tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27674717610191161752024-02-28T18:44:35.072-05:00 Closer to the Truth and Further From the SkyThoughts on music, film, and life.Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.comBlogger242125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-84934413832791697752021-12-15T10:54:00.001-05:002023-12-15T10:10:34.963-05:00Keep On Dreaming, Even If It Breaks Your Heart: On Failure, And Everything After<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj18EQXrOnmTiRimcBsXSxpSYQ9PS1SUDXl3ftXBxIq0zBz2u1no8B1sm8uQczb1EkZQnnMF5NlBN-_5CU3byTKAOWVoqUvXp2qUgKwBRi0WTeomjfkR0eDiBGT115U72LXM9zjNwVQJU-lOSPck2fNlEn2lXyT3zda3n--CeqtV2YaSngXZMzxCK8XwA=s1800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj18EQXrOnmTiRimcBsXSxpSYQ9PS1SUDXl3ftXBxIq0zBz2u1no8B1sm8uQczb1EkZQnnMF5NlBN-_5CU3byTKAOWVoqUvXp2qUgKwBRi0WTeomjfkR0eDiBGT115U72LXM9zjNwVQJU-lOSPck2fNlEn2lXyT3zda3n--CeqtV2YaSngXZMzxCK8XwA=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><p>When they told me I’d failed, it was like I was hearing
their voices from 100 miles away.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Growing up, you learn a lot of things. You learn how to read
and how to write. You learn how to add and multiply and subtract and divide.
You hopefully learn how to be a humble, kind, respectful human being.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You do not learn how to react when someone tells you that
your deepest dreams are off the table. You do not learn how to handle watching
your entire future reconfigure itself right in front of your eyes, the product
of just a few moments of time. You do not learn how to fail.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On December 15, 2011, somewhere around 5pm in the afternoon,
I suffered the most crushing failure of my life. And it has shaped every minute
I’ve spent on this planet since. It is the dividing line in my personal
history: The simplest way for me to categorize my life is to think about what
happened before those 30 minutes, and what happened after them.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let’s rewind a bit: Music has been in my DNA since I was
very young. I started playing piano when I was six. I had a favorite band and a
favorite song by the time I was seven. When I was a teenager, I would consider
a non-school moment wasted if it wasn’t spent with some form of music playing in
the background. From seventh grade on, I spent most of my spare moments
thinking about music, or playing it, or seeking it out on the internet. I was
obsessed with the idea of soundtracking my life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At some point, I realized that the best way to soundtrack my
life was to sing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It started small at first: a few hours in choir every week
when I was in sixth grade. Then it grew, first to musical theater productions,
then to voice lessons, then to more choirs. By ninth grade, I was spending
12-15 hours a week singing. By senior year, it was closer to 20 hours. What had
begun as an elective class when I was 12 years old morphed into the thing that
defined the very core of my identity. For more than half a decade, I built my
entire life around being a singer: around choir and rehearsals and lessons and
practice.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No wonder that, when it came time to think about what came <i>after</i>
high school, all I could think about was being a professional singer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were other things in my life, too – at least in the
early years. I was a runner, following in the footsteps of my older brother,
who’d smashed school records and gotten within spitting distance of state
championship titles. I was also a kid who loved school – books and words
especially. Once, in fourth grade, my class had a “reading goal” for the month
that involved reading 100 books across our 60-some student body in the space of
the month of April. I got us a quarter of the way there all by myself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But as music became a bigger part of who I was, those other
things fell away. I pulled back my effort on running. I stopped applying myself
in school. Where once I’d been the kid who read <i>all </i>the books, I was now
the student not finishing the summer reading assignment and then bullshitting
my way through the papers we had to write about said books. I didn’t <i>care</i>.
As far as I was concerned, I was bound for something greater. Why should I worry
about the other pieces of school when the way I felt onstage dwarfed every
other accomplishment I’d ever had in my young life? Why should I work hard when
I knew so firmly that the thing that was going to carry me forward in life was
the one thing that felt natural?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was a fool, obviously, but I wouldn’t learn that for years
to come. From 2004 to 2011, I blindly followed the thing that I thought in my
heart of hearts was my true north: my dream. It was a dream that involved
standing on a stage in front of hundreds or thousands of adoring audience
members, singing my heart out. I never got to the bottom of exactly <i>what </i>I
would be singing to them – whether it was rock ‘n’ roll, or choral music, or
musical theater, or opera. I just knew that performing was the only thing I
could imagine being the basis of my life. As I neared high school graduation
and embarked upon auditions for a college life as a music major, I fooled
myself into thinking that the sheer magnitude of my hope would be enough to
give my dreams the ability to take flight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That complete, unerring belief got challenged when college
auditions didn’t go the way I expected. Of the four music schools I auditioned
for, three rejected me outright; one put me on the waitlist. But then there was
the day in April 2009 when an email arrived from Western Michigan University
telling me I was <i>off </i>the waitlist and firmly accepted. I somehow thought
that setback would be the one big hurdle: that getting into music school was
the challenge – rather than actually finding success there, or figuring out a
way to make a career out of singing arias and art songs, or coming to terms
with a nomadic lifestyle that came with being a touring musician.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like I said, I was a fool. I just didn’t know it yet.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My first year in college was beguiling: a challenge, to be
sure, but an adventure that always felt like the <i>right </i>adventure. From
choirs to voice lessons to music classes, I felt like I learned a lot and made
a ton of progress as a singer. I felt like I <i>belonged</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My second year of college was the rude awakening. It was
realizing that every step forward I’d taken during freshman year was about 100
steps shy of where I’d need to be to make this major worthwhile. At the end of
the year, I walked into the exam they call the “performance hearing” and
failed. The performance hearing is a barrier exam in the Western Michigan
University voice department, meant to determine if students on the vocal
performance major track will be allowed to continue with that path or referred
to other degree programs. By failing me, the people who’d accepted me into this
school two years prior were sending the message that they were no longer sure whether
I belonged.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Neither was I. When I went home for summer break that year,
I thought briefly about never going back. I didn’t talk about those thoughts
with anyone: not my girlfriend, or my parents, or my friends at school. I felt
like waving the white flag meant accepting my own failure. And at 20 years old,
I wasn’t ready to give up on my dreams just yet. But I did start to come down
from the cloud I’d made for myself in high school – the one where I convinced
myself that I could focus completely on music because it was going to be my life
path. In the back of my mind, I think I knew I needed to give myself an out; an
escape hatch; a backup plan.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I took a piece of advice my girlfriend had given me and I
started writing. First it was just a blog about music. Then it was a staff
writer position at the school newspaper. By the middle of fall semester, as I
was supposed to be in full prep mode for my second attempt at the performance
hearing (the generous bastards, they give you two tries!), I was finding myself
far more engaged with writing than I was with singing. Even as a member of the
finest choral ensemble at the university, I was starting to feel removed from
the artistic passion that had driven me for the better part of a decade.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Losing that connection and drive was bizarre. It felt alien
to…sort of dread going to choir rehearsals every day, or to leave concerts
feeling melancholy and tired rather than with that surge of adrenaline and
electricity I’d always experienced after performances when I was younger. In
high school, I literally could not sleep after choir concerts, so significant
was the adrenaline rush I got from that experience. It made me sad not to feel
that way anymore. But it also gave me the perspective I needed to take the step
I never thought I’d have the strength to take: Sitting down and actually
formulating a Plan B. As in, “If I fail this performance hearing again, what
the hell am I going to do with my life?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I thought all these things – my disenchantment with music
school, and maybe with music in general; my backup plan; the fact that I’d
found my way back to other interests – would make it easier if I did happen to
fail my performance hearing for a second time. In many ways, I’m sure they did.
There were versions of myself in college – younger versions, months or years removed
from that fateful December day in 2011 – where I couldn’t imagine accepting my
own failure. I thought it would be the end of the world. I thought that I’d
die, or beg, or maybe throw a tantrum and push a piano off the stage out of
pure anguished rage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The truth was so much more complicated. Because December
15th eventually did wind around, and I did walk onto a stage, and I sang for 20
minutes, and then I walked off that stage. And then four people deliberated for
10 minutes on what my future would be, and then they called me back into the
room to tell me that what they’d decided was, “unfortunately, not the thing I
wanted to hear.” And boy, let me tell you: Hearing someone shatter your dreams
and tell you that your best isn’t good enough is one of the most surreal things
that can ever happen to you. Here I was, in the midst of the most devastating
failure of my life – a moment I’d only really allowed myself to imagine in nightmares.
But then I also remember this bizarre calm washing over me; feeling suddenly
like I was somewhere else, hearing the voices of my professors from a great
distance, from 100 miles away. I think, subconsciously, I was flipping a switch:
from the moment where these people and their decision mattered instrumentally
to who I was; to the moment right after that decision, where those same people
suddenly ceased having any bearing on my life whatsoever.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I also remember feeling this electric hum in my heart and my
soul as I walked out of my hearing. I felt weirdly weightless. By all accounts,
what had just happened <i>should </i>have broken me. I’d invested so much of my
life into this one dream, and here I was, surveying the moment where the entire
thing got dashed upon the rocks. I was definitely feeling a mix of emotions,
and a lot of them weren’t great. There was sadness there, and regret, and
frustration – mostly over the amount of time I’d spent pursuing a college major
that had essentially ended in a checkmate. I definitely had a moment where I
wished I’d taken a path in college that didn’t lead to the front seat of my
Honda Civic on that cold December night, crying my eyes out as I called my mom
on the phone to tell her that my dream of being a professional singer had
reached its apparent endpoint. That was probably the single hardest moment of
all, actually, because she was the only person in the world who’d believed in
my dream as much as I did. But she reassured me that, maybe someday, I’d look
back on this failure as a blessing in disguise.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And indeed, the weirdest emotion I was feeling that night – as
it slowly settled in that I was going to need to embark upon some new journey
now – was <i>relief</i>. All these things came rushing into my head, possibilities
that I had consciously or subconsciously ruled out for myself as someone who
was headed toward the life of either “broke musician” or “touring musician.”
Some of them were simple and quaint, like “I can start collecting records,”
because I might be in one place long enough to enjoy them. Some of them were a
lot grander, like “I can marry the girl I love and we can build a life together.”
The one I’d never even allowed myself to consider up until that moment was
“Maybe someday we’ll move back home.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Six years later, to the exact day, my wife got a job offer
in our childhood hometown. It was a funny little twist of fate that proved to
me I was on the path I was meant to be on.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Looking back now, 10 years to the day since that fateful
failure, I have the perspective to know that not getting what I <i>thought</i>
I wanted was a gift. Failing that significantly at that age was a gift.
Learning how to fail taught me how to be tougher, how to recognize the
difference between dreams and life, how to bid farewell to ego and entitlement,
and how to be grateful for all the good things in my world. Losing my dream
opened up a whole new horizon of opportunities and offered me free rein to
explore them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harry
Potter </i>book, Dumbledore tells Harry that “It does not do to dwell on dreams
and forget to live.” I was 21 years old and I’d been dwelling on the same dream
since I was 14. For years, it had felt like an asset, something to push me and
drive me and define my life purpose. At some point, it became an anchor:
something that held me down, something that broke my heart again and again and
again, until I found myself crying in a parked car in a cold parking garage,
telling my mom that I’d been failed by four professors who never cared to ask
about all the choices that had gotten me to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that
</i>moment. That last heartbreak was the toughest to get over, but it also
meant that my anchor was gone. I could take Dumbledore’s advice, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s not all positive, though – not even in retrospect, with
the benefit of time and perspective at my fingertips. There are still wounds
from what happened, scars that I don’t think will ever fully heal. Every time I
hear a choir sing, it breaks my heart. I have not sung as part of a choral ensemble
since that school year. If you knew me in high school, that’s probably a wild
thing to read, because being a “choir kid” defined who I was for so long.
Singing in choirs was the purest joy I had in my life for years and years and
years. It was a refuge from everything else, a place where all my other worries
fell away and I could just <i>be</i>. Choral music is spiritual and transformative
and magical and <i>perfect</i>, in a world where not enough things are worthy
of any of those adjectives. I firmly believe that there is nothing else on the
planet that can make you feel like your soul is lifting up toward heaven in the
way that hearing or singing with a great choir can. But I can’t feel that joy
anymore. I lost my dream 10 years ago tonight, but the worst thing that day
took away from me was the ability to lose myself in choral music without the
baggage I have now.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But who knows? Maybe one day I’ll wake up to find that those
wounds have healed. I’ll put on a recording of one of my old choirs and it
won’t put a bittersweet ache into my heart. I’ll join a community choir and be
able to feel the joy and release that I always felt in that world when I was
young. I <i>hope </i>that day comes, because I miss being a part of something
that was bigger than myself, in that unique way.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Still, if I could turn back time now, I’m not sure I’d do
any of it differently. The journey I took – through music, to my major, to
Western, to the friends I made there, to the girl I married, and to the failure
that shaped so much of what has happened since – is the narrative that made me
who I am. In comic books, they call it an origin story. How can you wish to
reverse something that, in the end, helped give you a great life? 10 years ago,
I briefly thought that failing that performance hearing would be the end of my life.
Today, I think maybe it was only the beginning.<o:p></o:p></p>Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-4719294822216352392019-12-10T14:07:00.002-05:002023-03-16T22:27:20.106-04:00My Top 200 Favorite Albums of the 2010s<div style="text-align: center;">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I still believe that the album is the greatest artform in
the world. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love movies. I love TV. I love books. I obviously love songs.
But there is something about the album that I think is different. Albums have
this power to come into your life and become a constant, fixed part of it. They
define moments, or hours, or days, or weeks, or months, or years. They take on
the color of your life at the moment when you first hear them, and play as
soundtrack for crucial milestones and mundane moments alike. I could make a “top
movies of the decade” list knowing full well that I haven’t seen even my
favorite films from the past 10 years more than a dozen times. But I have heard
<i>every</i> album on this list dozens of times; most of them I have heard
hundreds of times. They have been companions of mine in a way that I don’t
think any other type of art <i>could </i>be. They have certainly captured the
many milestones of my past 10 years: college; falling in love with the girl I would ultimately marry; the
biggest failure of my life; a total reconfiguration of my goals and dreams; graduating and entering the real world; flailing about in said real world; finding my
footing; getting engaged; getting married; losing my grandpa; adopting awesome
cats; buying a house; making my own albums; moving back home; finding rewarding
twists and turns in my career path that I never would have foreseen. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Most end-of-the-decade lists so far have tried to grapple
with the way music said something about the culture this decade, about the
world we live in. I am not particularly interested in that discussion. I have
always been far more fascinated by what music means on the more granular level,
to each individual person who hears it. How do the albums you love tell your
story? Why do they move you? Why do they mean the world to you? These are the
questions I love seeing music writers and music fans try to answer, even if the
answers are often harder to give (and much, much more personal) than simply recapping
why an album caught the zeitgeist at the right moment. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Those questions are also the ones that I have tried to answer
here, throughout this epic writing project that has dominated the past year of my life.
Last year, I went back in time and wrote about <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2018/07/my-top-100-favorite-albums-of-2000s.html" target="_blank">my 100 favorite albums from the2000s</a>, a formative decade for my music taste and for who I am as a person. I
followed that rubric here, spending 20 or so minutes every evening since
January picking out an album from the past 10 years and trying to explain why I
thought it deserved to be here. It’s been a long, long road, and this is a
long, long list, so I’ll stop rambling and get to the point. The last thing I’ll
say, though, is that I hope this decade has been as rewarding a musical journey
for you as it was for me.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. <b>Taylor Swift</b> - <i>Red</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmiXm-1D1Rok5Xgv3hLpEBrTLVufF1jrGwKKJudGpeHTKApss248Gk4PhBW73wbSqsTwyWaPk0aEvGpqGdvFJ47wFvMTJpG23t_MA6wy8mo4cnvg3YwReOI-PFvtHvQDwx-yS6NpyQIsg/s1600/Taylor+Swift+-+Red.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmiXm-1D1Rok5Xgv3hLpEBrTLVufF1jrGwKKJudGpeHTKApss248Gk4PhBW73wbSqsTwyWaPk0aEvGpqGdvFJ47wFvMTJpG23t_MA6wy8mo4cnvg3YwReOI-PFvtHvQDwx-yS6NpyQIsg/s640/Taylor+Swift+-+Red.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I never saw you coming, and I’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never </i>be the same.” On “State of Grace,” the first song from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i>, Taylor Swift sings those words, and
she’s right. This album was a pivot point for Swift, a shift away from the
country-leaning pop of its predecessors to a kaleidoscope of new genres and
sounds. There were still elements of country, tying everything together. But
Swift was throwing everything at the canvas, and she was doing it with more
confidence than we’d ever heard from her before. U2-esque arena rock? Give it a
try. The lo-fi bedroom folk musings of Mazzy Star? Why not? Dubstep? Maybe
inadvisable, but sure! It was fitting that the album was so scattershot
sonically, because it was also all over the place emotionally. Elation;
romance; infatuation; love; euphoria; dissatisfaction; yearning; loneliness;
despair; heartbreak; heartache; sadness; recovery. No record from this decade
better captured the full spectrum of emotions that comes with falling in and
out of love. In the liner notes, Taylor wrote that this record “is about love
that was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">red</i>”—or love that was
reckless and treacherous and desperate and thrilling and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">temporary</i>. “There is something to be said for being young and needing
someone so badly you jump in without looking,” she wrote. That’s the “never saw
you coming” part. The “never be the same” part is there in the songs. It’s how
an ill-fated romance leaves you with scars and memories that are as vivid as
the pictures in any photo album. It’s how your past love stories teach you new
things about yourself, hopefully giving you the tools you need to make the next
one last. It’s how your feelings for another person can change over time,
sometimes deepening and sometimes fading away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Sad, Beautiful, Tragic” is a song about a long-distance
relationship that has worn its participants down to such a degree that the
acoustic guitar actually sounds out of tune. “We both wake in lonely beds, in
different cities,” Taylor sings, and they are lines that convey so beautifully
the emotional distance that physical distance can breed.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>That’s the thing about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i>:
we talk about Taylor Swift as a superstar and purveyor of pop hits, but we
don’t give her enough credit as a sheer craftswoman, as a master of words and
mood and story. This album is her pinnacle in all those departments, exploding
so many moments from the relationships we’ve all lived—moments good and
bad—that it’s impossible to listen to it and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> reflect. There is so much vivid <i>life</i> in these songs,
from dances around the kitchen in the refrigerator light to crashed yacht club
parties, from break ups that feel like they are going to strangle you all the
way to nervous coffee shop meetups with new crushes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This
album came out a month before I turned 22, in the
middle of my last year of college, and during year three of a
long-distance
relationship with the girl I would marry. There is no album that recalls
college as vividly for me, and I think that’s because there’s no album I
listened to more. I’d put it on all the time—for drives to visit my
girlfriend,
or long homework sessions, or moments of celebratory jubilation with
friends.
Because no matter what I was doing or how I was feeling, there was
always at
least one song that fit the moment. There’s no other record from this
decade
that I can say that about, which maybe explains why no other record has
stuck
with me in quite the same way.<i> </i>If you’d
have asked me at the beginning of 2010 who I thought would make my album of the
decade, I wouldn’t have bet on Taylor Swift. I didn’t even put <i>Red </i>in my
top five at the end of 2012, for reasons that I can neither recall nor justify now.
But when I look back on these 10 years, <i>Red </i>is the album that most
sounds like how it felt to live them. I guess you could say that I never saw it
coming. You could certainly say that I’ll never be the same.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. <b>Butch Walker</b> - <i>Stay Gold</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVEpaJDNOxqpHiZyp9cPsbbcVlo2lE9qad-ehLw1kS37wbSZrCblPUIFeTMs6Z6aC5zUp-L_q-lfRg9ZfS9j3lOq41ai3532Xmv8bE45kMiivM_4rj_kLkpFjY7qAMFqzomkXnszGW8rT/s1600/Butch+Walker+-+Stay+Gold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVEpaJDNOxqpHiZyp9cPsbbcVlo2lE9qad-ehLw1kS37wbSZrCblPUIFeTMs6Z6aC5zUp-L_q-lfRg9ZfS9j3lOq41ai3532Xmv8bE45kMiivM_4rj_kLkpFjY7qAMFqzomkXnszGW8rT/s640/Butch+Walker+-+Stay+Gold.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In November, Butch Walker turned 50. When he scored his
first hit single—the 1998 Marvelous 3 smash “Freak of the Week”—he was 28. When
I started listening to him, he was 35. (I was 14.) He’s written about getting
older on his records before this, specifically with regard to becoming a
father and then <i>losing </i>a father. But <i>Stay Gold </i>is his most overt
reckoning with the passage of time. It’s an album from an aging punk whose life
has reached its halfway point, but who also has a hell of a lot of living left
to do. The songs are a celebration of both of those things: the past that’s
gone and the part that’s still to come. On most of the tracks, Butch crafts his
most nostalgic sound ever: a combination of Petty’s southern twang and
Springsteen’s small-town everyman. It’s his <i>Born in the U.S.A.</i>, a big
pop-rock album that jams side one full of anthems and then starts delving into
some heavier ideas as side two spins toward the middle of the disc. It’s an
album about recognizing that there’s nothing wrong with holding fond memories
in your heart: about past flames or old friends or times in your life when you
felt nothing but unbridled, blood-pumping, wild<i> freedom</i>. But it’s
also
about recognizing that you can’t always go back to the good ol’ days;
that the
cars you cruised the backstreets in or fell in love in get sold; that
your favorite bands will sometimes stop writing songs you relate to; that
your
go-to record stores will eventually go out of business. It’s an album,
in
short, about getting older but still feeling like you should be young.
The
older I get, the more that idea resonates with me. I keep thinking that
I’ll
eventually turn a corner and start to see myself as something different:
as a
grown-up; as a successful adult; as someone capable of being a parent.
But then
I play those old records and remember so vividly how they made my heart
pound
faster when I was 14 or 17 or 21, and I’m convinced that I can’t
possibly be
pushing 30. The bad news is that you can’t get back some of those things
that
time takes away: the innocence of the dizzying carnival ride that “East
Coast
Girl” evokes, or the close bonds you had with an ex’s family members
before
your breakup inevitably cut them short, a la “Spark: Lost.” But the good
news
is that life is a long journey, full of twists and turns and arcs that
you
might never have anticipated. You just gotta stay gold now, Pony Boy,
and take it
all as it comes. It speaks volumes to me that this album, this ebullient
ode to
youth, made me feel more alive than any other record I heard in the past
10
years. It turns out there are some things that can still make you feel
like a
kid again—even when you’re really not anymore.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">3. <b>Jason Isbell </b>- <i>Southeastern</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WAAfVp0etlAPdH8OSMsMxQOBzVEbdrNtEpszIIejeHEBDYUIbrflAu2R47dhnkzPVe3h8SGpB7aj6_ln9-7wd7lzNLrsGzsZumpL-U6ROM8uTMXeKt2XEtdI4LNxaRqwJpejObf8bQ0S/s1600/Jason+Isbell+-+Southeastern.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-WAAfVp0etlAPdH8OSMsMxQOBzVEbdrNtEpszIIejeHEBDYUIbrflAu2R47dhnkzPVe3h8SGpB7aj6_ln9-7wd7lzNLrsGzsZumpL-U6ROM8uTMXeKt2XEtdI4LNxaRqwJpejObf8bQ0S/s640/Jason+Isbell+-+Southeastern.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The greatest redemption arc of the 2010s starts here, with a
spartan progression of acoustic guitar chords. On first blush, “Cover Me Up”
maybe doesn’t sound like the announcement of something. It’s quiet and patient
and unassuming, in a way that makes you think the song and the album are going
to be slow-burns. But the further you get into “Cover Me Up,” the more
remarkable it becomes. “I sobered up and I swore off that stuff/Forever this
time,” Isbell sings in the second verse—a line that never fails to elicit a
deafening blast of cheers at live shows. But it was always the next lines that
really kicked me in the gut: “And the old lovers sing, ‘I thought it’d be me
who helped him get home’/But home was a dream, one that I’d never seen/Until you
came along.” It’s a song about finding the strength to stand up to your own
demons and fight them, but it’s also about how you can sometimes only find that
strength when you have something to fight for beyond yourself. There is no
greater love song from the past 10 years, and no greater album opener. “Cover
Me Up” seems to identify <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern </i>as
Isbell’s “sober record,” or maybe as his “falling in love” record. It is both
and it is neither. Tracks like “Songs That She Sang in the Shower” and
“Traveling Alone” carry with them the weight of mistakes and the ability for love
to trump those mistakes. But if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern
</i>is a sober record or a love record, it’s less because all the songs are
about those things and more because of what falling in love and then getting
sober allowed Isbell to accomplish. On past albums, Isbell was always a sharp
songwriter. You couldn’t listen to tracks like “Dress Blues” or “Alabama Pines”
and think he was anything but<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>a
remarkable talent. But hearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern
</i>is like seeing Superman away from kryptonite for the first time. The way
this album unlocks Isbell’s gifts as a melodist and especially as a lyricist
and storyteller will never stop being remarkable to me. Songs like “Live Oak,”
about a serial killer trying (and failing) to change his ways, or “Yvette,”
about a teenage boy taking matters into his own hands to save a classmate who is being
sexually abused by her father, deserve screenplay treatments. “Elephant,” about
watching a friend succumb to cancer, is arguably the decade’s most devastating
song. And “Relatively Easy” is a bittersweet, beautiful anthem that seems to
say one thing (“Stop complaining; our lives are easy; lots of people have it
way worse!”) but is really saying another (“You never know the battles that
people are really facing every day”). In terms of pure songwriting, there is no
better album from the past 10 years, and no album that inspired me more to pick
up the guitar and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">write</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">4. <b>Noah Gundersen</b> - <i>Ledges</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1iP59JVd8gz1OwvY6mtBgjXHp1Zc8bZ2jL3KYrRb2YlANy1QinoulouiB5gxsy6W_O168Jw2E-JHfenSGt4NZUqgMFOYaYO3f4s_dU_wxWAuhucwqxRDUoFTNT2PDxUYubtOmXn4jg1EI/s1600/Noah+Gundersen+-+Ledges.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1iP59JVd8gz1OwvY6mtBgjXHp1Zc8bZ2jL3KYrRb2YlANy1QinoulouiB5gxsy6W_O168Jw2E-JHfenSGt4NZUqgMFOYaYO3f4s_dU_wxWAuhucwqxRDUoFTNT2PDxUYubtOmXn4jg1EI/s640/Noah+Gundersen+-+Ledges.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i>In a lot of ways, <i>Ledges </i>was the album that most
influenced the direction of my music taste this decade. Discovering Noah
Gundersen carried echoes of discovering Butch Walker a decade before. I
couldn’t believe how much I loved <i>Ledges</i>, even right away, or how
perfectly it aligned with what I believed music <i>should </i>be. It felt,
within a few hours, like something that had been with me for my entire life,
just like <i>Letters </i>did on that winter day back in eighth grade when I first heard it. This record was
earnest and lyrically gripping, and so, so emotional that I felt like every song
was sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. Gundersen had a talent for
making music that sounded like it could have been crafted 70 years ago, but that
still felt like it was saying something about modern life, relationships, heartbreak,
and mortality. 2013 had been a tough year for me: one where I’d come up against
the harsh realities of the real world and failed to live up to my own
expectations for myself in my post-college life. Almost all the music from that
year is filtered through that prism for me: of failure and disappointment and money
troubles. 2014 was a brighter year, mostly. I got married, and the first seven
months of the year were completely dominated by planning a wedding and then <i>having
</i>a wedding. It was a weird cognitive dissonance: these happy times
intertwined with this deeply sad album. It was almost odd to reconcile the two
things: my excitement for the wedding versus the haunting, heartbreaking songs like
“First Defeat” and “Cigarettes,” about relationships that never got their happy
ending. But 2014 was also an emotional journey: a year that took me from a
bitter cold Chicago winter to a gorgeous summer wedding week in northern
Michigan, all the way to a chilly October funeral in Ohio after we lost my Grandpa.
<i>Ledges </i>was my companion through all that, an album whose heartfelt
vulnerability coexisted with its emotional bombast in a way that ultimately
scanned as resilient. “Here I stand on the edge of the ledges I’ve made/Looking
for a steady hand,” Gundersen sings in the title track. As I reeled for that
kind of steadiness in the wake of my college years, this album ended up being
the first thing that made things feel like they had a foundation again.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">5. <b>The Dangerous Summer</b> - <i>War Paint</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Rld9Fy3sBE9ZVQj8vcxRbIfDWfMJjh64Rcuao9k2pM8PPb4lVkB4-S4oZFiXuZjh_pFEIlUiCtAw5w1UUnRI4jdeygKhi3uUFVA8nf0-vsb-PNJeGYWFLAug8KzK02arYAvACHFX6lfW/s1600/The+Dangerous+Summer+-+War+Paint.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Rld9Fy3sBE9ZVQj8vcxRbIfDWfMJjh64Rcuao9k2pM8PPb4lVkB4-S4oZFiXuZjh_pFEIlUiCtAw5w1UUnRI4jdeygKhi3uUFVA8nf0-vsb-PNJeGYWFLAug8KzK02arYAvACHFX6lfW/s640/The+Dangerous+Summer+-+War+Paint.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When you’re young, you don’t just listen to music; you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel </i>it in every fiber of your being. As
you grow older, you maybe come to appreciate the nuances of music and
songwriting and storytelling in new ways, which is its own kind of magic. But
nothing can compare to when you’re 18 or 19 or 20 and clinging to music like
it’s some version of the air you breathe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War
Paint </i>was one of the last albums I connected with in that way, and I’m not
sure I ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed </i>music in that way
more. I came into the summer of 2011 busted up and wondering where I wanted to
go next in my life. I’d gone into college as a music major, but I was
disenchanted and frustrated, wondering if I’d chosen the right path or just set
myself up for failure and disappointment. That summer restored my faith in the
power of music—for a lot of reasons, but mostly because of this album. From the
moment it hit my computer hard drive in early July, I felt disinclined to play
anything else. I spent so many scorching July days and so many muggy August
nights blasting this album in my car or losing myself in its swell of sound
over headphones. I loved every second of it. I was the lonely heart in need of
an honest song in “No One’s Gonna Need You More,” or the guy making that
heartfelt proclamation in “Siren”: “You’re the song I wrote that I’ll always
love.” I still can’t listen to these songs, or hear the guitar chords, or even
read the lyrics without feeling a flood of memories from that season—from the
last time that I really called on music to save my life and it responded with
an embarrassment of riches. Standing where I am now, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War Paint </i>isn’t my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favorite </i>album
of the last 10 years—it’s not the best one, or the one that impacted my music
taste most, or the one that I feel like will be regarded as a universal classic
in 10 or 20 years. But I’d be lying if I said there was an album from this
decade that meant more to me in the moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">6. <b>Chad Perrone</b> - <i>Release</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje5zTLo_x3LAKbgiXgRX7SeoAYfBpeV4R044LeARKd8Ai9in7rNBec_9BM2wNssG5bjTnqclgPaNeqVhYqPOr5XVaD18rnCOmvc7xaFOVXINW_fMdhFzBlY4vSQMnqNdvKkh5H7_p-q-qQ/s1600/Chad+Perrone+-+Release.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje5zTLo_x3LAKbgiXgRX7SeoAYfBpeV4R044LeARKd8Ai9in7rNBec_9BM2wNssG5bjTnqclgPaNeqVhYqPOr5XVaD18rnCOmvc7xaFOVXINW_fMdhFzBlY4vSQMnqNdvKkh5H7_p-q-qQ/s640/Chad+Perrone+-+Release.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn’t prepared for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release</i>.
I wasn’t prepared for the hard truths that Chad Perrone was throwing at his
listeners on this album, or the way those truths collided with what was going
on in my own life at the time to make it one of the most wrenching albums I had ever heard.
Perrone had always been an emotive songwriter, but he’d mostly struck a balance
between raw pathos and hooky anthems up to this point. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release </i>changed things: it was harsh and hard and unforgiving.
Perrone sounded frustrated and exhausted and heartbroken, yearning for pieces
of the past even as he was beginning to feel like he might not be so young
anymore. If this album was a release of anything, it was the naivete of youth.
“You could have everything you’d ever want,” Perrone sings at one point, before
adding the aside: “Who told that myth to you?” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release </i>is packed full of knife twists just like that: “Here for
Good,” about accepting that your friend group will eventually fracture and go their
separate ways; “Under Different Circumstances,” about how you and the girl you
love could really be something amazing if it weren’t for bad timing and personal
entanglements; “Quit You,” about acknowledging that you might never truly get
over the person who changed your life and then walked out of it. The record is
a masterclass in the art of writing a breakup album: all big cathartic choruses
and heart-on-the-sleeve vocals, all confessional lyrics that would have made
perfect away messages back in the days of AIM. But when I first heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release</i>, I was in the opposite
situation, falling in love and reveling in the perfection of a summertime
romance. When the summer came to an end, I kissed my girlfriend goodbye and
drove south, toward college and toward a school year that I would have to spend
largely apart from her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release </i>was
the album on the stereo as I drove, and it shattered me. It seemed to bottle up
all the doubt and insecurity and sadness I was feeling as I drove away from
her. I didn’t know much about my life at that point, or about what I wanted it
to be. But I was sure in my heart that I didn’t want whatever we had together
to become the kind of emotional wreck that these songs chronicled. I didn’t
want her to be a missed opportunity, or a former flame that I couldn’t quit.
And so, oddly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release</i>—this raw,
aching breakup album—became a sort of rallying cry for me as I prepared to
undertake a long-distance relationship for the first time in my life. By
showing me what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t </i>want, these
songs gave me the strength to fight like hell to keep the one thing I knew I
did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">7. <b>Caitlyn Smith</b> - <i>Starfire </i></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jzXe_tsjiizkXe7mlQgdPkdCCCx348S9GR3zgPxlchIVlfjYHZ6fGqgZKIZXw1F6j6a6SBPD1ysfbrjR7RlY8GoAxvMsqEks6TKSxSmCoftYTzmwDfiXLpdEbYRxx52zjiOOzRtc3uJx/s1600/Caitlyn+Smith+-+Starfire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2jzXe_tsjiizkXe7mlQgdPkdCCCx348S9GR3zgPxlchIVlfjYHZ6fGqgZKIZXw1F6j6a6SBPD1ysfbrjR7RlY8GoAxvMsqEks6TKSxSmCoftYTzmwDfiXLpdEbYRxx52zjiOOzRtc3uJx/s640/Caitlyn+Smith+-+Starfire.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What’s the cost of a dream? On <i>Starfire</i>, Caitlyn
Smith reckons with that question. It’s a story we’ve heard before, especially
in relation to the city of Nashville and the genre of country music. Moving to
that city can put you on a path toward fame, or it can put you on a roller
coaster filled with little moments of promise and forward momentum, intercut with
crushing failures and huge disappointments. Smith lived that story, and <i>Starfire</i>—her
first proper full-length release—plays like a collection of scars that chronicle
what it cost her. Romantic prospects; family; the place that used to be home;
happy, healthy relationships; stability. These are all things that, at one
point or another in these songs, have to be sacrificed in the name of the big
dream. Smith misses her grandpa’s funeral in “This Town Is Killing Me,” and she
worries about losing her roots in “St. Paul.” She begs a lover not to leave in
“Don’t Give up on My Love” and muses about loneliness in “Scenes from a Corner
Booth at Closing Time on a Tuesday.” Over and over, she pays an ever-mounting
toll that would cause many of us to wave the white flag and give up. To choose
a different life. This decade, one of the biggest lessons I had to learn was
that sometimes your dreams change, and that it might be okay to stop chasing
them. Growing up, I thought it would be the death of me <i>not </i>to pursue
music as a career. When I went through a crushing failure in college, in the
midst of an eventually-aborted vocal performance degree, I re-evaluated my life
and decided that what had once felt like oxygen to me was no longer the most
vital thing in my life. That failure didn’t kill me, but it did hurt like hell,
and I knew I didn’t have it in me to face that again and again and again and
not give up. To do that requires a unique type of strength that not very many
people have. <i>Starfire </i>is an album about that type of strength. It’s also
an album that shows precisely why that strength is justified. Because when
Caitlyn Smith sings, you can hear her resolve and her steadfastness, and you
can absolutely hear her spine-tingling talent. Her voice, so full of power and
pathos, is, I think, a once-in-a-generation kind of gift. I couldn’t handle the
cycle of failure and rejection that comes with being a professional musician,
but God: I’m so thankful that Caitlyn Smith could. It would be a travesty for an
album this good not to exist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">8. <b>Field Report</b> - <i>Marigolden</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWpdtBkELSn7YKAD49Ed9GgJ-gc4YHrNCBeze3z2W3cxSFAZG3d4oIchLzxn7rgk9HVaREdr1alhQUwwzdBQbVICdjf_7Ve7099DmCjmyjkBjPrdsLcLjniB9tgdwDcc-KC8laQSNpc-I/s1600/Field+Report+-+Marigolden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWpdtBkELSn7YKAD49Ed9GgJ-gc4YHrNCBeze3z2W3cxSFAZG3d4oIchLzxn7rgk9HVaREdr1alhQUwwzdBQbVICdjf_7Ve7099DmCjmyjkBjPrdsLcLjniB9tgdwDcc-KC8laQSNpc-I/s640/Field+Report+-+Marigolden.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite annual music traditions is the “Christmas
Eve album.” Ever since my wife and I started dating, we’ve exchanged gifts on
the morning of Christmas Eve at her parents’ house, usually before or after
brunch. It’s been a way for us to spend Christmas with our respective families
while also celebrating it together. Every year, I pick an album to soundtrack
the wintry drive from my parents’ house to her parents’ house and then back
again. Some brilliant albums have played that role over the years, and many of
them are on this list: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Such Jubilee </i>by
Mandolin Orange; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger in the Alps </i>by
Phoebe Bridgers; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Both Ways </i>by Donovan
Woods. But my favorite has got to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Marigolden</i>.
Before that drive on Christmas Eve 2014, I liked this album a lot. After that
drive, it was one of my favorite albums of the decade. Something about the
experience—the solitude of the drive; the snow-covered surroundings; the way
the Christmas spirit in the air made the songs sound just a little bit like
magic—elevated this album and made me love it more. It was already an
emotionally-complicated Christmas: the first since my wife and I had wed, but
also our first without my grandpa. These songs seemed to translate the unique,
peculiar ache of that holiday into something expressible. The album itself is
an impressionistic, entrancing record about frontman Chris Porterfield’s
recovery from alcoholism. But the record also grapples with subjects of home,
and family, and relationships, and bonds between parents and children, and
distance, and loneliness, and death. “Pale Rider” is about the loss of a child
and how it can shatter a parent, or a family, or an entire community. “Summons”
is a dizzying, dreamlike drive across the country, stumbling home to the one
person who can help you make sense of your life. And “Home (Leave the Lights
On)” is about finally getting back to that sanctuary, to a place that lives up
to the mantra of “long live beauty, short live pain.” The songs here feel
simultaneously weightless and like the heaviest things in the world, like
clear-eyed dreams and like half-remembered premonitions from a deep, deep
sleep. For that one Christmas when I was feeling conflicted about whether to
feel joy or love or gratitude or heartbreak or anger or melancholy, this record
let me feel all of it and more. There will never be a Christmas when I don’t
play it and remember just how much that simple drive and this
decidedly-not-simple record meant to me in the year when I needed both most.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">9. <b>Butch Walker</b> - <i>Afraid of Ghosts</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDtT7WhQO2IYYO1Em3T6sI1rEMHaJkHi6JCHK7ixgNvyugIe0qdPzySZ5RURTryaBR0ZA1LCw7CxB6nZ29QQ13hU5HNnN9F23zlWEwCiA4MmdKW1b5fUcA7DVSVa631mCUiuYg6rDuemY/s1600/Butch+Walker+-+Ghosts.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDtT7WhQO2IYYO1Em3T6sI1rEMHaJkHi6JCHK7ixgNvyugIe0qdPzySZ5RURTryaBR0ZA1LCw7CxB6nZ29QQ13hU5HNnN9F23zlWEwCiA4MmdKW1b5fUcA7DVSVa631mCUiuYg6rDuemY/s640/Butch+Walker+-+Ghosts.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After Clarence Clemons passed away, Bruce Springsteen said
losing him was “like losing the rain.” “Suddenly, it’s just gone,” he said; “everything
feels less.” To lose a pillar in your life is to contend with this sensation. Losing
someone you love so deeply and in such an elemental way feels not only
heartbreaking, but downright <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i>.
As in, how can the world possibly keep spinning if this thing that was always
there is gone? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Afraid of Ghosts </i>is
the sound of Butch Walker grappling with this question. He wrote and recorded
this album in a burst of grief following his father’s death, and you can hear
every ounce of his broken heart splayed out in the songs. Hearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Afraid of Ghosts </i>at any time would have
been an emotional experience. Hearing it for the first time three months after
the death of my grandfather—a huge father figure in my life—tore me apart. “You
don’t become a man until you lose your dad, you see.” Butch sings those words
in “Father’s Day,” right before a torrential guitar solo breaks through to
wash the pain away. He’s right—though the word “dad” is less important in that
lyric than the sentiment behind the words. To lose someone foundational in your
life is, as Bruce said, like losing the rain. It’s like losing air, or
summertime, or water, or trees. Losing my grandpa felt like that, because he’d
always been the root of my family tree and the anchor to so much of how I
identified myself and lived my life. This album helped me put those feelings in
context. The songs let me mourn him properly. They acted as a shoulder to cry
on as I tried to figure out how I was going to face a world without him. Every
year since then, on the anniversary of his death, I make a point of putting
this album on the turntable, dropping the needle, and letting myself dwell in
the melancholy, bittersweet pain the songs still dredge up. There are albums
I’ve listened to more, and even albums I like more, but no album from the past
10 years aches for me quite like this one does. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">10. <b>Kacey Musgraves </b>- <i>Golden Hour</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5YFAzv2OwqYcQKHJ2f2vLON11-_HgH18gjT6MR65PRX09H1iigK441Zg-1Nm-sw_cFyhdYzaeaalfUMXCKhdvfBzXLOVjsejResmEty4RhVlN8qV6SRZUBKnj5VJGoXzpAu9nGEqkdESd/s1600/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Golden+Hour.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5YFAzv2OwqYcQKHJ2f2vLON11-_HgH18gjT6MR65PRX09H1iigK441Zg-1Nm-sw_cFyhdYzaeaalfUMXCKhdvfBzXLOVjsejResmEty4RhVlN8qV6SRZUBKnj5VJGoXzpAu9nGEqkdESd/s640/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Golden+Hour.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Look, when it comes to music publications, the Grammys, and
pretty much any other arbiter of what is “good” in the world of music, I am
nothing if not a cynical bastard. That’s what happens when you spend years
watching these institutions honor music that sounds either dull or downright
bad to your ears. Growing up, I got used to my favorite artists going
unheralded. I reasoned to myself that the lack of “consensus” praise for those
artists only made them more “mine.” Every once in awhile, though, an artist
that is “yours” ends up breaking through to broader acclaim and becoming
“everyone’s.” <i>Golden Hour </i>was one such moment. It was an album that
turned a largely unsung genre hero into a crossover Album of the Year-winning
Grammy superstar. It’s the best album to win that award in more than 30
years—since <i>The Joshua Tree</i>, as far as I’m concerned—and it got there
about as organically as you can. <i>Golden Hour </i>didn’t have a big single
and wasn’t treated as an “event” album in the way that today’s big pop or rap
releases get rolled out. It won people over the old-fashioned way: by being a
collection of extremely great songs that also cohered into something greater than
the sum of their parts. <i>Golden Hour </i>is a treatise on falling in love and
the before and after of that equation: the loneliness and heartbreak of the
stormy days, and the beauty of the rainbow that breaks through when the rain finally
lets up and the sun shines through. It’s a kaleidoscopic slow burn of an album,
a happy-sad classic that chronicles all the colors of love—from the bright pink
naivete of a new crush to the brilliant sapphire blue of a long-term
commitment. There are a lot of albums about love, but not many convey
everything it means as sharply or viscerally as this one.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">11. <b>Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit </b>- <i>The Nashville Sound </i></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSz3HktRTRdEkSPxzUFmDlAMScT8D65Zf3AihnHHGrtluMINqpr5_7CuDvr4am7IMz7DPfc98UyUIqIlA9zNsWVdrLOoYKffjEmYQdzYj5DExomTVkh4Wy2cTnXWRQXBw5En0VsOnYKRx9/s1600/Jason+Isbell+-+Nashville+Sound.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSz3HktRTRdEkSPxzUFmDlAMScT8D65Zf3AihnHHGrtluMINqpr5_7CuDvr4am7IMz7DPfc98UyUIqIlA9zNsWVdrLOoYKffjEmYQdzYj5DExomTVkh4Wy2cTnXWRQXBw5En0VsOnYKRx9/s640/Jason+Isbell+-+Nashville+Sound.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What gives a lifelong love story its magic? On “If We Were
Vampires,” Jason Isbell muses about what he thinks might be the answer:
mortality. “If we were vampires and death was a joke/We’d stand out on the
sidewalk and smoke/And laugh at all the lovers and their plans/And I wouldn’t
feel the need to hold your hand/Maybe time running out is a gift/I’ll work hard
‘til the end of my shift/And give you every second I can find/And hope it isn’t
me who’s left behind.” When we think of the marriages that last decades—those
between our parents or our grandparents or good family friends—we tend to think
about the time they’ve spent together as what makes their bond so remarkable.
My grandparents celebrated their 63rd wedding anniversary shortly before my
grandpa passed away in 2014, the same year my wife and I wed. I remember being
so amazed by the magnitude of their commitment to one another: that they could
stay in love for that long, in that way. But the truly remarkable thing about
true love is that no matter how many years you get, it’s never enough time.
Because always, the other side of the hourglass is losing sand. What gives love
its urgency and its power and its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">magic </i>is
that even the permanent relationships are temporary. If we were immortal
beings, maybe we wouldn’t value each other in the same way, because our time
together wouldn’t be finite. If we missed a year or a week or a day together,
there would still be uncountable others remaining. But we’re not vampires,
which means we need to choose how to invest our lives. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nashville Sound </i>is a staggering album about that kind of
investment. It’s a record about love and marriage and family and devotion, and
about how those things sometimes have to weather the storms of a troubled
world. For every character whose choices leave him stranded alone in the bad
part of town or swallowed whole by the goddamn Cumberland Gap, there’s another
one vowing to run off to Tupelo to see about a girl, or singing his daughter to
sleep with visions of a better world. “There can’t be more of them than us,”
Isbell sings in “Hope the High Road,” a visceral anthem written in the wake of
Trump’s election. When he says “us,” he doesn’t mean a political party or even
a group of people united in their dislike of the president; he means people who
want to invest their lives in the things they love without being told who
they’re allowed to love, or how they are allowed to live their lives. If we
were vampires, maybe we wouldn’t care about racism or ignorance or senseless
war. But again, we’re not and we do. Like the best political music, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nashville Sound </i>is refracted through
the prism of the things that we fight for because we can’t afford to lose them.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">12. <b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Surviving</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdn8EKGcpqegYuWAKXfdtHNgkym33ehOP9yAA8BuqlIxRbijiXv9GKRdd5F9t3zpmhNnmGSme-hhiOyVpcBOqpfAKb1TQr3TtGiB6jeeVJkQQmTAavHUv-cHSTFJVJwAJ8zN7NeoL1dos/s1600/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Surviving.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdn8EKGcpqegYuWAKXfdtHNgkym33ehOP9yAA8BuqlIxRbijiXv9GKRdd5F9t3zpmhNnmGSme-hhiOyVpcBOqpfAKb1TQr3TtGiB6jeeVJkQQmTAavHUv-cHSTFJVJwAJ8zN7NeoL1dos/s640/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Surviving.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Surviving </i>is the sound of America’s greatest band
taking stock of who they are, where they’ve been, where the country is, and
where they want to go. 10 albums and 25 years into their career, Jimmy Eat
World went into this album determined not to let complacency get the best of
them. The result is the most kinetic set of songs they’ve recorded in well over
a decade, an electrically-charged collection that oscillates between anthemic
(the title track) and cutting (the Trump-era takedown of “Criminal Energy”). At
this point, anyone who listens to Jimmy Eat World knows their tricks: the
midtempo ballad; the power-pop rock song; the aggressive single. But on <i>Surviving</i>,
the band somehow makes those things sound new again. The templates are
familiar, but the songs feel older, wiser, more informed by specific
experiences. 15 years ago, Jimmy Eat World released the album that changed my
life and made me fall in love with music: 2004’s <i>Futures</i>. But I think
it’s fair to say that they couldn’t have written a song like “Love Never,” back
then, about the patience and time it takes for a bond worthy of the word “love”
to form; or like “Diamond,” about the long, long, <i>long </i>journey we all
take to find our true selves. These are anthems wrought from time and trial and
error and struggle. They feel hard-fought and hard-won, but they don’t feel
like victories. Jimmy Eat World have acknowledged by now that everything and
everyone is a work in progress. On <i>Surviving</i>, their best album in more
than a decade, that resolve feels invigorating, because it means that a band
we’ve had for a quarter-century might still, somehow, be getting better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">13. <b>Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness </b>- <i>Upside Down Flowers</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgR9Ai7bYJiiyiQOirRJV9cldywxT58TgnxRqTFQf6hwn7Q4meNL_47oKv_vewS_snVsbhaUAqTGfxN7mjZ7WW8ah3TRsazxafVzrhmgkRCZ-EMpESgRpr9L0SNp48lxxJfJv-xOFa4XS/s1600/Andrew+McMahon+-+Upside+Down.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgR9Ai7bYJiiyiQOirRJV9cldywxT58TgnxRqTFQf6hwn7Q4meNL_47oKv_vewS_snVsbhaUAqTGfxN7mjZ7WW8ah3TRsazxafVzrhmgkRCZ-EMpESgRpr9L0SNp48lxxJfJv-xOFa4XS/s640/Andrew+McMahon+-+Upside+Down.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Normally, I equate nostalgia with fondness. While there’s
always a bittersweet tilt to looking back on memories with friends you don’t
see much anymore—or with friends who you haven’t even spoken with in years—it’s
still easy to recall those good times and smile. But recently, I woke up in the
middle of the night from a dream about people who aren’t in my life anymore,
and it filled me with this starkly lonely existential dread. For the first
time, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt like I was...getting old? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Upside Down Flowers </i>is
an album for that specific moment in your life. It’s about nostalgia and memory
and the past, and how they can all affect your present in positive and negative
ways. There is nothing wrong with holding onto things in your heart and your
soul even after they’ve gone. We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>cling
to those things: to hometowns and lost loved ones and friends that exited the
frame of our lives. But there also comes a time when it’s important to
recognize the way that nostalgia—that viewing the past through rose-colored
glasses—might negatively impact your present. The thing about time is that it’s
a one-way highway with no option to take an off ramp and turn around. So we can
look back and reminisce, but if you spend too much time doing that, it can start
to fill you with the same sense of existential dread that I felt that night.
There’s no way back to the person you used to be. There’s no way back to the
loved ones who aren’t living anymore, or to friendships that you let wither and
fall by the wayside. The only option, sometimes, is to keep driving. This album
both fights against that concept and embraces it. “House in the Trees,” for
instance, is a poignant and agonizing song about all the things you never got
to say to the people you care about when you had the chance. But then there’s
“Everything Must Go,” which revels in the letting go and the moving on. “I know
it’s hard to say goodbye,” Andrew sings, as he divests himself of worldly
positions and the memories they carry. But he knows it’s for the best: “It
don’t matter as long as you’re mine/Let’s go, let’s fly.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">14. <b>The Dangerous Summer </b>- <i>Mother Nature</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSnqRnOmFtQsaZvYL2GAABxAowFrHOGCh550C5FbmER7uzX9ynRtRlQmVFbse3Hy5QquYM8IVmK8ExBBqIezGNz5dgE2oz6ZeXkLhRUUAt09MWIZLqDlKV7DurqFLt-wvgf2uF8Q9m4U8/s1600/The+Dangerous+Summer+-+Mother+Nature.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSnqRnOmFtQsaZvYL2GAABxAowFrHOGCh550C5FbmER7uzX9ynRtRlQmVFbse3Hy5QquYM8IVmK8ExBBqIezGNz5dgE2oz6ZeXkLhRUUAt09MWIZLqDlKV7DurqFLt-wvgf2uF8Q9m4U8/s640/The+Dangerous+Summer+-+Mother+Nature.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Mother Nature </i>made me feel like a kid again. I was so
convinced, after 2013’s <i>Golden Record </i>and 2018’s <i>The Dangerous Summer</i>,
that this band’s time as a titanic force in my life was over. They’d been there
when I needed them most: for my tumultuous coming-of-age years, when I still
wasn’t quite at the door of adulthood yet. Once I crossed that threshold, their
music felt different to me. But <i>Mother Nature</i>, listening to this record
on late-night drives this past summer, it reminded me of how viscerally I felt <i>Reach
for the Sun </i>and <i>War Paint </i>when I needed them most. Most reprises or
revivals or comebacks function as pale mimicry of the real thing. They play on
your nostalgia to tug at your heartstrings, but they lack the substance to be
something truly prescient in your current life. <i>Mother Nature </i>is an
exception to that rule: it’s a record that is all heart, made by a group of
guys who so genuinely want to connect with their audience in the way that they
used to. <i>Mother Nature </i>comes from an older, wiser place than <i>Reach
for the Sun</i>: there are wounds in these songs that weren’t there 10 years
ago, wounds that only come with time and age and with the pains and joys that
life is always throwing at you. But somehow, those wounds only make these songs
sound more urgent, more forceful, more desperate to connect. When I hear these
songs, I hear hope and optimism: that things are going to work out okay; that
second and third and fourth chances do exist; that there’s still <i>a lot </i>of
life left to live even after those youthful memories start to look more and
more like ghosts. “I still see all the wonder in those eyes/We can live life
before we die/Counting the days I wanna fall in love with you,” AJ Perdomo
sings on “Better Light.” Those lines, and the record, to me, are about
rediscovering the beauty in the world and in the relationships we have with the
people in it. Life is long, but it’s also short. Live it well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">15. <b>Bruce Springsteen </b>- <i>Wrecking Ball</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvaD9BvtYe-Pbz0PPrtFvkHOSlpqKGCFEaq8OZCd5CSkCTySPYLWxtgY6eTD705pNREamiCwE0bpiCZUNWKfTHZKFrfBrwlWkdnYJFLATe0sqLdI8prZA8Lzfhpre8LXr7ABktt3AH99P/s1600/Bruce+-+Wrecking+Ball.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="600" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvaD9BvtYe-Pbz0PPrtFvkHOSlpqKGCFEaq8OZCd5CSkCTySPYLWxtgY6eTD705pNREamiCwE0bpiCZUNWKfTHZKFrfBrwlWkdnYJFLATe0sqLdI8prZA8Lzfhpre8LXr7ABktt3AH99P/s640/Bruce+-+Wrecking+Ball.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite music memories from the past 10 years
occurred the night <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wrecking Ball </i>leaked
on the internet. It was a Sunday evening during the spring of my junior year of
college. I was sitting in my bedroom in my apartment, taking one last glance
around the internet before turning in for the night. And then I saw it. The new
Springsteen album was out there, available weeks early for those willing to
click a few links and wait a few minutes for a download to complete. Suddenly,
any thoughts of going to sleep were dashed. Here was a new album from the
artist who had defined the past three years of my life—the first new album from
Springsteen since I’d morphed into a die-hard fan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of course </i>I was going to stay up and listen. For 54 minutes, I sat
in front of my computer and just let this album wash over me. I was blown away
at how lively Bruce sounded on “Easy Money” and “Death to My Hometown.” I was
transported by songs like “Jack of All Trades” and “This Depression,” which
seemed to say something new about the then-recent economic downturn. I was in
awe over some of the risks he took, like the hip-hop-influenced “Rocky Ground.”
And I thought that the title track was the best song he’d put on an album in
years, maybe even decades—that was, until I heard “Land of Hope and Dreams.”
Here was a song us Bruce fans had already heard. It was a live-only track that
the E Street Band had trotted out a dozen years earlier, during the 2000
reunion tour. But hearing it on record—hearing Clarence’s sax blast through the
proceedings from beyond the grave—was something else entirely. Sometimes, music
makes me believe in miracles, and listening to Clarence on that track felt like
a miracle to me. By the end of the track, I was in tears, bawling at my desk
over the power of the brotherhood that Bruce wasn’t letting go of, even after
the death of his greatest sideman. A lot of people heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wrecking Ball </i>as a political protest album first and foremost, but
for me, it was always a deeply heartfelt farewell to the Big Man. “Let your
mind rest easy, sleep well my friend,” Bruce sings in the “We Are Alive,” the
album’s closing salvo; “It’s only our bodies that betray us in the end.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">16. <b>Noah Gundersen</b> - <i>Carry the Ghost </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Lh_z2V5VdVfQHyllK2BEsLl2kSTf02-y5QxU5GSO2ESee2RYHPcd4hGgcibbI_yjXdE4idJZGXQHPg1_j5HIMedKhyMmlmUziezgkcKtIy4KtIKF2etn-lTjfM9pVX8pXWrkU_lDo9aZ/s1600/Carry+the+Ghost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Lh_z2V5VdVfQHyllK2BEsLl2kSTf02-y5QxU5GSO2ESee2RYHPcd4hGgcibbI_yjXdE4idJZGXQHPg1_j5HIMedKhyMmlmUziezgkcKtIy4KtIKF2etn-lTjfM9pVX8pXWrkU_lDo9aZ/s640/Carry+the+Ghost.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some songs make it hard to breathe. They capture a memory,
or a moment, or a feeling so vividly that listening to them forces some sort of
bizarre Pavlovian response in you. For me, “Blossom” by Noah Gundersen has
always been one of those songs. Even from the first time I heard it,
“Blossom” seemed to evoke memories of a lost, romantic summer night: the joy;
the possibility; the unparalleled beauty; the melancholy feeling of looking
back at a perfect summer memory from your youth and knowing you’ll never be
that innocent or bright-eyed again. <i>Carry the Ghost</i>, in many ways, is a
record about lost innocence. It’s about relationships long gone, or maybe about
ones that just have lost their fire. It’s about being a young person who loses
their religious faith and then has to grapple with that truth—with losing
pillars of meaning in your life and then forging new ones. There’s sadness in
these losses, but not <i>just</i> sadness. Noah said this album was about
self-discovery: about searching for how one is “supposed to live” and about
ultimately realizing that there is no one right way to live a life. “This is
all we have/This is all we are/Blood and bones, no holy ghost/Empty from the
start” he sings on the centerpiece track. Discovering that you have the freedom to live a
life without shackles—religious or relational or based on someone else’s
expectations—is an impossibly freeing revelation. One of the great things about
life is that we all get the chance to find our own truths and make our own
destinies. On <i>Carry the Ghost</i>, by giving his listeners a front-row seat
to his crises of faith and searches for meaning in the world, Noah Gundersen
made a relatable masterpiece about one of young adulthood’s key rites of
passage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">17. <b>The Gaslight Anthem</b> - <i>American Slang </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4a13a_IN9-UkU6rgkX5JIaN6nuHSHPTh2vnlUE-r3ISVwxdFQ-KiytnuxPk_W1jF5RG7OQW-XuT3LKAqKBixnhMO0YIQPqxp1cqxKJ5NtNmgh_C2Z3-28agGt_p2pVi76tAzqV7kAepL/s1600/The+Gaslight+Anthem+-+American+Slang.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4a13a_IN9-UkU6rgkX5JIaN6nuHSHPTh2vnlUE-r3ISVwxdFQ-KiytnuxPk_W1jF5RG7OQW-XuT3LKAqKBixnhMO0YIQPqxp1cqxKJ5NtNmgh_C2Z3-28agGt_p2pVi76tAzqV7kAepL/s640/The+Gaslight+Anthem+-+American+Slang.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The ’59 Sound </i>was
an album about growing up. It was an album about seizing the wheel and taking
control of your life after years spent in the wonderful fever dream of youth. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Slang </i>is an album about
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being </i>grown up. It’s about
how the world looks different when you’re driving the car rather than just
riding in the backseat. But that doesn’t mean your youth just vanishes. One of
the great myths of adulthood is that you eventually reach some inflection point
where you start feeling “mature,” or “responsible,” or like you “have it all
figured out.” The great wisdom of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American
Slang </i>is in how it recognizes that no such moment exists. Instead, we’re
all out here faking it, doing our best while trying not to think too much about
the way things used to be. But the “used to bes” somehow always find their way
back to you: in the form of old records and old cars and old haunts. And so
Brian Fallon spends this album waxing poetic about the past—even though he
knows it’s not coming back. “But you’re never gonna find it/Like when you were
young/And everybody used to call you lucky,” he sings early on. That’s the
thing about youth: every adult you ever meet tells you to cherish it, to treat
it like the gift it is, and no one ever listens. If only we could have the
wisdom of experience with the impossible freedoms of innocence. The fact that
we can’t is a timeless tragedy, and it’s the skin and bones of this album. As
Springsteen once sang, “So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we
ain’t that young anymore.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Slang
</i>takes that one lyric and blows it up into a modern epic worthy of its grandiose,
impressive title.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">18. <b>Jason Isbell</b> - <i>Something More Than Free</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtYwgXzbTw8wyyTi1jYfddH2GCy1ldBnoMXi_ZWCqwUzaYCTlS_3rjDsfU8bJ8Hz3UgPuEHypbTfIbHhCgBxaTT2akgsPzkE6wvV-HsBU_8ZxXICw42SKxsv0vYfulSYJm0Aq22PtecoQ/s1600/Jason+Isbell+-+Something+More+Than+Free.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtYwgXzbTw8wyyTi1jYfddH2GCy1ldBnoMXi_ZWCqwUzaYCTlS_3rjDsfU8bJ8Hz3UgPuEHypbTfIbHhCgBxaTT2akgsPzkE6wvV-HsBU_8ZxXICw42SKxsv0vYfulSYJm0Aq22PtecoQ/s640/Jason+Isbell+-+Something+More+Than+Free.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What does it mean to be free? When
you’re young, freedom is
something you reach for. You want the freedom of your first car; the
freedom of
being able to stay out as late as you want; the freedom of getting into
R-rated
movies, or of buying a drink and having it be legal; the freedom of
living on
your own and deciding your own fate. For so long, that kind of freedom
seems to
represent some sort of boundless opportunity. But as you get older, the
same unstructured, unbridled freedom starts to become less attractive.
At some
point, you might start to mistake it for aimlessness, or even
loneliness. “The
older you get, the more of your freedom you trade in, in order to have
things
around you that you care about,” Jason Isbell said when this album came
out. It’s
a wise observation from a wise songwriter, and the album is built around
that
concept. In the title track, the narrator isn’t working hard for
freedom, but
for something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more </i>than free. His
idea of freedom is the promise of a bountiful afterlife. But “something more
than free” can mean a lot of different things depending on who you are. It can
mean finally being unshackled from a small town that stifled you, as in the
heartbreaking “Speed Trap Town.” It can mean committing to another person so
fiercely that you recognize you’ll never be just “you” again, as in “Flagship.”
It can be deciding to raise a family and pledging years of your life to your
kids, as in “Children of Children.” Or it can be knowing enough about what you
want—and feeling confident enough in yourself—that you can muster up the courage to
invite an old flame to run away with you, as in “The Life You Chose.” As is
commonplace with Isbell, these songs are populated with vividly-sketched
characters, all living lives that seem like they will just keep going after the
music fades out. But what makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something
More Than Free </i>such an emotionally gripping album is how personally
invested Isbell seems in every song. The characters might be other people, but
they often seem like shades of him, and like shades of his own definition of
freedom. The result is an album that captures the warmth of family and
stability while still reveling in the madness of youthful freedom, and in the
sting of nostalgia for times that won’t come back and probably wouldn’t feel
right if they did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">19. <b>Chris Stapleton</b> - <i>Traveller</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9_G-X6c4Aq01Nww19yN6DZ8Hegr_KcUJuXMpLEEoQSMkF2JMm1scTyODxLdKnTsqu-bDFfBxOGPhkOimD34jP9RbIittFRvEVejtNMpU9Zc2Zh2bgKOU3MQpaL5N_pxmEXhTy45hGO-V/s1600/Chris+Stapleton+-+Traveller.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9_G-X6c4Aq01Nww19yN6DZ8Hegr_KcUJuXMpLEEoQSMkF2JMm1scTyODxLdKnTsqu-bDFfBxOGPhkOimD34jP9RbIittFRvEVejtNMpU9Zc2Zh2bgKOU3MQpaL5N_pxmEXhTy45hGO-V/s640/Chris+Stapleton+-+Traveller.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve probably watched the video of Chris Stapleton and
Justin Timberlake performing together at the 2015 CMAs upwards of 25 times, and
it never gets old. Watching it back now, it all feels so natural and
preordained. As in, “of course Chris Stapleton would be duetting with one of
the biggest pop stars in the world.” Back then, on the night it first aired,
the entire thing seemed wild. Stapleton was a country singer with no radio
hits, limited sales, and no name recognition—at least in the mainstream world. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Traveller </i>was the top-ranked album of the year
for every country blogger and “real country fan,” but it wasn’t a big
commercial smash. Stapleton had gotten a bunch of CMA nominations, but it
didn’t seem all that likely that he would win any of them. And he’d announced a
performance slot with Justin Timberlake, which seemed bizarre to say the least.
