Best Albums of 2007

THE USUAL SUSPECTS

Let me start by saying that I've decided to never utter "This year was a disappointment," in regards to music, ever again. Not that this year (or any other year) was not rife with musical disappointments but, as I get older, that phrase just sounds whiny. Life might as well be a disappointment if I can no longer find things right in it. Since I choose not to see the world only as a grand failure (or at least the human part of it), I must simply accept the changes of middle age and move onward and upward.

This year had an interesting mix: some oldies put out solid but underwhelming products; some newbies rocked into heavy rotation. Casting a backward glance at past year end lists, I see patterns. Eric Bachmann (whether alone or as Crooked Fingers), The Decemberists, Tom Waits, and others have made my lists multiple years in a row. Hell, Crooked Fingers took top honors twice. And what about Ben Gibbard? He made the same list twice (Death Cab and Postal Service).

None of these artists are on this year's list. And while there are some repeat placers (Band of Horses, Wilco, Modest Mouse), top honors and big surprises go to new artists.

REITERATION OF THE PROCESS

This list is by no means a complete list—at least as true music critics and/or fanatics would have it. I cannot keep up with the sheer output of the world's artists. The best I can do is wait around for the usual suspects to put out new things, and lurk on Pitchfork, skimming reviews for highly rated albums and give some of them a try. In this respect, emusic.com needs to take some credit for my listening habits (and choices): If something new pops up on Pitchfork, and emusic has it, I will listen and download. Two of this year's top ten finishers came to me this way.

Other almost-rans (honorable mentions) might have made the top ten had they not gotten lost in the volume of downloads. Here again, my age shows. I can't get to it all—even the ones that I choose to download. I have my emusic subscription (65 downloads a month) and I can't keep up! Oh well.

So, with this in mind, I set forth the usual criteria: The albums on this list are ones that stuck. I either wore them out in the car, or I shuffled through them on the computer at work. All of the albums have tracks that made it to mixes.

And, like previous years, the albums that seemed to not only have kept my attention, but helped define the year as a whole, placed highest. In fact, if you were to chop all the other useless nonsense here (especially my long-winded prose), take the top three albums on my list and you've got an accurate summation of 2007.

Get on with it…

10. Interpol – Our Love To Admire

I'll admit, I don't particularly care for Interpol. I borrowed my good friend Brian Candler's copy of Turn On The Bright Lights and couldn't get into it. Yeah, it's good. But I don't own it—and probably never will. When Antics came out, I bought it. I listened to it. I kind of liked it. I think I even included it in my mentions (or did it make the top ten?! I can't remember!) for that year. And, like several of the other artists on this list, I caught them performing on Letterman. They were not good. I don't think I even made it through the entire performance before stopping the DVR.

When Our Love To Admire came out, I didn't rush to purchase it. In fact, when I did buy it, I did so because I just felt like buying something (o you American fool!). For all the "one-trick-ponyness" of this band, I really like this album. There is a quality on this one that I think the others lack: maturity.

As a happily married man, I have serious problems with the lyrics of "No I In Threesome." But it is my absolute favorite track on the album. And, interestingly enough, I find the best tracks on this album ("Pioneer To The Falls") are thematically reminiscent of the overall tone of Neon Bible. There's a sadness here…

9. Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Why isn't this higher? Why am I just now listening to Spoon? When it comes to "discovering" new music, one has to either spend considerable energies tracking down everything all the time, or one simply accepts that some things will go unlistened, undiscovered.

Luckily, I caught Spoon on Letterman. They performed "Underdog" and I was immediately hooked. I went out the next day (well, maybe not) and bought the disc. The strength of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is found in "Don't Make Me a Target," "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb," and "Underdog." It would be higher on the list, though, if for a few tracks that disrupt the overall package: "The Ghost of You Lingers" deflates the tense energy drummed up by "Don't Make Me a Target." The same could be said for "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case." There again, the album is buoyed back up when one considers the strength of all the lyrics. "Target" and "Underdog" are both in the running for best damn song of the year.

8. The Shins – Wincing The Night Away

Earlier this year, I woke up at two a.m. to the sound of knocking. Looking out of our second story windows, I saw a convertible Sebring crumpled up against my poor little Civic. This incident marks my relationship with Wincing The Night Away. I know this because I spent the weeks following the accident driving a brand new Dodge Charger (oh, how I loved that car… against my better judgment, of course!). The only cd that I had in the Charger for the two weeks I drove it was Wincing The Night Away.

Now, let me add that my "memory" (or recounting of it) is a bit fuzzy. I'd had the album for almost a month before the Charger entered the picture. I'd listened to it a few times and was less than enamored of it. It also didn't help that the cd wound up in my wife's car.

The result? Where I had, for the most part, moved on, dismissed it, Mandy had been slowly falling in love with it. When I realized this, I wanted it back. Enter the Charger. And so, Wincing The Night Away fits some of the crucial criteria: It represents a piece of 2007. It spent a good bit of time in heavy rotation. And it is, more or less, a solid album.

It doesn't, however, place higher on the list because it's not Oh, Inverted World. That sounds bad, especially since Chutes Too Narrow falls between the two. But I have to say, I love The Shins. I've seen them live twice and they did not disappoint. And yet… what is clearly good music has a habit of not sticking. That is, I would liken both Chutes and Wincing to a good sugar rush. In the moment, they're exactly what I crave but, a few hours later, I've forgotten about the rush and find myself snacking on something else.

"Sleeping Lessons," "Australia," and "Phantom Limb" are, regardless of my not-so-kind words most excellent songs. Yeah, it's a good album.

7. Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha

Okay, this one's higher on the list than maybe it deserves (based on my criteria). I usually include one like it every year: A great album that I didn't really listen to as much as some of the others. What can I say? Despite the failings of old standby's (Wilco and The Shins), I listened to them more than I did this little gem.

"Fiery Crash" made it on to almost every mix I made this year. "Scythian Empires" is a morsel of orchestrated beauty. And, come on, the last track merits mentioning by title alone: "Yawn at the Apocalypse." All in all, this is a solid, cohesive album. And, I have to admit that Armchair makes the top ten because of my egregious overlooking of Micah P. Hinson's Micah P. Hinson and the Opera Circuit last year.

6. Iron & Wine – The Shepherd's Dog

Brian has been (not so) subtly pushing Iron & Wine on me for years. I downloaded the Woman King – Ep because of Brian. I purchased the Calexico and Iron & Wine Ep, In The Reins, because of Brian. I downloaded "The Trapeze Artist" at Brian's urging.

But…

No one can dispute the artistry of Sam Beam's music. Like Sufjan Stevens, he's carefully crafted a unique sound and he's dogmatically stuck by it. It might be that devotion that's kept Iron & Wine out of my top ten (until now).

There. Do you hear it? There's an armchair critic shouting from the bleachers "It all sounds the same!" And it does. But is that a bad thing? There is no doubt in my mind that an Iron & Wine song should be included on any and all mixes.

But can that sound be sustained for an entire album without straining one's patience? The answer for me now is, yes. The Shepherd's Dog is brilliant. On this album, if one listens closely, one can hear a multitude of subtle textures and finally realize, no, it does not all sound the same. Beam's voice and the hushed mixing of his songs disguise—for the initiate—a wealth of beauty beneath.

In the face of this estimation, why isn't this album higher on the list? Well, here again, like Sufjan, one can only take so much. Driving back from D.C. several weeks ago, I was starting to fade. I couldn't find the right thing to listen to to keep me awake. I popped Shepherd's Dog into the player, but after one song, I had to move to something else (that something else wound up being my number one pick for this year…). In this way, I will liken Shepherd's Dog to a Jim Jarmusch film. You've got to be fully awake and fully attentive to really appreciate it.

5. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky

In my head note, I mentioned the idea that most of my lists for the past five years have been collections of the same artists, their positions only slightly shuffled. There's something to be said about a band (or artist) that can consistently produce worthwhile music. One hit wonders are fine for blips and bops; give me a band that I can grow old with. Wilco is one of those. I will buy anything they put out. As such, everything they put out is good. Music critics (and even a significant portion of Wilco fans) will be quick to point out that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot represents the pinnacle, that everything since has been consistent but not necessarily genius. Take this excerpt from Rob Mitchum's review of Sky Blue Sky, for instance, "An album of unapologetic straightforwardness, Sky Blue Sky nakedly exposes the dad-rock gene Wilco has always carried but courageously attempted to disguise. Never has the band sounded more passive, from the direct and domestic nature of Tweedy's lyrics, to the soft-rock-plus-solos format (already hinted at on Ghost's "At Least That's What You Said" and "Hell Is Chrome") that most of its songs adhere to."

But… in a year where some of the best music was not so straightforward, the "dad-rock" of Sky Blue Sky was comforting. Yeah, many of the tracks descend into guitar masturbation, but masturbation isn't always a bad thing… I guess I'm at "dad" age and so I like this album. I will add that I liked it immediately (even as I noted its flaws) and, as such, stepped away from it pretty quickly. Coming back to it (even before I started thinking about my list), I remembered how instantly likable it is. This is not to say that it gets better with age (theme of the list this year: age), but that it is something worth coming back to.

4. Modest Mouse – We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank

Like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, this album would be higher on the list if not for its flaws. Unlike Spoon, though, those "flaws" could be with me and not the album. Bottom line: I’m an old fart who can't sustain—er, for the entire album. The sequencing is spot on. It comes on strong. The first track is reminiscent of the carnivalesque that so intrigued me on Good News. The lead in energy of "March Into The Sea" is ramped up with "Dashboard." Think of a car approaching the red line—when that pedal goes down even further, you cross over the line. Scary and exhilarating.

One cannot sustain that kind of energy for long, so "Fire It Up" pulls us back down. Then we're back up again. Then down again. And then… the best song of the year: "Missed the Boat." Where Neon Bible stretches the collective mood of the world over an entire album (more on that further up the list), this song brilliantly sums up the current state of the union. There's even that subtle push of James Mercer singing backup on the chorus. There are several classic Isaac Brock moments ("that good God dam"; "shake shake shake") and in the end we feel better, even though we've "truly missed the boat."

And then… What can I say? At track six I've gotten everything out of the album I need. The strengths of the best tracks on this album strangle out the others.

Or I'm just too damn old to keep listening…

THE TOP THREE

In many respects, the top three albums on my list have nothing in common. The lullaby gone wrong darkness of Neon Bible is the antithesis of the sweet ditties that populate Cease To Begin. The southern-tinged rock of Cease to Begin is geographically removed from the almost (and I use this reference sparingly) eighties pop gloss of The Boxer.

3. Band of Horses – Cease To Begin

When "Is There A Ghost" showed up on Band of Horses's Myspace page, I added it to my profile. Yeah, it's good. And, echoing back to Wilco, Band of Horses is good for what ails this old man.

That's a substantial part of what this album means to me: For all the other music and mayhem in my life, Band of Horses is a solid bit of nostalgia. Their tunes are reminiscent of the good, honest rock and roll of my youth. Where Wilco's masturbatory guitar work is pleasing to my ears, Band of Horses reminds me of why the electric guitar is quite possibly the greatest of all human inventions.

