^ Adam Sandler on SNL as rock music nerd Gil Graham.* ^
Months ago, after I had finished a story, I searched for what to do next in one of my notebooks. The worthiest idea was a piece titled “Good Names, Bad Names.”
Thunderballz is a good name for an AC/DC cover band, I wrote. Gaylord is a bad name to give a homophobic baby.
And that's as far as I got.
I decided to compose a list of my 20 favorite albums to keep my mind active. Plus I'm into that obsessive, subjective shit.
Here are the rules: I won't include live albums, regardless of how great I think they are, because they so often encompass eras or entire career-spans of musicians. The merits of a single recording session shouldn't be compared alongside of a live performance with multiple sessions to pick and choose from for optimum material. For that reason, I will only type that I'd love to gush about Pearl Jam's Live on Two Legs, Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense, and Johnny Cash's concert at Folsom Prison, but stubborn logic prevents me from doing so in this forum.
In the interest of providing a more diverse list, I will refrain from including more than one album by a band or musician. That is why I won't blab about my fondness for Beck's Guero, Spoon's Gimme Fiction, or a handful of worthy candidates recorded by the Beatles and Radiohead.
Greatest hits albums? Get the fuck out of here. The audacity!
Apologies, ladies, for arranging such a sausage-fest in my highly subjective celebration of terrific music. Can I be forgiven if I insist that, “There is something wrong with me, not you”? I doubt it. That line didn't go over well in bed, either.
Also, I will, perhaps, give disproportionate credit to the songwriters involved and therefore diminish the contributions of the other musicians in a band. Such biases may offend bassists and drummers but seem like a natural conceit to storytellers who sing in voices people love to hear.
20. Jets to Brazil—Orange Rhyming Dictionary (1998): The countdown commences with its least acclaimed entry. Wikipedia, for instance, lends little more than insight into the gag behind the album's title. Nothing rhymes with “Orange.” Get it?!
In 1995, a multitude of haughty punks betrayed and disparaged Jawbreaker—JTB frontman Blake Schwarzenbach's former band. The backlash from purists arose when Jawbreaker capitalized on their fringe-success by signing with a major label. In light of the mainstreaming of punk that was led by bands like Green Day, genre-elitists reckoned it unforgivable for a group to accept a pay raise for making great music. Disenchanted fans literally turned their backs on the band throughout Jawbreaker's final concerts. It was a misguided condemnation of the trio who had delivered the masterful 24-Hour Revenge Therapy, a denouncement of grown men who still loved punk rock but had become tired of sleeping on couches and riding vast distances from gig-to-gig in a ramshackle van. Come on, punk-kids in 1995. There is a difference between ideals and delusions.
Orange Rhyming Dictionary marked Blake's transition into indie rock/ emo, and he reveled in the leeway allowed for the expansion of sounds and sentiments that other scenes had to offer. Blake was free to dwell in the somber and contemplative riff of “Chinatown.” He was in no hurry, felt no need for thrashing abrasions when he relayed the story of lying depressed on the floor and observing that his curtains resembled a “Sea Anemone.” He was still a romantic who wanted to proclaim his love for a woman, as he did in Jawbreaker's “Jinx Removing,” but his delivery in “Sweet Avenue” was less feverish, more thoroughly developed and refined.
Aside from its notable ballads, Dictionary excels with an enticing blend of distortion and purity, propelled by both disenchantment and resolve. The album opens with “Crown of the Valley,” a tale of spoiled nostalgia that rollicks with a near-perfect alt-rock groove highlighted by Blake's pleading, “Oh God, stop tearing off the roof of my experimental bathroom/ It's the only thing that's halfway mine, and not for your prying or lying eyes.” On the 10th track, he builds upon suspenseful dread, types for miles and creates worried piles of paper before conclusively indicting his muse, who keeps fucking up his life. Blake endured the communal backlash that spelled the demise of his first band, acknowledged his cynicism of punk-cynics and radio-friendly profiteers alike, and retained his integrity. As was the case in the escape-anthem “Morning New Disease,” he was still dreaming of a life that wasn't his, but at least he kept dreaming, and for that, I am thankful.
^Yes, Simpsons fanatic strikes again. Honestly, this is the superior album cover...unless you wanna gawk at a baby's wiener, of course.^
19. Nirvana-Nevermind (1991): For Kurt Cobain, the album that defined the Seattle grunge-explosion and spelled the demise of hair metal proved those dark adages about being careful for what one wishes for and catching hell for answered prayers. It was the same desire to connect with listeners on an emotional level that would later terrify him when he was deemed the spokesman for his generation. Like Dylan before him, he resented the lofty distinction. Both men felt daunted by such expectations and hated to be perceived as Messianic figures. Cobain lacked the will-power of a survivor, however, which was unlike Dylan. Heartbroken and enfeebled by addiction, the disillusioned voice of the early-'90s ultimately decided life wasn't worth the trouble.
To express the impact of the first track and lead single, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” is redundant by now. It stands as an exceedingly rare hit that altered the landscape of popular music, for good or ill—depending on whose side you were on in the Axl/ Cobain rivalry that was ignited by their bad-ass vs. smart-ass confrontation before the 1992 MTV Video Music Awards. “Teen Spirit” is as overplayed as “Whole Lotta Love” and maybe even “Welcome to the Jungle”--songs packed with such timely impact that they hardly require further listening at this point.
