Albums of the Year: 2012
Better late than never, here is my Top 20 of 2012. A couple of albums I’ve come by too late to evaluate, such as Donald Fagen’s Sunken Condos, which after one listen I suspect would rank pretty highly on this list. I’ve prepared a compilation; tracklisting and link are in the comments section.
The tracks have all been reduced to 128kbps; if you like what you hear, please buy the album (artists’ websites are included in the text). I’d be pleased to know if any sales have been inspired by this post, so if you have bought something on strength of my recommendation, please don’t be shy to tell me.
20. Missy Higgins – The Ol’ Razzle Dazzle
The only person in the world who makes me look forward to hearing an Australian accent let us wait five long years for a new album. In the interim Missy Higgins, a quality person who is engaged in all manner of causes, has done her university studies. So she is quite right to wonder, on Hello Hello, whether anyone is still there. Well, the album topped the Australia charts, so many still were. The Ol’ Razzle Dazzle isn’t as good as Higgins’ preceding album, On A Clear Night, an album that for all its hooks exercised restraint. There is also no track as great as Higgins’ stunning debut, The Sound Of White. The Ol’ Razzle Dazzle is flat when it tries to go mainstream pop (such as on the dire Temporary Love), but appealing on tracks that recall the previous albums, such as All In My Head. An album best listened to with an edited playlist. missyhiggins.com
19. Anna Ternheim – The Night Visitor
Strictly speaking, Anna Ternheim’s fifth album came out in 2011, but in many countries it was released in 2012, so it qualifies for this list. It would have sat comfortably in last year’s list as well. This is a much sparser album than its predecessors: the benefit of that is the absence of orchestration which at times seemed ostentatious; the obvious drawback is that after a while the whole thing can become a bit, well, undramatic. The melodies are lovely, however, and the Swedish singer has an appealing, warm voice which makes the album a welcome companion as background music. annaternheim.com
18. Hugh Masekela – Jabulani
There is nothing new on Hugh Masekela’s new album, but it’s a fine kicked-back album on which the master does his thing as he has since returning to South Africa from exile in the 1990s: the uncomplicated, swaying sounds of township jazz and mbaqanga. Arranged by another South African jazz great, Don Laka, Masekela sings, in isiXhosa, songs about the joys and pains of marriage, several of them traditionals. www.hughmasekela.co.za
17. Nanci Griffith – Intersection
Is there anything new to say about Nanci Griffith after some 20 albums? Intersection sounds like Griffith’s usual country-folk fare; the lyrics are a bit darker than they were in the past. At times she sounds positively angry. In the bar-singalong number she growls “Hell no, I’m not alright”. This is a thoroughly enjoyable album, and if its songs will come on the iPod shuffle I will welcome them. But if I’ll pick this album when I want a Nanci Griffith fix — ahead of, say Other Voices, Too — I don’t really know. nancigriffith.com
16. Gretchen Peters – Hello Cruel World
Gretchen Peters’ Hello Cruel World could serve as a companion album to Nanci Griffith’s Intersection: another country singer with a folk sensibility who observes that not everything is good in the world. Peters has a long track record of writing for others, country luminaries such as Trisha Yearwood, Patti Loveless, George Strait and Martina McBride. For the latter she wrote Independence Day, a song which the despicable Sean Hannity uses as the theme for his radio show, evidently without understanding the lyrics. The polemic truth-hater from Bullshit Mountain wouldn’t like some of the lyrics on Peters’ seventh studio album. This is a muscular, engaging country-folk album. gretchenpeters.com
15. Kelly Joe Phelps – Brother Sinner And The Whale
Bottleneck slide guitar folk-blues gospel… Here Kelly Joe Phelps riffs on the Old Testament Book of Jonah, but not in ways that will have the Westboro Baptist Church dancing in the streets while spreading the hate of their particular Lord (well, nobody will be able to dance to it anyway). This is an introspective album on which Phelps has no proselytising agenda. kellyjoephelps.net
14. Kathleen Edwards – Voyageur
On the opening track, Canadian Kathleen Edwards announces that she’s “moving to America”. Her new album sounds like it. Produced by her boyfriend Justin Vernon, frontman of Bon Iver, Voyageur, Edwards’ fourth album, is a glistening piece of singer-songwriter pop. To paraphrase the title of an earlier Edwards song, if there is justice, the radio will like this or that song from Voyageur, though I wouldn’t bet on them playing it — certainly not the seven-minute elegy For The Record which closes this attractive set. kathleenedwards.com
