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The Year in Music
Yes, the list that follows is staggeringly bent toward indie-rock. Why? It's hard to say--it could just be this was a banner year for white hipster music (and Matador Records), but we're more inclined to think it was a banner year for music in general, and ballots got split something fierce in other genres (folk, hip-hop). But, hey, if this is indie-rock in 2008, good thing. At least it found its balls again. This year's list is compiled from weighted ballots from 17 regular City Paper music section contributors--yes there are 17 of us, at least--including Raven Baker, Judy Berman, Christina Bumba, Michael Byrne, Ray Cummings, Jared Fischer, Neil Ferguson, Lee Gardner, Jess Harvell, Geoffrey Himes, Marc Masters, Michaelangelo Matos, Bret McCabe, Mike McGonigal, Al Shipley, Brandon Soderberg, and Tony Ware. To view individual ballots, visit citypaper.com.
Wherein Dallas' favorite homegirl talks to her peoples and emerges with an indispensable blend of the personal is political is the freed mind leading the freed body. New Amerykah takes the rallying insistence of futuristic '70s funk, the intimate conversations of confessional '60s soul, the militant jolt of observational late '80s hip-hop, the sensual seduction of '90s neo-soul, the blunted joy of right-now producers, and the dream-of-consciousness flow of anytime Eno and turns out a perfect-fit patchwork jacket of hybridized black music that is positively prescient and absolutely essential. It's bigger than the government. (Bret McCabe)
'08 was a year of comebacks. My Bloody Valentine, AC/DC, "Guns N' Roses," Indiana Jones, a blue Oval Office. It was a year when the story was often two-thirds time put in and one-third what came out. Thankfully, the first Portishead album in over a decade was no Chinese Democracy. Reuniting the analogous triad of vocalist Beth Gibbons, guitarist/programmer Adrian Utley, and producer Geoff Barrow, Third is an achromatic cipher on first listen, 11 post-industrial tracks thick with gunmetal gray humidity pierced by percussive castoff and furrowed lament. Unlocked through the minor key, however, Third's code reveals what comes after the smoky poise of trip-hop: Much like Daniel Craig's steely take on James Bond, the new millennial Portishead is resilient and smoldering, paced and frayed, tautly clipped and bristling. (Tony Ware)
A big ol' ray of Florida sunshine piercing the basement dim of the metal scene, Miami's Torche sub yearning melodies and polished vocal harmonies for the usual throat-fulla-blood gargle or frosty keen. But it's not just frontman Steve Brooks' play-nice pop interface that makes Meanderthal such an all-encompassing rush. The drum-kit cannonade and the downtuned downstrokes never let up, driving the 13 short, sharp tunes past your traguses, but not so fast that the fist-pumping/head-bobbing hooks of "Grenades," "Across the Shields," and "Fat Waves" don't snag you along the way. Talk about heavy anti-depressants. (Lee Gardner)
As if more proof were needed that this is a band that can be whatever the bloody the hell it wants to be at any given nanosecond like some odd Brooklyn-bred metamorph, it arrives with an album so deft in its shape shifting it makes anything else look unnatural. While Saint Dymphna's by now distant predecessor God's Money fucked with enough indie-electronic-"other" formulas to hold our attention this long, the new one hunts with a weapon of hopelessly alluring, tightly crafted electronic pop. "House Jam"--sublime, sensual near-diva vocals; shimmery, fuckable guitars; a beat bent startlingly toward the dance floor--is perfect; "Blue Nile" feels like everything trip-hop could have been; "Princes" is, what, grime? Infinitely listenable. (Michael Byrne)
The Vivian Girls' sound pits reverb-soaked, minor-keyed harmonies against punk-rock textures. There are some bands they sound a lot like, but there's something wholly their own in the manner in which they approach shoegazey pop-punk. The exact way they force the '60s and '80s to collide lands them squarely in the present. On the haunting song "Where Do You Run To," they dramatically pile harmonies atop each other like a tower of playing cards. Slowly un-coiling sounds and narratives wavering between melancholia and menace, the tunes show how much these young women from Brooklyn are capable of--and that's a hell of a lot. (Mike McGonigal)