That should not count as a demerit against Nevermind, however; despite allowing for more production-polishes from Butch Vig, Cobain did not scale back on his sometimes enlightened, sometimes adolescent vitriol for the sake of a #1 single. “In Bloom” and “Come as You Are” likewise garnered airtime on MTV and rock radio without yielding much compromise of artistic intent. The former was a landmark of slacker irony for its skewering of those who like all the pretty songs, even when they know not the message. The latter was a riff-hypnotic, desperate plea for true friendship from a man who was lying when he swore that he didn't have a gun.
It is the tracks that received little-to-no exposure on MTV or rock radio that solidify Nevermind as a personal favorite, though. Amid the mid-tempo laceration of “Lounge Act,” Cobain lets us know that even alt-rock saviors struggle with unrequited crushes; he confides, “I've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel/ And I wanted more than I could steal.” Drummer Dave Grohl commands blistering beats of punk-fueled aggression on tracks like “Territorial Pissings” and “Stay Away.” Bassist Krist Novoselic lends a sinister buoyancy to tracks such as the quiet-to-loud, bipolar anthem “Lithium.”
Cobain, was, of course, the star of the show, in ways both fitting and tragic--and that is perhaps best evidenced by the doom-struck empathy he evokes for a victim of atrocities named “Polly.” In his acknowledgment of the ballad, Bob Dylan remarked, “The kid has heart.” My favorite track is “Drain You,” a gripping horror show of human selfishness and insincerity. “One baby to another says, 'I'm lucky I met you'/ I don't care what you think unless it is about me/ It is now my duty to completely drain you.” He goes on to evoke the story of Original Sin, charging, “You taught me everything without a poison apple.” It is a grave misfortune that Cobain believed he had learned all that he needed to know about this world and its people when he died by his own hand at the age of 27.
18. Elliott Smith—From a Basement on the Hill (2004): Despite the appearances of this and the previous entry, not all of the ensuing albums were written by suicidal heroin addicts... It's just a happy coincidence how it turned out this way!
Yikes and anyway:
On one level, it seems like a morbid bias is at work in adoration of the songs that essentially served as one man's self-inflicted goodbye to the cruel world. On another, and perhaps more humane level, most of the tracks are just so damn plaintively beautiful and alive with melancholic melody that such a bias is owed to From a Basement on the Hill.
“Coast to Coast” begins the posthumous release with an orchestral overture suitable for a horror movie. The macabre tunings are followed by percussive kicks and cracks and an ominous guitar riff that sounds like a buzz-saw spinning with sinister patience. Smith pleads for amnesia to forget about his emotional ties to friends and loved ones after his mind has been made up on the matter of life and death. Smith admits that he doesn't consider himself the sort of person who makes others happy and gives up on constructing that facade. “Let's Get Lost” finds the pained singer/ songwriter longing for the comforts that introverts get from solitude. In “Shooting Star,” Smith wails a riff of haunting acid rock and likens the appeal of an unreliable love interest to the fleeting faith experienced by those who wish upon meteorites that pass across the galaxy, far away from us. “King's Crossing” is an eerie journey into the psyche of an abject drug addict—redeemed by Smith's gripping honesty and gift for melody. He taunts, "Give me one good reason not to do it." A tender female voice answers, “Because we love you.” That was recorded after the fact, when Smith's swan songs were being mixed in the studio.
“A Fond Farewell” stands as Smith's equivalent to Cobain's “All Apologies.” With detached resignation, Smith compares his internal crisis to bidding “Farewell” to a friend “who couldn't get things right.” To him, his life and demise added up to “A little less than a happy high/ A little less than a suicide/ The only things that you really tried.” Elliott Smith sold himself short.
Footnotes interlude:
* Like Red from Shawshank, I wish I could go back in time and talk to this young man. "You don't have star in four movies every year just because you can. Be selective. There's no reason to do a remake of The Longest Yard." I want to talk to him but I can't. He's gone now. And all that's left is a billionaire with a loving family who gets awesome seats at sporting events because most people don't care about what critics think. Sad.
17. Cake—Comfort Eagle (2001): As outrageous as this might seem, more so than Bob Dylan or Johnny Cash, Cake singer John McCrea impresses me most with his less-than-spectacular vocals. McCrea, much like the legends I have perhaps dubiously compared him to, excels in his knack for accommodating insightful and cynical narrations to a voice that—if not exceptional—never wavers far from truth and wit.
McCrea enthralls with vivid character sketches of a global variety, from Austrian noblemen and opera singers who perform in foreign lands to the aspiring writers and offbeat radio deejays of America. “Meanwhile, Rick James” offers a twinkling rockabye of keyboard notes to soothe a man who's helpless in his efforts to protect his girlfriend from the allures of big city seediness. Multi-instrumentalist Vincent DiFiore juggles keyboard and trumpet duties with the greatest of ease. He lends spooky tones to the title track, an ironic denouncement of the greed and hubris symptomatic of expanding empires, as well as sharp flourishes of brass to “Short Skirt/ Long Jacket,” McCrea's dynamic plea for the perfect lover.
Comfort Eagle is a fine rock album with astute pop-sensibilities. McCrea is a wily cynic who can still deliver earnest affection (in “Love You Madly,” for instance), as well as unaffected heartache in the closer, “World of Two.” His workmanlike baritone in no way diminishes his songs because they are so thoroughly crafted and labored over with focus and care.
16. David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972): There is a chance that Ziggy Stardust may not truly qualify for the concept album hall-of-fame (alongside of Sgt. Pepper and Tommy) because it's possible that Bowie was too spaced-out and loony to discern the act from the real thing. Ringo Starr, for instance, could no doubt tell the difference between himself and Billy Shears, but in the early '70s, Bowie's distinction between identity and character seemed, at the very least, hazier. Ultimately, Ziggy Stardust was a splendid compromise of schizophrenic ticks and art-rock grandeur that put Bowie in the role of his supernatural yet doomed alter-ego.