Band of Horses strips all irony from the phrase, "Rock on, dude."

And that's not all. There's a sweetness to Cease To Begin that's missing from the two other albums in my top three. "No One's Gonna Love You" is an honest love song that manages to transcend indie rock irony to a place of pure authenticity.

My only real complaint is one of gentle passing: I would have liked a few more rockers. The crescendo of "Is There A Ghost" starts the album off nicely, and that build pays off in "Ode to LRC," my absolute favorite track from the album. In fact, the line "The world is such a wonderful place," when delivered, is the one of the most authentic affirmations of existence I've heard in a good long while. It's an interesting counterpoint to the gloom of Neon Bible (more on that below).

"No One's Gonna Love You" turns it down nicely. From there, though, the album only really turns back up for "Islands On The Coast." "The General Specific" has a nice rollicking gate, but it doesn't rock. "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands" rocks, but lacks the energy of "Ode to LRC" and "Is There A Ghost."

In the end, though, Cease To Begin clearly belongs in the top three.

2. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

When this album came out earlier this year, I had immediate mixed feelings. I was excited and looking forward to its release. There was a cloud of mystery and intrigue. Websites were put up. Myspace pages had leaked songs under fake band names. Arcade Fire tested the waters, using a Web 2.0 strategy to shape and mould its newest release.

New release? Funeral was released in 2004. Neon Bible, then, was three years in gestating, or at least there was a pause, a build up, maybe even a strategy.

Then it was here. I ordered it through Amazon.com and got the limited edition with all the extra junk. (At present, because the cd itself is in a non-descript plastic sleeve, I can't find it.)

I popped the disc in and… disco.

No, wait a minute.

"Black Mirror" opens the album and sets an ominous tone. The mix is a kind of sonic storm cloud swirl. Win Butler's voice slips in with lyrics to reflect the tone: "I walked down to the ocean / after waking from a nightmare / no moon no pale reflection…" The song builds ever so slightly to the first chorus, ever swirling, ever winding up until shots ring out—in French—and then cue strings.

Then we cut to "Keep the Car Running," an up-tempo, guitar and mandolin fronted swing. The tone is carried forward by the lyrics, but the airy arrangement contrasts in a compelling way. Much like other songs mentioned on this list, this one has made many mixes—especially the ones I've designed for running (har)!

With these first two tracks, the album's overall effect is established. Good songs that you might find on pop radio (if not for their biting lyrics) mixed with tonal oddities and darker instrumentation.

Earlier, I mentioned being disappointed by Interpol's performance on Letterman. Well, I was fortunate to catch (in high definition, no less) Arcade Fire's Austin City Limits performance. Every shaking bit of that performance is a revelation. What these guys (and girls) are doing is not only unique but enlightening. Hard working evangelists. Every bit of that Austin City Limits performance smacks of church revival. This poor soul has been saved.

Highlights from the album: The organ driven "Intervention." The heartbreaking gallop of "(Antichrist Television Blues)."

In the end, it may not be the best album of the year, but it resonates with (or actually sets) the tone of the year. We are on the cusp of apocalypse and the Arcade Fire will march us right into it, hurdy-gurdy and all…

1. The National – The Boxer

Okay, to steal a phrase from Pitchfork, this one's a "grower." I'd read about it. I'd listened to bits on emusic and decided to give it a try. And, at first, it looked like this album was going to go the way of so many of my other emusic downloads.

Then something magical happened. I found myself running bits of "Fake Empire" over and over again in my head. I went back to the album and fell in love. Of all the albums on my list this year, this one probably got the most play. It was there for me as I navigated the wedding season ("Apartment Story"'s "I getting tied / I'm forgetting why" a connecting line). It was there for me when I was driving back from Asheville with a horrible hangover after seeing The Smashing Pumpkins (thanks, Brian).

In many ways, The Boxer filled the Eric Bachmann void for me this year. Not sure that connection holds water (lyrics and vocals), but when I needed something that was not satisfied by the darkness of Neon Bible, or the honesty of Cease To Begin, I turned to The Boxer.

The rhythm section is out front, driving most of the tracks with an urgency ("Brainy"). I mentioned earlier that the album has an "eighties" quality. This could be a result of the fact that the album doesn't rely on guitar (what was I just saying about guitar?!), but on a kind of polished, almost synth-flecked tone. Don't mistake me. Rather, I might suggest that The Boxer encapsulates all the best qualities of eighties music and repackages them with a new-millennium sensibility. In the cracks, I hear the best qualities of The Cure and U2.

Anyway, where many of the albums on this list have a stellar track or two, this album rarely hits a sour note. At the top, though, are "Fake Empire," "Squalor Victoria," "Slow Show," and "Apartment Story."

Yeah, this is number one for the year.

Honorable Mentions and Other Awards

The "Mandy Gets Credit For This One" Award

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova – Once (Music from the Motion Picture)

Okay, let me fess up about this one. I had it in my top ten. Number six, to be exact. However, in chiseling down my list, I was one album over the even ten. The more I thought about it, the more I figured I could pull this one out of the top ten and give it its own category, its own mention. The wife may still kill me for not putting it in the top ten…

Hands down, this is a great album.

It's a complete package (a little sweetness, a little bitterness, a little house party acoustic jam, a little electronica), and it has that "albumness" that is so hard to find in this our single-download-driven ipodia.

But it is, afterall, a soundtrack. Its existence is tied to the film. It also contains songs that were previously released (in slightly different versions) on last year's The Swell Season. In the end, if you question my sincerity (and reasoning), then check out my review of the show Mandy and I saw in D.C. (A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre).