13. Jens Lekman – I Know What Love Isn’t
The chief of Swedish indie, Lekman is a model eccentric. It shows in his wonderful, sometimes bizarre and awkward lyrics which benefit from being written by somebody whose first language is not English. It’s a break-up album with humour. Musically, the immensely likable Lekman has calmed down. Previous albums comprised catchy pop songs, with odd little turns. I Know What Love Isn’t has many melancholy, though not morose, and gentle moments, though the lovely title track with the sad name, which comes towards the end, is upbeat. Here the lyrics truly take centre-stage, which is great when the lyrics work, and discomforting on the few moments when they don’t. jenslekman.com
12. Tift Merritt – Travelling Alone
Travelling Alone is Tift Merritt’s New York City album. Make no mistake, she is still doing the country-folk thing, with the slide guitars and everything. And the voice is still exquisite and the melodies are still utterly lovely. It’s difficult to comprehend why, but Merritt was without a record label when she made this album; still, she had the likes of Andrew Bird (with whom she duets on Drifting Apart), Calexico’s drummer Jon Convertino and guitarist Marc Ribot backing her. Travelling Alone was released by the excellent independent Yep Roc label. tiftmerritt.com
11. Leonard Cohen – Old Ideas
Johnny Cash’s series of American Recordings, produced by Rick Rubin, paved the way for the new albums by septuagenarian singer-songwriters, or those near to it, to be taken seriously. It wasn’t always so, but when the likes of Neil Diamond, Willie Nelson or Kris Kristofferson (and look out for his brilliant new album in January) release an album, it is an event. So it was with Laughing Len, who performed his Old Ideas album to rapturous reviews at London’s Wembley Arena. This was remarkable, since Old Ideas is all about God and the afterlife, concepts that in Britain are more likely to invite contempt than applause. And Cohen isn’t oblique about his religious aspiration — he never was, even if biblical concepts might serve as sexual metaphors — with song titles like Amen, Going Home and Come Healing. All that is delivered straight; Cohen (like Neil Diamond) doesn’t seek to impose his religious point of view, but he’ll confess his feelings about it. leonardcohen.com
10. Justin Townes Earle – Nothing’s Gonna Change The Way You Feel About Me Now
The first words on Justin Towne’s Earle’s fourth album refer to the singer hearing his father, Steve Earle, singing Wheels on the radio. It’s a neat allusion to the problem a musician son of a great singer faces: the pressure to live up to expectation (complicated further by Justin’s middle name honouring another country-folk legend). JTE’s latest effort does not quite reach the lofty levels of 2010’s astonishing Harlem River Blues, but it is a fine set which can stand alongside much of dad Steve’s work. justintownesearle.com
9. Melissa James – Day Dawns
This is the sort of retro-blues inflected album which the people down Grammy academy love so much – if it is made by somebody famous or connected. English soul/blues/jazz singer Melissa James is not famous, though this will surely change. Her impressive debut album is full of personality, though if one is looking for touchstones, well, her website astutely suggests Nina Simone and Rickie Lee Jones. I’d add Astrud Gilberto, Cassandra Wilson, Diane Schuur, Angie Stone (especially on the beautiful I Miss You) and India.Arie. melissa-james.com
8. Mindy Smith – Mindy Smith
When I first listened to Mindy Smith’s eponymous album (really, self-titling your fourth album?), I was so disappointed that I did not revisit it again for a long time. I have no explanation for my foolishness. It might not touch Smith’s astonishing debut, 2004’s One Moment More, but it is much better than the two albums that followed (though sophomore effort Long Island Shores [2006] was a good album). Here Smith’s angelic voice shines over relentlessly lovely melodies and gorgeous arrangement. And all that prettiness scores rather sad lyrics that suggest a measure of anguish in Smith’s life. Some listeners might prefer some angsty edge in the delivery of such lyrics; others might discern healing in the beautiful music… mindysmithmusic.com
7. Brandi Carlile – Bear Creek