It's telling that on the opening track, “Five Years,” Bowie readily admits that he feels like an actor. The conceptual premise of Ziggy is (loosely) established here: with Armageddon lurking in a half-decade, a visitor from another planet with musical chops and a garish taste in wardrobe is left with only so much time to enlighten us with his lewd and ethereal brand of rock music. In the process, however, Ziggy's focus wavers; his excesses are most clearly exposed in the pseudo-title track, when it is revealed he “took it all too far,” ravished his own ego, and collapsed under the gravity of his messiah-complex. Ziggy's story-arc concludes, predictably but no less powerfully, as a “Rock and Roll Suicide.” In resuming the fixation for cosmic mysteries that he founded with “Space Oddity,” Bowie played the role of an ill-fated alien rather than a man, loaded the songs with kitsch, but somehow never forfeited his project to the forces of farce. There are psychedelic preachings, to be sure, hippie-commands to “Freak out in a 'Moonage Daydream,'” but Bowie seemed a worthy prophet nonetheless. The first words of “Rock and Roll Suicide” stand as testament to that...
“Time takes a cigarette and puts it in your mouth.” And later, he wails the only condolence for such a grim truth: “You're not alone.”
15. Jimi Hendrix Experience—Are You Experienced? (1967): Judging by the plethora of singles that bolster this album, you'd think it breaks my rule of excluding Greatest Hits collections. Incredibly, though, “Purple Haze,” “Fire,” “The Wind Cries Mary,” “Hey Joe,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Manic Depression” are all included on the Jimi Hendrix Experience's debut. Hendrix was so talented that he could provoke baffled accusations of cheating from rock 'n' roll mortals, and more than 40 years later, it's still stunning to consider the abundance of great songs that resulted from his first recording session with the Experience. Hendrix would later release Axis: Bold as Love and Electricladyland before his untimely death in 1970. Not even the Beatles accomplished so much in such a limited window of time. He wasn't cheating, but it sure seemed that way.
Hendrix announces his presence at the party during rock's golden age with the psychedelic strut of “Purple Haze.” He wonders if he is “happy or in misery,” considers it a moot point either way, and translates to his listeners the spell his muse puts on him. Within the span of the incantation, images are conjured: tire tracks smeared across the backs of loose groupies who play hard-to-get, jealous lovers with blood on their hands fleeing for the border, traffic lights about to turn the color of loneliness—all told by a weird gypsy who straddles an ignited Stratocaster as he charms and beckons the flames. Hendrix captivated with searing riffs without resorting to as much macho fluff as Jimmy Page. At times, he was as poetically engaging as Dylan or Lennon, and his feats of virtuosity on the guitar were unrivaled by either one.
He was such an extraordinary talent that it seemed like he was cheating, but in reality, that was never the case. Jimi Hendrix just set his own rules to play by.
14. The White Stripes—Elephant (2003): Judging by the album cover, which portrays two strikingly pale indie rockers sitting on an amplifier, both stricken with despair, the White Stripes did not seem especially psyched about the widespread buzz wrought by 2001's White Blood Cells. Such trepidation may have been true on some level, but Elephant, the duo's followup to the hype they generated for the garage rock revival scene, marks a bold claim of their presence as an upper-echelon band in popular music. Elephant is less of a salute to well-crafted trashiness, more indicative of the group's fondness for Led Zeppelin as opposed to Iggy and the Stooges. It's a stunning achievement of mainstream acclaim that never compromises Jack and Meg's core goal of maximizing the potential of minimalism.
The first track, “Seven Nation Army,” is the most duly overplayed single since “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” I cannot stand the 14th and final track. (Is that just me?) Aside from those extremes, Elephant leaves nothing to complain about. Among others, “Black Math,” “Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine,” and “Hypnotize” scintillate with the Stripes' straightforward and biting approach. “I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart” and “You've Got Her in Your Pocket” showcase Jack's nearly outdated pangs of sincerity. “Ball and Biscuit” is a bluesy odyssey of snide self-empowerment that finds a great guitarist who tends to favor simpler chords in the mood to puff out his chest and rip a few mesmerizing solos. In “The Hardest Button to Button,” Jack tartly makes amends with childhood squalor, as though he'd like to flaunt his middle finger to the whole world with the flippancy of fellow Detroit native Eminem... if only he wasn't such a gentleman.
Jack admits that he doesn't consider himself a genius in “The Air Near My Fingers.” Fair enough, but he sure is brilliant, and he chose a worthy sidekick (whom I've always wanted to see topless). Brilliant minds still get bored sometimes—as he indicates earlier on the same track—but the notion that said boredom has to translate to the audience is as misleading as, say, an album cover that portrays two seemingly distraught indie-rockers who really didn't mind the spotlight all that much. The White Stripes told an occasional fib.
13. Weezer (the blue album) (1994): “What's with these homeys dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?” Frontman Rivers Cuomo begs this question at the start of his band's splendid breakthrough single. Similarly, there is no cause for derision of Weezer's debut because of the letdowns Cuomo and Co. have released for much of the past decade-plus. Chuck Klosterman, a more accredited writer on rock music, contends that Cuomo's songwriting skills have not diminished; rather, his persistent earnestness has become incompatible with the counterculture's increasing need for irony. I disagree. I never want anything to do with Dungeons and Dragons, but when Rivers Cuomo began to favor his KISS poster “In the Garage” to his 12-sided die, Weezer's sound suffered. It's okay to blend KISS-like, pop-metal hooks with gnashing, Pixies and Nirvana-inspired angst; that is, in fact, what once made Weezer such an appealing band. The backlash against Weezer started when Cuomo—the Harvard graduate with horn-rimmed specs—adopted the dumb-it-way-down approach of KISS. The “Weezer Problem,” horribly embellished as it may be, has little to do with irony and much to do with wasted brainpower.