The performance, that first time, felt so electric. It was like you could sense
the shift in the room at Bridgestone Arena the moment when Stapleton went from
underdog to superstar. The looks on the faces of all the people in the
crowd—these country music superstars, rocking out like fans at concert—were
priceless, and made it so clear that this was Stapleton’s coming out party. He
went on to win most of the big awards that night, including Album of the Year,
and he deserved them. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Traveller </i>was
and is a genuine classic. Stapleton wrote it after his father passed away, and
he’s said that the songs distill the kind of music his old man would have
loved: whiskey-drenched Memphis soul; hard-edged outlaw country; whisper-quiet
folk ballads; soul-searching road trip tunes. It has the best five-song opening
of any album this decade—a run, from the title track to “Whiskey and You,” that
is so stop-you-in-your-tracks remarkable that you almost forgive the album for
its second half bloat. Stapleton’s voice is the real star, from the long,
drawn-out notes of “Fire Away” to the soulful runs of “Tennessee Whiskey,” all
the way to the jaw-dropping live take of “Sometimes I Cry” that closes the
record. But the song I always come back to is “Traveller,” one of the
greatest-ever invocations of the road and all its heartbreaking, heart-mending
majesty. “Every turn reveals some other road, and I’m a traveller,” goes the
chorus. It’s one of my favorite lines of the decade, from an album that started
out as a best-kept secret and turned into one of the biggest country LPs of the modern era.
Sometimes, the good guys win.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">20. <b>Noah Gundersen</b> - <i>Lover</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCniH3y3j3hrKOGGFE78TvbJOisldQOUcIRFIz2gra3_RY2mcCNDmI_fRy_VZHq7Ktude3grlMLQLPRVAg-IAFPIZ_EV-z2mWI8zvty8iyD91zfAyaIZowA5AJQq7NUXxFC_rW89YYXxVn/s1600/Noah+Gundersen+-+Lover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCniH3y3j3hrKOGGFE78TvbJOisldQOUcIRFIz2gra3_RY2mcCNDmI_fRy_VZHq7Ktude3grlMLQLPRVAg-IAFPIZ_EV-z2mWI8zvty8iyD91zfAyaIZowA5AJQq7NUXxFC_rW89YYXxVn/s640/Noah+Gundersen+-+Lover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not sure any artist bared their soul as much this decade
as Noah Gundersen. Something about his art always seemed so viscerally honest
to me, like he was writing the songs as stream-of-consciousness missives right
from his own heart. <i>Lover</i>, somehow, is maybe his barest and most candid
work. It’s a coming-of-age album from someone who felt like his world was tilting
on its axis, and maybe even coming apart at the seams. Gundersen has gone on
record about how hard the years between 2017’s <i>White Noise </i>and this
album were on him. He dealt with personal issues, financial struggles, and
more, along with the restless, love-hate relationship with his own art that has
long driven him to grow and evolve. All that crisis could have created a
tortured, emotionally fraught album, but <i>Lover </i>is actually the most
at-peace Gundersen has ever sounded on record. He comes to terms with failure,
with artistic frustration, and with his own restlessness. He writes big
unabashed love songs, instead of just breakup songs. He reaches euphoric
revelry, on the wonderfully out-of-character “All My Friends.” He excavates
memories from the deepest recesses of his mind, bringing a haunting and
dreamlike character to songs like “Watermelon” and “Audrey Hepburn.” After <i>White
Noise</i>, which felt adventurous but occasionally self-conscious, it’s a
miracle to hear Noah sound so unguarded and unvarnished once more. It’s the
realization of everything his career has been building to so far: the intimacy
of <i>Ledges</i>, the deep self-reflection of <i>Carry the Ghost</i>, and the
genre-bending of <i>White Noise</i>, paired with a newfound maturity that only
years can bring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">21. <b>Maren Morris</b> - <i>Hero</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLi8xE8bKGTdLNKj3zQ6N5Fhgx7VPnAzkYn1wlrGIbplfHXo-pGVWSpY3uPT5jnK5PfQ37fd82YXutpakoJNQpVB2XZs3kL2lf-yu19dzt-L6RTeVlXBQlmmEfYVyweyl_YozFTl8nNRH/s1600/Maren+Morris+-+Hero.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLi8xE8bKGTdLNKj3zQ6N5Fhgx7VPnAzkYn1wlrGIbplfHXo-pGVWSpY3uPT5jnK5PfQ37fd82YXutpakoJNQpVB2XZs3kL2lf-yu19dzt-L6RTeVlXBQlmmEfYVyweyl_YozFTl8nNRH/s640/Maren+Morris+-+Hero.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first time I heard Maren Morris, I knew she was a
superstar. It was October 2015, months before Morris’s “My Church” would start
to make waves on country radio and more than six months before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero </i>ever saw the light of day. But
Morris had an EP out on Spotify, and as the last unseasonably warm days of the
autumn wasted away, I remember blasting “80s Mercedes” and “Drunk Girls Don’t
Cry” out the screen door, into the beautiful outdoors. It wasn’t long before I
was hearing “My Church” in grocery stores, or at the nearby salon while I was
getting my hair cut. Before I knew it, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero
</i>was upon us, ready to herald the summer of 2016—just as Morris’s EP had
given a late sendoff to the summer of 2015. Fast-forward to now and Morris <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>the superstar I said she’d be: a star
with number one hits on both the country charts and the pop charts, and someone
with the chops to justify both titles. To me, though, Morris will always be the
girl on this album: a confident, big-voiced Firestarter with plenty to prove
and a boatload of hooks to get her where she wanted to go. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero </i>ping-pongs back and forth between gargantuan upbeat anthems
(“Sugar,” “Rich,” the aforementioned “80s Mercedes”) and patiently wrought,
impeccably sung ballads (“I Wish I Was,” “I Could Use a Love Song,” “Once”). Because
country radio is a sexist cesspool, this album only spawned two big singles and
one number one hit. If there had been any justice, though, just about every
song on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero </i>would have been a smash.
I’d submit that there wasn’t a catchier or more indelible pop album this decade.
So what if Maren was country; on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero</i>,
she outplayed every single pop superstar who dared to sketch out a release date
in the 2010s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">22. <b>Dawes </b>- <i>All Your Favorite Bands</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgLYTRAsVokv7NB85lG2lV9b8DhelDXbmgQ4LizkgI3ni_lj1xAjPbzpwTg7Ebc6a8awlJjJAMpNsRg9xN3xr6tQOiBVDJfCZOs85VcmSZQMg_47fGUSzzIUhrP2XvOnMtFaqNaiT7VjkG/s1600/Dawes+-+All+Your+Favorite+Bands.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgLYTRAsVokv7NB85lG2lV9b8DhelDXbmgQ4LizkgI3ni_lj1xAjPbzpwTg7Ebc6a8awlJjJAMpNsRg9xN3xr6tQOiBVDJfCZOs85VcmSZQMg_47fGUSzzIUhrP2XvOnMtFaqNaiT7VjkG/s640/Dawes+-+All+Your+Favorite+Bands.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dawes were the greatest rock ‘n’ roll band of the 2010s. In
a decade where rock largely receded back into the underground, these guys
continued to carry the torch for classic-sounding, guitar-driven music while
also always pushing the boundaries of what their sound could be. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Your Favorite Bands </i>is
their
pinnacle, a record that is both wildly virtuosic and remarkably
small-scale at the same time. Every Dawes album is great in its own way,
but this is the one that
approximates what it’s like to see them live. The band strikes a
tightrope-walk
balance between arrangements that feel spontaneous and improvised, and
lyrics
that are so clearly and meticulously wrought. In part, the album was a
reaction
to its predecessor—2013’s studio-heavy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stories
Don’t End</i>. While a splendid record in its own right, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stories </i>felt distinctly more “modern” (and more overdubbed) than
the albums that had made the Dawes name. The band responded by hiring producer
Dave Rawlings—known for making sparse Americana music of his own—and stripping
things back to their bare essentials. The magic of that decision is that the
songs end up feeling like they’ve always been here. Songs like “Waiting for
Your Call” and the marathon slow burn closer “Now That It’s Too Late, Maria”
sound like classic cuts from a ‘70s LP that everyone has heard and everybody
loves. But the best part is the title track, which plays like a rallying cry
for everyone who loves music as much as the guys in this band. It’s a tribute
to friendship and memories and good times and glances into a future that
hopefully holds even more good times. “I hope the world sees the same person
that you always were to me/And may all your favorite bands stay together,”
frontman Taylor Goldsmith sings in the instant-classic chorus. It is the most
genuinely good-natured lyric of the entire decade, and it never fails to put a
smile on my face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">23. <b>Logan Brill</b> - <i>Shuteye </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGeNUq3tvDe-sEzBm7IuziCnXxppuSGYKsIYMFpSqF1neyROPFQK_ENwkUOoyYQSvqSVUG97xsgbacHaMNLYxOusk8DroCV0CIpDedll-Sn0Muv6evH-D4R9h7inUJZZztwY9VmyXBWWT/s1600/Logan+Brill+-+Shuteye.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGeNUq3tvDe-sEzBm7IuziCnXxppuSGYKsIYMFpSqF1neyROPFQK_ENwkUOoyYQSvqSVUG97xsgbacHaMNLYxOusk8DroCV0CIpDedll-Sn0Muv6evH-D4R9h7inUJZZztwY9VmyXBWWT/s640/Logan+Brill+-+Shuteye.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The weirdest concert I saw this decade was Logan Brill in
the summer of 2017. Brill spent the decade making exceptionally listenable,
extraordinarily well-sung country music that sadly went overlooked by the
Nashville establishment. She’s the kind of artist who you would expect to be a
regional touring act, and therefore the kind of artist I would never expect to
see anywhere near northern Michigan. But there she was, in the lakeside
community of Petoskey, Michigan, playing right on the shore as the sun went
down on a July Saturday night. The crowd was minuscule—and mostly senior
retirees—and the stage setup was barely more than what you’d expect to see at
Shakespeare in the Park. But the music was remarkable. Something about Brill’s
honeysuckle voice and her road-weary, lovelorn songs sounded so good set
against the backdrop of a Lake Michigan summer sunset. I wasn’t surprised. I’d
spent the two years leading up to that night being constantly beguiled by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shuteye</i>, Brill’s second full-length LP
and one of the all-around finest country albums to come out in the past 10
years. Brill has a habit of covering songs by artists I already like and making
them even better. That happens repeatedly on this album, with staples like “The
Bees” (originally sung by Lee Ann Womack), “Where Rainbows Never Die”
(originally sung by Chris Stapleton, with his old band The SteelDrivers), and
“Halfway Home” (written and later recorded by Lori McKenna). Brill somehow
makes those songs blend into the overall canvas of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shuteye</i>, a record about the travails of young adulthood. In these
songs, Brill stumbles through one heartbreak after another, oscillating between
resignation (“You don’t love me and the world’s still round”) and crushing
disappointment (“I wish you loved me as much as you don’t”). It’s a record
about searching for the one and repeatedly not finding him—but about getting up
again and trying one more time, hoping that this one will do the trick. The way
Brill sings the songs—with a weathered sense of hope—is enough to break your
heart. On that summer Saturday night in 2017, what broke my heart was seeing an
artist who should be headlining amphitheaters or arenas singing for a group of
less than 100 people. Maybe someday, the rest of the world will wise up to what
a remarkable talent Logan Brill is. Until then, I’ll count <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shuteye </i>among the great unheralded classics of the 2010s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">24. <b>U2 </b>- <i>Songs of Experience </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBb0omHvlslG_DNUVt7RTPnoh6VvT00K5d_mhHJqOsbGx_n-6Zf0ISWY4j8qhwlOy-Xfll-tv6ZpaZe-dQ7xOOKwqQ6Uk-qo61SXCMocifY6ZShuzopbDmE6JJMqfVgMuED2FB09a0970/s1600/U2+-+Songs+of+Experience.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBb0omHvlslG_DNUVt7RTPnoh6VvT00K5d_mhHJqOsbGx_n-6Zf0ISWY4j8qhwlOy-Xfll-tv6ZpaZe-dQ7xOOKwqQ6Uk-qo61SXCMocifY6ZShuzopbDmE6JJMqfVgMuED2FB09a0970/s640/U2+-+Songs+of+Experience.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of Experience </i>is
the rare sequel that improves upon its predecessor in every way. 2014’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of Innocence </i>was a very solid U2
album that excavated bits and pieces of the band’s past—from their
coming-of-age stories to their early influences—and built them into a story of
the stumbles and triumphs of growing up. If there was a problem with the
record, it was U2’s full-hearted belief that they could still have a place in
the pop consciousness. The songs were produced with radio in mind, and U2 were
even so bold as to Trojan Horse the thing into 500 million iTunes accounts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of Experience </i>is a whole different
animal. It’s the sound of a veteran band coming to terms with their place in
the industry and being secure enough with their legacy to get real and go dark,
rather than try to play the pop game. The result is the band’s best album since
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All That You Can’t Leave Behind</i>, and
one of the most masterfully constructed of their entire career. It is a
gripping exploration of mortality, legacy, family, and the things we leave
behind when we’re gone. Inspired by a near-death experience that Bono had in
2016, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of Experience </i>sounds
hungrier and more enlivened than records made by artists 30 or 40 years younger
than the guys in the band. Of
course, it would hardly be a U2 album without a few politically-leaning tracks
thrown in. But the ones that feature here—the apocalyptic “Blackout,” or the
cleverly devastating “Summer of Love”—sound surprisingly vital and razor-sharp.
Still, it’s the personal stuff that really soars: songs like “Lights of Home,”
a thrilling rocker about facing up to your own transience; or “13 (There Is a
Light),” a missive written for Bono’s children, in case he shouldn’t be here to
pass down his wisdom in person. That was the mission statement for this album:
saying everything you’d want to say to the people you love in case you don’t
wake up tomorrow. The resulting album is sometimes grim and occasionally
nightmarish, but it’s also a big, bold celebration of life, love, and human
connection. Those messages are carried forth by “The Little Things That Give You
Away” and “Love Is Bigger Than Anything In Its Way,” two titanic,
life-affirming anthems as good as any stadium rock songs from this millennium.
It turns out that, even when they’re singing about the darkness of our modern
world and the big, endless expanse of death, U2 still sing every word to the
cheap seats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">25. <b>The Killers</b> - <i>Battle Born</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5AjjLxp5ugqJtkMZM6iu67zaij0b9GFxFAJm1ZR8sxZNoyjRmbRigJDQcrvFIWJTIolOEc-08ETg19Lg63tfTiPDHFlZxFAaWC9kQ2s40jCC1BRo23hyphenhyphenvR2fDqkcB8YvmUolyNQTZM2K/s1600/The+Killers+-+Battle+Born.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5AjjLxp5ugqJtkMZM6iu67zaij0b9GFxFAJm1ZR8sxZNoyjRmbRigJDQcrvFIWJTIolOEc-08ETg19Lg63tfTiPDHFlZxFAaWC9kQ2s40jCC1BRo23hyphenhyphenvR2fDqkcB8YvmUolyNQTZM2K/s640/The+Killers+-+Battle+Born.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle Born </i>is the
sound of one of the biggest bands in the world finally being comfortable in
their skin. For so much of their career, The Killers have either been trying to
prove something to someone or trying to prove someone wrong. Time and time
again, they’ve showed themselves to be too sensitive to the words of critics,
pivoting stylistically on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day & Age </i>after
backlash around <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sam’s Town</i>, and
retreating for years after a similarly cool reception for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle Born</i>. Brandon Flowers himself even joined the choir
eventually, writing off this album and insisting his band could “do better.”
Ironically, neither he nor they ever have. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle
Born </i>may not be as iconic as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot Fuss
</i>or as much of a cult classic as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sam’s
Town</i>, but it’s the one album in The Killers’ discography that feels
removed from the whims and expectations of critics and haters. Here, rather
than worrying about seeming “cool” or being liked by everyone, The Killers made
an unabashedly huge and earnest arena rock record. If any band from the 2000s
indie surge was going to be the next U2, it was going to be The Killers, and
this album sounded like them applying for the job. They threw every classic
rock influence they had at these songs: U2, Springsteen, Queen, The Velvet
Underground, Elton John, Meat Loaf, The Eagles, Journey. They also brought in
five producers and a small army’s worth of additional musicians, mixers, and
other personnel. The result could easily have been a mess, but I actually think
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle Born </i>is the most cohesive
Killers album. Sonically, it sounds so massive and triumphant that it’s almost
hard to believe there’s more to the songs than empty bombast. But during my
senior year of college, I found surprising amounts of comfort in these songs.
“From here on out, friends are gonna be hard to come by,” Flowers sings at one
point—a line that always punched me in the gut. It still does. After college
wound down, my friend group scattered. I’m lucky to see most people from high
school or college once a year. And making new friends <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>hard, once those shared experiences of school and parties and dorm
rooms or apartments is removed. This album, to me, always felt like a look back
at those younger and more open days of human connection, blasted through the
prism of romantic escapes into the desert and Elvis singing “Don’t Be Cruel”
over the radio. Once those good ol’ days are gone, what do you do? Flowers and
co. didn’t have the answers, but they sure made all the doubt and regret sound
grandiose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">26. <b>The Gaslight Anthem</b> - <i>Handwritten</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH7SX25ruHQ-emuOGq39ucLjOz4Ds8LZ-J1XLzm6Vw-jsqH0Ez0c_O0nRfHQywl5H0g1zWlXN0s00f336Rhayqi5xAlvAlP-UCJFkCPPy9JTGhiFDRTGRFg3FNMe-2LBeae2CM3Znt6qpN/s1600/The+Gaslight+Anthem+-+Handwritten.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH7SX25ruHQ-emuOGq39ucLjOz4Ds8LZ-J1XLzm6Vw-jsqH0Ez0c_O0nRfHQywl5H0g1zWlXN0s00f336Rhayqi5xAlvAlP-UCJFkCPPy9JTGhiFDRTGRFg3FNMe-2LBeae2CM3Znt6qpN/s640/The+Gaslight+Anthem+-+Handwritten.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My parents never had air conditioning when I was growing up,
and to this day, they still don’t. Usually, that was fine: we threw open the
windows and let summer breezes cool our house naturally. But on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>hot days—the ones where the
temperatures soared into the 90s or 100s—it was hard to sleep at night, let
alone spend much time in the house during the day. The day I first heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Handwritten </i>was one such occurrence: the
hottest day in the hottest summer I can remember in my hometown. This album was
my number one most anticipated record of the year, and I wanted nothing more
than to spend the afternoon and evening absorbing its songs and embedding them
on the walls of my soul. But I couldn’t stand to stay in the sweltering house
all evening, so I loaded these 11 songs onto my iPod (12, if you count “Blue
Dahlia”) and drove to the beach three miles down the road. After a dive into
the water, I sat at a picnic table in the mostly empty park and watched the
sunset over the bay. Suddenly, that impossibly hot summer night felt remarkably
beautiful, and these tunes only opened it up further. Songs like “45” and
“Howl” were gargantuan anthems, ideal for the larger-than-life expectations I
always had for my summers back when I was still in college and not working
full-time yet. And as a nighttime chill started to steal into the air, letting
me know that it was time to leave the beach and head back home, the album
segued beautifully into the downbeat finale of “Mae” and “National Anthem.”
Collectively, those songs told the story of that summer: driving fast to get to
work on time; sneaking drinks from behind the bar with my coworkers after we
closed up shop for the night; feeling the scorching hot nights give way to the
almost autumnal vibes of late August evenings. It was the perfect soundtrack to
my last summer of pure, unbridled freedom, and for those long hot nights spent
waiting for kingdom come with the radio on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">27. <b>Natalie Hemby</b> - <i>Puxico</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Remember when you were a kid and your family would pile into
the minivan or SUV or station wagon and drive off for a weeklong summer
vacation? Remember going back to the same places every summer, and starting to
see them differently as you got older and earned more freedom? Remember what it
was like to get off the grid before we all had cellphones or laptops or
tablets? Remember coming back from those trips and feeling changed somehow,
like the experiences you’d had were shared secret with your family that nobody
else got to know? I don’t know if those types of adventures are possible
anymore. Maybe they still are when you’re young, before you figure out
technology and social media. Maybe they are if you have kids and make an active
attempt to recreate the vacation experiences from your youth. But they’re
harder to come by in our always-connected world. <i>Puxico </i>brings them
back. Natalie Hemby, a top Nashville songwriter, wrote this record about <i>her
</i>old summertime destination, but the songs are open enough for you to fill
them in with your experiences. It’s a record about long drives, summer nights,
Ferris wheels, and parades. It calls to mind days spent at the carnival when
you were young, or moments stolen with a crush or summer fling when you found
yourself on the cusp of adulthood. Most of all, it’s about the places that make
such an impression on us that they feel like home in our hearts—even if they
never were.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">28. <b>Ruston Kelly </b>- <i>Dying Star </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the liner notes of <i>Dying Star</i>, Ruston Kelly talks
about the long, dark journey that led to the creation of the album. It was a
journey fraught with drinking, drugs, bad choices, wrecked relationships, and
long corridors of regret. The album chronicles it all in unflinching detail, evoking
the sting of titanic hangovers, the emptiness of a millionth lonely night, and
the punch of regret that comes six seconds too late after another
self-destructive tirade. Kelly found the strength to write these songs and go
to this personal place after two things happened to him. First, he fell in love
and got married—to country music star Kacey Musgraves. Second, he overdosed and
came within a stone’s throw of dying. In the liner notes, he said he knew very
shortly after that incident that he would call his album <i>Dying Star</i>, and
that it would sound something like this—like an oppressively long, hazy night
and the light that finally starts to break on the horizon at the end of it.
It’s as sad an album as anyone made this decade, radiating the kind of palpable
pain that only comes through on songs when you know an artist has lived it
completely. It’s not an album I can listen to often, just because songs like
“Anchors” and “Just for the Record” hurt a little too much to be in regular
rotation. But every time I hear <i>Dying Star</i>, it bowls me over again.
Sure, the pain comes through, but so does the resilience.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">29. <b>Butch Walker </b>- <i>The Spade</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s make rock ‘n’ roll fun again. That was more or less
the mission statement that Butch Walker and his Black Widows set out for
themselves on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spade</i>. Everything
about this record hearkened back to a time when rock could be bright and epic
and self-deprecating and massively celebratory, all in one. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spade </i>played like Butch had taken
the ethos of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dazed & Confused </i>and
put it through an amplifier. It was no accident that Matthew McConaughey
reprised his role as Wooderson for the music video of “Synthesizers.” This
album might as well have been a conceptual piece chronicling the first day and
night of a high school summer vacation. The clearest example was “Summer of
’89,” which packs debauchery and dreams and the restlessness of growing up into
a big, full-throated sing-along—all while also managing some thoughtful
hindsight nostalgia. But the whole album has that vibe: of cheap beer and
half-smoked blunts and blown car speakers still pumping out the one CD anyone
cared to listen to—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this </i>one. There
are still highly resonant and introspective songwriter moments: the dusky
“Closest Thing to You I’m Gonna Find” is a perfect, wisecracking twist on a
breakup song, while the bursting, cathartic “Day Drunk” was the first song
Butch wrote about coming to terms with his father’s illness and mortality. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Spade </i>ends with “Bullet Belt,” a
riotous shot-slamming barnburner, and then with “Suckerpunch,” a song literally
about getting punched out at a bar. In a decade where rock ‘n’ roll became too
timid, too self-conscious, too polite, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Spade </i>was a middle finger to everybody not brave enough to strap on a
guitar, turn the amps up to eleven, and let it rip like we were all living in a
Richard Linklater teen movie. It is arguably the greatest straight rock LP of
the decade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">30. <b>John Mayer</b> - <i>Born and Raised</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">John Mayer had a rough start to the decade. He spent the
first part of it grappling with backlash over offensive and inexcusable
comments made in a 2010 Playboy interview. Then, after receding from public
life, he struggled with a vocal condition that sidelined him for the better
part of two years. Those travails pushed Mayer to craft <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born and Raised</i>, arguably the most reflective and clear-eyed
album of his entire career. It was also a musical pivot, jumping from the
nighttime blues-inflected pop of 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle
Studies </i>to something that straddled the line between blues, folk, and
country. On certain days, I’d call the result my very favorite John Mayer
album. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Continuum </i>is “better,” and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavier Things </i>will always hold a place
nearer and dearer to my heart for its status as the first album I ever bought with
my own money. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born and Raised </i>was
the album that made me think John Mayer could feasibly do anything and do it
well. Crosby, Stills, & Nash style folk-rock? He pulls it off on “Queen of
California.” Irish-folk rave-ups? See “Age of Worry.” Nuanced allegorical story
songs? “Walt Grace’s Submarine Test, January 1967” is a masterclass of the
form. Ringing, Coldplay-esque arena rock? Mayer ventures there for the first
time on “A Face to Call Home.” Stylistically, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born and Raised </i>is like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Continuum
</i>in that it is both wildly diverse and so authentic sounding that you think
you’re listening to a decades-old classic. But the album’s true magic trick is
its reflective, melancholy mood, which sees Mayer dissembling his own identity
and trying to figure out where everything went wrong. At some point, we all
reach a moment of society-imposed maturity—a moment when we’re “born and
raised” instead of “growing up.” That moment forces a reckoning: with your
dreams and expectations for life, with your conception of what the future might
look like, and with the mistakes and regrets that you must learn to accept,
atone for, and live with. Mayer’s exploration of those ideas is deeply human,
fraught with fear and remorse but still holding on to hope that things might be
brighter a little further on down the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">31. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>Southern Air</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Q0tJGaj7btLy5OB4Ph1RbTMtyNrRqrI6q7OfBDbITNPfLd4eVGBFfB5YeWwA6wVw1Y2iowYeDpnN-XuoPFQF1SJlUyerdVp1EJxaQsj_ptWyx8JhhSBE0jw2VK0qr8FL8iEuFekvpV_i/s1600/Yellowcard+-+Southern+Air.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Q0tJGaj7btLy5OB4Ph1RbTMtyNrRqrI6q7OfBDbITNPfLd4eVGBFfB5YeWwA6wVw1Y2iowYeDpnN-XuoPFQF1SJlUyerdVp1EJxaQsj_ptWyx8JhhSBE0jw2VK0qr8FL8iEuFekvpV_i/s640/Yellowcard+-+Southern+Air.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You have summers all your life, but you only have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summers </i>when you’re young. If you grew
up in a place where summer was the season you lived for, then you know what I’m
talking about. Sticking out the grueling winters with the knowledge that hot,
sunny days would surely come again. Counting down the weeks in the spring,
waiting for that first day when the temperature went above 50 so you could roll
down your windows, crank the volume, and pretend it was already July. Making
every waking minute of every August day and night count, because you knew Labor
Day was coming way too soon. More than maybe any other band, Yellowcard
understood what made a summer a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summer</i>.
Songs like “Ocean Avenue” and “Miles Apart” defined a certain brand of
beachside pop-punk that sounded perfect on teenage mixtapes traded during
summer flings. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern Air </i>was the
pinnacle of that sound, and the end of it. Because you can only have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summers </i>when you’re young, and we all
have to grow up eventually. This album plays like a send-up of one last
youthful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summer</i>, before they shut off
the lights and close down the lifeguard stands and tell everyone to go home. You
can still feel the sunburn of a carefree summer day in these songs—in the big
gaping hooks of songs like “Here I Am Alive”—but you can also feel the autumn chill
creeping in. There’s a sense of time running short, of knowing that you only
have a few more nights in this town to do everything you were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed </i>to do this summer. And then,
when it’s over, it’s over. The title track and album closer lays youth to rest
in a rush of guitars and drums, raising a glass to all the wonderful chaos of
childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. For Yellowcard, this album was a
farewell to pop-punk and to the summertime sound they’d built their brand on.
For me, it was a pitch-perfect soundtrack to my last true-blue youthful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summer</i>. When I think back to those
seasons now—to their spontaneity and unpredictability and complete freedom—they
seem so far off. Somehow, more than seven years have gone by since I packed up
the car and drove away from my hometown toward my final year of college, this
album playing on my iPod. But the great thing is that those seasons and
everything they meant to you are never really gone. Because as Ryan Key sings
on this album, “it’s always summer in my heart and in my soul.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">32. <b>Will Hoge </b>- <i>Never Give In</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Give In </i>is
Will Hoge at the peak of his songcraft. Caught somewhere between the
Springsteenian heartland rock of 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Wreckage </i>and the mainstream country of 2015’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Small Town Dreams</i>—and bearing none of the overwrought political
leanings of 2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Number Seven </i>or
2012’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern American Protest Music </i>EP—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Give In </i>is the tightest, tautest,
and arguably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best </i>album Hoge has ever
made. In the fall of 2013, during an unseasonably warm September and October in
Chicago, there was very little else I wanted to play. I gravitated toward the
hooks first, immediately falling for the infectious, soaring melodies of songs
like “A Different Man” and “Goodbye Ain’t Always Gone.” But the more I
listened, the more I realized just how much story and pathos Hoge was packing
into these concise little rock songs. These tracks are like clockwork, almost
all of them falling in the 3:00 to 3:30 range. They balance the “get to the
chorus” mentality with a country storyteller’s eye for detail, to stunning and
addictive results. The title track is a chiming hymn to the resilience of a
strong marriage. “Home Is Where the Heart Breaks” is a redemptive rock song
about an unhappy childhood bleeding over into the hard knocks of adulthood.
“Daddy Was a Gambling Man” is a classic country weeper with some of the best
turns of phrase of any country song this decade. “Bad Old Days” is a 90s-esque
slice of roots-rock (think The Wallflowers’ “God Don’t Make Lonely Girls”),
about a time in your life when you didn’t have much money but had a lot of
freedom and the willingness to take a chance. “Damn Spotlight (Julia’s Song)”
is a stirring indictment of the touring lifestyle. And “Strong,” the bonus
track, is the greatest song ever used in a Chevy trucks ad campaign. These
songs were so striking, so easy to listen to, and so innately well-crafted that
I instinctively dropped <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Give In </i>at
the top of my favorite albums list in 2013. It hasn’t had the same grip on me
as some other albums from that year—particularly Jason Isbell’s more nuanced,
soul-bearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern</i>. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Give In </i>remains one of the most perfect
albums I heard in the last 10 years. It’s the rare album where not a single
word or note is out of place, where there’s no slump in quality or pacing, and
where every song feels tightly-wound and carefully wrought without losing its
human touch. Hoge has made more emotive albums, and he’s maybe even made albums
that are nearer and dearer to my heart, but he’s never made a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">better </i>album.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">33. <b>Dawes </b>- <i>Stories Don't End </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“If you’re telling a story, at some point you stop, but
stories don’t end.” Dawes frontman Taylor Goldsmith sings those words in the
title track of his band’s grand, impressive third full-length. It’s a simple
lyric, but one that scans more profoundly the more you consider it. “They go on
and on,” Goldsmith intones later; “Just someone stops listening.” Eventually,
the people monitoring the tale of your life fall by the wayside. At some point,
even the characters in the story seem to drop out. Such is the story of growing
up: a story of losing friends and acquaintances, and of shedding the locals and
parents-of-friends who might have been interested in following your story in
the abstract. High school celebrities become has-beens. Rising college stars
become slaves to the grind. Everyone eventually gets humbled in some way or
another. The idea of everyone listening to your story when you’re young but
slowly losing interest is, on the one hand, heartbreaking. Everyone wants to
feel like they are worthy of another person’s attention. But there is also
something so freeing about being onstage in an empty theater, knowing that your
life is the purview of nobody else but you. That’s what this album is about:
the freedom to cut lose and stretch yourself and reach beyond what’s expected.
Falling in love with these songs, just a month or two before my college
graduation, that theme hit me hard. “Most people don’t talk enough about how
lucky they are,” Goldsmith sings in another highlight. What could be luckier
than having the absolute freedom to write your own story? Years later, I’ve got
the answer: nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">34. <b>The Horrible Crowes</b> - <i>Elsie</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Up to this point, we’d only really known Brian Fallon as the
Boss-worshipping, punk-influenced rock ‘n’ roll frontman of The Gaslight
Anthem. The Gaslight records were big, bold, loud, and throwback, capturing a
certain style of redemptive rock music that had largely become the stuff of a
bygone era. It wasn’t until <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elsie</i>,
though, that we really started getting a glimpse of what Fallon was capable of.
Instead of excavating his own nostalgia even further, Fallon took a deep dive
into the dark heart of a dream. From the opening shudder of “Last Rites” to the
slow-burn, contemplative closer “I Believe Jesus Brought Us Together,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elsie </i>sounds like the story of one
sleepless, otherworldly night. It’s a night fraught with haunted memories and
cheating lovers, with crime and with loneliness. “If I drove straight off this bridge/Only
God and my baby would know,” Brian sings in “Cherry Blossoms.” In “Ladykiller,”
he equates heaven with being able to sleep through the night. In “Blood Loss,”
his first love isn’t just a heartbreaker, but an arsonist, and even a murderer.
And in “I Believe Jesus Brought Us Together,” Brian is the killer, unlikely to
get into heaven for all the bad things he’s done. These stark lyrical images
are like fever dreams, trading all the blaring hope of the Gaslight records for
something dark and bloody and tinged with nagging doubt. It’s a bold flex for
Fallon, in the midst, at this point, of an incredible career run. It’s also one
of a kind: a Waits-ian collection of stories that you’d expect to hear from a
drunk at 2 a.m. at the bar on a Wednesday morning. Fallon would never make
another Horrible Crowes record, and frankly, it’s fitting that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Elsie </i>stands by itself. Just like the
characters in the songs, the album is defined by its crushing, irredeemable
solitude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">35. <b>Sara Bareilles</b> - <i>Kaleidoscope Heart</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWsCYQf00Etwk2iKah_nqLcbQiF4X4RZkdA18E7wfcneolkCHoQyR_UcH2FO7LKDmpEteNLGbjnfRytShoIWnMW2JijbKP3iTme2J4tdmlJV8d-VWSZvrlm8HawUxLPqJwQW5RCSfCIXK/s1600/Sara+Bareilles+-+Kaleidoscope+Heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWsCYQf00Etwk2iKah_nqLcbQiF4X4RZkdA18E7wfcneolkCHoQyR_UcH2FO7LKDmpEteNLGbjnfRytShoIWnMW2JijbKP3iTme2J4tdmlJV8d-VWSZvrlm8HawUxLPqJwQW5RCSfCIXK/s640/Sara+Bareilles+-+Kaleidoscope+Heart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Car is parked, bags are packed/But what kind of heart
doesn’t look back/At the comfortable glow from the porch, the one I will still
call yours?” Those words from “Breathe Again” have never failed to tear me to
pieces. They so vividly describe a very specific moment, of preparing to walk
away from a person (or a place, or a thing, or maybe all three) knowing that,
this time, the goodbye is final. The song is about a breakup, about a girl
trying to will herself toward the moment when she’ll understand that the guy
she’s letting go of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t </i>her oxygen,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">isn’t </i>essential for her to keep
living. But “Breathe Again” is caught in a moment before that realization, when
you’re stuck in the tempest of the goodbye and only capable of feeling the
ache. Bareilles is a remarkable talent in that she can always make you feel
that ache with her, like you’re right back to 17, saying goodbye to your first
love, or to your home, or to friends you’re not sure you’ll ever see again.
It’s a talent she uses multiple times on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kaleidoscope
Heart</i>, especially on “Breathe Again,” or on the gutting acoustic heartbreaker
“Basket Case.” But she’s also an explorer, using her then-new status as a
smash-hit pop star to indulge her every whim. The result is aptly named: a
kaleidoscope of emotions and moods and styles, flitting from deliriously catchy
pop songs to ballads that break you down and bring you back to earth. You can
count on one hand the pop records from the last 10 years that are better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">36. <b>Kacey Musgraves </b>- Same Trailer, Different Park</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4iOmQdwTD4csiiO97tGwBMlbIYhZWcpadA1dP4ODevLSLMA9BZsNh70ZtawbCB6rjQgIouCfBOQKtoMpaIjstCJts5HGTIRC4oBElPvQEoKIOWr4OHnroywRKCCyQsf8yiv468lYGhWb/s1600/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Same+Trailer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4iOmQdwTD4csiiO97tGwBMlbIYhZWcpadA1dP4ODevLSLMA9BZsNh70ZtawbCB6rjQgIouCfBOQKtoMpaIjstCJts5HGTIRC4oBElPvQEoKIOWr4OHnroywRKCCyQsf8yiv468lYGhWb/s640/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Same+Trailer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the beginning, Kacey Musgraves seemed like an outsider.
Before critics wised up, before she landed a slot on a world-conquering tour
with Harry Styles, long before she won an Album of the Year Grammy, she gave
the world this album: a breath of fresh air in a rapidly stagnating country
music scene. 2013 was the year Florida Georgia Line blew up and the so-called
“bro-country” movement really took root. Kacey broke the rules, singing songs
about smoking weed and kissing girls and one-night stands and hometowns that
are as shitty as the cheating neighbors next door. This record was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">radical</i>. It was a gentle rebuke of all the
usual “life is good” tropes that mainstream country music loves to repeat. It
was one of the first albums that made me see just how much beauty there might
be hiding under the surface of a genre I had always liked but never explored
fully. I remember playing “Merry Go Round” over and over on that first day,
beguiled by Kacey’s sweet-as-honey voice and how achingly sad it sounded on
this song about burnt-out hometowns. Everything about that song was and is
perfect. The way it packs all this pathos and pain into a play on a nursery
rhyme is a flawless microcosm of why the best country songwriters are still the
best songwriters we have, period. Most people loved the songs that showcased
Kacey’s snark and wit: middle-finger barnstormers like “Step Off” and “Stupid”
and “Blowin’ Smoke.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everyone </i>loved
“Follow Your Arrow,” one of the first country songs that actively supported gay
rights. I personally adored the songs like “Keep It to Yourself” and “Back on
the Map,” where Kacey let her guard down and made heartbreak sound like the
most beautiful thing in the world. When I wrote my blurb for the album on my
“Best of 2013” list, I mused about looking back at this album a few years down
the road and seeing it “as the birth of a star.” I am so happy I was right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">37. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>Lift a Sail</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAcC_FK6IMBDjC4p_3bdlEd-2lMbdM7TQY2dhdKn7M4z5ZjimDDKC5n3AiDXR23-Q-er-wM17oKdHxjM6KYLezmW9aSeyjFPn2EcAjXcXZDioBUjtaroPqtBGWzGJ8T0ROs9Bry6nona3/s1600/Yellowcard+-+Lift+a+Sail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAcC_FK6IMBDjC4p_3bdlEd-2lMbdM7TQY2dhdKn7M4z5ZjimDDKC5n3AiDXR23-Q-er-wM17oKdHxjM6KYLezmW9aSeyjFPn2EcAjXcXZDioBUjtaroPqtBGWzGJ8T0ROs9Bry6nona3/s640/Yellowcard+-+Lift+a+Sail.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the eyes of many fans, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift a Sail </i>is where Yellowcard “lost it.” It’s where the band
finally shed their pop-punk roots, where they stopped making albums packed with
summer anthems, and where they fired long-time member (and skilled drummer) LP
Parsons. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift a Sail </i>became one of the
Yellowcard albums that meant the most to me largely because of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when </i>it came out. This record officially dropped five days after my
Grandpa died, and I remember playing the advance stream repeatedly in the
lead-up to his passing. Instantly, these songs took shape around that event.
They seemed to speak to the ache of my grief, and to the magnitude of his
presence in my life that was now gone. “You can’t know the way it feels to lose
something so fragile and dear to you”; “Do you picture me? What do you see?
Maybe a future full of unwritten things”; “I’ve left myself in every song, in
every note”; “All these mornings turn into brand new days, everything still
hurts, you’re so far away”; “If a storm blows in on me, I am ready now.” I
collected little bits of these songs on every listen, drawing upon the lyrics
like little notes found in the coat pockets and desk drawers of a lost loved
one. They seemed like messages from him: to wear my grief as a talisman—as a
tribute to my ability to love so deeply—and to carry it with me as I faced the
next storm of unwritten days and months and years. The album’s meandering,
experimental song structures baffled some fans, but they felt so right to me,
because journeying through them felt like wading across rivers of faded
memories to find moments of treasured truth. Pop-punk fans might not understand
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift a Sail</i>, but for me, it’s an
album that never fails to put tears in my eyes.</span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">38. <b>Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness </b>- <i>Andrew
McMahon in the Wilderness</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGIrAGfHgpy2HFiwq5m9_vOxc20-rOHBufZqFkaaGaG3A9Nfy_q6B9Dr8B13hXBWFr8Df_0_u0WyrAVFBFrNrJuXJdm0zTNwLN1WpYoJ4Rk-Iz26DSBMD4EC0DBrpSUUGwG7Vu5qCAYHm/s1600/Andrew+McMahon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGIrAGfHgpy2HFiwq5m9_vOxc20-rOHBufZqFkaaGaG3A9Nfy_q6B9Dr8B13hXBWFr8Df_0_u0WyrAVFBFrNrJuXJdm0zTNwLN1WpYoJ4Rk-Iz26DSBMD4EC0DBrpSUUGwG7Vu5qCAYHm/s640/Andrew+McMahon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">There’s a way the world sounds when you’re about to leave something
monumental behind. It sounds like the final frames of a movie, or like a TV
show in full tear-jerking season finale mode. It sounds like your life flashing
before your eyes, in a rapid flipbook of memories too fast to register anything
specific but slow enough for you to take in the scope of everything that’s come
before. And it sounds like “Maps for the Getaway,” the last and greatest song
on Andrew McMahon’s first album under the Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness
moniker. The album itself is a form of taking stock. McMahon said he wanted to
end the Jack’s Mannequin project, after 2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">People & Things</i>, because that story was so tied up in his
battle with cancer. With the Wilderness era, he wanted to move on: to let go of
that scary, tumultuous time of his life and embrace new stories. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness </i>is the
sound of forging on after a near-death experience and marveling at the beauty
of the world. It’s a record about family and the joys Andrew found, of being
able to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>a family after nearly
having his own story cut to black prematurely. But it’s also refracted through
prisms of the past, in such a way that it reflects just as much where our
protagonist has been as where he’s going. “Maps for the Getaway” is the most
sobering vow to move forward. The first line of the song is “Parked outside the
house we used to live,” and that’s precisely where Andrew wrote most of the
words—sitting in a car, parked on the street, right outside the house where he
resided post-cancer. The lyrics reflect on the days spent between those four
walls, making tentative attempts to move on, daring to hope that maybe the
battle had really been won. “Through all the autopilot years, the tears of joy,
the face of fear.” Those words, the way Andrew sings them, the melody of the
verses, it all sounds melancholy, like the pain from the old wound that is
nostalgia. But then the chorus propels things forward: “No cash in the bank, no
paid holidays/All we have, all we have is/Gas in the tank, maps for the getaway.”
All we have are mornings in bed together. All we have are cups of coffee to
wake us up on workdays, or aspirin pills to dull the ache of a hangover on
weekends. All we have is the mundane, and the incalculably beautiful. “<i>All
we have is time</i>.” As Andrew leaves behind that old house, those memories,
those old fears, the chapter of his life that might have been the last one, he
sings those words over and over again. “All we have is time.” The line, the
song, and the album remind us to keep moving forward, to cherish what we have,
to revel in the little intricacies that make life worth living, and to take the
second chances when they come. Time, as Andrew McMahon has shown us through his
life and his art, is the most valuable asset any of us will ever have.</span></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">39. <b>Dawes </b>- <i>Nothing Is Wrong </i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bu2i9wsnCW5KkJWQD_lgcAyyephsRCtFprLiX6Ymvfn1jb2BqTP1QUxsOXarOkWhhrcZrvvF_Iga6iQaDBfxNNs75RoXsTm3C7i-_Rf5KYBUHpLqFgudle-04cZ7d0xpgjQUCgcTbd3d/s1600/Dawes+-+Nothing+Is+Wrong.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7bu2i9wsnCW5KkJWQD_lgcAyyephsRCtFprLiX6Ymvfn1jb2BqTP1QUxsOXarOkWhhrcZrvvF_Iga6iQaDBfxNNs75RoXsTm3C7i-_Rf5KYBUHpLqFgudle-04cZ7d0xpgjQUCgcTbd3d/s640/Dawes+-+Nothing+Is+Wrong.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Here it is: the start of arguably the greatest album run of
the last 10 years. Dawes arrived on the scene in 2009 with an acclaimed but
little-heard album called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">North Hills</i>.
It was a record so steeped in Laurel Canyon folk rock traditions—specifically
the sound of Jackson Browne—that it was almost difficult to believe it had come
out in 2009 and not 1976. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing Is
Wrong</i>, to me, is the real coming out party for Dawes. It paired the very
folky sound of the debut album with a little extra rock punch, added a dose of
self-awareness (Jackson Browne himself sings backing vocals on a track), and
boasted some of the sturdiest tunes of the decade. The result is a scenic,
colorful burst of sound—a record that conveys everything from L.A. streets to
Hollywood canyons to kaleidoscope sunsets to the calming glow of moonlight on
ocean waters. “You’ve got a special kind of sadness, you’ve got that tragic set
of charms/That only comes from time spent in Los Angeles/Makes me want to wrap you
in my arms,” sings Taylor Goldsmith on the opening track. It’s one of many
timeless, incredibly great lines on this record—a line so good that it
immediately makes you pay attention. Goldsmith did that over and over again on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing Is Wrong</i>—sometimes with his
guitar (the chasmic “My Way Back Home”), sometimes with his voice (the
poignantly vulnerable “Moon on the Water”), but always with his words (“A
Little Bit of Everything,” a hymn to the complexity of life, and to all the
lightness and darkness it can bring). The rest of the band is incredible too,
or the album wouldn’t work—let alone as such a convincing send-up of when
record-making involved people who could play actual instruments going into a
room and banging out something that did justice to their talents. But the album
would be nothing—and neither would the incredible run that Dawes have had
since—if Goldsmith weren’t such a remarkable talent. Pound for pound, he might
be the greatest songwriter we have right now, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing Is Wrong </i>was his proof of concept.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">40. <b>Lori McKenna </b>- <i>The Tree</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBp_vpVr_F-NOsEf5ER0Sy09F5W17s7mG-KHcOtQXoEO1RVidXSnY0sZhcVNprsEX_Us_I8tCf8DNQqp4sD0z66sCqSa15aNgmXDNgQNv-aA98_av_EO-tdxWBPke3R7XZCp9_q87tVw9s/s1600/Lori+McKenna+-+The+Tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBp_vpVr_F-NOsEf5ER0Sy09F5W17s7mG-KHcOtQXoEO1RVidXSnY0sZhcVNprsEX_Us_I8tCf8DNQqp4sD0z66sCqSa15aNgmXDNgQNv-aA98_av_EO-tdxWBPke3R7XZCp9_q87tVw9s/s640/Lori+McKenna+-+The+Tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Tree </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is
about a lot of things, but most of all, I think it’s about the inevitable
onslaught of time. The years will fly by. Babies will grow into kids who turn
into teenagers who graduate high school and drive off in their hatchbacks
toward college and new lives of independence. Some people you love will get
old. Some people you love won’t get the chance to get old. Summers will fly by
and youth will fade. The passion of young love will dim with time, sometimes
being forged in that hot, fierce fire into something that can stand the test of
time; sometimes burning out entirely. “Houses need paint, winters bring
snow/Nothing says ‘love’ like a band of gold/Babies grow up and houses get
sold/And that’s how it goes/Time is a thief, pain is a gift/The past is the
past, it is what it is/Every line on your face tells a story somebody
knows/That’s just how it goes/You live long enough and the people you love get
old.” Nobody has unlimited time. Nobody gets to slow down the years or anchor
their loved ones to the corporeal world forever. <i>The Tree </i>reckons with
that impermanence in complex and often wrenching ways. But it also finds the
beauty in it. “People Get Old” somehow manages to encapsulate the beautiful
whirlwind of a passing life into less than four minutes; “The Lot Behind St.
Mary’s” sees a young couple basking in the rays of summer love, hiding out from
September for as long as they can; and “The Way Back Home” is a reminder that
you can always go back—even if houses <i>do</i> get sold and “home” to you ends
up being less about a place and more about your memories or your values or the
people you love. Living can seem long sometimes, but life is short. On <i>The
Tree</i>, Lori McKenna is giving listeners the kick in the ass they need to
cherish every sweet piece of it while they still can.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">41. <b>The Civil Wars </b>- <i>The Civil Wars</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoxHrZUZXisiUOJnWT0loquT1vnIQZ92NQnDrYfTE-p0aRlLUkrLlFPL0NhfYVBPgXcNvdG1pgqydhQp6yQhpP4QplzAERVjKyUWWRz9Bjf15fa1SuLEXTnfMADZc16hxkRlm7_r8no4H/s1600/The+Civil+Wars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoxHrZUZXisiUOJnWT0loquT1vnIQZ92NQnDrYfTE-p0aRlLUkrLlFPL0NhfYVBPgXcNvdG1pgqydhQp6yQhpP4QplzAERVjKyUWWRz9Bjf15fa1SuLEXTnfMADZc16hxkRlm7_r8no4H/s640/The+Civil+Wars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No band burned brighter for a shorter period of time this
decade than The Civil Wars. For two albums, Joy Williams and John Paul White
made impossibly beautiful music together, entwining their souls with gorgeous
harmonies and songs that seemed to speak directly to the heart. By the time
2013 wound around, though, there was a schism in the duo. They’d seen a
meteoric rise following the success of 2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barton Hollow</i>, as well as “Safe and Sound,” their collaboration
with Taylor Swift from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hunger Games </i>soundtrack.
By all accounts, it seemed like they were just getting started. As it turned
out, they were hurtling toward a wall at breakneck speed, ensuring a fractious
collision that would leave no survivors. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Civil Wars </i>was maybe the most aptly self-titled record of all time, because
there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>a civil war going on in the
songs themselves. The album should have taken Williams and White to another
plane; instead, it was their farewell party. They canceled their tour before
the record even came out, and they have not played together in any fashion
since. And you didn’t have to apply all that subtext to the songs, because it
was already there. “I wish you were the one that got away”; “I had me a girl,
like cigarette smoke/She came and she went”; “I’m gonna break things, I’m gonna
cross the line/And make you wake up, ‘cause you won’t.” So much of this record
plays out like a passive-aggressive argument between two people, but those
flashes of bitterness are intercut with moments of genuine love and pleas for
connection. “Same Old, Same Old” is literally about saving a romantic
relationship that has gone stagnant, while “Dust to Dust” is about the lonely
walls you put up around your heart to protect yourself from getting hurt.
“Eavesdrop,” meanwhile, chronicles a moment of tenderness and sexual intensity
between two people who know their relationship won’t last, but are willing to
forget that fact—and everything else—for just one night beneath sensual
moonlight. The record luxuriates in this push and pull—between love and
loathing, between passion and pain, between trying to save something and
kicking it to the curb, hard. It almost makes sense that it stalls out three-quarters
of the way through, stuttering to an adequate but not-entirely-satisfying
conclusion. Just like the couple in “Eavesdrop,” The Civil Wars could only last
for a little while. But what a beautiful while it was.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">42. <b>John Moreland</b> - <i>High on Tulsa
Heat</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLF52ImpLHDrsfuY9M8Tvj6tRGxEXo6LuFxZl6NAImKD-B-n_kT5niDBTiNxBNO3L0ZXqrswV9vXn5yCtT8WTm9ns3AiWm8KEYc8XDIMt0O5q3Ira6fA4Y2i2DrZthTCPRoQO04J-e6EjA/s1600/John+Moreland+-+High+on+Tulsa+Heat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLF52ImpLHDrsfuY9M8Tvj6tRGxEXo6LuFxZl6NAImKD-B-n_kT5niDBTiNxBNO3L0ZXqrswV9vXn5yCtT8WTm9ns3AiWm8KEYc8XDIMt0O5q3Ira6fA4Y2i2DrZthTCPRoQO04J-e6EjA/s640/John+Moreland+-+High+on+Tulsa+Heat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">High on
Tulsa Heat</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. I always loved that title. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Loved </i>it. From the very first time I
heard John Moreland’s sad, sweet voice, I had a vision in my mind of what I
wanted this album to be: a set of nighttime confessionals, intended for
sweltering evenings in the barrooms or on the backroads of small-town middle
America. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">High on Tulsa Heat </i>answered
in spades. For Moreland, Tulsa—and the other locales featured in these songs,
from Cherokee to Cleveland County—are places filled with ghosts. I never knew
for sure what “High on Tulsa Heat” meant, but I’d like to think it has to do
with the sweet, sad intoxication of nostalgia that often sets in on summer
nights after dark, when you’re lonely with not even the air conditioning to
keep you company. These songs are certainly lonesome. “Cherokee” finds the
narrator roaming the streets of the town where he grew up, remembering a girl
who is long gone. “I don’t think I’ve missed you this much since I was
seventeen,” Moreland sings in the first verse, before following it up with a
line that might hurt even more: “I’d call you in the morning, but I think this
is a dream.” That might be the most painful part of nostalgia: going back to
old haunts, remembering the times you spent there with your friends or
significant others, wanting to pick up the phone to call them and reminisce.
But knowing that a lot of years of silence have stacked up between you—enough
years to make calling weird; enough years to make you strangers. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">High on Tulsa Heat </i>is the kind of record
you want to hear in moments like that: a transmission from a soul as lonely as
yours. Dim the lights, pour yourself a glass of whiskey, and focus on
Moreland’s beautiful, mournful voice. At the right moment, I doubt any record
from the past 10 years would sound better.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">43. <b>Taylor Swift</b> - <i>1989</i></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipd5yq4uZPuUgR6PZMXTK1TmvMm2jkf6xpAClOUzGc_PIqGZXFS5j2oB4mImJQibJYbEGZT-Iy1tByF2jWcI8sABZfF7S8LBEt8YSHh3jDbxksCN9YdGWXVwk1QrdRRTM2WSRQgPMgghog/s1600/Taylor+Swift+-+1989.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipd5yq4uZPuUgR6PZMXTK1TmvMm2jkf6xpAClOUzGc_PIqGZXFS5j2oB4mImJQibJYbEGZT-Iy1tByF2jWcI8sABZfF7S8LBEt8YSHh3jDbxksCN9YdGWXVwk1QrdRRTM2WSRQgPMgghog/s640/Taylor+Swift+-+1989.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">When Taylor Swift announced she would be releasing her
“first documented, official pop album,” I was a little nervous. Sure, Swift had
already proven that she could do pop well without a lot of country twang
attached, in songs like “22” or “Red” or “The Story of Us.” But I also worried
about her veering too far toward modern pop production trends (spoiler alert:
she did just that on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reputation</i>), or
losing some of her diaristic voice in the move toward streamlined radio-pop
dynamics. It’s a testament to Swift’s immense talent and her innate
understanding of what makes good pop songs good that she avoided most of the
landmines. Largely, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1989 </i>is a
delight. It allows Taylor to churn out her stickiest hooks of all time (the
iconic “Style,” or the whoever-didn’t-make-this-a-single-should-get-fired jam
that is<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All You Had to Do Was Stay”)
while also maintaining an authorial identity that is completely and utterly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>. On “Blank Space,” Taylor gleefully
satirizes and skewers her own tabloid image, while songs like “I Know Places”
and “Out of the Woods” stand as darker examinations of being the girl no one
will ever leave the fuck alone. And remarkably, the moments of vulnerability
here end up feeling even rawer and barer than the stuff on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speak Now</i>. Songs
like “This Love” and “Clean” put Taylor about one verse shy of a
breakdown—frustrated at the end of another broken relationship, wondering if
she’ll be lonely forever, ready to start blaming herself and her own stupid
fame for making love so goddamn hard. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1989
</i>was a massive monocultural juggernaut that somehow managed to take Taylor
Swift to an even higher plane than she’d reached before. But the best thing
about it is just how human it is underneath all the hooks and studio sheen. </span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">44. <b>Donovan Woods</b> - <i>Both Ways</i></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaPpsj3pVqFIJa75KRbWQbMCZ94P99iFuWZqYtTfrG1Zh8ihyphenhyphenVPzCiet6n4Lk8HkuJBzDpMDgL3Etmzk4_-I2I4a6SL0zNUoIwS3KnmTDyE4pnwez-bIQqL7GojnkG-3Wj9aADw27_f6X/s1600/Donovan+Woods+-+Both+Ways.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaPpsj3pVqFIJa75KRbWQbMCZ94P99iFuWZqYtTfrG1Zh8ihyphenhyphenVPzCiet6n4Lk8HkuJBzDpMDgL3Etmzk4_-I2I4a6SL0zNUoIwS3KnmTDyE4pnwez-bIQqL7GojnkG-3Wj9aADw27_f6X/s640/Donovan+Woods+-+Both+Ways.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Shortly before Christmas 2018, we found out that my Grandma
had laryngeal cancer. Even considering her age—91 at the time of the
diagnosis—the news came as a shock to me. We’d lost my grandpa four years
earlier and that blow had hit so much harder than I ever would have expected. I
wasn’t ready to say goodbye to my Grandma too, but my sister, a doctor training
to be a specialist ENT, told me and my family to brace for bad news. She
thought, given the severity of the diagnosis, and my Grandma’s age, that we wouldn’t
get more than a few more months with her. Even before all this, I’d chosen
Donovan Woods’ <i>Both Ways </i>as my traditional “Christmas Eve” album—the
record I play on the way to and from my wife’s parents’ house for holiday
brunch and gifts. And while <i>Both Ways </i>is not completely about
mortality—there are lots of songs about love and breakups and memories good and
bad—the song that I gravitated to that day was the “Next Year,” the closing
track. I remember driving back home, toward Christmas festivities with my
family, hearing the last verse of that song and thinking only about my Grandma.
“My old man/He was fading fast/He said I think I’d like to go see that Grand
Canyon/So we just left/Packed up the car and went/I called in sick to work/We
drove ‘til 3 a.m./There ain’t no next year” Woods sings. The song is about the
natural human tendency to kick things down the road. How many of us have said
“We’ll do it next year” about a big trip we have planned, or about visiting our
loved ones, or about getting the whole family together for a big reunion? This
song forces us to confront the bullshit behind those statements. “It’s <i>never
</i>quite next year” is the punchline of the chorus…at least until that last
verse, when the narrator realizes that there might not be a next year for his
dad. Hearing that verse in the car on Christmas Eve, wondering if my Grandma
would be around for Christmas a year later, wrecked me. I was weeping in the
front seat of my car in a way that only five or six other songs have made me cry
this decade. It reminded me of how pure music can be, and of how sometimes, the
lessons you most need to learn are right there in the lyrics you’ve been
listening to for months. Not many weeks later, my wife and I piled into the car
and drove six hours south to spend a weekend with my Grandma. Because even if
there is a next year—and for her, it turned out there was—those next years are
finite. So call off work, shirk your responsibilities, and go see that Grand
Canyon. You’re not going to regret a few missed dollars or getting chewed out
by your boss for being away too long; you’re sure as hell going to regret not
spending time with the people you love while you can.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">45. <b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Integrity Blues</i></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyxtZmn5fMhK1T3WVQeJb1wF5tdOia9ZdeGHghtJXKCDAizBZtyeVwCMZzQ6PdtOXYOsgzzCZBNu6Z-gTcjo13mBlsqZUxnSR9bz3oeuYKt2Zh9Me0fJcYFmoZNLiCvmdSaGDViYzh1Sl/s1600/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Integrity+Blues.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZyxtZmn5fMhK1T3WVQeJb1wF5tdOia9ZdeGHghtJXKCDAizBZtyeVwCMZzQ6PdtOXYOsgzzCZBNu6Z-gTcjo13mBlsqZUxnSR9bz3oeuYKt2Zh9Me0fJcYFmoZNLiCvmdSaGDViYzh1Sl/s640/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Integrity+Blues.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I fell in love with Jimmy Eat World’s music on crisp, cold
fall nights in 2004. Something about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures
</i>and how it made the night sound—lonely, but with an edge of hope—completely
reconfigured the way I listened to and thought about music. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Integrity Blues </i>is, to date, the closest
they have come to recreating that feeling. Some of my first listens to this
album were in a car, on a rainy highway, driving alone well after midnight, in
the early fall of 2016. I couldn’t have imagined a better setting for these
songs to come alive. They were beautiful but foreboding, breaking but not
broken, alone but not lonely. Songs like “It Matters” and “Through” and “Pol
Roger” capture the last breaths of a failing relationship, but not in the way
you would expect. Jimmy Eat World hail from a genre full of break-up songs and
are frankly no strangers to break-up songs themselves. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Integrity Blues </i>is more complex than being “just a break-up album.”
Instead, on this album, the break-up is just one piece of the puzzle. Hell, the
relationship itself is just one small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">corner</i>
of the puzzle. The album is broader than that. It takes into account the things
that shape our identities and our directions and our outlooks on the world. It
recognizes a truth that most people are too shortsighted to see: that we are
all works in progress. We’re constantly reaching for the next thing: the next
goal, or the next milestone, or the next professional accomplishment. We think
these things will make us happy or make us complete, and maybe they do for a
few days or months or years. Occasionally, maybe we find things that redefine
the way we think of happiness—things that become truly essential in our lives.
But even with these things, we are constantly building and tearing down and
rebuilding again, trying to find contentment or satisfaction or whatever
nebulous thing might make life a little brighter. Throughout the songs that
make up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Integrity Blues</i>, frontman Jim
Adkins—or whichever character he’s playing—makes the astonishing decision to
stop searching. He starts the record aching for something more. “The clever
ways I try to change/Happen and pass, leaving me the same,” he sings in “Sure
and Certain,” a song about spending your life wandering in search of some
concept of perfection you will never find. But he ends the record enlightened,
learning to be comfortable by himself and truly content in his own skin, with
his in-progress self. “First they’ll think you’re lost, but you’re not” he
sings, a reminder not to let other people’s opinions or judgments define you.
It’s a freeing and cathartic moment, and it calls back to the song that made
Jimmy Eat World famous in the first place: the one that went “Live right now,
just be yourself/It doesn’t matter if that’s good enough for someone else.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">46. <b>Bon Iver </b>- <i>Bon Iver, Bon Iver</i></span></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfm93t3Ko5CHuTzgBvl5aUV6d1MMAhHq3iIkhES9yuuxnQhMhyWhoXOucMzoCsca9hzWrVOL94xFLInohvzCAFMh4RBovOmpPYEYdR4HEKHboDQ0WjpFeQIR4DWeocLojzbNPROZTv7_16/s1600/Bon+Iver.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfm93t3Ko5CHuTzgBvl5aUV6d1MMAhHq3iIkhES9yuuxnQhMhyWhoXOucMzoCsca9hzWrVOL94xFLInohvzCAFMh4RBovOmpPYEYdR4HEKHboDQ0WjpFeQIR4DWeocLojzbNPROZTv7_16/s640/Bon+Iver.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
The first Bon Iver record was a legendary winter classic.
How could it be anything else when the whole mythology of the album was rooted
in a cold, remote Wisconsin cabin? The most surprising heel turn of the decade, then, may
have been Justin Vernon turning around and making a second record that sounded
like a muggy summer night. Or maybe that’s just the ambiance I apply to the
record because of when I first heard it. I vividly recall that first listen:
coming home from a night out in late spring 2011 to find that the new Bon Iver
album had leaked. Forgetting any thought of sleep as I settled into a
comfortable chair with my laptop and a pair of headphones. Hearing those first
murmurs of “Perth” wash over me as the warm June rain lashed against my bedroom
window. For the rest of that season, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bon
Iver, Bon Iver </i>was one of my go-to albums for after the sun went down. It
didn’t feel quite right in the daytime, when the heat was blazing at full strength. But just
as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For Emma, Forever Ago </i>had come
alive for me on cold, pre-Christmas drives through my frozen hometown, this
record sounded immaculate cruising those same roads in the hot, humid darkness
of a northern Michigan July. “Beth/Rest” was particularly otherworldly, an ‘80s
teen movie jam positioned anomalously but perfectly in the closing slot. In the
years since, I’ve found that many fans have very different snapshots and
memories of the songs. Some associate “Holocene” and its delicate magnificence
as much with winter and Christmas as I did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Emma</i>.
