an exercise in...nerdery

2010-02-08T06:20:00.000-08:00

i'm moving:

LONG LIVE THE EPHEMERAL

bye!

convoluted bitching on why i hate sports

2010-02-08T00:58:00.000-08:00

aside from a few painful minutes of witnessing the remaining members of my once favorite band embarrass themselves in front of millions of people and a couple quick glances at the family room TV while walking to and from the bathroom and kitchen, i didn't watch any of the Super Bowl. i didn't care. i derive absolutely no pleasure from watching grown men in grotesque costumes dash around a field and crash into one another in pursuit of a unassuming leather ellipsoid. i'm being [obnoxiously] facetious, but i genuinely just don't get it. and it's not only professional football, it's the culture surrounding all competitive sports from Little League on up.

that's not to say i dislike athleticism, or even the idea of sports in general. when it's on the level of a bunch of neighborhood kids playing field baseball, a couple friends engaging in a game of PIG, or even intramural sports at a school or business, i think sports can be a great thing. like any other game - video, card, board - the function of sports at this level is to foster camaraderie; it's all about connection and the satisfaction derived from working with other people towards a common goal. and good-natured competition can be rewarding, on both a personal and social level. of course, there's the health aspect as well, playing a sport is an excellent way to stay in shape [or so i'm told]. it's when sports go beyond an excuse for a group of people to get together and have fun/exercise that they become problematic for me:

- education:

it is inherently contrary to the goal, function, and purpose of education for a school - whether it be a small high school or an enormous public university - to slavishly devote so much time, effort, and monetary resources to the maintenance and promotion of athletic programs. and while this attitude may stem from my personal experiences in high school - i consistently felt that my GRAND ACCOMPLISHMENTS as a scholar and as a member of academic teams were undervalued by the faculty and completely overshadowed by the achievements of the star school athletes - it goes beyond petty envy. the administration at my school had a "sports director" position that paid well above and beyond a tenured teacher's salary; this is analogous to university-level coaches being among the highest-paid public servants in their respective states. considering how difficult it is for teachers to make a decent living and how entry-level positions at colleges are dwindling fast, this seems like a gratuitous and baffling waste of resources. then there's the type of people who get hired as coaches, and, by extension, P.E. and health teachers. they usually have no proper educational training and no real commitment to or interest in academics. my high school's baseball coach was a truly despicable human being - and i can say that about only a small handful of people i've known in my life - who was allowed to teach a health class where he would make such claims as "women who wear revealing clothing are asking to get raped." no wonder so many girls in my class were mothers or impregnated by the time of graduation; sex education should not be ordained by such an incompetent and destructive individual. yet, he was allowed to keep his job, presumably because he brought in so many victories on the baseball diamond. [i know that was tangential, but i had to get it out!] proclaiming that athletic programs bring in money for the school reeks of stat-juking bullshit. if sporting events do turn a profit - and i'm sure they do at a college level more so than at a high school level - how much of that money is pumped back into the program? maintenance of facilities and equipment is dauntingly expensive [it was always disheartening to hear that IU spent thousands and thousands of dolla dolla bills for a new basketball stadium or whatever]. it becomes another snake-eating-itself self-perpetuating cycle. school-sponsored athletics are a blight on public resources and anathema to education.

- social value:

1. gender issues: i don't want to delve too much into gender studies, but sports encourage a culture based on antiquated heteronormative and patriarchal social values. rabble-rouser Andrea James' provocative blog entry on this subject had me, a godless constructivist, feeling like a damn reactionary, but it's rather obvious that the stereotypes and gender divides associated with sports are woefully outdated. speaking from my own experience, it's obnoxious that as a dude, heteronormative values dictate that i should actively give a fuck about Peyton Manning or Ron Artest or whoever and that NOT caring signifies wimpiness, and by implied extension, femininity.

2. faux-regionalism and rivalry: i think regionalism is awesome in general, especially in a cultural sense, and i unequivocally support any attempt to preserve it. however, the "regionalism" associated with sports culture - whether it be rivalries amongst teams, supporting the "home team," or a arena or stadium becoming an integral part of a city's image - is superficial at best. to me, regional culture is based on food, language, art, music - idiosyncratic, organically developed elements that are singular to that specific city or community. from the very little i know of the history of professional sports, before the establishment of national leagues and codification of rules and regulations associated with them, each city had its own unique way of playing. professional sports are an extension of the monoculture that developed in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

[HISTORY DEGREE TANGENT] shifts in labor [increased wages and a shorter workday led to more leisure time], the growth of the middle class, and rapid changes in technology [the telegraph and, later, the telephone] and transportation [railroads and the automobile] fostered the development of a consumerist monoculture and the industries associated with it, including professional athletics.

monoculture isn't always a terrible thing, but it's infuriating when misconstrued as regionalism. so when you go "root root root for the home team," you aren't supporting the local culture of your city or community, you're supporting a national multi-billion industry developed a little over a hundred years ago to suck up your new found wealth and leisure time, you dirty, stupid proletariat.

and rivalries between college teams are just dumb and obnoxious, sorry.

3. the spectacle of public violence: there's a lot of theory out there stating that professional sports [and violent films, viral videos, etc.] occupy the primal need/desire in the popular consciousness for ritualized, public violence. thus, it replaces human sacrifice, public executions, blood sport, gladiatorial battle, and other such lovely endeavors. this thought process assumes a very cynical, Hobbesian view of human nature, and who knows, it may be somewhat correct. and if it is, how fucking sad is it that there's still a need for this type of spectacle. look at European soccer riots or the drunk, belligerent dad getting into fights at Little League games. are people really inherently violent, irrational, stupid beings?

i know i'm firing on all cylinders here and that i'm making some rather wild, spurious arguments, so i'll end things with a little list of why part of me CAN see the appeal of competitive sports:

1. aesthetics of shape and movement: artists have known it for millennia; the human form is beautiful. yeah, bodybuilders are nasty because they don't look natural, but a well-sculpted figure is undeniably aesthetically pleasing. the body in movement is even more so. this is the appeal of a sport like boxing for me, which i can easily associate with ballet and dance [Raging Bull captures this very well]. plus, it's really fucking cool to see a person move at seemingly impossible speeds [Micheal Phelps at the Olympics, for example]. even football can be engaging on this level. an acquaintance of mine made an incredible experimental short film [that i wish i could find on the internet] based entirely on found footage of OJ Simpson making touchdowns. it was hypnotically beautiful and absolutely compelling.

2. cults of personality and the romance: some athletes are undeniably badass. Muhammad Ali is the quintessential example, but i could name several others from every sport. and some sports, baseball in particular, have a certain romantic appeal based on folkloric legends and popular myth. in some senses, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, and even someone like Michael Jordan are just as integral to the American cultural heritage as Robert Johnson or Mark Twain or John Ford or any creator/chronicler/exemplar of the American experience.

3. camaraderie: i know i was kind of denouncing monoculture earlier, but i can certainly recognize its appeal. it plays into a fundamental desire to be a part of something bigger and grander than yourself. and when you're at a bar with your buddies downing cheap beer while cheering on your favorite team on the big screen TV, you're connecting to an intangible sentiment that unites you with hundreds, thousands, or millions of other people. it would take a real asshole to find fault in that.

now i'm not a neurotic or my business spasmodic, and my only excuse is: everything comes from chaos

2010-02-04T23:19:00.000-08:00

71.

colossal youth
young marble giants [rough trade, 1980]

if punk was a reaction to the gaudy ostentation of popular music in the 1970s - the soppy hoariness of AM radio, the overwrought bombast of the stadium, and the coked-out decadent sheen of the discotheque - this record may be the purest example of the counter-mainstream D.I.Y. approach punk suggested. recorded cheaply, all first takes and few overdubs, and released on a then-unknown independent label, Colossal Youth opts for stark minimalism over grandiosity, reflective contemplation over brash confrontation. this is unmistakably a catchy, accessible pop record, yet its tenor is foreign, unfamiliar, and defiantly singular. whereas points of reference Suicide and Silver Apples were noisy, if not hostile, Young Marble Giants are somber, quiet, and as austere as an abandoned bunker or a desolate provincial cemetery. even within the context of an era that abounded in creativity, Colossal Youth is genuinely sui generis. the structural components are consistent throughout the record: the jaunty, punctured throb of a bass, the ghostly lub-dub of a primitive drum machine, the twang and scratch of a Rickenbacker, the carnivalesque drone of a homemade synthesizer, and the deadpan near-monotone drawl of vocalist Alison Statton. just as important are the gaps, the spaces, the reverberations; Young Marble Giants aren't hoarders of sounds and Colossal Youth is as uncluttered as an obsessive compulsive's desktop, creating a near-claustrophobic tone of immediacy. the record has many revelatory moments, from the corroding calliope swirl of "the man amplifier" and the slasher film build-up of "n.i.t.a." to the sardonic, ennui-ridden bourgeois critique of "eating noddemix" and the aching poignancy of "salad days." however, the highlight - and the most pristine distillation of the record's minimalistic aesthetic - is opener "searching for mr. right," which contains Statton's most elegiac vocal melody. though it may bear little sonic similarity to the majority of British punk, Colossal Youth is a quintessential illustration of the true mission of the movement: allowing disaffected, disillusioned youths and weirdos across the nation the opportunity to create distinctive, engaging, gorgeous music.

