baby, baby, BABY, do you liiiiike it?

85.





untitled [led zeppelin iv, zoso, etc.]
led zeppelin [atlantic, 1971]

the most obvious and reductive utility of music is escapism, a means by which to elevate above the mundane triviality of humdrum everyday existence. so why not escape to a world of easy women, Biblical floods, Stonehenge, and fucking Ringwraiths? Led Zeppelin tapped the vein that leads to every adolescent boy's heart; they exemplified the "sex, drugs, and rock n' roll" mythos, but they were total dorks obsessed with blues records and Tolkien. yes, all the aspects that make Zep an easy-to-loathe target of anti-rockist revisionists glare on this record - the asinine, self-consciously "poetic" lyrics, the bloated studio gimmickry, the unambiguous pillaging of the blues - and most of the tracks are victims of the classic rock radio massacre, but, you know what, anyone who doesn't flail around maniacally as soon as John Bonham's massive drums announce the orgasmic final verse of "stairway to heaven" is probably trying too hard. the multi-tracked blues-on-creatine of "black dog" leaves a trail of sleaze, and the fuck-all abandonment of "rock and roll" treads close to redemption. "four sticks" is savage funk with a fuzzed-out Moog solo, while "misty mountain hop" swaggers by with odd syncopation. the record's two mandolin-driven tracks, "the battle of Evermore" - with guest vocalist Sandy Denny - and "going to California" are ruefully unsettling and mournfully uplifting respectively. the finale cover of Memphis Minnie's "when the levee breaks" is a town-destroying tidal wave of studio effects and earthquake drums. IV is the definitive Led Zeppelin album because it encapsulates their over-sized, ridiculous essence: half bombast, half fantasy, all majestic and exhilaratingly romantic.

killa bees sold fifty gold sixty platinum moment: apparently this is third best selling album of all time in the United States, after Thriller and the fucking Eagles. but, obviously, record sales aren't an accurate measure of a record's aesthetic quality because, you know, people are stupid. only two other albums on this list of best-sellers appear on mine. WHAT COULD THEY BE?

i crawl like a viper through these suburban streets, make love to these women, languid and bittersweet

86.





aja
steely dan [mca, 1977]

the silky-smooth jazz arrangements and lush, crisp production are often misconstrued as signs of effete wimpiness, but Steely Dan isn't all cocaine and caviar with Christopher Cross in a yacht off the coast of California; wry, detached cynicism and subversive contrarianism emanate from their records. popular lore paints Donald Fagen and Walter Becker as unrepentant perfectionists, wary of mainstream trends and defiantly operating in the idioms of jazz and classic pop. Aja is a quintessential example of their mastery of sound and studio; the production is intricately textured and luxuriant, a bonsai garden of carefully tended notes and tones. the chordal progressions are unpredictable, sometimes bizarre, and the solos - usually by renowned studio musicians - abound in nonchalant virtuosity. the Hawaiian wind title track is a winding, intricate showstopper concluding with a cascading drum attack, while "peg" coasts in on its easy accessibility and then confounds with its mocking Michael McDonald backing vocals and an earworm trumpet riff. "black cow" is sardonic, crystalline funk, and the Odyssey-inspired "home at last" riddles with mellifluous synthesizers. the album's highlight is "deacon blues," a melancholically derisive ode to youthful, conquer-the-world naïveté. this is the record where all the elements that define Steely Dan consolidate, and the remarkable attention to sonic detail controverts any disparaging, milquetoast label: soft rock, jazz-rock, yacht rock, whatever.

daisy age moment: several tracks from this album have been sampled in rap songs, but the most charming example is still de la soul's "eye know," which takes takes that aforementioned trumpet riff from "peg" and skedaddles with it.

i never let the mic magnetize me no more

87.




paid in full
eric b. & rakim [4th & broadway, 1987]