Others pull this album out as the autumn leaves begin to change color. But
therein might lie the true, great beauty of this record: just like the lovely
and serene cover art, the songs are impressionistic, open to many
interpretations and capable of reflecting the splendor of the natural,
unhurried world no matter the month or weather or temperature. Most of the
time, the concepts of what constitutes a “summer album” or a “winter album” are
pre-set and universal. One of Justin Vernon’s most baffling talents might be his ability to
make albums that can be both, neither, and so much more.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
47. <b>Matt Nathanson</b> - <i>Modern Love</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNu1LJJUp4c6bPe7Vupf7NfVNuELY23PKVwyN1XX4zz9zL-Fo7nktn_jsttgjCJSkJ9ZeVeHZ7colIKXP8jeOcP-b-EVno2usdNa4__pNMuOXGCJJ9EADs9alpxTGrobCRJB3Gn_l_5nD/s1600/Matt+Nathanson+-+Modern+Love.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNu1LJJUp4c6bPe7Vupf7NfVNuELY23PKVwyN1XX4zz9zL-Fo7nktn_jsttgjCJSkJ9ZeVeHZ7colIKXP8jeOcP-b-EVno2usdNa4__pNMuOXGCJJ9EADs9alpxTGrobCRJB3Gn_l_5nD/s640/Matt+Nathanson+-+Modern+Love.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Love </i>is
Matt Nathanson’s breeziest, poppiest record. The predecessor, 2007’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Mad Hope</i>, was heavy and packed with
angst. It was every relationship you’d ever had that ended up on the rocks,
whether dashed to pieces or just damaged and hanging on for dear life. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Love </i>could hardly be more
different. It’s effortless and weightless, like a summer vacation when your biggest
worry is whether you’ll get sand stuck between the seats of your parents’ car while
you’re trying to load seven friends into the five seats for drives to and from
the beach. It’s nervous glances and radiant smiles and unreserved giggles
shared with the girl or boy you’ve been crushing on for weeks. It’s a first
kiss, set against the backdrop of crashing waves and a magenta setting sun. Something
about this record can still bring back extremely tactile moments from those
carefree summers, before jobs and bills and all the other trappings of
adulthood got in the way. Delirious love songs like “Faster” give way to
sweeping romantic epics like “Room at the End of the World” or “Run,” which
themselves dissolve into jagged rock show sing-alongs like “Mercy” and “Queen
of (K)nots.” The album’s conclusion, the resplendently melodic one-two punch of
“Drop to Hold You” and “Bottom of the Sea,” carries the contentment of a summer
vacation well spent, and of the yearning to stay in the protective bubble of
youthful freedom for a little longer. Nathanson may have made at least one
better record, but he never made one that was more innately, immediately
listenable.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
48. <b>Sturgill Simpson </b>- <i>A Sailor's Guide to Earth</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIQXpm0WRFITi_AMMHN2F830KEH41mubR8AK6vwdrv-7ABnHO2C2wdMpzQSIlpb4l_lMMz-XGvvJxfWdrd6kUu0hAae_ypqmAz6DejTi1h7N77SEQQQAY0nVypgIAwAtaDWXOEMejRNpD/s1600/Sailors+Guide.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIQXpm0WRFITi_AMMHN2F830KEH41mubR8AK6vwdrv-7ABnHO2C2wdMpzQSIlpb4l_lMMz-XGvvJxfWdrd6kUu0hAae_ypqmAz6DejTi1h7N77SEQQQAY0nVypgIAwAtaDWXOEMejRNpD/s640/Sailors+Guide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
In no world would I ever have predicted this album landing
an Album of the Year nod at the Grammys. Sturgill Simpson’s brand of
psychedelic, throwback country isn’t exactly the stuff of crossover gold, and
this record—a bombastic, vulnerable, brass-infused celebration of newfound
fatherhood—seemed well out of step with the music the Grammy committee was
going for circa 2016. Somehow, though, <i>A Sailor’s Guide to Earth </i>managed
to worm its way into the Album of the Year field, alongside superstars
like Drake, Beyonce, and Justin Bieber. Sturgill didn’t win; the prize
ultimately went to Adele, for <i>25</i>, the fastest-selling album in history.
But <i>Sailor’s Guide </i>was the artistic triumph of the night and the year in
general: a meticulously structured and deeply-felt album about the fears you
feel when you bring someone into a world that may or may not be fit for them to
inhabit. The fears of this album are both small (think “Will I see my kid enough
between stints out on the road?”) and large (“Will political division and war
steal my kid’s chance at innocence?”), paving the way for a piece of work that
feels at once innately personal and startlingly universal.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
49. <b>Coldplay </b>- <i>Ghost Stories</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEDh6YakddUL7WyNkUdkqf6x5xAZFY1BhXYbVVw3nxjyeZLWLPjkmVscPIGBzf95cv-s7WDWgjPb9-AuxHNK_J47bgbwpADHXIbuWAFHojr2J5bLK834mojP4_gK99NSSnY8yhpzGPUvU/s1600/Coldplay+-+Ghost+Stories.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEDh6YakddUL7WyNkUdkqf6x5xAZFY1BhXYbVVw3nxjyeZLWLPjkmVscPIGBzf95cv-s7WDWgjPb9-AuxHNK_J47bgbwpADHXIbuWAFHojr2J5bLK834mojP4_gK99NSSnY8yhpzGPUvU/s640/Coldplay+-+Ghost+Stories.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“Tell me you love me, if you don’t then lie.” Chris Martin
sings those words on “True Love,” and to me, they’re among the most powerfully and
simplistically sad song lyrics of the last 10 years. Sometimes, relationships
just die. Love runs out of gas somewhere and breaks down on the side of the
road. But wouldn’t it be nice to make believe that it hadn’t? To keep acting like
everything was fine? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghost Stories </i>is
a fascinating album because it exists in that moment between wanting to pretend
a broken relationship can be fixed and resigning yourself to the fact that it
can’t. The way I hear it, the album plays out over the course of one long,
sleepless night—a night spent reckoning with all the denial and regret and fear
and doubt and heartbreak and loneliness that comes with cutting your losses and
taking an L on a relationship that has spanned years. It’s not a mistake that
the album’s mid-way point is called “Midnight,” a desolate expanse of a song
that sounds like a robot lost out in the woods on a moonless, starless winter
night. Eventually, we find our way to something close to euphoria—on “Sky Full
of Stars,” about how it’s better to have lived a beautiful love story and had
it end than to have never lived that experience at all. And “O,” the album’s
luminescent closing track, is about the ultimate moment of letting go, set to
the backdrop of birds fluttering through the sky at dawn. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghost Stories </i>is the saddest album Coldplay ever made, and arguably
the least celebrated. It’s spectral and haunting and unflinching, a portrait of
those terrible nights when sleep won’t come and you’re left alone with your
thoughts and your own nagging loneliness. For a band that always built their
appeal on big, cathartic anthems that left room for everyone else’s sadness, it
was maybe uncomfortable for people to hear Coldplay sound so sad themselves.
But the beauty of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ghost Stories </i>is in
that tension—between the identity of the band that made it and the music
inside. It was one of the least expected, least marketable, least mainstream
major pop albums of the decade—and one of the best.<br />
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<span class="peekaboo-text">50. <b>The Maine</b> - <i>Lovely Little Lonely</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOdow8JeUahjQWCOrOVRz3sNWWsBda-UPaCRmVt_snf2JczU9762EtTmymvNHvGihVWfsyt0z9djLC59IZhWqw5Q8cfnvj3S3_xZteTI74PMxn6JKNQee5_09kChEFdkZptRpfGQxkGiC/s1600/The+Maine+-+Lovely+Little+Lonely.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOdow8JeUahjQWCOrOVRz3sNWWsBda-UPaCRmVt_snf2JczU9762EtTmymvNHvGihVWfsyt0z9djLC59IZhWqw5Q8cfnvj3S3_xZteTI74PMxn6JKNQee5_09kChEFdkZptRpfGQxkGiC/s640/The+Maine+-+Lovely+Little+Lonely.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="peekaboo-text">
</span><br />
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<span class="peekaboo-text">How did we get here? The first time I heard The Maine was at
a show opening up for Boys Like Girls in 2009. They were touring in support of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop</i>, a catchy but
largely unremarkable (and largely immature) entry in the late-2000s neon
pop-punk movement. But The Maine went on to have a wildly interesting decade.
Slowly, they evolved from being a pop-punk band singing teen pop songs into
this decade’s answer to Third Eye Blind. That evolution reached its apex here,
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lovely Little Lonely</i>. Pitched
somewhere between 90s pop-rock and the electronic-leaning stadium flourishes of
The 1975, this album soars like an arena-rock classic—even if The Maine are
unlikely ever to reach that stature. My favorite song on it was always “The
Sound of Reverie,” which distills the album’s overall thesis statement—about
nostalgia, faded youth, and aging out of your glory days—into one of the
decade’s most singularly grand slices of pop perfection. “Let’s take our
time/While it’s still ours to take/’Cause some things hardly change/But nothing
ever stays the same,” sings frontman John O’Callaghan at the outset of the track.
It’s a song about the rapid pace of time, and the whiplash changes of life, and
the ways friendships and eras of our lives form and fade in the blink of an
eye. “Don’t blink because you will/And when you open up your eyes again/You may
not recognize a friend,” goes the pre-chorus. And then we dive into the depths:
“It may be bittersweet/’Cause we’re no longer 17/But we’re still young so/Dance
with me in naivete/And follow endlessly/The sound of reverie.” That song, to
me, has always been the album in miniature. It’s about being an adult—whatever
that means—but still getting lost in nostalgia for a simpler, younger time.
It’s about remembering 17, or 23, or a time in your life when you thought you
were invincible but you weren’t. It’s about reaching for connection with
another person after youth is gone and connections—to friends, or to romantic
prospects, or both—aren’t as easy to come by as they used to be. And it’s about
weathering those moments of lovely little loneliness, yearning for the one
person who might help you make sense of everything; it’s reaching out in the
backseat of a taxi for someone who might be able to make the sadness a little
less everlasting. For twentysomethings stranded on the brink between youth and
adulthood and wondering if they’d ever feel truly comfortable in their own
skin, this album and its vivid snapshots of life in a coming-of-age transition
was the perfect tonic. It was there to make us feel a little less lonely.</span></div>
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51. <b>Japandroids </b>- <i>Celebration Rock</i><br />
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8S1j-44glfrzoL-bPZtvjhLdeFn9l5ZRavvlZp5tGJvfwtC4OXXzvcWGfEQ8OvBoVv22Jr4wf797HLsHN8WgqBJeIcCGDft6txrAAUrOKXMscAaE7EVrsaNf8tjv9mWScsU-_Dm0DPkQq/s1600/Japandroids+-+Celebration+Rock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8S1j-44glfrzoL-bPZtvjhLdeFn9l5ZRavvlZp5tGJvfwtC4OXXzvcWGfEQ8OvBoVv22Jr4wf797HLsHN8WgqBJeIcCGDft6txrAAUrOKXMscAaE7EVrsaNf8tjv9mWScsU-_Dm0DPkQq/s640/Japandroids+-+Celebration+Rock.jpg" width="640" /></a></i></div>
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There is no more appropriately titled album from the past 10
years than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Celebration Rock</i>.
Japandroids knew exactly what they were doing with this record, from the name
to the songs to the fireworks that herald both the beginning and ending of the
disc. Crafted in the spirit of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born to
Run</i>—another eight-song LP that captures the restlessness and exhilaration
of young adult life—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Celebration Rock </i>was
arguably the greatest rock LP in a decade where rock music largely receded into
the background. If you were in college around the time this album came out, I
hope you didn’t miss an opportunity to play the songs at a loud, drunken party
with your friends. Japandroids would settle down and start exploring love,
marriage, and domesticity on the follow-up, 2017’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Near to the Wild Heart of Life</i>. But here, they were thoroughly
focused on bottles of booze, raucous nights, and all the intensity and
possibility of that time in your life when responsibility still seems like it’s
another few exits down fire’s highway. I have two unforgettable memories of
this record, both of which occurred at moments where it felt like an era of my
life was ending. The first was “Continuous Thunder,” playing as I drove home from
my last night at a summer job that had meant the world to me. The second was
“The House That Heaven Built,” which I made sure to blast on the stereo late at
night during the last party my roommates and I ever threw at our apartment. So
much of this record is an epic riot, a constant blitzkrieg of sound. But both those
songs felt so poignant in those moments, when I was bidding farewell to some of
the last signifiers of my youth: summer jobs; summer vacations; college
parties; college roommates; shots of vodka with people I was about to say
goodbye to, maybe forever. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Celebration
Rock </i>would be a near-perfect rock album under any circumstances. But I’ll
always love it for how it captures, for me, both the spirit of a celebratory
party and the melancholy of recognizing that it’s time for the party to end.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
52. <b>Kacey Musgraves</b> - <i>Pageant Material</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JbPRg0efJwuBB821VIz_52GAdi34VYm0eSYEz9FKvzhzs2-LpZOCnLuQiRE9Ic62KgRNlSM3Bq1BvYzkhM5w4ucCnJWoAqHN6UILBOtDTELSoOnOKnPSCiGwxwX_bWq0_2gfrVXGK_pr/s1600/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Pageant+Material.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JbPRg0efJwuBB821VIz_52GAdi34VYm0eSYEz9FKvzhzs2-LpZOCnLuQiRE9Ic62KgRNlSM3Bq1BvYzkhM5w4ucCnJWoAqHN6UILBOtDTELSoOnOKnPSCiGwxwX_bWq0_2gfrVXGK_pr/s640/Kacey+Musgraves+-+Pageant+Material.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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At this point, <i>Pageant Material </i>typically has the
unlucky honor of being considered the <i>weakest </i>Kacey Musgraves album.
Neither as game-changing as <i>Same Trailer, Different Park </i>nor as
unanimously beloved in a crossover fashion as <i>Golden Hour</i>, Musgraves’
2015 sophomore disc is the odd album out in a young but already storied
discography. But where <i>Pageant Material </i>maybe feels less cohesive than
the albums that bookend it, it’s also such a sterling collection of songs that
it’s hard to believe anyone would want to criticize it. “Dime Store Cowgirl” is
Kacey’s entire ethos wrapped up in a perfect, catchy pop-country hook.
“Biscuits” is her wittiest single. “Late to the Party” is a swoon-worthy love
song that paved the way for <i>Golden Hour</i>. “Somebody to Love” and
“Miserable” are arguably the two prettiest songs anyone wrote this decade, in
any genre, and they just happened to be paired as a one-two punch. “Good Ol’
Boys Club” is a scathing indictment of Nashville’s male-centric power imbalance,
written a few years before everyone started talking about it. “Fine” is a
classic country weeper that leads into a bonus track with none other than
Willie Nelson. That’s half the album, and that’s without even touching upon
huge gems like “High Time” or “Die Fun.” It’s true that <i>Pageant Materials </i>feels
more like a collection of songs than a complete statement—something that hurts
it in comparison to <i>Golden Hour</i>. But in a genre that values—or that at
least <i>used </i>to value—songs and songwriting above all else, it’s also a
sharp display of everything that Kacey Musgraves is capable of. In terms of
pure songwriting craft, it’s probably her best album.</div>
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53. <b>Ashley Monroe</b> - <i>The Blade</i><br />
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<br />
“You caught it by the handle/I caught it by the blade.”
That’s the punchline to the title track of Ashley Monroe’s greatest album, a
song about letting your guard down, giving your heart to another person, and
ending up bruised and bloody at the end of it all. For every mutual parting of
the ways, there’s a breakup where one person is more invested—or more in
love—than the other person. When the relationship ends, that person gets caught
in the blast radius. But as Monroe sings in the song’s bursting,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>heart-aching chorus, “That’s the risk you run
when you love, when you love/And you give it all you’ve got to give.” It’s one
of the greatest country songs of the decade, from an LP that ranks up among the
finest full-length works the genre had to offer. Ashley Monroe never got enough
attention, whether as a solo artist, as a collaborator, or as a member of the
country music supergroup Pistol Annies. But here, with the guiding hand of
producer Vince Gill, she made one of the lushest and most gorgeous albums of
the 2010s. The upbeat anthems feel like pop-country gold (see opener “On to
Something Good”), while the ballads capture wistful sadness in the way that
only classic-leaning country music can (the penultimate gut-puncher that is
“Mayflowers”). That Monroe can span both sides of the country music divide so
effectively is proof positive of her immense talent and her near-limitless
potential.<br />
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54. <b>The Menzingers </b>- <i>Hello Exile</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5PEd35v7TEeXctPF-o63-ekj8R8V00TuSWvUswCLTxfTCO8uekvYDhLpRWyI8t_G5W1knm9xkpgQMLms06xqhPEqEW6u93joh8-JdKa-PBdiZM6Am1EpSg7Zcnh9QWjjqzjQphFQCrZ1/s1600/The+Menzingers+-+Hello+Exile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5PEd35v7TEeXctPF-o63-ekj8R8V00TuSWvUswCLTxfTCO8uekvYDhLpRWyI8t_G5W1knm9xkpgQMLms06xqhPEqEW6u93joh8-JdKa-PBdiZM6Am1EpSg7Zcnh9QWjjqzjQphFQCrZ1/s640/The+Menzingers+-+Hello+Exile.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Getting old sucks. Losing touch with old friends sucks.
Having to attend a funeral, any funeral, but especially one for a buddy who was
your age, sucks. Realizing that your days of youthful abandon are behind you
sucks. <i>Hello Exile </i>is an album about all the things that suck most about
being a so-called “grown up.” Where 2017’s <i>After the Party </i>found some
solace in the maturity that comes with moving out of your 20s toward middle
age, <i>Hello Exile </i>dwells on the darker side of it all. “America (You’re
Freaking Me Out)” is about no longer being able to live in blissful ignorance
of what the political and societal state of the nation means for the future.
“Anna” is about youthful flings and epic romances that get tempered by jobs and
other adulthood responsibilities. “I Can’t Stop Drinking” is about how a
riotous drunk night in college is a good story while a riotous drunk night in
your 30s or 40s is a sign you might have a problem. “Farewell Youth” is about
putting a good friend in the ground, and your youth with them. For anyone who
was struggling to come to terms with adulthood in 2019—and that might be
everyone from my generation…it’s certainly me—<i>Hello Exile </i>spoke that
same comforting message that so much great music from over the years has
shouted out loudly: you are not alone.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">55. <b></b></span></span><b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Damage</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9KuZJ1W-Z5qcVSf8wnWxSnYtkyKuR_USfZZOtGgQwq2bvEr4l8FLEi2Gq8RotFL1QGhCidhyphenhyphenw_N3gxiFbKdpTOucccFRRRrLbCa7kb5eN_7EmVnRME_W3bAUtXrauilppq8bjLih4I9y/s1600/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Damage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9KuZJ1W-Z5qcVSf8wnWxSnYtkyKuR_USfZZOtGgQwq2bvEr4l8FLEi2Gq8RotFL1QGhCidhyphenhyphenw_N3gxiFbKdpTOucccFRRRrLbCa7kb5eN_7EmVnRME_W3bAUtXrauilppq8bjLih4I9y/s640/Jimmy+Eat+World+-+Damage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Jimmy Eat World have a knack for releasing albums at crucial
moments in my life. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures </i>came out
when I was just starting to fall in love with music. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chase This Light </i>dropped as I was starting to feel that restless
shift from childhood to adulthood. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented
</i>released as I was navigating a stable, loving relationship—my first. Even
amidst this legacy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damage </i>was a
surprise. This album wasn’t scheduled for release until June 2013, but a mix of
good luck and my credentials as an AbsolutePunk.net staff member meant I got it
almost two months early. The email bearing the mp3s arrived in my inbox on the
eve of my last-ever day of college classes. Quickly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damage </i>came to represent those last pages of a crucial life chapter. It took on the
color of my college campus in the glow of spring—something I never appreciated
appropriately until it was almost gone. More importantly, the words of these
songs struck a chord with what I was feeling at the time. Nostalgia. Regret.
Gratefulness for opportunities past. The sting of relationships that were about
to come to a close. Narratively, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damage </i>was
an “adult breakup album,” a record crafted in concept to bid a mature, noble
farewell to something that was beautiful but that, functionally, didn’t work.
The songs were sturdy, but the concept wasn’t grandiose enough to hold the
attention of many Jimmy Eat World fans—especially those that longed for the
emotional highs and lows of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity </i>and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bleed American</i>. For me, though, the
text of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damage </i>mattered immeasurably
less than the context in which it entered my life. If I’d heard it for the
first time a couple months later, it might have passed me by, or registered as
the distinctly “minor” JEW album that many fans view it to be. Instead, it
soundtracked the days around my graduation, my last nights at the bar with my
roommates, and my deep introspection about where I was in life and where I
might be going. The day after I graduated, I packed up my room and drove away. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damage </i>was the first album I played in
the car as I hit the road, and the lyrics crushed me. “You were good, you were
good, then you were gone,” Jim Adkins sang on the final track. The words were
simple, and the song was raw and sparse, lacking the scope or ambition that
had made past Jimmy Eat World albums feel larger than life. But if I could go
back and relive my last moments of college 1,000 times, I would never, ever
change the soundtrack. Jimmy Eat World had been with me through so much—through
adolescence and young adulthood and love and doubt and heartbreak. It was nothing
less than fate that put them there beside me at that moment, for one last
hurrah before I charged into the breach to face the unknown. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">56. <b>Brian Fallon</b> - <i>Sleepwalkers </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Brian Fallon was arguably the artist of the decade, and
that’s even considering the fact that his magnum opus came out a year and four
months before this decade even started. For those who are counting, I have six
Fallon records on this list: three with Gaslight Anthem, one with The Horrible
Crowes, and two solo LPs. Of all those, <i>Sleepwalkers </i>is probably the
most personal and the most honest. Fallon was ready to crash his car into the
sea at the end of 2014’s <i>Get Hurt</i>. His first solo album, 2016’s <i>Painkillers</i>,
was a tentative play at moving on after a divorce and after his band went on
indefinite hiatus. <i>Sleepwalkers </i>is the first record since 2012’s <i>Handwritten
</i>where he sounds as hungry and vital as he did in those early days. Back then,
though, he had something to prove: for awhile he wanted to be Bruce
Springsteen, and then he just decided he’d settle for being the biggest
rock star of the 2010s. On <i>Sleepwalkers</i>, he doesn’t have anything to
prove anymore, which means he can both have a ton of fun (the classic
soul/R&B flourishes of songs like “If Your Prayers Don’t Get to Heaven” or
the title track) and be incredibly earnest (the closing suite of “Neptune,”
“Watson,” and “See You on the Other Side,” all about finding love again after divorce)
without worrying what a single clueless Pitchfork writer might think. To hear
him howl at the moon again, like he believes in rock ‘n’ roll anew—see the
aching, cathartic “Etta James”—was as thrilling as any moment on record this
decade. With or without Gaslight, <i>Sleepwalkers </i>made me excited to be a
Brian Fallon fan again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">57. <b>Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness</b> - <i>Zombies on Broadway</i></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCXD6J01THvcyQkQtKvFZsqrcCl7nCeeDLUpNded2wsmSg89CFHeKw5zyNiCv_GVTPJkUHwjWrxVPYxcq5Dqlz6Rl7crbgp9o1fpz6715HctNLokKze-AQxpKh7ZxiH5bbcGS1H3f7JLu/s1600/Andrew+McMahon+-+Zombies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCXD6J01THvcyQkQtKvFZsqrcCl7nCeeDLUpNded2wsmSg89CFHeKw5zyNiCv_GVTPJkUHwjWrxVPYxcq5Dqlz6Rl7crbgp9o1fpz6715HctNLokKze-AQxpKh7ZxiH5bbcGS1H3f7JLu/s640/Andrew+McMahon+-+Zombies.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>
</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Andrew McMahon scored the biggest hit of his career with
“Cecilia and the Satellite,” the good-not-great lead single from his first
album under the In the Wilderness moniker. It was a poppy song, driven by a
propulsive woah-oh chorus that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Lumineers
single. If it convinced McMahon of anything, it was that he could have a career
as a pop hitmaker. Said another way, if “Cecilia” could hit the Hot 100, why couldn’t he do it
again? <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><i>Zombies on Broadway</i> </span>is the
kind of album that results when an artist asks that kind of question. It is a big, zippy,
explosive collection of arena pop songs dominated by synths and massive
choruses that are easy to sing along to and even easier to get stuck in your
head. In a different era, the album might have scanned as a sellout attempt. In
the age of the algorithmic pop star and the importance of Spotify streams,
though, it was a smart strategic play from a songwriter who <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </span>had better pop chops than 90
percent of the artists on mainstream radio. And frankly, if pop music were any
sort of meritocracy at all, these songs would have been hits. “Fire Escape,”
“So Close,” “Don’t Speak for Me,” and “Dead Man’s Dollar” are all deliriously
catchy pop gems that pair Andrew’s commanding, charismatic vocal style with
something a little more palatable to pop listeners. Fortunately, though,
McMahon hedges his bets a little bit, tossing in songs that are just as
thoughtful and story-driven as the bulk of his very autobiographical catalog.
“Brooklyn, You’re Killing Me” is the bridge between the whirlwind California
summer of <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><i>Everything in Transit</i> </span>and
this album’s New York setting. “Walking in My Sleep” captures the surreal
feeling of being away from home for a very long stretch of time (on tour, in
Andrew’s case) and wondering if you even still have anything to go back to. And
“The Birthday Song” is arguably his most aching composition ever, a song that
strikes at the dichotomy between the thrill of his job and the pain of being
away from his family for such long periods of time. It’s maybe the first time
in his career where you can hear McMahon thinking about closing up his piano
and calling it a day. Because who wants to be away from their wife and their
kids for weeks at a time, missing milestones in pursuit of the next
life-affirming moment onstage? The album seems to answer that question, in the
form of songs that capture the emotional punch and the skyscraping beauty that
music can convey. Sometimes, when you love something, you can’t help but
sacrifice for it—even if the things you’re sacrificing are the people who mean
the world to you.</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">58. <b>The Damnwells</b> - <i>No One Listens to the Band Anymore</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJSzV0S2wNA2QSYcGG8_zGNjTOt5-2IqlclSQRLZq3AGy1MdOkptd4PScI0fmYgVRZvLUqgUCMxpJvJFzwmFxnQ7lUMfB8RYd59f08HM8Ksz4r-L8vzzfe8llEPqKjbzI2O4nOn0KkHzN/s1600/The+Damnwells+-+No+One+Listens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJSzV0S2wNA2QSYcGG8_zGNjTOt5-2IqlclSQRLZq3AGy1MdOkptd4PScI0fmYgVRZvLUqgUCMxpJvJFzwmFxnQ7lUMfB8RYd59f08HM8Ksz4r-L8vzzfe8llEPqKjbzI2O4nOn0KkHzN/s640/The+Damnwells+-+No+One+Listens.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some bands just never get enough credit. The Damnwells were
that kind of band from the jump, all the way up to their final release in 2015. On
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No One Listens to the Band Anymore</i>,
they poked fun at that notion. By 2011, no one really listened to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any </i>band anymore, let alone an
under-the-radar roots rock outfit from Brooklyn. By that particular point in time, the
indie rock buzz of the 2000s was fading away, soon to be overwhelmed by the
heavily poptimist age we find ourselves in now. But The Damnwells were a breath
of fresh air: a band that sounded both brand new and like something that would
have been on the radio during the heyday of 1990s radio rock. When I first
heard this album in the spring of 2011, it bowled me over. I’d liked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Last Century</i>, the previous album
that The Damnwells had offered up as a free download to anyone who cared to
listen. But I immediately <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved No One
Listens to the Band</i>. It had this crisp, unhurried vibe to it—like a humid
spring night, just on the brink of summertime. As a night drive album, it was
bulletproof, making the miles between my girlfriend’s house and my own sound as
wistful and reflective as they felt at the time. Frontman Alex Dezen
had a knack for writing songs that were catchy and immediate, but that also
held a little more beneath the surface than you might have expected at first
glance. His songs seemed fraught with deep questions—on relationships that
failed, and existential musings, and summer nights he can’t get back. They were
twisted knots of metaphor and imagery, Rorschach tests that let you see or hear
what you wanted in the stories and words. All these years later, it’s still an
album I don’t understand fully. Was it a breakup album? A record about frustration
with the music industry? Dezen’s way of looking back at his past life? The
truth is, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No One Listens to the Band
Anymore </i>is all of these things—a rock record with endless layers and deep
nuances, released at a time when that kind of rock album was about to hit the
endangered species list.</span></span><br />
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59. <b>Arcade Fire</b> - <i>The Suburbs</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv2g2sPRssMhDY6cC6tpuWiEuQP7n-NG0d-zL1Bj9Sz_k4ngxIKI0xx39qdBtxniPwZAMS_vyHHAFHMhkjJ-gteXAIvZDljpxvOt5rA_XDtkwd9DvZOv2a6HOlob-kjmexXhDrY8ASUKpK/s1600/Arcade+Fire+-+The+Suburbs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv2g2sPRssMhDY6cC6tpuWiEuQP7n-NG0d-zL1Bj9Sz_k4ngxIKI0xx39qdBtxniPwZAMS_vyHHAFHMhkjJ-gteXAIvZDljpxvOt5rA_XDtkwd9DvZOv2a6HOlob-kjmexXhDrY8ASUKpK/s640/Arcade+Fire+-+The+Suburbs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Small town suburban life is often painted as grayscale and
mundane. On their third—and best—album, Arcade Fire make it sound like a
titanic struggle for the soul. The album packs epic themes into a decidedly
ordinary package: a package built of cookie-cutter houses and labyrinthine
subdivision streets, of colorless cul-de-sacs and expansive vistas with no
skyscrapers or tall buildings to break the line on the horizon. It would be
easy for an album that builds this world to sound dull and nondescript, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Suburbs </i>isn’t that. It’s an album
that hints at both the beauty and the ugliness that is hiding in these corners
of the world. The beauty is often in the innocence: of kids and teenagers
wasting hours wandering their neighborhoods, or getting up to hijinks with
friends, or falling in love with girls from school. The ugliness is found
elsewhere: in the ignorance of narrow-minded people; in the hopelessness of
dead-end jobs; in the hideous eyesores of dying shopping malls; and in the way
that friends grow apart as they grow older, until they end up pitted against
each other on different sides of some “suburban war.” Growing up in a suburban
area or a small town, you often don’t register these things until later: until
you can reflect and see the splendor in the time of your life when you had no
responsibility, or until you gain a broader worldview and start seeing the seedy
underbelly of the place you used to call home. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Suburbs </i>is expansive and fully-realized in exploring these
concepts, both with the wide-eyed charm of youth and the hardened reflection of
adulthood. It’s an album that felt prescient in 2010, in the midst of the Great
Recession, and one that maybe only feels more relevant now, in Trump’s America.
It’s a shame that, as of yet, Arcade Fire have not made anything worthwhile
since.</div>
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60. <b>Mandolin Orange</b> - <i>Such Jubilee</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSw_itanCCArhV5yRMtPCJcFKSv8vXaKBbL46WBnJrI_0Z14oxas16LJF__03suwCO_e5E7HKEl9VzjjjjNnlIxbZxoSTRFZUi48hQvtpLCVt7Qh9e965DVedaQdyVtoqi4inr9i64L1a/s1600/Such+Jubilee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSw_itanCCArhV5yRMtPCJcFKSv8vXaKBbL46WBnJrI_0Z14oxas16LJF__03suwCO_e5E7HKEl9VzjjjjNnlIxbZxoSTRFZUi48hQvtpLCVt7Qh9e965DVedaQdyVtoqi4inr9i64L1a/s640/Such+Jubilee.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
The album cover for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Such
Jubilee </i>is my favorite artwork from any record this decade. It’s a
breathtaking image that conveys so much of what the music on this album sounds
like, and so much of what it is about. The image depicts a small house on an
otherwise deserted stretch of land, set against a backdrop of dark, starry sky.
The nighttime dwarfs the house just as the cosmos dwarf the rest of us,
challenged only by a plume of smoke issuing from the chimney. There is a glow of
light along the horizon, from a sun recently set but not ready to relax its
grip on the world. The album sets a challenge for itself by having such a
beautiful, evocative image as its face—an image that calls to mind the comforts
of home, the warmth of a fire in the grate, the power of feeling minuscule
under a sky full of stars, and the majestic quiet of the night. But if there
was ever an album that sounded like its cover, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Such Jubilee </i>is it. It’s an album about coming home from touring
and letting yourself fall back into the embrace of home and normalcy and family
and stability anew. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Such Jubilee </i>is a
record about home, both the place and the idea,” the band wrote of the album.
“Some days it’s <span class="peekaboo-text">a safe, warm, loving refuge from the
world outside. Other days it's cold and empty and too quiet. Either way, it's
always waiting for you at the end of the road.” These songs convey that
identity crisis beautifully, painting home through the exhilaration of a
long-awaited return (“Old Ties & Companions”), as an all-too-silent,
haunted companion in times of tragedy (“Blue Ruin”), and as a place you ache
for so deeply when, exhausted, you resign to laying your head on a pillow
somewhere else (“Of Which There Is No Like”). A lot of artists—especially in
the country sphere—wrote songs about home or hometowns this decade. No record
captures the beguiling complexity of “home” and what that word means as much as
this one.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">61. <b>Travis Meadows </b>- <i>First Cigarette</i></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfOddZGmVbdEwVF6kBg9Y4Kr_egeFgM9QoW1hm7qobaHd_Y81a9pJGhelAQcsqYMblOmQBRQoAhPKlmpRoSquZc6h9eRrDmyiMQTunG5PC8DgCN9rs-S6qDr0QRMP9Kh7e-8QPKa5kVN_/s1600/Travis+Meadows+-+First+Cigarette.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfOddZGmVbdEwVF6kBg9Y4Kr_egeFgM9QoW1hm7qobaHd_Y81a9pJGhelAQcsqYMblOmQBRQoAhPKlmpRoSquZc6h9eRrDmyiMQTunG5PC8DgCN9rs-S6qDr0QRMP9Kh7e-8QPKa5kVN_/s640/Travis+Meadows+-+First+Cigarette.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some albums <i>feel </i>like background music. Especially in
modern country music, there are so many artists that specialize in making little more
than window dressing. Their songs are intended to be something you listen to while
doing something else: drinking at a bar, hanging out with friends, hosting a
barbeque. Travis Meadows’ <i>First Cigarette </i>is the opposite. It feels more
like a manifesto than an album: a collection of important thoughts, stories,
and lessons passed down to you by someone who paid dearly to learn them. Meadows
has lived a very hard life, full of heartbreaks and obstacles that would
shatter a weaker person. His family abandoned him; he lost his leg to cancer;
he lost years of his life in a haze of alcoholism and addiction. If the mantra
“what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is true, though, then <i>First
Cigarette </i>is the evidence. “I hope you get your heart broke at least
once
before you fall in love,” he sings on “Pontiac.” “I hope you wind up
flat broke before you have enough/Hold on to your innocence, through the
almost and the could-have-beens/Put an anchor in something that’ll bring
you
back/I hope you keep the Pontiac.” Who could sing those words without
knowing
what it’s like to be low—and knowing how important those lessons are to
help
you find your way back? The album is full of moments like that, moments
that
take you both to the depths of failure and the resounding heights of
hope. For
every “Sideways,” a haunting illustration of addiction’s gravitational
pull,
there’s a “Better Boat,” about finding different ways to cope with the
darkness. For every “McDowell Road,” a memory-lane driving song full of
ghosts
and missed opportunities, there’s a “Pray for Jungleland,” a radiant
hymn to
the powers of nostalgia, summer, beautiful girls, and Springsteen on the
radio.
The record, along with Isbell’s <i>Southeastern </i>and Ruston Kelly’s <i>Dying
Star</i>, is part of a great trilogy of albums from this decade that depict
what it means to live through addiction and rise from the ashes: bruised,
battered, and full of regrets, but ready to live a different kind of life. It
is a genuine masterpiece about the triumph of the human spirit.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="peekaboo-text">62. <b>Taylor Swift</b> - <i>Speak Now</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ufbilJqQEIWA8f3O8FLsOcBvzWH9xEuROsWY783enj9xJXnTZf35ThMnf2SYxfqOyJoreTPS6SpdE3SOF3J4skfHOOGO4Is3Nrr3OFUVRyOJxmDeiHlJqxpeNYNIbPsAaea_NHcJmwJP/s1600/Taylor+Swift+-+Speak+Now.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ufbilJqQEIWA8f3O8FLsOcBvzWH9xEuROsWY783enj9xJXnTZf35ThMnf2SYxfqOyJoreTPS6SpdE3SOF3J4skfHOOGO4Is3Nrr3OFUVRyOJxmDeiHlJqxpeNYNIbPsAaea_NHcJmwJP/s640/Taylor+Swift+-+Speak+Now.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<span class="peekaboo-text">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span class="peekaboo-text">I never gave female artists enough attention in the 2000s,
especially pop singers. I was predisposed to hate the radio, and my focus on
artists and bands was narrow enough that I just never broadened my horizons
away from artists that looked like me, sounded like me, and probably had
perspectives similar to mine. Taylor Swift was the first artist to break that
cycle for me, in part because it was hard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>to get
caught up in the release cycle for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speak
Now</i>. Swift was too big, too notable, too inescapable. More than that, though,
as I started delving into this record, it felt like the songs were written for
me specifically. The picture I had of Swift in my head was as a luminescent
pop-country princess, someone capable of writing incredible hooks but also
someone whose fairytale visions in songs like “Love Story” or “You Belong with
Me” didn’t have much to do with my life. But then I heard “Mine,” a song about
a relationship where things <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aren’t </i>storybook
perfect. In the very early days of my relationship with my girlfriend (now wife), that song—and
much of the rest of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speak Now</i>—resonated
with me. “You are the best thing that’s ever been mine,” Taylor sang in
this
album’s opener, and as a 19-year-old kid in love and in his first real,
serious relationship, those words felt like a rallying cry. Swift’s love
songs seemed
to capture the technicolor rush of butterflies and feelings I was
experiencing
at the time, and they still do all these years later. And on the rough
nights, when the strain of a long-distance relationship started to get
to me, or when my girlfriend and I left things on an unhappy note, I
would play “Last Kiss” in
the car over and over again, just to revel in the sadness and to remind
myself
that fighting for us was the right thing. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speak
Now </i>doesn’t mean as much to 29-year-old me as it did to 19-year-old me, and
Taylor has gone on to make better (and worse) records. Still, it’s maybe the
album that most clearly encapsulates, to me, what it feels like to be young, in
love, and sure of nothing else in the world but your feelings for that other
person. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="peekaboo-text">63. <b>Bruce Springsteen </b>- <i>Western Stars </i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PFSvhAVStAD-0k8aLL7QLmvKQQaaeBMJYiREg6C2C5dLVlEUx-Q4VyLU6_zSFaaRR9BT53j9LShkrBt3km63DGvzE8dMKBZL3F8WAKOOThXa44jCFzRAFciXaAnbmAQQKsCfbs69n7lS/s1600/Bruce+-+Western+Stars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PFSvhAVStAD-0k8aLL7QLmvKQQaaeBMJYiREg6C2C5dLVlEUx-Q4VyLU6_zSFaaRR9BT53j9LShkrBt3km63DGvzE8dMKBZL3F8WAKOOThXa44jCFzRAFciXaAnbmAQQKsCfbs69n7lS/s640/Bruce+-+Western+Stars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="peekaboo-text">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="peekaboo-text">Springsteen spent the latter half of the 2010s in reflective
mode. He played <i>The River </i>in full over and over again on an E Street
tour that was supposed to last a month or two and ended up lasting a year. He
published an autobiography. He reckoned with his legacy and his mortality in an
acclaimed Broadway show. In the midst of this process, <i>Western Stars </i>was
delayed repeatedly. For years, it was pitched only as a solo album that would
be a bit of a departure from his past work. I was convinced, for several of
those years, that the album would never actually see the light of day. When it
did, it was with little fanfare: no tour, not much press, and a positive but
relatively quiet reception. What’s here, though, is a new Springsteen classic
that is as singular as anything in his career. It’s a record of sweeping, old
fashioned country music—full of strings and songs that capture the wide-open,
panoramic expanses of the American west. Sonically, it’s one of the most
beautiful albums Springsteen has ever made, from the lush and melodic numbers
like “Sundown” and “There Goes My Miracle” to sparse acoustic beauties like
“Chasin’ Wild Horses” and “Hello Sunshine.” But the best thing about <i>Western
Stars </i>is how the arrangements leave plenty of room for Bruce’s most vivid
storytelling in years. The title track, about a washed-up actor coasting on
former glories, works as both an empathetic treatise on aging and a meta
commentary on Springsteen’s career. And “Moonlight Motel,” the haunting closing
track, is maybe the best song Bruce has penned since the ‘80s, a writerly
masterwork that uses the image of a crumbling motel to explore the slow decay
of time and the fleeting nature of young love. We tend to value artists like
Springsteen mostly for their legacies and past work—hence the way The Boss has
spent most of this decade looking back rather than looking forward. <i>Western
Stars </i>is proof that, at the top of their game, the old heroes are still as
good as anyone who’s come along since.</span></div>
<span class="peekaboo-text">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
64. <b>Matt Nathanson</b> - <i>Sings His Sad Heart</i><br />
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A lot about <i>Sings His Sad Heart </i>is a joke. The title,
for instance, is Matt Nathanson actively making fun of himself and his tendency
to write songs about heartbreak and regret. On a recent tour, Nathanson brought
along a spinning wheel as a way of picking random songs or song categories for
his setlist. When explaining the categories, he came upon one called “Happy
Songs.” “I’ve got about three of those,” he remarked. That’s an exaggeration,
but not by much. While Nathanson is by all accounts a happy person, with a
strong marriage and a good relationship with his daughter, his nostalgic
sensibilities and love for sad pop songs make him a conduit for art about
breakups, unrequited love, and missed opportunities. He doesn’t understand it
himself—last year, in a candid interview, he told me that he wanted this album to be
a big, uplifting political rallying cry, only for broken-relationship hymns
like “Different Beds” and “Way Way Back” to swim to the surface. “It’s gotta be
some sort of ‘parents fucking me up thing,’” he told me. He was partially kidding, but
that’s the thing about Nathanson’s records—<i>Sings His Sad Heart </i>particularly:
they are a sort of therapy, digging up the things from the past that you
haven’t quite gotten over yet and turning them into wildly catchy pop
confections. Through a mix of unguarded honesty and wry humor, Nathanson takes
us back to the way things used to be, giving us space to reckon with the
question of why nostalgia and the past have so much of a pull for so many of
us.</div>
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65. <b>Kanye West </b>- <i>My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy</i><br />
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Kanye West saw his stock plummet drastically in the 2010s,
due to a mixture of bad political takes and bad albums. At the start of the
decade, though, he was firmly at his career zenith. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My
Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy </i>probably topped just about every album of
the year list that came out at the end of 2010, and it wasn’t difficult to see
why. Even for me, someone who had never found much appeal in hip-hop, this
album was mind-blowing. I loved how melodic it was: how Kanye wove in guitar
solos and samples and guest features from the likes of Rihanna and Elton John
and John Legend and Bon Iver to create something as explosively hooky as it was
beat-driven. I still have very little knowledge or understanding of the genre
this album comes from, but something about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fantasy
</i>just feels universal. I remember playing it over and over again in my dorm
room throughout the winter of my sophomore year of college, trying to figure
out why this album connected with me when I’d never connected with rap music
before. I kept listening because I was confused and fascinated, but also
because I was remarkably entertained. I couldn’t get enough of the dizzying
melodic explosions of the first five tracks, or of the way the soul-inflected
bombast of “Devil in a New Dress” dissolved into the animatronic nightmare of
“Runaway.” I certainly couldn’t get enough of the sky-high climactic drive of
“Lost in the World.” The rest of the world couldn’t get enough either, and for
the best part of the past 10 years, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Beautiful
Dark Twisted Fantasy </i>remained the de-facto pick for “album of the decade.”
It seems unlikely to hold that title now, given everything that has happened to
brand Kanye West as problematic. But it’s nice to put this album on and rewind
the clock, back to when these songs were new and we hadn’t started judging our
celebrities to the impossible standards we do now. Because regardless of
politics and bad tweets and questionable opinions, there is no album from the
past decade that is grander, more daring, more audacious, or altogether <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">greater</i>.<br />
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66. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Invented</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented </i>marked
the last time I ever drove to the store with the sole intention of buying a CD.
By the time the album actually came out, I’d already memorized every line,
every guitar riff, and every instrumental flourish. When a shoddy mp3 rip hit
the internet, I downloaded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented </i>from
my dorm room—as an RA, no less—and proceeded to play it exhaustively. The fall
of 2010, in retrospect, absolutely sounds like this record: walks to class; hours
spent chilling in my dorm room; drives around campus; road trips across the
state to visit my girlfriend. It was, in many ways, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures </i>became for me in the fall of 2004, or what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chase This Light </i>was in the autumn of
2007: a snapshot of my life captured in Jimmy Eat World’s yearning, sweeping
rock ‘n’ roll. I grabbed the CD version because it was a deluxe edition, and it
did not leave my car’s stereo for the remainder of my sophomore year of college.
It was the perfect album for that year: lovelorn and restless and bombastic and
full of moments as big as the life milestones I was living. For awhile, I even
had it in my mind that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented </i>was
Jimmy Eat World’s best album, a record that had somehow lived up to the
impossible task of bettering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures</i>.
Looking back, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented </i>is maybe my
least favorite Jimmy Eat World album, at least post-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity</i>. It feels less of a particular vision than most of the
band’s albums, and 2-3 of the songs just miss the mark. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented </i>was maybe the most important
album in the world to me during what might have been my most tumultuous year—a
year packed with firsts, with emotional highs and lows, and with moments of
self-discovery so potent that they threatened to knock my entire life path into
the next county. When I listen to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Invented
</i>now, I hear every piece of that year: “Evidence” and “Coffee &
Cigarettes” bring back the road trips; “Littlething” and “Cut” bring back the
lonely nights; the rafter-shaking climactic section of the title track brings
back all the questions I had about my own identity. By the time “Mixtape” spins
around at the end of the reel, it still feels like the words were meant for me:
“Maybe we could put your tape back on/Rewind before the moment we went wrong.”
This album was a mixtape and a snapshot of a very particular period in my life,
and while it will never again mean as much to me as it did then, I’m so
thankful I had Jimmy Eat World there, again, to guide me along a perilous path.</span></span><br />
<b></b></div>
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67. <b>Charlie Worsham</b> - <i>Rubberband</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirXRXfO80VaWJR0qOg9SXOQffAkKpQ6c3xZSBFkdw1Ote1u5CmJDxHaqJ10k6tnx9fSI-IBbW4ZNt3x4eimFbv7GxQs8D_n8FxB4oMAcueBEdnd6wGNFml2lS5QtprMqZYyulok2iaYTzy/s1600/Charlie+Worsham+-+Rubberband.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirXRXfO80VaWJR0qOg9SXOQffAkKpQ6c3xZSBFkdw1Ote1u5CmJDxHaqJ10k6tnx9fSI-IBbW4ZNt3x4eimFbv7GxQs8D_n8FxB4oMAcueBEdnd6wGNFml2lS5QtprMqZYyulok2iaYTzy/s640/Charlie+Worsham+-+Rubberband.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rubberband</i>,
Charlie Worsham’s songs feel as warm as a summer night. Pitched somewhere
between Dierks Bentley and Vince Gill, Worsham showed himself here to be a
sharp talent as a writer, a guitar player, and a vocalist. The top half is
stacked with should-have-been hits: the optimistic “Could It Be,” about two
people finally colliding after months of dancing around their feelings for one
another; the rollicking “Want Me Too,” an infectious take on the unrequited
love song; “Young to See,” about the way your perspective on the world shifts
as you grow older; and “Trouble Is,” a sexy, heart-thumping jam about trying
(and failing) to hide your feelings and desire for the person you’ve fallen in
love with. These songs are catchy and smart, but they don’t drown in poppy
production or trip over their own cleverness in the way a lot of mid-2010s
pop-country did. Instead, Worsham imbues them with humor, tenderness, and a
clear-eyed understanding of who he is and the tales he wants to tell. Even
despite the rousing successes of these first four tracks, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rubberband </i>is most successful in its
back half, where Worsham delivers a series of back-porch-at-dusk country songs
so gorgeous that they should all become songbook classics. There’s “How I
Learned to Pray,” which transcends its potentially preachy title for a wise
story about growing up reckless and finding maturity. There’s “Mississippi in
July,” a gutting ballad about high school sweethearts who ultimately spin off
in different orbits—and marry different people. And there’s “Love Don’t Die
Easy,” about the bravery, foolishness, resilience, and longevity that makes
true love so special. The 2010s were a largely cynical time—a time where snark
and “hot takes” and momentary trends overwhelmed everything from political
discourse to music. What makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rubberband
</i>so wonderful is how completely devoid of cynicism it is. Worsham is willing
to write songs that are poignant, earnest, and heart-on-the-sleeve honest.
Based on how Charlie Worsham has been ignored by country radio, he may not have
been made for these times—a fact that makes us even luckier to have him here. </div>
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68. <b>Steve Moakler</b> - <i>Steel Town</i><br />
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Small towns; beaches; sunsets; Coppertone sunscreen; Patron
vodka; lifeguard stands; hard work; hard play; 95-degree temperatures;
sunburns; stolen kisses; beautiful girls; beautiful eyes; flip-flops; sand
everywhere; summer flings; another drink; pints of golden-hued beer; hair
bleached blonde by the sun; falling in love; getting your heart broken; June;
July; August; fighting off September; losing the fight against September; boat
rides; fast cars; road trips; vacation days; postcards from resort towns;
countdowns to Friday at 5; crashing waves; swimming; surfing; rides on the
backstreets; makeout sessions in the backseat; days flying by like lightning;
memories burned in your mind; a time of your life that simultaneously seemed to
last forever and disappear in the blink of an eye. These are the ingredients of
<i>Steel Town</i>, an album that does as good of a job at encapsulating the
wonderment of summertime as any album from the past 10 years. Whether he’s
singing a love song, pining after a girl who’s gone, or marveling at the
passage of time, Steve Moakler does it all with the wisp of a passing summer
afternoon there in the sound of his voice. <i>Steel Town </i>was sneakily one
of my most played albums of the decade, and its ability to capture that very
specific summer vibe explains why.</div>
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69. <b>Brandon Flowers</b> - <i>The Desired Effect</i><br />
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On his first solo album, 2010’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flamingo</i>, Brandon Flowers sounded like he was trying to make a
Killers album without The Killers. Five years later, when he made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Desired Effect</i>, that wasn’t the case
at all. Easily the wildest and most audacious album that Flowers ever made, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Effect </i>is the kind of pop album where
the rulebook clearly got tossed out the window during one of the very first
recording sessions. Credit producer Ariel Rechtshaid—known for working with pop
chameleons like Vampire Weekend and Haim—for pushing Flowers out of his comfort
zone. We do get a few songs that sound like Killers tracks: namely the
rain-soaked “Between Me and You,” a Peter Gabriel-esque ballad that would have
sounded firmly at home in the middle of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle
Born</i>. Most of the time, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Desired Effect </i>sounds like a bold, confident debut album from an artist who
was born to be a solo act. “Dreams Come True” is epic Springsteen-style pomp;
“Can’t Deny My Love” is a zippy banger with the kind of cavernous hook that
most modern pop artists couldn’t even begin to fathom; “I Can Change” is a
chilly, hip-hop informed gem; “Lonely Town” is straight John Hughes 80s utopia;
“Diggin’ up the Heart” is wild outlaw country by way of The Village People; and
“The Way Its Always Been” is a cross between the stadium sweep of U2 and the
psychedelic experimentation of late-period Beatles. Every song is its own
distinct work of art, but they somehow coalesce into something greater: a
widescreen, big-hearted pop album that feels even more notable in an era when
most pop music was cynical and insular. The biggest flaw is that Flowers left
the best song—the laser-blast would-be jock jam that is the title track—on the
cutting room floor.</div>
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70. <b>Coldplay </b>- <i>Mylo Xyloto</i><br />
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Not enough rock bands reached for the rafters this decade.
So, when Coldplay did it on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mylo Xyloto</i>,
in the corniest, least apologetic way ever, it was genuinely epic. Coldplay had
gone big before this. Technically, Coldplay had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>gone big—at least ever since they’d started scaling for the
stars on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Rush of Blood to the Head</i>.
But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">X&Y </i>and especially <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva La Vida </i>had been arty reaches,
flecking the band’s core piano-rock sound with world-music influences and
inspiration spanning from country music to krautrock. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mylo Xyloto </i>was the first Coldplay record to really recognize the
band’s status as a pop act, and it was all the stronger for it. There are
still art-rock elements to this record: interludes are everywhere, and the
entire album is supposedly a rock opera about a soldier and an activist falling
in love in the midst of an Orwellian dictatorship. (I have never heard any
traces of this story.) But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mylo Xyloto </i>works
because all its big ideas are packed into punchy pop songs. “Hurts Like
Heaven”; “Paradise”; “Charlie Brown”; “Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall”; “Don’t
Let It Break Your Heart.” These are all unabashedly catchy, unabashedly huge
songs that sound almost inappropriate played in an environment that isn’t a
stadium. Even ballads like “Us Against the World” and “Up in Flames” sound like
they were meant to echo through cavernous spaces. The entire thing is as
colorful and kaleidoscopic as a box of Crayola crayons, taken to the next level
by gargantuan production from Markus Dravs. It’s the greatest stadium rock
album of the decade.</div>
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71. <b>The National</b> - <i>High Violet</i><br />
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“I never thought about love when I thought about home,” Matt
Berninger sings in the bursting, cathartic chorus of “Bloodbuzz Ohio.” You
could interpret that line in multiple ways, but I always heard it as a
realization, later in life, that you took home for granted. When I first heard
this song, late in my freshman year of college, when I’d spent more time away
from home than at any other point in my life, that line hit me like a knife to
the heart. In the song, it’s easy to take the lyric at face value: as
Berninger’s proclamation that he doesn’t think much of his hometown in Ohio.
But the mood of the song—warm, enveloping, wine-buzzed, and lit like a noir
photograph—says something else. Home lives in your blood, and when you leave
it, it comes back to you at unexpected moments, accompanied by unanticipated
pangs of longing. Those complex emotions form the backbone of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">High Violet</i>, a dark and often gloomy
album about the dissatisfaction of early adulthood. The tracks are littered
with anxiety over meeting and interacting with new people, apprehension over
new fatherhood, feverish insomnia that only alcohol can fix, and grasps at
holding onto a romantic relationship that is slowly but steadily falling apart.
When the world gets <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>dark, it’s
hard not to look back fondly at youth and your hometown, and to feel like maybe
you didn’t cherish the ease of all that innocence while you still could. The
dichotomy between those two extremes—the rose-colored view of the past and the
complex, fractured world of the present—renders <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">High Violet </i>a gripping and complicated album that I have only truly
come to understand with time.</div>
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72. <b>Adele </b>- <i>21</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp08LRyGyI-FLLzzqqsiU1OqqP_NUQJdBwnin518T1fGIFurRiFuyRsqSWV-u4FHNv_W9LEJvLamx6s7HC8AJVhBqYuQXB6I5qeVoSPSoluUE-weViDNzHzWFtEDJA72xjHLfaZhgy_KqD/s1600/Adele+-+21.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp08LRyGyI-FLLzzqqsiU1OqqP_NUQJdBwnin518T1fGIFurRiFuyRsqSWV-u4FHNv_W9LEJvLamx6s7HC8AJVhBqYuQXB6I5qeVoSPSoluUE-weViDNzHzWFtEDJA72xjHLfaZhgy_KqD/s640/Adele+-+21.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There will never be another album like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21</i>, ever again. It’s the closest we’ve come to a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thriller </i>in my lifetime: a mono-cultural
hit machine, and an album that virtually everyone could agree on no matter
their music tastes.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> 25 </i>may have
racked up a more impressive sales week figure, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21 </i>just didn’t go away for years. In the age of streaming, artists
like Drake have figured out how to game the system with long albums packed with
filler, or by tacking already-successful singles onto the end of albums to win
more “equivalent album units” on the Billboard charts. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21 </i>arrived just before the streaming revolution and muscled its way
toward radio and sales dominance for one primary reason: it was fucking good. I
know I mentioned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thriller </i>above, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21 </i>actually has more in common with another
hit machine album: Fleetwood Mac’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rumours</i>.
It combines irresistible pop hooks with the doldrums of heartbreak and then
strands everything on the edge of a dark and stormy night. I actually got into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21 </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rumours </i>at the same time, in the spring following my sophomore year
of college. I was beguiled by their shadowy presences, and by the way they
seemed to pair together so naturally: “Dreams” and “Set Fire to the Rain”;
“Rumour Has It” and “Gold Dust Woman”; “Songbird” and “Someone Like You.” I
vividly recall driving around my hometown on dozens of rainy nights that
spring, listening to these two albums and being positively haunted by the
ghosts of former lovers littered throughout. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">21 </i>rightfully spawned a parade of hits—one of which (“Rolling in
the Deep”) might be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>single of the
past 10 years. But to me, its biggest accomplishment is the mood it conjures
over the course of 11 tracks and 48 minutes. “Someone Like You” has enough
pathos to wallop you on its own, but coming after all the ups and downs of the
album as a whole, it’s one of the most draining, authentic, and beautiful
moments of music from this decade. Find me a mainstream album since with half
as much heart and soul.</div>
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73. <b>Dawes </b>- <i>We're All Gonna Die</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbt2Ve_3lv1-uxabQThJyEetfFqRaCQa67xKIfHNucnV3KZ2XRdGnkt9qbFijzKiItQHFhvEDWA0yz6Bjm5FDNzXCxKrc38iGDzh-ubK9H9rqu7yEulqRyGoKAR6ax2cexk4_VZnGhSBvv/s1600/Dawes+-+We%2527re+All+Gonna+Die.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbt2Ve_3lv1-uxabQThJyEetfFqRaCQa67xKIfHNucnV3KZ2XRdGnkt9qbFijzKiItQHFhvEDWA0yz6Bjm5FDNzXCxKrc38iGDzh-ubK9H9rqu7yEulqRyGoKAR6ax2cexk4_VZnGhSBvv/s640/Dawes+-+We%2527re+All+Gonna+Die.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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By every account, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We’re
All Gonna Die </i>was a surprise. It released only a little over a year after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Your Favorite Bands</i>, and its arrival
was heralded by “When the Tequila Runs Out” as the lead single, a wild,
borderline novelty song that sounds nothing like the band’s Laurel Canyon
folk-rock roots. The album as a whole is zany and subversive, a contradictory collection
that flits between finding meaning in everything and finding meaning in nothing.
It feels almost Tarantino-esque in its construction, winding together a series
of seemingly-unrelated vignette-based songs until “it all runs together, as if
by design.” The album as a whole plays out like a sort of midlife crisis. On
the title track, Taylor Goldsmith sings about losing connection with his own
art—to the point where he envies the passion of the kid in the front row at one
of his shows, singing his songs back to him with twice the commitment he can
muster. “Roll with the Punches” is a scathing song about divorce and the petty
battles that two soon-to-be ex-spouses choose to stage as they work toward
uncoupling from one another. “For No Good Reason” focuses in part on a man who
has decided to leave his wife for reasons he can’t put into words. And
“Quitter” sounds like it’ll be a self-loathing piece about lack of follow-through,
but is actually a song about leaving behind bad habits and unfulfilling
commitments in pursuit of something more. “You’re gonna have to quit
everything, until you find one thing you won’t,” Goldsmith sings. It’s a wise
line on what might be his wisest album, a surprisingly sharp and deep set of
songs that a lot of fans missed because of how the album sounds. Produced
boldly and brashly by Blake Mills, Goldsmith’s former bandmate and current
musical confidante, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We’re All Gonna Die </i>bursts
out the gate with the vibrant, fuzzed-up hooks of “One of Us” and proceeds
never to opt for the easy or conventional way out for the remainder of its
10-song tracklist. It is a decidedly studio album from a band that usually
trades in live, organic execution. A lot of fans hated it—10 percent of the
Amazon reviews are one-star ratings—but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We’re
All Gonna Die </i>proved an important point that rock bands either need to
prove early or burn out prematurely: it proved that Dawes could do anything.<br />
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74. <b>Jack's Mannequin</b> - <i>People & Things</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqSz2qWJSJwFQ1Nb-TXk-IrQAXwB4fMWZPbEMwMnQJljrN7E-QFfETGpBfpAJlk3uvYS_HF8TJi_u0K7Nla9yJfyjfx9zx0myuP5raceHqOTdJLKrfd7333-aRhA7G6JjA4IOiiQLFHQD/s1600/Jack%2527s+Mannequin+-+People+and+Things.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqSz2qWJSJwFQ1Nb-TXk-IrQAXwB4fMWZPbEMwMnQJljrN7E-QFfETGpBfpAJlk3uvYS_HF8TJi_u0K7Nla9yJfyjfx9zx0myuP5raceHqOTdJLKrfd7333-aRhA7G6JjA4IOiiQLFHQD/s640/Jack%2527s+Mannequin+-+People+and+Things.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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My most vivid memory of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">People
& Things </i>is of it playing the perfect “road trip record” role. Back
during my college years, I’d frequently drive the three hours north from my
college town to my hometown for a weekend at home. The weekend I’m thinking of
was one of my favorites: an early October beauty when the sun was out and the
temperature still felt like summertime, even as the leaves changed from green
to golden. It was one of the most gorgeous drives I’ve ever had: the sun
beating down; Michigan’s early autumn color at its best; nothing but blue skies
for miles; the highway to myself on a Thursday afternoon. These songs only made
the trip more perfect. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">People &
Things</i>, it sounded like Andrew McMahon was trying to untangle the mythos of
the American heartland, one sunburned highway at a time. Thoroughly gone were
his emo and pop-punk roots. Here, McMahon mined Americana and classic rock ‘n’
roll, packing in songs that sound like Petty and Dylan and Springsteen and
Billy Joel, plus a touch of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tumbleweed
Connection</i>-era Elton John. It was a fitting mixtape for the road—both for
that beautiful day in the fall of 2011 and for this chapter of McMahon’s
career. Where the Jack’s Mannequin narrative had begun on “Holiday from Real”
with McMahon ditching his hometown for a whirlwind summer on the west coast, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">People & Things </i>closes with “Casting
Lines,” a literal homecoming. McMahon would start yet another new chapter a few
years later with his In the Wilderness project, but Jack’s Mannequin remains
his career peak and this album—while arguably the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">least </i>spectacular of his core albums—is a sun-drenched opus perfect
for windows-down drives in an Indian summer.</div>
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75. <b>The 1975</b> - <i>The 1975</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVuhoZENEMHxDnXxMJbaXwqaOWVGyvvck9WMn3Az8wX9s0dALi1AGAE6tfiRZnGh5pSEOT0BvXp_83UJPFgZo4k-EXhYX347yEtLFXPUeagehKVfvXH3Bw8sErbmp4jo1D8qwHQsJ8KGD/s1600/The+1975.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVuhoZENEMHxDnXxMJbaXwqaOWVGyvvck9WMn3Az8wX9s0dALi1AGAE6tfiRZnGh5pSEOT0BvXp_83UJPFgZo4k-EXhYX347yEtLFXPUeagehKVfvXH3Bw8sErbmp4jo1D8qwHQsJ8KGD/s640/The+1975.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Over the years, The 1975 have been praised and derided, in
equal measure for a lot of things. They’ve been noted for their ambition.
They’ve been noted for their willingness to overreach. They’ve been noted for
being kind of annoying but also kind of brilliant. They’ve been noted for
drawing convincingly from a whole slew of different genres, from rock ‘n’ roll
to electronic to sheer boy-band pop. I fell in love with them at their
simplest: a U2-style power ballad called “Robbers,” culled from the middle of
this album, their debut full-length. In an alternate timeline, it’s entirely
possible that The 1975 would have ended up meaning nothing to me. I’ve always
been more split on them than many of their admirers, glimpsing both their
brilliance and their hubris—especially in 2018’s overblown, occasionally
brilliant but often kind-of-obnoxious <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships</i>. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1975 </i>and “Robbers” especially were examples of perfect
timing.
This album leaked on the web the Friday of Labor Day weekend 2013. That
afternoon, shortly after I’d loaded the album onto my iPod, my
girlfriend and I drove the five or six hours from where we were living
in
Naperville, Illinois to our hometown of Traverse City, Michigan for a
weekend
spent with family. Some 24 hours later, on a sun-drenched beach in
Northern
Michigan, I got down on one knee and asked the girl I loved to marry me.
It
might have been happenstance or accident or serendipity, but the album I
was
playing throughout that day was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1975</i>.