It is a little worrying when a favourite singer fails to rise to greater heights from one album to the next. Bear Creek is not as good an album as 2009’s exceptional Give Up The Ghost. Even then, it is a fine album without a mediocre track. It retains everything I’ll ever want from Carlile: catchy tunes, fine storytelling, that strong, slightly raspy voice which should really belong in country, the often exquisite arrangements, and that incredible, vulnerable warmth. You want to spend time with Brandi, and Bear Creek is a good way of doing so. brandicarlile.com
6. John Mayer – Born And Raised
Yeah, John Mayer. This is where Mayer channels James Taylor and Crosby, Stills & Nash with instantly memorable and entirely agreeable songs, abandoning for the moment the gurning bluesman persona (though his guitar work, liberated from the need to show off, is admirable). There is no weak moment on the album which turned out to be my go-to album when I wanted something solid and new to play in the background. Usually one is best advised to ignore Mayer’s lyrics; here Mayer is seeking redemption from his douchebag persona, repudiating the appalling dickhead we encountered in that Playboy interview. johnmayer.com
5. Richard Hawley – Standing At The Sky’s Edge
Every Richard Hawley release is an event. 2009’s Truelove’s Gutter probably is my album of the so-called Noughties. On Standing At The Sky’s Edge the orchestral resigned sighs have for a large part given way to the angry clang of angry rock guitars. But beneath the aggressive arrangements of the opening and closing songs reside the gorgeous, instantly memorable melodies and engaging lyrics one expects from Sheffield’s greatest genius. richardhawley.co.uk
4. Nick Cave & Warren Ellis Present Lawless
The soundtrack to the depression era film is curated by Nick Cave (who also wrote the film’s script) and Warren Ellis under the moniker The Bootleggers, with Ralph Stanley, Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson (with a long-lost song) and Mark Lanegan guesting, doing Bluegrass, or Bluegrass-flavoured, covers of songs by the Velvet Underground, Townes Van Zandt, Link Wray, Captain Beefheart, and Grandaddy. Some songs are repeated in very different interpretations. The Bootleggers and Mark Lanegan give Link Wray’s 1971 country-rock song Fire And Brimstone a rock treatment that would be very much in place on a Cave record; later Ralph Stanley, all of 85 years old, reprises the song in raw Appalachian style, with beautiful guitar work and an unedited throat clearing. BUY
3. Rumer – Boys Don’t Cry
Sometimes you have highly vaunted foghorns like Adele, and sometimes the hype is true. With British chanteuse Rumer (no relation to Bruce Willis’ daughter), the hype keeps its promise. Much has been said about Rumer being the Karen Carpenter of the 21st century (albeit without Richard’s genius arrangements), and the similarity in voice and delivery is undeniable. There is also a bit of Dusty Springfield; like Dusty, Rumer has an unobtrusive soul sensibility and a way of conveying an emotion with delicate subtlety. Boys Don’t Cry is a thoroughly lovely, engaging album. rumer.co.uk
2. Ruthie Foster – Let It Burn
Let It Burn is blues singer Ruthie Foster’s eighth album — and the first of hers I’ve heard. I have a feeling that I have missed out. Let It Burn is a collection of cover versions (other than two original compositions), which usually is a signal for alarm. Happily, Foster’s selections are almost invariably astute. She takes Adele’s Set Fire To The Rain, and schools the overrated foghorn. She takes The Black Keys’ Everlasting Light and turns in a slow-burning blues number. She takes Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire and delivers a sultry soul song. She takes The Band’s It Makes No Difference and breaks your heart with a Muscle Shoals take just as sure as Rick Danko did. And on You Don’t Miss Your Water she duets with the song’s writer, the soul legend William Bell (The Blind Boys of Alabama guest on a couple of songs as well). This album shines! ruthiefoster.com/
1. Bap Kennedy – The Sailor’s Revenge
Coming from Northern Ireland, Bap Kennedy is liable to be compared to Van Morrison. Van has declared himself a fan, and like Morrison’s music, Kennedy’s draws from Irish folk — pipes, flutes, whistles and mournful fiddles — and with hints of American soul. Plus a generous fistful of Bob Dylan. Produced by Mark Knopfler, the trained diamond gemologist — not a traditional rock & roll background — has delivered an 11-track collection of superbly written, performed and arranged songs. bapkennedy.com