Honorable Mentions

Steve Earle – Washington Square Serenade

Check out "City of Immigrants" and "Oxycontin Blues."

Ted Leo & The Pharmicists – Living With The Living

Hardest working man in rock? "Sons of Cain" and "Who Do You Love?" are highlights for me.

That Great Song I didn't Write Award

Feist – "1234"

Man, I saw her perform this song on Letterman and it was great. There in the background, too, was a "who's who" of indie rock (the guys from The National, Mates of State, some of The New Pornographers, to name a few). Went out and bought the album. Eh. Then I come to find out that the catchy tune that brought me to the album was written by someone else. Aw, nuts.

Good But Not Great

Bruce Springsteen – Magic

Bright Eyes - Cassadaga

They Might Be Giants – The Else

Ryan Adams – Easy Tiger

Beirut – The Flying Club Cup

New Pornographers - Challengers

Just Couldn't Get There

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Some Loud Thunder

I really did try to like this one. But there was something that turned me off. Not sure what it was. Maybe it was the production?

emusic Overlooks

White Rabbits – Fort Nightly

The Broken West – I Can't Go On I'll Go On

Works of Heartbreaking Disappointment

matt pond PA – Last Light

This one really hurt. Pond writes some great tunes, but this one…

Bloc Party – A Weekend In The City

Okay, so maybe I wasn't heartbroken, but I have no idea where this one was coming from. Maybe you have to be British… Or like Brett Easton Ellis…

The Fiery Furnaces Award

Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?

It never fails. Damn you Pitchfork!

Missed The Boat Completely

Rogue Wave – Asleep At Heaven's Gate

I haven't read all of Brian's comments yet, but I did a quick once-over of his list—just to make sure I didn't forget anything. Lo and behold! I completely missed this one! I remember seeing on the upcoming releases, but… damn, I need to get this one.

Saving for 2008 even though it's downloadable now

Radiohead – In Rainbows

I was going to start this whole thing by saying something like "This should be number one, but I’m going to wait for an 'official' release." I haven't listened to it yet, and as much as I've succumbed to the download, I want this one to be a hard copy purchase. So, look for its appearance next year.

Until then…

A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre

First, let me apologize: I've been meaning to post for quite some time, but haven't.

The wife and I drove up to D.C. a few weeks ago to see The Swell Season. Months prior, we went with some friends to see Waitress (see my blog here: My Name Is Not Earl) and caught the trailer for Once. That small bit was so addictive that Mandy bought the soundtrack and put it into heavy rotation. We vowed to see the film if/when it came anywhere near us. Sure enough, long after it opened other places, it came to Greensboro. We went. I think we were the only ones in the theatre.

Suffice to say, the film is excellent. Thematically, it doesn't stray too far into the wild—it's a classic story. Two people meet, kind of fall in love, and then go their separate ways—much like Before Sunrise. What makes Once so damn engaging, though, is the music. The music is so integral to the story that I would make the case that it is the true protagonist of the film. We root as much for the music as we do for Glen and Marketa (not actually named in the film). The music has to find an audience—and it does, through the help of honest lovers (and I don't just mean Glen and Marketa; everyone who hears the music becomes an agent of its creation).

But that's the movie. As it turns out, Glen Hansard (front man for the Frames) and Marketa Irglova made an album prior to making Once. That album, titled The Swell Season, inspired the film (a blend of fact and fiction) and many of the tracks from the original album made it to the film. Through the wonders of Myspace, Mandy connected to The Swell Season's site—and found out that Glen and Marketa were touring. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the closest they were going to come to Greensboro was D.C. Having spent our anniversary in D.C. last May, we both thought it best to try for the D.C. show.

I got tickets and reserved a room at the AppHouse (benefits of being an alumnus!).

It's not an exaggeration to say that the show is in my current top five best shows.

Let me back up and give a few details:

1. The AppHouse is a $1.35 Metro ride from the Lincoln Theatre.
2. Having spent the previous night out late (well, late for us) with my Aunt Bebe, we decided to sleep in. By the time we had lunch it was about 1pm.
3. Late lunch and residual sickness (I was afraid we wouldn't even make it to the show because Mandy had been sick all week) led to a nap before the show.
4. The idea was to make the trip down to the theatre a couple hours before the show, find some place to eat, and then go to the show.
5. We found out (internet) that there is an Ethiopian restaurant across the street from the theatre. That was going to be our destination.
6. We emerged from the Metro at about 6pm.
7. There was already a line outside the theatre.
8. The reason a line mattered: Tickets were general admission. And unlike some other general admission shows, the theatre has seats. Those at the front of the line had first pick (free for all, actually).
9. Luckily (or unluckily), there was a Quizno's by the station.
10. I horked down a meatball sub in less than five minutes (during which we lost probably about ten spots in the line), and we bolted across the street.
11. It was cold.
12. They opened the doors right at 7pm.
13. Our waiting paid off.
14. And now I'll stop with the numbering…

While we didn't get front row center, we got front row to the right side of the stage (stage left). Unless we had gotten to the theatre before six, there's no way we could have gotten any better seats.

The semi-bad news: We weren't sure if there would be an opening act. Since we were dependent upon the Metro, we kind of hoped there wouldn't be an opening act.

There was an opening act: Martha Wainwright.