The big, bold hooks on songs like “Girls” and “Heart Out” and “Settle Down”
seemed to encapsulate the warmth and splendor of the last of summer as I drove
into town to pick up her ring, or as I took the bayside roads to her parents’
house. But “Robbers” was the best, a song with a sweeping, romantic, epic scope
that felt so appropriate for that day. The song itself is only questionably
romantic: it’s a Bonnie and Clyde narrative, about two people whose love story
is entwined with wreaking havoc on others. But that day, as I prepared to ask
the girl I’d loved for three-plus years to spend her life with me, it felt like
the score to a romantic movie. The big, grandiose swell—abetted by the
absolutely do-or-die commitment of frontman Matty Healy—called to mind that
scene at the end of every romantic comedy, where the guy chases the girl
through the airport, confesses his love, and sweeps her up into a
crowd-pleasing kiss. Having that song, on that day, for that moment, it felt like
fate, and it will never stop coloring how I feel about this catchy, emotional,
wildly inventive pop album.</div>
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76. <b>Carly Pearce</b> - <i>Every Little Thing</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhON-j3-k6lUFQfK63Ep1cypQ9Inx0Cb-oFUWqMSnMfbQWaRyFuTEsSyzIlISTify2uMIPbl-weCQUl8hheLYtN1gdz1fbV43_Y_oTcsr5ptW3MtzI8hwhMxPbIQK9DKcTtsea7wPVXa5T/s1600/Carly+Pearce+-+Every+Little+Thing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhON-j3-k6lUFQfK63Ep1cypQ9Inx0Cb-oFUWqMSnMfbQWaRyFuTEsSyzIlISTify2uMIPbl-weCQUl8hheLYtN1gdz1fbV43_Y_oTcsr5ptW3MtzI8hwhMxPbIQK9DKcTtsea7wPVXa5T/s640/Carly+Pearce+-+Every+Little+Thing.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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From start to finish, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Every
Little Thing </i>is one of the best country debuts to come along in the past 10
years. Pearce has one of those voices that can sell anything, from tender
ballads to big hooks, from breakup songs to songs that capture that excitement
and vibrancy of new love, from lonely pleas to sexy come-ons. Even on lesser
songs, like the for-some-reason-a-single “Hide the Wine” or the
catchy-but-formulaic “Color,” the charisma and tuneful beauty of Pearce’s voice
makes sure every moment is enjoyable. When Pearce lends her voice to a knockout
bit of writing, though, the results are magic. It’s not uncommon to hear songs
about the dangers of alcohol or the simple charms of home on mainstream country
records. In Pearce’s hands, though, those messages reach a higher plane. On “If
My Name Was Whiskey,” about a woman begging her lover to quit his addictions
and prioritize her instead, she captures the desperation, vulnerability, and
ultimate heartbreak of the situation. And on “I Need a Ride Home,” she puts
something we’ve all felt into words: the urge, when things get tough, to run
back to a time and place when everything felt safe and low-stakes. And while
heartbreak and sadness undeniably suit Pearce well—the title track, a
piano-driven breakup ballad, even managed to top the female-averse country
charts in 2017—tracks like “Honeysuckle” and “I Dare Ya” are the album’s
highlights, marvelous, euphoric pop-country songs that conjure up the warmth of
summer, the thrill of a new crush, the joy of a windows-down car ride, the
smell of a small town, and the heart-thumping longing of a first kiss.</div>
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77. <b>Turnpike Troubadours </b>- <i>The Turnpike Troubadours</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirLndxa_iAGX5SKRj9zbEwZqokfjvpISML9oE9pgi9Z0pMI_EVhy3R5pip7p1hkUKlpTpWhD8L1nFPeVdHNfIynJ9NEGne363M1M15eC7Jf_OPp9j4QPjAoxAFCmpMIb7mpAxO2PECtAYf/s1600/Turnpike+Troubadours.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirLndxa_iAGX5SKRj9zbEwZqokfjvpISML9oE9pgi9Z0pMI_EVhy3R5pip7p1hkUKlpTpWhD8L1nFPeVdHNfIynJ9NEGne363M1M15eC7Jf_OPp9j4QPjAoxAFCmpMIb7mpAxO2PECtAYf/s640/Turnpike+Troubadours.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Turnpike Troubadours had one of the most heartbreaking
narrative arcs of the decade. They entered it as a promising country band with
major chops in both the songwriting and musical departments. They’re exiting it
with their future in doubt and their frontman mired in troubles of alcoholism,
infidelity, and divorce. It’s possible that there will never be another
Turnpike Troubadours album, which makes this record—their self-titled mission
statement and their ultimate peak—all the more special. <i>The Turnpike Troubadours
</i>opens with one of the most visceral bursts of music this decade: a sweeping
fiddle melody that sounds downright triumphant. The song it heralds, called
“The Bird Hunters,” is a microcosm of everything that makes frontman Eric
Felker one of the sharpest songwriting talents in country music when he has his
wits about him. The way the song folds flashback and memory into its narrative
is as deft as the work of any master short-story writer, but somehow fits into
the mold of a catchy, singalong song. It’s arguably not even the best song on a
record that also features crunchy bar-band rave-ups (the one-two punch of “The
Mercury” and “Down Here”), radiant turn-of-the-season beauties (“Ringing in the
Year”), and small, vulnerable Paul Simon-esque ditties (“A Little Song”). In
fact, the crowning moment is almost certainly “Long Drive Home,” which is among
the most insightful, wry, and devastating accounts of divorce ever put into
song. “I guess what I'll miss the most will be the mornings/The squeak of a hardwood
floor as you start out your day,” Felker begins. When he reaches the song’s
climactic punchline, it’s maybe my single favorite moment in a song this
decade: today’s lovers, Felker muses, aren’t willing to put in the blood,
sweat, and tears that are required to build a lasting relationship—or anything
great, for that matter. “They all wanna be Hank Williams,” Felker surmises;
“They don’t wanna have to die.”</div>
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78. <b>Lori McKenna</b> - <i>The Bird and the Rifle</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmODqg8VR3z_CUwNtRhqmonTBG4x3As7pXi-Pa378bEavjNl2Okap4gjjK13bWVwXH0wB9q7djVdyfjiZj5MHE6z_3paZJv0BcXDriQOsOaBgwAoHINWMnNQOjnNEt4_992UtgSlPUTfu/s1600/Lori+McKenna+-+The+Bird+and+the+Rifle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmODqg8VR3z_CUwNtRhqmonTBG4x3As7pXi-Pa378bEavjNl2Okap4gjjK13bWVwXH0wB9q7djVdyfjiZj5MHE6z_3paZJv0BcXDriQOsOaBgwAoHINWMnNQOjnNEt4_992UtgSlPUTfu/s640/Lori+McKenna+-+The+Bird+and+the+Rifle.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Lori McKenna has always been an incredible poet of the human
experience. On <i>The Bird and the Rifle</i>, she largely turns those
skills
toward small towns and the people who live there. She’s writing about
the
places that highways pass by without a thought, and the characters in
them
whose stories rarely get told. The result is a magnetic and emotionally
wrenching
album—a record that will resonate for anyone who ever grew up away from a
city
with a name everyone knows. Some of the characters long to escape their
surroundings, like the woman in the title track who (metaphorically)
flies the
coop to escape a controlling and abusive husband. Some of them wait too
long to
leave and end up stuck—like the couple in “We Were Cool,” who trade
their
youthful recklessness for the stability of parenthood, only to end up
wondering how their lives might have turned out differently. On “Giving
up on Your
Hometown,” McKenna ponders what it is too lose your hometown while you
are
still living in it. No matter how much a place may feel like its <i>yours</i>,
so many things can combine to wrench it you’re your grasp: years, and economic
ups and downs, and the deaths of loved ones, and the changes in the world at
large. How can we stand up against the onslaught of time, even as it takes the
things we cherish most? McKenna’s songs are wrought with wistful melancholy
that could easily turn to jaded regret. Instead, though, she has another
philosophy on how to live in a tough world that often forgets about the little
people in their little towns: “Hold the door, say please, say thank you/Don't
steal, don't cheat, and don't lie/I know you got mountains to climb/But always
stay humble and kind.”<br />
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79. <b>The Civil Wars</b> - <i>Barton Hollow </i><br />
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It’s not every day you stumble across a new act that you
immediately know is remarkably special. Such was the case with The Civil Wars.
Right from the very beginning of the very first song, it was clear that Joy
Williams and John Paul White were tapping into something special. As
individuals, they were both obviously talented. Their voices were unique and
beautiful enough to carry strong solo material, as they have gone on to do
since. But together, they were more than the sum of their parts. It was like
they crossed over into another plane of being when their timbres entwined. That
alchemy, between Joy Williams’ aching voice and John Paul White’s stormy croon,
made for songs that were haunting, devastating, and altogether exhilarating.
They won their country bona fides on southern gothic beauties like “20 Years”
and “Barton Hollow,” but the song that convinced everyone they were the real
deal was “Poison & Wine.” Even almost 10 years later, it still sounds as
chilling and as devastating as it did that first time. “Your mouth is poison,
your mouth is wine/Your think your dreams are the same as mine”; “The less I
give, the more I get back”; “I don’t have a choice, but I still choose you”; “I
don’t love you, but I always will.” It’s a rich, complex song that sounds
simple, sung with so much affection and resentment and deep, truthful emotion
that you can’t help but be swept under its wake. It’s a song about a
relationship that is, by all accounts, dysfunctional. The couple fights
constantly, to the point where they end up, by the chorus, questioning whether
they even still love each other. But they also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are </i>deeply in love, in a way that makes the way they treat one
another that much less forgivable. It’s a breakup song that sounds like a love
song, and a love song that sounds like a divorce. That dichotomy—between love
and hate, between devotion and abandonment—ultimately came to define The Civil
Wars as a whole, so it’s fitting that “Poison & Wine” remains their
signature song. It lit a match on a fractious flame that could only burn for
a finite amount of time, but that burned like all hell and heaven while it
could. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barton Hollow </i>is the first of
two masterpieces wrought from that tumultuous flame.</div>
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80. <b></b><b>John Fullbright </b>- <i>Songs</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_vvNnU0NFYG8Kj8oBL0Zp7x79PvztCExze-7cZaQ9-R8TGSjGtfXZDMtY0BIvw4nv2fx3dXitd279ESfLSrwN3arUOkMYm1hpb4VDbbS0h9TjbbaLCnvLUjbuZg4BE-z0KJaHbDHdkSh/s1600/John+Fullbright+-+Songs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_vvNnU0NFYG8Kj8oBL0Zp7x79PvztCExze-7cZaQ9-R8TGSjGtfXZDMtY0BIvw4nv2fx3dXitd279ESfLSrwN3arUOkMYm1hpb4VDbbS0h9TjbbaLCnvLUjbuZg4BE-z0KJaHbDHdkSh/s640/John+Fullbright+-+Songs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs </i>might sound
like a lazy album title, but when you hear John Fullbright’s second
full-length, you understand exactly why he chose it. The focus here is on
writing, and in terms of pure songwriting craft, there were very few records
from this decade that measured up to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs</i>.
Fullbright, an ex-member of the Texas country outfit Turnpike Troubadours, has
largely kept a low profile for the past 10 years. He hasn’t released an album
of his own since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs</i>, which
followed 2012’s louder, Grammy-nominated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">From
the Ground Up</i>. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs </i>is the
kind of record that is so good that it could reasonably take five-plus years to
deliver a worthy follow-up. It’s packed to the brim with nuance and melancholy
emotion, with stories that feel like they live in your bones after the first
time you hear them. After sharing this album with my wife, she came back to me
talking about the song that made her weep uncontrollably at her desk at work.
That song was “High Road,” about a farmer killed in a tragic tractor accident
during a rainstorm, and about the future he’d planned with the girl he loved
that disappeared in an instant. It’s one of many sad, sobering moments that play
out on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs</i>. On “When You’re Here,”
Fullbright turns the image of a scarecrow with a bluebird on its shoulder into
an explosive burst of pure pathos. And on “She Knows,” he weaves a tale of a
girl who “knows a thing or two about rain” into one of the decade’s most
unspeakably beautiful ballads, thanks in part to a piano line that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds </i>like a gentle summer drizzle. Had
he been a little more active, Fullbright might have taken his place in the
Americana resurgence alongside beloved songwriterly names like Jason Isbell and
Chris Stapleton. We might have to wait until the 2020s to see that narrative
play out, but at least Fullbright gave us this perfect gift of an album in the
meantime.</div>
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81. <b>Josh Ritter </b>- <i>Fever Breaks</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4tObeM5jzHBScVs1aeiwTQERLfnQT8vJdIxt5ySC7ODAPrTrcr01ge0453uKs6pGEK_UV6W7O594kM2QE4lXjiM1cYM3rkZltNQxXoR0u3VRzXmvSNGbSIqE7n-_zV8JVsC9ZCGDDVE4/s1600/Josh+Ritter+-+Fever+Breaks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4tObeM5jzHBScVs1aeiwTQERLfnQT8vJdIxt5ySC7ODAPrTrcr01ge0453uKs6pGEK_UV6W7O594kM2QE4lXjiM1cYM3rkZltNQxXoR0u3VRzXmvSNGbSIqE7n-_zV8JVsC9ZCGDDVE4/s640/Josh+Ritter+-+Fever+Breaks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Ever since he leveled up on 2006’s <i>The Animal Years</i>,
Josh Ritter has been someone who you could describe fairly as one of the best
songwriters alive. For most of his career, though, Ritter has been something of
an impressionist, writing poetic songs dense with religious imagery, literary
allusions, and boatloads of figurative language. His songs have skewed heavily
narrative at times (“Another New World,” from 2010’s <i>So Runs the World Away</i>)
as well as achingly personal (“Joy to You Baby,” from his 2013 divorce album <i>The
Beast in Its Tracks</i>), but he’s rarely been a chronicler of the times in the
way his early comparisons to Dylan might have suggested. That changes on <i>Fever
Breaks</i>, an urgent and turbulent record deeply informed by the Trump years.
Produced by Jason Isbell and backed by Isbell’s band, The 400 Unit, <i>Fever
Breaks </i>is loud and muscular, a protest rock record that is in terms
indignant (“All Some Kind of Dream,” a stunned, sad survey of just some of the
current administration’s wrongs) and hopeful (“Blazing Highway Home,” about
stumbling down the road toward something better). It is, frankly, everything
you’d hope an alliance of two world-class songwriters would bring about. </div>
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82. <b>A Thousand Horses</b> - <i>Southernality</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfCjEenKP9jbKrsrzeHqOL5QeDNWgeARelKk0yB_AddM0albXKTpt77V7VxDIbnPENSBn9L7xY9H-w88lgGelxSSK-RluSxt6E91Spydcy9HowOsFvJbq9U_FsPkHQGBDBDbnW0T7sXVR/s1600/A+Thousand+Horses.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfCjEenKP9jbKrsrzeHqOL5QeDNWgeARelKk0yB_AddM0albXKTpt77V7VxDIbnPENSBn9L7xY9H-w88lgGelxSSK-RluSxt6E91Spydcy9HowOsFvJbq9U_FsPkHQGBDBDbnW0T7sXVR/s640/A+Thousand+Horses.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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In a lot of ways, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southernality
</i>was the album that made me a die-hard country music fan. It wasn’t the
first album that I loved from the genre, nor is it the greatest. But it’s the
album that clued me in to just how much great songwriting was going on in
Nashville, even beyond the buzzed-about “anti-establishment” heroes like
Isbell, Stapleton, and Musgraves. All I needed to know to give the record a
fair, open listen was that Dave Cobb had sat in the producer’s chair. Once I’d
listened to the songs, that was maybe the thing I cared least about. Ever since
I became a music fan, I’ve been obsessed with the idea of a “summertime album.”
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southernality </i>was a pitch-perfect
one: a record of loud guitars and effortless twang that calls to mind the best summer
nights you have ever had. The big hit was “Smoke,” an indelible anthem of longing and regret that
lifts the guitar riff from Third Eye Blind’s “How’s It Going to Be,” to
incredible, wistful effect. But in another era—perhaps the 90s, when this kind
of country-rock skyrocketed bands like The Wallflowers up the charts—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southernality </i>would have been a
multi-platinum juggernaut. There might not have been a better summer road trip
song this decade than “Heaven Is Close,” unless it was “Sunday Morning,” or
maybe “Tennessee Whiskey.” And while every country artist writes at least one
tribute to their hometown, few are as affecting as “Where I’m Going,” a coming
home song that pulses with the anticipation of being back in a place you always
loved. This record came into my life at the outset of one of my favorite
summers in recent memory, and it calls back so much of that season: sweltering
runs on hot summer mornings; beers out on the porch of the first house I ever
owned; writing sessions for my first album. I fell deeply in love with country
music that summer, completely reconfiguring my music tastes in a matter of
three short months. Without this album, I’m not sure any of that would ever
have happened.<br />
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83. <b>Taylor Swift</b> - <i>Lover</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzfdZ2c5Pd1VI1rJC_caIUAU57J8QpONn4RqGRX9R0AXCtJy_x9woCkIvtXS8ghc_7nywD3l6KrFdnpXFLL14Dvi0OV30DFz_pmkT2GULdG6oKwBnD1t69m2YPbeL9fpv4hA3__EfZhCd/s1600/Taylor+Swift+-+Lover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzfdZ2c5Pd1VI1rJC_caIUAU57J8QpONn4RqGRX9R0AXCtJy_x9woCkIvtXS8ghc_7nywD3l6KrFdnpXFLL14Dvi0OV30DFz_pmkT2GULdG6oKwBnD1t69m2YPbeL9fpv4hA3__EfZhCd/s640/Taylor+Swift+-+Lover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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After <i>Reputation</i>, I didn’t think I’d ever love another
Taylor Swift album—at least, not in the way that I’d loved <i>Red </i>or <i>1989
</i>or <i>Speak Now</i>. The early singles from <i>Lover</i>—“ME!” and “You
Need to Calm Down,” both truly ghastly songs—did nothing to assuage this
feeling. But <i>Lover </i>is everything that <i>Reputation </i>and those songs
weren’t: intimate, smart, and fun. <i>Reputation </i>took a big turn in the
direction of modern mainstream pop, co-opting elements of hip-hop and R&B
for an album that didn’t fit Taylor’s skillset at all. <i>Lover </i>is still a
pop album—this isn’t the “return to country” release that will inevitably arrive
at some point in the next 10 years—but it scales things back from the brash,
blaring, inorganic production of <i>Reputation</i>. These songs feel more
rooted in singer-songwriter territory, and Taylor lets the instrumentation be
more varied than the bevy of synths that have dominated her pop era so far. More
importantly, Taylor’s back to her relatable, diaristic writing style. In many
ways, it’s a sequel to <i>Red</i>. That album was about the love stories that
don’t last. “There’s something to be proud of about moving on and realizing
that real love shines golden like starlight, and doesn’t fade or spontaneously
combust,” she wrote in the liner notes. “Maybe I’ll write a whole album about
that kind of love if I ever find it.” <i>Lover </i>is that album. It captures
the way things feel when you know you’ve found the one: “Paper Rings” is the
sugar rush of the honeymoon stage; “False God” is the bedroom sex jam;
“Daylight” is the wedding vow; “Lover” is the wedding slow dance. In between
these moments, Taylor sprinkles in songs about other things: a scathing
indictment of sexism on “The Man”; a heart-shattering lullaby about her mom’s
cancer battle on “Soon You’ll Get Better”; a peerless summer jam on “Cruel
Summer.” The result is a collection isn’t quite as cohesive—or quite as
great—as <i>Red</i>, but that still acts as a welcome spiritual successor to the
greatest album Taylor Swift ever made.</div>
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84. <b>Kelsea Ballerini</b> - <i>Unapologetically</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihehkZz8_Y-uyjd6Lc_LaNSww1m82Q3_0_tEXWTSOFsRuiVCm9kariDGtUFVJT7tPsO-XIqo8ZNJCK3vjXe1Ibb1zLR1dXMA-ajcSSN5NZXfJZiJXW_i7UVTtLFvWrFSv5fItv9VorMCmF/s1600/Kelsea+Ballerini+-+Unapologetically.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihehkZz8_Y-uyjd6Lc_LaNSww1m82Q3_0_tEXWTSOFsRuiVCm9kariDGtUFVJT7tPsO-XIqo8ZNJCK3vjXe1Ibb1zLR1dXMA-ajcSSN5NZXfJZiJXW_i7UVTtLFvWrFSv5fItv9VorMCmF/s640/Kelsea+Ballerini+-+Unapologetically.jpg" width="640" /></a><i><br /></i></div>
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On her first album, the fittingly titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Time</i>, Kelsea Ballerini showed
a lot of promise. She knew her way around a hook, her storytelling was strong,
and her voice had enough spirit and sass to give her the X-factor. What she
didn’t have, yet, was a cohesive and unified vision for the kind of album she
wanted to make. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Time</i>, as
enjoyable as it is, is a grab bag of songs loosely structured around the
trials, tribulations, and joys of coming-of-age. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unapologetically</i>, in contrast, is a deliberate song cycle, an album
that charts the steps from a breakup to a new love over the course of 12
tracks. It’s Ballerini’s take on Taylor Swift’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i>, another album that captures just how much you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel </i>when you are young and first
discovering the way love and relationships can have you floating on a cloud one
day and crashing down to earth the next. Ballerini writes about the journey—an
autobiographical one that spans a year of her own life—with wit, sensitivity,
and a writerly craft that has clearly developed since her last album. She
compares a boy leaving a trail of broken hearts to an undertaker filling in
plots in a graveyard (savage!) and muses about how, as much as she misses her
old beau, she misses the person she had to stifle to appease him even more.
There’s no mercy here: not for the guy who thinks his ex-girlfriend is showing
up at the same bar he’s at just to make his life hell, and certainly not for the
faded-glory douchebag who can’t move on from high school. Ballerini herself
pegged the record as a love album—the song “Unapologetically” is a starry-eyed
admission of infatuation—but the best thing about the record is how it takes breakup
album tropes and unapologetically flips them on their head. There’s the usual
sadness, but it gives way to self-discovery—just like the bitterness gives way
to sober, analytical assessments of why that old relationship didn’t work. The
result is an insightful exploration of womanhood, of feminism, of independence,
of dysfunctional relationships, and of partners who are good for us and bad for
us. By deconstructing breakup songs and love songs, Ballerini made one of
decade’s best displays of either form.</div>
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85. <b>Tyler Hilton</b> - <i>Indian Summer</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3ClN0jaz82x2vLnq1eA9o0xOzW7AbH0XGtYPmXxSeEq7B590JLxE_i1SII4jWNbHacOOc1tuRIKd8KXFq05LBMoO7PmaJTdg3L4i1ZHMdSrgang6kKLvJPiisjw6PdIYPdRHW4VaCKl9/s1600/Tyler+Hilton+-+Indian+Summer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3ClN0jaz82x2vLnq1eA9o0xOzW7AbH0XGtYPmXxSeEq7B590JLxE_i1SII4jWNbHacOOc1tuRIKd8KXFq05LBMoO7PmaJTdg3L4i1ZHMdSrgang6kKLvJPiisjw6PdIYPdRHW4VaCKl9/s640/Tyler+Hilton+-+Indian+Summer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Some people love sports movies. Some people love medical
procedural TV shows. I love summer albums. It doesn’t matter how many times I
hear the tropes or revisit the same concepts. There’s just something about
albums written for summertime that will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>be
wheelhouse for me. Tyler Hilton’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Indian
Summer </i>is a bullseye for that sensibility. “One More Song” is about a
summer night with a girl that stretches all the way into morning, just talking
and laughing and kissing and reminiscing. “That Kind of Night” is about a
riotous, drunken bonfire with all your friends—the kind of raucous, late-night
celebration that can only happen in a youthful summertime when nobody has any
big responsibilities. “Indian Summer” is about a summer fling that can last a
little bit longer thanks to an unseasonably warm autumn. And that’s just the
first three tracks! In these songs, Tyler Hilton distills so much of what it is
to be young and in love and clinging to July and August like they might never
come again. There’s something about summertime that makes music sound grander,
beer taste better, love feel more romantic, and nights feel more full of possibility. This album,
in 36 minutes of spartan acoustic-and-piano-driven songs, captures that
X-factor of the season as well as any music released in the past 10 years. </div>
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86. <b>Matt Nathanson</b> - <i>Show Me Your Fangs</i><br />
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Even by Matt Nathanson’s standards—he once told me he likes
to make albums with “great topography”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Show
Me Your Fangs </i>is all over the place. It’s a beautiful mess of a record, an
album with euphoric peaks so high and emotional valleys so low that you almost
question how all the songs made it onto the same album. “Gold in the
Summertime” is as jovial as feel-good, warm-weather anthems get, complete with
a soulful horn section and lyrics about rooftops in SoHo and Prince on the
radio. But then there are songs like “Disappear,” about a self-destructive
person with the ability to ruin even the best and most stable things in his life,
or “Playlists and Apologies,” about how mixtapes and professions of love can
curdle into something a whole lot uglier when a relationship ends badly. The
album loses points for its whiplash mood, but wins them back for some of Matt’s
sharpest songwriting. The hooks are off the charts (tracks like “Giants” and
“Show Me Your Fangs” are crowd-pleasing sing-alongs for the ages), and the
lyrical work is witty, honest, self-deprecating, and unique. Only Matt
Nathanson could take a song inspired by a dream about Bill Murray and turn it
into a quirky and sad love song about cherishing the things that really matter in life.
It all works so well that the lack of cohesion hardly matters. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Show Me Your Fangs </i>is an album for the
playlist generation, where moods change as fast as songs and where uniformity
might be mistaken for uneventfulness. Every time I spin the vinyl, I’m
astonished at how well it plays from start to finish.</div>
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87. <b>Tyler Childers</b> - <i>Purgatory</i><br />
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How much of youth is governed by the id? By basic,
instinctual drives? By the push to prioritize one’s self—one’s pleasures, one’s
instant gratification—over responsibilities or better judgments? <i>Purgatory </i>seems
to answer that question with the most obvious answer: just about all of it. <i>Purgatory
</i>is an album about growing up, told almost in real-time. The first
three-quarters of the album are dominated by characters for whom the id always
wins out. The narrator in “Swear (to God)” is
nursing a monster hangover from a night of “fierce abandon.” The protagonist
in “Feathered Indians” nearly blows his chance with a religious gal when he
comes over for a makeout session “too fucked up to get back home.” Sometimes,
the ends of these tales are even darker, like in “Banded Clovis,” where a
desperate, opiate-addicted treasure hunter kills a friend over an ancient
arrowhead sure to fetch a few dollars. This album is youth in all its wildness
and unpredictability. Sometimes, that wildness proves to be little more than
fuel for fondly remember tales. Sometimes, it leads down deeper rabbit holes,
where the innocent chaos of youth gives way to something more sinister.
Childers, who grew up in Appalachia and who has seen some of the most vicious
effects of the opioid crisis firsthand, knows how that second script can play
out. The fact that he calls his coming-of-age album <i>Purgatory </i>is no
mistake, because for a lot of modern teens and twentysomethings, those years
between youth and adulthood prove to be treacherous. Childers manages to get
out alive, finding his way to deeper self-reflection and understanding
(“Universal Sound”) and ultimately to enduring love (“Lady May”). But what
makes <i>Purgatory </i>a masterpiece is how it flirts with the possibility of
going off the path and never finding your way back, as so many don’t.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
88. <b>Matthew Mayfield</b> - <i>A Banquet for Ghosts</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx3FcSqGXP8ox5yNpw46OxXJRrxNdflKZRoESAKkDAVg3PrGFXQCkkqVyfYsU6SWGu51bMXQl5rzX6WPx8CLEk5Bf980zAgT1uC3_r3LvtG9ctDA0_rURxGo0x5suXcUdL71QuEq5GDrA/s1600/Matthew+Mayfield+-+A+Banquet+for+Ghosts.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx3FcSqGXP8ox5yNpw46OxXJRrxNdflKZRoESAKkDAVg3PrGFXQCkkqVyfYsU6SWGu51bMXQl5rzX6WPx8CLEk5Bf980zAgT1uC3_r3LvtG9ctDA0_rURxGo0x5suXcUdL71QuEq5GDrA/s640/Matthew+Mayfield+-+A+Banquet+for+Ghosts.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Sometimes it’s nice to luxuriate in solitude. In melancholy.
In regret. In sadness. Not for too long: maybe just an hour, or a day, or a
weekend. But every once in awhile, it can be a relief just to get away from
everyone and everything and be alone with your thoughts. <i>A Banquet for
Ghosts</i>, to me, has always been an album about that kind of loneliness: the
kind that’s self-imposed and maybe even desired. It’s leaving a party and
feeling the relief in your chest as you climb into your car in the pouring rain
and drive home to an empty house where you can just <i>be</i>. Where you can
hold a banquet with all your thoughts and fears and regrets and
could-have-beens. Songs like the ones on this album, fragile acoustic things
with big cathartic builds, are the most fitting soundtrack for these moments.
Mayfield seems to spend most of the album thinking about a girl that’s gone.
There are flitters of hope that she might come back: on “Always Be You,” she
calls out of the blue after two years of silence, asking to talk. But mostly,
she’s the one who got away, and Mayfield is content with letting her be just that.
He’s okay with her being a ghost that he can think about fondly when he’s
luxuriating in <i>his </i>solitude. These songs build a fortress out of that
solitude, a place where the melancholy vulnerability of soft lullabies like
“Beautiful” and “Safe & Sound” feels like a warm blanket in a candlelit
room, as the rain lashes the windows outside. When the rain stops, you’ll have
to pull yourself together and rejoin the world. In the meantime, few things
sound better than this record.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
89. <b>The War on Drugs</b> - <i>A Deeper Understanding</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP5k7iN4bxO6t3fUiY-F49t-fOsNCTkICMATh0CU8q-htQhiqxnlovHICCrl4a2EbY39BC4Hd3UZoCyPg-prbtlNWNQF2fnXHP0K7yk2GuiLSf8ZldaU0fS5dd9Y-J8Sck59zo0ebnqJ3/s1600/The+War+on+Drugs+-+A+Deeper+Understanding.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP5k7iN4bxO6t3fUiY-F49t-fOsNCTkICMATh0CU8q-htQhiqxnlovHICCrl4a2EbY39BC4Hd3UZoCyPg-prbtlNWNQF2fnXHP0K7yk2GuiLSf8ZldaU0fS5dd9Y-J8Sck59zo0ebnqJ3/s640/The+War+on+Drugs+-+A+Deeper+Understanding.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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One of the big debates among indie rock fans this decade is
about which War on Drugs record was better. <i>Lost in the Dream </i>was
anointed as a classic first. Thanks in part to a 2014 release slate that lacked
in major artists or critical-darling releases, <i>Dream </i>got to ride a wave
as that year’s most critically admired LP. In terms of cohesion and flow, it
might even be a masterpiece. But I’ve always held that <i>A Deeper
Understanding </i>is better, if only because the individual songs reach higher
highs. The obvious centerpiece is “Thinking of a Place,” which stretches on for
10 minutes of sublime guitar heroics and scene-setting ambiance. But other
tracks—the ‘80s-Springsteen pop blast of “In Chains,” or the post-relationship
life crisis that plays out in “Holding On”—stand among the most thrilling and
visceral rock music anyone made this decade. For me, this record is a reminder
of a few days spent with a very good friend who I don’t see enough. We became
like brothers in college and he moved to London shortly thereafter. Right
around when <i>A Deeper Understanding </i>dropped, he came to visit my wife and
I. I remember going out to breakfast the morning after drinking way too many
beers together and before ultimately going our separate ways, knowing we
probably wouldn’t see each other for at least a year. “You can be free,
sometimes brave/Sometimes all you want to do is run away,” sings Adam
Granduciel in “You Don’t Have to Go,” this album’s final track. Saying goodbye,
driving away, bidding another long unpredictable farewell to a friend I used to
see everyday: those moments were painfully melancholy, and these songs seemed
to do them justice.</div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
90. <b>Chris Stapleton</b> - <i>From A Room (Volumes 1 and 2)</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0beQpobiwORmvXrjQupft9ALadyjJkE2lKio8oCydeBbPX-KS50jxlEi270HSigEb2ync5f3EtfAx_A6eev1lqie-IMjSvP7AFPbu-VlHGAiqvsw0Cn4WWM4m45R7dJ_p2-kWtGRtJUs/s1600/Chris+Stapleton+-+From+A+Room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0beQpobiwORmvXrjQupft9ALadyjJkE2lKio8oCydeBbPX-KS50jxlEi270HSigEb2ync5f3EtfAx_A6eev1lqie-IMjSvP7AFPbu-VlHGAiqvsw0Cn4WWM4m45R7dJ_p2-kWtGRtJUs/s640/Chris+Stapleton+-+From+A+Room.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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After <i>Traveller</i>, Chris Stapleton could have released
a collection of 18th century Irish folk songs and had it go number one on the
country charts. His brand was so hot in 2016 and 2017 that he legitimately
could do no wrong. I’m not sure what I expected from his sophomore album, but
it wasn’t <i>From A Room</i>. On the one hand, the album was a flex: not many
artists have the power to release what is effectively a double album—albeit,
two albums released at two different times, a few months apart—as their second
major move as an artist. The fact that Stapleton did this roughly two years
after <i>Traveller </i>launched to niche acclaim but minimal sales was nothing
short of incredible. On the other hand, the actual songs on <i>From A Room </i>are
about as bare banes as you can get. A fair few of the tracks have nothing but
Stapleton’s voice and an acoustic guitar, and even the ones that go a bit
“bigger” still feel small and no-frills. At the time, it was thrilling just to
hear Stapleton’s voice on another collection of songs. Almost three years
later, <i>From A Room </i>feels weirder by the month. Legend has it that
Stapleton wrote no new songs for either of these records, and just relied on
the tunes he already had in the bank. That’s both a testament to the depth of
his songbook—imagine sitting on something like “Scarecrow in the Garden” or
“Broken Halos” (Stapleton’s first number one hit) and not releasing it—and a
missed opportunity for what Stapleton could have done at what will likely prove
to be the peak of his powers. Still, <i>From A Room </i>is a masterclass of
no-nonsense craft—a collection of well-written, incredibly well-sung songs (no
track from this decade has quite the vocal gravitas of “Either Way,” for
instance)—that call back to an era when even albums from big superstars weren’t
meant to be events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">91. <b>Parker Milsap</b> - <i>The Very Last Day</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFyTXtKMns84I7nB38pkI1IFuEaWNzfXAE7aANxP8n8u7NPB4hmJZpwnr6RVP2byaFo0ter0E1BA5f-6pUMPUq2FD1cgL33IFMIytqOFZSvSP2N0gQEOtQm8ZnNNWSWGOzkVDAOooX3xo/s1600/Parker+Millsap+-+The+Very+Last+Day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWFyTXtKMns84I7nB38pkI1IFuEaWNzfXAE7aANxP8n8u7NPB4hmJZpwnr6RVP2byaFo0ter0E1BA5f-6pUMPUq2FD1cgL33IFMIytqOFZSvSP2N0gQEOtQm8ZnNNWSWGOzkVDAOooX3xo/s640/Parker+Millsap+-+The+Very+Last+Day.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It’s the end of the fucking world; let’s have a good laugh
about it. That’s more or less Parker Millsap’s attitude on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Very Last Day</i>, the most thrillingly apocalyptic album of the
decade. It’s also one of the most prescient. Released in the spring of 2016, in
the midst of a soul-deadening election year that would end with a caricature of
a human being on the throne, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Very
Last Day </i>made humans look as stupid and misguided as we’ve spent the past
three and a half years proving ourselves to be. In “Heaven Sent,” a son lays
out an entreaty for his father—a preacher—to still love him even though he’s
gay. We don’t find out what happens, but we can guess: the dad chooses his precious
faith over his own flesh and blood. That much is signaled by the very next
song, the title track, where the world meets its end and the religious zealots
have a rude awakening: this ain’t no rapture and God’s not sweeping down in his
chariot to save you. No, Millsap’s apocalypse isn’t anything meaningful or profound;
it just means we finally succeeded in blowing ourselves up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Very Last Day </i>is packed with
similarly dire scenes, whether it’s a desperate and forgotten veteran holding
up a convenience store so that he can feed his family (“Hands Up”) or Literal Satan
inviting a girl to climb into his car for a pleasure cruise (“Hades Pleads”).
By the end of the album—and by the end of the year in which it came out—the
only natural course of action might be to what the narrator does in “A Little
Fire”: strike a match and leave everything burning in your rearview as you
drive away. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">92. <b>Keane </b>- <i>Strangeland</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodNtr2g9kTba6RpygtpLxjoZgiGmkokS3K8W7aEwsYNntbWqbAeYVzypo2ObGP31depHlG5L0fgfKx39S00HdEHC9teP_p3_1NwWlqLaR-9wmVbre7MzrMosTReq52G6x6l5YEcJCWoix/s1600/Keane+-+Strangeland.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodNtr2g9kTba6RpygtpLxjoZgiGmkokS3K8W7aEwsYNntbWqbAeYVzypo2ObGP31depHlG5L0fgfKx39S00HdEHC9teP_p3_1NwWlqLaR-9wmVbre7MzrMosTReq52G6x6l5YEcJCWoix/s640/Keane+-+Strangeland.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
<br />
Keane never got enough credit. Early on, they weren’t cool
enough. The indie kids preferred The Strokes and Arcade Fire, while the more
mainstream-leaning rock fans latched onto The Killers. What kind of time did
anyone have for some “wussy” piano rock band? Funnily enough, all these years
later, the estimation about Keane seems to have come back around. When Kacey
Musgraves covered “Somewhere Only We Know” in 2018, a lot of people came out of
the woodwork claiming to love the song, as well as the album it came from. Now,
with a reunion in progress and a new album out, maybe Keane will
finally get their due for the catchy, heartfelt, super-durable songs they made
back in the mid-2000s. If so, I hope the renaissance includes a re-estimation of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strangeland</i>, one of the decade’s most
overlooked gems. More stately and grandiose than the band’s earlier work, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strangeland </i>sounds like someone put
Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, and U2 in a blender and turned it on. The songs
are soaring, massive, and impossibly catchy, from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Joshua Tree</i>-esque “You Are Young” to the zippy “On the Road.” Keyboardist
and songwriter Tim Rice-Oxley is still as good at penning big, arena-filling
hooks as anyone has been post-2000, and singer Tom Chaplin still has the big
voice and go-for-broke delivery to make sure they reach the cheap seats. But my
favorite thing about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strangeland </i>is
the surprisingly nuanced lyrical work. The songs are packed with flickers of
memory that carry a real sense of place. See the vivid childhood recollections
of “Sovereign Light Café” or the small-town stagnation of “Neon River,” where
the protagonist’s glory days fade away like graffiti on a bowling alley wall. Arguably
the best song on the record, meanwhile, gets left as a b-side. “Strangeland,”
the song, is an aching tale of two lovers who make a plea to run away together,
stocking the car with maps and mixtapes for the getaway. We don’t know where
they’re going or if they ever get there. We don’t even know what Strangeland
is, though I have my suspicions that it’s a metaphor for growing up. We just
know that they lose each other somewhere along the road, as so many young
lovers do. </div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
93. <b>The Killers</b> - <i>Wonderful Wonderful</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2gTkyOiAWXtq_a2PJhN4aiHvcY25jzqDdL4k0zH7QiQKvcR2vP8oOoitn7MSRObe0zkLw9EgkYcom_uXCOD5tCnD_nhz69wpXSZ2rDMFsetzMhjJuvf7JL3ZSEOAZmXGQ_uZbWalwwqM/s1600/The+Killers+-+Wonderful+Wonderful.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2gTkyOiAWXtq_a2PJhN4aiHvcY25jzqDdL4k0zH7QiQKvcR2vP8oOoitn7MSRObe0zkLw9EgkYcom_uXCOD5tCnD_nhz69wpXSZ2rDMFsetzMhjJuvf7JL3ZSEOAZmXGQ_uZbWalwwqM/s640/The+Killers+-+Wonderful+Wonderful.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The Killers won everyone over by writing songs that
chronicled and glorified the reckless hedonism of Las Vegas nights. When they
turned the spotlight on small towns and rural America on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sam’s Town</i>, a lot of the early believers—critics included—turned on
them for being overly self-serious. What was really happening, though, was that
The Killers were growing up. Fast-forward to 2017 and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful Wonderful, </i>and this band barely even resembles what they
were in those early days. Instead, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful
Wonderful </i>is a record about all the things that probably no one wanted to
think about when they were listening to “Mr. Brightside” and “Somebody Told Me”
in 2004: family; marriage; fatherhood; mental illness; failure; midlife crisis;
political strife. The consequence-free fun of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot Fuss </i>is more than over. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful
Wonderful </i>was inspired by the very real, very serious battle with complex
PTSD that Tana Mundkowsky—Brandon Flowers’ wife—fought in the years preceding
the album’s creation and release. The result is an album that doubles as a
wake-up call. Everyone has their issues; no one is invincible. Those
revelations end up paving the way for the most honest, unguarded music The
Killers have ever made. Flowers was always a somewhat self-conscious
frontman—someone who tended to make reactionary left turns based on the
critical responses to his albums. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderful
Wonderful</i>, he takes big swings, not caring whether they come across as too
earnest or too corny. The two biggest risks—the sweet, tender “Some Kind of
Love,” which features his kids singing to their mother; and the titanic “Tyson
vs. Douglas,” a complex anthem about watching your heroes fall—are arguably the
finest pieces of songwriting in his oeuvre. Who would have guessed that the
same guy who once sang about a “boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend that [he]
had in February of last year” would end up writing such wise, nuanced songs
about being a husband and father?</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
94. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>Yellowcard</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhmuJFDQsFt2HWKfLLxE-TiMgZvKZQ8c-Slrq4B58goPbTby5TQU0VGgOKPyZ4fNWLxjrNnkF0EsZnWPbFSxcCjpna-Nxv0m89A-pv3UetD-_T0XoVgj4HdCoNwkSkaY-rQE6dokS20oc/s1600/Yellowcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhmuJFDQsFt2HWKfLLxE-TiMgZvKZQ8c-Slrq4B58goPbTby5TQU0VGgOKPyZ4fNWLxjrNnkF0EsZnWPbFSxcCjpna-Nxv0m89A-pv3UetD-_T0XoVgj4HdCoNwkSkaY-rQE6dokS20oc/s640/Yellowcard.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There’s something to be said for artists getting to say
their goodbyes deliberately, on their own terms. The first time Yellowcard said
goodbye, with 2007’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls</i>, it
seemed like an afterthought. The band’s fame had petered out and it wasn’t
clear if they were ever going to come back. “We can’t stay in Neverland
forever,” frontman Ryan Key said, as if being in a band had to be a young man’s
game. When Yellowcard came back in 2011, they proved that wasn’t true. The
band’s run this decade was the finest stretch of their career, featuring both
their most creative album (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift a Sail</i>)
and their best (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern Air</i>). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yellowcard</i>, the band’s swansong (for
real this time) is not the best of the bunch, but it’s an awfully good way to
say goodbye. Yellowcard spent most of their career writing songs that captured
the bold freedom of youth. Their last two albums went beyond that, with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift a Sail </i>facing the trials and
tribulations of adulthood and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yellowcard </i>acknowledging
that, eventually, some things just run their course. But the result is an
emotionally gripping and satisfying collection of songs, one that plays almost
like a series-ending book or a big climactic movie finale. It’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avengers: Endgame </i>of the Yellowcard
catalog: an album that compiles everything the band does well into one place,
before paying off every bit of fan service the band had been hinting at for
years. By the time the record spins to a close, with the violin-drenched,
country-tinged lullaby of “Fields & Fences,” it really does feel like it’s
time to bid farewell.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
95. <b>Miranda Lambert</b> - <i>The Weight of These Wings</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZLBvXXx3cndjvzKEg9SKzy3Xj7_YR4tW0DOCo-WaS8a9a0qKgaTWI8YwyFdHyUHKXAUWh9NOJmXHV5TP2UAWpSLVTVTUY1vgQ4GikQ1Cc5X4o2vh2z4o5rq3DvZaujY3Fc9ozqJkd8OW/s1600/Miranda+Lambert+-+Weight.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZLBvXXx3cndjvzKEg9SKzy3Xj7_YR4tW0DOCo-WaS8a9a0qKgaTWI8YwyFdHyUHKXAUWh9NOJmXHV5TP2UAWpSLVTVTUY1vgQ4GikQ1Cc5X4o2vh2z4o5rq3DvZaujY3Fc9ozqJkd8OW/s640/Miranda+Lambert+-+Weight.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Most double albums are exercises in excess, or hubris, or
ill-advised experimentation. Oddly, when Miranda Lambert tried her hand at the
form, it was to make something more honest, more intimate, and altogether
smaller-scale than the music she’d made in the past. That may sound like a
contradiction, because how can a 24-song, 95-minute song cycle possibly be
described as “small scale”? But Lambert made this album in the wake of her
divorce, from fellow country superstar Blake Shelton, and it’s mostly comprised
of sad, contemplative songs. Lambert made her name on scorched-earth breakup anthems
wrought from gunpowder, lead, kerosene, and broken hearts. When her marriage
crumbled, though, she succumbed to the same sadness and melancholy that the
rest of us feel at the ends of the relationships we really thought were going
to last. She gets behind the wheel of a car and drives, with no clue where
she’s going but with a mind set on running. She stumbles home from a hookup in
the harsh morning light, knowing that she’ll be back seeking solace from her
loneliness the next night. And she wishes, with complete earnestness, that she
didn’t have a heart that could hurt this badly. In between, there are moments
of levity: songs about drinking until closing, and rocking cheap sunglasses, and
missing the good ol’ days, and having out-of-this-world sex. But <i>The Weight of These Wings </i>ultimately
succeeds because the ballads hit so hard and cut so deep. On this record,
Lambert turned her broken heart into an epic-length blockbuster, and made one
of the great country albums of the decade as a result.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
96. <b>Twin Forks</b> - <i>Twin Forks</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFjaDCHJmldG57EwCRdJezsoSCYK1sOE4QlLIvU2RMolRLTQBJ6efseeA2OW6MWePZhTqhSRlMDmRM_tCxhfN5Zia2E1jQrNCdmpYaOLpb1QpIfj0V9Eq7B_8Fhpb4jj2HLmE1ZaODUbC/s1600/Twin+Forks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFjaDCHJmldG57EwCRdJezsoSCYK1sOE4QlLIvU2RMolRLTQBJ6efseeA2OW6MWePZhTqhSRlMDmRM_tCxhfN5Zia2E1jQrNCdmpYaOLpb1QpIfj0V9Eq7B_8Fhpb4jj2HLmE1ZaODUbC/s640/Twin+Forks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In my teenage years, I gravitated toward the music of Dashboard
Confessional because of the angst. Chris Carrabba had a knack for making
heartbreak and sadness sound noble and romantic. I figured that, eventually,
those songs would get me through breakups. That never really happened. Instead,
Carrabba’s music ended up serving as a surprising through line to my love story
with my wife. The night I realized I was in love with her, “Dusk and Summer”
was playing. So, fittingly, when we finally got married, four years into our
relationship, it was Carrabba who was there to provide the soundtrack. As the
frontman for Twin Forks, Carrabba traded the angsty emo of Dashboard for the
twangy, feel-good folk-pop jams of The Lumineers and Mumford & Sons. The
difference was Carrabba’s writing. Always such a deft chronicler of matters of
the heart, Carrabba built <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twin Forks </i>into
arguably the decade’s ultimate summer-in-love album. Tracks like “Can’t Be
Broken,” “Back to You,” “Kiss Me Darling,” “Something We’ll Just Know” and
“Cross My Mind” are impossibly catchy love songs that call to mind swooning
summer flings set against the backdrop of small beachside towns. The songs are
so effortlessly infectious that it’s difficult to believe this record didn’t
somehow become a smash—whether as part of the early-decade folk-rock revival or
on the radio in the summer-loving country music format. For my wife and I,
though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twin Forks </i>was like a photo
album of the summer we got married. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
97. <b>U2 </b>- <i>Songs of Innocence</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The legacy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of
Innocence </i>will always be tarnished by the way in which it was released to the
world. In partnership with Apple, U2 gave the album away to every single iTunes
user. Apple meant it as generosity. U2 meant it as a way to keep rock ‘n’ roll
grandiose and universal in an era where neither of those terms applied to much
rock music. Both of those intentions backfired. Twitter savaged both brands for
their hubris, in thinking that everyone even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted </i>a U2 album. Plenty of people thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs of Innocence </i>was an invasion of privacy in the form of an
album, thanks to the fact that the album just appeared on users’ iPhones
without warning or consent. All these factors bogged down what is, on the
whole, a very strong set of songs. When <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs
of Innocence </i>arrived in the fall of 2014, U2 had been away for the better
part of six years. Hearing them again, in any form, would have been a
pleasure—at least to me. But even I was pleasantly surprised by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Innocence</i>, which took the complacency
you would expect from a band almost 40 years into their career and threw it out
the window. Here was the most personal and autobiographical album that Bono,
The Edge, Adam Clayton, and Larry Mullen, Jr. had ever made together. It’s an
album about youthful hopes and adolescent rage; about kids and their
relationships with their parents; about friendships and young love; about home
and what it takes to leave it; about violent neighborhoods and family
tragedies. Most of all, it’s about four guys who found their way together as
young lads and somehow stayed together for the next four-plus decades. Musically,
the album is neutered somewhat by too-clean production from the likes of Ryan
Tedder and Danger Mouse. In trying to make the songs palatable for modern pop
radio, U2 dulled the edge of what should have been their dirtiest, thrashiest,
most urgent album since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War</i>. But the
songs are too strong to be undone by something so simple as production, and
tracks like “Every Breaking Wave,” “Song for Someone,” “Cedarwood Road,” and
“The Troubles” ultimately resonate as some of the finest work in U2’s storied
career.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
98. <b>The Hotelier</b> - <i>Home, Like NoPlace Is There</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sometimes, albums just feel important. They might not be
your favorite albums, or the albums that seem to say the most about your life,
but you can hear them once and know they are going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">matter</i>. That’s how I felt the first time I heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home, Like NoPlace Is There</i>. There was a
gravity to it, not unlike what I felt the first time I heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transatlanticism </i>or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funeral</i>.
There’s a certain sense of communal catharsis to these records that very
quickly screams “This album is going to save lives.” With The Hotelier, I felt
that X-factor right away. “Open the curtains/Singing birds tell me ‘Tear the
buildings down,’” Christian Holden bellows at the top of the record, on a song
called “An Introduction to the Album.” From those words, you’re in Holden’s
world—a world of sadness and depression and feelings of inadequacy and crushing
loss. The rest of the album keeps you there. It grapples with the death of
friends and thoughts of suicide and abusive relationships and all the toxic
things we try to escape in our lives that just seem to pull us deeper into
their web. It’s a tough listen, and it’s not an album I put on the turntable
very often for that reason. But it’s also a record that turns all its suffering
into a rallying cry and a badge of honor. Here, The Hotelier were inviting
everyone who’d suffered similar things to come and scream their vocal cords
red—to be baptized in the burst of emotional noise and made clean again by the
din. Writing for AbsolutePunk and watching people gravitate toward this album—watching
people let it heal them and save them and keep them afloat—was a remarkable
experience, and something that I’ll always remember. I’m used to music saving
me, because it does it all the time. To be reminded of how music could save other<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>people was heartening, and it
underlined what I thought about this record from the start: that it was going
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">matter</i>.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
99. <b>The Alternate Routes</b> - <i>Lately</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2xIM3kI82UnAq-lyPjFoOqSntpVtVJFI4qzfaFc5PXgBRNqnTZF6NcJVgar0yTX6TgkOKYmEvuEDgdqwT3zyILXuDBOZBK-Rft5D8xL58THgEQAay8c4QFPsgFsJkCE-qpRYyExJ3wEe/s1600/Alternate+Routes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2xIM3kI82UnAq-lyPjFoOqSntpVtVJFI4qzfaFc5PXgBRNqnTZF6NcJVgar0yTX6TgkOKYmEvuEDgdqwT3zyILXuDBOZBK-Rft5D8xL58THgEQAay8c4QFPsgFsJkCE-qpRYyExJ3wEe/s640/Alternate+Routes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
In their earlier years, The Alternate Routes were a
roots-rock band—not so far from what bands like The Wallflowers were doing in
the ‘90s, or from the music The Damnwells made this decade. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lately</i>, they went full U2, delivering a
record packed with sparkly, anthemic, guitar-driven arena rock. It’s their best
album, an example of a young band swinging for the fences and punching above
their weight class, in hopes that their chutzpah will make them superstars.
Unfortunately, The Alternate Routes couldn’t will their way into stadiums,
though that fact had a lot less to do with their talent than it did with this
decade’s hostility toward rock music in general. In another time, “Carry Me
Home”—the album’s proper opener and finest hour—would have morphed into a
generational anthem. It carries the sweep of titanic album openers like “Baba
O’Riley,” or like the first three tracks from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Joshua Tree</i>. It just builds and builds, until it crests like a
wave into a torrent of wordless vocal wails. It’s such an emotional peak that
it threatens to write The Alternate Routes into a corner: how do you follow up
a song like <i>that</i>? But with big, punchy rockers like “Rocking Chair,”
“Stay,” and “Just the Same,” and with tender, aching ballads like “Raincoat”
and “Two of a Kind,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lately </i>somehow
manages to live up to its own larger-than-life commencement. It’s a shame these
guys never got to the big rooms, because their music was absolutely made for them.</div>
<b></b></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
100. <b>The Tallest Man on Earth</b> - <i>The Wild Hunt</i><br />
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The cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wild
Hunt </i>is one of my favorite album covers of the decade. There’s nothing
particularly special about it on first glance. It looks like the kind of shot
you might snap on your iPhone out the window of car as you were riding through
the middle of the rural American nowhere. But I love it for what it captures: the
unbridled freedom and boundless solitude of the road—especially on a cloudy day
as dusk approaches. The music on the album itself conveys a similar feeling: of
leaving everything behind and driving straight off into a storm, never to be
seen or heard from again. There’s so much folklore and myth tied up in that
idea: of prodigal sons and would-be heroes disappearing on pipe-dream odysseys
and maybe never making their way back. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Wild Hunt</i>, Kristian Matsson (the singer-songwriter who performs
under the
moniker of The Tallest Man on Earth) plays up those folkloric myths
every
chance he gets. “Rumor has it that I wasn’t born/I just walked in one
frosty
morn”; “I bend my arrows now in circles/And I shoot around the hill”;
“There's a
boy running downhill to the lowlands tonight/And he's catching the train
to
where he's heard you have been.” Matsson’s wanderers are otherworldly,
immortal, strange, and fascinating. By his estimation, when you leave
home and
embark upon some journey, you leave the shackles of reality behind and
encounter stranger things. Or maybe the wildness of Matsson’s stories is
all
just a metaphor for youth—so colorful and fresh and fascinating in the
moment
that it almost feels alien when you look back on it. The most clarity
comes on
the closing track, when Matsson muses about memories and how “we will
never be
a part of the pictures once taken.” Once those wild hunts of youth are
gone,
you can’t get them back. They live on in your head and become wayward
myths of your own making. But every once in awhile, you might just get
the urge to
get in the car again, and hit that horizon one more time. “Will we ever
confess
what we’ve done?” Matsson asks in the song’s chorus; “Guess we’re still
kids on
the run.” </div>
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101. <b>Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit </b>- <i>Here We Rest </i><br />
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Jason Isbell lived out perhaps the greatest rise from the
ashes narrative of any artist in the 2010s. That narrative started with 2013’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern</i>, a record that is largely
about Isbell’s sobriety, his then-recent marriage, and his newfound perspective
on life. But in a lot of ways, the story begins here, two years earlier. They
say that you have to hit rock bottom to recognize that you have a problem, and
to make the vow to seek help and get better. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here We Rest</i>, Isbell wasn’t quite there yet, but you could sense in
the songs that he was getting close. In particular, “Alabama Pines” sounds like
a bleary-eyed Sunday morning drive the morning after a bender, with a pounding
headache and nothing but the uncomfortable truths in the back of your mind for
company. Having come to Isbell with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southeastern</i>,
I’m not sure how these songs would have played back then: if they shed any
light on what their creator was going through, or what might become of him if
he didn’t clean up his act. In retrospect, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here We Rest </i>sounds like Isbell being honest with himself in his
songs, before he could be honest with himself in real life. “I can’t stand the
pain of being by myself without a little help on a Sunday afternoon,” he sings
in “Alabama Pines,” longing for a visit to the only open liquor store for
hundreds of miles. In “Go It Alone,” he’s realizing how close he’s come to
death, and how far he had to fall to turn over a new leaf. And in “Stopping
By,” he talks about the highway and the families he sees in the cars going the
other way, all with the happiness and connection and fulfillment he’s seeking
and never finding. It’s a sad album, one where the jauntiest tune is a cover song
and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">second </i>jauntiest tune is a
song named after a pain relief narcotic. Looking back, it’s a reminder both of
how far a person can come in a short time, and of how remarkable a songwriter
Jason Isbell always ways—even before he was in the right mind to take full
advantage of his gifts.</div>
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102. <b>Phoebe Bridgers</b> - <i>Stranger in the Alps</i><br />
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<i>Stranger in the Alps </i>is an impossibly sad album. My
favorite track on it is called “Funeral,” which has never failed to absolutely
drain me when I listen to it. It’s a song that captures so much about the way we
think and talk about death: quietly, in whispers, as if trying to keep the
fates from hearing our words and dealing us or someone in our lives a bad card;
recklessly and stupidly, making jokes about killing ourselves and then immediately
feeling bad about them. “Last night I blacked out in my car/And I woke up in my
childhood bed/Wishing I was someone else, feeling sorry for myself/When I
remembered someone's kid is dead.” Those words are so relatable, because we’ve
all been there. We’ve all found ourselves in those moments of self-centered
bullshit, even when tragedies have just rocked our lives, or our communities,
or our nation. Even when we should feel grateful to be where we are and to
have what we have. <i>Stranger in the Alps </i>is a dark listen because
it
forces us to contend with little thoughts like those that might not
necessarily
be comfortable. The songs grapple with mental health struggles, suicidal
thoughts, emotional and physical abuse, and even murder. On the proper
closer, a cover
of Mark Kozelek’s deeply creepy but beguilingly pretty “You Missed My
Heart,” Bridgers locates an unspeakable sense of sadness and futility
amongst scenes of
grisly homicide and execution. What I’ve always said about this album is
that
it’s one of the prettiest things in the world, full of songs about some
of the ugliest
things imaginable. The contradiction there makes <i>Stranger in the Alps </i>an
album that I know will stay with me for a long time—even if it’s sometimes just
too heavy to listen to.</div>
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103. <b>The Menzingers</b> - <i>After the Party</i><br />
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<br />
“Where are we gonna go now that our twenties are over?” So
goes the rallying cry of “Tellin’ Lies,” the raucous opener of <i>After the
Party</i>. It’s also the album’s thesis statement, a question that The
Menzingers spend the next 40-plus minutes trying to get to the bottom of. For
the band and the characters in their songs, turning 30 scans not quite as a
crisis moment, but certainly as a shock to the system. When you’re a teenager
starting college or moving into your first apartment, your twenties seem
huge—even endless. But they go by so fast: a dizzying whirlwind of romances and
songs and half-forgotten nights that seems to be over in about half the time
that your teenage years were. <i>After the Party </i>reaches for perspective on
those years by putting them into a photobook of memories: the youthful
rebellion of “Bad Catholics”; the post-college malaise of “Midwestern States”;
the last-call rhapsodies of “The Bars.” To see your twenties slipping away is
to see that reckless freedom slipping away, replaced by routine and
responsibility. It’s to look back at those old photographs and miss the
memories they depict; to say something like “I was such a looker in the old
days.” But by the end of <i>After the Party</i>, Menzingers frontman Greg
Barnett is singing love songs, thinking about promising the world to a girl.
“After the party, it’s me and you” he sings on the title track, and suddenly,
the idea of being a grown-up doesn’t seem so scary. It turns out that, with the
right co-pilot in the front seat, driving away from the unpredictable wonder of
youth can hold a lot of wonderment of its own.</div>
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104. <b>The Fray</b> - <i>Scars & Stories</i><br />
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Just like Snow Patrol and Keane and all the other earnest
mainstream soft rock bands that made their names snagging coda positions on
episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grey’s Anatomy </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Tree Hill</i>, The Fray were never going
to be cool and were never going to be taken seriously. For listeners who don’t
write them off completely, they are probably known as a singles band—a
designation that is hard to argue with given a resume that includes “Over My
Head (Cable Car),” “How to Save a Life,” “Look After You,” and “You Found Me.” But
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scars & Stories </i>is so much more
than just another album with a couple rafter-shaking singles and a bunch of
filler. Rather than spend their whole label-allocated budget on recording the
album, the guys in The Fray earmarked a lot of the money for this album for
world travel. The songs came naturally from the places the band visited and the
people they met, and the result is a surprisingly searching and poignant album.
Famously, U2 ascended to new heights in the late eighties when their travels
outside of their native land—specifically to America—broadened their horizons,
reshaped their identities, and pushed them to start asking new questions about
politics, spirituality, and life itself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scars
& Stories </i>is The Fray’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Joshua
Tree </i>moment, filled with songs wrought from genuine human struggling,
suffering, and resilience. “1961” is a metaphor for families separated on
either side of the Berlin Wall, while the driving opener “Heartbeat” is a song
frontman Isaac Slade wrote after meeting a determined refugee woman in Rwanda. Even
the closer-to-home songs are surprisingly deep, like “The Fighter,” which tells
the story of a marriage through the lens of a boxing match, or “The Wind,” a
song about guitarist Joe King’s divorce that yearns like “I Still Haven’t Found
What I’m Looking For.” Of course, critics heard what they wanted in the songs:
shallow, corporate, guitar-driven dad rock. And the band seemingly internalized
those criticisms, losing trust in their own songwriting and teaming up with a
bevy of faceless cowriters for the poppy, mostly-bad follow-up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Helios</i>. That album came out in 2014 and
The Fray have been dormant ever since. The “what could have been?” narrative
makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scars & Stories </i>both more
wrenching and more special, a momentary triumph from a band that never got
enough credit and ultimately folded under the cynicism surrounding guitar rock
in the post-2000 world. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
105. <b>Brian Fallon</b> - <i>Painkillers</i><br />
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From 2008 to 2012, Brian Fallon had one of the hottest hot
streaks we’ve seen from any artist this millennium. <i>The ’59 Sound</i>; <i>American
Slang</i>; <i>Elsie</i>; <i>Handwritten</i>. Each of these albums is distinctly
different and masterful in its own way—the work of an artist (and the artists
around him) clearly bursting with inspiration and creativity. 2014’s <i>Get
Hurt</i>—and the coinciding end of Fallon’s marriage—derailed the train. <i>Painkillers
</i>is the sound of Fallon trying to start over, both in terms of his music and
his personal life. The lyrics—especially on the aching, backward-looking closer
“Open All Night”—directly reference the pain of attempting to build a new life
after your old once gets smashed apart by a battering ram. The music is a
retreat, away from Fallon’s patent Springsteen-style rock ‘n’ roll and toward a
collision of classic pop influences (think ‘60s girl groups) and Americana. The
record lacks the thematic cohesion of Fallon’s best work, and it could use a
bit more full-band muscle. But what <i>Painkillers </i>does is sharpen the
melody side of Fallon’s writing. From the beginning, we knew Brian Fallon was a
unique lyricist—willing to pilfer and borrow from his idols, but also more than
ready to wear his heart on his sleeve and tell his own story. His melody
writing was less distinct, which is why records like <i>The ’59 Sound </i>can
feel a bit same-y on early listens.<i> </i>But <i>Painkillers </i>is packed
with huge hooks that stand with some of Fallon’s finest, from the folky stomp
of “Smoke” to the throwback pop of “Nobody Wins.” Those songs start off
Fallon’s second act with a huge amount of promise—even if he’d eclipse them
just a few years later with the more fully-realized <i>Sleepwalkers</i>.<i> </i></div>
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106. <b>Donovan Woods</b> - <i>Hard Settle, Ain’t Troubled</i><br />
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<i>Hard Settle, Ain’t Troubled </i>is a good album that
could have been a masterpiece. As released, it’s a very strong collection of
songs with a handful of towering highlights. “On the Nights You Stay Home” is a
melancholy ditty about how jealousy and suspicion can poison a relationship.
“The First Time” is a wistful look back at first love (and first sex). “Between
Cities” is a dizzying highway drive song about long-distance relationships.
“Leaving Nashville” is maybe the greatest song ever written about the rapidly
changing fortunes of the music industry. There are also two songs that Donovan
Woods released as one-off singles in the year leading up to this album that
didn’t make the record, and those songs are arguably his best work ever. The
first, “Portland, Maine,” finds another long-distance relationship on its very
last legs, sputtering and dying in its tracks as one member musters up the
courage to put it out of its misery. That song ended up getting recorded by Tim
McGraw and put on one of his albums, so at least there’s justification for its
absence from this record. The same can’t be said for “That Hotel,” a piece of
songwriting so heartbreaking, so vivid, and so ingeniously wrought that its
status as a standalone single actually feels like injustice. “That Hotel” takes
place in between the happiness of a love song and the shattered resignation of
a breakup song. There’s been a fight and a separation, but the narrator is
hopeful that things are going to work out. He’s staying in a run-down hotel,
but he’s confident that within a few days, he’ll be moved back in with the girl
he loves and everything will be alright. By the time Woods sings the last
chorus—“And now I know it’s over/But back then I couldn’t tell/I got a one
bedroom apartment now/And I miss that hotel”—you feel like you’ve weathered the
entirety of a heartbreak at his side. The good news is that, in the era of
digital music, it’s easy to actualize an alternate version of this album with
both of those songs included. It’s that version of the album that I’m ranking
here, with those two masterful, perfect songs.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
107. <b>Dierks Bentley </b>- <i>Riser</i><br />
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<br />
At the height of “bro country,” you would almost have
expected an artist like Dierks Bentley to make an album of songs about
backroads, pick-up trucks, and girls in cutoff jeans. While Bentley has always
shown that he is a bit more thoughtful and traditionally-minded than his fellow
pop-country superstars, he’s also shown a willingness to play the game. This
album’s “Drunk on a Plain”—as well as other lesser songs like “Pretty Girls”
and “Back Porch”—lean toward bro country clichés, and in the case of the
former, earned Bentley one of his biggest hits. Listen to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riser </i>as a whole, though, and it’s clear that those songs are
compromises. Written and assembled shortly after Bentley’s father passed away, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riser </i>is imbued with palpable grief, vivid
memory, and deep gratitude. Bentley didn’t even write many of the songs: the
shimmering “Say You Do” was penned by the guys from Old Dominion, while
“Riser”—the track Bentley built the album around—was written by Travis Meadows
and Steve Moakler, both artists you will find elsewhere on this list. But when
Bentley sings these songs, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds </i>like
he wrote them, so thoroughly does he commit to the character and emotion of
them. The ones he did write, meanwhile—“Here on Earth,” about fruitlessly
seeking answers for questions about loss and grief; “I Hold On,” about clinging
to the things that remind you of the people and memories that are gone; “Damn
These Dreams,” about the painful separation that touring musicians feel when
they leave their families behind for weeks or months at a time—are incredibly
heartfelt and deeply nuanced. Throughout, Bentley shirks most of the hip hop
and modern pop influences of the bro country era for other signifiers:
whiskey-soaked southern rock on “Bourbon in Kentucky,” or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All That You Can’t Leave Behind</i>-era U2 on “Here on Earth.” And looking
back, it’s amazing how many up-and-comers Bentley happily shared the stage with
here. Some of the album’s biggest joys are hearing the familiar voices of
future superstars on the bookends: Kacey Musgraves on “Bourbon in Kentucky” and
Chris Stapleton on “Hurt Somebody.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riser
</i>isn’t perfect, and its “compromise” songs get in the way of the flow and
theme. But on the whole, it is an achingly beautiful and gorgeously melodic set
of songs, made in the midst of one of country music’s worst movements.</div>
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108. <b>Death Cab for Cutie </b>- <i>Thank You for Today</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lz81otCSzJTowBtANIQoEj56jWfSQPqlBdACY4XW0zOpXeM3LZsRPgY8rfjY3a5d9R-jeBNsI4zFjjlj-XpIf1I37B17aIzlVCD03prCR42VnT_oCwNplGb9quHdXnQS89GvL91AN-_5/s1600/Death+Cab+-+Thank+You+for+Today.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lz81otCSzJTowBtANIQoEj56jWfSQPqlBdACY4XW0zOpXeM3LZsRPgY8rfjY3a5d9R-jeBNsI4zFjjlj-XpIf1I37B17aIzlVCD03prCR42VnT_oCwNplGb9quHdXnQS89GvL91AN-_5/s640/Death+Cab+-+Thank+You+for+Today.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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For a band like Death Cab for Cutie, it’s hard to sustain a
career. It’s hard to keep a band going in the first place, under any
circumstances—especially now that the industry has largely cratered and made it
impossible for rock bands to find any traction. For a band like Death Cab,
though, the challenge is aging gracefully after being something that a whole
lot of people came to associate with teen and young adult angst. Ben Gibbard
and co. aren’t the only people who have faced this challenge: Chris Carrabba
and pretty much the entire early 2000s emo/pop-punk community have gone through
it too. For Death Cab, though, the struggle might have been even more
difficult, thanks to the fact that they existed somewhere between the
heart-on-the-sleeve intensity of emo and the trendy-white-boy indie-rock of
early Pitchfork. What makes <i>Thank You for Today </i>so terrific is how it ages
gracefully by acknowledging the fact that aging has indeed occurred. Where
Carrabba’s 2018 record (the good-not-great Dashboard Confessional comeback LP <i>Crooked
Shadows</i>) seemed preoccupied with trying to <i>sound </i>young, Death Cab
let the years be a character in these songs. The result is a nostalgic album <i>about
</i>nostalgia: a record that sounds a whole lot like <i>Transatlanticism </i>but
that is meta enough to recognize its own backward-looking theme. There’s a
reason the album ends with “60 and Punk,” about an aging rock star wondering if
he might have been better off <i>not </i>getting his big break all those years
ago. Elsewhere, he looks back wistfully at his summer years and reflects on
what his city looked like before gentrification changed its entire character.
