Year-end lists don’t come free; just ask our contributors. Sure, we look like a unified front in public, but getting to that place of collective agreement can be a hard road—especially in a year like this, where the number of great albums far exceeded the twenty slots up for debate. Plus, it’s music criticism! Disagreements are going to happen—it’s impossible that they won’t. We had our own to be sure, and kept wading through until we got to the natural end point of any collectively made list: “it’s pretty good, but this part feels wrong.” Which is fair. Every list is wrong, unless it was created by one person, and then it’s only right to them. That’s the nature of the beast. The good thing is that any contributor that feels slighted by the inclusion of some second-rate album has a place to vent their frustrations. We call it the melophobe mutiny. So read on, but beware; you’ll probably find one of your treasures being taken out. That’s the nature of this beast.
It’s an apparently closely guarded secret in the music world that the Walkmen suck. That’s right. Curse me through your monitor. Throw up your arms in dismay. Find the comments section and compose an eloquent litany of abuses aimed at Yours Truly. But hear me out first. This band can claim a sub genre all their own: corporate indie rock. And if that sounds like a contradiction in terms, consider that these guys have all the charisma of a pack of sedated actuaries—and the wardrobes to match. Consider that their songs are contrived to sell—literally designed by professionals for marketability. Consider—and really think about this one—that the band they most closely resemble is not the Strokes, not the French Kicks, but Coldplay. That’s right. Coldplay. True, the Walkmen may be the best band that sucks out there. But if tightly constructed songs, stupid wardrobes, and a relentless desire to craft oneself in the image of market demand are what rocks your world, give a spin to Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti instead. Before Today is unquestionably a reinvention of the band’s sound, and yeah, it’s a commercial success. But it bests Lisbon in that it wears its quirkiness on its sleeve, is unafraid to be raw where rawness is called for, and, most importantly, makes you want to shake your ass rather than just cross your arms and nod your head. Music is art, people! So leave it to the artists, and let the actuaries do whatever the hell it is they do when they’re not recording Walkmen albums.
There is a well-defined haze that fans can lose themselves in. It’s a place where their bands can do no wrong and errors of misjudgment or complacency are glossed over to a point where denial is the only word that does their viewpoint justice. This is where the fans of Brothers currently reside. What else would explain their advocacy for a record that runs on past glory, spent sounds, and a monotonous streak that suggests the “off” button before you even hit the halfway point? Aren’t bands supposed to progress? And when did we start giving artists byes for albums? Listening to this record makes me feel like Atreyu trying to pull Artax out of the Swamp of Sadness; I want my old friends to make it, but I think they’d rather sink.
Let’s replace it with the most underrated CD of the year: The Radio Dept’s Clinging To A Scheme. It’s an album that hits you immediately, one that you wish you had met sooner, like a new friend that instantly gets you. To listen is to live in a world of honey, only this honey reverberates and what’s sticky are its songs. That initial hit of sweetness and the bright euphoria that runs around it can be misleading though, as the lyrics confront both love and wanting. However, when these themes are presented in tandem against a cocoon of symphonic bliss, the results are contemplative rather than whiny or needlessly forlorn. The reserved vocals only further the tie towards meditation, and because most of the songs end instrumentally, the front-loaded phrases begin to look a lot like the first part of a thought, and the music, their unwritten story. But its true value is that anytime of year or anytime of day, you can go back to this record and find delight in it, without fail. That’s what we should lionize; that is what deserves our time.
I want to believe in Sufjan. I really do. There have been moments of brilliance over the years that suggest there might be good reason to pay attention. The Age of Adz is just not one of those moments. What it is, frankly, is a mess of an album: all ambition and no follow through. Speaking of which, shouldn’t this be The Age of Arizona or The Age of Alaska instead of a self-indulgent and unnecessarily long-winded concept record? Oh, wait.
There are so many records more deserving than The Age of Adz this year that Sufjan Stevens even manages to shortchange himself, denying his nearly hour-long and substantially better “EP,” All Delighted People, of Best Of consideration. The real injustice is that an album like Broken Social Scene’s Forgiveness Rock Record unnecessarily languishes at the periphery of annual lists like ours so Stevens’ indie caché can be properly celebrated.
Unlike The Age of Adz, Forgiveness Rock Record manages to be coherent as well as ambitious. Layers of sound that spiral away from Stevens are expertly folded into the mix by Broken Social Scene. And while Stevens is all moody posturing, Broken Social Scene explore a range of emotions that give their offering breadth and depth. Instead of slogging through The Age of Adz’s twenty-five minute closer, “Impossible Soul,” try instead the first half of Forgiveness Rock Record. It’s an A-side you won’t need to want to believe in to enjoy.
