2000 Retrospectator
by Marc Hirsh
You know, there are times when I'm acutely aware that the only reason we are obsessed with groups of 10 is because of the freak of nature that gave us five fingers on each hand. So, in the spirit of contrarianism (especially in this all-too-round year of 2000), I've limited my best-of this year to the Top Seven. I see it as a successful compromise, since last year's list was my first honest-to-God Top Ten since 1995, having sputtered out at 5 every year in between. So, I figure I still beat my average, right? Anyway, if it really, honestly-and-truly bothers you, feel free to pad it out with any of the following best-ofs, none of which I own but all of which I can guarantee will be worth the money: the Beatles' totally redundant and unnecessary 1 (Capitol), Time Capsule: The Best of Matthew Sweet 90/00 (Volcano), Texas's The Greatest Hits (Mercury import). Keep away, however, from Aimee Mann's Ultimate Collection (Hip-O); Aimee can tell you why here . Or, if you prefer, fill in the gaps with Badly Drawn Boy's The Hour of Bewilderbeast (XL), very clever studio-auteur chamber pop that sticks in my ears but not my brain; the Genre Non-Specific compilation (Surefire), a grab bag of different artists and different styles that have absolutely nothing to do with each other except that they're all pretty great and their record companies use Surefire Distribution (coincidentally, and quite literally, down the road from me), which I refuse to list officially because I still feel bad about including another unfindable freebie promo disc on last year's list; and the Causey Way's Testimony (Fuelled By Ramen), heavily distorted electronic pop music that I nonetheless am loath to promote until I am absolutely convinced that the band's concept of itself as the travelling spokesmen for a new way to celestial grace (since of course The Causey Way Is Not A Cult) is, fully and completely, a joke. My uncertainty is, naturally, what makes it so damn funny.
Anyway, this year Rolling Stone (and MTV, and I get shivers when I think about that alliance) gave us their list of the 100 Greatest Pop Songs while Christgau's Consumer Guide: Albums of the '90s was finally published, both of which appealed to my weakness for lists and subjective, anger-provoking opinionating. The Rolling Stone list was pathetic, offending my sensibilities by including "...Baby One More Time" (thus giving wise old Britney Spears the opportunity to tell the "story" behind a song she didn't write, didn't produce and didn't even have any say in selecting) while omitting such landmarks as Aimee Mann's "That's Just What You Are" (which, although I don't think you'll find more than a handful of better pop songs anywhere, wasn't really a hit), the Go-Gos' "Head Over Heels" (which was; as a side note, when did "Our Lips Are Sealed" surpass "We Got The Beat" as their signature song?) and the Byrds' "Feel A Whole Lot Better" (no Byrds at all, in fact, which is ludicrous). But hey, "I Want It That Way" is in there (even though it's a great pop record rather than a great pop song), so I don't have to get into that argument again. Christgau's book, meanwhile, was a wondrous tome but for two snags: 1) the radical revamp of his grading system, a major burr for those of us who are consistency hounds, but one which allows his poesy to shine in several different milieus (though I still can't for the life of me figure out this "N" business); and 2) the fact that he seems to trash (or disregard, which is worse) a substantial portion of the music that I found thrilling in this last decade. This rift will heal, though; I'm sure of it, because based on the entries in this book, I'd be incredibly surprised if he didn't at least nod in appreciation for my choice for the best album of the last year of the 20th century, which should come as no surprise to anybody I've talked to since, oh, let's say April...