the sweet, tender haze of nostalgia has romanticized "old-school" hip-hop culture into a good-natured, violence free utopia of breakdancers, graffiti artists, DJs, and b-boys makin' with the freak-freak. but, rap in its infancy bears little resemblance to what dominates the charts today, especially in terms of the cadences of the MCs and their lyrical content. the rhyming was generally unsophisticated and unwavering braggadocio rivaled party-starting hype as the supreme subject matter. enter one Rakim Allah, flanked by his scrit-scratchin', bass droppin' DJ Eric B. On Paid in Full, Rakim introduces poetic devices heretofore underutilized or unseen in rap - internal rhyme, alliteration, complex metaphors, enjambment - while Eric B. generates a vibrant wall of sound using soul and funk samples. the unfaltering boasting and excessive use of echo on the vocals - see "my melody" - are retained from the old-school aesthetic, but this record represents a watershed moment, a marked shift in focus for hip-hop. Rakim doesn't shout or Mickey Mouse to the beat, he flows, he simmers, he sputter-mutters, he spins, bodyslamming the rhythm the ground for the one-two-three count. "pump up the volume!" he exclaims on "i know you got soul" before casually droppin' intricate rhymes like a modern-day Lorenz Hart. ignore the Eric B. solo DJ cuts, they've dated terribly, and instead, nod and sway while Rakim grinds with sloppy, frothy big-booty bass on "move the crowd" and decimates all challengers on "Eric B. is president." Rakim is commonly regarded as the greatest rapper of all time, and this record pops at the seam with brilliance while establishing a new paradigm; long live lyrical complexity!

non-sequitur moment: contemporary rap is full of allusions to Rakim and his songs, but the best reference certainly is found on 50 Cent's verse on "hate it or love it:" "daddy ain't around, probably out committin' felonies/my favorite rapper used to say 'ch-ch-check out my melodies.'"

go and kill! joro jara joro. go and die! joro jara joro.

88.




zombie
fela kuti and afrika '70 [celluloid, 1977]

among many, many other things, non-Western nations got a raw deal in regards to musical representation. the gag reflex "world music" tag summons scenes of hoity-toity, lily-white liberal guilt stuffed-shirts politely clapping to Ladysmith Black Mambazo in marble-lined university assembly halls. "it's inspiring because they're repressed!" Fela Kuti demolishes any and all watered-down, tepid approximations of Third World anxiety and rage; this is bomb-throwing music for revolutions, not fashionable exoticism. drawing influence from the rhythmic ferocity of James Brown, the experimental intensity of late period Miles Davis, and the call-and-response structure of traditional West African music, Fela Kuti and Afrika '70 constructed an intoxicating hard-edged jazz-funk fusion, later labeled "Afrobeat." they released a multitude of records in the '70s, but Zombie is the most notorious. the title track is a scathing, fanged critique of the Nigerian military, comparing soldiers not to the brain-eating shamblers of Western pop culture, but to the trained-to-kill mindless automatons of Voodoo lore. a brutal, braying alto sax leads the charge while the rhythm section pulsates and throbs. after barking commands over a chorus of voices shouting "zombie, oh zombie!" Kuti fires up the organ and lets loose with a skin-burning solo. the album's other track, "mister follow follow," is a slow-burner, gradually gathering momentum towards an exhilarating refrain denouncing blind Pied Piper devotion to charismatic leaders. through his ardor and fearlessness in the face of corruption and dictatorship, Kuti makes a mockery of Western "protest" music by proving that a record could be as subversive as a pamphlet and as dangerous as a grenade.

bring down the government moment: when i say this record was dangerous, it's not just critical hyperbole. check the Wikipedia page for this album: the Nigerian military felt so threatened, they attacked Kuti's compound, destroyed his instruments, nearly beat him to death, and threw his mother out a window. it's further proof of Kuti's indefatigable resolve that he responded by recording more inflammatory music.

i shot my mouth off and you showed me what that hole was for

89.





pretenders
the pretenders [sire, 1980]

many female musicians have attempted to co-opt the unrepentant machismo, the primal urgency, the reckless abandonment of good ol' fashioned guitar-based rawk n' roll, but none have done so with the conflicting vulnerability of Chrissie Hynde. yes, she performs as the predator, the player, the peddler, and the pretender [har!], but, despite all her blue-balling bluster, she's an arch sentimentalist at her core. with the valor and vim and vigor of punk and a pop sensibility borrowed from the sixties, few debut records are as unapologetically fierce as Pretenders. "precious" and "the wait" are both chugging, after-school detention attention-grabbers, with Hynde literally telling a dude to "fuck off" in the former. the rustling drums and chiming guitars on "tattooed love boys" underscore Hynde's tale of sexual awakening. even gratuitously catchy MONSTER HIT "brass in pocket" is laden with innuendo and cocksure swagger. however, the aching sadness on the Nick Lowe-produced cover of the Kinks' "stop your sobbing," the surprising tenderness on tough-love ballad "kid," and the hopelessly melancholic "lovers of today" belie Hynde's tough girl image. though the laboriously dull reggae-tinged "private life" threatens to dilute the visceral impact of the record's second half, salvation arrives in the form of the uplifting "mystery achievement." Hynde's Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy would eventually coalesce, and, due to shifting lineups, the Pretenders would never again sound as raw and edgy, but the beautiful contradictions exposed on this record still resonate.

