2004 Retrospectravision
by Marc Hirsh
[This list also appeared, in drastically altered
form, as a part of these
articles.]
This year’s list is a bit of an inversion of last year’s, in
that I’ve stalled out at five albums (and, for symmetry’s sake, five
singles)
but there is no question about the identity of #1, which is as clear
and
decisive as any I’ve heard in years. The irony of this occurring during
the
year when I made my professional debut as a music journalist is not
lost on me,
but there it is. In other news, longtime observers will notice the
absence of You
Am I on this list for the first time since 1996,
a fact which I chalk up to
them, you know, not releasing anything this year. And those scanning my
musical
predilections for psychological insight are in for a treat, as I’ve
damn near made
good on what I’ve been subtly threatening for years, as 82% of the
entries listed
here are (entirely coincidentally, mind you) at the very least fronted
by
women. Can an all-female list be far behind? Only her A&R rep knows
for
sure.
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1) Nellie McKay, Get
Away From Me (Columbia).
The very
first word on her very first album, verified by the lyric sheet, is
“hcabnasie.” One song is hooked around a phrase in Mandarin, another
around the
chant of the Wicked Witch of the West’s guards. She pants, woofs and
bowwowwows
in her big hit. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Norah Jones if she’d
lost her
fucking mind. As the living embodiment of the brilliant, utterly looped
child
prodigy in Joni Mitchell’s “Twisted” all grown up, McKay can barely
hang onto a
linear thought for more than five seconds, and she cops to a total lack
of
conscience in at least three songs, one of which (the concluding
“Really”) is
beautiful beyond words. It’s no surprise, then, that she’s all over the
place
stylistically: “Toto Dies” is a deranged tango, the jump-blues “It’s A
Pose”
calls us Y-chromosome-bearers on all of our shit and “I Wanna Get
Married”
(deep sincerity cloaked in flip irony) and “Won’t U Please B Nice” (in
which
she very sweetly and quite explicitly threatens to kill you if you
don’t love
her) will have both, if there’s any justice in the world, become
supper-club
standards in the brief time since Get
Away From Me’s February release. And so it goes, but what the
confidence
and intensity of all of McKay’s tangents, asides and logical leaps
indicate isn’t
so much that she knows she shouldn’t be doing these things, it’s that
she
doesn’t understand why they don’t occur to anybody else. So if you’re
wondering
why a nice young woman who looks like a young Sally Kellerman and
dresses like
Faith Popcorn is screaming “Die, motherfucker!” in the midst of the
stream-of-barely-consciousness
rant at the end of the hip-hop-inflected “Sari,” well, that’s
apparently just the
way her mind works.
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2) Rilo Kiley, More
Adventurous (Brute/Beaute). Maturity is such an ugly word when
talking
about indie-pop that the general reluctance of the CMJ-reading crowd to
cry
sellout in response to Rilo Kiley’s increasingly sophisticated
songwriting and
musical palette on More Adventurous is
fairly heartening. Instead, the band’s audience stood by supportively
and
watched as Rilo Kiley spent the last year quietly, very subtly
metamorphosing
into a substantial act that couldn’t be more deserving of acceptance
within
mainstream alternative circles if it were revealed that the band’s name
consisted
of the Middle Scottish words for “radio” and “head.” Singer Jenny Lewis
pulls
off a delicate balancing act: empathetic but not histrionic, smart but
not too clever,
equally effective on the Dusty-in-Memphis soul of “I Never” and the
nervy “Love
And War (11/11/46),” where she tackles the words “All is fair in love
and we’re
in love” with a desperation that suggests that she believes them
absolutely and
that she might not understand what they mean. Most bands would kill for
a
moment like the one in the closing “It Just Is” where the strings come
in, Lewis
pulls just a little bit harder on the lyric and the song suddenly lays
roots at
the base of your spinal column, as though all of More
Adventurous has been leading inexorably to that instant. |
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3) The Secret Machines, Now
Here Is Nowhere (Reprise). It seems a little odd to use a word like
“restraint” when describing an album as blatantly prog as Now
Here Is Nowhere, an album that sounds like Sigur Rós
chatting
up the Straitjacket Fits at a Flaming Lips concert (or Stereolab if
they had
made Emperor Tomato Ketchup under the
thrall of electric guitars) and which is bookended by two songs that
nuzzle
against the nine-minute barrier. But the Secret Machines never succumb
to the
instrumental wankery that characterizes so much of their genre, acting
instead
as a tight, locked-in unit propelled towards their destination
together; hell,
bass player Brandon Curtis usually doesn’t do much more than stay on
one note
in sympathetic vibration with his drummer brother Benjamin. That’s more
than sufficient,
though, since from the cathedral opener “First Wave Intact” to the
dream-like
swirl of “The Leaves Are Gone” to the stomp and thunder of “Sad And
Lonely,” Now Here Is Nowhere just kind of quivers
from start to finish, with the band refusing to reveal its entire bag
of tricks
at once, confident enough to let each piece simmer just long enough for
the
changeup to hit hard when it finally happens. |
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4)
Sam Phillips, A
Boot And A Shoe (Nonesuch). Corralling acoustic guitar, brushed
drums and
odd percussion to generate a mood like tinny 1930s jazz exotica,
Phillips makes
it almost impossible to guess where her melodies might take her
honey-and-sandpaper
voice; the way that the minor key verse of “I Dreamed I Stopped
Dreaming” curls
into the major key chorus is a marvel of simplicity and all the more
surprising
for it. If A Boot And A Shoe falls
just short of the peaks of 2001’s Fan
Dance, its songs are less fragmentary, and her lyrics are
painterly enough
to be worthy of her gloriously expressive voice while being
deceptively, almost
painfully to the point; even the track that seems the least developed,
“I
Wanted To Be Alone,” nails, in a lyric of three scant lines that differ
from
one another by the merest whit, the futile devastations of a love
triangle. “The
moon’s never seen me before,” she sings elsewhere, “but I’m reflecting
light,”
and it’s nothing but the God’s honest truth. |
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5) Sahara
Hotnights, Kiss & Tell (RCA). What’s impressive
about Kiss & Tell isn’t that
Sahara Hotnights have figured out how to write quality material, though
they
have – hooks abound all over the album, even as their songs remain as
anthemic
as ever. It’s that they’ve dramatically changed their sound while
maintaining
the fundamental kernel of their personality, improving significantly in
the
process. Trading in their Les Pauls for Strats, the Swedesses dial down
the
Runaways crunch in favor of a leaner, less oppressive New Wave
guitar-group approach
that works wonders on gems like “Stay/Stay Away,” which presents an
ambivalent
chorus that’s sexy as hell right before raising the stakes by diving
straight
for the jugular in the postchorus. In so doing, they finally deliver a
Sahara
Hotnights album that I can feel good about listening to past the first
song.