That stated, the blue album stands as the first album I bought—on cassette, which would have presented the tedious issue of having to fast-forward rather than skip a track not worth the listen. Thankfully, the blue album is without a second of filler material; from the power-pop wallop of “My Name Is Jonas” to the extended, brooding trance of “Only in Dreams,” the geek rockers find an exquisite balance of alternative sounds light on self-loathing and radio-friendly singalongs that are actually thoughtful. Cuomo somehow charms as a jealous and controlling boyfriend in “No One Else.” He convinces his listeners of the plausible nature of riding a surfboard to work. More candidly, he offers a quiet/ loud indictment of drunken stepfathers that serves as a generation's go-to anthem for the children of divorced parents; “Say It Ain't So” probably surpasses even Nirvana's “Serve the Servants” in that regard.
Which is saying something, when you consider that Cobain is remembered by many as the premier songwriter of the '90s. And who cares about all those post-Pinkerton letdowns?* Make Believe they were only nightmares, for “Only in dreams, we see what it means.”
12.The Strokes—Is This It (2001): An electric guitar mimics the sound of short-circuitry, drums thump a lax tempo, and then—with the conviction of a weary malcontent—Julian Casablancas pleads, “Can't you see I'm trying?/ I don't even like it.” Fittingly, the Strokes' rise to fame seemed nonchalant, as though they were resigned to ambition, already burned out by partying and groupies in their early-20s yet doggedly set on going through the motions of stardom. Their debut LP garnered glowing reviews, inspired rock critics to employ the metaphor about “lightning caught in a bottle” ad nauseam, spelled the demise of goatee metal-rap, and redefined something obscurely known as the “cultural zeitgeist.” The Manhattan quintet foretold their response to such hype in their debut's opening/ title track: “Is this it?”
This album yielded three terrific singles. As in “Last Nite,” the raucous yet tuneful strums of dual guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi interlace and build dynamics until the former exclaims with a solo perhaps too trashy for arena rock but at least befitting of a much larger garage. “Someday” finds Casablancas longing for freedom via childhood nostalgia and subverting the Pink Floyd principle: “Together we stand/ Divided we fall.” (“Alone we stand/ Together we fall apart.”) “Hard to Explain” envisions space-rock without the hippies and relays a conversation between an adoring boyfriend and a skeptical father.
“The Modern Age” is a flourishing spree for slackers that verges on questioning if all relationships are doomed. “Barely Legal” comes across as a sloppy nod to surf-rock re-envisioned with NYC grit. And with lyrics such as, “I should have worked much harder/ I should have just not bothered,” it's easy to see that the Strokes are not easily appeased. Which hardly matters; their appeal lies in upbeat and unkempt musings on eternal dissatisfaction. The human condition has rarely sounded so infectious.
11.Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy (1973): Disregard the album cover. Dwelling on it inspires reactions such as, “Artistic, I guess... but mostly REALLY creepy” and “That avant-garde pederast really had a VISION.” If the whim strikes you, feel free to skip past “No Quarter,” a compelling yet mismatched dirge that has Led to countless acid-induced horror shows. It is then feasible to regard Houses of the Holy as Zeppelin's finest, and less equivocally, their most vibrant. Houses then qualifies as my most-treasured album when I'm in the mood to appreciate life. Zeppelin's fifth offering finds the hobbits returning home safely from the darkest depths of Mordor. With the glowing support of their families and community, the group rejoices and gets down to mending the levee that broke at the conclusion of IV, rebuilding it with wizened minds and abler hands.
The musical chops of Page, Bonham, and Jones are unmatched by pretty much any other band you can think of. Robert Plant is not one of my favorite singer/ songwriters, but the man undoubtedly 1.) has awesome pipes,** 2.) OWNED his role in the spotlight of the biggest group of the 1970s, and 3.) should in no way be called a liability. Bonus: He sounds decidedly less sleazy, not as easily parodied on Houses.
“D'yer Mak'er” is the Zeppelin tune I get the most guff for loving. In the ensuing sentences I will be defending my opinion in transposed pro/ con fashion. Con: The words “mad,” “bad,” and “sad” are perhaps rhymed gratuitously. Pro: “D'yer Mak'er” delivers an eargasm. Con: Sure, but it's an eargasm induced by a blatantly simple groove that serves as Zeppelin's answer to the missionary position. Pro: Missionary can still deliver an eargasm, so shut your ugly face, naysayer. Get yourself a blog so you can tell me how much "D'yer Mak'er" sucks.
ELSEWHERE, the rickety structure of “The Crunge” hints that the same blokes responsible for “Stairway to Heaven” have a penchant for levity, too. “Over the Hills and Far Away” and “The Ocean” are jubilant blasts of arena rock that even fussy cynics can embrace. If you take into account the “No Quarter” exception I mentioned before, the most somber sentiment on this glorious LP can be heard in “The Rain Song.” “Upon us all, a little rain must fall.” Just a little rain? I can live with that.
Footnotes interlude:
* 2002's Maladroit is an enjoyable and smart album, but the one after that might as well have been made by 14-year-olds with poor social skills. To further complicate things, their sophomore effort Pinkerton is arguably their greatest work; with another perfect 10/10 mark on the track listing, it almost drove me bonkers to exclude Pinkerton in favor of the blue album... but hey, I powered through it all 'cause that's a bit of a white guy problem, anyway.