With time racing past, and with everything changing in the blink of an eye,
maybe saying thank you for today is the best any of us can do.</div>
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109. <b>Danielle Bradbery</b> - <i>I Don't Believe We've Met</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUFpKaAQP68Xk1SlwoLTjaMRHb1HCCWaFCicNAu1l2dmFZHtJFQW5HffONmreM7-cHtiJj-gi-Z_2o25glKjOWZz4T89HvIt_FizH9Bzbdco3D7Qv63baY_IcYkZpukoWEsTX4rWE_Fhg/s1600/Danielle+Bradberry+-+I+Don%2527t+Believe+We%2527ve+Met.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUFpKaAQP68Xk1SlwoLTjaMRHb1HCCWaFCicNAu1l2dmFZHtJFQW5HffONmreM7-cHtiJj-gi-Z_2o25glKjOWZz4T89HvIt_FizH9Bzbdco3D7Qv63baY_IcYkZpukoWEsTX4rWE_Fhg/s640/Danielle+Bradberry+-+I+Don%2527t+Believe+We%2527ve+Met.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Don’t Believe We’ve
Met </i>is an album about being blindsided. It’s about those relationships
where the crushes come on fast and hard, where everything moves fast, where the
emotions feel like lightning, and where it all ends like a car crash: suddenly
and destructively. While there’s nothing wrong with the sequencing—or the
positioning of the crowd-pleasing, feel-good “Sway” as the album’s red-herring
commencement—the story of the record actually seems to start on track 8. That
song, called “Hello Summer,” finds the narrator crushing hard on a mysterious
out-of-towner who just so happens to be spending a summer in her orbit. “I fell
in love before he unpacked his bags,” Bradbery sings. You can guess at the
twist: the fling doesn’t outlast the season, and by fall, she’s picking up the
pieces of something that burned hot and then burned out. The rest of the album
is the aftermath: chilly, moody, and surprisingly downbeat. Bradbery won <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Voice </i>as a country singer, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Don’t Believe We’ve Met </i>is closer to
modern pop radio’s sad streak. Tracks like “Potential,” “What Are We Doing,”
“Messy, and “Human Diary” are surprisingly insightful songs about reckoning
with the failings of your relationships and then dealing with the blast radius
when those relationships blow up in your face. Breakups hurt not just because
you lose the person, but also for so many other reasons. They hurt because the
happy memories become tinged with sadness. They hurt because everything you
gave to that person—the stories, the secrets, the whispered truths you could
never admit to anyone else—stay in their hands. They hurt because you lose
their family, and your family loses them. This record grapples intelligently
with all of that collateral damage, in a way so many shallower breakup albums
never even think to attempt.</div>
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110. <b>David Ramirez </b>- <i>We're Not Going Anywhere</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80gpyYz7DZrNLEqIe-u9XWbMjJhZK2AMn6U8bE1dVtCVblYHRDJYRNKgtm5QgdjGat67TBVui-PQvuNTyNchcFdeDMss8P0vgUIe4VRWCIB8pEtnjaLeJD0JMfNf5sww2Iw0-nOEC3TEb/s1600/David+Ramirez+-+We%2527re+Not+Going+Anywhere.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh80gpyYz7DZrNLEqIe-u9XWbMjJhZK2AMn6U8bE1dVtCVblYHRDJYRNKgtm5QgdjGat67TBVui-PQvuNTyNchcFdeDMss8P0vgUIe4VRWCIB8pEtnjaLeJD0JMfNf5sww2Iw0-nOEC3TEb/s640/David+Ramirez+-+We%2527re+Not+Going+Anywhere.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“Where were you when we lost the twins?” Those are the first
words David Ramirez utters on <i>We’re Not Going Anywhere</i>, a haunting and
unsettling album written and recorded in the wake of Trump’s election. On first
blush, you might assume the song—called “Twins”—is about parents losing their
children. It actuality, it’s about September 11th and about the sense of fear and
unease it created in our country that has never truly dissipated. “It was one
of the first times I remember feeling unsafe and without control in a country
that had previously made me feel otherwise,” Ramirez said of the song and 9/11
in general. <i>We’re Not Going Anywhere </i>is about those feelings coming
rushing back 15 years later, renewed by the sharpest political divide that most
of us have seen in our lifetimes. Ramirez—whose father is Hispanic—has gone on
record about the kinship he feels with the minority populations that MAGA
zealots view as “not belonging” in America. This record isn’t all about those
feelings—“Watching from a Distance” is a yearning breakup song that wouldn’t
sound out of place next to “The Boys of Summer”
on a playlist, while “Eliza Jane”
is an Elton John-style character sketch. But the brief moments of political
tension, on songs like “Twins” or the anti-racist protest rock of “Stone Age,”
give the album its heart-pounding urgency. </div>
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111. <b>Matt Nathanson</b> - <i>Last of the Great Pretenders</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMpDQWzOM6QN2B2jM8YNVB13rSk4d6IlwmEfyIFuNeX48aejBX_9fRcrenm4jzfab7GZ4mWVWxyUpsTyoBtfI6Ex66vYl2pj4afwzkR_-_VfDcTeTc906nWvwiBD-kQbMn9EfUvEm2bUv/s1600/Matt+Nathanson+-+Last+of+the+Great+Pretenders.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMpDQWzOM6QN2B2jM8YNVB13rSk4d6IlwmEfyIFuNeX48aejBX_9fRcrenm4jzfab7GZ4mWVWxyUpsTyoBtfI6Ex66vYl2pj4afwzkR_-_VfDcTeTc906nWvwiBD-kQbMn9EfUvEm2bUv/s640/Matt+Nathanson+-+Last+of+the+Great+Pretenders.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last of the Great
Pretenders </i>is Matt Nathanson’s identity crisis album. On earlier records,
he’d been a guitar-slinging pop-rock troubadour, not far from the sonic
stomping grounds John Mayer occupied on his first couple records. After this
album, he would transition into full-on pop savant mode, throwing all his
influences—from Prince to Kanye West to Bruce Springsteen—into a blender to
create his own unique twist on modern pop. Here, he couldn’t quite decide which
of these modes to occupy. Some of the songs—the best songs—reach back to what
he did so well on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Mad Hope </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Love</i>. “Sunday New York Times” is
a gorgeous acoustic heartbreaker that shares some DNA with classic James
Taylor, while “Last Days of Summer in San Francisco” is arguably his best
song—a beautiful, resplendent anthem that captures the bittersweet melancholy
of late August. Elsewhere, though, you can hear Matt itching to venture outside
of his comfort-zone, on thumping, beat-driven jams like “Earthquake Weather,”
“Mission Bells,” and “Kill the Lights.” The resulting collection doesn’t really
feel like a cohesive album, but that’s arguably to its advantage. Instead, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last of the Great Pretenders </i>plays kind
of like the mixtapes you make in college, when your connections with new people
of different social groups, backgrounds, and interests sends your music taste
scattering in all different directions. For Matt, all those musical ideas and
influences end up as a patchwork quilt of sorts, painting his perception of the
city of San Francisco over the course of a tumultuous year. </div>
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112. <b>John Mayer</b> - <i>The Search for Everything</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N1Hvgdzrnunxum3y2empWW1Hjgv2p_1meKAyeGxfHQKdtlfn_xSG1qz6dHYeOp6nwyBGxpEPQOhVw3Xb9KW9YjTaOubotbCqQ046iJx-oyxDU1sevQEinIi5xAACRXrdXFWTqoi7_tFA/s1600/John+Mayer+-+Search+for+Everything.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_N1Hvgdzrnunxum3y2empWW1Hjgv2p_1meKAyeGxfHQKdtlfn_xSG1qz6dHYeOp6nwyBGxpEPQOhVw3Xb9KW9YjTaOubotbCqQ046iJx-oyxDU1sevQEinIi5xAACRXrdXFWTqoi7_tFA/s640/John+Mayer+-+Search+for+Everything.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Throughout his career, John Mayer’s public persona has often
threatened to upend what is appealing about his music. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Search for Everything</i>, though, he let his own fame serve as the
punching bag for the songs. Written and recorded in the wake of yet another
breakup with yet another celebrity starlet—Katy Perry, this time—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Search </i>is the sound of a man grappling
with his own romantic failures. “Can I make a relationship last?” “Will I ever
find ‘The One’?” “Am I even capable of love?” “Why am I the way I am?” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Search for Everything </i>might not
actually be a search for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i>,
but it’s definitely a search for the answers to those questions. They’re
big
questions for anyone to ask, and they lead to an album of breakup songs
that is
sometimes wry and clever, sometimes agitated and nervy, and sometimes
just
downright crushing. The album was undone somewhat by a confusing release
strategy, where Mayer promised 12 months’ worth of four-song EPs and
then only
delivered two of them before dropping the supposed “Part 1” full-length.
We
never got the part two, or the other 10 EPs, and Mayer has only released
three songs since. Add a wacky, incoherent track sequencing and it’s
not surprising
that many wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Search </i>off as Mayer’s
worst album. Strip away all that context, though, and this album has some of the
sharpest, hardest-hitting material that Mayer ever wrote. From the beginning,
one of Mayer’s biggest strengths as a songwriter was his willingness to be
completely honest about his own emotional vulnerability. That’s what made songs
like “No Such Thing” and “Why Georgia” scan as such relatable tales of young
adulthood. It’s why “Stop This Train” is maybe my favorite song ever written
about getting older. And it’s why he can spin a song like “In the Blood,” where
he wonders whether he is genetically predisposed to fail at love. In an era
where pop music seemed to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">less </i>honest
and open, Mayer continued his oversharing tendencies—to brilliant effect.</div>
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113. <b>Chad Perrone</b> - <i>Kaleidoscope </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMBdpN4V6SUvy-Nrvq4S6Ly2TVEN1qNx3HrK8S6sHwZlKzXWkCv5zuqFz_32v-l5CBgi9UT0by54usm1EscWnGEx7Ot-fewfGTC9o02QaVGhvBKKWwvk2pONxDETGmPX1ZPNTnVSKfV7W/s1600/Chad+Perrone+-+Kaleidoscope.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMBdpN4V6SUvy-Nrvq4S6Ly2TVEN1qNx3HrK8S6sHwZlKzXWkCv5zuqFz_32v-l5CBgi9UT0by54usm1EscWnGEx7Ot-fewfGTC9o02QaVGhvBKKWwvk2pONxDETGmPX1ZPNTnVSKfV7W/s640/Chad+Perrone+-+Kaleidoscope.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Young songwriters revel in the pain of failed relationships.
They take those heartbreaks and breakups and relish them, channeling them into
songs that teenagers and twentysomethings can listen to and cry to and sing
along to in the midst of their own romantic disasters. As you get older,
though, the connotations of a breakup song change. It’s not just you and your
crush and your feelings anymore. When you’re young, a breakup maybe means
awkward moments in the halls at school, or difficult juggling acts for your
mutual friends. When you get older, the stakes are higher. A breakup might mean
a called-off engagement and a returned ring. It might mean divorce. It might
mean figuring out what happens to your kids, or your pets, or the house you
shared together. It probably means that your respective families feel the
fallout of losing someone they had started to see as family. There is nothing
to relish in these breakups: no grand catharsis in the songs they bring.
Instead, it’s all a dull aching sadness. It’s a crisis of wondering what
happened to all those years you gave to that person, and of worrying (at least
fleetingly) that you might always be alone. <i>Kaleidoscope </i>traces all
these difficult feelings into one of the most gutting and honest breakup albums
of the past 10 years. It’s an album about seeing the future you had envisioned
with another person completely dissolve in the blink of an eye. It’s about hoping
that you might one day find someone who sees your flaws as something beautiful,
rather than as a liability. It’s about trying to get back out there, only to
find yourself stumbling home at the end of the night, feeling as dejected and
defeated as ever. Most of all, it’s about loneliness, and about how heartbreak
in your 30s or 40s looks a hell of a lot different from heartbreak in your
teens. At 16, a broken heart hurts, but it also feels like a badge of honor. At
36, it can only make you wonder if happiness might not be in the cards for you.</div>
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114. <b>The War on Drugs </b>- <i>Lost in the Dream</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNF1bWQP6TF2DXrj2wbouCwArYdoady3TFUVJRFlCjDVnWNPOAJrDbTd-IERsdxHMA0XKjYZndYMM1OdFpbSBOFH106yqpanWxHl0HV50nPd8osjJFIo8pQeDLrtEyqfJmaP0Owzjx5b9l/s1600/The+War+on+Drugs+-+Lost+in+the+Dream.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNF1bWQP6TF2DXrj2wbouCwArYdoady3TFUVJRFlCjDVnWNPOAJrDbTd-IERsdxHMA0XKjYZndYMM1OdFpbSBOFH106yqpanWxHl0HV50nPd8osjJFIo8pQeDLrtEyqfJmaP0Owzjx5b9l/s640/The+War+on+Drugs+-+Lost+in+the+Dream.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Was it Americana? Was it Bruce Springsteen-style rock ‘n’
roll? Was it guitar hero pyrotechnics? <i>Lost in the Dream</i>, the breakout
album from The War on Drugs, offers all these parallels and more. It is a
thrilling, classic-leaning rock ‘n’ roll album, plucked from the middle of an
era where listeners and critics seemed ready to rebel against the classic rock
canon of old. Somehow, <i>Lost in the Dream </i>still found enough of an
audience to become one of the decade’s 10 or 20 most beloved albums. And
frankly, it’s an album that is hard not to love. The keys glow like molten lava on the
grandiose opener “Under the Pressure.” “Red Eyes” sounds like Springsteen’s ’69
Chevy on nitrous oxide. “Eyes to the Wind” plays like a Segar ballad transposed
into a dreamscape. And “In Reverse” feels like an aimless wander out on the
neighborhood streets of your hometown, way past dark on a summer night. The way
<i>Lost in the Dream </i>hits that balancing act—between the past and now,
between familiar and a little bizarre, between predictable and
unpredictable—makes it one of the decade’s most thoroughly beguiling musical
achievements.</div>
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115. <b>Maddie and Tae </b>- <i>Start Here</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qMUPCHRJUgbZrdTB7v6XwLg26a3FtYuF1ZcJRz1PAf16hsRj8yYLDs3WkUSiwqyF-nDfiiwYUpDoJ5sAemUNcfXK1MPx-_mjBBS590R07f47fg9bwuvF_COLm3I9mfjdw3H6WA-jJ15g/s1600/Maddie+and+Tae+-+Start+Here.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qMUPCHRJUgbZrdTB7v6XwLg26a3FtYuF1ZcJRz1PAf16hsRj8yYLDs3WkUSiwqyF-nDfiiwYUpDoJ5sAemUNcfXK1MPx-_mjBBS590R07f47fg9bwuvF_COLm3I9mfjdw3H6WA-jJ15g/s640/Maddie+and+Tae+-+Start+Here.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Maddie and Tae burst onto the scene with maybe the most
prescient, subversive country hit of the decade. “Girl in a Country Song”
skewered the bro country fad so thoroughly and savagely that it may have
singlehandedly killed it. It directly referenced songs by artists ranging from
Thomas Rhett to Tyler Farr to Blake Shelton to Jason Aldean to the kings of bro
country themselves, Florida Georgia Line. It was bold for a duo of two young,
largely unknown female songwriters to take shots at established superstars, but
it paid off. “Girl in a Country Song” hit the top of the country airplay
charts, and it largely forced the implicated artists to reform—or at least tone
down their blatantly sexist depictions of female characters. It also paved the
way to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Start Here</i>, one of the most
confident and assured mainstream country debuts of the last 10 years. The
barbed wit of “Girl in a Country Song” manifests itself a few other times on
the record, like on “Sierra,” where they try to avoid saying what they really
think about a bully from their high school days; or “Shut up and Fish,” about a
date with a boy who only speaks in pickup lines (until he ends up dumped in the water). But Maddie and Tae’s real
strong suit on this album proves to be a more earnest type of country music.
The bookends, “Waitin’ on a Plane” and “Downside of Growing Up,” are both
poignant coming-of-age stories; “Right Here, Right Now” and “No Place Like You”
are soaring evocations of young love that recall Taylor Swift’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fearless</i>; and “After the Storm Blows
Through” is an incredibly lovely pledge of undying friendship, made all the
more effective by its tight-knit, Dixie Chicks-esque harmonies. Beyond “Girl in
a Country Song,” the album largely went overlooked and Maddie and Tae ended up
spending the next four years fighting to get their second album released. When
you listen back to the songs, it’s remarkable that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Start Here </i>wasn’t a juggernaut. Every single song is a hit.</div>
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116. <b>Kelsea Ballerini </b>- <i>The First Time</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsCX-OOUWdhT3Y_y4NZ6Q9p3U8jdyGTLmHbUYdJRcs8BJyZR-mt3x1inuD1gAaLGWpM_rMdWQLaHtKIEImasrf9C7PKNY5QbSizJM6B8qc5y1-JSfdjsMAPfuXwVXzRXzbDFfm1AWnUlw/s1600/Kelsea+Ballerini+-+The+First+Time.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbsCX-OOUWdhT3Y_y4NZ6Q9p3U8jdyGTLmHbUYdJRcs8BJyZR-mt3x1inuD1gAaLGWpM_rMdWQLaHtKIEImasrf9C7PKNY5QbSizJM6B8qc5y1-JSfdjsMAPfuXwVXzRXzbDFfm1AWnUlw/s640/Kelsea+Ballerini+-+The+First+Time.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When Taylor Swift officially ditched country music in 2014,
there was an opening for a new pop-country crossover starlet. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Time </i>is Kelsea Ballerini’s
application for the job, and it’s a pretty damn good one. The record sent three
singles—“Love Me Like You Mean It,” “Dibs,” and “Peter Pan”—to the top of the
country airplay chart, an unprecedented feat for a female country artist in the
current country music climate. Listen to each of those songs once and you’ll
know exactly why they broke through, despite country radio’s head-scratching
unwillingness to play women. The hooks are massive, Ballerini’s charisma is off
the charts, and the pop element of the “pop-country” mix is very, very heavy.
The criticism, from purists, is that Ballerini is not and never has been a
country artist. Certainly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Time
</i>makes no effort to hide its pop signifiers, whether they’re in the form of
sticky melodies or very modern instrumentation. As a writer, though, Ballerini
couldn’t be further from what pop is right now. She’s an open-hearted,
optimistic, unabashedly reflective storyteller with an eye for crucial details.
Sure, this album blew up because songs like “Dibs” are catchier than literally
anything pop radio played in the past 10 years. But Ballerini’s clearest talent
is her ability to bring you fully into her world. You’re there waiting next to
her in “The First Time” as she scans the driveway for a boy who will never show
up. You’re there in “Secondhand Smoke” as she lies awake in bed listening to
her parents scream at each other downstairs. And you’re there in “Underage” as
she celebrates the warm comforts and fleeting beauty of teenage freedom. Who
cares if Kelsea Ballerini sounds like a pop star? She’s country where it counts
the most: her heart.<br />
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117. <b>Josh Ritter</b> - <i>Sermon on the Rocks</i><br />
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Josh Ritter has always been an exemplary songwriter and a
spectacular lyricist. For most of his catalog, he’s used those skills to make
very pretty, thematically dense folk music. For whatever reason, though, in
2015, he tossed out the rulebook and got weird. The result, <i>Sermon on the
Rocks</i>, is the most singular album of his career. At its core, <i>Sermon
</i>is still a folk album. It’s just that this time, Ritter’s palette is a bit
more extensive. He described the album as “messianic oracular honky-tonk,” but
that description only hits on some of the elements at play here—namely, the
religious satire and the barn-burning Nashville sound that run through much of
the album. But there are also flickers of electronic production and hip-hop
rhythms here, brushing up against Springsteen-esque anthems and old
country-western cowboy mythos. On paper, throwing all those things together on
one album sounds like a wild experiment—one sure to be exciting but unlikely to
yield apexes on the level of previous Ritter triumphs like “Girl in the War” or
“Thin Blue Flame.” But <i>Sermon on the Rocks</i>, for all its satire and wit,
is also a deeply poignant album about growing up in rural middle America. Songs
like “Homecoming” and “Where the Night Goes” are beautiful, intimate snapshots
of young love on dirt roads, in fast cars, or at secluded makeout destinations.
You can grow up and leave those places behind, but the awakenings that happen
in these songs are the kinds of things that stay burned in your mind and on
your soul for life. By making those moments sound like a million different genres
at once, <i>Sermon on the Rocks </i>somehow captures their heart-thumping
excitement as if it was happening to you right now.</div>
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118. <b>Josh Kelley</b> - <i>New Lane Road</i><br />
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Not many albums I’ve heard exude humility and grace the way
that <i>New Lane Road </i>does. Josh Kelley is a fascinating artist, in that
he’s had all sorts of brushes with celebrity and success. He had a few minor
hits in the early 2000s, he’s married to Katherine Heigl, and his brother is
Charles Kelley of Lady Antebellum fame. Despite all this, he’s still somehow
stayed largely under the radar. It’s the kind of narrative that could break a
singer-songwriter down, waiting for his own art to catch on in the way that his
brother’s did or his wife’s did. On <i>New Lane Road</i>, though, Kelley sounds
just about as perfectly content as I’ve ever heard someone sound on record.
This is an album about cherishing the small, simple, beautiful things in your life:
your kids; the songs you love from when you were young; the land you own and
the home you live in with your family; the relationship that isn’t perfect, that
hits bumps every once in awhile, but that keeps on rolling regardless. Kelley
captures these small-scale ideas beautifully, wrapping them in a subtle
throwback texture that evokes the country, folk, and soft rock of the late ‘80s
or early ‘90s. It’s a classic-sounding piece of work, made all the more potent
by the fact that Kelley sings his whole heart and soul into the songs.</div>
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119. <b>Fleet Foxes </b>- <i>Helplessness Blues</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGtMB7Hx8pB4_zw8Cr-rjF2DyfnDe-91egIG5Z6rfTTfa7KggYfqpCGgffN8eBk60NxI-BFYl5NRGg01ZEUDFTkU5O0dNEB2dOO0-d-HyMsMS-mzjPPx0fPgp2KRhVs1Mi6heuAwXk3sCb/s1600/Fleet+Foxes+-+Helplessness+Blues.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGtMB7Hx8pB4_zw8Cr-rjF2DyfnDe-91egIG5Z6rfTTfa7KggYfqpCGgffN8eBk60NxI-BFYl5NRGg01ZEUDFTkU5O0dNEB2dOO0-d-HyMsMS-mzjPPx0fPgp2KRhVs1Mi6heuAwXk3sCb/s640/Fleet+Foxes+-+Helplessness+Blues.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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All of <i>Helplessness Blues </i>is
terrific, building on the pastoral folk tapestries of Fleet Foxes’ debut in
confident and interesting ways. The cacophonous war of sound at the end of “The
Shrine/The Argument” is one example of the band’s bigger, more audacious
direction here, as is the Arcade Fire-sized punch of closer “Grown Ocean,”
which seems tailor-made to ring through arenas. But the title track is the
masterpiece—a track that has established itself as, I think, one of the most
definitive songs of the past 10 years. Few tracks from this decade better
capture the millennial struggle: the yearning to do something great; the apathy
that comes with feeling insignificant; the disillusionment of learning that,
no, you aren’t as unique or special as your parents or teachers told you
growing up. The song taps into a generation’s intense struggle to prove itself
and find its place in the world. It makes you want to say “fuck you” to
everyone and everything and push on regardless. In a year where I suffered a
crushing failure—at the hands of “men who move only in dimly lit halls and
determine my future for me”—this song and its bristling, inspirational message
is something I needed more than I think I ever realized back then.</div>
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120. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>When You're Through Thinking, Say Yes</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVenkhrwFt7Jqg64RLBeGrQ53V3TSNk9QJv96-Nj-_VK1LOSmcqHBy_AEj4mBPLJxfNJEjjZn0EGSYgdWHXV_AJgvifHQB9B8ux9agTMfSROxCBK54NWHu0CxbiQl1Yn7hMpoDPJQGJKwG/s1600/Yellowcard+-+When+You%2527re+Through.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVenkhrwFt7Jqg64RLBeGrQ53V3TSNk9QJv96-Nj-_VK1LOSmcqHBy_AEj4mBPLJxfNJEjjZn0EGSYgdWHXV_AJgvifHQB9B8ux9agTMfSROxCBK54NWHu0CxbiQl1Yn7hMpoDPJQGJKwG/s640/Yellowcard+-+When+You%2527re+Through.jpg" width="640" /></a><i><br /></i></div>
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Yellowcard were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always
</i>a summer band. For those of us who grew up or came of age listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ocean Avenue </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls</i>, they were the sound of beaches and freedom and full
sunlit days without a care in the world. The first time I heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When You’re Through Thinking, Say Yes</i>,
though, Michigan was still locked in what felt like an endless winter. I had a
month left on the clock for my sophomore year of college, and I felt like I’d
never needed a summer vacation more. Nearing the end of an awful semester,
feeling the strain of a long-distance relationship, and ready to melt back into
the embrace of home, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When You’re Through
Thinking… </i>sounded incredibly poignant to me. It was a reminder that,
no
matter what—no matter how many bad days I had or how dreadful my grades
got or how
miserable I was with my job as an RA—summer was out there. It was a
concrete
thing that existed, that had come before and would come again. I
remember,
vividly, trying to will the summer into being a little sooner, driving
around
in my little Honda Civic in legitimate snowstorms blasting “With You
Around”
and “Soundtrack.” The cognitive dissonance was incredible, but it
somehow only
made these songs sound better. That’s the funny thing about summer
songs: when
you listen to them in summer, you take them for granted. They sound like
throwaways, like background music to be played at parties, or to be
half-drowned-out
by the roar of an open window in a speeding car. But when you hear them
as I did
that spring, when I was yearning so hard for the sense of freedom and
youth
they captured, they pierced me right to my soul. One of my top 10
favorite
music memories from this decade was climbing into the car when the end
of the
school year finally wound around—when all my classes and exams and job
obligations were finished and I could set out toward home at last. I
made a
point of playing this album first, and as “The Sound of You and Me”
kicked in
to start the journey, I felt an immense weight off my shoulders. “I’ve
never
been more ready to move on,” Ryan Key sang. I can count on one hand the
lyrics that have felt more apt for specific moments of my life.</div>
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121. <b>The Tower & The Fool </b>- <i>How Long</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiltVU7cWUzV-ZfAbyWPd4zh1lQoU1UmtQPyWps9dkO5wkH3qIt_k_nXTYO6RJSvAjlGHiqaOmu7_i7BcunOdlTxekqc_Kmp46w9a75rM6rS3A3S0AA8j0hwOXefrE_VA_Im4QgztpT5S/s1600/The+Tower+and+the+Fool+-+How+Long.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiltVU7cWUzV-ZfAbyWPd4zh1lQoU1UmtQPyWps9dkO5wkH3qIt_k_nXTYO6RJSvAjlGHiqaOmu7_i7BcunOdlTxekqc_Kmp46w9a75rM6rS3A3S0AA8j0hwOXefrE_VA_Im4QgztpT5S/s640/The+Tower+and+the+Fool+-+How+Long.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How Long </i>is one of
the great forgotten records of the past 10 years. Released in the spring of
2012 by Run for Cover Records—a label known for their role in the emo revival—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How Long </i>was a little too early to
capitalize on the revival trend. It might also not have been the right kind of
record to capitalize on it. The Tower & The Fool are neither an emo band,
nor do they exist in the adjacent genre of pop-punk. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How Long </i>is a country-tinged rock record that has more in common
with '90s bands like Counting Crows, Whiskeytown, or Old 97s than with any of
their labelmates. In a different decade, a song like “Broken”—a bittersweet
road trip anthem about “chasing down Kerouac’s American dream”—might have been
a hit. In this one, it went sadly overlooked. For those who heard it, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How Long </i>packed a punch. You can
probably count on one hand the break-up albums from the past 10 years that are
more potent than this one. This album asks: what does it take to get over
someone who you thought was going to be there forever? The title track seems to
offer an answer, that “only time will heal your pain.” But what if time doesn’t
help? What if your knees wear through the jeans she bought you and you’re still
not over it? What if a whole year goes by without even seeing her face and
you’re still wandering down the street where you used to live with her,
wondering where everything went so wrong? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How
Long </i>is an album about those broken hearts that don’t mend quickly—if ever.
For anyone who was having trouble getting over an ex this decade, I can’t
imagine there was a better soundtrack for a solitary highway drive than this
one.</div>
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122. <b>Go Radio</b> - <i>Close the Distance</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqF1GQ22NBb1Tl84ZIJsBySjgp5-YE64fdfzURkniY88X1BLH7qCWj689cSzQfFsfyKrHzcBZ99OxdWURqv3JnCZDlFqvpqKPWs9A1EkCbJHxlpPOIzguKW6X16OSZhAOg6HU5oZSYMS8I/s1600/Go+Radio+-+Close+the+Distance.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqF1GQ22NBb1Tl84ZIJsBySjgp5-YE64fdfzURkniY88X1BLH7qCWj689cSzQfFsfyKrHzcBZ99OxdWURqv3JnCZDlFqvpqKPWs9A1EkCbJHxlpPOIzguKW6X16OSZhAOg6HU5oZSYMS8I/s640/Go+Radio+-+Close+the+Distance.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“We’ve both got way too much ahead/To worry about what we’ve
left behind.” Those words, the first time I heard them, stopped me in my
tracks. They come from the song “Collide,” the first single from Go Radio’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Close the Distance</i>.
I first heard them
at the tail end of the summer of 2012, which, for both my girlfriend and
for
me, was a big time of change and transition. She’d graduated from
college the
previous spring and was preparing to move six hours away from our
hometown to
start her first job. I was heading back to college for my last year.
Saying goodbye to home at the end of that summer felt more final than
the ones that had preceded all my
other college years. Those words from “Collide” seemed to perfectly
capture the
bittersweet ache of the moment that we both left, headed for different
destinations. We were leaving friends and family and a place that had
brought
us together. But we were hopefully leaving it for big opportunities, and
for a
future—preferably together—that would be even grander than our past.
Throughout
the fall and the rest of the school year, I leaned on “Collide” and the
rest of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Close the Distance </i>a lot. More than
maybe any other album that came out while I was in college, this one seemed to
tell the narrative of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>love story.
It was and is one of the greatest albums ever made about long-distance
relationships, because it conveys both the pain of leaving and the euphoric
rush of being reunited. “Baltimore” is the night before a departure, trying to
stop time to be with the person you love. And “Close the Distance” is about the
moment when the distance finally disappears, when you and that person can be
together for days or weeks or months or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">years</i>,
rather than just a few hours on a stolen Saturday or Sunday. As my senior year
drew to a close, I remember spending a lot of time listening to this album on
drives back and forth to Chicago, visiting the girl I loved. The title track
got my heart racing, because I knew that our three years of long distance were
almost up. No matter what happened next—regardless of whether I got a job or
figured out what I wanted to do with my life—we would at least be together.
Looking back now, six years removed from college and five since that girl and I
told each other “I do,” I still can’t go back to this record without feeling
that same rush of feelings. As our wedding approached, these songs were the
ones I kept going back to, if only because they seemed to encapsulate
everything we’d committed to and everything we’d built together. It’s still an
extremely important record to me for those reasons.</div>
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123. <b>Frank Turner</b> - <i>Tape Deck Heart</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-JievrUsfZlSAo7CO70HDZUh5WusVId2wJZlNvvORAkfb3RukWXjKQ0zC6nK4CFLHEFDeVyXLzil8s05q7S3zUX9xIaouzOxxV2Qm0QSEP-KOpy1yGwuXrIhMpa2e4kW5KkFk0y-5ZC8/s1600/Frank+Turner+-+Tape+Deck+Heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-JievrUsfZlSAo7CO70HDZUh5WusVId2wJZlNvvORAkfb3RukWXjKQ0zC6nK4CFLHEFDeVyXLzil8s05q7S3zUX9xIaouzOxxV2Qm0QSEP-KOpy1yGwuXrIhMpa2e4kW5KkFk0y-5ZC8/s640/Frank+Turner+-+Tape+Deck+Heart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I always loved that title: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tape Deck Heart</i>. The lyric that it comes from—“You will always be a
part/Of my patched up, patchwork, taped up, tape deck heart,” from the song
“Tell Tale Signs”—sheds some light on what it means. Like a tape deck, the
heart is repeatedly replaying and recording and re-recording moments on top of
each other. People waltz in and out of our lives. We fall in and out of love
with them, or forge friendships and bonds with them that may later crumble away
to nothing. It’s not unlike a cassette tape being taped over, losing the traces
of the songs that used to mean something but no longer do. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tape Deck Heart</i> turns that powerful metaphor into a collection of
songs about heartbreak and recovery. “Fuck you Hollywood, for teaching us that
love was free and easy,” Turner sings on “Good & Gone,” a magnificent song
about how anger and pain and sadness are often the same damn thing in the wake
of a broken relationship. It’s about those moments of low, low heartbreak when
you’d rather record over the person who is gone, rather than feel all the hurt
of their absence. But then you get a song like “Polaroid Picture,” about the
temporary nature of the things in our lives, and you remember that our memories
are sometimes the only things we have. “We won’t all be here this time next
year/So while you can take a picture of us,” Turner sings. That’s the meaning
of the album that I relate to most strongly, because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tape Deck Heart </i>was in heavy rotation during my very last weeks of
college. I knew it was a break-up record, but to me, it seemed to say something
more powerful about closing out important chapters of your life and embracing
new ones. There’s a line in “The Fisher King Blues” about wondering “how the
air tastes when you’re really free.” I thought about that lyric a lot in the
weeks after I graduated, as I tried to find my footing in the real world. Did I
want the freedom? Or did I want the sheltered innocence that I had left behind the
day I drove away from college? I couldn’t quite decide, but I think my own tape
deck heart probably wanted both.</div>
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124. <b>The Night Game</b> - <i>The Night Game</i><br />
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<i>The Night Game </i>deserves a coming-of-age movie worthy
of its wistful summertime jams. A lot of artists spent the better part of the
last decade—especially the later part—chasing after the 1980s aesthetic in
their music. Few artists captured it as well as Martin Johnson did here.
Johnson, formerly of Boys Like Girls fame, has always excelled at writing songs
that encapsulate the yearning and possibility of the teenage experience. When
he sang about a girl whose voice was the soundtrack of his summer in
“Thunder,” those feelings felt like they were happening right now. <i>The Night
Game </i>is different. It’s a record about looking back 20 or 30 years after
the fact and having all those memories hit you like a gale-force wind. On
anthems like “The Outfield” and “Once in a Lifetime,” you can feel a warm
fondness for those days gone by radiating through the propulsive choruses.
Elsewhere, though, regret and thoughts of what might have been linger in the
songs. On “Do You Think About Us,” Johnson sings about the sliding doors: the
moments in your life when you could have gone through one side of the door but
went through the other instead. How different would your life be if you had
made another choice? And would your high school crush or your one-who-got-away
be the person you ended up spending your life with? It’s natural to have
thoughts like that, especially late at night in the summer when the hot, muggy
weather and songs like these ones spur vivid memories from many years ago. Are
the people from your past out having the same thoughts you are? It’s hard to
know for sure, but albums like <i>The Night Game </i>are comforting because
they show just how common those nostalgic trips are.</div>
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125. <b>Dawes </b>- <i>Passwords</i><br />
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It took me a long time to get a handle on <i>Passwords</i>.
For most Dawes fans, the head-scratching moment was <i>We’re All Gonna Die</i>,
a zany, studio-abetted album where our favorite band of Laurel Canyon folkies
blew up the blueprint they’d been following for four albums straight. By all
accounts, <i>Passwords </i>should have felt more familiar. It was produced by
Jonathan Wilson, who also produced the first two Dawes albums, and it
definitely strikes more than a few “return to form” trademarks. For whatever
reason, though, this album confounded me. It felt too long, too somber, too
midtempo. Taylor Goldsmith still writes in character vignettes, but here,
they’re often set against the uneasy backdrop of the Trump political era. It’s
not always a comfortable place to be—especially on jittery cuts like
“Telescope,” which tells the entire life story of a guy who probably became a
MAGA conspiracy theorist. But <i>Passwords</i>, if you peel away the
layers, is
a nuanced and deeply empathetic album about reaching for understanding
and
measured dialogue—even in a time when so many people are calling for
more
extreme measures. Those messages might not resonate with everyone, but
when
Goldsmith delves into his own personal life toward the end of the
record—really
a first in his songwriting—you start to find the truth in a lyric from
“Crack
the Case”: “It’s really hard to hate anyone when you know what they’ve
been through.” When Goldsmith sings about his life of lonely, melancholy
sadness—masked with wry humor and songs and miles on the road—he reminds
us
that everyone is living out a more complex narrative than we can ever
understand through social media or minimal interactions. Maybe if we all
decide
to coexist, we can live happier lives. It would be nice, because as
Goldsmith
notes at the end of this album, “the time flies either way.”</div>
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126. <b>Turnpike Troubadours </b>- <i>A Long Way from Your Heart </i><br />
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<br />
Country music had a lot of songwriting heroes this decade.
The Americana segment loved Jason Isbell. The Nashville scene admired Chris
Stapleton and Lori McKenna. The left-of-the-dial listeners yearning for
something a little weirder gravitated toward Sturgill Simpson. Amidst the
country purists, though, I’m not sure anyone was more beloved than Evan Felker
from Turnpike Troubadours. <i>A Long Way from Your Heart </i>makes it immensely
clear why that was. It’s a record that doesn’t seem all that special the first
time you listen to it. Sure, it sounds nice enough: Turnpike Troubadours are
(were?) a legendarily tight live band, and their talents are well on display
here—especially fiddle player Kyle Nix. But the more time you spend with this record
and delve into the lyrics, the more it grips you. The melodies find ways to
burrow into your soul, and the lyrics absolutely get under your skin. I could
fill an entire blurb about this album just by quoting little lines that I love:
lines that are tender or resilient or wryly funny or achingly sad. But I
suppose I’ll just choose one verse from one song that I think encapsulates
precisely why Evan Felker spent this decade admired by so many country fans:
“This old world will spin again/Play me like a violin/Knock all of the wind out
of my chest/Well I don't mind you playin' me/Just keep it in a major key/Now
you're waking up and I can get some rest.” Sometimes, you find yourself just
waiting for a specific verse in a specific song to come around because you love
the words so much. With Turnpike Troubadours on <i>A Long Way from Your Heart</i>,
that’s every verse, on every song.</div>
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127. <b>Will Hoge</b> - <i>Small Town Dreams</i><br />
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On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Small Town Dreams</i>,
Will Hoge set out to answer a single question: could he be a country superstar
if he really tried to be? By this point, Hoge had scored a number one hit and a
very prominent feature on a heavily-syndicated Chevy ad campaign. Sure, his
number one hit had been performed by a different artist (Eli Young Band, taking
on Hoge’s 2009 classic “Even If It Breaks Your Heart”) and his ad campaign song
(called “Strong”) had never translated into airplay or big-time recognition.
But there was no doubt that Hoge’s songs could play to the masses if the circumstances
were right. By all accounts, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Small Town
Dreams </i>should have been a mainstream country juggernaut. Songs like “Better
Than You” and “Middle of America” are catchier than anything Luke Combs smashed
the charts with two years later. “Growing up Around Here” is a way smarter
hometown hymn than Zac Brown Band’s gargantuan “Homegrown” from the same year.
And “Just up the Road” is up there with Stapleton among the most well-sung
country songs of the decade. Regardless, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Small
Town Dreams </i>failed to take off. Part of it was a classic case of David
getting crushed by Goliath. Hoge tells a story of him and his band landing a big
promotional slot from a radio conglomerate, only to lose it to a mainstream
artist with higher-up connections. The other part was that Hoge maybe didn’t
quite go far enough to play the Nashville establishment game. While he teamed
up with Nashville songwriters and ramped up the hooks,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Small Town Dreams </i>still retains some grit and guile—in
tear-jerking story songs like “They Don’t Make ‘Em Like They Used To” and
“Little Bitty Dreams,” or in rockers like “Til I Do It Again,” a song that
certainly would have been a smash if Brothers Osborne had cut it for their
debut album a year later. It’s too bad for Hoge that he never got the big-time
dream he’d been chasing for years, but for the rest of us,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Small Town Dreams </i>remains a rare treat: a country album with the
hooks and muscle of the Nashville machine, but the heart and hustle of the
underground.</div>
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128. <b>fun.</b> - <i>Some Nights</i><br />
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Looking back now, it’s almost impossible to believe that
fun. ever got as big as they did. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aim
& Ignite</i>, the band’s 2009 debut, was essentially a cult classic. In the
pop-punk/emo scene, that album rode the goodwill for singer Nate Ruess’s
former band The Format to huge amounts of love and acclaim. But our corner of
the music world often embraced artists that no one else ever heard of or
appreciated—especially before the so-called emo revival that arrived in the
middle of this decade. Most of us never would have predicted that fun. would
even ever land even a minor hit, let alone become a household name. That first album
was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weird</i>, with songs that blurred
the lines between pop music, Disney film scores, opera, classic rock, and a
circus. But “We Are Young” captured the zeitgeist, landing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glee </i>(another 2010s relic that it’s hard
to believe was ever as popular as it was), scoring a Superbowl commercial
feature, and resonating deeply with every person who happened to find
themselves in high school or college at the time it hit the radio waves. It was
odd, to hear a band I loved this much become a “thing” with so many of my
friends. I remember hearing my roommate singing along with “Some Nights”
through the bedroom wall we shared, or my choir buddies jamming “Carry On” on
our spring tour. I certainly remember, during one of the last Friday nights of
the spring semester, hearing “We Are Young” come on the radio when me and all
my friends were one drink away from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needing
</i>to be carried home. Briefly, fun. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were
</i>a household name, and it seemed like they were poised to become the biggest
rock band on the planet—an eventual arena rock draw and a probable Superbowl
Halftime Show act. Instead, these guys never made another album together. Seven
years later, that fate feels both melancholic and like the perfect microcosm of
just how fleeting pop stardom seemed in the 2010s. But when I listen back
through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Nights</i>, removed from the
overhype and overplay that set in during the spring of 2012, nothing about
these songs seems fleeting: “Some Nights” is still gargantuan and so, so
hopeful; “Stars” still over-reaches for pop maximalism in a way that probably
reshaped the course of pop music more than we realize; and “Out on the Town”
still sounds like the perfect callback to old fun.—a little less famous and a
little more naïve. Most of all, “We Are Young” still sounds like those stolen
moments with friends at 2 a.m. on some spare Friday night, thinking we had all
the time in the world when we really had nothing but the music and the night.</div>
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129. <b>Counting Crows </b>- <i>Somewhere Under Wonderland </i><br />
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Counting Crows were one of the most formative bands in my
music development. I first heard them in childhood, when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">August & Everything After</i>—“Mr. Jones” in particular—struck a
chord. But I didn’t fall in love with them until I was 13, when I picked up
their greatest hits collection and let it become the soundtrack to a dark,
cold, solitary winter. Then, after that, the Crows effectively disappeared. It
would be four long years until 2008’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday
Nights & Sunday Mornings</i>, and then six-plus years until <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somewhere Under Wonderland</i>. By the time <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonderland </i>arrived, I was no longer that same awkward adolescent boy, hiding away in his bedroom for hours at a time and
listening to “Anna Begins” and “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” while working on art
projects. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somewhere Under Wonderland </i>arrived
a month and a half after I got married. My wife and I were preparing to move
back to our home state of Michigan—from the Chicago area, where we’d spent a
couple years—and this album came to be the sound of my goodbye to that place. I
loved it at first, won over by its freewheeling arrangements and loose,
anything-can-happen musicality. I turned on it later, longing for the sharper
hooks and tighter lyrical work of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard
Candy </i>and even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday Nights</i>.
I’m somewhere in between those two extremes now. On the one hand, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somewhere Under Wonderland </i>comes closer
than any other Crows album to capturing the band’s improvisatory live show. On
the other hand, it lacks some of the emotional punch that had always given the
older Crows albums their gravitational pull. Still, there’s a lot to love here,
from the way “Palisades Park” builds an entire universe in a song (it’s
reminiscent of “Incident on 57<sup>th</sup> Street” or “New York City Serenade,
from Springsteen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wild, The Innocent
& The E Street Shuffle</i>), to the perfect poetic beauty of “Possibility
Days.” As the sun set on my time in Illinois, and as I wound my way closer to
home, the lyrics of that song hit me hard. “The worst part of a good day/Is
hearing yourself say goodbye to one more possibility day,” Duritz sang. It was
an encapsulation of what I felt as I closed the door on one chapter and
everything it might have been, to start another with endless possibilities of
its own. </div>
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130. <b>Bleachers </b>- <i>Strange Desire</i><br />
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Jack Antonoff spent the decade trying to remake pop music in
his own image. He largely succeeded. First with fun. and later with songwriting
and production duties for the likes of Taylor Swift and Lorde, Antonoff was
semi-sneakily one of the most influential people in the music world for the
last 10 years. But his apex came here, on his first album under the Bleachers
moniker. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Desire </i>was one of
the many albums from this decade that earned comparisons to John Hughes movie
soundtracks. It was a decade where pop was enamored with the sounds of the
‘80s, and Antonoff was just one of the many artists playing in that sandbox.
But something about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Desire </i>feels
more worthy of that comparison than any other album that received it—which
could also help explain why multiple songs from this album actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>end up in a Hughes-y teen movie
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love, Simon</i>. There’s a
widescreen sugar rush fantasia to songs like “Wild Heart,” “I Wanna Get
Better,” and especially “Rollercoaster” that immediately feels cinematic. I
remember hearing “Rollercoaster” for the first time and just wanting to find a
deserted road somewhere, where I could drive really fast and play that song
really loud. But for all of its throwback glory and youthful innocence, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Desire </i>also packs a weighty
emotional punch. The first song Antonoff wrote for the project was “Like a
River Runs,” which is about his sister who died of brain cancer when he was 18.
In the song, he falls asleep and dreams of her, so vividly that he feels like
she’s still there with him. But when he wakes up, it’s like losing her all over
again. “I get the feeling that you’re somewhere close,” he sings, late in the
song. It’s a feeling we’ve all had before and will have again, because, as
Dumbledore asks in Harry Potter: “You think the dead we loved ever truly leave
us?” Of course they don’t. </div>
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131. <b>Carly Rae Jepsen </b>- <i>E.MO.TION</i><br />
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Somewhere along the line, Carly Rae Jepsen became <i>the
</i>critical darling pop star. Leaving aside “Call Me Maybe,” one of the decade’s
most ubiquitous mainstream hits, Jepsen has never been a superstar. In the eyes
of critics (and fans) though, she’s maybe the greatest active artist in pop
music. I’m not sure I agree with that assessment, but every time I push play on
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">E.MO.TION</i>, I at least see the
argument. Anchored by “Run Away with Me,” a yearning, horn-assisted, dopamine
rush of a love song, this album soars like an '80s teen movie romance. One of my
very favorite music memories of the decade was listening to this album in the
car when driving home from a concert late at night in December 2015. My car was
the only one on the road, and as I cruised and careened along the overpasses
and interchanges that pass through the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan,
surrounded by bright streetlights and tall buildings, these songs just sounded
so epic. Songs like “I Really Like You, ”“Making the Most of the Night,” and
“Let’s Get Lost” made me feel like I was traveling at light speed, even if I
was barely clocking over the posted speed limit of 70. That’s the effect that
great pop music <i>should </i>have: it should amplify everything and make you feel
like you are living some larger-than-life version of your own existence. That’s
part of what makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">E.MO.TION </i>special,
but it’s not all of it. The other piece is that, on these songs, Carly Rae
manages to sound more like the girl next door than like a pop superstar.
Compared to the Taylor Swifts and Beyonces and Ariana Grandes, she sounds
friendly and approachable in a way that makes her music more relatable. You can
imagine her commiserating with you about boy problems, or knocking on your window
in the middle of the night and inviting you to run away with her on some misfit
adventure that will surely end up the stuff of teen movie myth. It’s a unique
talent, and it’s part of what makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">E.MO.TION
</i>so singular, so thrilling, and so beloved among the people who fell under
its spell.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
132. <b>Tyler Hilton</b> - <i>City on Fire</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tyler Hilton is one of those artists that doesn’t really
belong to any one genre. He came up as an early 2000s teen pop heartthrob, but
he’s always had other aspects to his sound: folk, country, and Americana over
here; a little bit of southern rock over there; swooning ‘80s pop somewhere in
the middle. He has had, frankly, the most bizarre journey of any artist I
follow, with his biggest claims to fame including a guest spot in Taylor
Swift’s “Teardrops on My Guitar” video, a lengthy recurring role on the teen
soap opera <i>One Tree Hill</i>, and a brief cameo as Elvis Presley in the
Johnny Cash biopic <i>Walk the Line</i>. <i>City on Fire </i>is maybe the first
album in Hilton’s catalog that captures his full idiosyncratic, versatile
capability as an artist. The title track and “Anywhere I Run” are flammable
country songs. “When the Night Moves” and “The Way She Loves You” are sweeping,
romantic, ‘80s style soft-rock jams. “How Long ‘Til I Lose You” is a pure pop
confection. “I Don’t Want to Be Scared” and “When I See You, I See Home” are
gorgeous, aching folk songs. There are even oddities like “Seasons Change” (a
catchy little reggae-influenced ditty) and “Find Me One” (a tongue-in-cheek
honky-tonk one-take). And then the album ends with a five-minute, super earnest
acoustic cover of Rihanna’s “Stay.” It’s a mess of an album, just like Hilton’s
career has been a chaotic thing to follow, full of hiatuses and chameleonic sonic
shifts. But it’s also an impressive display of songcraft, making up for what it
lacks in cohesion with sharp hooks and a metric ton of charisma.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
133. <b>Jon Latham</b> - <i>Lifers</i><br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 107.35pt;">
Legend has it that Jon Latham’s
very first word was “Bruce”—as in Bruce Springsteen. That’s not entirely
unsurprising after you hear <i>Lifers</i>, an album whose heart beats with the
spirit of classic rock ‘n’ roll. Latham himself sounds more like Petty than
Bruce, but his biggest impulses—long, detailed story songs; openhearted
nostalgia; unwavering earnestness—were surely learned from The Boss. Latham
proves on track one that he can use these skills to craft bar-band rock ‘n’
roll that strikes to the heart of the generational struggle of disenfranchised
millennials. But he spends most of this album in much quieter territory,
investigating Springsteen standby topics like father-son relationships (“Old
Man and the Sea”) and the lifelong, blood-deep bonds of friendship (“Lifers”)
with detail and empathy. Latham’s biggest talent is the slowburn build: five of
these eight songs are longer than five minutes, and most of those are ballads.
He uses that time wisely, constructing songs that feel as vast as a wide-open
countryside, with emotions as deep as a well. Case-in-point is “Yearbook
Signatures,” possibly the most openly nostalgic song I have ever heard. It’s a
song about growing up to the soundtrack of rock ‘n’ roll, and about how those
songs sometimes end up being the only things you have left of high school,
after those friends slip out of touch and those times turn into distant
memories. “Lord ain’t if funny what rock ‘n’ roll can do,” Latham sings. As
someone who hears his favorite songs from high school far more than he sees his
best friends from high school, those words hit hard.</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
134. <b>Eric Church</b> - <i>Mr. Misunderstood</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8iPhBz2a1YnaFR9YLiEdKHOIjK44i-RrtveGpZeoHXS13LM6FS_JVqBje6ebgNpND0KRqY9v-4swMQZ4dEe12Jxi2WbTi_O6wJ5IgZtiH_zijRmgkxQrq1emUvMPEkAQzSLZ_zyxhQe5/s1600/Eric+Church+-+Mr.+Misunderstood.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8iPhBz2a1YnaFR9YLiEdKHOIjK44i-RrtveGpZeoHXS13LM6FS_JVqBje6ebgNpND0KRqY9v-4swMQZ4dEe12Jxi2WbTi_O6wJ5IgZtiH_zijRmgkxQrq1emUvMPEkAQzSLZ_zyxhQe5/s640/Eric+Church+-+Mr.+Misunderstood.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<i>Mr. Misunderstood </i>is the Eric Church album that comes
the closest to encapsulating everything that is great about Eric Church.
According to the vast majority of his fans, Church is one of those artists who
you just can’t really <i>get </i>until you’ve seen him live. There are so many
different sides of him: Eric Church the singer-songwriter; Eric Church the mainstream
country star; Eric Church the arena rock star; Eric Church the hardest working
man in (country music) show business. I wrote a piece a few years ago about
how Eric Church is “the heir apparent to Bruce Springsteen,” at least in a live
environment. His marathon shows and do-or-die commitment to the act of
entertaining make him a truly generational live music figure, in any genre. All of that is
hard to convey in the course of a 40-minute album. <i>Chief </i>was the
mainstream country album; <i>The Outsiders </i>was the big arena play; <i>Desperate
Man </i>was the singer-songwriter album. None of those records show off all his
sides, which strands them in “good not great” territory. (<i>Chief </i>is on
this list, thanks in large part to the presence of the song “Springsteen”; the
other two just missed.) <i>Mr. Misunderstood</i> almost does the trick. “Record
Year” was a number one country hit; “Kill a Word,” an anti-bullying screed that
took on extra weight in the Trump era, was one of the decade’s smartest,
hardest-hitting pieces of songwriting; and songs like the title track and
“Knives of New Orleans” were massive enough to shout from the cheap seats. If I
had to guess, I’d say Church’s masterpiece is still in front of him. For now,
though, <i>Mr. Misunderstood </i>is a pretty solid stand-in.</div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
135. <b>John Mayer </b>- <i>Paradise Valley</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZZXRmdgAoAwZ6CVpb3ViIzQB_365yaFWOe9ABCVRQMcNwkfeu0OddQs03p19SwTGYq4WUJAi13wnM-56Fa7ctgXkBK4TYlqv-Ot6wwqcre5qL03Nh-FOjxAVUkARBZ-ldWSIentaFHJX/s1600/John+Mayer+-+Paradise+Valley.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZZXRmdgAoAwZ6CVpb3ViIzQB_365yaFWOe9ABCVRQMcNwkfeu0OddQs03p19SwTGYq4WUJAi13wnM-56Fa7ctgXkBK4TYlqv-Ot6wwqcre5qL03Nh-FOjxAVUkARBZ-ldWSIentaFHJX/s640/John+Mayer+-+Paradise+Valley.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
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Loosely, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise
Valley </i>is a concept album on two fronts. On the one hand, it was intended
as Mayer’s “country music album,” to follow the folk-rock lean of the previous
year’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born and Raised</i>. Several of
the songs are as twangy as Mayer would ever take his sound, like the
starry-eyed rhinestone cowboy lullaby of “Badge and Gun” or the pure honky-tonk
kick of “You’re No One Til Someone Lets You Down.” On the other hand, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise Valley </i>is structured to tell
the arc of one entire summer. The opener, another twangy gem called “Wildfire,”
conjures up visions of a raucous early-summer party under the stars and a big
full moon. The closer, a wistful beauty called “On the Way Back Home,” finds
the protagonist leaving a summer town after Labor Day, as the beach closes down
and the ghost of a summer fling disappears on the breeze. The album isn’t
always successful at adhering to either of those concepts. There’s an obvious
pop play in “Who You Love,” featuring Mayer’s then-girlfriend Katy Perry, and
an even more obvious cred-grab with a late-album interlude (also called
“Wildfire”) that features a wildly out-of-place Frank Ocean. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise Valley </i>may have been better if
Mayer had committed himself fully to making a country album, or to making a
concept album about a whirlwind summertime romance, or to doing both. At its
best, though, the album transcends its own flaws. “Dear Marie” is a thoughtful
song about an old flame that morphs from a pleasant folk ditty into an
arena-worthy rave-up. And the aforementioned “On the Way Back Home” is such a
strong and fitting finale that it makes the album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel </i>more cohesive than it is. “Life ain’t short but it sure is
small/You get forever and nobody at all/It don’t come often and it don’t stay
long.” The things that make life worth living—love, good times,
friendship—don’t necessarily last forever. Just like a perfect summer, they can
be temporary or even fleeting. “On the Way Back Home” captures all of that. It
captures the melancholy sadness of leaving something wonderful behind; it
captures the fond grin as you drive away, remembering all the good things that
will now be a part of your memory forever. Mayer may have made better albums,
but he hasn’t written many better songs.</div>
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136. <b>Will Hoge</b> - <i>Anchors</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwZNbi-mOMRHpZlOrpCY5QbPudD6WfsogUsKIIh3_XpnZC2ux-a7-lulC98TA94BY8_Q2OxqOKoL6bXzYw8NONLYRLGdhXhCWrHa1dPMHOFDmGO3gt9n05CyrUFQSUBQ7ree4GmjEnRZD/s1600/Will+Hoge+-+Anchors.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwZNbi-mOMRHpZlOrpCY5QbPudD6WfsogUsKIIh3_XpnZC2ux-a7-lulC98TA94BY8_Q2OxqOKoL6bXzYw8NONLYRLGdhXhCWrHa1dPMHOFDmGO3gt9n05CyrUFQSUBQ7ree4GmjEnRZD/s640/Will+Hoge+-+Anchors.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Anchors </i>is a back-to-basics record for Will Hoge. He
spent the better part of this decade pushing toward a more mainstream country
sound, emboldened by the success his song “Even If It Breaks Your Heart” had enjoyed in the hands of the Eli Young Band. On <i>Anchors</i>,
he drops the charade and
goes back to writing songs more like he did before: raw, rootsy rock ‘n’
roll with
all the dirt, dust, blood, sweat, and tears left intact. It’s not my
favorite
record of his, but there’s something about it that feels so honest and
unvarnished. There’s a kind of rebellious hope in these songs that I
always
loved. The characters hitting the highway for greater things maybe don’t
have
all the naïve optimism of Springsteen’s heroes in “Born to Run.” They
know they are getting older and that their dreams might be out of reach.
They know that they
might end up turning around and retreating back home as broken, dejected
failures. They know their relationships might pick up a little bit of
rust from
time to time. But their hearts are still beating, and their radios are
still
blaring, and their souls still feel the promise of sweeter days
ahead—even if
those sweeter days are intermingled with some tough times and cold
nights. When
Hoge sings a song about being 17 and falling in love for the first time,
he
does it like Seger singing “Night Moves,” because he knows that summer
songs
and young love and hymns of possibility still have resonance. They
always will, and this album will too.</div>
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137. <b>Brandy Clark</b> - <i>Big Day in a Small Town</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLknmXkvIUHL_LR2Y_yDX_29WcZqCLv8-8avFw4-G2BOZhFo3SmTTpHBCNWLon8u0-9yKO6gjI67N_Q40DBj2ul8bVtVB10P-NFBRgFoIuKkku7F2XMe2rVoSOLdw1Nw-M_3NBbgEXNo-A/s1600/Brandy+Clark+-+Big+Day+in+a+Small+Town.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLknmXkvIUHL_LR2Y_yDX_29WcZqCLv8-8avFw4-G2BOZhFo3SmTTpHBCNWLon8u0-9yKO6gjI67N_Q40DBj2ul8bVtVB10P-NFBRgFoIuKkku7F2XMe2rVoSOLdw1Nw-M_3NBbgEXNo-A/s640/Brandy+Clark+-+Big+Day+in+a+Small+Town.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I once read that the ultimate benchmark for a classic album
was world building. If an album could wrap you up and transport you to its own
little ether universe—a spot with a clear sense of place and character—then it
was well on its way to classic status. Classic or not, <i>Big Day in a Small
Town </i>undoubtedly fits that particular bill. The cover itself features a map of a small
town, and the vinyl version of the album even includes vocal narration between
tracks that is intended to shore up the concept. Whether you have those elements or
not, though, this album encapsulates a lot of what it means to live in a
nowhere, dot-on-the-map town. It’s a place where being crowned Homecoming Queen
in high school can feasibly be your biggest life accomplishment, or where the
gossip is so loud (and the geographical radius so small) that everyone hears
about an affair or a teenage pregnancy within 15 minutes flat. But it’s also a
place where single mothers pine for love, where siblings mourn their late
parents with drinks and tears, and where heartbreaks are so potent that they
might lead someone to proclaim that “love can go to hell in a broken heartbeat
minute.” It’s a sad, quirky, vivid place, and Brandy Clark’s ability to paint
the songs with equal parts empathy and humor makes that world come alive.</div>
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138. <b>Brandon Flowers</b> - <i>Flamingo</i><br />
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The second time Brandon Flowers made a solo LP, with 2015’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Desired Effect</i>, he made something
extremely inventive and unique. While that record had shades of The Killers in
its DNA, it was thoroughly its own animal—the rare solo album from an
established rock ‘n’ roll frontman that offered something as potent and
singular as his work with the full band. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flamingo
</i>isn’t that. Instead, this album—the first Brandon Flowers solo LP—plays
like the great lost Killers album. By this point in the Flowers/Killers
narrative, the band had essentially been riding an unstoppable wave since
before the release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot Fuss</i>. The
schedule was: make a record, put out a record, tour the world, court some
controversy, rinse, repeat. By the time 2010 rolled around, the band was burned
out and in need of a break. Flowers wanted to keep going, so he made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flamingo</i>. It’s hard not to yearn for the
full might of the band on these songs, especially widescreen scene-setters like
“Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas,” or would-be arena-fillers like “Crossfire.”
