2003 Retrospeculator
by Marc Hirsh
You know, I struggled for a long time with the
question
of how to format this year’s list so that it made any sense whatsoever.
Normally,
there’s an album that claims the top spot with force and confidence or,
at
the very least, there are a number of clear contenders battling for
supremacy.
Not so this year. For the first time since
1998
, I find myself putting a list together without a clear victor; for the
first
time since
2000
, I find myself unable to come up with two full hands’ worth of albums
to
rave about (though, to be fair, my list does indeed comprise ten
discs).
As a result, I’m taking a cue from one of the big film festivals (I
forget
which one) and opting not to give out a top prize this year. I take my
pick
for the best album of the year far more seriously than anybody should,
and
I stand firm that its virtues should not simply be measured against the
music
that was released during the appropriate calendrical period but should
compare
favorably with the others that have topped the list in the past. The
albums
listed here range in quality from great to amazing, but I can’t in good
conscience
place any of them at #1, since even the highest-ranked CD here drags in
more
spots than I can reasonably ignore (its relative dominance over the
others
listed here is a function of how flabbergasting and frequent its high
points
are). If that bothers you, feel free to bump each album up a notch and
call
it the winner. But I’ll know in my heart that it finished a close
second.
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2) Outkast, Speakerboxxx/The
Love
Below (Arista). It happens once every decade or so: the most
prodigiously
talented artist of his/her/their generation spits out a double album
that
is excessive, widely varied, overlong and supremely confident, serving
notice
to all comers that it’s your fucking move, punks. The Beatles did it in
1968,
Stevie Wonder did it in 1976, Prince did it in 1987, and although I can
easily
see how they got there in retrospect, I can honestly say that I was
caught
off guard that it was Outkast this time. Like all of the above, their
two-fer
could stand to be culled a bit and would unquestionably lose its power
in
the process, simply because its sheer scope is the entire point. On
first
listen, it was the anything-that-comes-to-mind jazz/soul/pop/funk
jambalaya
of Andre 3000’s The Love Below which sent my jaw to the floor,
but
subsequent spins of the more or less (maybe less) straight-up rap set
of
Big Boi’s Speakerboxxx knocked this hip-hop non-fan to the
floor with
its equally relentless invention. When they performed “Ms. Jackson” on
Saturday Night Live about a year and a half ago, I couldn’t help
noticing
that at times they seemed to be doing nothing so much as strutting.
Enjoy
it, fellas, I thought, the world is yours. And I’ll be damned if they
didn’t
take it.
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3) You Am I, The Cream and the
Crock (BMG Australia) [available from http://www.whammo.com.au
]. The best rock band Australia has ever produced took another minor
breather
this year, spitting out a simple best-of collection sprawled across two
discs
of singles and album tracks that could have been interchanged for one
another
without anybody blinking. Disc one, the singles, might as well have
been
called Arse-kicking, Aussie, Big and Bossy and is enough to
make you
wish you could pick up Triple J on your FM dial in the Northern
Hemisphere.
It’s incomplete at under 50 minutes (at least one single from each
album
didn’t make the cut, although “Deliverance” merely migrated to the
second
disc) but benefits from the chronological sequencing, allowing you to
hear
Tim Rogers’s songwriting evolving from grunge-plus to neo-mod to arena
power
pop while the band tightens up into an unstoppable unit. Disc two
simply
throws the remainder of their studio albums, all classics, into the
changer
and hits “shuffle,” coming up aces and revealing that the
aforementioned
evolution never abandoned the hooks, empathy and keen lyrical eye that
has
always been the band’s foundation. All told, The Cream and the Crock
offers three new songs (or two and a half, depending on how you choose
to
count the now-Rogers-vocalled “Trouble”), precious few rarities, none
of
the live cuts or covers that they disgorge by the ton on their B-sides
and
bonus discs, nary a guitar solo until David Lane joins the band in 1999
and
a beautifully representative survey of one of the most consistent bands
in
recent memory. |
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4) Gillian Welch, Soul Journey
(Acony). For me and (apparently) others, 2001’s
Time (The Revelator) bore more weight upon its shoulders than
can be reasonably asked of any
album, so on Soul Journey, the lady and her man kick back and
relax,
in their way. Welch hasn’t abandoned the sort of timeless folk music
she’ll
be lumped alongside for the rest of her career (as evidenced by “No One
Knows
My Name,” “I Had A Real Good Mother And Father” and “Make Me A Pallet
On
Your Floor”), but she adds a band this time, and the result is like the
Stray
Gators playing Blonde On Blonde. Simplicity remains the key,
though,
so even though the first appearance of a drum kit in the opening “Look
At
Miss Ohio” hits you like a jolt to the spine, it’s still a shock when
the
same damn thing happens four songs later in “One Monkey.” In the hands
of
Welch and her partner David Rawlings (whose name should really be on
the
cover as well), even a backing band is imbued with a stark clarity.