She wasn't bad, but… Opening acts are always a question mark. My friend Brian Candler and I have had long conversations about the function of the opening act. Does the opening act intentionally suck in order to prime the audience for the main act? Does the promoter pick like-minded artists to better package the experience? Does the club shuffle in local bands to fill the void? Does the main act pick the opener in an effort to get some friends heard? More often than not, many openers fall short of being really good. Granted, I have gone just to see opening acts (I went to see Eric Bachmann, not the Delgados), and I've been turned on to a few of them (Mates of State, The Standard), but for the most part…

Martha Wainwright falls into (I think) the like-minded category. She was a one woman show. Acoustic guitar and soft/loud arrangements. I will say two things (positives): she can play a mean guitar and she is definitely intense. Beyond that? I often have this thought while listening to opening acts: "I think I really like this… no, wait. I think I’m being taken advantage of. This isn't as good as I think it is…" With Martha, I kept swinging back and forth between really liking her and hoping she would just finish. I think she was just a little too intense for her own good. Intensity without honesty? Was she simply trying too hard? Or was I missing something? Mandy admitted (the next day in the car on the way home) that she decided she didn't like her. I'm still on the fence.

Okay, so off went Martha (she would later come out during the encore to join Glen and Marketa). There was the usual waiting period between the two acts. And then…

What confusion I had about Martha's sincerity cleared out of me with the first chord struck on Glen's worn out Takamine. We really couldn't have asked for better seats. The sound mix was excellent, and the cloud of incense smoke rising from behind the musicians was intoxicating. I read review elsewhere that said there was more than incense in the air up in the balcony…

Highlights from the show: Glen's haunting and full, open, bleeding heart on "Leave"; Glen's growl and swagger through Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks"; everything that put Marketa upfront; the sweet "Star, Star"; the rollicking cover of "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere."

Let me say a bit about those Glen moments. One of the things that he's clearly good at is the crescendo—from soft and plaintive to full-on, guitar shredding and scream-singing. This was best felt on his solo rendition of "Leave." Glen clearly knows the pain of lost love—the agony of still loving someone who no longer loves you. I don't think I've ever heard a song that so captures that mixture of borderline despair and hopeless yearning.

Interestingly enough, what further endeared me to Glen was his stage banter. As I get older, I become increasingly attracted to the storytelling inherent in music. I long to hear, too, that the people whose music I so respect can back it up with solid, honest wit and wisdom. It was listening to 70's Tom Waits bootlegs that really got me hooked on stage patter. Waits was a storyteller, and his stage banter was never just "Thank you" and "This is off my first album." He carefully rehearsed his bits like a comedian. From bootleg to bootleg you can hear subtle variations and additions—a honing of the storytelling craft.

While I don't think Glen rehearses his bits, he is obviously comfortable on stage, and has something to say. In D.C., he waxed philosophic about beer at one point, coming close to my ruminations in Belly Up, Pint Down. Mandy turned to me at that point, shook her head and half rolled her eyes. But here again, Glen's banter (and by extension, Marketa's) illustrated that key point: What makes the music so good is honest storytelling.

A good summation of this point comes with "Star, Star." You can listen to a performance of "Star, Star" on NPR's World Café Next (Click here). It's a sweet Frames number but, in the middle, it veers into "Pure Imagination" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Glen recites a phrase from the movie ("It's all yours Charlie. The whole chocolate factory. I'm giving it to you. You've won.") and everything falls into place. This sentiment encapsulates the transcendence that comes at the end of a really good story. Having made the journey (sat and watched/listened) you've grown with the artist. The argument of Willy Wonka is that the audience is Charlie. We've won. Otherwise, we're down in the bowels of the factory getting the blueberry juice squeezed out of us…

With "Star, Star," Glen brought the audience to that point and gave us the chocolate factory.

Then there's the honest musicianship. Until Glen said he was going to play a Van Morrison song, I hadn't really pondered the connection. Best Irish songwriter, Glen said, and I thought, "Perfect." Then he launched, on his own, into "Astral Weeks." Oh man, was it good. A few bars into the song, he down-tuned without missing a beat and I could feel the tune sink deeper into my gut. Anyone who can do that, well…

That was the point in the show where I crossed over. "Astral Weeks" brought me through to the other side.

Years ago, I came to a realization about skiing: All the trouble that went into getting to the mountain. All the time spent putting on gear and riding ski lifts. All the money, effort, and time expended always outweighed the actual time spent skiing. But it was all worth it for that one run. That one perfect run where everything came together and clicked. Nothing else mattered before or after that one run. That's how I felt about Glen's version of "Astral Weeks."

On to Marketa…

There's something quite mesmerizing about a tiny woman with a big, beat up guitar, performing beautiful tunes like an old pro. When she sat down for one number (one of the best of the evening), the stage manager (who joined in on electric guitar for the Bob Dylan cover) came out to re-adjust the mic stand with little success. She kept playing and singing un-phased—and yeah, great stuff.

The best performance from Marketa was her rendition of "All The Way Down," a song that Glen sings on the Once soundtrack. It was far more haunting to hear Marketa sing "You have broken me all the way down." What would have otherwise fallen in line with Glen's "Leave" thematically, took on overtones of domestic abuse. Haunting, indeed, and sublime.

Wait. Don't mistake that. I've often been transfixed amidst the connotations of "sublime." Terrible beauty. Beauty in the face of horror. Tragedy best at its worst. I am certainly not condoning domestic abuse—but the warmth that Marketa's voice brought to the song doubled the tragedy—and deepened the song for me. While Glen brought me through to the other side with "Astral Weeks," Marketa took me to another place—one no less moving (is there a contradiction here? o well).