You want the roar of Dave Keuning’s guitar, the tumultuous rain of Ronnie
Vannucci’s drums, or the dark Joy Division-esque grumble of Mark Stoermer’s
bass. Even without those ingredients, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flamingo </i>thrives. In terms of pure songwriting, Flowers has rarely
been better than he is on “Hard Enough,” a clear-eyed plea for a second chance
at a relationship that failed the first time; or “On the Floor,” a nightmarish,
gospel-tinged slow burn that sits near the end of the album. With the full
band, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Flamingo </i>would have been a
classic. As a solo affair, it’s a tad too polite, lacking the wall-scaling
audacity that makes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day & Age</i> (a
considerably weaker set of songs) feel somehow more consequential. Luckily,
when we got this level of songwriting from Flowers, plus the full might of The
Killers, we got what I consider to be their best album: 2012’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battle Born</i>.</div>
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139. <b>Brothers Osborne</b> - <i>Pawn Shop</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZxzJesFdvJLKLPuKnG3LqBnqznanopWy7yR7iYJwRnj335fK8m5I0OtyMzvoHD76pMd7Yqoj6T5f1WwL-_g3hgPo_t_nOJl8DXGwI9r0_qamHPfpoYLRoBGWIzAKx-xKb0YeUPMUSwWp/s1600/Brothers+Osborne+-+Pawn+Shop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZxzJesFdvJLKLPuKnG3LqBnqznanopWy7yR7iYJwRnj335fK8m5I0OtyMzvoHD76pMd7Yqoj6T5f1WwL-_g3hgPo_t_nOJl8DXGwI9r0_qamHPfpoYLRoBGWIzAKx-xKb0YeUPMUSwWp/s640/Brothers+Osborne+-+Pawn+Shop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Brothers Osborne were a breath of fresh air in country music
for a lot of reasons. They arrived in the waning stages of the bro country
movement, and they could have almost been mistaken for the next incarnation of
the Florida Georgia Line mold thanks to songs like “Rum.” But if you delve into
<i>Pawn Shop</i>, the familial duo’s first full-length, you’ll find a lot of
substance to latch onto—both musically and lyrically. TJ Osborne’s sandpaper
baritone voice is worlds different from all the Luke Bryan soundalikes that populate country
radio, and John Osborne’s ripping lead guitar skills—especially on the massive
solo that grounds “Stay a Little Longer”—made him a guitar hero in a decade
with far too few of them. But lots of Nashville artists can sing, and most of
them end up backed by super-skilled sessions players anyway. What made Brothers
Osborne stick was how cleverly and genuinely they shook up country tropes. “21
Summer” is an all-timer in the “summertime nostalgia anthem” category,
capturing the kind of youthful summer fling that you can’t ever quite let go
of. “Heart Shaped Locket” is a dark twist on the cheating song genre, with a
climactic moment that is thrilling and threatening even though the story never
turns violent. And “Loving Me Back” takes the overused “love is a drug”
metaphor and turns it into a soul-elevating, gospel-touched beauty.<br />
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140. <b>The Menzingers</b> - <i>On the Impossible Past</i><br />
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<i>On the Impossible Past</i>. I always loved that title. I
never knew exactly what it meant, and for a long time, I didn’t even appreciate
the album that it came from. But something about that title was magnetic to me.
It seemed to convey this sense of deep, unquenchable yearning—for a time, or an
ideal, or a relationship, or a sense of innocence that’s gone for good. On the record, “On
the Impossible Past” is a minimalist interlude about crashing a car into a
ditch. It’s the same “American muscle car” that shows up in the opening track,
“Good Things.” “Like when we would take rides/In your American muscle car/I
felt American for once in my life/I never felt it again.” Early this decade, my
first opportunity to write about music outside of my own blog came for a
European publication called Rockfreaks. Right after I joined the staff, I
remember the site running a perfect 10-out-of-10 review of this record. And I
remember how the writer, who was from Denmark, wrote about the world this
record built for him: one that was deeply American but also undeniably
universal. “I’ve never been to America, never driven a muscle car, never smoked
a cigarette, and never loved a waitress,” he wrote, and it didn’t matter. The
story of <i>On the Impossible Past</i>—of having a horrible time pulling
yourself together; of hanging out in diners; of driving around aimlessly
late
into the night; of running out of money; of getting drunk and washing
dishes with a significant other; of getting high and listening to your
boredom—is a story a lot of
people have lived. It’s a story that is mundane, but also one that is
crammed
with passion and love and <i>life</i>. There’s nothing airbrushed are fake
about <i>On the Impossible Past</i>. It is the truth, told by characters who
are complicated, about lives and worlds and economic situations and day-to-day
troubles that are complicated, too. No wonder it became one of the true
classics of this era.</div>
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141. <b>Ingrid Michaelson</b> - <i>Lights Out</i><br />
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At this point, Ingrid Michaelson’s career can be fairly
split into two halves. First, she was a folk-leaning singer/songwriter who
benefitted greatly from the brief peak of coffeehouse-themed channels on XM and
Sirius satellite radio. Later, she became a full-on pop artist, slinging
anthems like “Hell No” straight toward the Top 40 charts. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lights Out </i>is her in-between album, an idiosyncratic,
all-over-the-place set of songs that flits from rousing crowd-singalong jams
like “Girls Chase Boys” or “One Night Town” to moments of pure intimacy, like
“Wonderful Unknown” and “Ready to Lose.” The mix doesn’t really make for a cohesive
album, but Michaelson’s songcraft is pure, raw, and personal in a way that pop
music often isn’t. Her love songs feel lived-in and organic. Her break-up songs
ache with the hurt of something that can’t be reclaimed. And her summer-ready,
seize-the-day anthems—particularly the splendid “Afterlife”—are bold, epic, and
uplifting. Sonically experimental while still keeping the wit and
girl-next-door charm that made Michaelson so relatable in the first place, <i>Lights
Out </i>is maybe my favorite Ingrid Michaelson album, just for how it captures
her at so many of her best angles. I also fondly remember listening to this
album all spring in 2014, leading up to my wedding day. It’s an album my wife
and I shared, often putting it on as an agreeable soundtrack for long, long
drives home from the Chicago area, where we were living at the time. I don’t
miss those drives, and I don’t miss Chicago, but I still love thinking back to
the excitement of that season—excitement this album still holds within its
songs. </div>
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142. <b>Damien Rice</b> - <i>My Favourite Faded Fantasy</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH9VSUex3TyuXyUv2UGQgxoEDXv9MeLS-AO4RF-99A44KYL5A10zfKZJpl2UuSw5OhTaYpyItrh4DJQiHRrN8z7bH-hAW60VfRTPe45w4pJD_7KftnX7NJ8wdCzV0FXd_4Fznset66wzm/s1600/Damien+Rice+-+My+Favourite+Faded+Fantasy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH9VSUex3TyuXyUv2UGQgxoEDXv9MeLS-AO4RF-99A44KYL5A10zfKZJpl2UuSw5OhTaYpyItrh4DJQiHRrN8z7bH-hAW60VfRTPe45w4pJD_7KftnX7NJ8wdCzV0FXd_4Fznset66wzm/s640/Damien+Rice+-+My+Favourite+Faded+Fantasy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Damien Rice disappeared for so long that when news of <i>My
Favourite Faded Fantasy </i>started to emerge, I thought it was a cruel April
Fools prank. I bought <i>9 </i>with my birthday money the week after I turned
16. <i>My Favourite Faded Fantasy </i>arrived in the fall after I got married,
shortly before my 24th birthday. So much of my life changed in the intervening
years, but hearing Rice’s voice again on songs like “I Don’t Want to Change
You” and “The Greatest Bastard” made it feel like no time had passed at all. These
songs were packed with the pent-up heartbreak, regret, and resignation that
Rice had been sitting on for eight years. As the story goes, Lisa Hannigan was
Damien’s muse, lover, and musical partner on <i>9 </i>and <i>O</i>, his
emotionally raw debut. When their relationship fractured, Rice told everyone
that he would trade all his songs and all his fame to have her back in his
life. He almost did, but in the end, the music won. The result is one of the
decade’s most patiently beautiful albums, packed with stuff like “Colour Me In”
and “Trusty and True” that is among Rice’s best material ever. On the latter,
Damien even seems to stumble toward something we hadn’t heard much in his music
up to that point: hope.</div>
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143. <b>The 1975 </b>- <i>I like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it</i><br />
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<i>I like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so
unaware of it </i>is, at once, the biggest argument for and the biggest
argument against The 1975. On the one hand, it is an obnoxious overreach.
Suffice to say that the 74-minute runtime is as exhausting as the album title.
On the other hand, <i>I like it when you sleep </i>is a sterling
example of everything that a modern rock band can be if they want it enough. On
this album, The 1975 use genres and influences like playthings. They write
colossal pop songs like “The Sound” and then sequence them just a few tracks
away from acoustic folk heartbreakers like “Nana.” They get honest and candid
about heartbreak, drug addiction, grief over lost loved ones, and people who
post photos of their salads on the internet. And they somehow manage to make
all their extremes coalesce into one of the decade’s most immersive,
jaw-dropping listening experiences. In The 1975 catalog, the first album had
more obvious highlights, while <i>A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships </i>was
the record that really hit the zeitgeist and made The 1975 into critical
darlings. Here, though, they were still in a unique position: under-the-radar
and written-off enough to play the underdogs, but big enough stars to reach for
arena-scraping grandeur. The result is, top to bottom, their greatest work of
art—even if <span style="font-family: inherit;">it’s not my personal favorite.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">144. <b>The Gaslight Anthem </b>-<i> Get Hurt</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I came to get hurt/Might as well do your worst to me.”
Brian Fallon sings those words, gruff and unguarded, on the crushing title
track of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Hurt</i>. The line and the
song come just three tracks into an album beset on all sides by heartbreak,
change, and exhaustion. Fallon’s marriage had crumbled and his band was feeling
the strain of a tireless write-record-release-tour schedule that stretched back
the better part of a decade. By the time <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get
Hurt </i>arrived in the summer of 2014, it was the fourth Brian Fallon-related
album in as many years. Everyone was burned out and everyone’s patience was
fraying. It was a wildly different place than where we’d left the band just two
years before, after Gaslight had scored a breakthrough with 2012’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Handwritten</i>. That album’s leadoff
single, “45,” had been their most popular song ever, and the album’s
larger-than-life sonic palette—courtesy of producer Brendan O’Brien—made them
sound a lot like the next big thing. Add the mainstream punch to the mantle
that had been tossed at Fallon’s feet since the early days—that he was the next
Bruce Springsteen—and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Hurt </i>should
have been the next logical step toward superstardom. But the success and lofty
comparisons also put a target on Fallon’s back, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Hurt </i>quickly became a punching bag. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pitchfork </i>eviscerated it and other publications compared it to
Nickelback. The mean-spirited reaction dovetailed with the band’s exhaustion
and Fallon’s personal-life turmoil to derail arguably the greatest rock band of
the 21st century, and they have yet to release another album. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Hurt</i>, in
retrospect, is as messy as all these circumstances would lead you to believe.
Fallon and company are caught between wanting to reach even higher (massive
rockers like “1,000 Years” and “Rollin’ and Tumblin’”) and wanting to turn away
from the limelight (jagged and insular cuts like “Stay Vicious,” “Stray Paper,”
and “Underneath the Ground”). The result is the least cohesive Gaslight Anthem
record—an album that lacks the arc and flow that made albums like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The ’59 Sound </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Slang </i>greater than the sum of their parts. But it’s also
an incredibly revealing portrait of a band under unbearable amounts of
pressure. Amidst the experimentation and all of Fallon’s attempts to avoid his
usual writing signatures, the embattled frontman jams poignant and devastating
accounts of his pain into the songs. On “Get Hurt,” he thinks about packing up
and leaving Jersey for California—something you could hardly picture him doing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The ’59 Sound</i>. And on the
shattering closing track “Dark Places,” he pledges: “If I thought it would
help, I would drive this car into the sea.” The song is a legitimately
upsetting account from a broken man, recognizing his own need for a change, or
a rest, or a chance to drift away for awhile. Fallon’s story ultimately had a
happy ending, chronicled on his first two solo albums. For The Gaslight Anthem,
though, the story still rings bittersweet, thanks to this album. They,
alongside a few contemporaries, were living proof that rock ‘n’ roll could
thrive in the 2010s. And one by one, they drifted away. <br />
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145. <b>Frank Turner </b>- <i>Positive Songs for Negative People</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP35vL41qj5GdO_EuhTRepMmDtycqaKO3xbP9F7rXZ8Rn-7lW-BQisoCu9fa0FP5_6xPbWrPysKy3x_u1oPyqHtB1T8AmQMymSEXAlPI6FVE-KgpwuxnmDqdxz9QQrl3wqGmlvO6pGR9Z4/s1600/Frank+Turner+-+Positive+Songs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP35vL41qj5GdO_EuhTRepMmDtycqaKO3xbP9F7rXZ8Rn-7lW-BQisoCu9fa0FP5_6xPbWrPysKy3x_u1oPyqHtB1T8AmQMymSEXAlPI6FVE-KgpwuxnmDqdxz9QQrl3wqGmlvO6pGR9Z4/s640/Frank+Turner+-+Positive+Songs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On 2013’s <i>Tape Deck Heart</i>, Frank Turner was a
heartbroken mess. On <i>Positive Songs for Negative People</i>, he sounds
rejuvenated and he sings like his life depends on it. Songs like “Get Better,”
“The Next Storm,” and “Glorious You” are imbued with the reckless optimism that
comes with realizing that yes, life does in fact go on. Getting over a rough patch
in your life—whether it’s a breakup or a big failure—can be difficult. But
realizing that you’re still alive and that your heart is still beating can also
be hugely life-affirming. Realizing that you’re strong enough to weather those
storms can give you a new lease on your life, and a new drive to explore all
the possibility the world has to offer. This album rings with that promise.
Even the breakup songs—tracks like “Mittens” and “Love Forty Down”—can’t help
but sound a little hopeful. It doesn’t hurt that Butch Walker is sitting behind
the boards, offering up what might be his career-best production work, or
encouraging Frank to deliver raw, live vocal tracks on every song. The radiant
highs of this album are intoxicating, which only makes it that much more
heartbreaking when, on the last track, everything comes crashing back to Earth. The
closer, called “Song for Josh,” is a crushing ode to a friend who chose to end
his own life, delivered through tears during a live show at the venue where
that friend used to work. “Why didn’t you call? My phone’s always on,” Frank
sings at the beginning of the song. It’s a sobering note to end the album on,
and a reminder that, even as you face your own burdens and battles, you never
know what the people around you might be grappling with, too.</div>
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146. <b>Josh Abbott Band</b> - <i>Front Row Seat</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgsCOU665UTx54G9LZpxPFSnVkkQoTOHBUHpXAei-HDOmWC9bw5HYboAUUITbvH4falM78iLZ_9M-EwK_6PQqhISInZoYsJbyvYJWHQvzXv6f8pnfJ9yhHpUbWXP8JCKLnBR-pqQ22iBL/s1600/Josh+Abbott+Band+-+Front+Row+Seat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgsCOU665UTx54G9LZpxPFSnVkkQoTOHBUHpXAei-HDOmWC9bw5HYboAUUITbvH4falM78iLZ_9M-EwK_6PQqhISInZoYsJbyvYJWHQvzXv6f8pnfJ9yhHpUbWXP8JCKLnBR-pqQ22iBL/s640/Josh+Abbott+Band+-+Front+Row+Seat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On most records, the artist is the protagonist. There’s an
implicit contract, in listening to most music, that you side with the person
singing the songs. What’s fascinating about Josh Abbott Band’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Front Row Seat </i>is how it subverts that
contract. Abbott, an extremely successful singer from the niche “Texas country”
scene, structured this album to tell the entire story of his first marriage. It
starts as you would expect it to, with opener “While I’m Young” functioning as
the jaunty “boy meets girl” moment. The first half of the album is a love
story, moving from that chance encounter in a bar to honeymoon stage
infatuation to the intimacy that comes with time and engagement and marriage.
But then the plot twists, and you get to the back half of the record—a stretch
of seven tracks that pummel you with their sadness and resignation. We’ve heard
this before: it’s breakup album 101, dating back to legendary records like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blood on the Tracks</i>. For decades, we’ve
listened to artists tell us all about their broken hearts and the people to
blame for them. The thing with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Front Row
Seat </i>is that Abbott is the guy to blame. “It ain’t your fault/I might have
been born to break your heart,” he sings at one point, and he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i>. Abbott’s marriage broke apart
because he cheated on his wife while he was out on tour. He knows it’s
reprehensible, and that it’s a mistake he’ll never stop regretting. There are
no excuses here, or attempts to redirect blame. Songs like “Ghosts,” “Amnesia,”
“Autumn,” and “Anonymity” grapple compellingly with the way a momentary mistake
can be big enough and unforgivable enough to upend your entire life. By casting
himself as the villain, Abbott somehow makes the art of a breakup song ache
that much more.<br />
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147. <b>Miranda Lambert</b> - <i>Wildcard</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IPtwavTLeA6JysoCmrQPWDOVYoMbrBIrsns1QbBTKpIfbW38fxwzCgMx-MDAyNuG-B9l6xtEGzrJAtgKof2WrPMR7E-QJImVUToYjUJqtr1FA4CPno7ZaBnVJMXe16TuUl1iKQm3f4co/s1600/Miranda+Lambert+-+Wildcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0IPtwavTLeA6JysoCmrQPWDOVYoMbrBIrsns1QbBTKpIfbW38fxwzCgMx-MDAyNuG-B9l6xtEGzrJAtgKof2WrPMR7E-QJImVUToYjUJqtr1FA4CPno7ZaBnVJMXe16TuUl1iKQm3f4co/s640/Miranda+Lambert+-+Wildcard.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The last time we heard from Miranda Lambert, she was getting
over a heartbreak—seemingly in real time, on tape for all to hear. That album,
2016’s post-divorce opus <i>The Weight of These Wings</i>, blew Lambert’s
personal life up into a big screen subject, exploring her split from ex-husband
Blake Shelton over the course of an epic double album sprawl. In contrast, <i>Wildcard
</i>seems almost tongue-in-cheek. There’s one song called “White Trash,” where
Lambert makes light of the insults that close-minded people have occasionally
thrown her way over the course of her career. There’s another song called “Way
Too Pretty for Prison,” which is kind of like a rewrite of the “Cell Block
Tango” from the musical <i>Chicago</i>, only with the ladies deciding <i>not </i>to
kill their cheating, good-for-nothing, bastard husbands. Other tunes extol the
virtues of strong Mexican spirts (“Tequila Does”), hand-wave all the disasters
and social blunders that might come over the course of a lifetime (“It All
Comes out in the Wash”), and own Miranda’s reputation as a maneater (“Track
Record”). The result is the most purely <i>fun </i>album Lambert has made in
years—perhaps ever. But when the serious moments crackle through—the sweeping
forbidden romance epic of “Fire Escape,” or the personal reckoning of “Dark
Bars”—they add an extra layer of sincerity and maturity that gives the funnier
songs more depth. One of the best lessons Lambert learned on <i>Weight </i>was
that songs didn’t have to be just happy, or just sad, or just sassy, or just
funny, or just badass, or just inspirational: sometimes, they can be all those
things at once.</div>
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148. <b>Kalie Shorr </b>- <i>Open Book</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZzrqL3AQT9CQ9qWIXHuKb5IZZI8QRh_ypDNBAqKbqGB3TrHiu2bg7T49BgIZ9d66aYDjPKZjFNIt53R_a7kbZae3N6FaPC6xSP05yT8Wh66DkhZjh07NVBLVVQD7UvW56DP6YL1wYAqR/s1600/Kalie+Shorr+-+Open+Book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZzrqL3AQT9CQ9qWIXHuKb5IZZI8QRh_ypDNBAqKbqGB3TrHiu2bg7T49BgIZ9d66aYDjPKZjFNIt53R_a7kbZae3N6FaPC6xSP05yT8Wh66DkhZjh07NVBLVVQD7UvW56DP6YL1wYAqR/s640/Kalie+Shorr+-+Open+Book.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Kalie Shorr had a long, hard road to travel to get to <i>Open
Book</i>. While this record is her debut, she’s been a factor in the
up-and-coming country music scene for at least half a decade—especially in the fight to support and
elevate the genre’s female songwriters. While her
EPs were strong, though, <i>Open Book </i>is a triumph. It is the kind of raw,
honest, unflinching album that you can only make when you’ve been through hell
and come out on the other side. For Shorr, that hell was losing her sister to a
heroin overdose. This album reckons with that tragedy, along with a million
other smaller battles she’s fought to get to this point: a childhood that
wasn’t picture perfect, with a family that definitely had its issues; a
complicated relationship with her father; a lot of heartbreaks, courtesy of a
lot of shitty guys; her own vices, mistakes, and regrets. The resulting set of
songs is sometimes funny (“F U Forever,” 2019’s greatest kiss-off anthem),
often deeply poignant (“Big Houses,” a love letter from Shorr to her mom), and
occasionally unendurably painful (“The World Keeps Spinning,” about moving on
after her sister’s death). But the album peaks with “Lullaby,” a hymn to the
resilience of the human spirit and to closing the book on the bad chapters to
start newer and hopefully better ones. The song is the album in microcosm,
existing somewhere between the early 2010s pop-country of Taylor Swift, the
angsty teen pop of <i>Let Go</i>-era Avril Lavigne, and the quiet-to-loud
emotional dynamics of Dashboard Confessional circa <i>A Mark, A Mission, A
Brand, A Scar</i>. It’s Shorr’s own little corner of the country music scene, and she owns it with wit, heart, and brutal honesty.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
149. <b>Eric Church</b> - <i>Chief </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD8ToQ1f9w-IOT1hW77HonMUQVzNQYbsGEl9OyyPS80d0B_LwJlIxQF90YFypDM80GdRYtxmeCk3-NMy0gIrVx97paOwQP_kAJYYaQ9iD6ufq9PxpNF0ma2NGzJP3oDdEl8mfzwvxF7eW/s1600/Eric+Church+-+Chief.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJD8ToQ1f9w-IOT1hW77HonMUQVzNQYbsGEl9OyyPS80d0B_LwJlIxQF90YFypDM80GdRYtxmeCk3-NMy0gIrVx97paOwQP_kAJYYaQ9iD6ufq9PxpNF0ma2NGzJP3oDdEl8mfzwvxF7eW/s640/Eric+Church+-+Chief.jpg" width="640" /></a></i></div>
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Eric Church would become more contemplative, more ambitious,
and more interesting as he moved further into his career. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chief</i>, though, he was at the crossroads
between his pop-country gifts and his classic rock impulses. The result
is both his commercial peak and his most immediate record. It’s all weekend
beers and whiskey hangovers and summertime romances, blasting like a jukebox in
a rowdy bar. The lyrics are usually decidedly small-scale, offering
slice-of-life narratives that aren’t far from the bar band rock ‘n’ roll that
made up one-half of Springsteen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
River</i>. There’s the working-class hero of “Drink in My Hand,” counting down
to Friday evening when he can cut loose and transform into a livelier version
of himself. There’s the titular subject of “Homeboy,” a stubborn, smartass,
hip-hop-loving teen rebelling against his parents for the sole purpose of being
contrary. There’s the small-town backroads romance of “Springsteen,” a tribute
to the way a melody can sound like a memory when you hear a song from your teen
years crackling through the car radio on a July Saturday night. But despite the
subject matter, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chief </i>saw Church
reaching for the big leagues, with anthemic, hooky songs and muscular
arrangements capable of scraping the cheap seats in an arena. When it came out,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chief </i>looked like Church’s coronation
as country music’s new superstar entertainer. Looking back, it plays more like
the origin story for the decade’s greatest rock star. That it can be both
without contradicting itself is a tribute to the quality of the songs and the
dynamic talents of the man who brought them to life.<br />
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150. <b>Butch Walker and the Black Widows</b> - <i>I Liked It Better When You Had No Heart</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9Bechupaj2RpX8RFGo2PS7vePVSWLovoWZzyIa95i-S_diz6F2kUMXRGC4-40rVy4jujg546SXddU62x7KT-WKOI9ZvW6bFTl_i3TueuMfa5gr9DohPmMAEa4oSaN6L2v374B3PlY7Xu/s1600/Butch+Walker+-+I+Liked+You+Better.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9Bechupaj2RpX8RFGo2PS7vePVSWLovoWZzyIa95i-S_diz6F2kUMXRGC4-40rVy4jujg546SXddU62x7KT-WKOI9ZvW6bFTl_i3TueuMfa5gr9DohPmMAEa4oSaN6L2v374B3PlY7Xu/s640/Butch+Walker+-+I+Liked+You+Better.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
It says a lot that even Butch Walker’s worst album lands at
150 on my albums of the decade list. By most accounts, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Liked It Better </i>is a flawed album. It feels scattershot and
random where most Butch albums are cohesive and unified, and it lacks the lofty
highlights that I’d come to expect from him by this point in his career. Here,
on his first of two albums with The Black Widows, Butch loosened his control
over his own music, allowing co-writers—especially Michael Trent—to have a lot
of influence on the direction of his sound. The result is a Butch Walker album
that often doesn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> like a Butch
Walker album. There are dusky country songs and vaudevillian pop songs and
Beatles-inspired ditties and at least two songs that sound like the modern folk
of Bon Iver and Fleet Foxes. There’s not much of Butch’s trademark,
tongue-in-cheek rock ‘n’ roll—though that side of him definitely creeps in on
late-album highlights like “They Don’t Know What We Know” and
“Days/Months/Years,” as well as on rock-solid live show staples like “Pretty
Melody” and “She Likes Hair Bands.” Even if it’s not my favorite Butch Walker
album, though, I have a lot of good memories of these songs. I vividly recall
sitting in my dorm room during my freshman year of college, excitedly waiting
for the album to download. I even more vividly recall a two-day spell in the
spring of 2010 when my brother and I caught two Butch shows back to back. Most
vividly, I remember the first night I ever spent hanging out one-on-one with
the girl I’d end up marrying. It was a not-quite-date where we drove all around
town before finally ending up at a local beach, just the two of us, lying on
the sand, looking at the early July stars, and learning all about one another.
In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friends</i>, they call this occurrence
“The Night,” or: “When two people finally realize their feelings for each other,
and they talk for hours, and they learn all about the other person.” When I got
in my car to drive home, “Don’t You Think Someone Should Take You Home” was
playing on my iPod. From the beginning, I’d had that song earmarked for
late-night drives on hot muggy evenings. I knew it would play that role. I
didn’t know it would end up serving as the coda to one of the most pivotal
nights of my life. But then again, that’s what your favorite artists do
sometimes: even with their weakest albums, they’re still there to soundtrack
your world. </div>
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151. <b>Valenica </b>- <i>Dancing with a Ghost</i><br />
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The last time we’d heard from Valenci, in the late 2000s,
frontman Shane Henderson was still reeling from the tragic and sudden death of
his girlfriend. The band’s 2008 album, <i>We All Need a Reason to Believe</i>,
was wrought with pathos from that event. It sounded like a bright, summer-ready
pop-punk album on the surface, but the lyrics packed a hefty emotional punch. <i>Dancing
with a Ghost </i>plays, to me, like one of the great recovery records of the
decade. “Have you skipped through broken records of your past and future self?”
Henderson sings at the very beginning of the album, on the propulsive title track.
It sounds like a mission statement for the album: about leaving the past
behind, even if you’re not totally sure what the future might look like now
that every plan you ever made is gone. Recovery doesn’t happen overnight.
Recalibrating your dreams and your plans takes time, and leads to stumbles and
false starts. But <i>Dancing with a Ghost </i>seems to embrace those false
starts with optimism. “I know somehow, some way, things will get better” goes
the refrain in “Spinning Out.” The album isn’t always so sunny: on “Losing Sleep,”
the narrator drives straight into the clouds of a foreboding storm, ignoring
the prophecies of the weather report as he goes. But most of <i>Ghost </i>is an
upbeat blast, stacked with pop-punk jams the likes of which we haven’t seen
much since (see “The Way” and “Days Go By”) and doing it all with genuine emotion and
heart. It’s a shame that, as of right now, this album is Valencia’s swansong.</div>
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152. <b>Green Day</b> - <i>Revolution Radio</i><br />
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A lot of people think that Green Day went political on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idiot </i>and have largely been
making protest rock ever since. What made that album special, though, was how
it wove its politics into a broader story about coming of age and reckoning
with your own mistakes and naivete. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revolution
Radio </i>is not as ambitious as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American
Idiot</i>. It isn’t a rock opera, for one thing. But it succeeds in part
because it takes the lessons learned on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Idiot
</i>to heart: first, ground the politics in the personal; second, wrap it all
up in songs that are catchy, fun, and digestible—even if their subject matter
is meant to stick around after the record stops spinning. And a lot of these
songs <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>demand some reflection. “Say
Goodbye” evokes Flint, Michigan, while “Bang Bang” is a troubling, potentially-in-poor-taste
look into the brain of a mass shooter (that also happens to be a riotously
catchy pop-punk song). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revolution Radio </i>came
out right before Trump won the presidency, but it was so prescient that it
sounds even angrier and more urgent three years later. Those moments of
political disenfranchisement are intercut with songs like “Outlaws,” about
youthful rebellion and longtime friendships, or “Ordinary World,” about holding
the things that matter to you closely even as the world spins out of control.
And when the personal and political collide, on the seven-minute, two-part opus
“Forever Now,” the message comes across clearly: we protest and criticize and
fight against the bad things in our world because we want to live fulfilling
lives. We want to live lives defined by freedom and love and family and good
will toward our fellow men and women. Instead, we’ve given away our freedoms,
grown hostile toward one another, and focused in on the things that make us
different rather than recognizing all the things that make us the same. “If
this is what you call the good life/I want a better way to die,” Billie Joe
Armstrong proclaims, rejecting the idea that our world can’t be a better place.
Ultimately, that’s what the album is about: as long as we’re still breathing,
we have a chance to reach for something better.</div>
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153. <b>The Damnwells</b> - <i>The Damnwells</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TPfDXHRhe5gc60fX2afsE1cBISYMIaN7MfmYGXpl2N4KOsseJEAvWwz4yEJjFXa1E7bDgQVIVXiWqctDgEsY0KHCPDRB4h8z-sBBECIo4UdSWFilMo4flGqG0pB_1u4ESRjfZOecfkAb/s1600/The+Damnwells.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TPfDXHRhe5gc60fX2afsE1cBISYMIaN7MfmYGXpl2N4KOsseJEAvWwz4yEJjFXa1E7bDgQVIVXiWqctDgEsY0KHCPDRB4h8z-sBBECIo4UdSWFilMo4flGqG0pB_1u4ESRjfZOecfkAb/s640/The+Damnwells.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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What do you think of when you think of a “break-up album”?
For most of us, it’s probably an album we related very deeply to a personally
fraught period from our past. These albums come in many forms, but they’re
often awash in melancholy sadness, potent self-pity, and maybe even a bit of
self-righteous blame or vindictive anger. Especially if you came of age in the
pop-punk era, as I did, you’re well-versed in the latter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Damnwells </i>is a different kind of break-up album. It’s a
break-up album with the perspective of age, time, knowledge, and experience.
Absent are the mercurial emotions of the break-up albums you loved as a
teenager. In the lead-up to this album, the guys in The Damnwells counted off “cross-country
moves, grad school, marriage, divorce, and a couple of corporate jobs” as the
inspiration for the songs. The resulting album is a kick in the gut. It’s a
record about bad husbands, and girls who aren’t in love with you, and being way
too old now to die young. Frontman Alex Dezen delivers the lyrics with a wry,
self-deprecating sort of resignation, but that fact oddly just manages to make
them more crushing. “She walked with you under countless stars/She bought the
drinks at the cheaper bars/You found a way to make her laugh out loud/But she’s
somebody else’s baby now,” he sings in “The Girl That’s Not in Love with You,”
before adding the line that will surely break your heart: “It just kills you
that she still wants to be your friend.” What could be worse than that—than the
girl you used to love not wanting to be with you, but still wanting to stay in
touch? If you’re waiting for the answer, the album gives you one, in the form
of the last track. “You said, ‘Maybe we’ll meet someday in the middle of the
street.’/But I know I’ll never see you again.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Damnwells </i>captures that feeling, of uncoupling yourself from a
person who has been a major, pivotal part of your life, with the knowledge that
your time as lovers or friends or even acquaintances is over. Fittingly enough,
that last song, an achingly understated ballad called “None of These Things,”
was the last track The Damnwells ever put on a record. It’s all a bit like that
old Third Eye Blind lyric: “How it going to be/When you don’t know me anymore?”</div>
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154. <b>Thomas Rhett</b> - <i>Life Changes</i><br />
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I wanted to hate Thomas Rhett. I really did. He was the
antithesis of everything I was supposed to admire as a fan of “real” country artists
like Stapleton and Sturgill and Turnpike Troubadours and Tyler Childers. He was
blatantly commercial! He was dispensing with the sound of traditional country
and incorporating elements of pop and R&B and hip-hop! He was ruling the
genre with limited vocal ability and a mere fraction of the musical skill of so
many other deserving artists! But little by little, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life Changes </i>chipped away at my defenses until they were nothing
but rubble. About Rhett, all the things I said above are true. But it’s also true
that he’s one of the best craftsmen of hooks in any genre. And it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">also</i> true that his writing is often more
than meets the eye, tucking detailed, highly autobiographical narratives into
ridiculously catchy pop-country songs. Moreover, Rhett’s desire to push the
boundaries of what country can be results in one of the most dynamic, enjoyable
albums in the genre this decade. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life
Changes </i>isn’t cohesive—how could it be when it flits from EDM to '50s
doo-wop to Petty-flavored heartland rock in the space of just a few tracks? But
it touches on so many different sounds and styles that it’s impossible to be
bored while listening. Some of the songs are only interesting as sonic
experiments. The swooning, Sinatra-esque “Sweetheart,” for instance, sounds cool
on paper but sags a bit in execution. But other moments of the record are just
damn sturdy writing, like the weepy “Marry Me,” about watching the person you
love get hitched to someone else; or “Unforgettable,” about a beautiful girl
drinking a mango-rita and singing a Coldplay song. These songs, along with
wistful anthems of youth like “Sixteen,” “Renegades,” and “Smooth Like the
Summer,” capture two of the things I love most about country music. No other
genre so effectively distills the potency of nostalgia and no other genre so
effectively distills the possibility of a perfect summer night. Rhett does both
of those things just about as well as any artist in the game.</div>
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155. <b>The 1975 </b>- <i>A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships</i><br />
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The 1975 are the rare band that have always been fearless.
They learned early on how to act like superstars, even if they weren’t yet. And
lo and behold, somewhere along the line, they managed to will themselves into
that status. Even by The 1975’s standards, though, <i>A Brief Inquiry into
Online Relationships </i>is a big swing. On this album’s predecessor, 2016’s <i>I
like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it</i>, the
goal seemed to be to make an album that flowed like a dreamscape. It was a
puzzle where every piece fit logically, and the result was a listening
experience so deeply entrancing and immersive that you came out the other side
wondering where the time had gone. <i>A Brief Inquiry </i>is not that. This
album takes a new left turn every five minutes, cramming shades of jazz,
hip-hop, synthpop, electronic music, singer-songwriter, Britpop, ‘80s power
balladry, ‘90s adult contemporary, and unabashed rock ‘n’ roll anthem into the
tracklist. You can argue about whether it all hangs together as a cohesive
whole (I honestly <span style="font-family: inherit;">don’t believe it does)</span>
but the high points—the careening electric guitar zips of “Give
Yourself
a Try,” the zeitgeisty anthem that is “Love It If We Made It,” the
candy-coated
hooks of “It’s Not Living (If It’s Not with You),” the “Champagne
Supernova”-aping “I Always Want to Die (Sometimes)”—stand as some of the
very best tracks
anyone put on an album this decade.<br />
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156. <b>Vince Gill</b> - <i>Down to My Last Bad Habit</i><br />
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Vince Gill is one of the greatest singers in the history of
country music, and one of the finest songwriters. On <i>Down to My Last Bad
Habit</i>, he makes it clear that he hasn’t lost a step, even as he enters the
elder stateman period of his career. Released a year and change shy of Gill’s
60th birthday, <i>Down to My Last Bad Habit </i>still sounds remarkably vibrant
and emotional. Where most singers—especially men—tend to start losing range and
vocal depth as they get older, Gill sings the absolute shit out of stunners like
the title track, a soulful ballad about not being able to quit a woman who
walked out the door. It’s a voice that can still pack power and punch into
big-chorus anthems like “Reasons for the Tears I Cry” or “When It’s Love,” or
lend gentle elegance to slow-dance ballads like “I’ll Be Waiting for You.”
Plus, as always, Gill shows himself to be a generous champion of the next
generation of country music. One song is an Ashley Monroe co-write, while
another features up-and-coming singer-songwriter Cam and a third brings in the
folks from Little Big Town. The album itself didn’t get much attention, because
records by older “past their prime” musicians rarely do, but it’s easily one of
the decade’s most perfectly constructed country LPs.</div>
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157. <b>Noah Gundersen</b> - <i>White Noise </i><br />
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White Noise is a lot of things the two Noah Gundersen albums
that came before it were not. It’s frustrating and inconsistent. It’s
self-indulgent. It overstays its welcome and has a few legitimately bad tracks.
Where <i>Ledges </i>and <i>Carry the Ghost </i>were masterpieces—at least from
my perspective—<i>White Noise </i>is a bit of an unruly mess. It’s also a
fascinating piece of work, and an album so ambitious and far-reaching that it
instantly established Noah as one of the most interesting voices making music
today. You could have written Noah off, after <i>Ledges </i>and <i>Ghost</i>,
as just another singer-songwriter: a sad white guy with a guitar, leaning on
styles and sounds of the past rather than blazing a new trail. But nothing
sounds like <i>White Noise</i>. It is big, bold, brash, loud, and thoroughly <i>modern
</i>in a way that most singer-songwriters never try. It takes big swings, hits
big home runs, and suffers big strikeouts. But even with the misses, it’s truly
electric to hear a songwriter of Noah’s caliber expand his sonic palette the
way he does on songs like “After All” and “Heavy Metals.” Sure, the best tracks
are the ones that sound the most like the Noah of the past: the forlorn
small-town drama of “Fear & Loathing”; the treatise on modern crisis that is
“Dry Year”; and the epic, cathartic build of “Send the Rain (To Everyone).” But
when Noah surrounds his acoustic triumphs with songs that draw just as
convincingly from ‘90s alt-rock (“Number One Hit of the Summer”), John
Mayer-style blues-pop (“Bad Desire”), and psychedelic Beatles records (“New
Religion”), he opens up a whole new world of musical possibilities to explore.</div>
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158. <b>Catherine McGrath</b> - <i>Talk of This Town</i><br />
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<i>Talk of This Town </i>should have been this decade’s <i>Fearless</i>.
Just like Taylor Swift’s world-conquering breakthrough, the debut album from
Scottish country singer Catherine McGrath is a rich, catchy, and wistful
collection of songs that chronicle the angst of coming-of-age. <i>Fearless </i>was
a country album filtered through the hooks, topics, and concerns of teen pop. <i>Talk
of This Town </i>is the same. There are songs about chasing your dreams after
high school and maybe falling on your face. There is a song about being at a
Coldplay concert with a guy you like who is only thinking about the girl who broke
his heart. There are lots of songs about unrequited love, and about the hurt of
sitting right next to someone you think you’re in love with, knowing that
they are never going to see you as anything more than a friend. There are songs
about first kisses and honeymoon phases and about vowing not to lose the magic
of those first kisses and honeymoon phases as a relationship moves forward.
There is an ache to McGrath’s voice that recalls exactly how your heart felt
when you were young and experiencing these same things. It’s easy to roll your
eyes at an album like this, that is all about things that seem so important at
17 or 19 or 21 but prove ultimately to be largely superfluous. But that’s not
how those moments feel when you’re in them. They feel like life or death; like
moments on a movie screen; like a grand, epic drama with you at the center.
When McGrath sings about boys or breakups or bad nights, the ache in her voice
alone is enough to remind you how it felt to <i>feel </i>so much, so deeply.</div>
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159. <b>Donovan Woods </b>- <i>The Widowmaker</i><br />
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<i>The Widowmaker </i>sounds
like frozen streets and prairie
towns blanketed in snow. It sounds like hoarfrost on trees and memories
locked in ice. It sounds like winter, in all its quiet, cold, lonesome
beauty. I
first heard this album on Christmas Day 2010, and it was the start of a
new era
of holiday seasons for me. In the past, I’d mostly spent holiday breaks
enjoying a much-needed escape from everything. I’d see friends a few
times—usually
around New Year’s—but I’d mostly put in a lot of quality family time and
enjoy
long, lazy days at home. 2010 was different. I was dating the girl I’d
ultimately end up marrying and we were trying to juggle time together
with our family obligations for the season. I spent a lot of days
that winter break driving back and forth between our houses—a
30-minute-long
haul, despite the fact that we technically lived in the same town. This
album
was playing on a lot of those drives, especially the late-night return
treks.
There was something about the delicate beauty of songs like “Lawren
Harris” and
especially “No Time Has Passed” that sounded so perfect in those
moments.
Listening back to the album now, knowing how much Donovan Woods would
come to
mean to me as a songwriter, it’s amazing how much this album still <i>feels
</i>like those 2010 December nights to me. Some albums grow with us and pick up
new memories as we go. Others are perfect time capsules pieces of memories and
moments and feelings that we might otherwise forget. This album is one of
those, and I couldn’t have made this list without including it as part of the
scrapbook.</div>
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160. <b>Transit </b>- <i>Listen and Forgive</i><br />
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2011 wasn’t so far from my high school days. When I listened
to Transit’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Listen & Forgive </i>during
that gorgeous, golden autumn, though, I felt like an eternity had passed.
“Lately, you’ve been looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost/And isn’t it
obvious who’s been missing who the most?” goes the chorus of a song called
“Long Lost Friends.” As I’m writing these words, it’s been 10 years since I
graduated high school and almost three since I last saw my best friend. In
2011, when I first heard this album, I was two years past the beginning of my
senior year. But two summers had elapsed since high school at that point,
enough time for the bonds I built with friends to start fraying or at least
loosening a bit. These songs wrecked me. They spoke of memories like skipping
stones and of tides bringing those stones back to us, sometimes when we least
expected it. They talked about how growing up often meant growing into the sadder
songs, discovering the hurt hidden away in the lines you misread or overlooked
when you were younger. And they talked about the definitive struggle of young
adulthood: trying to find your place, your identify, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yourself</i>—only to learn that so much territory has already been
staked and claimed. The album is one fraught with sadness: with lost
friendships and broken relationships and the failures that ultimately prove
formative and crucial but seem like mortal wounds in the moment. Transit’s story
proved to be a sad one, too. Once one of the most promising pop-punk bands in
the scene, Transit sputtered and stalled on later albums and ultimately called
it quits in 2014. And earlier this year, it was announced that Tim Landers,
ex-guitarist for the band, had passed away. For this one classic record,
though, Transit distilled the angst of growing up and growing apart from your
youth into one of the decade’s preeminent coming-of-age albums.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
161. <b>Matchbox Twenty</b> - <i>North </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqivUS_DdxWkYYTrGmnkXBusXBX9k2_170eXEmipbKRoZh4H9daFvqm29RcgGdqYTYMwQj7D4fs4XktDELTVp9-kMgUNBBlZPWM45wNgG7q0sX7cpej0iiJcAsr44CpajXldLApojbBQ2/s1600/Matchbox+Twenty+-+North.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqivUS_DdxWkYYTrGmnkXBusXBX9k2_170eXEmipbKRoZh4H9daFvqm29RcgGdqYTYMwQj7D4fs4XktDELTVp9-kMgUNBBlZPWM45wNgG7q0sX7cpej0iiJcAsr44CpajXldLApojbBQ2/s640/Matchbox+Twenty+-+North.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matchbox Twenty were one of my first favorite bands. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yourself or Someone Like You </i>is a record
that still reminds me vividly of first grade, while both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Season </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More Than You
Think You Are </i>were heavy-rotation albums when I started really getting into
music around 13 or 14. Back then, I found out about new releases from artists I liked
when singles I hadn’t heard yet popped up on the radio. In 2003 or 2004, I
remember fantasizing about what it would be like when Matchbox Twenty released
a new album, so that I could experience the rollout for the first time as a tuned-in
fan. I didn’t know that I was about to wait a long, long time. The next
Matchbox Twenty song didn’t break until 2007, to go along with the band’s
greatest hits album. The next album was this one, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">North</i>, which arrived in 2012, just a few months shy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More Than You Think You Are</i>’s 10th
birthday. It was, honestly, bizarre. I’d thought for a long time that I would
never hear another Matchbox Twenty record—and no, Rob Thomas’s solo output is
not the same thing. The long-awaited fourth LP arriving eight or nine years
after the peak of my fandom seemed to beg the question: can the bands that
meant something to you as a kid still mean something to you on the
cusp of adulthood? But then I pushed play, and the wistful guitar notes of
“Parade” drifted out of my speakers, and Rob Thomas sang the opening lines:
“When the slow parade went past/And it felt so good you knew it couldn’t
last/And all too soon, the end was gonna come without a warning/And you’d have
to just go home.” The day I first heard that song was the day before I left
home at the end of my last college summer. I was leaving a job I’d never work
again, with a group of people who would never all be in the same room again,
and departing a house that I would never live in again beyond a stray night
here or there when I would visit my parents. And here was this song—this
perfectly fitting, beautiful, sobering song about how some things can’t last.
Listening to that track—and to the rest of this album—took me right back to
being a kid and to innocently loving everything about this band’s music.
In just a few notes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">North</i> seemed to
shrink the years between those two versions of me. It still does.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
162. <b>Old Dominion</b> - <i>Old Dominion</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGl9zR7nUzebuIQ9_G9YA3Pd_QdjfrfRXsZdzC-mfQNgheog2gzLiT6fvfWoPtZFEjW8VI2t4M7518FI-CUF4_TGm2ZBf2rWv_RHQ8L52BvCypLb9pn341XMq33ubG3EKIvb-AnXVYdB1d/s1600/Old+Dominion.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGl9zR7nUzebuIQ9_G9YA3Pd_QdjfrfRXsZdzC-mfQNgheog2gzLiT6fvfWoPtZFEjW8VI2t4M7518FI-CUF4_TGm2ZBf2rWv_RHQ8L52BvCypLb9pn341XMq33ubG3EKIvb-AnXVYdB1d/s640/Old+Dominion.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Old Dominion have always been incredible melodic craftsmen,
capable of repeatedly writing the catchiest songs in all of pop-country. Early
on, though, it would have been easy to dismiss them as bro-country wannabes. While
their debut, 2015’s <i>Meat and Candy</i> (an album I like quite a lot), was
cleverer and had more heart than anything Florida Georgia Line or Luke Bryan ever
made, songs like “Beer Can in a Truck Bed” and “Said Nobody” had a fratty
energy about them that was hard to ignore. Hearing this band progress toward maturity
while maintaining their instinctive grasp on how to write a hook has been a
joy, and they’ve reached the peak of that progression with their self-titled
third album. The songs on <i>Old Dominion </i>are still catchy as hell—and they
even <i>sound </i>pristine, with big guitar licks, gorgeous piano work, and
surprisingly classic-sounding production choices—but they also delve deeper
than this band has gone in the past. “One Man Band” and “My Heart Is a Bar” are
smart explorations of loneliness and how it only deepens as you get older and
go through more years of trying and failing to find the one; “Hear You Now” is
a song about really shutting up and <i>listening </i>to the person you love—and
about how some of us only learn how to do that when it’s too late; and “Some
People Do” is an almost shockingly raw plea for reconciliation—the rare
post-breakup “I’m sorry” song where the protagonist really, truly seems bent on
becoming better. I’ve always liked Old Dominion, in part because they never
seemed to take themselves too seriously. There was always an edge of a grin or
a wink in their songs, which lent a warmth and humanity to their music that tends
to be missing from most radio country. <i>Old Dominion </i>retains that
welcoming feel, but pairs it with songs that are more personal, more soulful,
and more driven by matters of the heart than past efforts. The result is the
best album yet from this undervalued pop-country band.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
163. <b>Foo Fighters</b> - <i>Wasting Light</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDZymuKF-kipsTNJPDFOHtOdE0vukcFjGPNmZGgGhNLo1L1bowab2l5zsmliZz0eJbZcPe0vcCBUvIPmNVQ750_qRMHcYW6nvSj_1AMa1ovFgxiOvY5Yedorn9JYDLS5WR-6hQAzfkQDo/s1600/Foo+Fighters+-+Wasting+Light.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDZymuKF-kipsTNJPDFOHtOdE0vukcFjGPNmZGgGhNLo1L1bowab2l5zsmliZz0eJbZcPe0vcCBUvIPmNVQ750_qRMHcYW6nvSj_1AMa1ovFgxiOvY5Yedorn9JYDLS5WR-6hQAzfkQDo/s640/Foo+Fighters+-+Wasting+Light.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems like virtually every Foo Fighters record has to
have some sort of concept. Not a story, and not even a music theme, but
something the band can talk about in interviews to juice conversation. On <i>In
Your Honor</i>, it was the double album approach, plus the electric-acoustic
dichotomy. On <i>Sonic Highways</i>, it was the gimmick of recording each of
the eight songs in a different city with a different guest <i>from </i>that
city. Even <i>Concrete & Gold </i>seemed to want to say something about the
balance of classic rock influences (Paul McCartney showed up on a track) and
modern touch (Greg Kurstin was the producer). The band got so caught up in
concepts over the past 15 years that even their no-frills, back-to-basics
record seemed like a big picture move. <i>Wasting Light </i>was billed in 2011
as a return to the band’s 90s roots. They recorded it in Dave Grohl’s garage,
and Butch Vig (producer of a little 90s album called <i>Nevermind</i>) manned
the boards. The result is that <i>Wasting Light </i>ends up sounding exactly
like a 90s rock record: loud; immediate; catchy; flirting with anthemic arena
rock but only occasionally embracing it fully. The band steers toward darkness
near the end of the album—on shadowy numbers like “Miss the Misery” and “I
Should Have Known,” the latter of which reunites two of the three members of
Nirvana. But then they blast everything into the sun on “Walk,” a rousing,
joyful rock song that kept Foo Fighters’ very long string of perfect singles
alive for at least one more album cycle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
164. <b>Glen Hansard</b> - <i>Rhythm & Repose</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhffP7HGh4blA43XzU-Dj3NnychuTQaqTx1BVYJRomnHgixFUcchTfJ0nlPV9pnFODoJngaaz5TA02GolQgQP7QVRP1J5jpq6PVpUM27mu2Cwzhf6hX7ct9cRhSPeox43v1X9kgSQNpVi6i/s1600/Glen+Hansard+-+Rhythm+and+Repose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhffP7HGh4blA43XzU-Dj3NnychuTQaqTx1BVYJRomnHgixFUcchTfJ0nlPV9pnFODoJngaaz5TA02GolQgQP7QVRP1J5jpq6PVpUM27mu2Cwzhf6hX7ct9cRhSPeox43v1X9kgSQNpVi6i/s640/Glen+Hansard+-+Rhythm+and+Repose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>Rhythm & Repose </i>was the first record I ever
reviewed for AbsolutePunk, after being asked to join the staff. I always thought
that was significant, because Glen Hansard had been a hero of mine for five
years at that point. There are still very few film performances that resonate
with me the way his turn in<i> Once </i>did, and those songs are frankly
written on my soul. Writing about his debut solo album—and a record that is so
clearly so personal—felt like a fitting start to my own journey as a writer.
I’ve always tried to be honest and candid and personal in my work. I feel that,
by sharing stories of our lives and of the things we love—in this case,
music—we can discover new shades of empathy or new commonalities with others
that we didn’t know were there. Glen has always known that, and this album
might be the clearest display of it. He wrote it after his split from Marketa
Irglova—his <i>Once </i>co-star and real-life romantic interest in the wake of the
film. Some of the songs sound like they’re being sung by a heartbroken person
one verse shy of a breakdown (“Bird of Sorrow,” “What Are We Gonna Do”), while
others spark with tentative optimism for the future (there are two tracks with
the word “hope” in the title). But the song that always cut the deepest for me
was “Maybe Not Tonight,” an achingly gorgeous George Harrison-esque ballad that
finds two lovers at a crossroads—enjoying one last summer evening of idyllic
romance before they go their separate ways. “Maybe we should say goodbye,” Glen
sings at one point; “But maybe not tonight.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
165. <b>Steve Moakler</b> - <i>Wide Open</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In college, I took a writing class where the professor
always encouraged us to find the “aboutness” in a piece of writing—whether it
was ours or someone else’s. Writing that was focused and intentional about its
core theme or subject, she argued, was superior to writing that meandered or
had no strongly defined center. One of the things I most respect about Steve
Moakler is his firm grasp of aboutness. Moakler’s records aren’t flashy. They
fall somewhere between the dusty Americana of Jason Isbell and the catchy, blue
collar mainstream country of artists like Dierks Bentley and Thomas Rhett. His
songs feel like radio-ready jams, but he performs them like they are
left-of-the-dial gems. Not so surprisingly, several of his songs have been cut
by major Nashville superstars—including Bentley himself, who plucked this
album’s centerpiece “Riser” for his own album of the same name. Aboutness is
something country fans and artists respect, because it can be hard to capture
an idea fully in the space of three or four minutes. Moakler does it repeatedly
on this songwriting masterclass of an album. There’s a cleanness to his
songwriting, where every track has a thesis statement or core lyrical idea that
it introduces immediately and then builds upon throughout the album. It’s the
kind of writing that seems effortless on first glance, even though so much
thought undoubtedly went into every line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
166. <b>Augustana </b>- <i>Augustana </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJ0TXo2ETKCVg6Ul16NDt2kcM5Y-mvCMlnypgRHMu4osJFCzP-sdOzBllPve_P_9CJDC9wajaKDPXiJRumwSry8Wz7AzqA4jeGJW_UNxmrqvaB8T_j-RgfdJYFg0Ej8eTRZNIQh-Ma2iq/s1600/Augustana.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJ0TXo2ETKCVg6Ul16NDt2kcM5Y-mvCMlnypgRHMu4osJFCzP-sdOzBllPve_P_9CJDC9wajaKDPXiJRumwSry8Wz7AzqA4jeGJW_UNxmrqvaB8T_j-RgfdJYFg0Ej8eTRZNIQh-Ma2iq/s640/Augustana.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss the way that summers felt during college. In high
school, the word “summer” referred strictly to July and August, plus the latter
half of June. In college, it meant a full four-month stretch, from May through
Labor Day. The result is that “summer” ended up feeling very much like two
pieces of a larger whole. There was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actual
</i>summer part, in the sweltering heat of July and August. When I think of
most of my favorite summer albums, they’re the ones that remind me of those
months, and of windows-down drives and long days at the beach. But then there
was the other piece: the “I just got home from college and I’m transitioning
back into summertime freedoms” piece. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Augustana
</i>reminds me of that part of 2011: an unseasonably cold and rainy spring,
after a long and torturous winter. These days, I don’t even start thinking
about summertime until Memorial Day. But the weird phenomenon of those lengthy
college breaks was that you started acting like you were on summer vacation
even when it was barely 50 degrees out and the Fourth of July was still the
better part of two months away. This record, with its torrential bursts of
roots-flecked pop-rock, makes me yearn to have that kind of freedom back again.
You can still hear the last gasps of winter on some of the songs—especially the
majestic “Hurricane.” But you can also hear the highway ripping past you on the
zippy “Shot in the Dark,” or sense the wide-open August evening sky within the
sprawl of “You Were Made for Me.” Of all the seasons, springtime is the one
that has always had the least of a musical identity to me.
People make summer albums, and people make winter albums, but not many people
make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">springtime </i>albums. Both here and
on 2008’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can’t Love, Can’t Hurt</i>,
Augustana mastered that unique but beguiling alchemy.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
167. <b>Sturgill Simpson</b> - <i>Sound and Fury</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point, Sturgill Simpson went from country
traditionalist to post-genre provocateur. On <i>Sound and Fury</i>, he seems to
have no desire bigger than getting a rise out of people. He’s not picky with his
targets either. The people who hailed him, upon the release of his early
records, as a potential “savior” of country music. The award show posers who
have either showered him with honors (the Grammys) or ignored him entirely
(CMAs). The people who love his music. The people who hate his music. Everyone
might as well be in the sights on <i>Sound and Fury</i>, a wild left turn of a
record that gleefully douses Sturgill’s past successes in kerosene before
flicking a match to burn them all to the ground. It’s maybe the most divisive
record of 2019: an album hailed by some as a daring melding of genres and
by others as a loud, tone-deaf, self-indulgent piece of trash. The best thing
about it might be that it is ultimately both. There’s something definitively
trashy about the songs, which <i>sound </i>like sleazy ‘70s rock ‘n’ roll and
spend most of their lyrics in “old man yells at clouds” mode. But Sturgill
presents this wild opus in a masterful way: slice-and-dice guitar riffs;
earworm hooks; massive, pristine production; a trippy anime film that begs to
make <i>Sound & Fury </i>the millennial version of <i>Dark Side of Oz</i>.
Frankly, we need more artists willing to take big, bizarre swings like this
one.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
168. <b>John Moreland</b> - <i>In the Throes</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On the list of the most perfect songs written in the last 10
years, John Moreland’s “Gospel” is very near the top. It’s a simple
song: just three verses sung soulfully over a simple acoustic guitar part. 12
lines of text; six rhymes; 137 words. But it’s a flawless piece of poetry: the
rare song where every line hits as hard as the one before it, and where there’s
not a single wasted word or phrase. It’s hard to pick a favorite line, or a
favorite couplet, or a favorite verse, just because every piece of this song
seems to contain so much wisdom and magic. It’s full of simple pleasures, like
driving a car down a dirt road or finding your faith in great records from long
before you were born. It’s full of great aspirations, like being as cool as the
night air, or never giving up your dreams no matter what anybody says. It’s full
of hints at the hardness of the world: “I wanna believe even when I know life
don’t play fair,” Moreland sings at one point. The song is, essentially, his
wish list: the things he wants out of life that he might not ever get; the
goals he’s chasing that might never come to pass. But that’s life: you want;
you hope; you dream; you chase. Maybe you fall short or maybe you hit the mark,
but it’s the optimism of <i>wanting </i>things out of life—wanting more, and
being willing to go after it—that ultimately makes life such a journey.
“Gospel” is a perfect song about that journey, and <i>In the Throes</i>—and
often deeply sad record that finds moments of uplift in the unflinching
humanity of Moreland’s incredible songwriting—is a tribute to its many ups and
downs.</div>
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169. <b>Cary Brothers </b>- <i>Under Control</i><br />
<br />
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On <i>Under Control</i>, Cary Brothers wrote a song that
always sounded to me like falling in love. “Belong” starts off as a slow,
patient piano ballad, but then it turns into anything but patient. Midway
through, the song accelerates like a racing heart and explodes into a firework
show of emotion. “What I’d give for that first night when you were mine,”
Brothers sings, bringing to mind those moments at the beginning of a
relationship when you need the other person so badly that it feels almost
dizzying. Brothers has always been good at capturing that kind of high romantic
drama in his songs. <i>Who You Are </i>did it more consistently, but <i>Under
Control </i>might be the purest distillation of his musical goals. When I
interviewed him in 2018, Brothers told me about his love for ‘80s teen movies
and the music that soundtracked them. <i>Under Control </i>plays like the soundtrack
to a John Hughes movie that never was, ranging from new wave-y pop euphoria
(“Someday”) to romantic introspection (“Can’t Take My Eyes off of You”) all the
way to crushing isolation (“Ghost Town”). Brothers came up through the music
business in the era of <i>Garden State</i>, <i>The OC</i>, <i>One Tree Hill</i>,
<i>Scrubs</i>, and <i>Grey’s Anatomy</i>, so it’s fitting that his music always
hearkens back to a time when any song could feasibly be used to score a coda
montage at the end of the night.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
170. <b>The Hold Steady</b> - <i>Heaven Is Whenever</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrsHO96rBogwei2Dzoq7EznUrXMJhTNHAnptB_nL_7N7izssdI8bJrogmo0N9WJKPkb-eVQpepOpQlMhMZ0q93jgJoCpsgJV0NGOPRfijSn1dRL-frdXwVfyPgBti_DRVK3ws6CuOIjOq/s1600/The+Hold+Steady+-+Heaven.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrsHO96rBogwei2Dzoq7EznUrXMJhTNHAnptB_nL_7N7izssdI8bJrogmo0N9WJKPkb-eVQpepOpQlMhMZ0q93jgJoCpsgJV0NGOPRfijSn1dRL-frdXwVfyPgBti_DRVK3ws6CuOIjOq/s640/The+Hold+Steady+-+Heaven.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The Hold Steady, to me, will always sound most like
springtime on a college campus. The band’s music—big, grandiose, anthemic,
jagged, unapologetic, a little drunken—makes them perfect for that kind of
environment. When the parties spill out onto decks and lawns, or when the dorm
room windows open wide and you can hear music cascading out of them, that’s
when I fell in love with The Hold Steady. My first baptism into their music was
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boys & Girls in America</i>. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heaven Is Whenever </i>may have been the
album that most informed my impression of what The Hold Steady could mean to
me. This album dropped on May 4, 2010, but it received a vinyl-only release on
Record Store Day that year, nearly a month early. I remember a rip circulating
around in the final weeks of my freshman year of college, and I remember how
those songs blended perfectly with that season. It was a surprisingly warm
spring—especially in Michigan where “warm spring” sometimes doesn’t arrive
until June. The balmy temperatures made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heaven
Is Whenever </i>come alive. The lilting slide guitars of “The Sweet Part of the
City” called to mind the humid summer nights that were very soon to arrive,
while big booming anthems like “The Weekenders” and “Hurricane J” seemed to
promise an epic season. “Hurricane J, she’s gonna crash into the harbor this
summer,” Craig Finn sings on the latter; I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ready </i>for the collision. Fans and critics largely looked upon this
album lukewarmly, missing Finn’s more nuanced narrative writing, or longing for
the evocative, E Street style keyboard licks of once-and-future band member
Franz Nicolay. But I always loved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heaven
Is Whenever </i>for how well it did blistering, straight-ahead, summer-ready
rock ‘n’ roll. It came along in a year that brought a string of albums in the
same Springsteen-indebted wheelhouse: The Gaslight Anthem’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Slang</i>; Jesse Malin’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love It to Life</i>; Titus Andronicus’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Monitor</i>. Nine years later, when
records like that are a whole lot harder to find, it’s tough for me not to look
on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heaven Is Whenever </i>with a sad
fondness for what poptimism destroyed.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
171. <b>Charlie Simpson</b> - <i>Young Pilgrim</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRRZZonvF_J7bKQXBVzpsVfXdxL-G5WU0VEeBXjfFjL4V_huU5i3Te4oP2zjA6u07zVE9NyXUe0HHLgA7fidNdV9aXsWhTWCF5dba2eEushYdqZl_dkne5LGW7hMl1cplVtRNJJuH78yF/s1600/Charlie+Simpson+-+Young+Pilgrim.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1199" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRRZZonvF_J7bKQXBVzpsVfXdxL-G5WU0VEeBXjfFjL4V_huU5i3Te4oP2zjA6u07zVE9NyXUe0HHLgA7fidNdV9aXsWhTWCF5dba2eEushYdqZl_dkne5LGW7hMl1cplVtRNJJuH78yF/s640/Charlie+Simpson+-+Young+Pilgrim.jpg" width="638" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
To a lot of people, Charlie Simpson is first and foremost a
boy band pop star. To me, though, he’ll always be the sound of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Young Pilgrim</i>, his first solo LP.