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What is it about Rilo Kiley that puts the critics in such ambivalent mood? More Adventurous lives up to its title: it’s an eclectic album, even if there is not much that’s particularly experimental. The variety seems to have puzzled the critics; I like it. There’s the alt.country, folk-rock stuff with which the group has been mostly associated (such as on the lovely title track and The Absence Of God), power indie-pop (the fantastic Portions For Foxes and It’s A Hit), a 1920s throwback (Ripchord), a torchsong country number (I Never), and what might be described as electronica country (the dyslexic Accidntel Deth). Apart from Portions For Foxes, the dramatic Does He Love You (discussed 
When I first got SMiLE , I did not get it. In fact, I was so disappointed by Brian Wilson’s long-awaited and much-hyped collaboration with Van Dyke Parkes that I didn’t expect to ever play it again, just to file it away in a spot where the handsome packaging, with the rather good booklet, would look nice. Then circumstances conspired, making me play the thing four times over on loop. The penny dropped and I got it. There are moments I can live without, yet these moments are a part of the trip: a post-psychedelic trip, a melancholy yet buoyant trip, a trip to a place that doesn’t exist anymore, and probably never did. It’s an album as removed from reality as Brian Wilson is said to be today. The timing of its release, in the middle of the corporate, synthetic ’00s was fortuitous. Coinciding with an era when commercial realism tends to trump enterprising creativity, SMiLE appeared as a connection to a time when innovation was not scorned but rewarded — ironically by putting together the one ’60s masterpiece that never was.
Mindy Smith’s name evokes the image of plastic blondes in skimpy beachwear living it up at the Playboy Mansion, not the reality of a writer and singer of beautiful country-folk music. Smith was in her early 30s before she finally released this, her debut album. Occasional visitor to this parish Stay-At-Home Indie-Pop (whose periodically updated 
Time was when Sweden burdened us with the regrettable likes of Roxette and Ace Of Base who were hauling in the glorious slipstream of ABBA. This decade, Sweden is a hotbed of wonderful Indie-pop created by artists who can create a catchy hook and an incisive lyric, even a cappela style. The Cardigans set the scene, but the godfather may well be Jens Lekman. Indeed, he gets namechecked, alongside Townes van Zandt, in what may be the best Swedish song of the genre, Hello Saferide’s The Quiz. Lekman turns out some rather good melodies, but the charm of his songs exist in the idiosyncratic lyrics. Take the upbeat You Are The Light: the protagonist gets arrested for defacing his girlfriend’s father’s Mercedes Benz at her prompting, and uses his one phone call to ask the local radio station to dedicate a song to her. There are startling surprises in many of his wry lyrics, but they aren’t contrived, and at times they are casually profound. That is an art in an age when so many people discern depth in Coldplay’s lyrics. And unlike Coldplay and their fellow worthies, Lekman is frequently very funny indeed.
Deb Talan and Steve Tannen were solo performers on the folk circuit when they met. They decided to collaborate, chose a stupid name for their duo, fell in love, married, moved to Topanga, California, and had a child, and in the interim have released three albums. It’s a happy story, with the title of their debut album an opportune portent. The harmonies are, as one would expect, lovely (especially on closing track Keep It There); none of the songs are likely to jolt the listener out of their comfort zone. But it’s not all predictable introspective coffeehouse folk stuff, and when it is (such as on the lovely Somebody Loved or Simple Life), it’s of superior quality. On other tracks, there are jangly guitars on the suitably upbeat title track, snowbells on the Christmas-flavoured All That I Want, bluegrass guitar on Vegas Baby. Perhaps the most affecting song is Tannen’s Dating A Porn Star, as good a country a song as one might find in this decade.
Dave Alvin is a flexible musician, at home in country, folk, blues, rock and punk. He has been a member of rockabilly band The Blasters (with his brother Phil) and the influential punk band The Flesheaters, and he wrote Dwight Yoakam’s country classic Long White Cadillac. Ashgrove is a departure from his previous albums, which covered either country and folk or bluesy roots rock (a genre title I despise). Personally, I prefer the country stuff. I’m not a great roots rock fan, but I do like it when Alvin does it — his guitar work is terrific. As always with Dave Alvin, the lyrics are worth following; some of them are compelling. Two stand out: Out Of Control tells a hell of a story, and The Man In The Bed Isn’t Me is truly touching. The sequencing is a bit jarring, though, with the bluesy rock alternating with the country songs, preventing the set from settling into a coherent mood.
