Favorite Albums:
good kid, m.A.A.d. city could have happened anytime in the past 20 years, but it's without question that TPaB is a 2015 record in the most vital way possible. At a time when pop culture seems determined to ignore the most turbulent era since the '60s, Kendrick delivers a blistering state of the union address that also, miraculously, becomes the most intimate musical statement of 2015. Here's the thing, though: it's not just the politics or the confessional lyrics or the gorgeous jazz-fusion instrumentation or Tupac or the fact that "Alright" became a black protest anthem; it's that Kendrick did it all and still managed to craft the tightest, most musically innovative album in recent memory.
An album about "true love" as told by the sage alter-ego of indie darling J. Tillman should be insufferable. Admittedly, the Father John Misty persona often feels like an exercise in "I don't even know anymore." Not that it matters; the whip-sharp lyrics are reason enough to adore this album. But even considering the layers of irony strengthens the album's central theme: value defies reason. "Maybe love is just an economy based on resource scarcity, but what I fail to see is what that's gotta do with you and me," Misty sings, and it's the most compelling way to say "follow your heart" I've heard in a while. So too the music: maybe it's all ironic facade, but does it matter if it moves you?
It would be the height of pretension to claim that I understand this album. I do not. It's a concept album, something about the circular nature of time and death and something something. Maybe I haven't spent enough time with it, or maybe I'm just not the right person to understand Newsom's allusive writing; I've never been very good at James Joyce either. But Joyce isn't set to music. Comprehensible or not, Divers sounds gorgeous. Not the least of the instruments is Newsom's voice, which animates the lyrics with sonic (if not semantic) truth. Any album that manages not to only use the word "Ozymandian" but find its rhyme is going to rank pretty high in my book.
Make that The Band Formerly Known as Viet Cong, since these folks (understandably) decided to change their name after considering the social implications of VC. Before the name change, though, you'd be forgiven for mistaking the band for a parody: a post-punk group with an inflammatory political name who end an album of dark, brooding music with an 11-minute song called "Death"—it's a veritable pileup of '80s indie clichés. The album is a testament to the power of songcraft over innovation. Just take that finale, "Death," probably my favorite song of the year: there's not an original idea in it, but when you hear how savage, how massive it is, you'll forget every precedent.
Some critics are calling it Wilco's return to form. That's silly—not because Star Wars isn't Wilco in top form (it definitely is) but because that ignores 2011's even-better The Whole Love. Let's not pit one against the other, though, since they're clearly artistically distinct statements: in contrast to The Whole Love's lush studio detail, Star Wars exudes a playful, tossed-off quality that recalls Wilco's live shows. In fact, their performances of back-half Being There tracks from I saw them live in Memphis a few years ago were a good approximation of what coalesces here: the immediacy of their '90s work filtered through the grizzled maturity of post-millennial Wilco. Great stuff.
I'm no expert on jazz, but I know enough to recognize that this record isn't innovative—it's merely very, very good. "Merely," as if being very, very good is something to sneeze at. This is jazz maximalism at its finest, and I do mean maximalism: a nearly three-hour record here, filled with furious, spit-flicking sax from Kamasi. The ghost of Coltrane looms large on this album, and that's awesome; I love Coltrane. Therefore I love Kamasi Washington. But it's not just his prodigious, skill that makes this album tick; it's how there's room for a 13-minute riff on The Magnificent Seven; it's how the sax fury is punctuated by unabashedly old-fashioned jazz vocals: all the comforts of home.
More jazz stuff. It's good. Real good. This is my first experience with Vijay Iyer, the prolific (and I do mean prolific—just check out this guy's discography) New York pianist who's been working as band leader since the '90s. I can't comment on how this record compares to that enormous body of work, but I can say this: Break Stuff manages that neat trick of being soft piano music without lapsing into background muzak. With the brooding, minimalist intensity of original tracks like "Hood," this album commands attention, then rewards with surprising reinventions of classics by Monk, Strayhorn, and Kamasi's best bud himself, Coltrane. Nothing broken here.
It's entirely possible (even likely) that that's a vagina on Björk's outfit. That's just vintage Björk cover art shenanigans. In fact, "vintage Björk" is how most critics have been discussing Vulnicura, comparing it to her mid-career highlight, Homogenic. That comparison is certainly apt, although it also ignores just how fresh this record sounds. This is the melodic clarity of Homogenic filtered through a lens of avant-garde and modern classical, as if Björk's heartbreak—following her separation from longtime partner Matthew Barney—has fractured the songwriting into prismatic shards she doesn't know how to reassemble: the most beautiful sadness you'll hear all year.
My love for Carly Rae Jepsen is no secret. Make fun all you want; her music is still a minor pop miracle. At its core, Emotion is Jespen doing that same "Call Me Maybe" thing: crafting catchy songs that communicate deceptively simple sentiments from seldom-explored corners of the Top-40 emotional spectrum. As much as the word "adolescent" is thrown at her music, the year's most mature pop lyric comes from her magnificent closer, "When I Needed You," where Carly sings, "Sometimes I wish that I could change, but not for me, for you, so we could be together forever, but I know that I won't change for you 'cause where were you for me when I needed someone?" Wonderful.