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1) Sleater-Kinney, All Hands On The Bad One (Kill Rock Stars). I won't say that Sleater-Kinney is the future of rock 'n' roll, since that doesn't really give them their due and actually insults them. No, Sleater-Kinney are rock 'n' roll, right now, today, and they don't just know it, they sing about it, honestly, painfully, ecstatically, as if thanking God that this stuff exists and they get to be a part of it. And at a time in my life when I was beginning to wonder if my love of rock music was beginning to take on nostalgic overtones only, I am incredibly grateful for three women from the Pacific Northwest who fail to bring a bass to the table but manage to remember the wit, passion and riffs that make it all worthwhile. They connected to something deep, deep within me, tapping into some primal urge that kept the CD lodged in my stereo and a tape made to accompany me on a long drive wherein I ditched a minor family gathering that followed a major one in order to see them live lodged in my Walkman. And I don't regret one single second of it, due to this, an album that I listened to more constantly, frequently and intently than any new album since, oh, I don't know, probably The La's, and that was 1990, for Pete's sake. Anyway, this is how it works, in my mind. There's some 15-year old suburban girl (let's call her Taylor) whose friends all listen to Britney and Mandy and Christina and who plays along but secretly thinks it's all a bit empty. And at the start of the summer, Taylor's older brother or sister returns from college with a copy of All Hands On The Bad One. And one day, when Taylor is walking down the hall, she hears Sleater-Kinney and their guitars and drums and exhortations on the destructive and creative power of rock 'n' roll, and her whole world is changed, and she realizes that everything she'd pretended to be before was garbage and that there's an entire world outside the tiny little box in which she'd been living. That little girl is going to be all right. |
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2) Aimee Mann, Bachelor No. 2 (or, the Last Remains of the Dodo) (Superego). You know, there's not a whole lot I can say about this album that I didn't already say last year, when the preview EP and Magnolia soundtrack occupied this very spot. Only 3 of the 13 songs here weren't available on those two CDs , and of those, only "Susan" really jammed itself into my brain but good. So Aimee settles into second place, where she's been every year, which is a testament to her remarkable consistency. And, you know, there gets to be a point when you start to think that maybe being the perpetual bridesmaid when the owner of the top spot keeps changing just might indicate that she can outlast almost anybody. So buy her records, don't buy her records, what does it matter? She'll keep writing heartbreaking songs about the awful things we do in the name of romance (or commerce, depending on your love for context) that take the form of pop music (whether it be of the mutedly orchestrated variety evident here, the explosive guitar variety that signified her earlier work or some other, unanticipated direction) that only deepens the effect, and they'll find their way to the public somehow. Which is all I really ask. |
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3) Reggie and the Full Effect, Promotional Copy (Heroes & Villains/Vagrant). There's so much screwing around here (think a bunch of guys from established emo bands screwing around as much as possible and trying to be funny) that I don't know what the hell I'm listening to half the time, but I am listening, and repeatedly, and often with my jaw dropped to my knees. The real songs here are blazing power pop, with a rhythm section that for the most part sounds like it can barely keep up with Reggie, or whoever, pounding away at an uber-distorted guitar while a Cars-like synth winds its way through. The fake songs are pretty funny, which they'd have to be, because doing a Casio country & western jazzercise bit would be hell to listen to otherwise. Inspirational album-opening conversation line: "No, so I was like, 'if you're gonna wear the uniform, you gotta sell the cookies,' right?" immediately before Reggie gets shot. |
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4) You Am I, "Damage" EP (BMG Australia). Okay, now I'm just doing this to be annoying. But this is my list, what I say goes and, frankly, I'd rather not be forced to have my first You Am I-free list since 1996 just because Australia's best working band couldn't be bothered to release a full-lengther in the year 2000. So order this from your friendly neighborhood import shop (or buy it online: I got it in four days for less than $5, shipping inclusive, from Whammo.com , which is probably faster and certainly cheaper than ordering a domestic single) and understand my enthusiasm. "One Cent Coins" muffles drummer extraordinaire Russell Hopkinson's power by sticking him way down in the mix, which doesn't make a lick of difference anyway, since his and bassist Andy Kent's rhythm section anchors Tim Rogers's and David Lane's guitars as they chunk and syncopate their way through a Stones groove (love the "Layla" rip at the end). "She Don't Need The Morning" is power pop bliss, with an always-welcome electric 12-string and a chorus that telegaphs itself in the best possible way and then throws you a curve with a minor-chord twist as it reconnects with the verse. "Open All Night" is a sad-sounding, but ultimately