unsung guitar hero moment: though the Pretenders weren't as musically innovative as many of their peers, guitarist James Honeyman-Scott injects a lot of sharp-edged post-punk nastiness, especially on the spasmodic break-down in "tattooed love boys." too bad he OD'd on blow a few years after this album was released.

a dinosaur victrola, listenin' to buck owens

90.





cosmo's factory
creedence clearwater revival [fantasy, 1970]

traditionalism is a tricky-dicked endeavor, a tightrope walk over the sinkholes of novelty kitsch and reactionary conservatism. Creedence is a shining beacon, a paragon of pop sincerity; one foot was ankle-deep in the trends of the past, but the guys weren't corny or cranky or campy, they were just fucking good. the integral element is John Fogerty's wail: slightly unhinged and tremulous, with undertones of rage and terror blemishing the all-smiles exterior. Cosmo's Factory has more hits than [insert off-color joke here]: the rambunctious "travelin' band," the ominous "who'll stop the rain," and the Vietnam-scarred "run through the jungle." there's also the slide-guitar spike in the vein of "up on around the bend," used in every buddyroadtrip movie in existence and the sweetly idiotic psychedelic imagery in "lookin' out my back door." but the record's defining moment may be in the opening track, the raucous seven minute jam "ramble tamble," in which Fogerty unleashes the finest guitar solo of his career: simple, eloquent, transcendent. the ten minute cover of "i heard it through the grapevine" may be the embarrassed elephant in the corner, but its relentless repetition gradually becomes compellingly hypnotic. from shuck n' jive barn burners to open road po' boy ballads, Cosmo's Factory is Creedence's most varied and consistent record and a testament to their quiet, unassuming artistry.

"wouldn't hold out much hope for the tape deck, though. or the creedence." moment: a lot of Creedence's songs have suffered from overexposure, either from oldies radio or incessant use in movies and television. however, The Big Lebowski undoubtedly contains the best use of Creedence's music, especially "run through the jungle" during the botched ransom drop-off.

and though our bones, they may break, and our souls separate, why the long face?

91.





ys
joanna newsom [drag city, 2006]

beneath the dimming autumn skies, amidst the soil and the weevils, the thrushes cry and the jonquils sigh, praising the toil of the beetles. see how difficult it is to write lyrics about nature without sounding like a gargantuan tool? someway, somehow Joanna Newsom makes it work, casually tossing off wispy metaphors about dangling ghosts of spiders and fabricating vivid visual poems with delicate, rustic imagery: peonies, sea brine, and the snapping teeth of hound dogs. there's her voice, a major divisive point for many people, which has more in common with the backwoods moonshine warblers on The Anthology of American Folk Music than any recognizable mainstream pop singer. the song structures are labyrinthine, with sudden breaks and unpredictable crescendos, while the bombastic orchestral arrangements - courtesy Van Dyke Parks - add an element of urgency and majesty. Ys is a difficult record to apprehend, but leave your preconceived notions at the door, you close-minded asshole, and succumb to a world where every detail is profound and beautiful and every gesture, every sideways glance and forced half-smile, has metaphysical significance. "emily," ostensibly about her sister, is a tragicomic tribute to youth and lost innocence, while "cosmia" strives to find redemption in the death of a friend. The feminist Aesop's fable "monkey & bear" displays Joanna's storytelling abilities, but the album's beating heart lies in the middle: sex, God, nature, youth, and destiny all collide in the winding, whimsical narratives of "sawdust & diamonds" and "only skin." although Joanna Newsom receives an inordinate amount of flak for her idiosyncrasies, few musicians would have the audacity to release a record so timelessly different and unspeakably brilliant.

joan and bob moment: "only skin" features backing vocals from Bill Callahan, who[m?] Joanna was dating at the time. isn't it every dude's dream to sing back-up on a song that was probably written about him? unrelated detail: Steve Albini recorded Joanna's vocals and harp. a far cry from the Jesus Lizard, eh eh eh?

doctor comes in, pops a boner, and jacks off in her cap

92.




goat
the jesus lizard [touch & go, 1991]