Which
kinda still makes it folk music after all. |
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5) Liz Phair, Liz Phair
(Capitol).
By around the fifth or sixth time I listened to this publicly reviled
album,
I noticed an odd sensation during the four Top 40-aimed songs, and it
was
not without surprise that I identified it as genuine pleasure. Even
amidst
their Matrix-fuelled calculation and personalitylessness, it sounds
like
Phair is having fun, and for all of the sex on her previous albums,
that’s
new for her; there’s something to be said for the fact that the song
about
wanting (literally) to bathe in her lover’s semen is more charming than
the
song about wanting (metaphorically) to be her lover’s underwear. So if
she’s
never again the cultural standard-bearer that she once was, Liz
Phair suggests that the level of talent that remains now that she
has joined the
ranks of more earthbound music-makers is more than enough to justify a
long-term
career. For heaven’s sake, she gave you people “My Bionic Eyes” (which
roars),
“It’s Sweet” (which hums) and the utterly devastating “Friend of Mine,”
the
lyric of which is probably the last thing I would ever want to hear
from
anybody I care about in my entire life. What more could you possibly
want? |
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6) Eisley, Laughing City
(Record
Collection). Comprised of four siblings and a pal, all of whom are
prettier
than you, Eisley released two EPs of gently dramatic eyes-closed pop
this
year that portend an interesting future without straining too hard to
get
there before they’re good and ready. I give their debut Laughing
City a slight lead over the followup Marvelous Things,
partly due to my
admittedly subjective resistance to 6/8 time but more importantly as a
result
of the former starting out with one for the ages: “I Wasn’t Prepared,”
on
which Sherri Dupree’s butterscotch voice wraps around a stupefyingly
gorgeous
melody that sounds like it’s trying to wriggle free from the languid
bass
and an electric guitar that makes its point with a single strum and
then
doesn’t do a thing because it knows it doesn’t need to. Hell, a band
could
make a whole career just out of the sweep that leads into the chorus. |
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7) The White Stripes, Elephant
(Third Man/V2). “Can’t stand the White Stripes,” said a friend about a
year
back, and while I didn’t agree, exactly, I more than sympathized. Elephant
might not do much to sway either side of the debate, even
though
it’s an improvement over 2001’s White Blood Cells by every
conceivable
measure; Jack White may very well be some new breed of pop genius, but
he
sure seems intent on doing everything in his power to obscure that
fact.
Like some amalgam of Angus Young without the chops, Kurt Cobain without
the
suicidal depression and Robert Plant without the Viking complex, he
storms
so forcefully through the album that it barely matters that the beat’s
being
kept by the most clearly incompetent drummer of any gold-selling act in
history
(seriously, Meg must have had one hell of a divorce lawyer for her to
get
half of this band). The gorgeous harmony-with-piercing-guitar
midsection
“There’s No Home For You Here” shatters any illusions that Jack’s
instrumental
asceticism is anything more than a hipster dodge and “In the Cold, Cold
Night”
is this album’s “After Hours,” but most of Elephant just
charges ahead
with numbers like “The Hardest Button To Button” and “Girl, You Have No
Faith
In Medicine” taking the youth of America on a weird ride that they
desperately
need to be taken on. |
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8) Damone, From The Attic
(RCA).