There’s something cool about a big pop star deconstructing his own musical
identity and stripping it down to its barest essentials. Even the boy band
stars that have achieved success as solo artists—the Justin Timberlakes,
obviously, or the Harry Styles types, to a lesser extent—typically keep the
big, bombastic production values of their band work. Simpson opted for
something different: a largely spartan folk-pop album that combines his flare
for big melodies with gorgeous, wistful, acoustic-driven arrangements. The
result is an album with surprising range, substantial emotional punch, and
smartly engaging lyrics. “We send people into space without ever really
knowing/If they’re ever gonna come back down” he sings on the propulsive opener
“Down, Down, Down”—just one of many thoughtful lyrics that stick with you long
after the album is done. Repeatedly, Simpson finds solace in the things that
pop stars often overlook: the natural world; the beauty of pastoral imagery;
the sleepy suburbs. The result is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Young
Pilgrim </i>is often delightfully small scale, like the way the weather can
chart the passage of time in a relationship, or like the way a sunset feels
when you know it signifies a goodbye. But when Simpson’s flair for the dramatic
rears its head, as on the massive album closer “Riverbanks,” the moments feel
earned and emotionally resonant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
172. <b>Mat Kearney</b> - <i>Young Love</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq09LKpsjVxb8ErutBfcaI0pwBiFpqTbM1gaOv1IAXU1oG-XLsnZAHHaiuwGJg11Gt70OB2JCZObiksoWF2RmhhtZd0NQSfoNQnv7JC5_YFflTSoygIKWkiRjibNrC0Ns9Db9Wh5cscpb/s1600/Mat+Kearney+-+Young+Love.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq09LKpsjVxb8ErutBfcaI0pwBiFpqTbM1gaOv1IAXU1oG-XLsnZAHHaiuwGJg11Gt70OB2JCZObiksoWF2RmhhtZd0NQSfoNQnv7JC5_YFflTSoygIKWkiRjibNrC0Ns9Db9Wh5cscpb/s640/Mat+Kearney+-+Young+Love.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mat Kearney started the decade as one of my favorite
artists. His first two albums, 2006’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing
Left to Lose </i>and 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City of Black
and White</i>, captured something about growing up and leaving home that was
deeply resonant to me when those records came out. In contrast, I couldn’t get
through Kearney’s latest record—the blaring, synth-driven Top 40 play that was
2018’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CRAZYTALK</i>. I still love <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Young Love</i>, though, which somehow finds
a way for Kearney’s maximalist pop impulses and idiosyncratic, hip-hop-tinged
songwriting style to coexist. These songs are big, bold, and catchy, but they
are also still wildly unique. “Ships in the Night” starts out sounding like an
early Coldplay piano ballad, morphs into a beat-driven pop song, and still finds
room for freewheeling verses that sound like stream-of-consciousness beat
poetry. “She Got the Honey” and “Young Dumb and In Love” are as infectious as
anything that was on the radio in 2011, but still carry Kearney’s one-of-a-kind
authorial voice. “Seventeen” makes teenage pregnancy sound as sweeping and
romantic as a song about a first kiss down on a beach. There’s even a song that
sounds like Kearney xeroxed it wholesale from Springsteen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nebraska</i>—a surprising left turn for an
album that is usually as brightly colored as its yellow cover. Maybe Kearney
was having an identity crisis and didn’t know where to go next. Maybe that same
identity crisis is what ultimately led him to the shipwreck of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CRAZYTALK</i>. Here, though, he made his
competing impulses and influences cohere into the perfect soundtrack to a
youthful summer fling.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
173. <b>Ashley McBryde</b> - <i>Girl Going Nowhere</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMQC3Jmgz0kip0I339CAECi2fnZtMVb2lHy0T3qeHRFIsCSPqbAbF4GAstp8gBz2hnDClDWid1aCCEykS81oVl_6TLQU2oFoKiU6xTamcGj5iGwB30iaEw572jX7fw4jQQtci7q492lJX/s1600/Ashley+McBryde+-+Girl+Going+Nowhere.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMQC3Jmgz0kip0I339CAECi2fnZtMVb2lHy0T3qeHRFIsCSPqbAbF4GAstp8gBz2hnDClDWid1aCCEykS81oVl_6TLQU2oFoKiU6xTamcGj5iGwB30iaEw572jX7fw4jQQtci7q492lJX/s640/Ashley+McBryde+-+Girl+Going+Nowhere.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
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There’s something about being told you <i>can’t </i>do something
that makes you push that much harder to achieve it. Based on the lyrics on
Ashley McBryde’s <i>Girl Going Nowhere</i>—specifically the title track—she
heard a lot of no’s over the course of her life. For some reason, we live in a
world and in an age where people <i>want </i>to see other people fail. Maybe
it’s always been this way. Maybe social media and the anonymity of the internet
made it worse. It certainly seemed like this decade was the “grab the popcorn
to watch this person fall on their face” decade. In that context, it’s
wonderful to see an artist like Ashley McBryde succeed. As I’m writing these
words, she’s just walked away with a Best New Artist statue at the CMA Awards,
which doesn’t necessarily mean a ton, but which is sure as hell a big middle
finger to anyone who ever told her she <i>couldn’t </i>make it. That trophy
will hopefully open big doors for McBryde in the new decade, but even exiting
this one, she already feels like one of country’s most exciting voices. This
album, with its punchy hooks (should-have-been hits like “Radioland” and
“American Scandal”) and sharp, clever songwriting (“The Jacket” is one of the
best examples of songwriting craft from the past five years, in any genre)
shows off a serious amount of talent. I can’t wait to hear what’s next.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
174. <b>The Maine</b> - <i>Black and White</i><br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
From what I’ve heard, the guys in The Maine are not super
fond of this record. It was their sophomore LP and their major label debut, a
move from the pop-punk minor leagues of Fearless to Warner Bros. The major
label big wigs clearly exerted some influence, teaming the band up with
big-name songwriters (including Butch Walker, on the infectious “Right Girl”)
and smoothing over some of the brattier, more idiosyncratic elements that had
characterized The Maine’s debut, 2009’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can’t
Stop, Won’t Stop</i>. But I love the hell of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black & White,</i> largely as a product of when it came out. This
album hit the internet probably two or three days after I started going out
with the girl who I would end up marrying. It was the peak of summer, and I was
spending a lot of time in the car, between my house, work, and her house. An
album like this one—a glossy, impossibly catchy summertime soundtrack—was
precisely what I needed, and The Maine delivered in spades. I still go back to
little moments of that season when I play these songs back: the anthemic keys
of “Growing Up” remind me of one of our first dates, to the local mini golf
park, and I’m pretty sure “Saving Grace” was playing in the car one evening as
we shared an extended kiss goodnight. The Maine would eventually evolve beyond
this sound, and carefree, low-substance pop-rock albums don’t resonate with me
now like they did back then. But as a sonic backdrop to the excitement of a
brand-new summer romance, I could hardly have dreamed up a better album for
that moment in my life. It’s still a summer running/driving staple, if only
because it takes me back to a time when summers still meant endless
possibility.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
175. <b>The Wallflowers</b> - <i>Glad All Over</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEnC_Onbz6R8cXySP7la9pVpWMDaFEaCNkhBGDvYOAnWnG97ksBwCTiJwcy_iBMGxpHt_yETBS8g_UIKzLHSSbQ73oP2dg328tBU_ZEfKz62JPWQ-E_yzugNt_Ln1FpZo0MuVQYxU2UEj/s1600/The+Wallflowers+-+Glad+All+Over.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEnC_Onbz6R8cXySP7la9pVpWMDaFEaCNkhBGDvYOAnWnG97ksBwCTiJwcy_iBMGxpHt_yETBS8g_UIKzLHSSbQ73oP2dg328tBU_ZEfKz62JPWQ-E_yzugNt_Ln1FpZo0MuVQYxU2UEj/s640/The+Wallflowers+-+Glad+All+Over.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the great musical tragedies of the past 25 years is
the sidelining of The Wallflowers and Jakob Dylan. “One Headlight” was my first
favorite song and The Wallflowers were my first favorite band. Their
breakthrough album, 1996’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing Down
the Horse</i>, was and is a masterpiece. The band’s fame couldn’t outlast the
‘90s, but Dylan still had a respectable run in the 2000s, releasing three more good-to-great
Wallflowers records before teaming up with Rick Rubin for a 2008 solo debut
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seeing Things</i>. In the 2010s,
though, Dylan only made two records: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Women
+ Country</i>, a 2010 solo LP; and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glad
All Over</i>, a 2012 Wallflowers reunion. He’s been more or less dormant—at
least as a recording artist—ever since. It’s a shame, because a lot of what
made The Wallflowers such a magical band in the mid-to-late ‘90s is still
intact here. They had a knack for instant-classic-sounding roots rock and for
big, wide-open arrangements that captured the scope and sprawl of a (6th
Avenue) heartache. At its best, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glad All
Over </i>captures the same sense of highway-bound yearning that I always got
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing Down the Horse</i>.
Starry-eyed beauties like “Love is a Country” and “Constellation Blues” are
some of the decade’s dreamiest rock songs—expansive kaleidoscopic beauties that
seemed to anticipate the sonic template that The War on Drugs would turn into
critically-acclaimed gold on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost in the
Dream </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Deeper Understanding</i>.
Jay Joyce—on his way to becoming an A-list country producer thanks to his work
with Eric Church—handled production duties, to notable effect. “Basically, we
made a record the way people used to make records,” Joyce said of the recording
process, which was defined by jam sessions, live recording, and instruments
bleeding across all the mics. I wish more people still made records like that,
but I’d settle for The Wallflowers making just one more. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
176. <b>David Ramirez</b> - <i>Fables</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUv4c79DBJDXRrw1lioBeBcu3bFDFSKJkXrgk5ouCjNj8PoPnVHP51Tq_eRDqIhZf1f2KLiPPJt9pPd_s22KM6fLUXsTTqKaZ8H4exKwxwNVIyV8JeahSNUz64vmZFzhPc-8fLd0dRZC7/s1600/David+Ramirez+-+Fables.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMUv4c79DBJDXRrw1lioBeBcu3bFDFSKJkXrgk5ouCjNj8PoPnVHP51Tq_eRDqIhZf1f2KLiPPJt9pPd_s22KM6fLUXsTTqKaZ8H4exKwxwNVIyV8JeahSNUz64vmZFzhPc-8fLd0dRZC7/s640/David+Ramirez+-+Fables.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
David Ramirez is a songwriter who writes smartly and vividly
about a lot of things. On this album he pens a slew of insightful songs about
falling in love and about the dynamics and priorities of relationships. On the
follow-up, 2017’s <i>We’re Not Going Anywhere</i>, he dove into political
waters with a deft hand and a ton of empathy. His greatest gift, though, may be
chronicling the life of the mid-level touring musician. Rock music history has
been dotted with tons of songs about the touring lifestyle and about the toll it can
take on musicians, their families, their relationships, and their lives as a
whole. But those types of songs have become less common as the myth of the rock
‘n’ roll star has begun to fade away. Ramirez brings them back. On his 2015
album <i>Apologies</i>, there’s a song called “Stick Around” where he asks the
questions that any professional musician has to start asking at some point.
Will I ever have a stable home, or a stable life? Will my relationships with my
family suffer because I don’t see them enough? Will my nieces and nephews ever
know me? Will I ever have a family of my own? On <i>Fables</i>, he follows
those questions to their logical extreme: to where music, once a blessing,
becomes a curse. “Be careful with your hobbies,” he sings on “Ball and Chain,”
the album’s stirring and sad closing track; “They may define you someday.” It’s
a surprisingly bitter point to end on, especially since the song contains a
lyric about the “honesty” of confessional artists maybe being an illusion when
their audiences are the ones that decide what the songs mean. But it’s also a
welcome dose of candidness in a time when not enough music tells the truth.
There are two sides to every sword, and there’s maybe no artist making music
today that is better at conveying the dark side of that coin than David
Ramirez.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
177. <b>Florence + The Machine </b>- <i>Ceremonials</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf95OSfuoQdph-QJbLqeVgOwBh09hyhFGXAGZdo4W9VzMNKJX5CjTL-mn8-zYj8Nn0Y6fRqeqIRw4MnXhb7vXU4LizISP2xZQbmTCRoR8H6lYaDDQztSZ4NfCixm1oDEHYOG2SLdGg5Vhk/s1600/Florence+-+Ceremonials.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf95OSfuoQdph-QJbLqeVgOwBh09hyhFGXAGZdo4W9VzMNKJX5CjTL-mn8-zYj8Nn0Y6fRqeqIRw4MnXhb7vXU4LizISP2xZQbmTCRoR8H6lYaDDQztSZ4NfCixm1oDEHYOG2SLdGg5Vhk/s640/Florence+-+Ceremonials.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the time, the big-voiced theatrics of Florence Welch
of Florence + The Machine turn me off. But on <i>Ceremonials</i>, the band’s
weird, Baroque-leaning sophomore LP, Welch and company temporarily won me over.
This album’s dark-as-night anthems—layered with dramatic reverb and packed with
pounding tribal drums, droning bass, celestial chants, and Welch’s cavernous
vocals at their foreboding, witchy best—make for a true one-of-a-kind epic. When
she sings about “echoes of a city that’s long overgrown” in “Heartlines,” she
sets the scene for this record and its almost <i>Lord of the Rings</i>-esque
battlescape arrangements. On most of the record, Welch seems inclined to
embrace the darkness. She sings about holy water and exorcisms on “Seven
Devils,” and there’s literally a song called “No Light, No Light.” By the end
of the album, she’s offering up her body to the arms of doom and caterwauling
away like she’s Stevie Nicks at the end of “Gold Dust Woman.” But all the death
and doom and gloom only seems more impressive when Florence + The Machine let
the light break through, on colossal, cathartic pop songs like “Shake It Out”
and “All This and Heaven Too.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welch
says the wrote the former about shaking off a hangover; on <i>Ceremonials</i>,
it sounds like an epic last stand against the literal forces of hell.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
178. <b>Motion City Soundtrack</b> - <i>Go</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV7iXbaiRCYJy796WQHveEBQYoRFhR4u5HgMTcJ-DIfi_T2wrAlmlAGeLCf2xIV9Y7cAl0VUd0P0Uo9des9pXa3qNAC3e_dMXYNYjXxe3ku9wGopicweCA40vxhbJ54-KIKOdJ6YsnUdV/s1600/Motion+City+Soundtrack+-+Go.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV7iXbaiRCYJy796WQHveEBQYoRFhR4u5HgMTcJ-DIfi_T2wrAlmlAGeLCf2xIV9Y7cAl0VUd0P0Uo9des9pXa3qNAC3e_dMXYNYjXxe3ku9wGopicweCA40vxhbJ54-KIKOdJ6YsnUdV/s640/Motion+City+Soundtrack+-+Go.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“It’s not a matter of time, it’s just a matter of timing.”
Those words anchor “Timelines,” my favorite song on Motion City Soundtrack’s
fifth album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go</i>. In the band’s
catalog, this album tends to get overlooked or even downright derided. It is
less beloved, for instance, than this decade’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Dinosaur Life</i>, an album that I find to be considerably less
thoughtful. In a lot of ways, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go </i>is
the most complex album in the MCS discography. It’s certainly the darkest,
hanging most of its weight on themes of mortality and impermanence. There is a
song here called “Everyone Will Die.” There’s another, called “Circuits &
Wires,” about only being designed “to last a finite length of time.” A third
track, “Happy Anniversary,” is about making preparations for death—from
settling your accounts to telling your kids you love them. These are heavy
ideas, and the songs that carry them often feel as exhausted and heartbroken as
you would expect anthems about death to be. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go </i>isn’t an album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about </i>death,
even if plenty of its songs are preoccupied with the subject. Rather, it’s an
album about recognizing the temporary nature of life and about learning to take
advantage of it. “I have a few years to go before I’m floating down the river
again,” Pierre sings in the final track. How are you going to spend them?
“Timelines” gives the answer, and it’s not about chasing down milestones or
measuring yourself against the other people in your life. Your own timeline
doesn’t have to match what your parents did, or what your friends are doing, or
what the kids in your graduating class have planned. “It’s not a matter of
time, it’s just a matter of timing.” Everyone’s timing is different, and
everyone’s timeline is unique. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Go </i>is
about writing your own story and not being afraid of being “too early” or “too
late” for anyone else’s standards. After all, we’re all going to end up in the
same place eventually: “fertilizing daffodils,” in the words of Robin Williams in
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dead Poets Society</i>. We’d
might as well make the journey to that point as exciting and one-of-a-kind as
possible.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
179. <b>Maren Morris </b>- <i>GIRL</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszN9XvjxL9qkQF239TFl47FPHR1uNGeACm3qZeIzCQsKqPyF75b8-1pLxXlJDlKIFgFM3cMteGnUgibtf15vXAZj63-SKm2VumXpjniSlyIY6heltOobu3_8_fkCS7B82YPvli6UIc6sf/s1600/Maren+Morris+-+Girl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszN9XvjxL9qkQF239TFl47FPHR1uNGeACm3qZeIzCQsKqPyF75b8-1pLxXlJDlKIFgFM3cMteGnUgibtf15vXAZj63-SKm2VumXpjniSlyIY6heltOobu3_8_fkCS7B82YPvli6UIc6sf/s640/Maren+Morris+-+Girl.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a lot of ways, <i>GIRL </i>is a sophomore slump. It’s
less adventurous, less dynamic, less catchy, and all around less <i>fun </i>than
<i>Hero</i>, the album that took Maren Morris from unknown to superstar. Even
on weaker footing, though, Morris’s grasp of the poppier side of country is
second to none. When she shoots for big and bombastic, it’s virtually
impossible for her to miss. From the title track, with its jagged 2000s indie
rock guitar riff, to “All My Favorite People,” a summertime barn-burner
featuring Brothers Osborne, <i>GIRL </i>is at its strongest when it lets Morris
wail away over songs that sound huge. The back half, packed with ballads about
her marriage, is less immediately striking, though it still features two
tracks—“The Bones” and “To Hell and Back”—that stand among the decade’s best
and most innovative love songs. “The house don’t fall when the bones are good,”
Maren sings in the former. She’s singing about her marriage, but she could also
be singing about this album: a collection that succeeds in spite of those
flaws, thanks to the tremendous talent of its creator.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
180. <b>Brothers Osborne</b> - <i>Port Saint Joe</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGUO-AG_B3ef8nMSWdavBIWAc5fq7rohBC4iUZtDagdCzg-ETIRkaiAJqI3WwiTtwvWg8skakEJTs22vJwFWZftPyQbmps8XTXaNBkChzT4TPbOPcdKjeVT5U8ijx3IgIbSLExnj_ZS2d/s1600/Port+Saint+Joe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGUO-AG_B3ef8nMSWdavBIWAc5fq7rohBC4iUZtDagdCzg-ETIRkaiAJqI3WwiTtwvWg8skakEJTs22vJwFWZftPyQbmps8XTXaNBkChzT4TPbOPcdKjeVT5U8ijx3IgIbSLExnj_ZS2d/s640/Port+Saint+Joe.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
To make the follow-up to their smash debut, Brothers Osborne
retreated to the titular Port Saint Joe in Florida, holed up in a beachside
house with producer Jay Joyce, and hammered out this record. While the album
lacks the clear singles that made <i>Pawn Shop </i>such a meteoric debut, <i>Port
Saint Joe </i>does carry an irresistible, laid-back, groove-driven feel that
proves a couple things. First, Brothers Osborne are and will probably always be
purveyors of summer soundtrack fare. Though the album dropped on 4/20, leadoff
track “Slow Your Roll” was the first clear summer jam of 2018. Second, these
guys are some of the very best musicians in any genre right now. Any list of the
best guitar solos of the decade will probably exclude Brothers Osborne, if only
because those lists tend to skew toward either veteran alternative rock bands
or metal, ignoring genres like country entirely. But I’ll submit that any list
of the best guitar solos of the decade is also incomplete without at least one John
Osborne feature. The obvious nominee from this record is “Shoot Me Straight,”
the stomping, shapeshifting lead single that spends a huge amount of its
six-and-a-half minute runtime on guitar pyrotechnics. But even the ballads are
big guitar showcases, with splendid production that makes them sound like
vintage 1970s classics.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
181. <b>William Clark Green</b> - <i>Ringling Road</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtCjMEng5UFqJDsFcu45cSu7Z5lLvq74bf8E9UjkasiP8g_uxkjT18zg0FFQfwNnVMtkS8j1l3qz_W_LtlB6GvmkodSJZ3_6cypQ-kRWJqeWz7tsbRdVRWkhfcVEoL7YX5H2dNhyBqsya/s1600/William+Clark+Green+-+Ringling+Road.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtCjMEng5UFqJDsFcu45cSu7Z5lLvq74bf8E9UjkasiP8g_uxkjT18zg0FFQfwNnVMtkS8j1l3qz_W_LtlB6GvmkodSJZ3_6cypQ-kRWJqeWz7tsbRdVRWkhfcVEoL7YX5H2dNhyBqsya/s640/William+Clark+Green+-+Ringling+Road.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There’s a warm glow to the songs on <i>Ringling Road </i>that
reminds me of ‘90s radio rock. That music—The Wallflowers, Goo Goo Dolls,
Sister Hazel, Counting Crows, even Hootie & the Blowfish—is the stuff that
made me fall in love with music in the first place. People mostly stopped
making rock records like that in the 2000s, and finding them in the 2010s was
nearly impossible. <i>Ringling Road </i>scratched that itch, packing massive
hooks, lush acoustic guitars, and memorable lyrics into tracks like “Sticks and
Stones,” “Sympathy,” and “Hey Sarah.” 20 years ago, these songs would have been
massive hits. William Clark Green might have ended up on MTV singing with Bruce
Springsteen, just like The Wallflowers did at the 1997 VMAs. Instead, Clark
Green flew way under the radar this decade, releasing albums packed with radiant red dirt
country songs that only got noticed by the Texas country crowd. It’s a shame,
because <i>Ringling Road </i>has a lot of personality and heart—whether Clark
Green is playing the part of Tom Waits-ian troubadour (see the twisted circus
world of the title track), string-band frontman (the county fair rave-up that
is “Creek Don’t Rise”), or heartbroken balladeer (the crushingly lonely “Still
Thinking About You”).</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
182. <b>Kip Moore</b> - <i>Slowheart</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BywFze9fDTVqCK9-HAC1fD9yVgvLUAnWVOinpvHN82wVVXwn41JOWhuNfH1xMTCFxyPM2a6doAIsJO5ckT9Nc22qOTZB33XuWwlM-eegtaOExOEaQVvERLMScyHtaQbsM0QXWwrzJHg3/s1600/Kip+Moore+-+Slowheart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BywFze9fDTVqCK9-HAC1fD9yVgvLUAnWVOinpvHN82wVVXwn41JOWhuNfH1xMTCFxyPM2a6doAIsJO5ckT9Nc22qOTZB33XuWwlM-eegtaOExOEaQVvERLMScyHtaQbsM0QXWwrzJHg3/s640/Kip+Moore+-+Slowheart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Springsteen has become a common reference point for rock
artists and country artists alike over the past 15 years, and it’s not difficult
to see why. His songs are deeply empathetic, his stories are detailed and
haunting, and his arena-packing rock star status is something just about any
artist would want to aspire to. Of all the artists that have emulated Bruce,
though, few sound as innately like him as Kip Moore. On this album’s
predecessor, 2015’s <i>Wild Ones</i>, Moore co-opted the tough-guy persona of
Springsteen’s <i>Born in the USA</i> period, crafting an LP full of sexy,
sweltering summer throwback songs. <i>Slowheart </i>is more personal and less
innately nostalgic. It’s also the peak of Moore’s songcraft, showing off the
same empathy, sense for detail, and knack for anthems that have long made Bruce
a rock ‘n’ roll icon. The towering achievement is “Guitar Man,” a weathered
five-and-a-half-minute closer about the sacrifices an entertainer makes to keep
plugging along out on the road. But the rock ‘n’ roll anthems—big, catchy jams
like “Sunburn,” “Bittersweet Company,” “Last Shot,” and the hit, “More Girls
Like You”—are what make <i>Slowheart </i>so listenable and replayable. Fun,
hooky, confident rock songs were hard to come by in the 2010s—especially the
last few years. Thank goodness country guys like Moore decided to pick up the
mantle of 1970s and ‘80s rock superstars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
183. <b>The Wonder Years </b>- <i>The Greatest Generation</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYx51uX1oZlY5KO5E4X4dq6cDuGIzXKnn_5qGvkOysJEC-zVNqegw6SzknH89jU_JjOU7SQLnd8aHq2BZR02-bbWPVB8wVQqi4Vg-Mvlq1tCOfo0Ggd-eyULy_O_LE5WtZ86n3-4AgDE2/s1600/The+Wonder+Years+-+The+Greatest+Generation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="599" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYx51uX1oZlY5KO5E4X4dq6cDuGIzXKnn_5qGvkOysJEC-zVNqegw6SzknH89jU_JjOU7SQLnd8aHq2BZR02-bbWPVB8wVQqi4Vg-Mvlq1tCOfo0Ggd-eyULy_O_LE5WtZ86n3-4AgDE2/s640/The+Wonder+Years+-+The+Greatest+Generation.jpg" width="638" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout the 2010s, The Wonder Years were a band that a
lot of people in my musical orbit absolutely adored. For the emo/pop-punk
crowd, this band seemed generation-defining. They were literate but not
snobbish, and so visceral in their tales of small-town suburban life that their
songs took on an almost Springsteenian quality. For whatever reason, The Wonder
Years mostly passed me by. I liked parts of their earlier “classics”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Upsides </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suburbia, I’ve Given You All and Now I Am Nothing</i>—but the albums as
a whole felt a little samey to me. And while their later albums yielded
incredible high points like “Cigarettes & Saints,” I mostly found that this
band didn’t speak to me in the way they did to a lot of other people who shared
my general age and music tastes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Greatest
Generation </i>was the exception. For one album, I understood why this band
might become someone’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favorite </i>band.
I chalked it up to timing: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Greatest
Generation </i>came out two weeks after I graduated college, just as I was
trying to get my sea legs out in the so-called “real world.” The weekend of my
graduation, I remember feeling so much hope and excitement about my future. It
only took a few weeks for that to drain away, replaced by the strain of trying
to find a job in a broken economy and a city that didn’t feel like home. When I
did find a job, it wasn’t at all what I wanted to do and I ended up taking it
against my better judgment. 10 days, lots of stress, and a car accident later,
I quit and started reconfiguring my life into the freelance writing career I
have today. It was a tumultuous month, and I honestly can’t remember a time in
my life where I felt lower. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Greatest
Generation </i>was a comfort during those weeks. The songs spoke of stagnation
and sadness and rage. They saw frontman Dan Campbell taking shots at himself,
questioning everything from his self-worth to his social anxiety to the
decisions he’s made throughout his life that have led him to now. It’s a
crushing album, and I have trouble listening to it—both for the raw
admissions of the songs and the not-so-great memories it digs up of my own
life. But man, at that crucial coming-of-age moment in my life, I’m not sure
there was a more fitting album to have playing as the soundtrack. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
184. <b>The Hotelier </b>- <i>Goodness</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkX5ifnC_MT0UOMuuaMq-NlljLhKV17NvcWWxq3BHSGtplcQwZ93BWRkv5m8lFlfLxWCSM20TlVsCAtw8DSpzvyT99eoaPP-tLfh2j5XSstU7SDq4wCFCwErQiT0CO-Iayn9H9PUHLkut5/s1600/The+Hotelier+-+Goodness.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkX5ifnC_MT0UOMuuaMq-NlljLhKV17NvcWWxq3BHSGtplcQwZ93BWRkv5m8lFlfLxWCSM20TlVsCAtw8DSpzvyT99eoaPP-tLfh2j5XSstU7SDq4wCFCwErQiT0CO-Iayn9H9PUHLkut5/s640/The+Hotelier+-+Goodness.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ask a Hotelier fan which of their albums is better and you
might just inspire an existential crisis. <i>Home, Like NoPlace Is There </i>feels
more important somehow, but <i>Goodness </i>might be the better album. Where <i>Home
</i>almost felt designed to exist, favorably, in the lineage of emo classics
like <i>Clarity </i>and <i>Diary</i>, <i>Goodness </i>completely builds its own
world. The interlude tracks help, grounding the record in an escapist, scenic
place somewhere under the moon and stars—but it’s the songwriting that seals
the deal. There’s a yelping urgency to <i>Home </i>that made it incredibly
relatable to the people who needed it at the time, but that makes it a little
bit difficult to revisit. The songs and performances are so intense that
listening to it means committing to an emotional cost. <i>Goodness </i>feels
more patient. The Hotelier have learned how to let a song like “Opening Mail
for My Grandmother” glide along without a big cathartic climax, knowing that
the ellipsis only makes the song more haunting. It’s a lesson that serves them
well throughout <i>Goodness</i>. Even when the big emotional climaxes do
come—like the payoff in “End of Reel”—they feel inflected with maturity, grace,
and optimism that you couldn’t necessarily hear on <i>Home</i>. It’s the kind
of album we had less if in the 2010s, as rock bands became fewer and further
between and as rock bands with multi-album catalogs became an endangered
species. Too many bands broke up after album number one or two, but here, The
Hotelier began stumbling toward that most sublime and elusive destination:
maturity.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
185. <b>The Summer Set </b>- <i>Legendary</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYGm_HvD6CSrO1XaVh7Schyphenhyphen0Uq7KxNHdHDtSw2UvcD7SQcupg4iKhtETPZVmB08YrEaVqPOL3qU8gTbZSguapzw55Nd1KUyNQFUBz94u8JbaKyqekEVdeVs6G5SvMKmznAGeQTFwQREqJ/s1600/Summer+Set+-+Legendary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPYGm_HvD6CSrO1XaVh7Schyphenhyphen0Uq7KxNHdHDtSw2UvcD7SQcupg4iKhtETPZVmB08YrEaVqPOL3qU8gTbZSguapzw55Nd1KUyNQFUBz94u8JbaKyqekEVdeVs6G5SvMKmznAGeQTFwQREqJ/s640/Summer+Set+-+Legendary.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, the most important thing with music is timing.
Such was the case with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legendary</i>, an
album I heard for the first time maybe two weeks before I graduated from
college. At any other time, I think I would have appreciated this album’s hooks
but found it largely empty and unremarkable. But at that particular moment in my
life, it sounded immaculate and prescient. The songs spoke of good times with
friends and of sky-high hopes and dreams that somehow came true. They talked
about friendships and loves that could be truly everlasting, truly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">legendary</i>. They looked forward to the
promise of someday and all the possibility it feels like it might hold when
you’re young and naïve and optimistic. Coming to the end of my college journey,
trying to cling to those legendary nights and naïve hopes when I knew both were
running out, this album hit me with an emotional gut-punch that I didn’t expect
from its neon pop-punk hooks. “I’ve spent too many nights watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How I Met Your Mother </i>alone,” goes the
title track; “Now I’m searching for my yellow umbrella, hoping I’ll take her
home/Maybe I just want to be legendary/We all want to be legendary to
somebody.” I had started my college years in that place: alone in my dorm room,
watching reruns of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How I Met Your Mother </i>or
binging <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glee </i>on Hulu, trying to drown
out the sound of my own loneliness. I was exiting it with a small but tightknit
friend group and a girlfriend I loved, and these songs seemed like they were
meant to soundtrack my own series finale happy ending. I didn’t know that my
immediate post-college life was going to offer a quick succession of ups and
downs, or how quickly my college years would start to feel like memories from a
different lifetime. But I love this record for how it takes me back to those
last moments of sheltered naivete. The world looks different on the other side
of college, and this album was one last snapshot before the leap of faith into
the void.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
186. <b>Counting Crows </b>- <i>Underwater Sunshine</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuq-ED_-HQSZ-F7z7pjlb9I35nW8CJBs88fLrRaMS_mVQxISPXRNXH-dmrPLvTEUkw5EXpH1Ag36ljmtAbJB7gyh70XcihINAL2qxyR2adLFXYwHHp00wZkYvXXFuf6vKYQwiTU4e1tAZ/s1600/Counting+Crows+-+Underwater+Sunshine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuq-ED_-HQSZ-F7z7pjlb9I35nW8CJBs88fLrRaMS_mVQxISPXRNXH-dmrPLvTEUkw5EXpH1Ag36ljmtAbJB7gyh70XcihINAL2qxyR2adLFXYwHHp00wZkYvXXFuf6vKYQwiTU4e1tAZ/s640/Counting+Crows+-+Underwater+Sunshine.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most cover albums are a drag. They strand the artists you
love in karaoke mode for 12-15 tracks and probably a year or more of recording
and promotion time. There are exceptions, of course, but on average, cover albums are
rarely worthy of repeat listens—let alone worthy of being called great. The
highest praise that can be given to <i>Underwater Sunshine </i>is that it never
once feels like a cover album—even though it absolutely is one. A big part of
that is due to the song choices, which are inventive and adventurous. A few big
artists (and obvious Crows influences) do get covered: Bob Dylan; Gram Parsons;
Big Star; The Faces. But Adam Duritz is a record collector and a music
obsessive like the rest of us, which means some of his picks skew pretty far
under-the-radar. He even pulls out a Dawes song that, at the time of this
record’s release, had only been released as part of a live Daytrotter session.
The result is that Counting Crows get to take songs that most of their
listeners won’t know and truly make them their own. “Untitled (Love Song)”
blisters with intensity and buildup that is vintage Crows; “Like Teenage
Gravity” burns like a late-night cut from the middle of <i>Hard Candy</i>;
“Amie” and “Start Again” allow the band to flex the country-folk roots that
have always lurked in their songs but never burst forth this clearly. There’s
a pleasantly loose, tossed-off feeling to the whole endeavor—something that
would bleed directly into the sound and atmosphere of the band’s next full-length,
2014’s <i>Somewhere Under Wonderland</i>. It’s an undervalued treat.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
187. <b>Weezer </b>- <i>The White Album</i><br />
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It’s possible that no band has ever been more hit-or-miss
than Weezer. When they’re on, they can deliver some of the catchiest, wittiest
pop-rock of any band ever. But they have so many misses—so many head-scratching
lapses in judgement, and so many downright <i>bad</i> records—that you can
really only approach their prolific output with skepticism. <i>The White Album </i>was
their lightning-in-a-bottle moment this decade. Here, Rivers Cuomo and crew
teamed up with producer Jake Sinclair (a former member of Butch Walker’s Black
Widows), who made it his mission to help the band recapture the
magic of their glory days. Sinclair used to play in Weezer cover bands, so he
knew the DNA of the band’s revered classics—specifically <i>The Blue Album</i>—enough
to know how it might translate to 2016. The result is a perfect
drive-to-the-beach soundtrack, as hinted at by the photo of the lifeguard stand
on the cover. The opening tracks—“California Kids” and “Wind in Our Sail”—are
the kind of songs you play on blazing hot days when you just can’t get in the
water fast enough. By the end of the record, the party is over: the closing
track, “Endless Bummer,” is a break-up song that starts with the line “I just
want this summer to end.” But for the 30 minutes before that, <i>The White
Album </i>is one breezy, sunny hit after another. It’s the best album Weezer
have made in 20 years.</div>
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188. <b>David Nail </b>- <i>Fighter</i><br />
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There’s a song on this album called “Home” that
is right up
there with my very favorite songs of the last 10 years. It’s a duet,
between
David Nail and Lori McKenna, and it packs such a potent, truthful punch
that
I’m not sure I ever make it through the runtime without feeling a lump
in my throat. The
song itself is simple: a delicate piano figure and an acoustic
accompaniment
that evoke rolling plains and beautiful vistas as far as the eye can
see. It’s
not unusual for country artists to write tributes to their hometowns,
but this
one seems to go beyond that. It’s not surface-level observations, like
the
storefronts you pass by going through town, or the one stoplight that
seems to
be a fixture of every other song like this. Instead, it evokes the idea
of home is a feeling first and a place second. “It’s where you’re
from/It’s your
oldest friend/And you think it will forget you when you go/But you know
it will
take you back in/It won’t fade away/It’ll watch you leave/And stay
sitting
there/Waiting in the fields, in the sky, in the stone/In your blood and
your
bones/Home.” When you’re young, you take your home for granted. It feels
like
it will always belong to you, and you to it. It’s only when you grow up
and
leave it behind—maybe temporarily, maybe for good—that you start to
cherish all
the little things you might have missed, like the way the air smells at
the
beginning of spring, or the colors of the leaves during the peak of
fall. And
if you stay away long enough, you start to feel like a stranger,
wondering if
home is still even home. This song captures all those things, and it’s
incredibly
beautiful and so comforting in the way that only home can be. On <i>Fighter</i>,
David Nail conjures up a similar feeling repeatedly, singing songs about summer
nights and loving parents and girls singing along with “Little Red Corvette” in the car. But “Home” is the
album’s beating heart, and it’s the reason this album is on this list. </div>
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189. <b>Sister Hazel</b> - <i>Lighter in the Dark</i><br />
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Growing up, Sister Hazel were one of my favorite bands in
the world. Like a bunch of other ‘90s bands, I fell in love with their sound
when I was a kid, only to lose track of them in the early days of the 2000s.
When my brother taught me how to download music, circa 2003, I slowly started
going back and unearthing the records I’d missed from bands I’d loved when I
was seven or eight years old. Sister Hazel were one of those bands. I
rediscovered their early 2000s releases (<i>Fortress </i>and <i>Chasing
Daylight</i>) and then eagerly anticipated their new releases (<i>Lift </i>and <i>Absolutely</i>).
Then, around when I graduated high school, they put out an album that did
nothing for me. For awhile, I thought I’d outgrown them. <i>Lighter in the Dark
</i>brought me back into the fold. It didn’t hurt that Sister Hazel were
switching into full-on country mode just as my tastes were skewing as far in
that direction as they would go. This band had always had country in their DNA,
but they’d largely stayed toward the Petty/heartland rock side of the equation.
This record flirts a little deeper with radio country, to generic-but-pleasant
results (see “Karaoke Song” and “We Got It All Tonight,” the two obvious
single plays). But it also features some extremely pleasing treats: “Fall of
the Map” and “Something to Believe In” are both Heartbreakers-esque anthems
(and both even contain Petty namedrops); “Almost Broken” and “Ten Candle Days”
are potent, rootsy ballads; “Prettiest Girl at the Dance” is a dusty Eagles throwback;
and “Run Highway Run” sounds like it could have been on a road trip mix right
next to “All for You” back in 1997.</div>
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190. <b>Dierks Bentley</b> - <i>The Mountain</i><br />
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There’s a moment on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Mountain </i>where Dierks Bentley muses about leaving it all behind. The
record’s final song, called “How I’m Going Out,” is about recognizing when it’s
time to leave the party. It’s not something that many mainstream Nashville
stars would even think about putting on an album—and not something most labels
would let their top guys get away with. But it feels honest and well-earned at
the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mountain</i>, an album
about the long, winding journey of growing up. When you’re a kid, you tend to
think of adults as people who have everything figured out, people who have all
the answers. Once you actually become an adult, though, you recognize that
growing up is a never-ending road. Here, Dierks reckons with that dichotomy: between
being a husband and a father and being a reckless, fun-loving adventurer.
There’s a tension on the record, between embracing the responsibility of the
former and accepting the call of the latter. And the ultimate answer of the
record is that, for a lot of us, our younger selves will always be a part of
who we are. We might shed parts of the skin we used to wear, but we’ll always
have a bit of that identity in our hearts and souls. But that clash—between
adulthood and youth, between responsibility and freedom—seems to come to a head
on “How I’m Going Out,” where Dierks envisions the day that he will hang up his
guitar and be a family man full time. It’s a revelation that underlines the
album’s themes: of split identity and aging and mortality and family. Eventually,
whether you’re ready for it or not, the moment to step away from your youth—or
from your dreams, or from a past version of yourself—comes along. The question
the album seems to ask is whether you will fight the shift, or gracefully
succumb to the tide. Most of today’s artists would fight like hell. There’s
something graceful and respectable about Dierks and his willingness to be swept along by the current.</div>
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191. <b>Lindsay Ell</b> - <i>The Project</i><br />
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The first time I heard Lindsay Ell was literally years
before her Nashville label got off their asses and let her release a
full-length album. Such is the bizarre buzz-building purgatory that
up-and-coming country artists often must go through early on in their
careers—especially if they lean mainstream and especially if they are female. I
remember being intrigued by Ell early on, and by the sassy, hooky pop-country
songs she was putting out as one-offs. All of those singles were good and a few
of them—particularly “By the Way” and “All Alright”—are among the sturdiest
should-have-been-hits of the decade. None of them prepared me for <i>The
Project</i>, a blues-inflected, soulful collection of songs that takes its cues
from John Mayer’s <i>Continuum</i>. Ell even re-recorded <i>Continuum </i>in
full en route to crafting this album—a project she later released as <i>The
Continuum Project</i>. Covering the entirety of Mayer’s magnus opus allowed Ell
to see clearly what made those songs tick, but it also got all the imitation
and hero worship out of her system before she set to work recording her own
songs. The result is a somewhat fascinating piece of work: an album clearly crafted
on the template of another (see “Castle,” an irresistible descendent of Mayer’s
“Belief”) but that also very much has its own identity. Just check out “Just
Another Girl,” a No Doubt-flavored rocker; or “Criminal,” a poppy hookfest with
an edge of darkness. I assume Ell will only grow into her chops more on future
releases, but for a record that was, frankly, a very long time coming, <i>The
Project </i>didn’t disappoint.</div>
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192. <b>Old Dominion</b> - <i>Happy Endings</i><br />
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What do you do when a girl breaks your heart and you try
everything you can to get over her, only to find that every single song you
write is still about the time you spent together? <i>Happy Endings</i>, the
second record from the infectiously catchy country band Old Dominion is, I
Think, about that idea. At very least, the best song here, called “Still
Writing Songs about You,” is about being unable—or maybe subconsciously
unwilling—to say goodbye to a dream girl. It’s the kind of song that underlines
what really good mainstream pop-country can be: clever, witty, full of smart
turns of phrase, and all wound around an infectious chorus and a descending
guitar motif in a way that shows clear sense of craft. In the second verse, the
narrator buys an acoustic guitar that “doesn’t know how you look, how you
laugh, how you kiss me.” But the guitar ends up lending voice to songs about
her anyway: “I’m on the edge of the bed and it’s way past two/And I’m stuck on a
line ‘cause I know what rhymes with blue.” Old Dominion are really good at
crafting songs like that: catchy and breezy songs that carry a little more
emotional weight than meets the eye. That’s the case with “Written in the
Sand,” about a girl who won’t quite commit to a relationship, and it’s
definitely true of “So You Go,” about being so torn up post-breakup that
everything you do to try to forget about her ends up feeling unsatisfying and
hollow. The result is the <i>good </i>kind of radio country: remarkably
well-wrought songs that just so happen to be some of the catchiest things in
the world.</div>
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193. <b>Death Cab for Cutie</b> - <i>Kintsugi</i><br />
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<br />
Ben Gibbard lays his marriage to rest in this gorgeously
elegiac collection of songs. Critics and longtime fans largely wrote the album
off—they wouldn’t start coming back into the fold until the follow-up, 2018’s <i>Thank
You for Today</i>—but <i>Kintsugi </i>is a classic Death Cab LP. The songs
ground their heartbreak in a sense of place. “Little Wanderer” captures the
loneliness of walking through an airport solo when everyone around you seems to
be kissing someone goodbye or sharing a welcome-back embrace. “The Ghosts of
Beverly Drive” plays like a careening car chase through a dimly-lit suburban
neighborhood. “You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” rings like wedding bells at the
church, still chiming even when the marriage they heralded has run its course. Just
an album before this, on 2011’s lukewarm <i>Codes & Keys</i>, Gibbard’s
lyrics were as happy and content as they’d ever been. Here, they almost
overflow with sadness and memory, bitterness and regret, resignation and
release. “I guess it’s not a failure we could help/We’ll both go on to get
lonely with someone else.” Gibbard sings those words in “No Room in Frame,” and
even in his sad, storied catalog, it’s hard to think of a more somber line.</div>
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194. <b>Luke Combs </b>- <i>This One's for You</i><br />
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I wouldn’t have predicted back when Luke Combs’ first single
“Hurricane” broke that the guy singing it would become one of the biggest stars
in country music. But somehow, <i>This One’s for You </i>turned into an
absolute juggernaut, notching multiple number one singles, and then charting
even bigger hits off its 2018 deluxe reissue. Then again, Luke Combs has an
affable everyman quality to him that makes him a natural country music star. He
packs his songs with big radio-ready hooks, but he also has a mixture of pathos
and humor, and a flare for slice-of-life narratives that take country tropes
and make them a little more interesting. Said another way, his songs feel more
real and honest than a lot of his overproduced pop-country contemporaries. On
the rave-ups (summertime anthems like “Memories Are Made Of,” “Don’t Tempt Me,”
or “When It Rains It Pours”), he sounds like an old college body regaling you
with stories about good times. On the ballads (the thank-you speech that is the
title track, or “I Got Away with You,” one of the decade’s cleverest love
songs), he comes across as deeply earnest and humble. It’s a mixture that lends
<i>This One’s for You </i>its surprising replayability. No matter what Luke
Combs is singing about, it’s hard not to believe him.</div>
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195. <b>Anberlin </b>- <i>Dark Is the Way, Light is a Place</i><br />
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What music from your life retains its magic for the longest?
The most obvious answer is your formative music: the albums and songs you listen
to when you first start falling in love with music and forming your tastes. But
I think you also have to point to the music you hear around the beginnings of
the significant relationships in your life. I can’t think of another reason
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dark Is the Way, Light Is a Place</i>—typically
regarded as the weakest record in the Anberlin oeuvre—has long been my favorite
of their work. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dark </i>came out in the
fall of 2010, and I relate it most strongly to long weekends cloistered away in
my dorm room with my girlfriend. Falling in love that deeply made music sound
sweeter and more euphoric, like the songs were trying to keep pace with the way
may heart would quicken when she was around. This album was an example of that,
and a perfect one. Anberlin charted an odd arc throughout their career,
rotating between skyscraping faith-driven rock music, hard-edged pop-punk, and
ultra-hooky 90s-informed alt-rock. I never cared much for their more aggressive
tendencies, and while their spiritual tilt sometimes led to truly thrilling,
larger-than-life creations (see “(*Fin)”), I always preferred Anberlin in their
soft-rock incarnation. Songs from previous albums, like “Breathe” and “Naïve
Orleans,” showed me how much this band could do with a straight-ahead radio
rock sound. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dark </i>is the only album
where they ever clicked into that vibe throughout, and it’s glorious. Fans
called the songs repetitive and decried the lyrics for lacking the depth of
previous releases, but the tracks themselves pack so much melodic and sonic
punch that it’s hard to care. Songs like “Impossible,” “Take Me (As You Found
Me),” and “Art of War” are sweeping arena-filling confections that wouldn’t
have been out of place on the radio circa 1998. “Take Me (As You Found Me)”
almost tracks as a Goo Goo Dolls anthem, circa <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dizzy up the Girl</i>. The sweep suits them, and it suited me at the
time. When you’re falling head over heels in love, you want your songs to sound
this big, this grand, this romantic, this hopeful. No wonder I pulled this
album up on my iPod for so many walks across campus to class.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
196. <b>Switchfoot </b>- <i>Vice Verses</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Switchfoot came into this decade as one of my favorite and
most formative bands. They’re exiting it with a streak of mediocre albums under
their belts and a question floating above their band name of whether they can
make music relevant to my life anymore. The last time they truly seemed to push
themselves—the last time they seemed genuinely engaged in their art—was 2011, with
this album. <i>Vice Verses </i>reaches for what I once thought this band could
be: the post-millennial U2. “Where I Belong,” the epic closing track, grapples
heavenward with one of the decade’s most convincing rock ‘n’ roll stadium
plays. “Afterlife,” “The Original,” and “Dark Horses” are crunchy rock ‘n’ roll
songs with grit, rhythm, and charisma. “Souvenirs” and “Restless” are yearning
ballads with a spiritual bent. “Selling the News” and “Blinding Light” are
socially-conscious commentary. Each of these modes mimics something that Bono,
The Edge, Adam Clayton, and Larry Mullen Jr. have done in the past—even if the
album <i>Vice Verses </i>most resembles is <i>How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb</i>,
one of U2’s less-beloved works. After this record, Switchfoot began to chase
unsatisfying pop trends. Here, for one last time, they seemed to believe in using
rafter-reaching rock ‘n’ roll to deliver the message they wanted to send.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
197. <b>Striking Matchings</b> - <i>Nothing but the Silence</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDd0j6_DFGxAWiq6Qfxx2J6sGtBhBnBKPt0CG8visSIhKVfiqs1LfpsF0-HmweIeBd1sYLGauIUvhoUhA2hLBxEPrMDegcOf6n_DmqRH5mj-glgwVxucYWksJA4QQ36v17xcDy1Br7-I2o/s1600/Striking+Matches+-+Nothing+But+the+Silence.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDd0j6_DFGxAWiq6Qfxx2J6sGtBhBnBKPt0CG8visSIhKVfiqs1LfpsF0-HmweIeBd1sYLGauIUvhoUhA2hLBxEPrMDegcOf6n_DmqRH5mj-glgwVxucYWksJA4QQ36v17xcDy1Br7-I2o/s640/Striking+Matches+-+Nothing+But+the+Silence.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Trends come and go in the music industry, but there will
always be something electric about a talented boy-girl duo. Sometimes it’s a
sexual tension thing; sometimes it’s just two really great voices melding
together in a way that sounds pre-destined. With Striking Matches, the X-factor
isn’t so much the voices as the guitars. The two musicians that make up
Striking Matches—Sarah Zimmerman and Justin Davis—are both distinct
guitar-playing talents. Zimmerman has a knack for incendiary slide guitar
solos. Davis is more of a backwoods finger-picker. They’re also accomplished
songwriters, having been tapped to write many of the boy-girl duets featured on
the 2010s primetime soap opera <i>Nashville</i>, and they’re <i>also </i>accomplished
singers, capable of selling the emotional intimacy of ballads like “When the
Right One Comes Along” or “God and You” even when their guitar amps are turned down. But it’s on the songs where all their elements come together that
Striking Matches really spark, like the runaway-train opener “Trouble Is as
Trouble Does” or the mighty crescendo of “Make a Liar out of Me,” where
Zimmerman rips one of the five or so greatest guitar solos of the decade. It says a
lot that T. Bone Burnett, a man with a storied eye for talent in the country
and roots music scenes, agreed to produce <i>Nothing but the Silence</i>. </div>
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198. <b>The Alternate Routes</b> - <i>Nothing More</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The Alternate Routes were, at one point, among the most
promising bands in rock ‘n’ roll. After the rafter-shaking arena anthems that packed
2010’s <i>Lately</i>, I would have bet on them growing a huge following—or, at
least, huge by “rock band in the 2010s” standards. <i>Nothing More </i>isn’t as
wall-scaling in its ambitions, but it is still a grandiose, emotional piece of
work that is worthy of a much larger audience than it reached. The Alternate
Routes have been sporadic in their activity since, falling victim to the
streaming era pitfall of releasing a single every year or so but never building
to anything more substantial. It’s a shame, given this band’s clear, shining
talent. But it’s also a factor that has given this album extra gravity for me
since it came out. When the bands you love stop releasing music regularly, you
cling that much harder to the music they’ve already made for you. <i>Nothing More
</i>is one such album—an album packed with empathy (the title track) and
romance (the Cusack-on-the-lawn-worthy “Stereo”) and memories so vividly drawn that you
feel like you’ve been transported right into them (the sublime “Gil”). This
record was funded by a crowd-funding campaign, and suffice to say that I am
ready to donate to the next one.</div>
<br />
<br />
199. <b>Phillip Phillips</b> - <i>The World from the Side of the Moon </i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJyTFY9u3BTFx1qEkj8QAS4-8gEwTmkcKvkiNm9PEtwG5mh9XZ1-jMYmAbepxZccyjG3Qz1DRdSqqX3XkJxccuyt2Cm9cOB9h8pmADIfv0N0SgXDfLm0h39haPSckMpskZKiE129mxNIf/s1600/Phillip+Phillips+-+The+World.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJyTFY9u3BTFx1qEkj8QAS4-8gEwTmkcKvkiNm9PEtwG5mh9XZ1-jMYmAbepxZccyjG3Qz1DRdSqqX3XkJxccuyt2Cm9cOB9h8pmADIfv0N0SgXDfLm0h39haPSckMpskZKiE129mxNIf/s640/Phillip+Phillips+-+The+World.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i> </i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Following <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American
Idol </i>back in the day was a blast. I have very fond memories of watching
that show with my mom throughout my middle school and high school years—picking
our favorites, deploring America’s bad choices, celebrating the victories. The
season where Phillip Phillips won was the last season I followed, and I
followed it only passingly. Once I went off to college, the amount of TV I
watched at all diminished greatly. I certainly wasn’t tuning in two nights
every week for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idol</i>. But I
caught bits and pieces of the 2011 season, and once I was home for the spring
and summer, I was right back to watching the show with my mom. We weren’t wowed
by Phillip Phillips on TV. He seemed timid to the point of being unskilled, and
the singers he ended up beating were pretty unanimously superior to him. But
when Phillips released <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The World from the
Side of the Moon</i>, it was the first album from an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idol </i>winner to wow me. Where most past <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Idol </i>contestants spent their debut
albums reaching for generic pop or rock trends of the time—clearly a bad move,
based on how much anyone cares about those albums now—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World </i>combined influences like Dave Matthews Band, Damien Rice, and
O.A.R. for a record that felt surprisingly well-suited to the voice singing the
songs. Phillips was never the “best” singer, but his voice shines on songs like
“Home,” the Mumford & Sons-style coronation single; or “Gone, Gone, Gone” a
late-summer breakup anthem that deserved more airplay than it got. Phillips’
later albums lost the charm of this one, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Idol </i>hasn’t been an important part of my life for 10 years. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The World from the Side of the Moon </i>remains
a deeply enjoyable album from an artist who probably could have accomplished
more outside of the mainstream machine.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
200. <b>Stars </b>- <i>There Is No Love in Fluorescent Light</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3EwcQEp5JGchD2hjZa4MsRt4opFd4eH1MXz7o1cbuVGhRsQmMybGFVe6aOPso4jARF1UqGNsJ7MyPg-MYWjaB0jZuo8q1xparG6OmAK_Ij4mmC01ypCiNvkeGX-WoFBKgB6CVFUpc-ZM/s1600/Stars+-+Fluorescent+Light.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3EwcQEp5JGchD2hjZa4MsRt4opFd4eH1MXz7o1cbuVGhRsQmMybGFVe6aOPso4jARF1UqGNsJ7MyPg-MYWjaB0jZuo8q1xparG6OmAK_Ij4mmC01ypCiNvkeGX-WoFBKgB6CVFUpc-ZM/s640/Stars+-+Fluorescent+Light.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’ve always liked Stars, but they’ve never been a band I
loved. They have individual songs that bowl me over: “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead” is
an obvious classic; “Dead Hearts” and “Wasted Daylight,” the first two tracks
from 2010’s <i>The Five Ghosts</i>, are up there with the best opening one-two
punches of the decade. But their albums usually lose me somewhere along the
way. At least, that was the case up until <i>There Is No Love in Fluorescent
Light</i>. This record bottles up everything that makes Stars special—the
alchemy of the male-female vocal tradeoff; the musical balance between pop and
folk and indie and rock ‘n’ roll; the songs about relationships that, for
whatever reason, just can’t last—and gives them their most propulsive
presentation ever. With marquee production and huge hooks—see the pseudo title
track “Fluorescent Light,” an epic about why new adventures are so important
for keeping love alive—this record makes Stars sound vital, yearning, hopeful,
and genuinely brand-new again. This band has always excelled at writing complex
songs about complex people. But <i>There Is No Love in Fluorescent Light </i>is
largely very simple. It’s a record about the ever-present threat of loneliness—whether
it’s in your head or in your real life—and it’s a record about finding ways to
fight that loneliness, no matter what it takes. </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-39684978571062381592019-06-04T17:26:00.000-04:002019-06-04T17:26:11.979-04:0035 Years Old Today: Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in the U.S.A.'<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1gll4EJfXR5P7ww6mVE1AT_3S_mPVBbatEw2E5lG7418dxRNXUYPs7q6XxPKtQeZUnduOD_00yWTI_yHZ-wopNC_2Wui0hy0AXD9Iny2BfKFT7ZHFzQ7XnEBVeny2ehwKJ__icgzZ4Ba/s1600/62335634_10157240117691358_7107038730090708992_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="749" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1gll4EJfXR5P7ww6mVE1AT_3S_mPVBbatEw2E5lG7418dxRNXUYPs7q6XxPKtQeZUnduOD_00yWTI_yHZ-wopNC_2Wui0hy0AXD9Iny2BfKFT7ZHFzQ7XnEBVeny2ehwKJ__icgzZ4Ba/s640/62335634_10157240117691358_7107038730090708992_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Die-hard Bruce Springsteen fans love to deride <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>It’s
their way of telling you they’re “real” fans, not those jumping on the
bandwagon as Bruce blew up. On the contrary, they’re “cultured” enough
to prefer the stark landscapes of <em>Nebraska </em>to the dated, synth-blasted ‘80s sound of <em>U.S.A. </em>They
use words like “overplayed” and “overproduced” to describe the famed
songwriter’s biggest record, while perhaps praising something more
obscure like <em>The Ghost of Tom Joad</em>. And they’re probably tired of explaining to their friends that <em>Born in the U.S.A.</em> is not a jingoistic piece of macho rock, but actually a critique of pointless wars.<br />
<br />
In general, I don’t get along with these people.<br />
<br />
To be fair, <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>is not Springsteen’s best record. I don’t think I’ve ever met a fan who prefers it to <em>Born to Run</em>, which is my favorite Boss record and my favorite record, period. It also seems pretty universally accepted that <em>U.S.A. </em>is inferior to the records that immediately followed <em>Born to Run</em>: <em>Darkness on the Edge of Town </em>and <em>The River</em>. These superior records certainly function as the thematic core of Springsteen’s catalog, but <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>is also a lot deeper, more nuanced, and more complex than most make it out to be.<br />
<br />
The reason for the wrongful <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>malign isn’t
hard to see. This record turned Springsteen from everyman rock hero to
multi-millionaire pop star. It spawned seven top 10 singles, putting
Springsteen in the company of Janet and Michael Jackson as one of the
only artists ever to accomplish that feat for a single album. It also
just <em>sounds </em>a lot more commercial than its predecessors,
shedding the dust, grit, blood, sweat, and tears of earlier Springsteen
records for something shinier and more radio-ready.<br />
<br />
But if <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>is a sellout record, it’s gotta be
the greatest one in history. Instead of sanitizing his writing,
Springsteen wrote with nostalgia and fury about the state of America.
And instead of burying the E Street Band beneath layers of reverb and
overdubs, Bruce let the full might of his sidemen and women explode
behind him. The result is the most muscular Springsteen LP, but also one
of the most vulnerable — at least if you take the time to look behind
the roar of the arrangements.<br />
<br />
The two most obviously misinterpreted numbers were the two biggest
hits: the title track and “Dancing in the Dark.” The former was famously
misused by Ronald Reagan, who took it as a pronouncement of pride and
patriotism rather than a searing narrative about a damaged, neglected
Vietnam vet. The latter, meanwhile, hides vitriol and bitterness behind
the catchiest hook Bruce ever wrote. Springsteen penned the song in a
flight of creative exhaustion and frustration after being told by
manager Jon Landau that the album lacked a single. Landau was wrong six
times over, and he still somehow managed to be right.<br />
<br />
It’s the back half of the album, though, that’s always drawn me in.
Side two — from “No Surrender” to “My Hometown” — is a string of songs
about faded stomping grounds, squandered glory days, and enduring
friendships. “We busted out of class, had to get away from those
fools/We learned more from a three-minute record, baby/Then we’d ever
learned in school,” Bruce sings on “No Surrender.” By itself, the song
is an anthem. How could it not be, with opening lines that triumphant?
In the context of side B, though — and in the context of the somber
acoustic version Springsteen played on the <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>tour
— “No Surrender” is a heartbreaking hymn to better times. A track
later, on “Bobby Jean,” Springsteen is wishing good luck to a friend
who, for whatever reason, had to leave. (He wrote it about E Street
guitarist and right-hand man Steve Van Zandt, who temporarily left the
band after this record.) And while “Glory Days” sounds like a send-up of
high school renown, it’s actually a poignant examination of how the
glories, hopes, and ambitions of youth so often wither on the vine. In
the final verse, Bruce boasts about going out to the bar with his
friends and drinking ‘til he gets his fill. “I hope when I get old I
don’t sit around thinking about it,” he muses about his wild streak,
“But I probably will.”<br />
<br />
I fell in love with the music of Bruce Springsteen during my senior year of high school. Throughout that spring, I listened to <em>Born to Run </em>every
single day — often twice. As I approached graduation, I identified so
firmly with the triumphant dreamers in those songs. I figured <em>Born to Run </em>would continue to dominate my listening throughout the ensuing summer (and it did), but I didn’t expect <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>to
land in my constant rotation too. On warm summer nights, driving home
from adventures with friends, the back half of this record felt like
home. In a lot of ways, I’d never felt closer with my friends. We’d
defeated high school together and now we were taking our victory lap.