I must’ve heard Funeral a hundred times by now. As open-veined coming-of-age anthems go, it’s pitch-perfect, and I’ll give it another hundred spins before I die. Hence, in 2007, I waited with bated breath for the ultimately lackluster follow-up, Neon Bible, which trod the same lost-innocence ground with decidedly less passion. Alas, another three years gone, and The Suburbs brings nothing new to the table. What it lacks in titular subtlety, it fails to make up with its utterly guileless handling of the subject matter: trading childhood dreams for the illusion of financial security; the quiet desperation underpinning a planned community; the listlessness of a privileged middle class grappling with the meaning of adulthood. Updike did it fifty years ago, and he did it better. Win Butler turned 30 this past April, and it’s about time he moved out of his parents’ metaphorical basement.
Enter Daniel Snaith (a.k.a. Caribou), the intellectual counterpart to Arcade Fire’s furiously fumbling Rabbit. Lacking a huge ensemble, Snaith toils away in his home studio, crafting meticulously joyful moments from the detritus of forgotten genres (a feat rarely seen outside the confines of Disneyland). More to the point, Swim denotes a stylistic and thematic departure from Snaith’s earlier works, taking a darker, introspective turn from the ‘60s psych-pop ecstasy of Andorra. Its underwater motif unifies the album sonically (check out the refracted synth lines and dubby reverb of “Sun"), while serving as backdrop for a carefully sequenced meditation on a drowning relationship. In this sense, both Swim and The Suburbs are monomaniacal, but where The Arcade Fire beats its message into a shallow grave, Caribou is content to evoke with a handful of fragments. Guess which album I’ll be listening to in ten years.
Gorilla Manor was on my list for most of the year. Catchy, persuasive, and containing a couple of knock-out tracks, I thought it was a shoo-in for my top ten, and of course on the melophobe list as well. But ultimately, it is an album with little real depth. It’s precious, wispy, and insubstantial, and—perhaps worst of all—seemingly convinced of its own value. The lame, self-referentially self-effacing boos and then handclaps at the top of “Airplanes” nearly make me switch the stereo off every time it plays. While the vocals are pleasant and the lyrics are occasionally insightful, the songwriting needs serious, serious help, with bridges and breaks often coming out of far left field and not actually serving to bridge shores of any kind. Indeed, the album ultimately never arrives anywhere, but is rather a static 12-song presentation whose staying power is linked merely to its unobtrusiveness and its complete lack of challenge. There certainly exist dynamic oscillation and layered, varied instrumentation that survive initial listens without drawing attention to the album’s ultimate mediocrity. Even these end up sounding half-baked and discursive by year’s end. To those who grew up on Crosby Stills & Nash (& Young), the vocal harmonies on Gorilla Manor are welcome and showcase the Local Natives’ obvious musicianship (see especially “Cards and Quarters”). But in the end, it’s a good album to have on in the background when you need something blah to not take away from what you’re actually concentrating on.
The Monitor (Titus Andronicus) is in almost every respect Gorilla Manor’s foil. The vocals are rarely pretty (or even fully sung); the references lead every direction, rather than painfully unidirectionally in; and the album has story, depth, and cannot serve as background music for anything. Loosely conceptual in circling around the Civil War, the album is also a personal pilgrimage piece, speaking of leaving home and returning, growing up and into the world but of course facing the challenges that such stepping out brings. The songs are aggressive, sustained whirlwinds of singspiel vocals and lo-fi rock backing, all topped with realistic, conversational lyrics. The poetry is there, but it isn’t necessarily pleasant: “There will be parties, there will be fun,/There’ll be tall gallows for everyone./And we will all be sleeping easy/Upon the sinking of the sun./But there’s only one dream that I keep close,/And it’s the one of my hand at your throat.” Indeed, the lyrics and vocals underscore the album’s urgency throughout.
As with any good concept album, references (historical, personal, musical) are thick on the ground; the very first stanzas of the album reference Simon & Garfunkel, Springsteen, and New England/Atlantic Corridor sports, transit, and landmarks aplenty. “Four Score and Seven” brings home the more clearly North/South Civil War-era grievances. (You can read the lyrics with some of the references noted from a reasonably sweet fan site with an even better domain hack than melophobe’s original (the abandoned “mel.opho.be"), so I’ll say no more on said lyrical references.) Springsteen musical references abound, as where a plaintive harmonica makes an appearance in “Four Score and Seven,” or soloing guitar and sax come through in the more E Street Band-type jams in “…And Ever,” as does Max Weinberg-esque rapid-fire drumming.