burn out, rather than fade away moment: aside from a collection of early singles, and an EP released before their disbandment, Colossal Youth is the only Young Marble Giants record. this, of course, adds to its mystique. incidentally, it was one of Kurt Cobain's favorites and Nirvana planned to cover "credit in the straight world;" Hole ended up doing so, rather horribly, on Live Through This.

give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, so i can sigh eternally

2010-02-04T02:00:00.000-08:00

72.

in utero
nirvana [dgc, 1993]

this is the sound of mental collapse and caged dog desperation; after the unbridled success of Nevermind, the boomer critical establishment - and millions of adoring fans - foisted the world onto Kurt Cobain's back. he was the Savior, the Voice, the Icon, the counter Jon Bon Jovi and Nirvana was the ferociously "authenic" antidote to the bloated excesses of hair metal, obliterating crass, teased-hair insincerity with righteous punk indignation. In Utero is the intrepid response to all the unwanted adulation, noisily confrontational and as caustic as a beaker of hydrochloric acid funneled down the gullet. the Freudian fury of rumbling opener "serve the servants" scorches the earth for the bulldozing "scentless apprentice" where Cobain massacres his throat over blitzkrieg guitar and Dave Grohl's panzer drums. the "loud-soft" dynamics of "heart-shaped box" and the sly allusion to "smells like teen spirit" on "rape me" acknowledge Nirvana's past before staggering off into more ominous territory, while Cobain self-deprecatingly equates his mental state to that of a deranged film starlet on "frances farmer will have her revenge on seattle." the eye of the hurricane quiet of the precocious "dumb" and the bittersweet "pennyroyal tea" counteract the sonic assault of the ironically titled "radio friendly unit shifter" and the unapologetic squall of "tourette's." "milk it" is the record's highpoint; a maelstrom of grotesque lyrics, schizophrenic guitar, mastodon-sized drums, and a creeping sense of impending doom. in the wake of Cobain's suicide, closer "all apologies" has become an elegy, and indeed the closing lyrical round of "all in all is all we are" [perhaps appropriately misconstrued as "all alone is all we are"] achieves a wistful aura of corporeal finality. this is an idiosyncratic record, off-putting and charming, defiant and droll, and an effective demonstration of why Nirvana is such a universally beloved band, regardless of critical hyperbole and misapplication.

teenage angst has paid off well, now i'm bored and old momenet: hi, yeah, i'm back. due to a computer death, multiple distractions, and my inability to complete any list-based project i start, i know it's been awhile [cue Staind song]. also, i was reluctant to write this entry. it's difficult to approach a group as "universally beloved" as Nirvana, and i didn't want to fall too much into the pitfall of focusing extensively on Cobain's death. it probably shouldn't have taken me three months to get around to it, but, oh well. i AM going to finish this project. even it takes years, damnit.

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!

2009-11-09T09:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T03:25:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-11-03T08:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-30T02:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-10-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-29T02:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-27T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-26T23:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-26T06:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-21T22:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-15T07:44:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-10-12T18:56:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-11T06:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-09T04:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-10-08T06:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-07T08:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-05T03:43:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T23:31:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-01T22:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-30T14:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-09-22T05:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-19T04:14:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-18T03:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-18T03:19:00.001-07:00

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!

it's so fucked i can't believe it: 791-795

2009-04-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

791. "connection"

elastica

1994

elastica

think of the crunched-out, self-aware artiness of post-punk/divide it by busy, overwrought '90s production/something is missing?/nothing is missing!. enough. yeah, this unabashedly and shamelessly wrenches the riff from "three girl rhumba" and transplants it to a field of gaudy studio effects and sickeningly clean distortion. but it's a raucous and exhilarating ride; justine frischmann snidely sneers and snots more swagger than a cocky college coed on cocaine. you make the connections, sailor. can't you hear both karen o and romeo void? cheap imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but this re-contextualizes that wily wire riff and kicks it to the stratosphere. you might be post-modern if...

elastica - connection

792. "perverted undertone"

prefuse 73

2003

one word extinguisher

whatever happened to guillermo! scott! heren!? he emerged early in the decade as indie hip-hop's equivalent to timbaland, inundating break beats with echo, reverb and flange; a funkier and less self-important DJ shadow. a track like "perverted undertone" thrives on its narcoleptic repetition and gnarled simplicity with a swelling, swirling, swallowing synth riff and muted, happy-go-lucky drums. this is music for late night designated driving; you silence your boozed, boisterous buddies with a "shut the fuck up" and a maxed-out sound system while the fading neon lights glisten to the beat.

prefuse 73 - perverted undertone

793. "freak scene"

dinosaur jr.

1988

bug

most of myths about '90s slackerdom arose from this ragtag crew of recalcitrant ruckus-bringin' RAWKers. j. mascis' nonchalant guitar hero pyrotechnics slam you to ground and knife you in the back - that solo is one for the ages and the masses and the records - while the half-mumbled rhymes about fuckin' up and not growin' up suffocate underneath the distortion and feedback. this is the undoubtedly the template for "grunge:" punk 'tude vs. classic rock chops. kurt cobain may still be alive strumming beat happening covers in a dank seattle coffeeshop if not for dinosaur jr.

dinosaur jr. - freak scene

794. "in the midnight hour"

wilson pickett

1965

in the midnight hour

oooo-wheeee wil-SON pic-KETT! pulse, pulse, thrust; pulse, pulse, thrust. woozy, bluesy, boozy horns that bluster and blare while the whiskey-breathed men glare at those ever so short skirts. ride it, ride it. this is quintessential (yep, used it aGAIN) stax/volt gritty throbbin' boppin' southern soul. it may not have the spit polish of motown or the smoothed-out silkiness of, say, sam cooke, but it reels and rolls and rollicks and repeats in on itself like a gesticulating elevator. who doesn't crave that giddy moment in the night between boring sobriety and puking, crying and/or awkward sexual politics?

wilson pickett - in the midnight hour

795. "silence"

portishead

2008

third

ohmigod, stranded in public with swirling insanity and an unbecoming sense of dread. the scathing keith levene guitar lacerations and tumultuous rumble of a rhythm section push you closer to the abyss and then there she is. beth gibbons - with all the world's terror, misery, heartache and chaos wrapped up in her warble - tempts you to jump. this isn't a self-congratulatory comeback or a desperate, cheap cash-in; this is the unmitigated uncertainty of twenty first century existence filtered through a pair of musicians who presumably should have floundered in a sea of muted beats, hushed vocals and pseudo morricone samples circa 1998. this is the perfect opening to what will be remembered as one of the defining albums of the decade.

portishead - silence

comme la vague irrésolue: 796-800

2009-02-09T21:52:00.000-08:00

796. "c30, c60, c90, go"

bow wow wow

1980

the best of bow wow wow

"i want candy," i know, i know, i know. and, yeah, exploitation all around and upside down. they weren't merely influenced by african music, they plagiarized and stole. machiavellian svengali scumbag douchebag malcolm mclaren didn't merely encourage the future members of bow wow wow to leave poor old adam ant, he forced them. did you know that frontgirl annabella lwin was only fourteen when all this going on? did you know that mclaren made her pose nude for an album cover? all right, all right. but this is the beginnings of the global agit-pop popularized by m.i.a. and her imitators. making mixtapes was the contemporary equivalent to illegally downloading music and this track is a big bony, protruding middle finger to record companies everywhere. copy, share, distribute, re-copy; what's the point in paying for music? and those amphetamine drums - ripped from recordings from burundi or not - threaten to bore a hole into your brain.