Diamond Dave once said, "if you put a Van Halen album in your record collection, it will melt all the rest of your records." well, if you put a Jesus Lizard album in your collection, not only will it melt all the other sniveling, whimpering records, it will pulverize, disembowel, and castrate them, and then cackle maniacally while urinating on their grave. Goat heatbutts into the party with a Gang of Four-on-amphetamines-and-testosterone rhythm section: sky-cracking drums and deep, rumbling hellfire bass. the caterwauling, flesh-eating guitar stings and screeches like a rabid wolverine. then comes David Yow: possessed witch doctor; lobotomized lunatic; schizophrenic, drunken nihilist; leering, slobbering bum. his vocals are buried in mix, heightening his intensity and fervor; he's an alien ready to burst through a stomach, or a premature burial victim desperately clawing at his coffin. from his debauched lyrical concerns - prison rape, drowning, stupid motherfuckers who don't know how to housesit - and unmistakable yowl, he's among the most captivating frontmen EVER. it helps that the songs are just undeniably fucking good. "mouth breather" could have been a "modern rock" crossover in the paws of a less abrasive, less confrontational, less weird group. "nub" edges close to post-punk agit-funk, while "karpis" adopts a hiccupping twang. this record doesn't "rock" - people think bottom-feeding, scum-eating shills like Poison and Nickelback "rock." no, this record screams, spits, swaggers, and sprays blood, establishing a new archetype for groups who want to be simultaneously smart and brain-splattering.

bombastic intro moment: this record was produced/engineered/whatever by Steve Albini, which means each instrument is loud, crisp, and bone-rattling. though his two bands - Big Black and Shellac - didn't make the cut, through his production work, he was involved with more albums on the list than anyone: five out of the one hundred, or, 1/20th of the list.

she wants another scene, she wants to be a human being

93.




chelsea girl
nico [verve records, 1967]

o Nico! demure melancholic, wanton femme fatale! warbling siren of ennui and hopelessness! with the defeatist longing of an Old World aristocrat, the deadpan sexuality of a courtesan, and the glazed-eyed fragility of a junkie, Christa Päffgen cultivated an impressive cult of personality. she gallivanted around an abandoned castle in La Dolce Vita, fraternized with the scenesters and freaks at the Factory, and briefly fronted the Velvet Underground. she didn't conform to any presubscribed roles for female musicians; she wasn't an earth mother, a self-righteous folkie, or a wide-eyed innocent teen temptress. if anything, she was an ur-goth, an artist plagued by darkness and haunted by her insecurities. Chelsea Girl, her debut as a solo artist, is Nico at her most vulnerable and sad. with her inimitable near-baritone, baroque orchestral accompaniment, and help from talented songwriters (mainly former bandmates Lou Reed and John Cale, and also a pre-California Jackson Browne), she inhabits emotions rarely explored in pop music: heartbreaking, immobilizing indecisiveness in the soaring "the fairest of the seasons," world-weary detachment in "these days," and seasonal affective despair in "winter song." the most explicitly experimental track - "it was a pleasure thing" - is a Celtic death ritual with Nico moaning ethereal high notes over a din of feedback and lacerating guitar. Dylan's "i'll keep it with mine" - one of the few tracks with no minor chords - serves as a rousing counterpoint to the dour misery mire that surrounds it. though Nico would later delve into more abstract territory, this record captures all the tragic, twisted beauty that defined one of pop's most compelling figures.

should i stay or should i go? moment: "the fairest of the seasons" was the last song i played on my farewell show at my alma mater's radio station. the song really epitomizes the ambivalence that comes when leaving somewhere or someone.

he's acting innocent and proud still you know what he's after, like a matador with his pork sword while we all die of laughter

94.





blood & chocolate
elvis costello and the attractions [columbia, 1986]