** It's a good thing I pluralized "pipe." I was one Freudian misspelling away from raving about Robert Plant's "awesome pipe."
10.The Rolling Stones—Exile on Main St. (1972): The quintessential Saturday night soundtrack, Exile on Main St. is a raunchy celebration of dance-crumpled mini-skirts and lipstick-smeared collars. The album showcases brass-blowing session men in impeccable harmony with their rock superstar overlords; the Stones achieve a broadened and voluminous sound without cutting the contributions of any core members of the group (as the Beatles did on Sgt. Pepper, wherein Ringo was left to idle so much that the bloke learned how to play chess when he wasn't needed). On Main St., rocks are gotten off, joints are ripped, and hips are shaken—and that only covers the first three tracks.
Later on, the Stones muse on the dual natures of love and luck, reason and spirituality, but such melodic insights should not be mistaken for a lull in the party; the boys simply need to recharge their long-enduring batteries, and they do so with tranquil resolve, even when scraping the shit off their shoes in “Sweet Virginia.”
“Loving Cup” jumbles sentiment with lust and liquor until the distinctions seem moot—for they are all but things that embody longing and pleasure, the group's primary drives. Powered by gospel-like backup vocals, “Tumbling Dice” is a soulful entreaty that evokes how Abba's “Take a Chance on Me” might sound in Bizarro World. “Stop Breaking Down” is rowdy, blue-infused rock best suited for strutting troublemakers with simple yet sound advice to offer.
In addition to breaking down, along with many others, I'd be best advised to stop comparing the Rolling Stones to the Beatles. If you favor the pragmatic principles of physical attraction and compatibility to that grand and hokey romantic yarn about soulmates transcending mortality to go on and on across the universe, you almost certainly prefer the Rolling Stones. If you view pop-sensibilities that duly garner radio play as a gift rather than a demerit, you almost certainly prefer the Beatles.
Exile on Main St. is the Rolling Stones album that most makes me squirm and beg, “Do I really have to choose?”
9.Bright Eyes—I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning (2005): Have you heard the one about the woman who was flying to meet her fiancée over the largest ocean on planet Earth when--quite unexpectedly--the plane went down? Like most of Conor Oberst's narratives, it gets exceedingly better once the music cues. In the tradition of singer/ songwriters who eschew chops in favor of poetic passion (and inevitably garner comparisons to Dylan), Oberst and his indie pals craft folksy melodies to serve the boy-genius' visceral storytelling and vivid imagery.
Conor's depth and versatility of sound lift him above accusations of Emo-sympathizing. Sometimes he comes across as snotty, but such petulance is entirely redeemed by his volition, grit, and sincerity. I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning does more than just flourish as a (mostly) folk album released 40 years after Bringing It All Back Home, which was released decades before MTV, Nirvana, and Nine Inch Nails. The album also presses with the right amount of force against the boundaries of what exactly constitutes folk music.
“Lua” and “The First Day of My Life” are romantic acoustic ballads that stand as Oberst's finest musings on heartache and true love, resp. “Another Travelin' Song” channels the grieving swagger of Gram Parsons. One could wear Chuck Taylors or cowboy boots while dancing to it without feeling like a hypocrite either way. It's the sort of song that can be boogied to with perked ears that seek out every note and word.
Whereas the previous entry constitutes an ideal night-album, it's worth savoring I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning shortly after arising from bed for the day. All ten tracks goad a heightened awareness in listeners. Whether somber or fiery, the songs command attention and coax a craving for details. On “Road to Joy,” Oberst concludes his masterpiece with a nod to Beethoven and waylays with his brand of minutely crafted, righteous spunk. “The Sun came up with no conclusions,” he sings. “Flowers sleeping in their beds/ The city cemetery's humming/ I'm wide awake, it's morning.” From the standpoint of a contented night-owl, this album marks one of the premier reasons to toast with coffee the majestic expansion of daylight that comes with every new sunrise.
8.Modest Mouse—The Lonesome Crowded West (1997): Though he seems like a goofy cynic at heart, Modest Mouse front-man Isaac Brock's musical mind tends to gravitate toward dark moods and loathsome squalor—particularly on his group's earlier efforts. On their second LP, the salty Pacific Northwesterner and his two band-mates capture the wry indictments of a hung-over malcontent on a cross-country journey.
“Teeth Like God's Sunshine,” the album's opener, is like an American indie-rock counterpart to “Paranoid Android.” The first track is a jaded and sprawling overview of the downfalls of a lonesome, crowded culture. “Shoeshine” rollicks, plods, rises, and thrashes for nearly 7 minutes without squandering a second. With snide exhaustion, Brock advises us to “Go to the grocery store and buy some new friends” before plaintively asking, “Do you need a lot of what you got to survive?”
“Convenient Parking” comments on the dispassion incited by highway travel to various cities that all pretty much look the same. Brock's musings on monotony culminate in a concise and primal outcry in the chorus that calls to mind the profane tantrum of a sweat-stung, working-class underling stuck in an L.A. traffic jam. His imagery is even more concrete and evocative on the sobering, twang-laden ballad “Trailer Trash.” Descriptions of indigent teenagers “eating snowflakes with plastic forks” and pithy summations of their parents (“Short love with a long divorce”) almost cause too much heartache to be considered beautiful. (Almost.)
In spite of his detection of sinister undertones in mall-walking and Orange Julius stands, his snarls of blasphemy in “Jesus Christ Was an Only Child” and “Cowboy Dan,” Brock's band has to offer a headphones sanctuary that is not nihilistic. No—a more fitting designation of such a sonic hideaway is along the lines of the lonesome, uncrowded bliss.