bow wow wow - c30, c60, c90, go

797. "kill for peace"

the fugs

1966

the fugs' second album

listen up hippie apologists and wannabes. take your flowers, take your lysergic acid diethylamide, take your free love, take your patchouli, take your beards and beads and bikes, take your acoustic guitars and drum circles. it's all meaningless without satire, self-deprecation, self-awareness, art. these guys epitomized the real counterculture of the 1960s. yeah, they did drugs, they grew beards, they played folk clubs and strummed guitars. but they didn't do it because it was fashionable, because it was cool, or to rebel against their parents. no, they did it because they didn't buy into the mass hypocrisy and rampant stupidity of western values and western society. "kill for peace" mocks and taunts and tears apart the contradictory ideologies that led to the vietnam war in particular, but could easily be applied to any conflict between nations that threaten lives., of course the phrasing is awkward, of course it's ramshackle and clunky. but it's hilarious ("the only gook an american can trust/is a gook that got his yellow head bust") and sharp as whittled twig. a spoonful of the funny helps the political go down in the most delightful way.

the fugs - kill for peace

798. "come into my world" (fischerspooner remix)

kylie minogue

2002

boombox

kylie knows how to pick her remixers. this was 2002, when electro-clash was the NEXT BIG THING and goofy, goopy geared fischerspooner were the icons, the eyeliner-ed faces, the big league. they add squelched out, heavy bass and spray reverb and echo all over kylie's vocals, transforming her into a spacey, icy, distant, sex and x fueled siren to the bleary-eyed rhythm machines thrusting violently on the dancefloor. the innuendo wasn't very subtle anyway, but the boys add some "uh, uh, uh, uh, uh" repetitions just slam the point into your dopamine-addled cerebrum. this is raunch for the digital age; groping, gyrating, grinding. it's meaningless, it's self-destructive, it makes you feel awful afterwards, but it's fun while it lasts. right?

kylie minogue - come into my world (fischerspooner remix)

799. "je t'aime... moi non plus" (feat. jane birkin)

serge gainsbourg

1969

jane birkin et serge gainsbourg

this is the only song covered by both donna summer and einsturzende neubaten, fo' sho. it attempts to replicate pillow talk between lovers, but this ain't sweet, this ain't no love story, this ain't no monogamy, this ain't no boyfriend/girlfriend. despite all the "i love you"s, this is no-strings-attached, casual, animalistic coitus. thrilling, disgusting, amazing, unsatisfying, soulless, gratifying. pervy ol' sergy captures all the mixed, conflicted emotions that come with that type of interaction. the strings and soft organ complement the melancholy of the melody. jane birkin's moans and gasps aren't sexy, they're desperate and hollow. the thrill of sex is replaced by pangs of regret and self-disgust. the french thought this was scandalous, i find it depressing and bittersweet.

serge gainbourg - je t'aime... moi non plus

800. "assassins"

lightning bolt

2003

wonderful rainbow

i admit to caring little about noise-rock. i admit to be a pansy who usually doesn't like to be constantly pummeled, pulverized and punished by what i'm subjecting my ears to. i admit to succumbing to belief in the probable misnomer that most noise-rock is aimless, repetitive, masturbatory "noodling." but i can also admit that everything time i play this track, i need to max out my volume. i need to feel the rumble, the chaos, the fervor, the NOISE. "assassins" may work for me due to the elements that least conform to the restrictions of the genre - brevity, rhythmic variation - but it's ultimately the brain-splattering build-up and the full utilization of the power, passion and potential of volume that keeps my eardrums red and my neck sore.

lightning bolt - assassins

finding it easier to laugh out loud: 801-825

2009-02-04T22:48:00.000-08:00

801. "loser"

beck

1993
mellow gold

this is that wild, wacky, woolly moment post-grunge, pre-"post-grunge" in mainstream popular rock music when a slack-jawed, slack-eyed, red-eyed transient troubadour influenced equally by mississippi john hurt and chuck d could crack the billboard top 10 with a self-deprecating ode to post-modern malaise. musical intertextuality, people. this is psych-folk-"stoner"-rap, when "alternative" signified something more than "pearl jam sound-alike." beck went on to greener, brighter, hipper pastures, but all the elements that made mr. hansen a vital figure (for a decade or so) are here. check the grab-bag musicality (props to the son house-d slide guitar grinding with shankar sitars) and impressionistic, "ironic" lyrics culled from the vast wasteland of american popular culture fighting in the back seat while beck's own incomparable nonchalant, detached charisma threatens to turn the whole damn car around.

beck - loser

802. "all i have to do is dream"

the everly brothers

1958
the definitive pop collection

this is "dream-pop" when elizabeth fraser was just a gleam in her daddy's eye. if the soft chiming guitar reverb doesn't melt your heart, don and phil's harmonies will. gee whiz! longing, fragility and hopelessness like this shouldn't belong in a number one POP SMASH. this tracks excels due its simplicity; there are no weepy strings nor a crassly brassed out bridge. no, it's just two good ol' country boys pining for a long lost love found only during REM sleep. i wonder if they were lucid dreamers?

the everly brothers - all i have to do is dream

803. "ghost town"

the specials

1981
the singles collection

the early 80s thatcherite united kingdom must have been a ridiculously unpleasant place to live, but it certainly inspired buckets of amazing music. this is the spooky, spacey soundtrack to unemployment, riots and throngs of pissed-off, disillusioned individuals. too much fighting, not enough work. too much starving, not enough dancing. the "yah-yah-yahs" during the chorus sound like rabid cats, the horns sound like laughing spirits and the whole thing sounds like it was recorded six feet under in a well, abandoned bunker or grave. the upbeat, exuberant, nostalgia-fueled bridge adds a nice contrast to the dirge-y dread of the rest of the track. this is music for lost souls and pissed-upon dreams.

the specials - ghost town

804. "over and over"

hot chip

2006
the warning

whatever. i don't care about any of your noisy punk or punky noise shit or your sprawling, proggy multi-tracked guitar-based indie rock or your bearded folk. i just want to cavort and gambol (yes!) maniacally, drunkenly and embarrassingly around the room to "dance" music made by and for nerdy, self-aware white dudes. the mantras are undeniably clever: "like a monkey with a miniature cymbal," "the smell of repetition really is on you," "k-i-s-s-i-n-g s-e-x-i-n-g c-a-s-i-o p-o-k-e y-o-u m-e i." hell yeah. hell you. 'ell you. tell you. the cowbells and handclaps are relentless, the synths soar and percolate and then there's that fuzzed-out bass (or maybe a detuned guitar?) underneath it all keeping the party going for hours. fuck your uptight posturing; dance, motherfuckers, dance.

hot chip - over and over

805. "shop around"

the miracles

1960
the ultimate collection

MAMA: stay away from whores and boozy floozies and trollops and tarts.

SMOKEY: but ma, i'm gonna be a singer.

MAMA: with all your travelin', you's a 'bound to do some trampin', but don't marry before you find a good, decent woman.

SMOKEY: but, ma, mr. gordy here says i'm gonna be a big star. he says i'm gonna save his record label.

MAMA: jus' don't let any hack singers steal your songs, boy.

captain and tennille, david archuleta, YOU DISAPPOINTED MAMA. for shame; go jump off a cliff, go drown in a river, go walk headlong into oncoming traffic. let's keep smokey's pure, smooth, honey-hammed voice sacred.

the miracles - shop around

806. "cheeseburger"

gang of four

1981
solid gold

hey there, american. how do you think the rest of the world perceives you? what or who do they associate with your culture and heritage? washington, lincoln, jefferson? twain, faulkner, hemingway? apple pie, baseball, hippie pussy? no: coke-a cola, lucky strikes and the golden, flashing, blinding arches. big food. fast food. cheeseburgers, cheeseburgers. the gang of the four sprightly lads from leeds are well regarded for their inflammatory political commentary and here jon king spews anti-capitalist rhetoric like a resurrected eugene v. debs. andy gill's guitar grins at you with melodic distortion. how could one band be so arty, politically engaged and musically brutal yet remain entirely accessible?

gang of four - cheeseburger

807. "walk on"

neil young

1974
on the beach

why didn't cantankerous ol' shakey want people to hear on the beach? it's one of his best and it opens with this tribute to being a cynical, bitter, detached individual. they may be talking shit, they may hate your guts, no one may like you, but fuck 'em, walk on. "walk on" isn't a messy, jammy affair like most of the rest of album. instead, it's a springy, jaunty, little zip of a tune with a typically youngian harmonic chorus and sputter-stop, chimey guitar. the man could squeeze so much emotion out of so few notes with such little technical ability. no wonder he influenced lydon and cobain, et al, et cetera, etouffee.