warm and welcoming, acoustic rocker, what "Tuesday" (from 1997's Hourly, Daily ) would have been if it had eased off on the psychedelia. And then, wow, there's the title cut, recalling Collective Soul's "The World I Know," which would worry me but for two reasons: a) the latter was the best record Collective Soul ever made, and b) this is so much better, thicker and less reliant on production, a slow dirge that blossoms into an anthem, tricked out all the while by bunches of sounds Rogers hasn't ever come close to using (Dig the Leslie guitar! Is that an electric piano?), which makes it all the more surprising that it all sounds so organic, so natural. Show me a full-length album that is as strong as this 15-minute disc and I'll show you a CD that you've already had to read about to get to this point. Check this space next year for Dress Me Slowly . Now I'm being annoying. |
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5) Juliana Hatfield, Beautiful Creature (Zoë). I'm really tempted to say that Juliana suddenly sounds so sad, so hurt, so tired, but then I remember that the very first song on her very first solo album was "Everybody Loves Me But You"; that her biggest hits were about her dead sister (which was no less moving for the fact that said sibling was totally fictional) and how a heart that hurts is a heart that works; and that her big, career-defining acting role was that of a dead girl who haunted a well-to-do Pittsburgh family with tales of her freezing to death. But still. I listen to Beautiful Creature (and its harsher fraternal twin Total System Failure), and I think to myself, Dang. The woman a friend (you know who you are) once dubbed "The Shortest Babe Alive" opens up her heart on 13 pop songs (some aggressive, most misleadingly light) and blood pours out. Well, what did you expect? The whole point of vulnerability is allowing yourself to get hurt, and bad; that's what makes a song like "When You Loved Me" as devastating as it is, Juliana's refusal to hide even if it means all hell breaking loose. And if "Choose Drugs" isn't about Evan Dando, then maybe, just maybe, she's not as messed up as she sounds. |
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6) Amy Rigby, The Sugar Tree (Koch). A reversed-polarity version of 1998's wonderful Middlescence , in which Amy herself was in top form, clear as a bell and just as piercing, while her band and producer struggled to keep up. I'd frankly prefer Amy's voice to be more straightforward, uncluttered by the new studio tricks she's just itching to try out. In fact, the willfully obscure vocals are what's keeping this from ranking any higher. What's keeping it from ranking any lower, on the other hand, are all the other strengths (an omnivorous musical palette based in roots-punk and realized by the strongest band she's recorded with, a worldview that accepts middle age while railing against what others think that has to mean and those charming, funny and wise lyrics) that Amy's been showing off for a while now. In fact, they may be getting even stronger (the second verse of "Balls" surely deserves some sort of award). Nashville doesn't know what it's ignoring. |
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7) Tom Lehrer, The Remains of Tom Lehrer (Rhino). Quite simply everything by the funniest songwriter, um, ever, I think. And not just "novelty record" funny, either; Lehrer's songs are the most trenchant, clever, sophisticated and (an almost impossible feat in this business) enduring jokes ever set to wax. The fact that I'm still getting to the bottom of them more than 15 years after I discovered my father's copies of Songs By Tom Lehrer, That Was The Year That Was and the incomparable An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer is a testament to how well they hold up. The inclusion of new songs like "I Got It From Agnes" and "(I'm Spending) Hannukah in Santa Monica" is a testament to how well he holds up. And the inclusion of his children's songs (especially "L-Y" and "O-U (The Hound Song)" just goes to show that he could tone it down for the kids without losing an ounce of his wit. If you're among the ComedySportz contingent of my mailing list, you have absolutely no excuse for not being familiar with this set. |
"But Marc," you say, "weren't there any songs you liked that weren't on great albums?" Indeed there were...
Eels, "Flyswatter." Daisies of the Galaxy continued E's streak of pissing me off by screwing around instead of focusing on the topic at hand. The result? Another sonically-perfect, emotionally distant and artistically half-baked album. That makes at least 3 by my count, since I haven't heard Electro-Shock Blues yet and I always give A Man Called (E) the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, "Flyswatter" should've been no better, with lyrics that mean nothing so completely that the first two lines don't even parse. But damn, those drums, that glockenspiel, that chorus, that minute-long rideout on that groove. Dammit, Everett, do this more often and quit squandering your obvious talent.
Dr. Dre featuring Eminem, "Forgot About Dre." It's interesting, because Eminem almost never fails to amuse me and yet I'm almost certain that nothing he's done is going to sound nearly as good 5 years from now as this cut (which probably says more about Dr. Dre than anything else), with its ticking-clock guitar portending an unspecified doom no less articulately than the barrage of words flowing from the gut of two very articulate rappers. If you don't like it, (blank) y'all, all of y'all.