And that's where I'm headed with this. Ultimately, what made this show so damn good was that it had a little bit of everything. From whimsy (a song about a dog), to heartbreak ("Leave"), to the sublime ("All the way down"), to glimmers of hope ("Falling Slowly"), to musical revelation ("Astral Weeks"), to good old swingin' ditties (Michelle Shocked's "Fog Town" and Dylan's ""You Ain't Goin' Nowhere"). We got the complete package. I can think of few other better ways to spend an evening.

Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" was the show capper. And it was a perfect end note. I've downloaded the track from the I’m Not There soundtrack, and while it doesn't have the same immediacy of the live performance, it's a good indicator of the show's energy.

Anyway, that's about all I have to say about that…

The Sacred and the Profane: The Hold Steady Live at the Cat's Cradle 11/26/06

It has been several weeks since my last post. A result of the beginning of another semester. I am, however, working on a couple of "new" posts. In the meantime, I thought I would recycle this post from last December...

Below you will find a rambling review of The Hold Steady and a recent show that I was fortunate enough to attend. Thanks Brian.

A Sense of Place

In 1984, my family moved to North Carolina from northern New Jersey—and from that point on, Bruce Springsteen came to represent all my hometown longings.

There's something magical but misleading in that statement.

Bruce's New Jersey is the New Jersey of my memories. I've since been back to New Jersey, and my memory and longing don't match the place. When I was nine, I had no idea the Boss was singing protest in "Born in the U.S.A.," but by god, I could feel the passion in the rollicking guitar and, well, I felt the New Jersery-ness of it.

I used to think I would move back. I know better now.

Place is such an integral part of Springsteen's music and its appeal. Springsteen sings about my hometown-- be it Bridgewater, New Jersey or Greensboro, North Carolina. Hometown for Springsteen is not just a word. It is a state of being where hope and despair are inseparable.

Springsteen's music transcends the profane trappings of linear time and lodges itself in the sacred space (place) of the eternal. This is music magic. Good tunes gloss over the imperfections of life and bind memory to universal feelings and longings. They glue the disparate pieces of our lives together, creating--- to borrow an often borrowed phrase---a collective consciousness.

These, of course, are not new sentiments. Read any review of Springsteen's music and you will likely find words like "hometown" couched in critical rhetoric. Sift through Mark Richardson's Pitchfork review of the 30^th anniversary edition of Born to Run and you'll find such proclamations as "picture the depressed state of the Jersey Shore in the early 70s, the dull sense of an era gone."

But while others have said similar things--- said better, said worse--- I say them now because the Springsteen of my youth is not the Springsteen of my thirties. And yet, the line of connection--- past to present, fuzzy memory to educated analysis--- is still solid, still vital.

This is because the longings I associate with Springsteen's "hometown" are also the longings of my path to middle age: I long for authenticity in the world around me. While I do think this lack of (and need for) authenticity is a symptom of the post-modern condition, I also think it's a symptom of my approaching middle age. The passion that came so easily--- often sloppily, unwittingly, uncontrollably--- when I was younger, now seems harder to come by. I instead find complacency a constant, reliable friend. I am passionate about my work, true, but this passion is different from the passion exhibited in impromptu ring-around-the-rosy dancing to Led Zeppelin atop a parking garage.

And yet, when I listen to classic Springsteen, I am warmed by the heat of hope in deep despair because as long as I can belt out at high volume "We got one last chance to make it real / To trade in these wings on some wheels" then I'll be okay. In the minutes of "Thunder Road," I can borrow from the fount of eternal passion so expertly mixed, recorded, and preserved on Born to Run.

This is my communion.

Earlier I mentioned Pitchfork, so I might as well use it to segue into The Hold Steady. Load up the Pitchfork review of Boys and Girls in America and do a search for "Springsteen." There it is next to Kerouac. I'm pretty sure that most reviews of Boys and Girls in America mention Springsteen and/or Kerouac.

I, apparently, am no different.

Wait, though. That's not necessarily true. Let me explain.

The obvious correlations come with the "rockin'" itself. The opening chords of "Stuck Between Stations" are anthemic. The joining piano is classic. The rest is history-- rock history.

And the mention of Kerouac is a must, since the very first line of the very first track of Boys and Girls in America mentions Sal Paradise. I'll come back to that.

The comparison to classic Springsteen doesn't take much more digging. In fact, the Classic Rock radio set might quickly launch into a rather neanderthalian dialogue peppered with "Dudes" and "Dawgs," missing, of course the deeper implications: Springsteen's own roots, own beat-like ponderings and travelogues are an older brother's guidance to Craig Finn's verse.

Of course, I might have missed this underbelly had I not seen The Hold Steady live. It wasn't until I was hiding in the warmth of the crowd that I thought, "Wait a minute. This isn't classic rock. This is classic, edgy, sprawling Springsteen. This is-- gasp-- postmodern Springsteen." Forgive me; I'd had a few beers…

But let's take a moment-- if you'll bear with me-- to present my argument, or at least explain my thought process. To do this, though, I'm going to resort to some lyrical comparisons.

Take a look at these well known lines from "Thunder Road":

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night

You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright

Oh and that's alright with me.

Now look at these lines from "Southtown Girls" :

Southtown girls won't blow you away

but you know that they'll stay.

This might not be a terribly astute observation; however, the songs speak of similar things. Springsteen's opus Born to Run is bittersweet. It's a "last chance power drive," a call to action. It's what Joseph Campbell might have called an acceptance of the call, an affirmation of the need to begin the hero's journey.

But it's not an entirely optimistic call. After all, the "highway's jammed with broken heroes." And "you ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright" isn't exactly the stuff of a Hollywood romantic-comedy. This isn't Pretty Woman-- where the pretty hooker finds love and happiness with a successful business man. It's more like a bunch of South Jersey kids trying to make do-- finding love, an imperfect but crucial love. Such is the sentiment of "Southtown Girls."