neil young - walk on

808. "cause = time"

broken social scene

2002
you forgot it in people

shoulda been a hip-hop song at this position. damnit, stephen, ya fucked up your own list, how do you expect to succeed in life? are you the cause of your own demise? be the cause. FUCK the cause. this is why broken social scene are one of the few "indie rock" bands that matter, that ooze relevance and reliability. tight, compacted verses with big ol' guitar hero instrumental break-downs. gradual build-up, orgasmic release. this is the sound of a congregation of dudes who know how/what/where/why to play. incendiary.

broken social scene - cause = time

809. "where did our love go?"

the supremes

1964
gold

holland-dozier-holland. ross-wilson-ballard. the funk brothers. could this holy motown triumvirate ever hit a sour, dour note? the supremes' first big hit. handclaps and footstomps. bells and chimes. saxophone break. heartbreak. woe and worry and loneliness. teenage love gained and teenage love lost. "burning, burning, yearning." hear how diana coos and pleas and begs you to stay, you heartless, cruel bastard of a jerk. how could anyone resist? fuck you, beatles. the supremes were the best pop band of the '60s.

the supremes - where did our love go?

810. "we've been had"

the walkmen

2002
everyone who pretended to like me is gone

saturn ion commericial; but what is this emotive, straining dylan wanna-be-like and this tinkly, rinky-dink toy piano? and what the fuck are these poignant, clever lyrics? life is full of let-downs, disappointments, hurt, pain and desolation. the american dream? "one day you'll change things for the better, boy. you'll be rich, the girls will be clamoring for your cock and the world is your oyster, go grab a bib." then you wake up, you're in your mid-twenties, fat, balding, friendless, jobless, as insecure and self-pitying as ever and you haven't gotten laid in six months. it's all lies, it's all jargon. we've been had. here you have it, third official SHOULD BE HIGHER designation from the listmaker.

the walkmen - we've been had

811. "picture book"

the kinks

1968
the village green preservation society

ray davies, you rascal, "a picture of you in your birthday suit." he's a sentimentalist at heart, obsessed with all things lost, forgotten and tossed away into the trash heap of memory and the passage of time. he could also write one hell of a pop song. listen to the interaction between the winding bassline and twisting guitar riff - consider yourself warned, green day. backing vocals, "scooby-dooby doo." debate how "selling out" threatens artistic integrity as much as self-righteousness dictates, but at least a semi-obscure kinks track is ingrained into the public consciousness due to a HP commercial. (THANKS KATRINA!!!!!!!!1111)

the kinks - picture book

812. "bees"

animal collective

2005
feels

it may sound like a repetitive, spaced-out harp-laden ambient track that lulls, lurches and levitates into oblivion. avey tare may sound like a caterwauling derelict. the vocal effects may seem misguided or laughable. but. But. BUT. after smoking a bowl. during the appropriate post-coital moment. "the bees, the bees, (lower) the bees, (lower) the bees, (incomprehensible muttering)" is the voice of god, of love, of understanding, of harmony, of unity with nature and the universe. i never bought into the the twin maxims that drugs and sex make music better until feels. thanks for altering my perspective, ac.

animal collective - bees

813. "chapel of love"

the dixie cups

1964
the complete red bird recordings

yay monogamy! yay marital bliss and domestic fulfillment! who came up with the band name? look at the other girl groups: shangri-la's, supremes, crystals. all sublimity, otherworldliness, purity. but, little paper receptacles in which kids spit and pee? c'mon. i mean, i know they're from louisiana, but, c'mon. "chapel of love" is more bluesy and swingy and jazzy than most contemporary girl-group tracks because 1) the girls were from naw owlins and 2) spector the rector wasn't heavily involved. but why'd ya have to go and ruin all our fun, bette?

the dixie cups - chapel of love

814. "fox on the run"

sweet

1975
desolation boulevard

all those flashy, trashy, seventies-obsessed "hipster" girls into blow, blowjobs and blow-drying must love this song. it's raucous, it's rowdy and it has an IQ of 80. but the hooks come faster than a frightened virgin. the bra is stuffed with squealing synths and big, crunchy, overdubbed glam guitars. peel off the panties and that explosive, ten miles high chorus slaps you across the jaw. this could make a mennonite buy into the decadent vaingloriousness of the rock and roll lifestyle.

sweet - fox on the run

815. "5 years"

bjork

1997
homogenic

artists as singular, as defiantly idiosyncratic and as unabashedly non compos mentis as bjork guomundsdottir are as rare as the steaks at applebee's. homogenic is her crowning achievement - a daunting juxtaposition of the organic and the synthetic. "5 years" waits patiently at the midpoint, playing a gameboy and ranting to itself about defective lovers and inept boyfriends. those hyper-digitized drums sound like something out of richard d. james' wet dreams. when bjork starts taunting and growling about cowards and the strings sweep in like the angel of death, the track achieves immortality in your memory.

bjork - 5 years

816. "rock & roll woman"

buffalo springfield

1967
again

here's some more mom-rock for ya. this is indeed the first collaboration between stephen stills and david crosby. this is indeed indicative of an enviable, intuitive grasp of song craft and melody. this is indeed full of pleasant harmonies and reverb-ed guitar. this is indeed unfortunately lacking any contribution from neil young. this is indeed an example of that blurry space between folk-rock and psychedelia. this is indeed why buffalo springfield were one of the best bands of their time. rest in peace, dewey martin.

buffalo springfield - rock & roll woman

817. "4"

aphex twin

1996
richard d. james album

why is it always the opening track that grabs and bags me the most effectively? it's time for a misty-eyed recollection: i was sixteen and had bought richard d. james on the recommendation of the rough guide to rock music. i popped the CD into my walkman and "4" proceeded to rip my feeble young mind apart. it sounded like metroid battling a hydraulic ram; aliens and industry, fantasy and labor. no one complicates the utopian promises of digitally-created music with such jarring, apocalyptic, dystopian sounds.

aphex twin - 4

818. "rise"

public image ltd.

1986
album/cassette/compact disc

hey, thanks, rules of attraction. even if he's a bombastic, overwrought, attention-whoring twat of a human being, john lydon remains an unmistakably compelling frontman and persona. that nagging, penetrative yowl may be buried underneath the murk of those enormous, shea stadium drums and steve vai's soaring guitars, but it's still as confrontational and demanding as always. even if he was attempting to "sell out" to gain mass appeal here, lydon was always too bizarre and too disorienting (check the self-contradicting lyrics about racial differences) to win the public's affection. steve vai? really?

public image ltd. - rise

819. "you ain't goin' nowhere"

the byrds

1968
sweetheart of the rodeo

i don't know, man. it took a lot of balls for such a popular, successful band to make such a drastic aesthetic shift. folksy whimsy to psychy whimsy to country whimsy. ooo-whee! it helps that they chose such a delightful dylan tune to kick off sweetheart of the rodeo. makes the pill easier to swallow, makes the hide easier to skin, makes the bed easier to wet. ooo-whee! dig those steel pedals, cowboy. and the clippity-cloppity drumming, pardner. genghis khan, what are you doing here, ya wacky barbarous heathen monster. ooo-whee!

the byrds - you ain't goin' nowhere

820. "michael a. grammar"

broadcast

2005
tender buttons

yeah, so i like music that sounds like video games. i grew up on rpgs and superscopes and extra mario mushrooms, what do you expect? is this an anti-dance song? "i hate that my feet are dancing so much." michael musta got trish all worked up and hot n' bothered and snot n' smothered. this track works because of the underlying current of dread and resignation. shiny happy synths wash out all the darkness and discomfort. let go!

michael a. grammar - broadcast

821. "negativland"

neu!