gotz 'dem ol' mean woman blues again, brother? sometimes when the fairer sex brings you down into a pit of despair and world-is-crashing helplessness, you gotta put down that never-ending bottle of Jameson and saunter into the studio with your best dudes and pulverize that anguish into something worthwhile. this is Declan Patrick at his most vitriolic, spewing venom and catharsis, ripping apart low-down, no-good rotten women while his uncharacteristically raw sounding, yet always reliable Attractions whip up a frenzy. the record is admittedly top-heavy, but what a fucking tremendous Side A, from the vindictive, organ-fueled anthem "i hope you're happy now" to the drunken 3 a.m. sad-sack ballad "home is anywhere you hang your head." but it's all foothills to the Mt. Everest of Costello's career: the caustic, languishing, incomparable "i want you." this one track, with its slow build-up and quietly intense vocals, captures all the contradicting feelings of anger, disgust, disillusionment, and futility, and the searing, unrelenting pain that comes with that horrible, carnal knowledge: yep, it happened, and yep, it was THAT asshole. and the most horrifying part: it ends not in murder or heartbreak like other paeans to adultery, but in begrudging and hopeless acceptance. perhaps because "i want you" raises the bar so exponentially high, what follows pales in comparison and is almost entirely forgettable, though "poor napoleon" has one hell of an addictive chorus. to me, an idiosyncratic artist with a long career is always the most compelling at his or her meanest and nastiest, and this record - at least the first half, anyway - exposes all the darkness stirring underneath that bespectacled veneer.

stop attacking my viscera! moment: "i want you" is the emotional companion piece to the Velvet Underground's "heroin," but instead of narcotics, costello's focal point is the nagging suspicion and the "stupid details" of the infidelity. it makes my skin crawl and my stomach retch. it's draining, it's demanding, and it's certainly something you can't "enjoy" on a daily basis. but what a fucking perfect piece of pop catharsis.

convoluted bitching about the pitchfork list

pitchfork is culminating its decade retrospective with a "top 200 albums" list. i'm going to preface this rant by declaring that i usually like pitchfork's lists. the top 100 albums lists for the 70s, 80s, and 90s all seemed definitive: canonical, yet varied; representative of all the trends, currents, and narratives of that particular decade. i even readily agreed with their recent "top 500 tracks of 2000-09" list. but, there is something that bothers me about this albums list. and it's not just because several of my favorite albums of this decade have either been ignored or ranked already. perhaps it's an indication of the scattershot, disjointed nature of musical consumption in the aughts, or, [collar pull] perhaps it's because this decade really hasn't produced as many truly essential albums.

take, for example, vampire weekend at #51. a lot of people rag on it because it was made by a bunch of over-privileged, ivy-leagued cultural appropriators. the backlash it received after the hype cycle ran its course was unprecedented; people who championed the blue cd-r demo at the end of 2007 were dismissing and removing themselves from the band by the time pitchfork slapped a "best new music" label on the proper album in january. i actually like the album. it's innocuous, it's catchy, and it definitely was in heavy rotation in my household during the early months of 2008. but. #51 of the decade?

my point of contention may be the seemingly arbitrary, chicken with its head cut off rankings. pitchfork's other album lists are coherent and the rankings easily justifiable. this go-round contains some puzzlingly nonsensical choices. how does a tedious, retrograde, simpering wet fart of an album like bon iver's for emma, forever ago rank above, say, boredoms' vision creation newsun, which, as the blurb states, predicts the majority of the more experimental trends in 00's indie rock. yeah, i know this may be an example of "why did album x, which i think blows ass, rank above album y, which i think is awesome." but that reveals the problem with this list and maybe the decade as a whole: lack of consensus.

this strives to be a canonical list. but you can't establish a canon without consensus.

for a point of comparison, look at their '70s list. with the exception of the wall, i really can't argue against any those choices. and the rankings make sense. of course another green world is 90 ranks better than before and after science. even if it doesn't reflect my personal taste, of course the logical canonical ranking for wire albums is: 154 < chairs missing < pink flag. but, with the aughties list, there are at least five or six albums that i fucking despise, ten or so that i think are boring and inoffensive, and about thirty that i think are "good, not great or 'top 100 of the decade' worthy." and i can't say, even objectively that mclusky do dallas or change are really 90 ranks "less good" than funeral and white blood cells, or whatever is going to be in the top ten.

also, the populist pandering is really obnoxious. the original review of andrew w.k.'s i get wet - from the dude who created the site, no less - gave the album a 0.6 out of 10. but then it winds up at #144 on the list. as the review says, it's a lowest common denominator sewage treatment plant of an album. why fucking celebrate it?

maybe my griping is based on entirely on tiresome "why is x higher than y" and "where is z?" reactions but, i think some more distance is necessary before critics can contextualize the decade and form a valid consensus.