Dido, "Don't Leave Home." Unreleased and unrecorded, this song was performed in concert (I came for the Bangles, I stayed for Dido) following the standard "please indulge me while I play a new song" apology. Nobody complained. If the performance that eventually gets recorded is what I saw and heard and the producer is smart enough to leave well enough alone, then when ignorance, greed and hate mysteriously vanish in 2001, know that it was this song that was responsible. And remember that I told you ahead of time.
Lit, "Completely Miserable." A prime example of everything that is wrong about popular radio layered on top of a prime example of everything that's right about it. The chorus is gimmicky in the extreme, flirting with naughtiness without having the guts to follow through on it (using, incidentally, a lyrical loophole discovered, and used more classily, by Semisonic two years ago ). It also has some of the most soaring backing vocals imaginable, a "yeah yeah" refrain that catapults the stop-start verses into fifth gear. The inseparability of the two worries me, but I'd be more worried if the latter wasn't even there to begin with.
Sleater-Kinney, "Fortunate Son." One of many songs they cover on stage; this was the one they played at the Grog Shop in Cleveland on May 14, ending their set by inviting their opening bands Bangs and the Gossip to join them in singing and dancing up an absolute storm. The Onion , which does better music criticism than you'd expect from a humor mag, pointed out that in this year where George W. Bush ran for (and was handed) the presidency based on a platform that consisted of little more than inherited privilege, Sleater-Kinney's cover of arguably Creedence Clearwater Revival's single greatest moment was the year's greatest musical political protest. Hadn't thought of that. I was too busy scraping my jaw on the floor in awe of just how much sheer electric energy was being packed into 3 minutes and a 10'x20' stage.
Madonna, "Nobody's Perfect." A slow apology (but not really) that inspired me, for the first time in 15 years, to buy a Madonna album, and dammit, it was good. Expect to see her inevitable '90s best-of , whenever it materializes, on the list in the future.
Tyro, "Remember When We Were Very Young." The album, Audiocards , is nifty enough, but its closing track is a pounder, a headlong electro-punk instrumental that makes all other electro-punk instrumentals sound like "Theme From A Summer Place." If, you know, there were any others. Bonus points for switching time signatures as a way to build tension (40 seconds of it, at the beginning) instead of just dicking around and showing off.
Dynamite Hack, "Boyz N' The Hood." A song whose brilliance was lost on me for about the first dozen times I heard it. But I'll tell you. Around the time I first saw the hilarious country-club video, I finally caved and realized that not only was it funny as hell but kind of reverent, in a way. I mean, in a climate where Limp Bizkit does a version of "Faith" that suggests they don't even like the song to begin with, Dynamite Hack's acoustic cover of one of the original gangsta rap songs indicates that they well and truly do love the original, despite not being able to relate one damn whit to what they're actually singing about. Almost single-handedly (although indirectly) legitimizes a genre that far too many people still don't even consider to be music.
Blaque, "I Do." The sound of hip-hop starting to cannibalize itself, but since the sample it's based on comes from "Goin' Back To Cali," you're not going to hear me complaining.
Third Eye Blind, "Never Let You Go." Stupid, stupid words, to be sure. But damn, there it was: a simple riff, a good beat and what sounded for all the world like Stephen Jenkins on pitch. But someone should've really shut him up before he started rapping at the end.
Nina Gordon, "Tonight & the Rest of My Life." Okay, so not a song that I actually liked, but I mention it for two reasons: 1) it utilizes what I am now officially designating the Sensitive Female Chord Progression (vi-IV-I-V, for those who understand such things), previously used by Jewel ("Hands"), Melissa Etheridge ("Angels Would Fall"), Sarah MacLachlan ("Building A Mystery") and Joan Osborne ("One Of Us," which I'm aware she didn't write); and 2) you gotta imagine how disconcerting it was to see the force (and I mean force ) behind Veruca Salt's mighty, mighty "Volcano Girls" made up and hairdressed beyond recognition and singing this... this... song as though Celine Dion had passed on recording it and Gordon figured she could pull it off her own damn self. Really goddamn weird. Apparently, the Seether is Louise.