The reason adolescence as a topic and a theme often results in such
sublime
pop music is the same as the reason that it sucked when we went through
it:
it can be sheer, confusing agony to become what you are. But as
wonderful
as an album like that dog.’s terrific Totally Crushed Out! can
be,
it’s patently phony due to the simple fact that the folks who made it
left
high school behind years ago. That’s not a problem for the
actual-teenager-fronted
Damone, who make like Weezer-damaged heshers and crank out eleven odes
to
adolescent behavior that worries adults not because it’s delinquent,
exactly,
but because it’s just so… adolescent. If that sounds familiar,
that’s
because From The Attic already topped this
list
in 2001 when it was called This
Summer and the band was called Noelle. It’s ranked lower this
year as a result
of huger but less subtle production and the replacement of four songs,
one
of which, the transcendently high schoolish “Rock Star,” I found myself
occasionally
referring to as the best song on the album
. But if new songs “Feel Bad Vibe,” “Overchay With Me” and “At The
Mall”
don’t make up for its absence, they certainly need not apologize for
their
presence, and the rest of From The Attic is heedless to the
restraint
that we adults feel the need to saddle ourselves with for some reason
(just
when you think the neoclassical guitar solos in “Up To You” and “On My
Mind”
couldn’t get any more kickass, in come the harmony guitars!). I don’t
know
how much longer they can go on like this: the departure of guitarist
Dave
Pino not long after the album came out leaves the band without their
main
(and, up until now, sole) songwriter, and Noelle turned a whopping 18
this
year besides. By time she turns 25, she will have moved beyond such
juvenilia,
but she sounds like she’s in no hurry to grow up anytime soon. I think
she
knows she’ll miss it when it’s gone. |
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9) Northern State, Dying In
Stereo (Startime). If Le Tigre went all out and made a full-on
hip-hop record,
this would be it. Part of me’s still not sure they didn’t.
Inspirational
verse: “Keep choice legal/Your wardrobe regal/Chekov wrote The
Seagull
/And Snoopy is a beagle.” |
Widows and orphans:
1) Rosanne Cash, “License To Kill,” live at the Somerville Theatre
(Somerville,
Massachusetts), June 21, 2003. Her album, Rules Of Travel, was
a nice
return to the biz which would’ve made my Next Five if I still did that
nonsense.
But this isn’t on it. A Bob Dylan song unfamiliar to me, as its
original
home Infidels comes from his wandering-in-the-forest eighties
period,
this tune was trotted out to address a war that couldn’t have even been
imagined
when it was written, and Cash threw herself into it with such
empathetic
ferocity that when it finished, the words “Holy shit” slipped out of my
mouth
before I could even get it together enough to realize that my hands
were
supposed to be banging together like everybody else’s.
2) t.A.T.u., “All The Things She Said.” If this weren’t sung by two
teenaged
Russian faux-lesbians, you’d be falling over yourself to ensure its
place
in the canon of hormonal adolescent melodramas right alongside “Leader
of
the Pack,” “Be My Baby” and “Teenage Kicks.” But facts is facts, and
marketing
is marketing, and the shoddily constructed image that surrounds
t.A.T.u.
threw enough people off the scent that it’ll probably be a while until
we
hear another song that quite so forcefully captures the freak-out
insanity
of teenagers caught in the thrall of feelings that they can’t even
begin
to comprehend. Don’t worry if you missed it; there’ll be another one.
There’s
always another one.
3) The New Pornographers, “The Laws Have Changed.” I haven’t got the
foggiest
idea what this song’s about. And when my hammer, anvil and stirrup are
throwing
a party like this, I honestly don’t care. Extra points for a
video that… well, let’s just say that I’ve had dreams exactly like
this
.
4) Jonny Polonsky, “Even The Oxen.” What has power pop maven Jonny
Polonsky
been doing since 1996’s Hi My Name Is Jonny? To judge from this
track,
waiting for a war to disagree with so that he could write one of its
most
trenchant, if heavily encoded, protest songs, in which the ways of man
are
stupid enough for the livestock to notice. And if your leanings bring
you
into disagreement with what he’s saying, then feel free just to pay
attention
to the way he gallops up to the chorus and then squeezes as much
tension
out of it as the song can bear before the beat returns and he takes off
like
a shot. And bear in mind that if you
download this track
, the way it was meant to be acquired, then you’re screwing your
ideological
opposite, even if only a little.
5) The Bangles, “Tear Off Your Own Head (It’s A Doll Revolution).”
Despite
the quality of the band-penned songs on their first two albums, it was
with
covers that the Bangles made their name, so it’s no surprise that the
best
song off of their sporadically worthwhile reunion album Doll
Revolution is the handiwork of an outsider (and, inevitably as
these things go in the
Bangles universe, a man at that). An already fierce snarl from Elvis
Costello’s
When I Was Cruel, “Tear Off Your Own Head” gains force not just
from
the playing but from the harmonies that the vocal firm of Peterson,
Peterson,
Steele and Hoffs can probably pull off in their sleep by now. Sounding
like
she’s having a blast blowing the cobwebs off of her youthful
indiscretions,
Susannah Hoffs digs into the lead, chewing hard enough on the word
“backwards”
that it couldn’t get away if it gnawed its own S off.