But this is, again, a pretty easy-to-make comparison. Born to Run is a testament to working class heroes (losers), but it's a statement from a milder (older, wiser) Springsteen. Traveling back to Greetings From Asbury Park, you'll find a much edgier, much more poetic Springsteen.

Look at these lines from "It's Hard to be a saint in the City" :

"And them South Side sisters sure look pretty

The cripple on the corner cries out "Nickels for your pity"

And them downtown boys sure talk gritty

It's so hard to be a saint in the city"

The rhyming immediately stands out, but notice the alliteration. These lines are packed with life and rhythm. This is where the real comparison to Craig Finn comes in.

Take a look at these lines from "Party Pit" :

"I guess I met her at the party pit
she said those kids she's with were selling it
so we sailed off on some separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit"

Same attention to rhyme scheme-- though Finn is a bit better at sticking to iambic pentameter-- and same love of alliteration.

One more lyrical comparison. Look at these lines from Springsteen's "Lost in the Flood":

"Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air

Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare

and Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware

Everything stops, you hear five, quick shots, the cops come up for air

And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street

And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose

but he gets blown right off his feet

And some kid comes blastin' round the corner but a cop puts him right away

He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish

Still breathing when I walked away

And somebody said "Hey man did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud"

Then, digging back to the first full length Hold Steady album, look at these lyrics from "Your Little Hoodrat Friend" :

"i've been dusted in the dark up in penetration park. i've been plastered. i've been shaking hard and searching in a dirty storefront church. i've been plowed. but i ain't ever been with your little hoodrat friend. what makes you think i'm getting with your little hoodrat friend?"

The end result of these comparisons? The affinity goes beyond the music to the love of words, the recognition of their power when combined with equally passionate music. My initial misgivings for The Hold Steady quickly gave way after a closer listen: One might misread the speak-sing delivery of Finn, but the truth is in the words-- and the passion of their delivery. Finn is an excellent singer because he's an excellent writer. His power springs from the commingling of passion, intensity and lyricism. All of which were evident in his live performance.

I will take this talk of poetics even further-- beyond where rock critics might end: Both of these songwriter/poets have taken a page from the sprung rhythm genius of Gerard Manly Hopkins. What Hopkins did with the Italian sonnet is akin to what a young Springsteen did with music, with what Craig Finn is doing right now. I find more insight in this affiliation than I do of Kerouac or Ginsberg.

Those references bear some attention, too. But I think I will come back to that.

More On Longing and Authenticity

Over a burrito before the Hold Steady show, my good friend Brian Candler and I discussed the current state of our pop culture dystopia. Brian went to see Guns 'n Roses a few weeks ago. Interestingly enough, Brian and I stood on our seats-- in the same coliseum-- more than ten years earlier to rock out to G 'n R. This was pre-Use Your Illusion. This was before the decline of the Rose Empire.

I wanted to go with him this time, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought it might provide some symmetry of experience, but I also didn't want to spend the evening comparing and shaking my head in shame. I turned down the offer.

So there we were. Two married men with jobs and responsibilities, eating burritos and drinking beers, wondering a) if we were ever going to have an authentic rock experience again, and b) if we should even expect to find such a thing again.

Lord knows we wanted it and were looking for it. Two guys with wives, jobs and responsibilities don't stand on a hard cement floor for several hours-- to watch a band-- simply because there's nothing better to do.

What were we looking for? Authenticity.

You see, this last year was full of good music. But even though I will admit to being entertained by good tunes this year, I must also admit that the year's offerings didn't present any of the authenticity that I mentioned above in conjunction with Born to Run. To steal a line from Singles, "Where is the 'Misty Mountain Hop' of our generation?"[1]

The bottom line is that the ironic stance of indie rock-- one necessary to its existence-- doesn't leave much room for sincerity. Early in its germination, the irony was refreshing. When postmodernism was new (to the indie rock kids, that is), an ironic position showcased the rejection of authenticity. Much as punk rock shed the trappings of commercial rock, indie rock shed the sentiment that music could save us. After all, salvation was just another corporation gimmick.

But such jaded stances can only last so long. They can only comfort the young who can warm themselves on their own passions. When those indie rock kids became thirtysomethings, they began to long for that lost passion of high school angst.

I'm too old to find comfort in irony.

To borrow, again, a few movie lines from Beautiful Girls:

Willie C. : I just want something beautiful.

Moe: We all want something beautiful.

All of this was, more or less, the direction of our burrito ponderings.

And it was with these thoughts that Brian and I entered the Cat's Cradle in Carrboro to see The Hold Steady.

We found exactly what we were looking for.

The Show

Of course, we didn't find what we were looking for immediately. In fact, we had to suffer through some pretty awful opening acts. Not a problem, mind you, since it allowed us to drink a few more beers. And, interestingly enough, one of those opening acts proved a nice parody (dumb show) of the thoughts in my head. The front man of a pitiful cross between The Ramones and The Hives (the fury and posturing without the ties or skill) looked to be some teenager's father living out a mid-life crisis. The kid on drums might have been the neighbor's awkward and large son.

Here was my passion-- misplaced and misappropriated for all to see.

This is where I'm headed if I'm not careful.

I will admit to lurking on ebay and Musician's Friend, salivating over guitars that I so desperately wanted as a teenager but couldn't afford. I can afford them now. But what good is a Music Man Stingray bass guitar to a thirtysomething who wasn't that good to begin with-- and certainly doesn't have the time to join a band and play gigs!