1972
neu!

it opens with a jackhammer. it's going to be noisy, it's going to be abrasive and it ain't gonna be a fun ride. but, michael rother's throbbing, pulsating, lub-dub lub-dub bass? and, a little somethin' somethin' called the "motorik" rhythm, courtesy the one and only klaus dinger? as white noise sweeps back and forth between your left and right headphones, that nasty rhythm section keeps on putting and puttering, goofing and golfing. and then, it stops. butthenit comes back, twice as fast and you brain goes wacko jacko attempting to keep up. kraut-rock, pshaw, scrimshaw. this is post-mechanical post-industrial post-rock before "industrial" even thought to exist as a genre.

neu! - negativland

822. "birthday"

junior boys

2003
last exit

JUNIOR BOYS: hey, instead of emphasizing the upbeat, jolly-roger drugssexrockn'roll side of dance music, let's be sad-sacks.

and it works. this track is about having your loved one miss your birthday. does it get any more pathetic? the synths are spooky and sparse, the bass is mechanical and off-putting and the drums sound like they've had a few. this is dance music for people who are too depressed to get up and prance and prattle around like the rest of the unruly, godforsaken dirty leviathan of a crowd.

junior boys - birthday

823. "follow the leader"

eric b. and rakim

1988
follow the leader

eric b. goes nutty with the production here with wet, sloppy, frothy bass, copious ghost story synth strings and chase scene sax breaks. it's sinister and unsettling and speaker-rattling and head-splitting. rakim, rakim, rakim. are you the best rapper of all time? maybe. maybe. no one before or since has been as smooth and smug and smart. you drop one-liners like breadcrumbs and your metaphors are ridiculously, brilliantly simple. "the tempo's a trail/the stage is a cage/the mic is a third rail." you smarmy bastard.

eric b. & rakim - follow the leader

824. "bunk trunk skunk"

be your own pet

2006
be your own pet

it may be all bluster and braggadocio and bullying, but is not a refreshing blast of retarded punk fury floating in a sea of plodding, prodding indie-rock? does it not make you wistful for long-lost, carefree youthful arrogance and flippant rebellion? nah? just breathe in and let jemina pearl scream into your earlobe and then maybe you'll get it. it may only have three chords and three brain cells, but it's impossible to ignore the opening line: i'm an independent motherfucker!

be your own pet - bunk trunk skunk

825. "fight test"

the flaming lips

2002
yoshimi battles the pink robots

cat stevens, kenny rogers, dumb "inspiring" lyrics, big dumb stageshow, overrated over-hyped band. but. enormous poignant singalong chorus, solid instrumentation and, uh, enormous poignant singalong chorus. i mean, objectively, the lips are a great band, but i've always been perturbed and disturbed, frightened and uptightened by their unabashed whimsy and sugary frivolity. this is undeniably an excellent track, though, because...ENORMOUS POIGNANT SINGALONG CHORUS.

the flaming lips - fight test

try to find where you are inside of my head: 826-850

2009-01-22T12:15:00.000-08:00

826. "i wanna be sedated"

the ramones

1978
road to ruin

for whatever reason, this is the ramones' most well-known song. right? i mean, "blitzkrieg" has "hey! ho! let's go!" but this one has "bam, bam, bam-bam, bah-bam, bam, bam-bam!" maybe it's so renowned because of the lifting chord changes and the hopelessly helplessly bored n' dissatisfied n' freaked out so much that i need pills and booze and weed to get me through the mundanity of everyday existence lyrics. ("mundanity" is a word, damnit! look it up, blogger!) the ramones were always cartoonish and dorky, but incredibly affective whenever they hinted at the darkness underneath the veneer.

the ramones - i want to be sedated

827. "dance to the music"

sly & the family stone

1968
dance to the music

this then? this is not a song. this is noise, static, musical masturbation. this is not a song, in the ordinary sense of the word. no, this is a castrated jam session, a gob of spit in the face of pop, a kick in the pants to structure, verse-chorus-verse, melody, harmony, chord progression...what you will. sly stone will sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but he will sing. he will sing while you croak, he will GET UP AND DANCE TO THE MUSIC over yr dirty, rotten, festering corpse.

sly & the family stone - dance to the music

828. "keep the car running"

arcade fire

2007
neon bible

token buzzwords used to describe the arcade fire (specifically neon bible era arcade fire): bombastic, overwrought, pretentious, springsteen, sodomized. they seek to make grandiose, BIG music with sweeping influence using all-encompassing political and emotional rhetoric. this was a really charming affect when they were a bunch of kids using dinky instruments and shoddy production techniques and not a bunch of older kids using real instruments and professional techniques. thus, many critics were repelled by neon bible's righteous musical grandiloquence. whatever. i dig the lilting mandolin and hectic undertones in this track. so what if they sound like they're trying to parrot springsteen? 'bout time he got some indie recognition!

arcade fire - keep the car running

829. "white rabbit"

jefferson airplane

1967
surrealistic pillow

like "fortunate son," "all along the watchtower" and several other tracks from the era, "white rabbit" has lost a lot of its potency from superfluous use in films, television, et cetera. it's the go-to "acid trip" song. and it has inspired more stoner high school kids to proclaim that alice in wonderland "is about drugs, man!" than necessary. but. i could give less of a fuck about hippies, lsd, the generation gap or whatever else this song is supposedly about. one word: crescendo. by the time the drums start cascading, that snaky bassline twists in on itself and starts to eat its own tail and grace slick starts screaming "FEED YOUR HEAD!" you know all the schlocky hippie sentiment and "flower power" has been completely obliterated.

jefferson airplane - white rabbit

830. "ladyflash"

the go! team

2004
thunder lightning strike

the aughties has inspired a lot of musical synthesis; the infinite options and easy access provided by file-sharing ultimately means that many different people are listening to many different styles and forms of music and are absorbing and reinterpreting these styles and forms in many different ways. thus, a white guy from england can combine old-school hip-hop beats with kitchen-sink soul production and get a black girl to do cheerleader chants over the concoction, and voila!, he's pitchforked and playing musical festivals on both sides of the atlantic. of course, it wouldn't work if tracks like "ladyflash" weren't filled with warmth.

the go! team - ladyflash

831. "the mountain low"

palace music

1995
viva last blues

who doesn't want to fuck a mountain? one of the more compelling aspects of the bearded conundrum that is will oldham is his unabashedly blatant expressions of awkward sexuality. don't be creeped out, little one, just give in to the soothing instrumentation and let bonnie billy's off-key warble send you to a place where sex, nature, love and god all merge together in one entangled, gesticulating mess.

palace music - the mountain low

832. "academy fight song"

mission of burma

1980
signals, calls, and marches

too herky-jerky and off-kilter to be punk, too boston and too dirty proletariat to fit in with the arty fucks at cbgb's, too ahead of their time to be "alternative," mission of sperma remains america's quintessential post-punk band. this is their ass-kickin', mind-stimulatin', young n' hotshot debut single. it's cerebral, but anthemic; intense, but catchy. every arty-punky band to follow in the irish wake took notice of this dynamic.

mission of burma - academy fight song

833. "mikey rocks"

the cool kids

2007
the bake sale

welcome to late aughties indie hip-hop. enough backpack rapping, enough self-conscious self-aggrandizing self-righteousness, enough afro-centrism and afros. let's just wear gold chains and do blow like the big shots, but do it ironically. "i don't use bad grammar, so please excuse this/i just tryin' to let niggaz know who i is." that minimalist beat is a monster, mikey rocks' rhymes are droll and slyly playful and by the time that synth shot appears in the last verse, you know these kids ain't just a gimmick.

the cool kids - mikey rocks

834. "take five"

the dave brubeck quartet

1959
on time

HOLY SMELLING SHIT! dave brubeck is still alive? and still playing shows? talk about longevity. talk about staying and playing power. really though, this track isn't about that relentless piano. it's sort of about about joe morello's octopus drumming and the wicky-wicky-wack syncopation (the "five" in the title is the "5" in 5/4 time, gentle people). but mostly, majorly and primarily, it's about paul desmond's mind-burning saxophone riff. jazz may be all complex and intellectualized, but that sax riff is just as infectious as any contemporary pop vocal melody. see, jazz, that's why no one REALLY likes you anymore. we can appreciate you, we like you in small doses, we like you in smoky, boozy clubs, but you're just no fun anymore. i think we should see other people. oh, hey phil spector. hey beatles. hey zimmerman.

the dave brubeck quartet - take five

835. "kill the poor"

dead kennedys

1980
fresh fruit for rotting vegetables

the spiritual and musical heir to the fugs' "kill for peace," i'm guessin'. i don't give a fuck about american "hardcore" music. black flag has always come across as juvenile and BOUGIE to me. and i avoid eye contact whenever skate-punk walks past me on my way to school. but. jello biafra's wit, caustic sarcasm and ballsiness elevates the dead kennedys above the rest of the muck, at least on fresh fruit for rotting vegetables. "kill the poor" has an interesting introduction; it would be an affective anti-ballad if it didn't devolve into punky-ritalin chaos and repetition. such is the charm of a self-consciously unsophisticated form of music, i guess.