Of all the albums on this list, The Clearing is the one whose cover art does the best job at evoking the record's music: you look at that ethereal, spare cover, and you've got a great idea of the sounds you're in for. Rachel Grimes delivers an utterly hypnotic cross pollination of post rock and modern classical. "Delicate" is the wrong word for it: these pieces are ghostly, indistinct, occasionally threatening shapes that congeal from that cover-art mist until some sound or a breath melts them back into the air. The music doesn't go anywhere; it's nonlinear and amorphous in a way that I imagine that could be frustrating to some. But whatever. I think it's gorgeous.
Great 2015 Songs Not on These Albums:
Adele: "I Miss You"—My relationships with Adele songs come in waves: I like them, I grow sick of them, I rediscover them a while later and find new things to like, and so on. I'm at varying stages of this cycle for each song on 25, Adele's excellent and already overplayed record from a few weeks ago. I'm still in the like (even love) phase for "I Miss You," though. It's Adele's wager at making a Florence+The Machine song, and it's at least as good as anything from Florence's album earlier this year.
Donnie Trumpet & The Social Experiment: "Sunday Candy"—Donnie Trumpet & The Social Experiment's full-length, Surf, is warm but inconsistent. The album's standout, "Sunday Candy," is neo-soul perfection. It's effervescent video is even better. Chance the Rapper may be becoming rap's resident cornball, but who cares when he's helping to craft this sort of nirvana?
Dread: "Can You Hear Me Dying in the Backyard?"—Somewhere out in the wilds of Bandcamp, a little band named Dread created a concept EP about The Sopranos. Like, the TV show. And it's very good! Especially this song, which recounts one of the more existentially harrowing moments in the series's final season (Sopranos aficionados can probably guess what it is based on the title). This project sounds like a joke on paper, but in practice, it's an engaging blast of lo-fi post-punk.
David Bowie: "★"—aka "Blackstar," the 10-minute jazz-rock-acid freakout from Bowie's upcoming 25th studio album of the same name. This is the awesomeness of David Bowie: the dude's about to turn 69, and he's still making music that's stranger and more astral than most musicians a third of his age. Also, he apparently listens to Kendrick Lamar.
Missy Elliot: "WTF (Where They From)"—This song almost made this post on the strength of its video alone, surely the best non-Kendrick-Lamar-affiliated music video of the year. But don't let statements like that distract from the fact that, video aside, this is a really fantastic song. And you don't realize just how fantastic until you get to "Sticking out your tongggggggggue." Who else but Missy Elliot would make one of the catchiest hooks of the year out of a bunch of consonants?
Roman GianArthur: "NO SURPR:SES"—Unsurprisingly, the best song from OK Computer becomes the best song on an EP of R&B Radiohead covers. Bonus points for the Janelle Monáe verse.
Savages: "The Answer"—As if there weren't already enough reasons to be excited about a new Savages album, the first single to drop from next January's Adore Life plays up the metal influences that helped make their debut feel so colossal. It rocks, y'all.
Shamir: "Call It Off"—Lots of sweat, tears, and anguish led to the decision to leave Shamir's infectious debut, Ratchet, out of my top 10 albums this year, so take this song as a consolation prize. Well, a consolation prize to a consolation prize: the album's best song, "On the Regular" was actually released last year, so this is the next best song to qualify for this year's post. Ranking politics aside, "Call It Off" is still a fantastic showcase for what Shamir does best: the slinky funk-fusion instrumentation, the nimble melodies, and of course the heaping helping of personality.
Joan Shelley: "Over and Even"—Evoking the spacier moments from Vashti Bunyan or Joni Mitchell, Joan Shelley delivers a gorgeous four minutes of spare, cosmic folk music.
Sleater-Kinney: "Price Tag"—Never change, Sleater-Kinney. Not that change seems likely. These gals are as fierce as ever, as evidenced by this blistering opening track from their stellar comeback album. That they're going after our culture's fetish for low retail costs (yes, that's an exciting topic!) is just gravy.
Steven Wilson: "Ancestral"—Steven Wilson's Hand. Cannot. Erase. is a spotty album of neo-prog revival, but when it's good, it's good. And it's really, really good in "Ancestral."
Kanye West: "All Day"—Still waiting on that new album, Ye. Hopefully it's as good as this track.
White Stag: "Rhythms of Clockwork"—Local Knoxville pride. The city has a budding prog scene that's inventive and interesting, and this, a 12-minute standalone opus, is the most exciting track to come out of that area. It's a huge step forward for White Stag, and I'm really looking forward to what they do next.
And that's all, folks! Don't forget to leave your own favorite music of the year!
Until next time.
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