Titus Andronicus should have been on our list in 2008 for their debut The Airing of Grievances. They should be on our list in 2010 for The Monitor. I understand that the album might not be everyone’s idea of an overtly listenable treat or what you might play to re-seduce your high–school ex over the holidays, something you might use Gorilla Manor for to great effect. The album is track-for-track the most interesting, most compelling, most urgently, pleadingly, desperately spectacular album not on our list, and should have garnered far more than its sad 14 points from two people. It is explosive, kinetic, and far more deserving of your attention and repeated deep listenings than just about anything else on our list. Gorilla Manor is just low-hanging fruit for the lazy.
Ousting the number one album (by a fairly large margin) in our top albums list is bordering on blasphemy, yeah? I mean our top albums list is painstakingly assembled over weeks, if not months, of conversation and hundreds of emails between all of the ‘phobe’s contributors. Surely the result of this tedious process must be worthy of adoration. Right?
Well… not in this musicophile’s opinion. Hell, even geniuses make mistakes.
When I first heard The National’s smash “Slow Show,” I nearly fell over in love. So personal, so sonically impressive, so perfect. So not what the rest of the album felt like. As I dug more into The National archive (ba dum dum,) I came across a disturbing trend: each album had three or four great songs on it and the rest were completely forgettable. When “Bloobuzz Ohio” hit my eardrums, though, my hopes that this band could produce an entire album of awesome were revamped (ba dum dum - the redux.) Unfortunately, no matter how many listens I give it, High Violet still only produces four really good songs, about on par with the previous efforts. Great songs to be sure, but four songs does not a best album of the year make.
The argument I heard over and over for High Violet was that it was the perfect conclusion to a three part act. That may be true. If that’s the case, it should win for best conclusion to a rock opera and not album of the year. Heck some parts of the album are so bland I began to think they were from England, but a quick check of the facts put them squarely in Ohio. Well that explains it a little. Perhaps it was the fact that the band produced the album themselves that lead to it being over-produced. Rumors have this album taking four months to mix. FOUR MONTHS! That would indicate to me that these guys just weren’t on the same page. And that’s what good producers are there for, to lead the production to a better place. Here’s hoping the next effort can change all of the aforementioned shortcomings.
Out goes High Violet, in comes Blake Mills’ Break Mirrors.
Would you believe me if I told you Blake Mills is a 23-year-old music scene veteran? Well you should. The names on his CV include Band of Horses, Julian Casablanca, Cory Chisel, Rick Rubin, Weezer, Kid Rock, Bruce Hornsby, and Jakob Dylan, just to name a few. Quite a range of acts there. That’s a good sign that the music industry knows something that you don’t.
On Break Mirrors, Mills takes a step forward into the spotlight. My first real exposure to Blake Mills came through The Voice Project, when my Dawes obsession was at a fever pitch. Their cover of “Hey Lover” was more than enough to send me searching for the person who wrote such incredibly unique lyrics. A stream of consciousness love song / coming of age story laced with humor, sarcasm, and genuine upper white-trash pining that’s punctuated by fantastic musicianship and production. So delightfully high-lo-fi. Give it a listen and you’ll see what I mean. Mills carries those same traits on through every track on his debut solo effort. From the soul-bending sounds of the album opener “Cheers,” through the incredibly diverse musical terrain covered in “Wintersong” and on to the plaintive cries of regret and understanding of “History of My Life,” the album delivers on every track. And it delivers over and over and over. If you could wear out mp3s, I’d be on my third or fourth set.
I’ve yet to see the man play live, but if the clips I’ve seen are any indication, he might be up for musical performance of the year as well. You know… if guitar virtuosos are your thing.
For starters, I could have easily made a case for Johnny Flynn’s Been Listening in place of The Wild Hunt. As far as I can tell, The Tallest Man on Earth (Kristian Matsson) draws much of his appeal from his distinctive voice and European cache. Well, Johnny Flynn has both in spades, and his voice doesn’t sound like a Bob Dylan/Brett Dennon mashup. Flynn’s sophomore effort, Been Listening, represents a step forward both in songwriting and production, and it’s really a wonderful record, more dynamic and melodic than The Wild Hunt. However, I would like to focus on another album to usurp The Wild Hunt’s spot on melophobe’s top 20 albums of 2010: Sam Amidon’s I See the Sign.
I’ll admit it: that comment on Matsson’s voice above was a cheap shot. Yet, aside from his croaky voice, there is little to his music that is truly unique. The Wild Hunt has nicely controlled guitar-work accompanied by interesting lyrics. Which are the same claims you can make of any decent singer-songwriter or folk musician. In short, The Wild Hunt is a good and pleasant album. But certainly not worthy of landing on a best-of end of the year list.