Every male singer-songwriter who enjoys any amount of critical esteem is likely to be compared to the tragic Elliot Smith, the genre’s eternal poet laureate (whose posthumously assembled collection of demos was released in 2004). Flattering though such comparisons are, often they are inappropriate and lazy. Ron Sexsmith’s sound has little in common with Smith’s, and his lyrics are more hopeful. Sexsmith also gets compared to Paul McCartney (and Happiness from Retriever sounds much like a Macca song), who has championed him. I suppose that the comparisons to Smith do not relate to sound or mood, but to songwriting chops. Retriever, like almost all of Sexsmith’s works, is a beautifully written. It’s a warm, gorgeous album, it embraces the listener in a comforting auditory blanket, aided by Sexsmith’s engaging voice and thoughtful lyrics. It’s not the kind of album, and Sexsmith not the kind of artist, that one turns to for a fix of challenging music; there is enough depth here to remove it from vacant pop, but it will not test the listener. It’s more of an old friend, instantly familiar and great company one is happy to seek out again.
This is one of those unexpected albums: loungey covers of Punk and New Wave classics, such as Love Will Tear Us Apart (here set on a beach), Teenage Kicks, Making Plans For Nigel, Too Drunk To Fuck, and Guns Of Brixton (the latter two of which sound like Gainsbourg songs here). It’s all very sincere and quite fabulous, rendered mostly in a bossa new wave nova groove. Nouvelle Vague, a project by Frenchmen Marc Collin and Olivier Libaux using a roster of female vocalists, does not aim for camp comedy or winks and nods. The exercise requires that the listener simultaneously forgets the originals, the better to understand them on Nouvelle Vague’s terms, and to remember them, so as to appreciate their imaginative reinventions. Some don’t quite work (such as The Undertone’s Teenage Kicks), others compare very well to the original, especially The Cure’s A Forest, The Specials’ Friday Night Saturday Morning And PiL’s This Is Not A Love Song.
I can’t profess to be a great fan of the Australian accent, mate. And yet, it is always satisfying when non-American singers resist the temptation of adapting their accent for the international market. Melissa Higgins retains her strong Aussie enunciation, which can be grating but also helps to invest in her lyrics unblemished authenticity. Much of the lyrics are, or seem, intensely personal. Some of them are standard singer-songwriter fare, but there is much here that moves the listener, particularly the title track, about her sister’s death in an accident (featured 
Thank goodness for the technology of digital playlists. With this album, I’ll never need to hear the pointless noisy distortions on the 12-minute long Less Than You Think again, even as I applaud Tweedy and pals for their willingness to do something different (though that something almost rivals Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music album for unlistenability). And, depending on my mood, I may skip the 10min-plus Spiders Kidsmoke as well, because the guitar solo really annoys me, by which I am doing the song an injustice. But the rest of the album is very enjoyable. It includes some of Tweedy’s best songs, such as The Late Greats and Hell Is Chrome. But the absolute highlight is — and Wilco fans will have guessed it — the opener, At Least That’s What You Said, which plods along with Tweedy in pensive mood until it explodes in gloriously angry guitars.
To mark his 30th birthday, Josh Rouse decided to record a concept album intended to evoke the year of his birth. I’ve written about the cover before 
Lloyd Cole used to get such a bad rap back in the day. I could never understand the charges of Cole being pretentious. Even Easy Pieces, the second Lloyd Cole & the Commotions album which Cole has virtually disowned (on account of having been rushed by the record company to prematurely complete it), has many great and not particularly pretentious moments. Having broken up the Commotions after three albums, Cole’s solo career didn’t really take off. That is a shame. On Music In A Foreign Language, Cole continued on the acoustic trip he began on the previous album. Here it’s just him, his guitar and minimal backing music, with Lloyd singing his melancholy, beautiful songs straight on to his computer. The whole exercise is so intimate, listeners may be forgiven if they feel like they are intruding on a private moment. Lyrically he is on introspective top form. I don’t listen to this album nearly often enough.
