Right Up Top

A step back for Ted Leo; he's stripped the Pharmacists down to a power trio, which bums me out because (1) there are no more chicks in the band and (2) the sound is much more straightforward. The power of Hearts of Oak was in its diversity. That said, Ted Leo is undoubtedly one of my favorite current songwriters; he just has that Ben Weasel-esque ability to write unbelievably approachable, catchy tunes that still have that bite.

Not much I can say about Iron and Wine that hasn't been said already; Sam Beam crafts wonderfully textured songs that evoke powerful imagery. It's pretty hard to make me want to live in the South, but he pulls it off. With this record, he made the successful transition from his basement to a recording studio, and while some of the grit and grime was lost, the tone and the passion remained the same. Did I mention that Wu and I started crying at the show during Upwards over the Mountain?

The absolute best of this year's '80s resurgency (mainly because there's so much late '70s punk mixed in). With this record, the Futureheads combine new wave, vocal-pop, punk and brit-pop beautifully. I must admit; at first listen, I was a little put off by how blunt and over the top this record is; and not in that The Darkness over the top way. I mean the music makes no excuses for itself, it is pure hook and unbridled synthyness. Then it occured to me; have I come so far? "What's so wrong with a stupid happy song?" Nothing, as it turns out.

Every time I listen to a Black Keys record, I have an overwhelming urge to make this weird gutteral sound with my diaphragm; it's difficult to write, but it sounds kinda like "ugh". Not in the “bleh” way, but in the "ugh, yeah, ugh, ugh, yeah" way. Then my foot starts tapping, and before I know it, all my co-workers are staring at me going, "Why the hell are you dancing around the cubicle like an idiot?" It's turning into a real problem.

Anyways; thank you, Black Keys. Thank you for being white and not playing white boy blues. Thank you for reclaiming blues rock from the goobers. Thank you for showing people why Muddy Waters thinks Dave Matthews is a pussy. Thank you.

If you had told me two years ago that today I'd be listening to a elfish harpist with a voice like
Lisa Simpson's, I'd have laughed in your face. Actually; when I say it like that, it still sounds pretty
ridiculous. But somehow, The Milk-Eyed Mender has become one of my favorite records this year.
I've shared this album with a few people who couldn't handle Newsom's voice; it is certainly a bit jarring
when first heard. But her songwriting and lyrics are so incredibly strong that I was quickly able to move
past that, and eventually I grew to love it and the quirky quality it adds to her music. You will never hear
anyone who sounds quite like Joanna Newsom. And if you ever get a chance to see her live (she currently lives
in San Francisco), be sure to go. Honestly, how often do you get to see a harpist perform?

For me, hype is usually a death sentence for a record. The more I expect something to be great, the
more I am usually disappointed. As A.C. (Carl) Newman is the main songwriter for The New Ponographers, and their
2003 release The Electric Version was one of my top ten records of last year, I was expecting
an enourmous amount from Newman's solo release. Then after reading a number of reviews claiming the
record was the second coming (SPIN said Newman “should release an album every month”) I was sure it couldn't
be as good as everyone said.

Well, Carl showed me. He took the best of Zumpano and the New Pornographers and rolled 'em into one
thirty-three minute sugar-bomb. I mean sure, there are people who wouldn't admit it, but is there really anyone
alive who wouldn't like this music?

This is a tough one for me to write: this record is good – really good – but it has come
to epitimize, in my mind,
certain changes happening in the world of indie rock. I first received this record in September, after
reading the much famed Pitchfork review. I immediately loved it, and I still love it. But something
very strange happened a few weeks later: these guys exploded. We couldn't get tickets to their show,
their record was impossible to find, and the other night I heard them on Live 105. Seriously.
I stopped listening to punk rock because there was a dirth of good punk music, but I think that was
largely due to the commercialization of the genre. I sure hope that doesn't happen again.

Anyways, as for the record and its merits. What can I say that every other review
hasn't said already? It's fantastic: dark, yet uplifting; haunting. The Arcade Fire have,
for the first time since Jawbreaker, managed to be bluntly emotional without sucking ass. Bravo.

I guarantee you've never heard anything like The Fiery Furnaces' Blueberry Boat. How
often can you really say that about a record? Imagine that The Who, Gilbert & Sullivan, and
P.J. Harvery had sex on a piano and gave birth to ADHD boy/girl twins, and you might have a concept of what
this record sounds like. Even more impressive was the show I saw them perform in November; they took
the already frenetic, rambling mini-operas from Blueberry Boat and Gallowbird's Park

and diced them up, threw them in a bowl, and pulled out one continuous forty-five minute set.
Absolutely incredible.

Normally, EPs are exempt from these lists, but I've made a special exception for The Tain.
It's that good. The EP is one eighteen minute song in five movements, the narrative of which is loosely
based on the Irish epic poem Tain Bo Cuailinge. But nevermind all that; I didn't know that the
first fifty or so times I listened to this record. Admittedly, combine Colin Meloy's knack for ethereal witticisms
with Celtic mythology and you know you're in for a ride; but what makes the Tain great is the sweeping arc it
takes. It's all about the arrangement here: stolen metal riffs are transplanted via acoustic guitar into the
image-rich world of the Decemberists with violins and accordions blazing. It just doesn't get much
better than part V of this record; the song reaches its crescendo as chorus backing vocals and organs
support Meloy's repeating lyric, “But hush now darling don't you cry / your reward's in the sweet bye-and-bye”.

This year, choosing my number one record was not a difficult descision. Having heard The
Cat and the Cobra and Go Forth, I had mentally relegated Les Savy Fav to another
uninspiring post-punk Modest Mouse clone (and I don't even like Modest Mouse). Never has a single
record so quickly changed my opinion about a band. I had heard all about Tim Harrington: his
grizzled, portly appearance; his penchant for shennanigans and stage theatrics; previously, I had
been unimpressed. Within the first fifteen minutes of Inches, I was ready to have his baby.
This record is undoubtably a masterpiece.

First, the concept. Inches is a compilation of nine seven-inch records released by Les
Savy Fav over the past seven years, each on a different independent label, and each containing two
songs (an A-side and B-side cut). As this final compilation was planned at the beginning of the
project, the covers of the aforementioned seven-inches are puzzle piece that – when placed together
– form the cover of the CD release. These songs, the best in the Les Savy Fav catalog, were
intentionally held back from previous Les Savy Fav albums and saved for Inches. This
confined Les Savy Fav to mediocrity for the past few years but let them release the best record of 2004.

What makes these songs so superior to Les Savy Fav's previous releases is the catchiness at their
core. The story behind Inches is symobolic in that respect; Les Savy Fav has managed to do
with Inches what Pretty Girls Make Graves always does so well: take their fury and frenzy
and mold them into cohesive tunes that you will be stuck in your head for hours.