ANYWAY, predictions for top twenty:

20. kill the moonlight - spoon
19. sound of silver - lcd soundsystem
18. late registration - kanye west
17. the moon & antarctica - modest mouse
16. supreme clientele - ghostface killah
15. turn on the bright lights - interpol
14. silent shout - the knife
13. agaetis byrjun - sigur ros
12. yankee hotel foxtrot - wilco
11. is this it? - the strokes
10. merriweather post pavillion - animal collective
9. illinoise - sufjan stevens
8. since i left you - the avalanches
7. funeral - arcade fire
6. white blood cells - the white stripes
5. stankonia - outkast
4. discovery - daft punk
3. the blueprint - jay-z
2. person pitch - panda bear [should be #1!!!]
1. kid a - radiohead

monkey men all in business suit, teachers and critics all dance the poot

95.





q: are we not men? a: we are devo!
devo [warner brothers, 1978]

forget "progress." forget slogging forward in perpetual motion through the sands and shards of time towards enlightenment and utopia. humanity as a whole is regressing, "devolving" into brain-dead troglodyte automatons, hepped up on hyper-consumer culture: bad TV, fast food, and a glut of unnecessary material possessions. Devo were harbingers of this harsh dysgenic reality. popular consciousness remembers them as the quirky flowerpotted "whip it" band, but, they were, in actuality, an aesthetically coherent collective of smart-ass rock deconstructionists from Akron, Ohio, a shithole hotbed of post-industrial despondency. this, their debut album, is an assemblage of herky-jerky rhythms, jagged guitar sounds, electronic blips and bleeps, and condescending, often hilarious, lyrical potshots at lazy, sex and self-obsessed American society. though this album is often labeled "new wave," is shares more musical similarities and artistic concerns with post-punk acts like Wire and PiL. the shrewd piss-take on "satisfaction" reduces the original's threatening, sexualized masculinity to robotic, sterile monotony while "come back jonee" twists the ultimate rock n' roll myth of "johnny b. goode" into a death ballad. Rolling Stone may have called them "fascists" - probably due to the unashamed insensitivity of "mongoloid" and the frenetic military call-and-resonse of "jocko homo" - but there is a sense of desperation, dread, and, dare i say it, moral concern buried underneath the irreverence. with all the bullshit that has contributed to the demise of American culture since 1978 - Reagan, the resurgence of fundamentalism, unchecked corporatism, reality television and the summer blockbuster, THE INTERNET - this album seems eerily prescient.

but have you seen my [parents'] records? moment: this album is definitely among the most surprising records in my parents' [i think my mom has assumed ownership] record collection, amidst all the Linda Ronstadt and Bachman-Turner-Overdrive. my mom actually put "satisfaction" and "jocko homo" on a roadtrip mixtape for my walkman cassette player when i was six or seven. no wonder i'm such a weird kid.

so it's more a question of will power and self-discipline, and circumstances

96.





untrue
burial [hyperdub, 2007]

robots are comforting because they aren't human. electronic vocal manipulation by use of the vocoder can be warm (Daft Punk), detached and distant (Kraftwerk), or hilarious (Frampton), but, ultimately, it's easy to accept because it bears little resemblance to the timbre of the actual human voice. Auto-Tune may straddle the uncanny, but the vocals on Untrue wander aimlessly through the Valley. these are unmistakably human voices [that's apparently Christina Aguilera providing the album's best vocal hook on "ghost hardware"], but they are tweaked, transformed and transgressed beyond recognition. planned obsolescence has finally caught up to the first few generations of the Music Bot and the models have devolved into sputtering, malfunctioning, distorting machines looping the same few lines of trite mamby-pamby love songs ad infinitum. the effect is disorienting and unsettling, yet entirely evocative. i don't know shit about dubstep, the scene from which this record came, so, to me, Untrue is defiantly singular and insular; nothing else sounds quite like it. the DNA of each track - preternatural vocals, sighing keyboards, steam-punk hiss and ambiance, the insomniac industrial clankity-clank of the beat - provides the solid foundation while the mutations - the rubbery, zigzag bass on "etched headphones," the panning, percolating keyboard on "shell of light," and the straight-up decadent electro of "raver" - add variety. this is a dark, eerie record, but it isn't all hopeless; Burial finds some redemption and beauty in the desolate, technologically-haywire embers of late capitalism.

what's in a name? moment: damn. talk about perfect track titles. they either evoke technological disillusionment and decay ("ghost hardware," "etched headphones"), post-industrial malaise ("in mcdonalds," "homeless"), or the ethereal, transcendent quality of the music itself ("archangel," "shell of light").

floating on the silence that surrounds us

97.