6) Hillary Duff, “So Yesterday.” Things I learned while driving from
D.C.
to Boston this past September: 1) Careening down (well, up,
technically)
I-95 at 75 MPH in a rented 14-foot truck in the rain in the dark with
almost
zero visibility while nursing a headache generates a terror so complete
that
it eventually passes entirely and transforms into a sort of zen-like
feeling.
2) If you do the above for, say, five hours straight without stopping
and
getting out to stretch, the knee of your pedal leg will feel like it’s
the
size of a football. 3) By the third time you hear this latest, and
greatest,
assault on America’s eardrums by the Matrix (who were bound to get one
totally
and completely right one of these days), you’ll discover to your dismay
that
you crave it and will frantically scan for another Top 40 station in
the
area as soon as it ends in the hopes that the playlist rotations are
sufficiently
staggered for you to hear it all the way up the Eastern seaboard.
Playing
Duff, whose contribution is inconsequential, like nothing more or less
than
another instrument, the Matrix end up with a perfect pop song, and
credit
goes to the wrong damn person.
7) Prance, “Sexy Mind.” As electroclash fades into the obscurity that
it
couldn’t have avoided even if it hadn’t embraced it, let us now praise
one
man’s utterly ridiculous paean to his own self-delusion. Over a
wonderfully
sleazy synth bass, a heavily vocodered Prance rattles off a list of all
the
things that he lacks that would normally attract a mate before the
chorus
informs us that what he does, in fact, have is a sexy mind. And it’s at
this
point that Melissa from W.I.T. sends the song from the ridiculous to
the
sublime, with dirty-talk interjections that are so overly exaggerated
that
even she must know how preposterously unsexy they are.
Call-and-response
couplet of the year: She: “I wanna touch you and caress you and kiss
that
little moustache.” He: “What an affectionate gesture.”
8) The Strokes, “12:51.” I didn’t ask for a new Cars song, but I’m for
damn
sure taking the one they’re giving me. “Hey Ya!” notwithstanding, the
handclap
song of the year.
9) Amy Rigby, “O’Hare.” In which Amy carefully selects every word
coming
out of her mouth to deny that she still has any feelings at all, while
betraying
with every action that she desperately needs to believe that she does.
10) Fountains of Wayne, “Hackensack.” “If you ever get back to
Hackensack,”
promises a loser who compensates for his failure to escape the
tri-state
area by fixating on a winner who did, “I’ll be here for you.” Embedded
within
that vow are a declaration of unconditional love, a prediction of
someone
else’s failure, blind hope in a salvation that will never come and,
somewhere
deep down, the realization that one’s life has amounted to nothing. In
one
swift (and temporary) abandonment of sarcasm and cleverness, Fountains
of
Wayne stumble across sincerity. Oops.
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The Better Late Than Never
award
goes to a weird pick this year, since I usually name an album that I
have
been personally remiss in discovering until now. In this year of
bucking
tradition, however, I’m giving it to Rock City’s Rock City
(Lucky
Seven), an album that the business has been professionally remiss in
making
available until way too late. Rock City don’t sound much like Big Star,
the
band it would eventually become, even when they’re cranking through
early
versions of “My Life Is Right,” “Try Again” and (as Ice Water) “Feel.”
Instead,
they come across like Pete Ham fronting a Memphis-based Raspberries and
in
the process deliver a stronger Badfinger album than No Dice.
Even
as I shudder at the thought of what the world would sound like had they
met
with any success at all (thus depriving us – okay, me – of Big Star),
Rock
City would have fit snugly into the now-established power pop canon,
and
it’s almost shameful that these recordings from 1969 and 1970 weren’t
released
at least twenty years ago; it can’t be the fact that these are just
(fine-sounding)
demos, since that’s only a problem for as long as it takes you to say “
The Modern Lovers.” Whatever the reason for the delay, we’ve got
them
now, a document of Chris Bell’s second (or, more accurately, first)
great
support role, here bolstering Thomas Dean Eubanks and sending 14
shining
pop gems straight into the void.
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I choose to leave the movies to the experts this year. You’re
welcome.
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