7.Spoon—Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007): Few bands have handled the transition from indie darlings to (fringe) mainstream fame with as much ease as Spoon. It matters little that a fluky teen drama, The O.C., played a significant role in their rise to success. Spoon have outlasted that sort of ephemera and established themselves as perhaps the most critically praised band of the naughties on our side of the Atlantic (where Radiohead are deemed foreigners...brilliant and miserable foreigners).
My favorite of their LPs commences with “Don't Make Me a Target,” a disaffected alt-rock gem that expresses the wariness of peaceful individuals cloaked in the gigantic shadow of tyrants. The baleful bitterness is surpassed by its virtue and accentuated by a momentous jam of jangled riffs gone haywire and piano keys that sound precisely stomped more so than fingered. “Rhythm and Soul” and “Finer Feelings” are tuneful deep cuts that could easily pass for singles. Former Get-Up Kids bassist Rob Pope plucks the groove that impels “Don't You Evah.” Front-man Britt Daniel's mastery of quirky tinkering in the production booth is evident throughout the album, and his melodic rasp once again employs grit to create smooth textures in the same way that sandpaper refines unseemly bumps and blemishes.
Spoon expand on their minimalist roots on “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb” and “The Underdog,” a pair of singles boosted by horn-section blasts of gusto. “Cherry Bomb” is somehow at once crystal-clear and enigmatic, joyful and rueful (with lines such as “We lost it all before, you and me”). My savviest stab at its meaning is probably reductive: it serves as a contrite love letter, an infectious message to Daniel's better-half akin to, “Sorry I fucked up, but bare in mind, I wrote this song for you, so please take it easy on me.” “The Underdog”--as I've mentioned before--provides the perfect soundtrack for a muted game of Super Punch-out. The likes of Super Macho Man, you see, represent hulking masses of hubris, bulky meat-heads with steroid-enhanced egos who shun the advice of frail but sagacious water-boys, while Little Mac embodies the righteous jabs of humility that so often (yet somehow unexpectedly) pulverize the undue conceits that fester inside of us.
Delivered with Paul Simonesque wryness and attention to detail, “The Underdog” can also be construed as a fine dismissal of those foolish enough to charge that indie-darlings on the rise are damned if they do (sign to a major label and—shudder—risk accusations of “sell-outs!”) and damned if they don't (cash in on what they could potentially earn because of some misguided attempt at purity). Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga stands as indelible proof that success is not the enemy of creativity—and that any potential nay-saying from hipsters means nothing compared to the pay-raise that a truly great band deserves.
6.Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon (1973): In regard to this undeniable classic, some have a bold theory. Edgar Allan Poe—that dreary pioneer of Gothic horror and mystery who used the word “phantasmagoria” in wise recognition that it would soon go out of style—met up with Jules Vern—the main forefather of science-fiction and author of From the Earth to the Moon—and traveled in a time machine built by H.G. Wells to Abbey Road Studios in London, where they scared the bejesus out of a reefer-stoned Roger Waters* as he gazed with sorrowful longing at a photograph of Syd Barrett, the former front-man of Floyd—who had opted out of the pressures of fame and adulthood and went into seclusion, owing to the mental havoc wreaked by schizophrenia and way, waaaayyyy too many doses of LSD.
After a fit of hysteria and a frantically snuffed-out joint, Waters' terror was quelled—not by reason, for that had clearly failed him, but rather by the unreasonable nature of creative miracles. The three artists swapped notes, exchanged ideas on psychosis, man's relation to the cosmos, and psychedelic space-rock much closer in tone to Kubrick's 2001 than the Grateful Dead. An epiphany was born, but shortly afterward, Poe raided Floyd's liquor cabinet and began blubbering, “O—the contemptible plight of it all!” Vern affronted Waters' ego with incessant beseechings of "Wishing to revel in the grand acquaintanceship of the transcendent Paul McCartney.” The brainstorming session had precipitated a rather dismal celebration. With a brusque clearing of his throat, Waters thanked his innovative visitors from the past but hinted not so subtly that they had better depart. The writers obliged--ruefully--and boarded the time machine that flashed psychedelic and (dare I say) faintly phantasmagorical beams of light before vanishing in a puff of smoke.
When band-mates David Gilmour, Richard Wright, and Nick Mason returned from their lengthy lunch-break, waving away dense clouds with cheeky grins and commenting on the peculiar odor of Waters' strand of marijuana, they were told to never mind such distractions and report at once to their instruments, for their chief songwriter had made a breakthrough.
As evidenced by much of Floyd's canonized output from the '70s, Waters never forgot that unlikely meeting, and from it he extracted memories whenever he got stuck in his effort to pen a new number. The aforementioned event was freshest in his mind, naturally, when his band recorded Dark Side of the Moon.
Saw it on Behind the Music.
Footnotes interlude:
* Actually, I read in a Pink Floyd biography that Waters didn't care much for pot. That's the only phony part of the story, by the way. (Sigh.) OK, it was all bullshit, but let's be honest: the world doesn't really need another dude who toked-up quite a bit in college raving about "Time" and "Money."
Suspenseful buildup to the top-five that could inadvertently make you stop wanting to read altogether:
The trouble with epitaphs on tombstones is that one can never fully ensure that his outgoing message will be etched faithfully. I could offer no earthly protests, naturally, if that fateful chisel should fall into the hands of someone who wants me remembered as, “A guy who bitched about Phish too much.” It should be stated that I'd very much prefer the following as a parting message exchanged from my burial mark to the lifeforms of the future—until a worthy upgrade occurs to me, at least—and it goes like this: “With fuck-yous to further ados...”