This is the album where Death Cab for Cutie crossed the line from oddly-named Indie group to serious rock band. Transatlanticism is something of a rock symphony; it’s not rewarding to pluck out its songs in isolation, except perhaps the excellent opener, The New Year, and the acoustic coda, A Lack Of Color. It’s the kind of lush album one must hear in full, preferably with headphones while in a kicked back mood, being immersed in the sound. Lyrically it has its moment, such as the story of the protagonist in Title And Registration who finds a forgotten photo of an ex-girlfriend after being pulled over by a cop (it also features the annoying line: “The glove compartment is accurately named”; thanks for pointing that out, Gibbard).
The title of the album is an obvious reference to the Australian band with which Scottish-born Colin Hay had some chart success in the early ’80s. Here Hay revisits some of his best songs from his solo repertoire as well as the Men At Work catalogue. None of these re-recordings do their originals injustice. The acoustic versions of the three big Men At Work hits — Down Under, Who Can It Be Now and Overkill — are strikingly remade and worth the price of the CD alone, especially the far superior interpretation of Overkill. There is also a more faithful reworking of Down Under, with brass replacing the flute; and fine remakes of Men At Work’s Be Good Johnny and It’s A Mistake.
The title of The Minus 5’s fifth album notes the involvement of Tweedy and pals in its production, not an antipathy towards Chicago’s finest (and the group was doubtless aware of the title’s gag). A project of songwriter Scott McCaughey, leader of The Young Fresh Fellows and touring bassist for Robyn Hitchcock, this incarnation of Minus 5 also includes long-time collaborator Peter Buck of R.E.M. and Ken Stringfellow of the Posies. The sound borrows heavily from White Album period Beatles, early Byrds and the Hollies (Life Left Him There sounds more than a bit like Jennifer Eccles), filtered through an ambient alt.country colander. Wilco’s mark is evident but not overbearing, and Tweedy’s voice is welcome when it pops up. There is a joy in the sound which suggests that the collaborators had great fun recording it. This is an upbeat album that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
All of Richard Hawley’s five full albums will feature in my Top 10s of the ’00s. All of five of them are superb; all are beautifully orchestrated with Hawley’s attractive baritone giving life to his fine, often melancholy lyrics. So when I declare that Lowedges is my least favourite Hawley album, I am being somewhat unfair to what is a fine album. The songs on Lowedges are as affecting as any; one wants to live inside them. Don’t Miss Your Water, On The Ledge, The Nights Are Made For Us or the dramatic Run For Me are as good as almost any Hawley songs. Lowedge’s The Motorcycle Song probably is my least favourite Hawley song; and even that is not terrible.
O, but Damien was one overwrought lad. You fear for him in what must be a terribly fragile state. But, goodness, there are some beautiful songs on this album, and some heartwrenching lyrics. Rice is not a very good singer, so all the happier the moments when Lisa Hannigan supports him (although, typically, only to make poor Damien even more heartbroken). There are no clunkers on this set, and a bunch of quite brilliant songs, particularly The Blower’s Daughter, Volcano, Eskimo (with the operatic interlude), and Delicate. And Cannonball, which eclipses all of them. The album’s inclusion in this post is something of an anomaly. O was released in Ireland in 2002; after slow-burning success which eventually took the album into the UK top 10, it was released internationally in 2003.
Of Rosie Thomas’ four albums (excluding last year’s Christmas effort), this is the one on which she is most explicit about her Christian faith. That is good news, of course, for the believer, but should not put off the religious sceptic, for her brand of Christianity — like that of her frequent collaborators Damien Jurado and Sufjan Stevens —bashes no Bible and does not glorify or moralise. Mostly, she is asking God how the hell she is supposed to live this life. Indeed, the evangelical fundamentalists might well call Rosie a Maoist Osama Nazi, as is their objectionable wont, should they encounter lyrics like this, on Tell Me Now: “How am I to tell them if they never follow Christ that heaven doesn’t hold a place for them…when I’m no better than them.” Christ is periodically present; and He should be: the album was recorded in Detroit’s 19th century St John’s church.