dead kennedys - kill the poor

836. "long distance call"

phoenix

2006
it's never been like that

have you ever been stranded and wasted in a foreign country with only a minimal amount of local currency in tow? i haven't really, but i imagine it'd sound a lot like "like distance call." a steady lull of a drumbeat and wah-synth washes and chimey guitar strums and thomas mars' brokenhearted broken english croon striving to find comfort in that disemboded voice oceans away through the maze of wires, machines and computers. god the bless the power of communication and god damn it.

phoenix - long distance call

837. "no action"

elvis costello & the attractions

1978
this year's model

maybe the buddy holly glasses were wound too tightly across his computer programmed-out face, but the other elvis was a pissed off, disillusioned, frothing-at-the-mouth angry young man on this year's model. maybe i've always been struggling with disillusionment issues myself, but this incarnation of elvis costello has struck me as exponentially more interesting than the solid golden oldies lovin' and imitatin' geek of the early 80s and whatever he became after that. "no action" is one of those opening tracks that defines the mood and tone and aesthetic sensibility of the entire album: cathartic black and literate yet contradictory punkish fury. i mean, "i don't want to kiss you, i don't want to touch."

elvis costello & the attractions - no action

838. "bandages"

hot hot heat

2002
make up the breakdown

there was a time between my "musical enlightenment" at age 13 and high-speed internet, pitchfork and easy access to everything at age 18 when i still had to resort to antiquated methods of discovering "new" (as in current, contemporary and of the now) new music: radio, television, friends and "what the fuck was that?" moments at department stores. "bandages" is an example of the latter day saints. it leapt out at me like a ferocious, snotty-nosed ocelot from the barely audible background music while i was CD browsing at a target back in aught three (or two, maybe). simple parts - rowdy, searing organ, shout-along, repetitious chorus and a near-end song break-down - make a satisfying whole. even if i never did listen to any other song off of make up the breakdown - which i indeed bought that day. suggestive selling, yes!

hot hot heat - bandages

839. "crying"

roy orbison

1961
the essential roy orbison

that voice. that tremulous, defeated vulnerable yet enormously "operatic" voice. that build-up. soft brushed-out drum rolls, piano fills and hints of strings leading into orchestral crashing and tom pounding. and that final note. by god, that final note. i hated roy orbison for the longest time because of that schlocky, skeezy sad-schmuck fest known as "oh, pretty woman," but singles like "crying" defy any easy categorization. eerie darkness lies hidden underneath the sentimental veneer of many a "golden oldie," and "crying" may be one of the most otherworldly. silencio.

roy orbison - crying

840. "still d.r.e." (feat. snoop dogg)

dr. dre

1999
2001

the woozy, rollicking, stoned-as-hell west coast sense of liberation found in dre's earlier g-funked work is absent here. this is unmelodious, repetitive and, aside from snoop's inimitable drawl, lacking any semblance of "soul." this is harsh, mainstream gangsta rap for the new millennium. sure, public enemy and the bomb squad brought atonality and discordance to rap production a decade earlier, but this is mainstream. every car speaker in every neighborhood - inner-city, suburban or rural - blared dre's 2001 in the fall of 99. everyone heard it and its influence is traceable in rap's development throughout the aughties. if dre hadn't helped make the g-funk sound - which he himself created - unfashionable with tracks like "still d.r.e.," the neptunes, timbaland, et cetera, probably wouldn't have been as ubiquitous.

dr. dre (feat. snoop dogg) - still d.r.e.

841. "waterloo"

abba

1974
the definitive collection

this is abba before the disco sheen, before transnational success and inter-band dramatic tension. this is abba fresh-faced, full of youthful vim and vigor, pith and vinegar, longitude and latitude. if the raucously energetic chorus, complete with handclaps and saxophone, doesn't sweep you off your feet and send you clamoring towards the nearest chapel to commit to a life-long love affair with benny, bjorn, agnetha and anni-frid, then i don't know what to tell ya. and if you still can't embrace the pleasures and pop glory that is abba, in this day and age, when dogs piss on rockism's grave, then maybe you should go listen to "real music," like, uh, kt tunstall or something. i mean, she writes her own songs and plays her own instruments, right?!?!

abba - waterloo

842. "no children"

the mountain goats

2002
tallahasse

call him histrionic all you want, john darnielle is one of the most effective and evocative lyricists i've ever stumbled across. "no children" captures the moment of complete dissolution in a self-destructive marriage; the lyrics are bitter, tragic and maybe a little bit self-deprecatingly self-aware ("i hope you die/i hope we both die"). the track may lose some of darnielle's trademark one-channel guitar n' voice rawness because it is a full-band arrangement. nevertheless, the piano riff emphasizes the frenetic, hopeless urgency of the lyrics. the scariest thing? this can't rightly be considered a "break-up" song: "you are coming down with me/hand in unlovable hand."

the mountain goats - no children

843. "one nation under a groove"

funkadelic

1978
one nation under a groove

ready or not, here comes the supposedly "rock"-orientated funkadelic with a massive, hook-filled disco jam. this is such a gaudy, full track; it has all the right elements: trashcan percussion, handclaps, chicken scratch guitar, rumbly synth-bass, moog-y swells and sprangs, bells and fucking whistles. and, as with any george clinton project, as many plays on the word "funk" as possible (get it? they say "funk" instead of "fuck," get it?). it doesn't even have an instrumental break. it's just eight minutes of ecstatic, coked-out exuberance and exhilaration.

funkadelic - one nation under a groove

844. "here's your future"

the thermals

2006
the body, the blood, the machine

it's about god, it's about christ, it's about the hypocrisy of organized religion. it's a screed, an attack, a potshot, a searing indictment of religious determinism. fuck new testament benevolence; god is unfair, he's mean and he's a dick. too brash, bold and rambunctious to be classified among their portland brethren, but too articulate and literate for the "punk" tag, the thermals ride a wave of snarling feedback into your conscience.

the thermals - here's your future

845. "steam and sequins for larry levan"

matmos

2006
the rose has its teeth in the mouth of the beast

yeah, that matmos. "amplified crayfish" and "liposuction" matmos. "steam and sequins" is hallucinatory paean to post-disco pre-AIDS new york and the legendary DJ/club owner/icon/hipster in the title. matmos ditches most of the musique concrete experimentation - though there are still a lot of fucked-up noises on this track - to make something resembling an actual dancefloor hit. it's not even all that difficult to imagine this as the soundtrack to last call at the paradise garage as all the sweaty, discombobulated bodies slowly down that final crown and coke and smoke one more cigarette before venturing into the great unknowable outside the vaunted doors.

matmos - steam and sequins for larry levan

846. "houses of the holy"

led zeppelin

1975
physical graffiti

i know, i know, i know, i know. classic rock radio has beat this one to death. radio programming does the devil's dance daily on the grave of zeppelin's credibility; a "stairway" for every hour! even if they represent all that is bloated, preposterous and stagnant about the early 1970s and everything that is potentially damaging about the specialization and deification (the term "rock god" still makes me cringe) of musicians, i still like led zeppelin. and i really like them when they don't try to be mystical, or funky, or rootsy, or bluesy. this is a pop song. this is love, weed and sex. this is trashy, but not scummy. this is dorky innuendo, but not "fuck me." when they weren't attempting to be anything other than guys making good, solid rock n' roll music, the zep was pretty on target.

led zeppelin - houses of the holy

847. "kidz are so small"

deerhoof

2007
friend opportunity

i found satomi matsuzaki's voice incredibly grating at first too. intonation 2005. i was hot, i was miserable, i was heartbroken. obvs. not the best condition to be exposed to this wonderfully idiosyncratic band with a cute 'lil AZN frontwoman sing-songing about pandas and flowers. but i've since embraced deerhoof with open heart and legs. "kidz" is my favorite track off friend opportunity. why? oh, the usual deerhoof tricks: stop-starts and other rhythm complexities, 'twee lyrics and vocal performance, odd effects. but did i mention that it has a ROBOT?

deerhoof - kidz are so small

848. "it takes two"

rob base and DJ ez rock

1988
it takes two

yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! you think it's simple to make a rap beat? yeah! could you make something this infectious, this catchy, this incessant like DJ ez rock? whoo! you think it's simple to rap? yeah! could throw down as much self-conscious braggadocio as rob base? whoo! yeah! whoo! yeah! whoo!