getz / gilberto
stan getz and joão gilberto [verve records, 1964]

i can't claim to be an afcionado, a jazzbo, a finger snappin' obsessive bip boppin' to the local unsung clarinetist in a boozy, dimly-lit bar. i don't worship at the twin altars of 'Trane and Bird. i know i'm putting my ignorance on display, but, to these untrained, unsophisticated ears, a lot of jazz becomes repetitive and boring after the initial self-satisfaction of "yeah, i'm listening to jazz!" dissipates. but this record, all mosquito net dreams and crashing tropical waves, avoids that pratfall. the interplay between voice and instrument is the key component: João's sultry sensuous, understated Portuguese croon and the endearing broken-hearted broken English warble of his wife Astrud wrestle with Stan Getz' melancholic saxophone vamps. of course, almost all the songs, written mainly by pianist Antonio Carlos Jobim, have become "standards," especially SMASH HIT "the girl from ipanema," which contains one of the most ingeniously addictive melodies EVER. though the history of pop music is littered with unashamed cultural plundering/appropriation in a never-ending quest for the "exotic," this record sets a precedent by treating a non-Western form of music - bossa nova - as a source of inspiration rather than exploitation. plus, it's really fucking classy.

sex on the beach moment: "para machucar meu coração" is the moment at that classy hotel cocktail party in rio when you first ask that gorgeous woman you met while outside smoking an expensive cigarette to dance. we all want to be this, we all want to jet-setting, worldly, wealthy citizens with panache, wit, and elegance and not the twisted, dreary, drab proletarians we are, RIGHT?

98.





millions now living will never die
tortoise [thrill jockey, 1996]

hey! this collective of like-minded musical progressives doesn't reflect its namesake at all! a tortoise is a lumbering, lurching creature with limited brainpower and an impenetrable shell; this band is like this , demolishing paddocks and peasants with ballistic bass and death-rattling drums. "post-rock" is a stultifying, castrating term, conjuring up images of innocuous lounge or light, breezy free jazz. like the majority of once hip, once "of the moment" indie trends, the scene had become an awkwardly-executed punchline to a poorly-remembered joke. however, tortoise and their brethren should be exalted for having the audacity to ditch post-nirvana, post-grunge angst and simplicity and embrace tossed aside, out of left field genres like, yes, lounge and free jazz, but also dub, krautrock and post-punk. Millions Now Living Will Never Die delivers on the scene's promises of transcendence. the centerpiece, the highlight, the "opus," the meisterwerk is opener "djed:" twenty minutes of shifting basslines, plunking, finicky vibra/xylophones and electronic glitches. it's an assembly line conveyor belt at a futuristic factory where automated robots tinker and toy with blasts of noise and melody. "glass museum" and "the taut and the tame" coax free jazz into the pasture and then decapitate it with anachronistic instrumentation and pulsating rhythm. "a survey" is all slippery, rubbery bass harmonics while "dear grandma and grandpa" is a millennia old radio transmission beamed in from Alpha Centauri. in terms of influence, "along the banks of rivers" is exactly the type of dreary, dystopian death march music through charred, post-apocalyptic landscape on which Godspeed You Black Emperor! based a career. lambaste its pretensions all you want, it's rare to find an indie rock record this brutally daring.

turn this shit up! moment: this is an album from the mid-90s, after sound engineers figured out how to master a CD properly and before the loudness war made everything sound clipped and headache-inducing. turning up the volume makes not only makes the instruments sound more vibrant and alive, it also exposes previously unheard details in the mix. this isn't meant to be background music, PUMP UP THE VOLUME.

sidewalk social scientist don't get no satisfaction from your cigarette

99.





parallel lines
blondie [chrysalis, 1978]

i pity the poor singles act. Blondie topped the pops during nude wave with a string of chart-devouring hits that smashed together classic, classy '60s Spector girl-group pop, bathroom puke punk energy, and smatterings of flava: disco, dub, and whatever Fab 5 Freddy said was fly. if the singles were the pinnacle of the power and the punch of pure pop, the albums were passable yet predictably not perfect with the possible exception of Parallel Lines. you know the ubiquitous, slightly overused numbers already, i'm sure, hypocrite reader. before the Wetjet swiffed and Angelica pickled "one way or another," it was a ferocious, crazed-eyed stalker anthem. "sunday girl" is engrossing, elegant, slightly cheesy sleaze. and what kind of jackass would leave ms. harry "hanging on the telephone?" oh yeah, there's some dance song that may be the sleekest, most bubbly effervescent yet detached sexy cool ice princess ten out of ten perfect pop tracks EVER. but don't forget the ramshackle Buddy Holly hoedown of "i'm gonna love you too," the Eno avant-pop of "fade away and radiate" [yeah, that's Robert Fripp making all the fucked-up guitar noises] and the early Madonna prototype "i know but i don't know." the CBGB's pedigree may have given Blondie cred as members of some sort of musical revolution/upheaval, but Parallel Lines is timeless, sharp, helplessly stellar pop music.