That's an obscene way of stating that my interest in suspenseful wondering and silly distractions has been exhausted, and that—more so than merely the end—I'd like nothing more than to get to the answer.
5.Beastie Boys—Check Your Head (1992): “So What'cha Want?” functions as more than just the most recognizable track from Check Your Head. It also serves as a brash challenge to doubters whack enough to question the versatility of the 3 most bad-ass Trekkies on the planet. You want thumping beats and bass pulsing beneath slick and self-assured rhymes? (“Jimmy James,” “The Maestro”.) Instrumentals that exude funky grooves and prove that white boys know how to honor the likes of George Clinton and Curtis Mayfield? (“POW,” “In 3's”.) Let's switch gears. How about rowdy and infectious skate-punk? (“Time for Livin'” and “Gratitude”.) Mystical and exotic-sounding slow-jams? (“Lighten Up,” “Namesté”.) Are you in the mood for delightfully schizophrenic samples that seem incompatible until DJ Hurricane gets his mitts on the records? (“Stand Together,” “Professor Booty”.) Haters and sucka MCs, seriously, So What'cha Want? Adrock, Mike D., and MCA can deliver just about anything to shut you up.
The Beasties' dynamic range is the chief reason why they're “as cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce.” It has indeed been proven that the trio love to see the party people just movin'--regardless of whether such harmony occurs at a sold-out Madison Square Garden, or a dank basement in Brooklyn, or at a concert to protest the Chinese government's senseless brutality against the people of Tibet.
And sure, appearing as un-lockable players in NBA Jam is a fine way to boost one's level of coolness, too. While it's true that such a 16-bit cameo failed to stylize Al Gore so soundly, come on—don't shit yourselves: that stilted sayer of inconvenient truths is never going to “rock a block party 'til your hair turns gray.”
4.The Clash—London Calling (1979): My main issue with punk-rock is that I think its spirit—while feisty and independent—can prohibit musicians from fulfilling their peak potential. Two-minute outbursts of three-chord aggression can provide great catharsis for teenagers in the early stages of learning a fun craft, but after high school, it is wise to stretch out a bit more and seek creative challenges that punk-rock does not always present. Such ambitions are sometimes misconstrued as traitorous and soft by punk-elitists who favor exile in Never-Never Land.
The Clash paid no mind to that prospect of backlash from their peers. If the paramount purpose of punk-rock is to express oneself without caring about the commonly unkind judgments of others, then it follows that its truest followers should have no qualms with expanding beyond the genre's boundaries. No other band understood this catch-22 as soundly as the Clash did.
The band's aim was not to subvert the style they helped to found, however. Many tracks from London Calling bare a resemblance to the brash and straightforward vigor of their debut album. The title track is a mid-tempo march from the toxic shadow of “a nuclear error.” Both apocalyptic and galvanizing, the opener's simple structure yields a doomsday anthem worth treasuring. “Brand New Cadillac” puts a profane and sloppy spin on a rockabilly hit from the '50s. “Hateful” finds levity in the plight of a frantic drug-addict, but pauses to mourn in its concise breakdowns.
I won't kid myself, though. The not-so-punk portions of London Calling account for most of its mastery. New wave balladry is covered on “Lost in the Supermarket,” a lament of the steady replacement of people with consumers that does its part to exalt the partnership of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones to the upper echelon of songwriting duos. With celebratory toots from The Irish Horns, “Rudie Can't Fail” is a ska romp that redeems an irresponsible but idealistic crumb-bum who “drinks booze for breakfast” and “can't live in service.” “Train in Vain” is quite content in its sonic welding of David Bowie and the Beatles. The album's closer packs power-pop abounding with melody and love gone sour.
London Calling and the Clash are easily my favorite punk-band and album, resp., precisely because neither fear to tread outside of the style's rigid parameters. Punk never kept the Clash under its grimy thumb; it was the other way around.
True enough, the white album is of the double variety, includes a total of 30 tracks—which is hardly economical—and features two bona fide Fab Four abominations, namely “Revolution #9” and “Good Night.” In regard to the bigger picture, however, such concessions prove that the Beatles were at times victims of their own excellence. 28 tracks that range from solid to exceptional--delivered without much delay between Sgt. Pepper and Abbey Road—leaves nothing to quibble about, and furthermore, the album's first-half alone rivals every other record in their staggering catalog.*
By 1968, turmoil within the band was starting to surface. John had officially been Yoko'd, and his partnership with Paul was functioning more and more in name only as the two were inclined to sojourn on separate holidays to different recording booths. By no stretch of the imagination did listeners suffer from the erosion of the tag-team that gave way to a one-on-one rivalry. On the acoustic ode “Blackbird,” Paul serenely tends to a wounded animal, mends its broken wings, and sets it free with a friendly challenge to make the most out of its rejuvenated life. Not to be outdone, John bemoans two lovers in limbo on a sleepless and tortuous night on “I'm So Tired.” Paul gathers us around a desert campfire for a Western ballad about “Rocky Raccoon,” a tragic figure demised by hubris. John counters that fictitious plight of an individual with “Revolution 1,” a slow-groove overview of the strife of the world-at-large that replies to widespread chaos with the promise, “Don't you know it's gonna be all right?”
The white album can't be reduced to a John and Paul showdown, though, as George contributes the soulful and forlorn personification found in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” (with a little help from his friend Eric Clapton). Even Ringo—yes, RINGO—delivers his finest offering as a rare front-man on “Don't Pass Me By,” a wobbly yet melodic jaunt packed with the penitence and faith that blokes must so routinely express to their mistreated and sensitive birds.