Was it all a glorious piss-take, lending heavy rock all the camp that Queen fans so routinely denied in their group because the band’s name provided absolutely no clue? The cover of Permission To Land even aped the sexism we occasionally encountered in Queen (remember the Fat Bottomed Girls poster that came with the Jazz album?). The debut, unlike the follow-up, borrowed its influences more broadly than merely Queen, of course. The Darkness swigged copiously from the vats of hair metal, Van Halenesque CocRock, and AC/DC. Singer Justin Hawkins camped it up in striped spandex trousers, while bassist Frankie Pullain played the straight man. It was all a bit Spinal Tap, and if not quite a spoof or wind-up, then certainly rock music performed with a wink and a nod. And yet, the Darkness was not a novelty act; they took their music seriously and wanted the listener to have fun with it. They even gave us a damn good power ballad, featured here.
Before there were The Weepies, there were the shift- and space-bar boycotting eastmountainsouth. Discovered by Robbie Robertson, the folk-pop duo released only this one album, before Kat Maslich Bode and Peter Bradley Adams went their own way. That’s a pity; the album is lovely. It does not spring surprises on the listener; indeed, played in the wrong mood, it could be considered boring. The songs don’t go beyond mid-tempo, and they don’t always engage as immediately as those of fellow folkie Rosie Thomas. But the harmonies are exquisite, the vibe is warm. This is an album to savour on a lazy, preferably rainy weekend over a cup of coffee.
In 2005, Any Minor Dude had his first guitar lesson. The tutor, a session musician of some repute, asked the 10-year-old what he wanted to play, probably expecting to hear Green Day or Black Eyed Peas. Any Minor Dude responded: “Johnny Cash”. It had nothing to do with my influence; he had seen the wonderful video for Hurt on MTV, and became an instant fan. Soon after, he bought the Highwaymen CD (Cash’s supergroup with Jennings and Kristofferson) and polished up on older Cash music, even buying a live DVD. I suspect that Hurt, which features on The Man Comes Around, may have introduced many young people to the genius of Johnny Cash. It certainly established this album as the best known of the American recordings.
Few singers achieve such immediate intimacy with her listeners as Seattle’s Rosie Thomas, whose beautiful, vulnerable voice accompanies sweet acoustic melodies. Lovely though her songs may sound, her lyrics are in turn sardonic, sad and dark. On her debut album, childhood is a running thread, with what seem to be random old family recordings linking tracks. As all her subsequent albums (other than last year’s Christmas album), When We Were Small has a sense of deep yearning for absent contentment, fleeting moment of love to fill in long, lacerating periods of loss felt deeply. If that sounds boring, know that Thomas was signed by Jonathan Poneman of Sub Pop, the record label that made grunge, who had caught Rosie singing during her stand-up comedy gigs (what’s that about sad clowns?). This is an astonishing debut, and Rosie would get even better yet.
My pick of song from this album will alert the Wilco fan which side of the group I prefer: the alt-country Wilco. There’s some of that on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, which many seem to regard as a highpoint of ’00s music. Some Wilco purists may hate me for saying it, but my preference resides with this album’s 1999 predecessor, Summerteeth, or the undervalued Sky Blue Sky. On Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Wilco go experimental, with noise distortion and electronic innovations, which ordinarily are not my bag. Then what, the reader is entitled to demand, is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot doing on this list? Well, within the Wilco framework, it’s actually very good, and at times exhilarating as the musical dissonance accompanies the discord in the relationships Tweedy is singing about. It may not be my favourite Wilco album, but I’ll concede that it is the Wilco classic.
No artist I like ever comes to play where I live (other than Missy Higgins, whose gig I missed, and Counting Crows, whose tickets I couldn’t afford at the time); only megastars and superannuated irrelevancies fly in to fleece the South African consumer (a largely ignorant group of people who think that Coldplay is on the sharp end of the cutting edge). Happily, I had my fill of great concerts when I lived in London. But if I could invite one artist to tour South Africa, it would be Ben Folds, alone on strength of two DVDs and many bootlegs I have of Folds in concert — and this album.