Which is pretty terrific, incidentally. |
Widows and orphans:
1) DJ Danger Mouse, “99 Problems.” Armed with a
computer and
copies of The Beatles and Jay-Z’s The
Black Album, an unknown producer
becomes a star and a flashpoint in the copyright wars by creating the
sound
that Charles Manson thought he heard when “Helter Skelter” was playing.
DJ Danger
Mouse may have gotten into legal trouble for this,
but it was for the wrong
crime.
2) Kelly Clarkson, “Beautiful Disaster” (live on The View, April 21) and 3) Fantasia
Barrino, “Summertime” (live on American
Idol, April 15). The once and future American Idols, live and
without a
net. Clarkson took an alliteration-riddled midtempo pop-rocker from her
debut,
stripped the thing down to piano and voice and was left with a love
song so
heartrending that she not only included it on her second
album as well but ended the damn thing with it. Any rendition
with the leaner arrangement is swell, but the version from The
View (residing in various places around the web, including this site)
was given
added depth by Clarkson’s performance, delivered in a voice stretched
so thin
by her draconian management company’s demands that she sounds like
she’s on the
verge of collapse herself, a boon to a song about the psychological
exhaustion
of loving someone who’s bipolar. As for Barrino, it’s hard to remember,
after
all the hyperbole that the show constantly threw in our face, just how
magnificent her initial rendition of the Gershwins’ masterpiece truly
was:
understated, perfectly modulated and so connected to the spiritual core
of one
of the gems of American popular music that she quite simply burst into
tears as
soon as she finished.
4) Kylie Minogue, “Slow.” Whoa. Um. Guh. If there
was a more
enticing invitation to erotic bliss that came out this year, I sure
didn’t hear
it (sorry, Mom, sorry, Dad – I know about these things). Yes, I know
that the
words are about dancing. No, I’m not that naïve.
5) Dresden
Dolls, “Girl Anachronism.” From the Dolls’ self-titled debut album
(which would
have kicked off this year’s Next Five had I gone that route) comes a
song that
encompasses most, if not all, of the themes I’ve already mentioned:
it’s sung
by a woman, steeped in cabaret (in both its lower- and upper-case
forms) and
art-rock, possessed of a punk spirit, completely and utterly insane.
Oh, and it
sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before.
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Close readers of previous lists will
note my persistent weakness
for teenage melodrama, the reasons for which I prefer not to
psychoanalyze,
thank you very much (I prefer to concentrate on one musical fetish per
year).
So I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually stumble across,
and hand
over the Better Late Than Never Award
to, the Shangri-Las’ Myrmidons of
Melodrama (RPM, 1994) at some point. That discovery was
complicated,
however, by the existence of two different collections of the same
name,
released by the same record company, which is based in Britain.
Oh, and the one you want is out of print (catalog #136). A tough hand
to play,
but thanks to a little invention that I like to call eBay, we’re all
winners.
Except, of course, for the Shangri-Las themselves, who find themselves
in such
dire straits over the course of the 28 different songs on Myrmidons
that the famously morbid “Leader Of The Pack” can’t even break
out of the midrange of the adolescent histrionics on display here. The
plaintive “Out In The Streets” (boy gives up drag racing for girl and
becomes
depressed and undatably boring as a result), the sinuous “I Can Never
Go Home
Anymore” (an injunction to love and respect your parents from one who
learned the
lesson too late) and especially the incomparably sublime “Give Us Your
Blessings” (in which two teens die horribly in a car wreck while
eloping because they were crying so hard at marrying
against their parents’ wishes that they couldn’t see the “Bridge Out”
sign,
people!)
are just a sampling of the terrible fates awaiting these girls. With a
few
notable exceptions, like the hilarious and sweet ode-to-a-bad-boy “Give
Him A
Great Big Kiss” and the jazzy attempt at a new dance craze
“Sophisticated Boom
Boom,” someone’s almost always getting hurt in these songs, and Mary
Weiss’s
tremulous, Noo Yawk-accented voice suited the material (provided in
many cases
by the best of what the Brill Building had to offer) to a tee; “Never
Again,” a
fairly straightforward ballad about nothing more tragic than a breakup,
may be
the great unheralded female rock vocal performance of the 1960s. By the
time
Weiss shows up to give “Good Taste” and “Dating Courtesy” tips in the
radio
spots included at the very end of the disc, you’re pretty sure you
can’t
believe a word she says. Then again, maybe you should. She’s obviously
seen
things that would make your blood curdle, and I for one am grateful for her wisdom. MWAH! |
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