rob base and DJ ez rock - it takes two

849. "let's get sick"

2003
afro finger & gel

if you don't like your dance music all fucked-up, abrasive, distorted, frightening and ominous, you best stay away from this monster. if the unrelenting drum massacre and harsh synth yelps don't send you trembling to your parents' basement, the broken-english, digitized vocals screaming "FUCK THAT!" will. it starts off with a siren; you've been warned, compadre.

mu - let's get sick

850. "the night they drove old dixie down"

the band

1969
the band

although they might have influenced every bearded, stoned monstrosity with an acoustic guitar and a harmony in the head to romanticize the antebellum american south (i'm looking at you, fleet foxes, ya hacks), the band at least knew how to write a song and "dixie" is one of their prettiest. the lyrics are a bit stultifying and academic, but the self-pity, resignation and quiet fury in levon helm's soaring voice more than compensate. the potency of the track isn't even diluted by the whole canadian thing (sorry, had to mention it).

the band - the night they drove old dixie down

i got my head checked by a jumbo jet: 851-875

2008-12-23T11:50:00.000-08:00

851. "hate it or love it" (feat. 50 cent)

the game

2005
the documentary

wait, did the avalanches produce this or something? the syrupy 70s strings and dopey bells n' chimes add an element of shockingly sweet sentimentality uncommon in mainstream hip and the hop. we never really got to know "rap's mvp" because he never really was all that compelling, but spotlight-stealing fiddee delivers one of the best non-sequiturs ever: "daddy ain't around, probably out committin' felonies/my favorite rapper used to sing 'ch-check out my melodies.'"

the game (feat. 50 cent) - hate it or love it

852. "don't let's start"

they might be giants

1986
they might be giants

oh, just another example of a song that got ingrained into my brain after i saw the video on mtv back when i was a wee lad still wearing green day underwear. it's been a buzzing gnat; nagging, don't don't don't let's start in the recesses of my psyche. it would get caught on repeat in my head and i had no way to allievate the desire to hear it. i finally downloaded it illegally TEN YEARS later, but it's still there, nasally awkward voice and overwrought 80's production and all. such is the value - and obnoxiousness - of a expertly-crafted pop hook.

they might be giants - don't let's start

853. "lost highway"

mekons

1985
fear and whiskey

oh, shut up you wacky post-punkers. like you know anything about highways or ramblin' and gamblin' and bein' like a rollin' stone or corn whiskey or juke joints and loose honky-tonked women. but, hanky-panky's version barely missed the 1950 cutoff date, so, mekons it had to be. fake and affected, yeah, but, it's all about the song - one of the greatest encapsulations of american, bleary-eyed wanderlust and the hopelessness of displacement and the loss of the foundations of family and community. is the life of sin and booze and sex and cards worth losing your VERY SOUL?

mekons - lost highway

854. "ankle injuries"

fujiya & miyagi

2006
transparent things

i actually really liked this band, where'd they go? wait, they released an album this year and no one cared? wait, they're just another overhyped, underdeveloped pitchforked band? at least they synthesized their influences better than most. they even chant the name of the band in the opening, yes! the panning effects tautly tease your perceptions while the throb of the bass challenges you to not move yr wretched feet. the motorik rhythm could sing me the phonebook.

fujiya & miyagi - ankle injuries

855. "hang on sloopy"

the mccoys

1965
hang on sloopy: the best of the mccoys

the guy who played guitar on most of weird al's albums is in this group. this is a excellent example of a defining '60s one hit wonderment - a bunch of dopey amateur teenage musicians from a small town in the middle of ass-raping nowhere stumble upon an engaging set of chord changes and slop it all off with a grandstanding, monster of a chorus and achieve national recognition. there's no substance here, just shake it shake it shake it [dancing = sex, by the way, in case you don't know, in case you live under the rock of ages]. sloopy will be the name of my firstborn.

the mccoys - hang on sloopy

856. "nutmeg" (feat. rza)

ghostface killah

2000
supreme clientele

ghost's rhymes are so dense and intricate, i don't even know what the fuck he's talking about most of the time. but, as any good intellectualized rap music fan will tell ya, he's so po-mo and joycean. you need footnotes to fully grasp the complexity of his wordplay and allusions - (i don't know if i came up with that thought myself or if i stole it from somewhere). seriously, check out the lyrics. ghost's kaleidoscopic schizophasia is complemented by a soulful yet frenetic rza beat dependent upon doppler effect strings. this is the beginning of ghostface's escalation from second-tier to the pinnacle of the twenty-first century wu empire.

ghostface killah (feat. rza) - nutmeg

857. "the boxer"

simon & garfunkel

1969
bridge over troubled water

this is a quintessential example of an overlong outro diluting the impact of an otherwise affective track. i call bullshit on most of paul and art's output, but hal blaine's drum snaps just shot me in the brain. is that a jew's harp? oh wait, "bass harmonica." paul simple simon the pieman's lyrics have always struck me as embarassingly pretentious and pansified and muted and diluted. more than anyone, i think he opened the doors for the likes of james taylor and any other castrated jackass with a vomit-inducing song in the heart and delicate, callous-less guitar strummin' fingers. regardless, there's some hellfire and creepy undertones here and again, those drum gingersnaps make me quiver in the liver.

simon & garfunkel - the boxer

858. "lex"

ratatat

2006
classics

i'm mc vag and i'm here to say/i rap to this shit everyday: the beats are rude like your attitude/the bass is hot like a witch's twat/the drums are loud and it make me proud/to say, hey, fucker, get off my cloud/you know no boys are allowed/i'll piss on you like you're the turin shroud/because i'm mc vag and i'm here to stay/i'll shoot you down anyway. if ratatat can inspire a white girl from the 'burbs of chicago to freestyle, it must be some DOPE, ILL, NASTY boisterous electro-mash.

ratatat - lex

859. "sweet jane"

cowboy junkies

1988
the trinity session

ssee, now, you just don't listen, mott the hoople. i TOLD you that "sweet jane" is a SAD song. you don't need to glam it up more. you don't need to rock it out. it doesn't need two guitars and an extended intro, lou, you rock and roll animal. it just needs a sweet, sad lonely voice and some bare instrumentation. isn't that better? doesn't that heighten the emotional vulnerability and poignant hopelessness inherent in the original song? the best velvet underground covers emphasize the melancholy and downplay the raucousness. this will haunt your dreams, evil mothers and role-players.

cowboy junkies - sweet jane

860. "da doo ron ron"

the crystals

1963
back to mono (1958-1969)

his name was bill? really? next thing you'll tell me is that "da doo run run" is code for "uncouth, dirty, premarital, unprotected sex." i mean, it has to be, right? his name was bill and then it was all "da doo run run." how influential is phil spector? production ultimately makes or breaks or fakes a track and he arguably started that trend. pare away the wall o' sound and this would have been a pleasantly inoffensive pop track. but then add a percussive, pounding piano, snarling horns, and a thwacking, smacking stop 'n start teasing drum beat and it turns into something gigantic and pulversizng. phil spector, you may be crazy, but you knew how to make a pop record. and then he hit you and it probably felt like a kiss.

the crystals - da doo r0n ron

861. "you are a runner and i am my father's son"

wolf parade

2005
apologies to the queen mary

under certain conditions, those gargantuan drums, the herky-jerky unrelenting rhythm and the incoherent yelping constitute something incredibly ominous and threatening. spencer krug is among the most talented indie-schmock songwriters, but i've never been able to delve into his work - mainly because i'm wary of his unrestrained proggy influences. [his other band, sunset rubdown, is an absolute snorefest live too; literally, i was nodding off to incomprehensible noodling and jammed-out ballyhoo]. regardless, this is a steel-toed boot in the drywall opening track; it'll knock you out of your see, feel, hear, smell, taste.

wolf parade - you are a runner and i am my father's son

862. "the humpty dance"

digital underground

1990
sex packets

humpty hump coulda been big; a contender; a real force to be reckoned with. he had the wit of chuck d., the refinement of rakim and the whimsical spirit of luther campbell. he had his own dance, he appeared in a dan akyroyd film and he was poised to rule the rap world. then a young machiavellian upstart named too pack stole the limes from the light and humpty-pronounced with an "umpty"- was reduced to being a forgotten novelty act, a mere one-hit wunderkind. it's a rough game out there, folksies. learn from his mistakes and stay away from lumpy oatmeal and burger king bathrooms.