awesome moment: the beginning of "fade away and radiate," where all the instruments clear the floor except cascading smack-drums and unsettling guitar percolations while debbie's voice echos into the dark and lonely night.

i'm a student of the drums...i'm also a teacher of the drums too a-heh a-heh a-heh

100.





endtrod-ucing...
dj shadow [mo' wax, 1996]

wicka-wicka wah wah sssssSSSSSRAK, DJing ain't all finger poppin' joint snappin', jet settin', scene stealin', line sniffin' relentless partyheartying. it ain't depthless bravado and unhinged debauched vacuity and trust fund decadence. no, Endtroducing... is a house of nudie cards, a layer of sonic flapjacks. wild-eyed drums bulldoze porcelain strings and throw bones with scatting horns. Shadow throws a net into the deep sea of the past and dredges up memories of sounds, ghosts of aural architecture. these noises are the forgotten and the passed-over, discarded and disassociated, melting vinyl flying in place. yet Shadow blows off the dust, gives 'em a 'lil spitshine polish, places them in an entirely new context and then - wicka wicka - transcendence. this is a self-contained musical ecosystem where David Axelrod, Grandmaster Flash, and Bjork all graze peacefully on the grass, where concepts of "genre" are discarded and every noise, every note, every vibration becomes integrated into a pulsating ball of sound and rhythm. sure, it's occasionally self-consciously arty and brazenly "cinematic," but inane TV soundbites and cornball dialogue from early morning stoned Westerns lurk beneath the grandiose surface. ultimately, by being so eloquent, so high-minded, so grand, this record proves that sample-based music - or, speaking more broadly, hip-hop in general - doesn't have to derivative, sleazy, carnal, or "it's the money." ssssKKKKRIT

awesome moment: the elongated CLANG [sampled from a swedish dude named pugh rogefeldt] and enormous, thunderous drums at the beginning of "mutual slump" jolts you into attention after the blissed-out, quietly sinister radio ambiance at the end of "stem/long stem/transmission 2."

COP OUT COP OUT COP OUT

i started something i couldn't finish. TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME.

the project is too daunting, the list itself is now over a year old and my musical preferences have shifted; i've discovered new things, abandoned the old, and re-contextualized how i view and appreciate music [sort of, at least]. and ultimately, it's difficult to write honestly, passionately, and creatively about one's 756th or 427th favorite song. AND, i haven't updated since may. so, the "1000 songs" list has been put on indefinite hiatus. i may resume it at some point, probably not.

AND.

i want to write about other topics. film. culture. politics. history. science. so, the emphasis of this blog will slowly shift away from music to the shinier, shimmering pastures of variety and diversity. maybe i'll update more frequently.

BUT.

i have a new "music nerd" list!! my 100 favorite albums! i hope to finish the list by the end of the year.

what separates the pedestrian, the average, and the mundane from the fantastic, the memorable, and the superior? i consider a variety of [esoteric?] factors when evaluating an album: coherency, cohesiveness, cojones. aesthetic qualities of sound, musicianship, lyrics. distinctiveness and singularity. context in artist's career. if applicable, influence, historical relevance, and canonical position. but mostly, overall cerebral and visceral effect. if an album moves me in some way, either on the first listen or the tenth; if it causes me to feel, to think, to move, to dance, to scream the lyrics off-key in my car, to ENGAGE, if it's something that impacts or influences my life in a meaningful way, then it's elevated to a "QUALITY" album in my twisted mind. i realize this is ultimately a intrinsically subjective approach to thinking and writing about music critically, but, you know, dancing about architecture is difficult enough as it is. pure objectivity doesn't exist in evaluation. SO.

criteria:

- one album per band/artist. i know this hackneyed, but, hey, it adds variety.
- no compilations or live albums. sorry singles going steady and live at the harlem square club.

...and we're off!