In some ways, the restless punks in Canada's Fucked Up still dig on hardcore convention: Frontman Pink Eyes has the girth, on-stage demeanor, and abdomen-damaging bellow of your classic NYHC tough guy. The music combines late '80s/early '90s hardcore's mosh-friendly heaviness with a strain of raunchy, riff-centric late '70s rock. (Think metal boogie as much as upchuck punk.) But from the hippie hand drums to the caustic layers of space cadet feedback, no one would mistake the overwhelming wallop of The Chemistry of Common Life for an exercise in boots-and-braces retro. And for all the anti-pit aesthetes, the band even tosses in some subtle hooks and vocal harmonies and other cops to semi-pop. (Jess Harvell)
You won't find an immediately hummable, endlessly catchy track like 2007's "Teenagelust!" on Times New Viking's latest. Expect, instead, a slower burn that scorches through the major defeats and small disappointments of post-adolescent life. In a year that's brought bankruptcy and unemployment, defeated lyrics like, "Waiting for something more than a bad idea" and "I need more money 'cause I need more drugs," only increase their strung-out potency with every listen. It doesn't hurt that we find these insights buried in perfectly paranoid, two-minute bursts of distorted, treble-heavy pop and punk, either. And as for last year's teenage lust? According to this year's "(My Head)," it's "just a phantom," anyway. (Judy Berman)
Do you feel sluggish and depressed? Are you sick of staring into the morose, navel-gazing abyss that is indie-rock in 2008? Then let us introduce you to the Mae Shi, the spazzcore antidote to all of modern life's afflictions. Yes, Hlllyh is a concept album, but don't get it twisted with the paeans to prog-rock egotism we've come to associate with such projects. The album splits the difference between the second coming and a midnight zombie flick, with new singer Ezra Buchla blurting out such commands as, "Get 'em out of those bodies!" and "Stop with the melody!" If Hlllyh doesn't get you off your lazy, hipster ass, nothing will. (JB)
Based on the raw brilliance of last year's EP collection Weirdo Rippers, it seemed clear that L.A. duo No Age had even better songs in its future. But 12 better songs right away? Believe it or not, that's what Nouns delivered, in a barrage of concise, catchy bullets. From the stomping riffs of "Teen Creeps," to the caffeinated glory of "Sleeper Hold," to the wistfully frantic "Brain Burner," the album showed drummer/singer Dean Spunt and guitarist Randy Randall's pithy hybrid of noise-punk energy and twee-ish melody is no fluke, but a formula built for speed and endurance. Toss in a couple blissed-out soundscapes, and Nouns adds up to an instant classic. (Marc Masters)
This is a roots-music album in the best, most generous sense, reaching way back while sounding utterly right-now. The secret is that H&LA mastermind Andy Butler hears disco as the big tent that it is: "Iris" could be a Yaz ballad, while "Hercules Theme" and "Athene" huff and puff and blow the house down like prime mid-'70s live-band stuff on the West End label. Even better, Butler's meticulous writing isn't limited to the music: "Blind" is as apt and touching a lyric as any disco song you can name, and is made all the more so by Antony's vocal--simultaneously hard and tender, just like the rest of the album. (Michaelangelo Matos)
[Some ballots are not numbered because the writer didn't assign a ranking to his or her picks.]
Geoffrey Himes
Jared T. Fischer
Jess Harvell
Lee Gardner
Lil' Wayne, Tha Carter III (Cash Money)Bret McCabe
Christina Bumba
Michaelangelo Matos
Judy Berman
Brandon Soderberg
Marc Masters
Al Shipley
Tony Ware
Torche, Meanderthal (Hydra Head)Mike McGonigal
Raven Baker
Raymond Cummings
Neil Ferguson
Michael Byrne
Grouper, Dragging a Dead Dear Up a Hill (Type)
The Year In Tracks (12/15/2009)
. . . just in the case the album really is dead.
The Year in News (12/9/2009)
The Year in Movies (12/9/2009)
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