digital underground - the humpty dance

863. "melody day"

caribou

2007
andorra

see, everybody loves trying to sound like 1968! even name-changing electronic musicians. with all those sleigh bells, you'd think there would be chestnuts roasting on an open fire at grandmother's house through the woods (his name is a synonym for "reindeer" yar har har har har!!11). dan snaith unashamedly stacks layer upon layer of chimes, woodwinds, horns and percussion, resulting in a dizzying amalgam of psychedelic whimsy and chamber-pop pathos. this may be "record collecter pop," but it swirls and soars and pirouettes gracefully around your jaded, disaffected ears.

caribou - melody day

864. "the windmills of your mind"

dusty springfield

1969
dusty in memphis

this sounds like anomaly; the lyrics are too clever (simile after simile after simile!), the structure too complex and labyrinthian, the production too string and castanet laden, dusty's voice too sultry (but not "soulful.") surely this is from the 50s, or even the early 60s. surely this wasn't released the same year of woodstock and the proliferation of the moog. this represents a dying gasp of a declining method of musical production. the paradigm would shift irrevocably and this sound would soon be labelled archaic, moldy, and retrograde.

dusty springfield - windmills of your mind

865. "needles in the camel's eye"

brian eno

1975
here come the warm jets

i hear the roots of shoegazing in the pounding rhythm and repetitive, heavily-layered guitars. i hear every indie rock vocalist in the yelps and strained notes. i hear the anachronistic detuned, twanged-out surf rock guitar in the instrumental bridge battling the ramshackle noise underneath. i hear the fake-out and stop starts toying with your expectations. i hear YET ANOTHER opening track that captures the power and emotional dynamism of the entire album. i hear bryan ferry's heart snapping in two like a piece of glossy plastic - hey brian can do fine on his own! i hear the most influential rock musician (/producer) of the 1970s.

brian eno - needles in the camel's eye

866. "sunshowers" (diplo mix)

m.i.a.

2004
piracy funds terrorism, vol. 1

it's pretty minimalist: the "push it" drums, a throbbing mechanical bass, occasional sound effects or synth swells and then maya's off-kilter rhymes. if the album version is actually kind of pleasant, diplo's mix (that actually showed up on the piracy funds terrorism mixtape released before arular) heightens the ominous, drugged-out undertones of the refrain (sampled from a group called "dr. buzzard's original savannah band") and draws attention to maya's contradictory, politically-charged words (which usually get obscured by the beats).

m.i.a. - sunshowers (diplo mix)

867. "jambalaya (on the bayou)"

hank williams

1952
40 greatest hits

all right, so maybe this is a gross bastardization of cajun music and maybe that faux-patois is kind of grating (and both grammatically and politically incorrect), but i'll be damned as all hell if this isn't the most fun hank ever seemed to have on record. it's really a throwback to the old, weird america: the distinctions among roots music - "blues," "country," "cajun," et cetera - in the twenties and thirties were blurred, if not completely non-existent. a few decades later williams recognized the playfulness of the sound of fiddles and accordions and slapped it to record. "son of a gun, we'll have big fun," indeed.

hank williams - jambalaya (on the bayou)

868. "maybe partying will help"

minutemen

1984
double nickels on the dime

the bass pops and chicken scratch guitar have always sounded more red hot chili peppers than gang of four to me, but this ode to existential dread is more clever than anything anthony kiedis ever vomited out. what else is there to do when faced with the unbearable nothingness and the perils and tribulations of being a lonesome, isolated individual? let's get drunk, let's do drugs, let's have sex, let's just have fun, damnit. if you stop and wonder why, you'll just depress yourself, bro. hedonism is better than disillusionment.

minutemen - maybe partying will help

869. "too drunk to dream"

the magnetic fields

2008
distortion

only stephin merritt could construct a "post-modern drinking song." we don't drink because it eases the pain of loneliness or heartbreak, or because it really makes everything seem better. we drink because it's what we think lonely, heartbroken people are supposed to do. he details the dicotomy in the opening: sober - misery, idiocy, ennui, spiritual death VS. shitfaced - excitement, revelation, clarity, strength. then the hyper-distorted instrumentation catapults in, causing you to lose your balance and fall into a trashcan. is booze the only way to alleviate the cruelty of all the heartless bastards? no, but that's what we all want to think when we're downing the umpteenth shot of jameson while the room swirls and prances.

the magnetic fields - too drunk to dream

870. "kill you"

eminem

2000
the marshall mathers lp

what ever happened to eminem? wasn't he constructed as the aughties quintessential self-contradicting, "complex" yet mass-appealing pop persona? did kanye usurp his position? most of marshal mathers' work sounds incredibly dated to these old ears, but the exaggerated, slapstick-y and self-aware references to violence, sex, drugs make "kill you" his defining track - even if he does come off as self-aggrandizing. Vile, venomous, volatile, vein, Vicodin, vrrin, VRRIN, VRRIN!

eminem - kill you

871. "song 2"

blur

1997
blur

so it's the summer of 1997 and a young, impressionable stephen brown is starting to really get into mainstream music for the first time ever. before this, he had primarily relied on his parents for musical stimulus, but as a big badass ten year old going into the fifth grade, he had shifted his focus from gift mixtapes and weird al to "modern rock radio" and mtv. he now makes fun of most of the bands he enjoyed at the time - matchbox 20, third eye blind, sugar ray - but how can he explain his still-lingering fascination with blur's "song 2" he developed at that early age? it's an anomaly; a british deconstruction of american indie-rock with non sequitur lyrics and a big massive, shout-along chorus. i remember it being played at pool parties, basketball games, skating parties, ymcas, tae-kwon-do dojos and any other public center of midwestern mundanity conceivable. most americans still only think of blur as the "woo-hoo!" band.

blur - song 2

872. "i'm a slave 4 u"

britney spears

2001
britney

whether you care at all about brit brit as pop icon and immerse yourself in all the tabloid sensationalism and no panty upskirting is yr prerogative, but, uh, the neptunes? williams and hugo could have conquered the world. this sweaty, bacchic track was crucial in the shift of focus within pop music - at least among critics and nerdy fans - from performer to producer. "rockists" - a younger me included - would have balked at the idea of genuinely digging a britney spears song when she was in pigtails and a schoolgirl outfit. but then the neptunes came and surrounded her with synth swells, handclaps and crazy beats and, voila, a new way of thinking about pop music.

britney spears - i'm a slave 4 u

873. "i had too much to dream last night"

the electric prunes

1966
nuggets

for me, it's all about the oscillating backwards guitar. "psychedelia" may have acquired negative connotations due to dirty, rotten hippies, but those fucked-up guitar sounds piled on top of an otherwise conventional rock song was pretty "mind-expanding" and brilliant. later these dudes got involved with david axelrod, who diluted their rawness and grit. there's a reason why this is the opening track on nuggets; this captures all the insanity and uncertainty of the mid-'60s while still managing to RAWK like metamorphic.

the electric prunes - i had too much to dream last night

874. "pogo"

digitalism

2007
idealism

the first mix CD from a significant other inevitably leads to sentimental attachments to songs you otherwise may have ignored or even actively disliked. such is the beauty of sharing music; it establishes a completely new context for the consumption of music and transform how you would engage with it. track is a fairly innocuous dance-rocky rave-up, but my memory of it will be permanently linked to not only that all-important first mix CD from an ex-girlfriend but also her cute commentary on the lyrics: "they sound like a crest ad campaign!"

digitalism - pogo

875. "suite: judy blue eyes"

crosby, stills and nash

1969
crosby, stills and nash

my mother knows more than me about the technicalities of music. she can tell if someone is singing off-key, i can't. in terms of reading music, she's a college graduate and i'm still in first grade. even if "mom's ipod" usually inspires a groan from me and my sister during car trips, i usually respect her taste in music because i think that she understands and experiences it in a completely different manner than i do. she holds some obnoxious boomer attitudes - "a synthesizer isn't a real instrument" and "rapping doesn't take any talent, it's just talking" are the most grating - but i do value her opinions on music. ANYWAY, the point is, she has inspired me to appreciate songs i normally would dismiss. without the influence of my mother, i probably would denigrate the lyrics to this track as hippie sentimentality, criticize the four-part structure as pretentious and casually toss it into the "whatever" pile. but, because i've talked to her about it in those aforementioned car trips, i recognize and appreciate aspects to the song that i otherwise would have missed, particularly the complexities of the harmonies. "doo, doo doo, dep-doo, doo doo doo doo."

crosby, stills and nash - suite: judy blue eyes