At first listen, Amidon’s voice is offputting. He doesn’t offer much in the way of inflection, instead employing a hushed monotone, almost a mumble. This sounds unpleasant, I know. Hell, I couldn’t stand him when I first saw him perform. But as I See the Sign progresses and with each repeat listen, Amidon’s voice grows more affecting and more intimate. Lovely accompanying vocals by Beth Orton throughout add depth without ever being distracting.
Matsson veils his emotions in layers of metaphor and imagery; Amidon’s songs are simple and direct, all but two being traditional folk adaptations ("Red" is an original composition and “Relief” is an R.Kelly!!! cover). There are moments in Matsson’s album that are truly beautiful, where his intricate finger-plucking and lyrics meet in lovely harmony. These moments are far too few, surrounded by many more moments of pleasant run-of-the-mill folk music. To be fair, Mattson’s Sometimes the Blues is Just a Passing Bird EP is a more consistent effort and more listenable, as Mattson’s voice grates after long. I See the Sign is filled, not with moments, but with lengthy stretches of incredible beauty. The simplicity and intimacy of Amidon’s hushed vocals and Nico Muhly’s sparse, compelling arrangements give this album an incredibly personal feel; Amidon’s songs feel like they’ve been shaped by generations, stripped of any excess and retold with care and love, which they probably have.
To sum things up, Matsson sounds as though he’s on stage at a local coffee shop, playing songs he wrote in his studio apartment; Amidon feels as though he’s with you in your parlor, sharing songs his grandmother sang to him as a child.
Mumford and Sons are a phenomenal band to see in concert; they are talented, inspiring, humble, and exciting to watch. I hope everyone gets a chance to see them live. Let’s not get confused here, though. Sigh No More is a decent album at best. The peak-valley-peak formula of their songs—the central element of what makes their shows so dynamic—repeats itself ad nauseum on the record, as if drilling home a difficult point. It’s not a difficult point, though, as the songs are almost all about love and life and all that stuff. In fact, nine of the album’s tracks have the word “heart” in their lyrics. This album is enjoyable, don’t get me wrong; it’s just not as great as it should be. A top 50 album? Sure. Top 20 is pushing it.
Normally an album merely being pretty good isn’t enough to warrant a takedown. But the omission of Morning Benders’ Big Echo from this Top 20 list is criminal. Big Echo is a brilliantly crafted album, a layered and complex update of the Beach Boys for the indie age, hidden in a seemingly simple package. During the recording process, producer Chris Taylor (of Grizzly Bear) played the recorded songs on speakers in a church space, re-recording them to add natural reverb to the sunny tracks. The resulting songs are airy and organic, a mix of transcendence and groundedness that is unparalleled. Big Echo is one of the best albums of the year; it’s an addictive jaunt made by a young band growing up and finding its voice. Melophobe slept on Morning Benders and they deserve a spot on this list.
Two songs go in, one comes out. Pick a side.
Looking forward to the show. Would love to win some tix for my pals.
by MC Breath on Wed May 16, 2012 at 07.40 pm from the entry: It's all good, see Fishbone for free at Fête
I’m dying to see him no better place than FETE!!
by Telly on Tue May 15, 2012 at 02.57 pm from the entry: we'll see you (and Talib Kweli) at Fête!
Sound does matter. Viva Le Fete!
by Auquanetta on Tue May 15, 2012 at 01.13 pm from the entry: we'll see you (and Talib Kweli) at Fête!
YES! i MUST go to this show! i was just strollin down the street the other day and saw the poster! SO stoked they’ll be in town.
by Jaz on Mon May 14, 2012 at 05.30 pm from the entry: It's all good, see Fishbone for free at Fête
Fete Forever!!
by Tabitha on Mon May 14, 2012 at 05.08 pm from the entry: we'll see you (and Talib Kweli) at Fête!
Congratulations and thank you to Fete for bringing talent to Providence! We needed this venue and vibe. Bless.
oh and I’d love to win tickets; its my boyfriends bday:D
by Ellen on Mon May 14, 2012 at 07.23 am from the entry: we'll see you (and Talib Kweli) at Fête!
My son Jawara want to go to this show so bad, so I’m seeing if I can win! Bless me with a ticket please!!!!!!!!!!!
by Irese Shea on Mon May 14, 2012 at 06.52 am from the entry: we'll see you (and Talib Kweli) at Fête!
Jarrod, are you sure you’re writing about the Walkmen and not Vampire Weekend? There is absolutely no market demand for loung-y ballads from indie rockers, which is why you don’t hear “As I Shovel the Snow” on Honda commercials, unlike Vampire Weekend. I will agree, however, that they have close to zero charisma on-stage (besides the vein-popping Leithauser) and somehow manage to suck the life out of a room when they play.
Ari, amen and amen on Local Natives, though those first 5 tracks are very catchy.
love this article. very nice ya’ll…