Maybe I’m cheating by including an EP comprising, as the title suggest, only four songs by Murdoch, who is usually compared to Nick Drake, and reasonable so. But those four songs are excellent; why dilute things with mediocre filler tracks? Having said that, Murdoch’s full debut album, 2006’s Time Without Consequence, turned out to be a consistently fine effort with few fillers. That album featured re-recordings of three of the songs on the EP (and those three also appear in re-recorded form on the recently released Away We Go soundtrack, which also recycles a heap of tracks from Time Without Consequence). From the EP, the moody Orange Sky received a fair amount of exposure on several TV shows and soundtracks — which we must not scorn; the licensing fees from TV shows, soundtracks and commercials feed many excellent musicians.
Like soul music, country in the past decade or so has been molded and packaged to turn out generic, corporate slush headlined by the regrettable likes of Shania Twain, Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift. For the most part, it’s pop that is unconvincingly dressed up as country. The cowboy-hatted diehards may have recourse to perennial Grammy nominees such as Tim McGraw and Alan Jackson, or the bluegrass offerings of Alison Krauss or, lately, Dolly Parton. But beneath the surface of commercial prosperity, country remains vibrant.
The Indie singer-songwriter has not produced anything I like since 2004’s Our Shadows Still Remain, but the trio of that album, 2000’s Come To Where I’m From and Redemption’s Son should sustain me in those times when I require a Joseph Arthur fix (actually, I’ve sequenced my favourite tracks from those albums on my iPod). Arthur’s strength resides in his introspective lyrics, much on this set of a Christian bent (of the Sufjan Stevens variety, I hasten to add. The man has his fill of inner conflicts). Musically, he is eclectic and experimental, which is certainly commendable and perhaps expected of a Peter Gabriel protégé, though I can do without the kitchen sink production of some tracks. And the album is a few songs too long. But when it hits the sweet spot, it’s gorgeous.
I know a venerable music journalist who’ll fling all review albums by anyone called Josh or Joshua (or, indeed, Ben) across the floor. It’s safe to say that the man is not a great fan of the often misunderstood and unjustly maligned singer-songwriter label. Still, I have a feeling he’d like Josh Ritter, though I’m not quite sure whether he would take to Josh Rouse. Certainly the music of this Josh would not conform to his expectation of a guitar strumming singer-songwriter. He might be surprised to hear a musician who creates appealing, intelligent pop numbers, many of which would not have been out of place on early Prefab Sprout albums. Under Cold Blue Stars is a fine album; if it was all Rouse would ever record, I’d regard it as a favourite. It was, however, followed by two outstanding albums, 1972 and Nashville. This set can’t compete with those (but it’s better than the two albums that came after those). I’ve had trouble deciding which song to feature, which is a mark of how good an album this is.
Sam Beam, for he is Iron & Wine, recorded the songs on this album, another debut on Sub Pop, as demos at his Florida home on four-track, and it very much sounds like it. Beam’s almost whispered vocals accompany very pretty but not necessarily memorable melodies. But it’s not that kind of album (whereas the follow-up, 2004’s Our Endless Numbered Days, had a few of those); you put it on to be immersed by a soothing and ultimately engaging atmosphere, aided by some astutely ambiguous lyrics. The deficiencies in sound quality make sense when Beam borrows from old country and bluegrass, as he does on An Angry Blade and The Rooster Moans, which one might well mistake for some old, lost Appalachian recordings. Indeed, the aural imperfections add to the set’s intimacy.
The early ’00s suffered from nostalgia trips by people who grew up in the ’90s: Ben Folds Five devotees who refuse to accept the Ben Folds One, Weezer fans who want Pinkerton perpetually recycled (and, to be fair, the latest Weezer album is awful), and Counting Crows devotees who need to compare every new Crows album to August And Everything After. The latter group was hard on Hard Candy. It may not be the (rather overrated) debut’s equal, but it certainly is more upbeat — and Duritz finally stops going on about the heartbreaking Elisabeth. Admittedly, Hard Candy includes some filler material, but this is the age of WinAmp which allows the listener to re-sequence albums (if only to avoid the ghastly American Girls). If some of the album is frustratingly disappointing, the other half comprises some of Counting Crows’ finest moments. Holiday In Spain is gorgeous, even if the album version is rendered entirely redundant by the gorgeous live version on the New Amsterdam album, which was recorded on the Hard Candy tour. Counting Crows have referenced The Band throughout their career; here their heroes get a namecheck by way of noting Richard Manuel’s death (even if The Band’s late, bearded singer serves only as a MacGuffin to a reflection on a relationship).
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