Belle and Sebastian, "Don't Leave The Light On, Baby." Dark, beautiful and scary, which is what the band's entire catalogue is supposed to be but somehow just isn't. When the major-key title phrase finally shows up two minutes and forty seconds into this decidedly minor-key song, I swear to God, it's like a lone, beautiful shaft of sunlight tearing through the worst cloudy day of your entire life.
Mandy Moore, "Candy." Wildly inappropriate coming from the mouth of a 15-year old, but, you know, really damn catchy in the best possible way.
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The Better Late Than Never Award this year goes to the Velvet Underground's White Light/White Heat (MGM/Verve, 1968), thanks to my finally buying the Peel Slowly And See box this year to replace my decade-old dubbed copies of The Velvet Underground and Nico and Loaded. Like Crazy Horse on smack and speed instead of pot, the Velvets' second album doesn't quite ascend as high as VU& Nico, but man, does it ever wallow lower. The title tracks careens like Little Richard in bed with William S. Burroughs and "Lady Godiva's Operation" and "The Gift" capitalize on a bass sound so deep (we're talking bass-as-sound-not-as-instrument) that if it were any deeper, you wouldn't hear it at all, just sit there and wonder what the hell it was that was making you so nervous. Oh, and "Sister Ray" finally graduates from its status as a radio station joke (it's 5 a.m., you're the only one in the station and you really have to go to the bathroom... what do you put on?), and if you wonder how feedback squall underneath the loudest organ you'll ever hear can go on for a quarter-hour-plus without flagging, well, folks, her name is Maureen Tucker, and she was keeping a solid, masterful backbeat (not to mention groove) 13 years before the Go-Go's and a good 23 before "riot grrls." And there's not a bass guitar in the mix. |
As for movies, I have to say that this has been a pretty depressing year (a sentiment shared by at least one major critic). I mean, there were some movies that I liked, a lot in some cases, but none that I'd want on my conscience as the year's best. Almost Famous? Close. Very Close. Nurse Betty ? Extremely good (I'm glad that Neil LaBute actually turns out to be a serious director), and Renee Zellweger deserves a Best Actress nomination. Requiem For A Dream? Also good, if profoundly disturbing, and Ellen Burstyn deserves a Best Supporting Actress nomination (which she should probably win). Legend of the Drunken Master? Um, no, but if you have any interest in the grace with which the human body is capable of moving, you'll see it immediately. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? Not quite, but if you have any interest in the grace with which the human body should be capable of moving, you'll see it immediately. The Filth and the Fury? Hands down one of the best rock 'n' roll movies I've ever seen, but then I think of Malcolm McLaren in that rubber suit and mask and I just shudder. And then there's Dancer In The Dark. Wow, a really interesting film, but how can anyone love a movie that hates its own heroine? I mean, at least in Breaking The Waves , Lars Von Trier allowed his heroine to be redeemed (albeit only in a metaphysical sense at the very, very end). Here, there's no hope in sight and the guy seems to revel in it. Clincher: unlike Emily Watson's character in Waves , Dancer's Selma is not a willing participant in her own destruction. In my morality, that's called cruelty. So, to steal an idea from Too Much Joy's Jay Blumenfeld, I'd have to say that the best movie of the year was A Hard Day's Night. I defy you to name any other movie that was released this year that even comes close.
So, instead, I'll declare the video of the year (an award I don't give out every year, so you know it's good) to be Supergrass's "Pumping On Your Stereo." As much as I love Sleater-Kinney's "You're No Rock 'n' Roll Fun," and as often as I watch it in a 1.5"x2" square on my computer screen, it is, conceptually, fairly standard: great song, band rocking out in a film studio, guitarist looking incredibly cute in the process. Supergrass, meanwhile, abandon their corporeal selves, sticking their heads on amazing larger-than life puppetry and going through about as many different ways of using the technique as possible. Thus, Gaz's puppet arms yank his head off and aim it towards the microphone, Mickey's bass sings along as he plays it and I'll be damned if Danny's oversized puppet arms and legs don't appear to playing exactly what we hear the drums doing on the audio track. It is ceaseless in its invention and tireless in its efforts to carry it through. An impossible idea brilliantly pulled off. You can go home now.