Luckily a strange group from Brooklyn took the stage and played angry prog and Brian and I drank another beer.

When The Hold Steady finally took the stage, I was ready for something. Something beautiful. I got it.

Again, I must admit that I was not as familiar with Boys and Girls in America as I have now become, so I simply stood and watched, taking everything in without mouthing the words or singing along. I told Brian after the first couple of songs that I was already thinking about what I would write in my review. I've been writing this review since then… Much of my initial impressions are gone, but what follows is what I've been able to piece back together.

As I watched Craig Finn run through his lyrics, I kept thinking, "He is a cross between a young Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, and Woody Allen." There's the rock and roll, the deep, unique voice, and the neurotic posture.

As I watched and listened, all the elements and references started to come together. The posturing and voice, the rockin’ backdrop, and the nervous, glasses wearing, neurotic—sometimes funny, sometimes deeply affecting—front man. Finn's voice reminded me of Elvis Costello. The mannerisms and lyrical ponderings reminded me of Woody Allen—Annie Hall Woody Allen, that is. Finn would often step up to the microphone and sing his lyrics, then pull back and gesture with his hands-- still singing to himself.

It was clear that Finn is not just a great writer, but a great performer. His street-poet persona, his drug and alcohol-laced narrative, his sick lost and lonely characters came alive on stage. And again, I am reminded of how early Springsteen songs contain some of the most depressing scenarios I've ever encountered, but that the songs themselves seem to elevate the despair into a space of truth and hope.

All of these bad things in life (drugs, alcohol, bad relationships, bad choices, etc.) add up to one eternal truth: Despite all the bullshit-- No. Because of all the bullshit, life is worth living.

Though much of what I've said can be attributed to Craig Finn, please don't think this was a one man show. The band was tight. The performance was spot on.

The most affecting thing about the show was that the band members were clearly enjoying themselves. They were honestly jazzed by their own music, and they were clearly energized by the crowd.

Here was the very thing that I needed. Authenticity.

The Moral of the Story

Yeah, so if you've made it this far you might be wondering why it took me so long. However, if you know me, then you're not surprised at all that it took me seven pages to get all this down. The truth is, I wanted to talk about Springsteen and The Hold Steady in this way because I think they are cut from the same cloth.

What The Hold Steady has done for me in the past couple months is allow me to rock out in a way that I haven't been able to do in a good long while. And that's the brunt of it. I grew up with Springsteen. I grew up with The Police. And Ozzy Osbourne. Pink Floyd and Kiss. Yeah, I got caught up in the hair bands, but it was easy and good to get caught up! I am not ashamed. I was concert goer at age seven. And loud music is a big part of who I am. I haven't had much time for it in the last few years, so when it comes along, I cling to it like the last vestiges of my sanity.

Boys and Girls in America speaks to me. It brings me back to my youth with its rock stylings, but it speaks to my thirtysomething mentality.

Here's my last observation about the show and the moral of the story:

At some point in the show, a smelly little poser wormed his way in front and right of me. He was too close for my taste. And when I say smelly, I mean cologne smelly. This little punk spent much time engineering his look for the evening. He was sporting a shiny green track coat with white stripes on the sleeves. It could have been Adidas, but I'm not sure. His hairdo was expertly sealed in product. It was one of those 'dos that is meant to look like bed-head but isn't. Oh, and it was a beautiful, streaked blonde… He even had the right kind of indie rock kid glasses!

Well, homeboy was rockin' out-- cheap beer in hand-- to "Party Pit," which happens to be one of my favorite tracks from Boys and Girls in America. After the song, homey turns to his buddy and says something like, "Isn't that a great title for a song, man? 'Gonna walk around and drink some more'! Dude!"[2]

I shook my head and thought of giving the little punk a nice wrist-propelled smack on the back of the head. Or, maybe I should have grabbed him around the neck and given him a nice noogie!

So, here are a few lines from "Party Pit":

"I went away to school that fall
she stuck around with all those stickpin dolls
sped through the scene until the engine stalled
at some suburban shopping mall

sailed away on such separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit.

I came back to start a band, of course.
saw her walking thru the crystal court.
she made a scene by the revolving doors
she's gonna walk around and drink some more.

so we walked across that grain belt bridge.
into bright new minneapolis
she said i think that all those things I did
were just momentum from the party pit."

This isn't, of course, a "drinking song."

The refrain of "Gonna walk around and drink some more," isn't a call to party. In fact, there's a learned distance that comes through in this song. The speaker in this song is not a college punk drinking at a party (in his green Adidas); rather, he is a post-college working musician who comes back home to see that some of those people he used to hang out with never left. They got stuck in the scene. That refrain, "Gonna walk around and drink some more" is a call for reflection on lost hopes and dreams. The "Party Pit" doesn't hearken to some "best years of my life" high school mentality.

It's a pit, after all.

Look at a collection of the words from above: "stuck," "pinned down," "stalled," "revolving," "pit." The dominant impression created by these words is one of sadness, even despair. The characters of this song are only left to "walk around and drink some more."

This is the desperation of middle age. And this is the overall bent of Boys and Girls in America. This album isn't a collection of anthems for teenagers; rather, it's the backward glance at youth spent searching for something real, true, and beautiful. It's an album of reflections on the missteps of growing up. The album is replete with drug and alcohol references, but what I saw at the Cat's Cradle was a grand metaphor expertly structured and performed.

Boys and Girls in America is nothing less than a postmodern epic.

---

[1] This isn't entirely true. For the purposes of this blog, it will suffice.

[2] The "dude" is purely conjectural. I am, of course, trying my hardest to "type" here.