Another gross reduction of the white album is to claim that it's a compilation of four solo projects. Pure bullocks. “Back in the USSR” is an airborne travel anthem that nods to Beach Boyish harmonies and adoration of babes worldwide. Its thumping piano twinkles and six-stringed shock-waves rock with timeless fervor. The ethereal rising action of “Dear Prudence” boasts psychedelic stings and resolute beats. Aside from somehow inspiring malice in a creepy cult-leader, “Helter Skelter” is as a four-piece onslaught that marks the closest the Beatles ever got to Black Sabbath.
On the cusp of “The End,” where their epitaph read “Let It Be,” the Beatles' most telling track on the white album is perhaps found in the jovial piano-romp of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” when fussy fanatics are assured that even though All Things Must Pass, “Life goes on, brah.”
2. Radiohead—OK Computer (1997): Thom Yorke is a malcontent. OK Computer opens with the ominous guitar wails of “Airbag,” an entrancing narrative about a car-crash survivor who feels both revived and nonplussed by his brush with death. Later, we gather that not even the heroic salvation Yorke's girlfriend grants him on “Lucky” can make him feel fitter or happier. Still, no front-man since Kurt Cobain has been more productive in his transformation of gloom and neurosis into catharsis.
Radiohead's critically worshiped third album offers a few glimpses of levity, too. In “The Tourist,” the group satirizes frenetic travelers too busy snapping photos to truly absorb the scenery as a means to express a common theme of OKC: our forfeiting of visceral sensations to technology. (Ha, ha...ha?!?!) Amidst laser beam chirps and serene keyboard tones, Yorke muses about how misguided and uptight humanity must seem to intelligent life on other planets. (“High up above, aliens hover/ Making home-movies for the folks back home/ Of all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits/ Drill holes and themselves, and live for their secrets.”)
It is, however, the album's disaffection that resonates the strongest. Whether it be the paranoia of persecution waged by the “Karma Police” or the suspicion of politicians who “say the right things when Electioneering” in their quest for power rather than progress, the Oxford scholars realize plenty of reasons to feel “Let Down.”
Let down, indeed, but nonetheless hanging around—as evidenced by another decade-plus of acclaimed music. With no offense intended to subsequent tracks like “Idioteque” or “There There,” I have an unwavering hunch that “Paranoid Android” still stands as the band's most stunning song. Spanning nearly six-and-a-half minutes, OKC's lead single seems to emerge from thick mist like the foreshadowing in a nightmare, lashes out with gallows-humor, and then culminates with a blitz of triple-guitar mayhem.
“Ambition makes you look pretty ugly,” Yorke declares at one point—and perhaps that's true—but the sad adages he unearths are still preferable to the “handshake with carbon monoxide” that he contemplates but overcomes in “No Surprises.” Rather than deluding their listeners with escape from life's troubles, Radiohead aim to recreate and redeem the spooky notes owed of life's grim inevitabilities.
1.Beck—Odelay (1996): With a precise blend of samples and a hodgepodge of sounds courtesy of a multi-instrumentalist with a mono-syllabic moniker, Beck presents an odyssey of styles on Odelay, a masterpiece of party-friendly poignancy.
“Where It's At” showcases the far-reaching yet minimalist powers of one astronautical cowboy with two turntables and a microphone at his disposal. “Hotwax” discovers a compatible landscape of country-western storytelling, sweetly flowing rhymes, and otherworldly scribbles and cuts of records. On “Jack-ass,” Mr. Hansen does away with ironic witticisms and pop-culture savvy to express his most sincere existential ballad to date. (“I've been drifting along in the same stale shoes/ Loose ends tying a noose in the back of my mind/ If you thought that you were making your way/ To where the puzzles and pagans lay/ Put it together, it's a strange invitation.” Word. For penning such an apt and dreary summation of my life, what can I say other than...thanks??) With a groove that tips its hat to the Beatles' “Taxman,” “The New Pollution” brings to mind the neon luster of casinos and strip-clubs viewed in the rearview mirror of a smoke-filled Cadillac headed toward desert-exile outside of Vegas. Powered by alt-rock angst, and a raucous riff that serves as Beck's definitive ode to head-banging, “Devil's Haircut” is a cryptic yet vivid denouncement of “the evil of vanity” (as the man himself puts it).
For his treatment of the recording studio as a playground and his knack for snatching choice-phrases from both grab-bags and his own brilliant mind, Beck is my favorite musician and this is my favorite of his albums. He has to offer a prolific catalog of zany Zen that I truly hope has nothing to do with Scientology.
We're finished?!
Yup. We're finished. Remember the intro about epitaphs?! Well, here's the epitaph to “Favorite Albums”: “Titanic fare-thee-wells, my eyes are turning pink/ Don't call us when the new age gets old enough to drink.”
That's a Beck lyric. Really, he's the one Scientologist you'd ever want to strike up a conversation with at a party. I cannot express enough glowing praise for Beck (despite his belief that a Science-Fiction writer known for fraud, paranoid schizophrenia, and cultism somehow has more spiritual merit than Jesus, Allah, and Buddha).
Footnotes postlude:
* If rock music interests you, please consider that three-album run once more: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the white album, and Abbey Road. And that period only marked about a quarter of their total output. Every conversation with a Beatles-hater should go like this:
"I can't wait 'til all four Beatles are dead. They sucked."
"Yeah? What do you listen to?"
"Punk, mostly. Sex Pistols, Misfits, Screeching..."
"Stop right there. I can't handle the talent vs. lack-of-talent debate right now. It's like shoving past Aaron Rodgers to get an autograph from his backup."
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