But I was also cognizant of the fact that, in a few short weeks, we were
going our separate ways. Things would probably never be the same again.<br />
<br />
They weren’t. As August died, I drove away from that town and
embarked on a new journey, at a university that none of my best friends
were attending. When we all came back home the following summer, the
nights were still great, but they lacked some of the “anything can
happen” excitement of the previous year. We were no longer best friends
staring down the barrel of a life change. Instead, we were very good
friends, on hiatus from the different lives we’d started living without
each other.<br />
<br />
The one who still <em>was </em>my best friend — the person I could
call about anything, the one whose house I’d spent so many nights at,
just doing nothing — opted not to go back to school and moved off to New
York City by August. On the day he left, I went back to <em>Born in the U.S.A.</em>,
once again seeking solace in its tales of friendship and home. It hit
me like a cannon blast. “No Surrender” and “Bobby Jean,” these songs
that had once sounded like anthems, now struck me as profoundly
melancholy. “We swore blood brothers against the wind/Now I’m ready to
grow young again,” Bruce sang in the former. “There ain’t nobody/No way,
no how/Gonna ever understand me the way you did,” he proclaimed in the
latter. I’m not sure you can appreciate the full magnitude of emotions
behind this album until your best friend has moved half a country away
from you, for good.<br />
<br />
On the last track of <em>Born in the U.S.A.</em>, “My Hometown,” the
narrator muses about packing up and leaving behind the only place he’s
ever known. Coming after a string of songs about nostalgia and good
times, it hits hard. A place can tie you to your past, and leaving it in
the rearview can be symbolic of turning your back on a big chapter of
your life. For Bruce, “My Hometown” <em>was</em> symbolic. His next record, <em>Tunnel of Love</em>,
was largely a solo effort. The members of the E Street Band appeared,
but only intermittently and never all on the same song. And after <em>Tunnel</em>, Bruce broke up the band and embarked upon a decade in the wilderness.<br />
<br />
The breakup wasn’t permanent. Springsteen brought the band back
together briefly in 1995 to record a few songs for his greatest hits
record, and again in 1999 for a world-conquering reunion tour. And in
2002, with <em>The Rising</em>, he finally acknowledged that he was better with the E Street Band at his back. For a long time, though, <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>was
Bruce’s farewell — not just to Steve Van Zandt, but to E Street in
general. Maybe that’s why fans don’t love the record: without it,
perhaps Bruce wouldn’t have indulged the restlessness that caused him to
chase away his band. Perhaps the 1990s would have been another decade
of classic Bruce albums, instead of bringing three records that
rightfully get ranked near the bottom of his discography on almost every
retrospective list.<br />
<br />
Even if <em>Born in the U.S.A. </em>broke the E Street Band, though,
it also celebrated them. Springsteen has made better albums, sure. But
he never made one that captured the spirit of friendship more profoundly
than this one. That’s why I love it 33* years after the fact, and that’s
why I’ll still love it 33 years from now. Even though there are people
and places and things that I’ve left in my rearview, this album never
fails to bring them all back.<br />
<br />
*<i>I initially wrote this article in 2017 for Modern Vinyl's 33-45-78 feature. That feature honored records that were celebrating their 33rd, 45th, or 78th anniversaries.</i> <br />
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-34133490313415708392018-11-18T09:56:00.000-05:002018-11-18T09:56:28.333-05:0028 Years, 29 Films: My Favorite Movie from Every Year of My LifeTwo years ago, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/11/26-years-27-songs-choosing-one-defining.html" target="_blank">for a blog post I published on my 26th birthday</a>, I went through and picked one defining song from each year I'd been alive. This year, I decided to do a similar exercise, this time with films. Rather than choose the most revered films of each year, or the ones that are considered masterpieces, I either picked the movies that had the biggest impact on me or the ones that have become rewatchable classics in my mind. The only rules were that 1) each year had to be represented by a movie that came out in that calendar year, and 2) I couldn't pick more than one move for any given year. So, without further ado, my list.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>1990: <i>Home Alone </i>(directed by Chris Columbus)</b><br />
<br />
When I made this list for songs, it was tough for me to think of anything to pick from my birth year. Not so with movies: I still watch <i>Home Alone </i>(gleefully, I might add) every year at Christmastime, and I could probably quote a sizable portion of it to you right now, verbatim. It is, for my money, the greatest Christmas movie there is, and maybe the most rewatachable movie of all time. I'll just never get tired of watching Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern get the crap beaten out of them by an eight-year-old kid. If I had to pick an honorable mention for 1990, it would probably be <i>Angels of Filthy Souls</i>.<br />
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<b>1991: <i>Beauty & The Beast</i> (directed by Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise)</b><br />
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One of the best things about being born in the 1990s was growing up in the true golden age of Disney movies. <i>Beauty & The Beast </i>is not my favorite Disney animated feature from the decade (it's third, after <i>The Lion King </i>and <i>Aladdin</i>), but since both of those classics got beaten out in their respective years, I had to honor Disney here. Not that <i>Beauty & The Beast </i>is just some stand-in. There's a reason that this movie was, for nearly two decades, the only animated film ever nominated for Best Picture at the Oscars. It's as enchanting, beautiful, and moving now as it was back then, with gorgeous animation and arguably the best soundtrack to any Disney film (again, give or take a <i>Lion King</i>). <br />
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<b>1992: A Few Good Men (directed by Rob Reiner)</b><br />
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Say what you want about Tom Cruise, but the guy was absolutely on fire in the 1990s. <i>A Few Good Men </i>is the first of two movies this decade (at least) that should have won him an Oscar. Most people would tell you that Cruise gets overshadowed here by Jack Nicholson and his "You can't handle the truth" speech. But Nicholson's glory moment wouldn't feel so glorious if he didn't have such a worthy sparring partner, and Cruise consistently keeps the momentum rolling with the intensity and likable spark that made him <i>the </i>movie star of his generation. There are also some all-time-great quotes in this movie, including "That's a relief, I was afraid we weren't going to be able to use the liar-liar-pants-on-fire defense," "Sorry, I keep forgetting: you were sick the day they taught law at law school," and "You're a lousy fucking softball player, Jack!"<br />
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<b>1993: <i>The Fugitive </i>(directed by Andrew Davis)</b><br />
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Will there ever be another movie like <i>The Fugitive</i>? These days, with Hollywood dominated by sequels and superhero movies, a few different types of films have become virtual endangered species. One is the romantic comedy. Another is this type of action thriller. The most iconic scene in <i>The Fugitive </i>might be the big bus crash/train crash set piece, and even 25 years later, that scene still looks great and delivers true thrills. But looking back, what's truly special about this film are the story and the characters. <i>The Fugitive </i>has a taut script, a tantalizing mystery, and a pair of central performances that make the film's cat-and-mouse premise feel genuinely epic. These days, this kind of story would go to Netflix or AMC, leaving the silver screen for Jedi Knights and The Avengers. As much as I love a good superhero movie, I'd trade most of Marvel for an era of action films this tightly crafted and well told.<br />
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<b>1994: <i>Pulp Fiction </i>(directed by Quentin Tarantino)</b><br />
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For a time, <i>Pulp Fiction </i>was my favorite movie ever. At this point, it's probably not even my favorite Tarantino movie, but it's still special for so many reasons. The deft balancing of the multiple intersecting storylines; the way Tarantino plays around with chronology; the whip-smart dialogue; the surprising depth of the characters; the surprising <i>deaths </i>of the characters; and the way the movie straddles this tightrope walk between trash and prestige without ever toppling over into either territory. What other filmmaker could ring so much slapstick humor from a guy getting shot in the face in the back of a car, or so much intensity from Samuel L. Jackson reciting a Bible verse? I've got the answer: no one.<br />
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<b>1995: <i>Toy Story </i>(directed by John Lassetter)</b><br />
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<i>Toy Story </i>was the most important movie of the 1990s. <i>Schindler's List </i>was heavier and <i>Titanic </i>made more money, but no film altered the course of film history more than this one. It's also, in my humble opinion, the <i>best </i>movie of the decade, and a film so good that Pixar still hasn't topped it. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with <i>Toy Story</i>. I watched this movie dozens and dozens of times, to the point where it's probably still the film I've seen most in my life. It was delightful back then for the revolutionary animation, the clever set pieces, and the hilarious interplay between Tim Allen and Tom Hanks. It's wonderful now as the starting point to a deeply moving film series about growing up. An all-time great.<br />
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<b>1996: That Thing You Do! (directed by Tom Hanks)</b><br />
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1996 was the first real battle for me (and this is even considering the fact that <i>The Shawshank Redemption </i>came out in the same year as <i>Pulp Fiction</i>). On the one hand, you had Tom Cruise giving his second Oscar-worthy performance of the decade in <i>Jerry Maguire</i>, Cameron Crowe's dramedy about a sports agent who grows a conscience overnight. It's a fantastic film, with both riotously funny bits and tear-jerking bits (not to mention a prominent feature for a Springsteen song). But at the end of the day, how could I not go with <i>That Thing You Do</i>, one my favorite music films ever and a movie I've loved since I was a kid? This gem about a one-hit wonder band in the 1960s (the Oneders; get it?) is still woefully underrated and under-watched. It's a funny movie (a pivotal moment of the film features a drummer breaking his arm while trying to hop over a parking meter), but it's also a down-to-earth examination of fame, and how a lot of the bands that bloom into overnight successes are not prepared to handle the whirlwind. "That Thing You Do" the song is also a legitimate smash and easily one of the catchiest songs in the history of film or pop music. (Fun fact: the guy who wrote "That Thing You Do" was Adam Schlesinger, frontman of the band Fountains of Wayne and writer of the 2003 smash "Stacy's Mom.")<br />
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<b>1997: <i>Good Will Hunting </i>(directed by Gus Van Sant)</b><br />
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How do you pick a favorite scene from this movie? Do you go for the part in the Harvard bar, where Matt Damon owns a guy who dropped 150 grand on a fuckin' education he coulda gotten for a dollah fifty in late chahges at the public library? Or the part where Robin Williams starts improvising, talking about how his wife used to fart repeatedly in the middle of the night, until the camera starts bobbing up and down because the cameraman couldn't stop laughing? Or the Pudge Fisk World Series Game 6 scene? Or Ben Affleck's "best part of my day speech"? Or the scene in the park where Robin Williams wins his Oscar in five minutes, one take, and 450 words of the most exquisitely devastating writing in the history of film? Or the "It's not your fault" scene? Or the ending, where Will has to go "see about a girl"? There's no right choice: they're all perfect.<br />
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<b>1998: You've Got Mail</b><br />
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Tom Hanks is my favorite actor, and I think that's because I grew up in the 90s. No one was more on fire from about 1994 to 2003 than Tom Hanks. He's still a remarkable actor<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>even if the Academy has been overlooking his work since 2001<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>but he was at his peak right around this period. <i>You've Got Mail </i>is Hanks at his simplest and most enjoyable. He's not doing any serious dramatic heavy lifting, but he still makes charisma leap off the screen in every scene he's in. The rant about Starbucks remains relevant and funny 20 years later, but it's only as effective as it is because <i>You've Got Mail </i>captures the least guarded intimacy of a relationship: all the stupid, meaningless, innocuous junk you tell to someone who you feel completely comfortable with. It's a testament to the chemistry between Hanks and Meg Ryan that they sell these little, honest moments with as much romantic realism as their big climactic kiss.<br />
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<b>1999: <i>Galaxy Quest </i>(directed by Dean Parisot)</b><br />
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Tim Allen and Sigourney Weaver anchor this hilarious <i>Star Trek </i>parody, about the cast of a cult sci-fi TV program who suddenly find themselves living a real-life version of their show. But while Allen and Weaver are terrific, it's the murderer's row of character actors further down the bill that really sell the film. There's Alan Rickman, as a disgruntled actor playing a disgruntled spoof of Spock. There's Sam Rockwell, as a paranoid former extra who is pretty sure he's bound to get killed off in real life, just like his character did on the show. And there's Enrico Calantoni, as the alien commander who has modeled his ship and his entire crew off the "historical documents" of the <i>Galaxy Quest </i>TV show. The film handles its parody with levity and terrific comic timing, but it also does what most spoofs never achieve, becoming a terrific and thrilling piece of genre filmmaking in its own right.<br />
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<b>2000: <i>Almost Famous </i>(directed by Cameron Crowe)</b><br />
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I've spent enough time talking to music writers and following them on social media to know that it's cliche for a music writer to say that his/her favorite film is <i>Almost Famous</i>. But this movie, a semi-autobiographical passion project for director/writer Cameron Crowe, captures the imaginations of music writers for a reason. We'd all love to be William Miller (Patrick Fugit), who gets to go on tour with his favorite band and lands a byline on a <i>Rolling Stone </i>cover story before he graduates high school. This film is a fond look back at a time when music criticism mattered, and a time when rock 'n' roll (and music in general) was something people lived and loved with passion and fire. The characters are beautifully sketched, from Kate Hudson's wise-beyond-her-years "band aid" to Billy Crudup's arrogant but soulful rock star. And then there's the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, giving arguably the best performance of his entire career in just a few scenes as legendary music writer Lester Bangs. There are too many unforgettable scenes to name, but it's tough not to single out the "Tiny Dancer" sing along on the bus, the plane ride to hell, or the final candid interview between William and Crudup's Russell Hammond. "What do you love about music?" William asks Russell; "To begin with, everything."<br />
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<b>2001: <i>The Fellowship of the Ring </i>(directed by Peter Jackson)</b><br />
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In music, my big genesis moment came in 2004, with Jimmy Eat World's <i>Futures</i>. It was the first album that showed me how personal and emotionally significant music could be in my life. The equivalent moment in film, for me, was <i>The Fellowship of the Ring</i>. This movie blew the doors off my 11-year-old mind and made me fall in love with an art form that I had previously only regarded as entertainment. I saw it on Christmas Eve 2001 with my family and I still count it as the single greatest movie-going experience of my life. <i>Fellowship </i>swept me up into its orbit and made me laugh, cry, and sit staring open-mouthed at the screen, marveling at the technical majesty of it all. Once I finally had my hands on the DVD, I used to watch snippets of it after school on Fridays when I was home alone, just to keep myself in that world. It remains my favorite of the <i>Lord of the Rings </i>films, as well as my favorite book-to-film adaptation of all time. (Note: In my initial draft of this list, I had <i>The Two Towers </i>as my 2002 film and <i>The Return of the King </i>as my 2003 film. That seemed a little too boring, so I figured I'd leave <i>The Lord of the Rings </i>represented here, by the finest film in the trilogy. I tend to think of them more as a group than as three standalone films, anyway.)<br />
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<b>2002: <i>Catch Me If You Can</i> (directed by Steven Spielberg)</b><br />
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I'm not sure there's a film from this century with three stronger performances at the center than <i>Catch Me If You Can</i>. It's my favorite Spielberg movie, my favorite DiCaprio performance, and one of the most fun versions of Hanks. And none of those people even win the movie. The gold medal has to go to Christopher Walken, who sells a character who has to exude, at different times, natural charisma, crushing failure, and deep regret. It's a dark, nuanced performance in an otherwise snappy and fun film, and it lends weight to everything else that happens onscreen. It's fun to watch DiCaprio wear different faces and outsmart law enforcement. It's fun to watch Hanks chase him, always a step or two behind. But <i>Catch Me If You Can </i>ultimately resonates not because of its string of cons, but because Spielberg and his cast dig deeper. Ultimately, it's a film about lost youth, good times gone, and father-son relationships. I can't believe nobody won an Oscar for this movie.<br />
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<b>2003: <i>School of Rock</i> (directed by Richard Linklater)</b><br />
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I don't know if I loved <i>School of Rock </i>more because it was a clever, funny film or because it hit right as I was starting to discover the magic of rock 'n' roll myself. This movie released in the fall of 2003, right around the time that I bought my first album and started making mix CDs like it was my job. Jack Black's earnest protagonist, with his wisdom about the power and honesty of rock, became something of a spiritual guide for me in those early years, and might honestly be credited for my ongoing adoration of rock music more than 15 years later. For awhile, my biggest fantasy was that someone like Black would come hijack my class and turn us into a ripping rock band. Even now, though, with those childish thoughts removed, <i>School of Rock </i>is a classic. It's funny without being crude, reverential to classic rock without indulging the worst habits of the form, and boasting one of the best soundtracks that will ever exist in a film. Black has also never been better.<br />
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<b>2004: <i>DodgeBall: A True Underdog Story</i> (directed by Rawson Marshall Thurber)</b><br />
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One of these things is not like the others. <i>DodgeBall </i>is immature and occasionally outright dumb, but it was also one of my favorite movie-going experiences of all time. I saw this one with my brother on some summer afternoon where we both didn't have anything to do and were looking for a way to get out of the heat. I have never laughed harder in a movie theater and probably never will. I haven't seen this movie in a long time and it probably hasn't aged as well as a lot of the other films on this list, simply because this kind of low-brow humor rarely does. But I miss summers of no responsibility and nothing but time, and thinking about this movie brings them back for me. Gary Cole and Jason Bateman steal the show, as spoofs of all the modern sports announcers who never have anything insightful to say.<br />
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<b>2005: <i>Elizabethtown </i>(directed by Cameron Crowe)</b><br />
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A lot of people hate this film. I've seen it mentioned before as one of the worst films of all time, or playfully labeled a "fiasco" (a reference to a plot point from the story). I myself spent the better part of a decade writing it off as Crowe's worst film. But then I gave it a re-watch in 2012 and fell in love with it. There are definitely flaws: Orlando Bloom is hilariously miscast, and the first half hour feels like it was edited by someone from a different planet. But once the movie settles in, it sings. Cameron Crowe has always been a master at incorporating music into his films, and <i>Elizabethtown </i>is the finest example of those gifts. The story finds a young man on the verge of suicide (Bloom) traveling to his father's hometown to bury him. Along the way, he meets a free-spirited flight attendant (Kirsten Dunst) and they forge a connection. The film can't decide whether it wants to be a lighthearted rom-com, a touching family drama, or a screwball comedy, so it ends up being a bit of all three. It doesn't quite pull together, but the best moments are sublime, from the all-night phone call scene where Bloom and Dunst start to fall in love to the film's climactic sequence, where Bloom takes a road trip with his father's ashes, listens to mixtapes from the girl he loves, and finally starts to heal. The latter sequence alone wins 2005 in favor of <i>Elizabethtown</i>, even if the movie that houses it is unquestionably (but beautifully) flawed.<br />
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<b>2006: <i>Casino Royale</i> (directed by Martin Campbell)</b><br />
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I didn't have high hopes when I walked into a showing of <i>Casino Royale </i>on Thanksgiving 2006. I'd loved Bond as a kid, but the last few films of the Pierce Brosnan era (particularly <i>Die Another Day</i>, arguably the series nadir) had turned me off. I didn't even follow the casting of the new Bond, and didn't even realize that <i>Casino Royale </i>was out in theaters until a few days after its release. But the film won me over again, rebooting Bond with grit and emotion that hadn't been there in the Brosnan films (or any previous Bond films, for that matter). Fast-forward 12 years and three more films and <i>Casino </i>remains, in my mind, the best 007 adventure ever. The not-so-secret weapon is Daniel Craig, keeping the charm, ego, and recklessness that's made Bond an icon, but allowing the character to bleed and break before the audience's eyes.<br />
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<b>2007: <i>Once </i>(directed by John Carney)</b><br />
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Most cinephiles would tell you that 2007 was the best year of cinema this century. The Oscar Best Picture battle played out between two bruising, brutal films that are widely considered to be masterpieces (<i>No Country for Old Men</i> and <i>There Will Be Blood</i>), and the Academy didn't even nominate treasures like <i>Zodiac</i>, <i>The Assassination of Jesse James</i>, or <i>Into the Wild</i>. But my favorite 2007 film will always be the quaint and quiet <i>Once</i>. Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, who play the film's main couple, aren't actors. They play musicians because they are musicians, and they fell in love in real life just like they fell in love onscreen. As a result, <i>Once </i>feels innately real<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>occasionally uncomfortably so. When you see Hansard belting out "Say It To Me Now" on a street corner in the first scene of the film, the emotion cuts to the core because Hansard has been that guy, playing for tips to people who didn't appreciate his stunning gifts. When the two discover their musical chemistry to "Falling Slowly," it's a moment worthy of the Oscar it won<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>a moment that captures what it's like to find someone else who seems to hum at the same frequency you do. And when the camera pans out the window in the last scene of the film, with Irglova's character wondering what could have been and "Falling Slowly" playing again over the final scenes, it aches both with sadness and with a flicker of hope left hanging in the air.<br />
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<b>2008: <i>Iron Man</i> (directed by John Favreau)</b><br />
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It's easy to forget now, after 10 years of the Marvel Cinematic Universe have taught us to expect fun, competently made comic book films at least two or three times a year, but <i>Iron Man </i>really felt like something special when it debuted on the first weekend of May 2008. At that point, Sony had crashed both X-Men and Spider-Man into the ground with laughable trilogy-ending films; Daredevil was DOA; Hulk got hit by a gamma ray of audience distaste; Ghost Rider was a trainwreck; and the less said about Fantastic Four, the better. The only comic book franchise still worth watching on the big screen was Batman, and that was thanks mostly to director Christopher Nolan and his dark, gritty vision. But then Jon Favreau and Robert Downey Jr. took a B-list Marvel character and turned it into a franchise flagship. Without this film (and specifically, without Downey in the lead role), the MCU never happens. Downey oozes charisma, effortless humor, and arrogant charm in one of the most fun movie star performances of the past 10 years. With Downey's considerable presence as the foundation, Favreau builds <i>Iron Man </i>into the rare superhero film where the action sequences are less entertaining than what happens in between them. A decade later, it's still the most unique, well-made, and human film in the Marvel universe. (Note: Just about any comic book film fan would pick <i>The Dark Knight </i>here, but I actually think <i>Iron Man </i>is the finer start-to-finish film and holds up better upon rewatches.) <br />
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<b>2009: <i>Inglourious Basterds </i>(directed by Quentin Tarantino)</b><br />
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My favorite Tarantino film and one of my five or ten favorite films of all time, <i>Inglourious Basterds </i>is the perfect mix of tension, humor, horror, and audacity. Revisionist history has never been as gleefully thrilling as watching Hitler and his compatriots get burned alive in a theater by a Jewish woman. Add Brad Pitt at his hammiest, Michael Fassbender in a breakout role, and <i>The Office</i>'s BJ Novak as a diminutive Nazi killer, and <i>Inglourious Basterds </i>is already a fun house full of cinematic oddities. What gives the film the push into masterpiece territory is Christoph Waltz, showing up out of nowhere (his career up to this point had been German theater and TV movies) and acting like he owns the place. He does. His Nazi captain is shrewd, clever, logical, cruel, funny, ruthless, and horrifyingly likable. For my money, it is the greatest performance that any film actor has given in my lifetime.<br />
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All those things make this film a favorite for me, but it also holds a place near and dear to my heart for when I saw it. Inglorious Basterds released on August 21, 2009, which means I caught this violent, uproariously entertaining film with all my best friends in the summertime following our high school graduation, just days before we all packed up and went off to college. For nearly three hours we laughed, gasped, and sat on the edge of our seats as Tarantino's roller coaster of a war film unfolded. It was a perfect last hurrah, and one of my favorite movie-going experiences for how it crystallized something that would never be quite the same again.<br />
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<b>2010: <i>The Social Network </i>(directed by David Fincher)</b><br />
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<i>The Social Network </i>was one of those films that just felt like a classic from the first time I saw it. Never mind that David Fincher and Aaron Sorkin supposedly played it pretty fast and loose with the so-called facts. Virtually everyone depicted in this film has, in some way or another, lambasted it as fiction. That's okay, though, because <i>The Social Network </i>is not meant to be an exact representation of how Facebook was born. Instead, it's a film about obsession and alienation, and it's tough to think of any movie that better reflects the zeitgeist of the modern world. There are a lot of questions here: about intellectual property and creativity; about inspiration; about friendship and connection in the internet age; about isolation and loneliness; about ethics and greed; and about the implications of everything these characters create together. But it's a testament to the quality of the film that it's just as good as a piece of pure pop entertainment, thanks to the haunting score and a slew of ace performances from future A-listers like Jesse Eisenberg, Andrew Garfield, Rooney Mara, and Armie Hammer. Plus, there's something thrilling about watching Justin Timberlake, a mainstream pop establishment hero, cavort around as one of the guys who broke the music industry.<br />
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<b>2011: <i>Crazy Stupid Love</i> (directed by Glenn Ficarra an John Requa)</b><br />
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There is no movie from the 2010s that I have watched more than <i>Crazy Stupid Love</i>. Some romantic comedies drown in cliches. This one takes a whole bundle of them<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>the old guy finding his way back to romance after a divorce, the uptight beauty who finally learns to cut loose, the adolescent boy in love with a girl who much older than him<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>and puts them in a blender. On the surface, it's just extremely pleasant watching the movie switch back and forth between the different storylines. The scenes with Steve Carell and Ryan Gosling are an especially enjoyable treat. But it's when the movie finally weaves everything together, in one of the ultimate rom-com "twist" scenes of all time, that the fireworks really start. If you haven't seen the movie, I won't give it away. Suffice to say, though, that every time I watch this movie and get to that part, it's still just as uproariously funny as it was the first time.<br />
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<b>2012: <i>Skyfall </i>(directed by Sam Mendes)</b><br />
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I was so amped for <i>Skyfall </i>back in the fall of 2012. Leading up to the release of this movie, I'd been working my way through the better part of the Bond series as research for a paper I was writing about James Bond. (Fun fact: that paper ended up getting published in a scholarly journal.) I was the biggest Bond fan I knew, ready to mark the 50th anniversary in style. I had to wait. My girlfriend and I lived in different towns at the time, me finishing college and her in her first job. As luck (read: my careful planning) would have it, she was coming into town the weekend <i>Skyfall </i>hit theaters. The catch was that she wasn't coming until late Friday night, which meant we weren't going to get to see the movie until Saturday. I still remember sitting at the bar with my buddies on Thursday night around 11 p.m., watching the TV screens on the wall loop trailers of <i>Skyfall</i>. Every time the words "Starts Midnight" came on the screen at the end, I felt like I was being taunted. When I finally got to see the movie, it lived up to every expectation I had. Overflowing with thrilling setpieces, featuring my favorite cinematography of any 2010s movie, and packing a surprisingly emotional punch, <i>Skyfall </i>earned its buzz as the "Best Bond Ever," even if I still prefer <i>Casino Royale</i>.<br />
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<b>2013: <i>About Time </i>(directed by Richard Curtis)</b><i> </i><br />
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<i>About Time</i> didn't get enough attention. Pitched as a time traveling rom-com in an era where rom-coms have largely dipped in popularity, it's actually a film that uses its high concept to tell an incredibly nuanced and moving story about life, love, family, and yes, time. It's fitting that a movie titled <i>About Time</i> uses time so expertly. There isn't a wasted frame here, and the story never rushes or wanders into territory where it doesn't belong. Instead, director Richard Curtis manages a years-spanning love story that actually earns the passage of time. The central love story deepens subtly as the movie goes on, and the core time travel conceit ends up being less of a gimmick to hang a story on and more a way to convey striking and deeply moving revelations about the nature of life. Every part of the movie is lovely, and every actor melts so seamlessly into Curtis's screenplay that you sometimes forget you're watching a film. But the heart of the picture is the interplay between Domhnall Gleeson and Bill Nighy, who bring to life the most deeply-felt father-son relationship I have ever seen onscreen. <br />
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<b>2014: <i>Kingsman: The Secret Service </i>(directed by Matthew Vaughn)</b><br />
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It's hard to believe <i>Kingsman </i>got made in this era. Egregiously violent, politically incorrect on almost every level, and featuring a scene where Colin Firth<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>a Best Actor winner known for playing straight-laced British roles<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>murders an entire church full of bigoted maniacs (while "Freebird" blares in the background, no less), <i>Kingsman </i>is a legitimately insane piece of cinema. It's also maybe the most purely <i>fun </i>movie I've seen this decade, stacking jokes on top of stylish action sequences and stylish action sequences on top of twists. It doesn't hurt that the supporting cast is a murderer's row of top-tier British talent (Firth, Michael Caine, and Mark Strong, all superb), or that Samuel L. Jackson is having maybe more fun than he's ever had on screen in any other project. And holy hell, did I mention the "Freebird" scene? In a decade where great action films seemed fewer and further between<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>or at least, more franchise-driven<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span><i>Kingsman </i>was a fresh, fun reminder of a bygone era when films like this were a little less rare.<br />
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<b>2015: <i>The Hateful Eight</i></b><i> </i><b>(directed by Quentin Tarantino)</b><br />
<br />
It took me at least a few hours to pick my jaw up off the floor after watching <i>The Hateful Eight </i>for the first time. Even as someone who had seen every Tarantino film more than once and who considered him a favorite director, I don't think I was prepared for just how brutal this movie would be. So much of it is vintage Tarantino, from the cast to the dialogue to the aesthetic. But it's also a wild departure from the movies that came before it<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>big, crowd-pleasing, "good guys win" epics like <i>Basterds</i>, <i>Django Unchained</i>, and the <i>Kill Bill </i>films. Tarantino described <i>The Hateful Eight </i>as "a bunch of nefarious guys in a room, all telling backstories that may or may not be true." There aren't any heroes here. Every character is as despicable as the next. As a result, there's no triumphant conclusion, and no one even worth rooting for. You just watch as Tarantino locks these eight people in a room, mounts a blizzard outside the doors, and tosses in a barrel of guns and a poisoned pot of coffee to see what happens. The result is one of the bloodiest, most brutal, and least predictable movies I have ever seen. I still haven't gone back for a rewatch, and I almost feel like I don't need to. That first viewing was as thrilling and memorable as any movie I've ever seen. <br />
<br /><b>2016:<i> La La Land</i> (directed by Damien Chazelle)</b><br />
<br />
I don't review movies. I don't even write about film very much, in any capacity. But I felt inclined to <a href="https://chorus.fm/review/la-la-land/" target="_blank">write something</a> about <i>La La Land </i>when it came out, because I can count on one hand the number of times I've been more blown away in a movie theater. Sure, the songs are great. Sure, Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone have the best onscreen chemistry of any duo currently working in Hollywood. Sure, the choreography is stunning. But the best thing about this movie isn't the magic and majesty of the musical theater numbers. It's the depiction of big, impossible dreams and the toll they take on the people who dare to dream them. "I think it hurts a little too much," Emma Stone's character says in one scene, wavering on the edge of giving up. It's my single favorite line reading from any actor in any film released this decade, and it's not because it's big or showy or bombastic or even what they would put in the clip montage for an Oscar nomination. It's because that line reading captures the pain of failure with such realism and exhaustion that even thinking about it puts tears in my eyes. As someone who has chased this kind of dream and lost the race, that moment means more to me than maybe anything else I've ever seen in a movie.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2017: <i>Coco </i>(directed by Lee Unkrich)</b><br />
<br />
I like a lot of Pixar movies. Ever since <i>Toy Story </i>blew the doors off my five-year-old mind, Pixar has repeatedly captured my imagination and made me reconsider what a movie could be. The company's boundless creativity, paired with a talent for populist crowd-pleasing entertainment, has resulted in a seriously enviable oeuvre of films. With all that said, <i>Coco </i>was the first Pixar movie in a long time to whisk me fully into its world. I liked <i>Inside Out</i>. I liked <i>Up</i>. I even liked unnecessary sequels like <i>Finding Dory</i> (or unnecessary prequels like <i>Monsters University</i>). But <i>Coco </i>was on another level. I genuinely believe this movie to be one of the most beautiful films ever made, whether in terms of visuals or story or music or themes. The questions this film asks and the things it has to say<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>about life; about death; about family; about memory and legacy; about culture; about music<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>are deep, rich, and nuanced. Just like <i>Toy Story</i>, this film should have won Best Picture. Just like <i>Toy Story</i>, it wasn't nominated.<br />
<br />
<b>2018: <i>The Hate U Give</i> (directed by George Tillman Jr.)</b><br />
<br />
I didn't expect to be walloped by <i>The Hate U Give </i>in the way that I was. For one thing, I already knew the story, having been introduced to the book by my YA-fiction-loving, publishing-industry-involved wife. For another thing, film adaptations of bestsellers tend to be hit or miss<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">—</span>hence the complete absence on this list of Harry Potter movies, or Hunger Games movies, or any number of other films based on books I love. But thanks to a perfect cast and a script that mostly gets out of the way and lets the novel do the heavy lifting, watching this movie was every bit the emotionally draining experience that reading the book was. <i>The Hate U Give </i>makes big, timely, important statements about race and police violence in America. But it is also a beautiful film about family and friendship and the ways those bonds are tested for some of us more than others. Much has been made about how this movie tells a ripped-from-the-headlines story, so similar to many we've read about young black men being gunned down by trigger-happy police officers with zero accountability. But what makes <i>The Hate U Give </i>so special is that it puts you right there in the living room or kitchen or classroom with the people forced to deal with the fallout of those tragedies. The result is searing and heartbreaking and infuriating and resilient, and worthy of so much more attention than it's gotten so far.Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-16601437333237437752018-09-03T08:11:00.000-04:002018-09-03T08:11:41.811-04:00The Songs of the Summer<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The idea of the “song of the summer” is revisited every
single year—in Twitter conversations, in music critic thinkpieces, on radio
stations. There’s always a race to crown the one pop hit that defines the
season and becomes the soundtrack to parties, wedding receptions, bars, clubs,
and road trips. I have always felt left out of that conversation, because I
kind of hate most mainstream radio pop. The song of the summer, according to
public consciousness, is always a pop hit, which means I almost always don’t
care for it. I also just don’t find the song of the summer
conversation interesting, because it’s determined mainly based on radio
dominance (and now, streaming numbers). It’s just another hit song. The only
thing that sets it apart is that it happens to land in a particular season.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, with the end of summer fast approaching, I decided to
put my own little twist on the conversation. I realized that what bored me
about the song of the summer debates wasn’t that the songs getting chosen
were pop songs. Rather, it was the idea that one song was supposed to define
summer for everyone. I’d much rather read about the songs that defined summers
for individuals—and more importantly, about why.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that thought in mind, I went back to 2001 and
re-litigated my own personal song of the summer debates for each year since.
Which song do I think of first when I think of the summer in question? Which
song, when I hear it, takes me back in time to the summer when I was 10, or 17, or 23? And why
did those songs end up tied to those seasons so specifically, when there were
always dozens, hundreds, or even thousands of other songs making their way to
my to my ears during the same months? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To go through this exercise, I had to establish a few ground
rules for myself:</div>
<ol>
<li>I needed to start in 2001, because it’s the first summer
where I can remember music playing an active roll in my life. There are songs
that I associate with previous summers. If I went back to the 90s, surely
Fastball’s “Out of My Heard,” Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life,” The
Wallflowers’ “The Difference,” Oasis’s “Champagne Supernova,” and Green Day’s
“When I Come Around” would be ruling their respective years. But music at that
time was less crucial to who I was or how I lived my life. 2001 made more sense
as a starting point, for reasons I will discuss below.</li>
<li>A song doesn’t necessarily need to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> the year in question to be the song of the summer, but it needs to be close. For this point, I deferred to
the “Maroon 5 rule,” so named because Maroon 5 had arguably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the</i> ubiquitous pop hit of the summer of
2004 (with “She Will Be Loved”) despite the fact that the song had come out in
2002. Per this rule, a song could be a maximum of two years old to be
considered a candidate. </li>
<li>The song of the summer could not be a ballad. This rule
is probably my most arbitrary, and may or may not get broken regularly with
actual radio hits. Still, when I think of the song of the summer, I think of a
windows-down anthem. There were a few times where I felt tempted to break this
rule for a wistful summer night ballad, but I ultimately view those songs in a
different category. (Cue my “top 20 all-time summer night songs” list.)</li>
<li>Artist repeats can happen in the song of the summer
conversation, but they are exceedingly rare. Looking back over the past 20
years, I think the only artist you could argue for having dominated two summers
(in the mainstream consciousness, anyway) is Katy Perry. As such, I left myself
open to artist repeats, but tried to steer clear, if steering clear was
possible. I didn’t end up with any.</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, without further ado, my personal songs of the summer
from 2001 to 2018.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2001: Lifehouse -
“Hanging by a Moment” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Name Face</i>)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_s6KJitLlXjraHqRjlQyjHVA5DyK4Xp7M6NYi8otfti-5rxP9chi9ncml4jGRUEmc5SAaS0J_10nVBYo3h75G_WHKvDxTpr5HBwqIF6Hi3tphrHLoEwpVyubffIuOZGi6IwkwSt8HDwm/s1600/Hanging+By+a+Moment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="640" height="558" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_s6KJitLlXjraHqRjlQyjHVA5DyK4Xp7M6NYi8otfti-5rxP9chi9ncml4jGRUEmc5SAaS0J_10nVBYo3h75G_WHKvDxTpr5HBwqIF6Hi3tphrHLoEwpVyubffIuOZGi6IwkwSt8HDwm/s640/Hanging+By+a+Moment.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent more time actively listening to the radio in the
summer of 2001 than I probably have in all the years since combined. For some
reason, I got super into following along with the top 40 countdown every Sunday
morning. I’d even write out lists of the songs, in order, and try to guess what
was coming next. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why I subjected myself
to this truly special form of torture. Even back then, I disliked many of the
songs, tolerated some of them, and only truly liked five or six. The only
reason I can think of for listening faithfully every week was this song. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved </i>“Hanging by a Moment.” The
propulsive hook; the balance of the low vocal lines in the verse and the soaring
melodies in the chorus; the title. I remember listening to the countdown every
weekend that summer, hoping this song would land the number one slot, and
always being disappointed when it got bested by something else—usually the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moulin Rouge </i>version of “Lady
Marmalade.” “Hanging by a Moment” never hit number one on the Hot 100 or the
Top 40, but it played runner-up for so long that it ended up being the top song
of the year anyway. I don’t care about any of that chart stuff anymore, but I
still have a soft spot for this song, which reminds me of summertime in the
days of endless (perhaps too much) free time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2002: Jimmy Eat World
- “The Middle” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bleed American</i>)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECeS6QMcR8AkovDdV27NweZv1teHQbUJ2bZqCXa0e2f4FfMT70d7rTJ-UaUyv9vuCrcColbvqTWPggIZvcSzO7Zj0DSszDJhJ9pnMaIG5Sbucm1XJpTTSqs1Ve-lfFZ-5fBKuySMsi4Er/s1600/JIMMY_EAT_WORLD_THE%252BMIDDLE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="500" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECeS6QMcR8AkovDdV27NweZv1teHQbUJ2bZqCXa0e2f4FfMT70d7rTJ-UaUyv9vuCrcColbvqTWPggIZvcSzO7Zj0DSszDJhJ9pnMaIG5Sbucm1XJpTTSqs1Ve-lfFZ-5fBKuySMsi4Er/s640/JIMMY_EAT_WORLD_THE%252BMIDDLE.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent at least half of the summer of 2002 at my friend
David’s house—most of it playing video games, watching movies, or pretending
to be Jedi Knights. I think I spent an average of two nights a week over at his
house, just staying up late and trying to beat the latest Gamecube or PlayStation games. It was a busy summer—probably my ultimate summer of “being a
kid”—and all that activity meant I definitely wasn’t sitting around my house
listening to the top 40 countdown. If there’s a song that defines this summer,
though, it’s gotta be “The Middle.” “The Middle” broke on the radio around the
end of my fifth grade year, and its influence bled (no pun intended) right into
the summer months. I remember hearing it so many times on the radio in the
mornings when my mom would drive me to school. In the summer, the destination
of those drives changed—usually to David’s house—but I was still always happy to hear this song on the radio. Considering what Jimmy Eat
World would eventually become in the scheme of my musical evolution and my life in
general, it’s still surreal to me that they had a hit big enough to reasonably
contend for mainstream song of the summer status. There has not been a better
consensus contender since.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2003: Our Lady Peace -
“Innocent” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gravity</i>)</b></div>
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2003 was the summer where everything started to change. I
was almost a teenager, I was running with my brother and the high school cross
country team in the mornings, and my brother had finally taught my sister and I how
to download music and burn CDs. Not to glorify a crime or anything, but
learning the ropes of KaZaa and Winamp blew the doors off my 12-year-old mind.
Suddenly, every song I’d ever heard was at my disposal. The 90s gems I hadn’t listened
to in years; my favorite songs off the radio; the songs I was hearing on TV
shows. I burned probably six or seven CDs that summer, just loading up my
collection with old favorites and new curiosities alike. “Innocent”
was a song I wasn’t familiar with. I discovered it on our home computer, in a
Winamp playlist full of songs my brother had already downloaded. My god I loved
it. It seemed to say something about adolescence and growing up that I hadn’t
quite encountered yet, but was about to. It remains one of my favorite songs
about growing up, to the point where it ended up on the playlist I listened to on
the drive to my high school graduation.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2004: Dashboard
Confessional - “Vindicated (from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spider-Man
2 </i>soundtrack)</b></div>
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Picking one song from the summer of 2004 was very nearly
impossible. By all accounts, this season was the start of my great musical
awakening. Sugarcult’s “Memory” was my “beginning of summer” song. Snow
Patrol’s “Chocolate” was my “summer road trip” song. Yellowcard’s “Ocean
Avenue” was my “I’m so glad they’re playing this on the radio this summer”
song. All those songs were valid candidates, as were the entireties of Counting
Crows’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard Candy </i>and Sister Hazel’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chasing Daylight</i>—my first two “summer albums.”
But I don’t think anything sounds more like the summer of 2004 to me than
Dashboard Confessional’s “Vindicated.” “I am seeing in me now the things you
swore you saw yourself,” Chris Carrabba cries at the end of the chorus. What a
beautiful, angsty lyric, so perfect for my first teenage summer. When I hear it
now, I remember everything about that season: trips to the beach; outings to
the movies; too many hours spent playing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grand
Theft Auto </i>in the basement with my brother; staying up late reading books
because it was too goddamn hot to sleep; the dumbest theater camp of all time;
and a burgeoning love for music, manifested in a voracious search for new songs
and an increasingly meticulous approach to sequencing my burned CD playlists. “Vindicated”
also moved my tastes subtly toward pop-punk and emo, setting the stage for that
fall when albums like Jimmy Eat World’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures
</i>and Green Day’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idiot </i>would
change my life forever.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2005: Better Than
Ezra - “A Lifetime” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Before the
Robots</i>)</b><br />
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Growing up, I loved vacations, but didn’t care much for long
road trips. No matter how many activities I tried to give myself to do in the
car, I’d get bored and end up restless in the backseat, asking some variation
of that quintessential family vacation question: “Are we there yet?” My
siblings and I tried lots of different strategies for keeping ourselves
entertained in the car. We tried audiobooks. We tried setting up a TV in the
backseat and watching movies. One year we even rigged up a videogame setup. But
those strategies were always just ways to kill time. When I fell in love with
music, things changed. Suddenly, I looked forward to the long drive almost as
much as I looked forward to the destination. I loved making myself comfortable
in the backseat, picking out something to play on my portable CD player or
iPod, and letting the music wash over me as I watched the country pass by
outside. “A Lifetime,” my song of the summer from 2005, has always been a road
trip song to me. I bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Before the
Robots </i>the night before we departed for a family reunion, and I played it
exhaustively on that trip. There were at least half a dozen other true blue
summer songs on that record, but “A Lifetime” always stuck out the most to me.
It’s a song that should be sad—it’s about a girl who crashes her car and dies
on the morning of her high school graduation. But the song subverts
expectations, winding down a narrative path where the narrator steals the
girl’s urn at her wake and takes her out for one last perfect summertime adventure.
“Three and a half minutes felt like a lifetime” goes the chorus punchline. The
best summer songs epitomize that line, because they pack entire seasons into
their beautiful bursts of lyrics and melody. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2006: Jack’s
Mannequin - “La La Lie” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything
in Transit</i>)</b></div>
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There’s no better summer album than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit</i>, and no song that exudes the atmosphere of my
teenage summers quite like “La La Lie.” The explosive harmonica. The shimmering
keys. A hook so catchy that it has never failed to make me run a little bit
faster or drive a little bit more recklessly. “I’m coming back to my girl by
July.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transit </i>was a 2005 release,
but it didn’t make its way into my life until the first week of summer vacation
2006. In a summer that had plenty of other worthy soundtrack
candidates—specifically Dashboard Confessional’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dusk and Summer </i>and Butch Walker’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rise and Fall</i>—this record still came out on top. It’s what I
reached for on road trips or evening runs on the golf course, or on afternoons
when I just wanted to kill time in my room and listen to music. Future summers
would be more eventful, more angsty, more dangerous—and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit </i>would soundtrack bits and pieces of all of
them. But 2006 was the last year where it really felt like I had 14 to 16
waking hours to kill every day; no responsibility, no obligations. “La La Lie”
was and is the sound of that impossible, irretrievable freedom.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2007: Black Lab -
“Mine Again” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passion Leaves a Trace</i>)</b></div>
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I spent less time listening to music in the summer of 2007
than any other year featured on this list. For three weeks, from late June to
mid-July, I was away at Interlochen Arts Camp, for a musical theater program.
Phones were banned, and I’m pretty sure iPods were frowned upon. So I went
three weeks without music at the peak of summertime—ironic, since I was in a
place where music was all around me in every other way. For whatever reason,
the song that kept popping into my head when I couldn’t actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">listen </i>to music was Black Lab’s “Mine
Again.” It’s a fever dream of a song, one that captures flickers of memory and
wraps them around a chorus that sounds like heaven. A girl in a red dress;
lying barefoot in the grass; stealing hours alone together in the midst of
summer; a picture in your mind of a lost love that feels as vivid as if the
photo were taken yesterday. “Every day, I will wait ‘til your mine again,” goes
the hook. Back then, I associated this song with a girl. Now, I hear it as
yearning for a type of innocence and naivete that can only last for so long. This
was my last summer of that feeling, and this song still feels like one of its
very last vestiges.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2008: Safetysuit -
“Someone Like You” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life Left to Go</i>)</b><br />
<br />
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The summer of 2008 changed everything. It was my first
summer with a car. It was my first summer with a job. It was my first summer at
home as the only kid left in the nest, with both my siblings away. It was my
first summer of drinking and parties. And it was my first summer in love. The result
was the most tumultuous two and a half months of my life, and there’s no song
that encapsulates that better than “Someone Like You.” Sure, there are songs
that speak to the sadder moments of that season—and there were a lot of them.
But “Someone Like You” was the song that taught me just how fun it could be to
scream along to an anthem in the front seat of your car with the windows rolled
down on a sunny day. It’s a song with enough power and drive to be that kind of
summer jam, but it also had traces of melancholic angst around the
edges—perfect for all the adolescent emotions I was dealing with at the time.
Looking back, that season was the best and worst summer of my life,
all rolled into one. On the one hand, the freedom and possibility of those
nights seemed genuinely infinite. After so many summers spent mostly tethered
to my house, I reveled in the ability to stay out as late as I wanted, or to go
anywhere. On the other hand, I was working a job I hated and pining after a
girl that I wasn’t ever going to get. By the time that summer ended, I didn’t
have much left but a broken heart and a lot of sad songs. “Someone Like You”
was the exception, something that still sounded hopeful even after everything
that had happened. It was the first song I played after I woke up on the first
day of senior year, my way of saying “Things are going to get better.” </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2009: Cary Brothers -
“The Last One” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who You Are</i>)</b><br />
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<br />
If you’d have asked me at the outset, I’d have told you that
the summer of 2009 was going to be the most celebratory and carefree of my
life—at least up to that point. I’d finished up high school; I had three months
of total freedom before I’d be heading off to college, to major in music; I had
a few big concerts and trips on the calendar. By all accounts, it should have
been a summer full of parties and youthful recklessness and long nights of fun
and loud, blazing summer anthems. When I look back now, though, I think of the
summer of 2009 in very melancholy terms. Part of it, I think, was the weather.
Summer 2009 was unusually gloomy in northern Michigan, filled with rain and
unseasonably cold days. A lot of it didn’t feel like summer at all, let alone what I expected from my first post-high-school summer. Another part,
though, was sadness. The grief of dealing with death for the first time—when we
had to put my childhood dog to sleep—still lingers over my memories of that
summer. So does the feeling I had in the pit of my stomach that my friend group
was never going to be as close again as we were that summer. Trying to pick a
song to represent all those heavy, conflicted feelings was difficult,
especially since I felt like the summer after graduation deserved an anthem.
But “The Last One”—a burst of new-wavy pop from Cary Brothers’ 2007 debut
album—is the song that I think captures that summer for what it was. It’s zippy
and catchy enough to be a song of the summer, but you can hear the
stormclouds gathering. I played Brothers’ album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who You Are</i>, exhaustively throughout the second half of that
summer, its patient, sad ballads capturing my melancholy coming-of-age moment
with the grace of an 80s movie soundtrack. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2010: Chad Perrone -
“Blinded” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake</i>)</b><br />
<br />
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<br />
The summer of 2010 was the best summer of my life. I was
enjoying my first college summer, which meant I had four solid months of
freedom—versus the two and a half you get in high school. I was home for the
break, which meant reconnecting with old friends. I’d landed a job at a dinner
theater in my town, which meant I was literally getting paid to sing and
perform oldies pop songs. And I was falling in love with a girl from high
school, a girl who I would end up marrying four years later. “Blinded” captured
so much of the joy and butterflies of that season. The music of Chad Perrone
came into my life at the outset of that summer, recommended by an online friend
who knew Chad from the Boston music scene. The first time I heard “Blinded,”
driving to rehearsal for my job on some gorgeous June evening, I knew it was
going to soundtrack my summer. What I didn’t know was that the song—about being
ready to let your guard down and gamble everything on the feelings you have for
another person—was going to be prophetic. After that girl and I started dating,
“Blinded” was the first song I ever put on a mixtape for her. I listened to it
hundreds of times over the next year, both in moments of that perfect, pure
hometown summer and of the ensuing school year and the long distance
relationship we maintained throughout it. The night before we got married, at
our rehearsal dinner, “Blinded” was the song I quoted in my speech: “How do you
believe in anything enough to know that it will never change?” Sometimes, there
are things you just know in your gut, whether it’s a question of the song
that’s going to define your summer or of the woman who you are going to spend your
life with. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2011: The Dangerous
Summer - “No One’s Gonna Need You More” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War Paint</i>)</b><br />
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No song ever defined a summer as much as “No One’s Gonna
Need You More” defined the summer of 2011. Most of the songs on this list I
played dozens of times throughout the summer in question. With this song, it
was hundreds. I could not get enough of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War
Paint</i>, and I definitely couldn’t get enough of “No One’s Gonna Need You
More.” To my ears, it was the perfect summer song. It had the bright, sunny
catchiness that had always made pop-punk a go-to genre for summer mixtapes, but
it also had the emotion and angst necessary to foreground the romantic
whirlwind insanity of being a young adult with some freedom left to burn.
“Every lonely heart can use an honest song they can sing along to,” sings AJ
Perdomo in the second verse. That summer, I really needed to fall in love with
music again. I’d suffered through the worst semester of my life and an
interminable winter to get back home for another summer, and I always felt like
this song and the album it came from were my rewards. In the midst of a
crossroads moment in my life, The Dangerous Summer made every night, drive,
kiss, swim, sunset, beach day, and song feel like heaven for two months
straight. I might never have needed an honest song more.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2012: Yellowcard –
“Always Summer” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern Air</i>)</b><br />
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“I left home but there’s one thing that I still know/It’s
always summer in my heart and in my soul.” In any other summer, I don’t think
those lines would have meant as much to me. But the summer of 2012 was the end of
lots of things. It was my last college summer, the last one before I graduated.
It was my last summer in my childhood town—at least until the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">current </i>summer, but we’ll get to that
part of the story in time. It was my last summer working my job at the local
dinner theater, before it closed shop forever. In a lot of ways, it was the
last summer of my youth, and driving away from it with “Always Summer” blaring
through my speakers felt like a picture perfect coming-of-age moment. This song
meant so much to me that summer, on blazing hot drives or late nights after
work, sneaking drinks from behind the bar after we sent audiences on their way.
It was like Yellowcard had anticipated my circumstances and had written a song
that would dovetail with them perfectly. I still can’t hear this song without
feeling a little sadness for everything I left in my rearview when I drove away
at the end of that August. The summers of 2010, 2011, and 2012 were the best
ones of my life, and this song was their big grand finale. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2013: John Mayer –
“On the Way Home” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise Valley</i>)</b><br />
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The summer of 2013 didn’t feel much like summer to me.
Instead of returning to my bayside hometown for another glorious season in the
sun and the water, I was living in an apartment in Naperville, Illinois, in the
midst of an oppressively humid season, in the middle of an island of concrete,
far from anything that could be considered a beach. It was also a tumultuous
time in my life, one where I was casting about for a job—any job—as the economy
cratered around me. There were good things, too: I moved in with my girlfriend,
after too much time spent doing the long distance thing. But I also crashed my
car and had my soul drained working for two weeks in the worst sales job I
could have imagined. It was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a “bad” summer,
and coming after three straight greatest hits, that broke my heart. “On the Way
Home” was my song of the summer not because it gave me the kind of anthem that
I’d looked for in other years, but because it felt so fitting as I yearned for
the summers of my youth. This song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds
</i>like the end of summer. It sounds like Labor Day weekend, or the last trip
to the beach before the fall breezes send everyone scurrying away. It was also
a fitting soundtrack for the actual end of summer, which managed to redeem most
of the bad things that had happened. On the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, on a
trip home, I asked my girlfriend to marry me and she said yes. This song wasn’t
the soundtrack to that particular moment, but it still encapsulates a lot of what
that season was for me: wistful, backward-looking, and a little bit bittersweet.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2014: Bleachers -
“Rollercoaster” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strange Desire</i>)</b><br />
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“It was summer when I saw your face/Looked like a teenage
runaway.” Those are the first two lines from “Rollercoaster,” the kind of
summer song I’d been seeking for years but never found until 2014.
“Rollercoaster” has the charm and sweep of a classic 80s teen movie. It’s the
kind of song that could have been in a John Hughes flick, or maybe in something
like “Adventureland.” It encapsulates the anything-could-happen electricity
that flows through summer days and nights when you’re young and free and
falling in love for the first time. If “Rollercoaster” had hit a few years
earlier, when I was living that kind of freedom, I would probably love it even
more than I do. As it was, 2014 was a big summer of landmark moments for
me—moments that felt pretty far removed from the youth this song describes.
Instead of falling in love or sneaking kisses late at night, I was getting
married to the girl of my dreams and committing to a lifetime with her. And
instead of the tumultuous whirlwind of a summer vacation—and an end-of-summer
return to school—I ended my summer by leaving Illinois in the rearview and
moving back to Michigan for another new life chapter. Still, even though I
might not have been living the wild, youthful spirit of “Rollercoaster,” I was
living its sense of momentous occasions and exciting revelations. During the
last month of summer, leading up to that big move back to Michigan, I played
this song over and over again, using it to turn the sweltering humidity of a
Chicago summer into something that felt romantic. It didn’t quite work, and
summers have felt more like they used to since I moved back to Michigan, but
“Rollercoaster” still brings back very fond memories of the season when I
really started my adult life. One last youthful anthem to send me on my way.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2015: Kelsea
Ballerini - “Dibs” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Time</i>)</b><br />
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“Dibs” is one of the catchiest songs of all time. It’s not
particularly deep, and it didn’t have the kind of huge emotional impact on my life that
many of the other songs on this list did, but my god, the hook. Kelsea
Ballerini has been pitched so far in her career as the heir apparent to Taylor
Swift, and this song hammered that point home with the most infectious three
minutes of pop country to come along this decade. 2015 was a fantastic summer
for me. It was the first summer since my wife and I had moved back to Michigan,
and our first in the house we’d bought in April of that year. It was also the
summer when I started running again, after years of only going for the odd run
when it suited me. And, perhaps most crucially, it was the summer that I fell
in love with country music. All those factors combined to make it a momentously
memorable season. Being in Michigan meant we were only two hours from home and
less than an hour from the shores of Lake Michigan. Being in our own house
meant I wasn’t trapped inside a cave of an apartment for the summer, but could instead
enjoy the season by working out on the porch for a few hours each afternoon.
Getting back into running meant I had a new way to enjoy songs and
albums—particularly fast, upbeat, optimistic summer anthems like this one. And
falling in love with country meant that I was discovering a new artist or song
or record I loved almost daily. “Dibs” was at the cross section of all of the
above, the country song that sounded best on summer afternoons out on the porch,
or during runs when I needed something to push me to a faster pace for that
last mile. Every time it came up during a workout, I played it at least twice.
Three years later, I still can’t get over the hook or how quickly it conjures
up the summer where I fell back in love with summer again.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2016: Butch Walker -
“East Coast Girl” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stay Gold</i>)</b><br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stay Gold </i>was like
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War Paint </i>in that, after it arrived,
there wasn’t a whole lot else I wanted to listen to for the rest of the summer.
Why listen to other albums on runs when this was the one that would make me
push myself harder? Why blare any other albums on drives along the shore when
this one sounded so damn good blasting out of the my speakers with the windows
down? Most of the songs on the record sound like summer, but “East Coast Girl”
is very close to being prototypical. It pairs the ‘80s teen movie romanticism
of “Rollercoaster” with the Springsteenian sweep of the songs from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born to Run</i>. Of course I loved it. “You
can run, but you can’t hide/It’s a cruel, cruel summer outside/Shine on little
baby, you were too good for this world/Just another broken east coast girl.”
The chorus explodes and the big, bold guitar intro sounds like a dizzying theme
park ride on a July night. But the verses are the most interesting: spoken word
missives said into a cellphone microphone, like stream-of-consciousness love
notes to a girl, or to the past, or to a girl from the past. Like the rest of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stay Gold</i>, “East Coast Girl” is wistful
and nostalgic and bright and big and beautiful. It’s the kind of song that can
make it feel like summertime even in the dead of winter.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2017: All Time Low -
“Last Young Renegade” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Young
Renegade</i>)</b><br />
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I’ve been making “Summer of 20XX” playlists every year
dating back to 2006. I recently went back and made a few playlists for earlier
years, based on the songs I was listening to at the time. It’s fun to revisit
those mixes now, to remember what life was like then and how it’s changed
since. For a long time, I waited until the end of summer to make those
playlists. It didn’t make sense, I reasoned, to make them earlier, when I maybe
hadn’t heard all the great summer songs the season had to offer yet. A few
years ago, though, I changed my strategy and started making my summer mixes on
a “rolling” basis, adding new songs as they came along and eventually ending up
with monster playlists of 30-40 songs. That way, I can enjoy the in-progress
playlist throughout the season in question, but still end up with something
that represents the entirety of summer. I was glad to have my summer playlist
in 2017, in part because I wasn’t super fond of All Time Low’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Last Young Renegade </i>as a full album. It
was fine, and had a few good songs, but mostly saw the band gravitating toward
a pop sound I didn’t love. The title track was the exception, a big, booming,
redemptive piece of rock ‘n’ roll that hearkened back to the anthems of
Springsteen and U2. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved </i>this
song, and I loved revisiting it as a part of that “Summer of 2017” playlist
over and over and over again. “Just a couple kids on a summer street/Chasing
around to a flicker beat/Making mistakes that were made for us/We brushed them
off like paper cuts,” goes the first verse. Right away, the song conjures up a
vision of summertime romance so pure and youthful that you want to make it last
forever. The love story doesn’t survive the second verse—“We used to be such a
burning flame/But now we’re just smoke in the summer rain,” goes one of the lyrics—but
every time the song hits its titanic chorus hook, it’s like reliving every
whirlwind summer love you ever had.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2018: LANCO - “So
Long (I Do)” (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hallelujah Nights</i>)</b><br />
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I’ve never anointed a song to “song of the summer” status as
prematurely as I did with “So Long (I Do).” Usually, my song of the summer is a
song I don’t actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hear </i>until the
summer in question. Not so with this song, which appears on an album that came
out on the third release day of the year. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hallelujah
Nights</i>, the long-awaited debut album from country band LANCO, is a pure and
joyful summer album. Songs like the title track and “Greatest Love Story” ache
with the romantic possibility of hot nights under the stars out in the great
wide open. I’m not sure why any band would release that kind of record in
mid-January, but it’s a testament to how good a song “So Long (I Do)” is that
it somehow stuck with me for six months to become my song of the summer for 2018.
As northern Michigan slowly emerged from an endless winter and a ruthless bout
with April snowstorms, I played this song constantly on drives or runs or
evening walks, trying to summer the sun and the heat a little faster. On
Independence Day, when I finally got to sing along with the song’s opening
lyric—“Now every single summer on the Fourth of July/I think about you baby and
I don’t know why”—<i>on </i>the Fourth of July, I felt the kind of unbridled joy that only the best songs can
bring. </div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-73791216559249100932018-07-11T14:00:00.001-04:002018-11-30T22:28:03.058-05:00My Top 100 Favorite Albums of the 2000s<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
A few months ago, I was veering dangerously close to burning out on writing. I had been juggling too much work and it was starting to take a toll. It was also cutting into my leisure time, specifically the time I'd always set aside to write for myself. For years, I'd used music writing almost as a form of therapy: a way to put emotions or memories to paper and keep myself grounded. Those opportunities becoming less frequent meant I was finding more of a foothold professionally, but it also meant I was losing part of what had made me fall in love with writing in the first place.<br />
<br />
So I started this project. I'd never gone through the process of building out a ranked albums list for the 2000s, so I figured, why not give that a shot? It could be my practice run for next year, when I have to do this again for another decade and a whole new set of albums.<br />
<br />
So many of these records are things I have written about at length in the past. It's possible I've spilled more words about <i>Letters </i>and <i>Futures </i>than any other writer on this planet, so deep is my love for those albums. So I set myself a challenge here: write about these records in new ways. I wanted to find an angle for every album that could shine a light on why I love it, why it means the world to me. In some cases, that meant writing more traditional blurbs. In other cases, it meant focusing on one song or one idea or one theme and exploring that a bit. In a lot of cases, it meant writing about my life and why these albums became a part of it.<br />
<br />
The resulting project took me the better part of six months. I chipped away at it every night before bed, taking just 10 or 15 minutes before I turned in for the night to sit down in front of the computer, choose an album, and cast myself back in time to when it captured my world. Slowly, the list took form. Eventually, I realized that the list wasn't just a catalog of music, but also an autobiographical story, told through albums that I loved in the most formative years of my life. As it turned out, writing about the music I loved between the ages of nine and 18 meant writing a lot about my life. Some of the stories told below are things I've revealed before. Some are things I don't think I've ever told anyone. All form the backbone for a collection of albums that is completely "me." I didn't write these records, but there's at least a song from every single one of them that feels like it came directly from my heart.<br />
<br />
And so, finally, after half a year of writing and reminiscing, I'm ready to let this project be finished. I don't know if anyone will ever read all of it, or any of it for that matter. For those who do, though, I hope you'll see this list for what it is: not just a collection of 100 amazing records, but also a tribute to the power of music and its ability to break your heart, weave it back together again, preserve your memories, keep friends close, take you back in time, transport you across the country, and bring back loved ones who are no longer there to call.</div>
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1. <b>Butch Walker</b> - <i>Letters</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDGljZQINgti8UQTpyZEN5rACZcjft6RkNlEuwWDRA3NpLEmw6HigvBU_Koep_75kgO7RUqfRlZYLKN_rlcNkEcfeNaQvuW5fhpBdNvP5pr3vseTDLwmv3XNHCTfndLnxMsfTjiszPAt7/s1600/Butch+-+Letters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDGljZQINgti8UQTpyZEN5rACZcjft6RkNlEuwWDRA3NpLEmw6HigvBU_Koep_75kgO7RUqfRlZYLKN_rlcNkEcfeNaQvuW5fhpBdNvP5pr3vseTDLwmv3XNHCTfndLnxMsfTjiszPAt7/s640/Butch+-+Letters.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Sometimes, falling
in love with music happens gradually. The term is “grower,” for an album
or song that slowly and steadily takes ahold of you. <i>Letters</i>,
for me, was the opposite. It was a dizzying dopamine rush of a record.
It took me, in the space of four or five tracks, from being barely aware
of the artist behind it to loving his music like I’d been listening to
it for my whole life. In the years since, <i>Letters</i>—and Butch
Walker in general—has meant a lot of different things to me. It’s been a
soundtrack to early mornings and late nights, heartbreaks and triumphs,
love and death. It’s been the technicolor explosion of a perfect pop
song and the ragged acoustic symphony of a dejected soul. But even after
hundreds of listens and thousands of memories, I’ll never stop going
back to that first time, when everything clicked so fast and changed
my life like the beat of a drum.<br />
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2. <b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Futures</i></div>
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<i> </i>
</div>
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The cover of <i>Futures </i>depicts a guy huddled outside an
out-of-order telephone booth on a dark night. It’s a lonely shot—at least, by
all accounts it should be. But something about looking at that cover always
felt so hopeful to me. There’s a romance to late nights, to telephone booths,
to looking for any way in the universe that you could reach the person you love
<i>right fucking now</i>. I played this record over and over again in the fall of
2004, when I was 13 years old and just starting to realize how much a
heart could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i>. That probably
sounds corny, but there’s something to be said for the records you find when
you’re young and unguarded and willing to pour every piece of yourself into the
songs. There’s so much to love in this record: slow dances and friends all around you and
night drives and train rides. But to me, it will always epitomize those crisp,
cold nights in November 2004, believing in futures like my life depended on it.</div>
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3. <b>Jack's Mannequin</b> - <i>Everything in Transit </i><br />
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<br />
There’s a sound of summer, and it’s called <i>Everything in
Transit</i>. Radiant piano keys, beachy melodies, and lyrics scrawled in a diary by
a heart ready for something more. For every kid at the end of the school year
whose life was becoming a boring pop song, this record offered a tonic. It
hearkens back to a time when summer was carefree and full of every possibility
you could fathom: love and mixed tapes and crowded rooms; beaches and
late-night swimming pools and tidal waves ready to put your whole town
underwater. When you grow up, you shed that possibility for stability and
routine. But records like this one keep you young by always offering a door to
the past, and to a time when there really was a such thing as a holiday from
real.</div>
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4. <b>The Dangerous Summer</b> - <i>Reach for the Sun </i><br />
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<i> </i></div>
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Graduating from high school is thrilling. It’s also scary. Even
when you have a college lined up and a major picked out, it’s very difficult to
know for sure what comes next. Maybe you’ll keep ties with your friends, or
maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll find your way back home, or maybe you won’t. Maybe
you’ll stay who you are right now, or maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll end up
working in the field you have in mind, or maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll get your
dreams, or maybe you won’t. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reach for the
Sun </i>came out right at the beginning of my final month of high school. That
spring, as that chapter of my life drew to a close, I remember driving around
with this album playing on the car stereo, capturing every ounce of excitement,
uncertainty, and fear I was feeling. As the world began to shift around me,
this record kept me sane and kept me brave. Today, a lot of things have
changed—my friends, my dream, my home, and me—but this record always makes my
heart beat the same way it did the night before graduation.</div>
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5. <b>Matt Nathanson</b> - <i>Some Mad Hope</i><br />
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<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Mad Hope</i>. I
always loved that title. It was the hope that the girl you liked might like you
back, or the hope that your life might just work out the way you dreamed it
when you were young. For Nathanson, on this record, it was the hope that he
might salvage his marriage before he broke it entirely. When I was young, I heard
these songs primarily as hymns of unrequited love, because that tends to be the
only thing you hear in songs when you’re experiencing it. The actual words and
themes are so much more complex, though. There’s a tension in these songs,
between the restlessness of wanting to run, to escape, to find something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>, and the certainty you feel about
loving the person you’re committed to. Most records about relationships find
their protagonists at one end of the spectrum: all in, or ready to get out. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Mad Hope</i>, Nathanson acknowledged
that even the strongest relationships can be mired by doubt or restlessness
from time to time. It’s a record that has comforted me hundreds of times at the
end of hard days, just by showing me that it’s sometimes okay to dwell in the
gray areas.</div>
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6. <b>Green Day</b> - <i>American Idiot </i><br />
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<i>
</i></div>
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<br />
<i>American Idiot</i> will forever be pegged as a political album.
It is, to a certain extent. Green Day wrote it in part as a response to the
Bush years, and it released in the fall of an election year. But <i>American Idiot</i>
is most adequately described as a coming-of-age album. It’s a record
about
disenfranchised, rebellious youths who run away from home, get caught up
in the
underbelly of the big city, fall in love with each other, break each
other’s
hearts, and end up back home with little to show for it all but scars
and hard-fought wisdom. Of course, there are also appropriate rock opera
tropes along the way,
like alternate personalities and the ultimate destruction of those
personalities. Still, <i>American Idiot </i>resonates ultimately not because of
politics or because of high-concept twists, but because the core story of
growing up is a universal one. We’ve all stumbled down that boulevard of broken
dreams, and we’ve all ended up yearning for a whatsername after the dust cleared.
On this record, Green Day tapped into those small, unglamorous stories and made
them feel epic enough to be operatic.</div>
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7. <b>Butch Walker </b>-<i> Sycamore Meadows</i><br />
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<br />
Butch Walker found the strength to make <i>Sycamore Meadows</i>
after his house burned to the ground and he lost every material possession he’d
ever owned. I found the strength to move on with my life after listening to it.
<i>Sycamore Meadows</i> found me just a few months after the first girl I ever loved
broke my heart. I spent the fall destabilized, trying to find my way back to the
center not because I wanted to, but because I knew I had to. This record was
the first thing that made me feel like there might be a light at the end of the
tunnel. Its songs—crushing breakup ballads, radiant road trip anthems, and
everything in between—painted a portrait of recovery and resilience that I
wanted so badly to live up to. I’d like to think that I did. Today, I consider
<i>Sycamore Meadows</i> the first record I fell in love with after I really grew up.
In that sense, it’s easily one of the most pivotal albums of my life so far.</div>
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8. <b>The Gaslight Anthem </b>- <i>The '59 Sound</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<i>The ’59 Sound</i> captures the
transition from youth to adulthood in all its growing pains and glory. It’s a
record for when you’re still young enough to take the girl on a date to the
carnival and ride the Ferris wheels into the July night, but old enough to know
you’ve got responsibility waiting for you in the morning. For years, I heard
this record as a parallel to early Springsteen LPs, about youthful summer
nights spent bumming around the streets of a beachside town. Certainly, there are flickers
of that feeling on <i>The ’59 Sound</i>. These songs are crammed full of classic cars,
movie screens, and references to iconic rock ‘n’ roll songs. But there’s also
darkness lurking in these songs, somewhere off toward the edge of town. Friends
die in a car wreck on a Saturday night, and late night diners turn from places
of communion to places of commiseration. The journey from youth to adulthood
proves to be a treacherous one, littered with broken hearts and broken
promises. But as the album draws to a close, it seems to ask: is it better to
be happy and oblivious, riding in the backseat of your own life? Or would you
rather take the wheel and reap all the joy and hardship that comes with the
freedom of adulthood? Growing up means learning how to take the bad with the
good, and the ugly with the beautiful. On this record, Brian Fallon and his
bandmates understood that fact better than most. </div>
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9. <b>John Mayer </b>- <i>Continuum</i><br />
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<br />
I’m of the mind that John Mayer has never made a bad album.
He’s crafted great records as a teen pop heartthrob, as a folk artist, as a guy
dabbling in country, and as an adult contemporary singer-songwriter. With
<i>Continuum</i>, though, he set out to make a masterpiece and succeeded. Everything
about this record feels calibrated for classic status, from the epic guitar
solos to the stylish, minimalist album artwork. What makes <i>Continuum </i>so great,
though, is the songcraft. Plenty of artists have tried to will themselves
toward making a masterpiece. Few have accomplished the feat. Mayer did it by
being honest about the pains of growing up, getting your heart broken, and
realizing that the world is probably a much more fucked up place than you
thought it was as a kid. Mayer himself might not be built for the era of
political correctness and pop star backlash we’re living in today, but on this
record, he made an album as durable as any other composition from the 2000s.</div>
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10. <b>U2 </b>- <i>All That You Can't Leave Behind</i><br />
<br />
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</div>
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<br />
When U2 made <i>All That You Can’t Leave Behind</i>, they intended
it as their big comeback—their way of “reapplying” to be the biggest band in
the world. When a pair of planes hit the towers of the World Trade Center on
the morning of September 11, 2001, it became something more. It didn’t matter
that <i>All That You Can’t Leave Behind</i> had predated the attacks by almost a year,
or that none of the songs were explicit responses to the tragedy. It didn’t
even matter that these guys were Irish instead of American. The tunes on this
record became symbols of hope and resilience in the months and years after
9/11, and U2 became a big part of the recovery. Today, the songs on <i>All That
You Can’t Leave Behind</i> are older than “Where the Streets Have No Name” was when
U2 played the Super Bowl Halftime Show. They also sound roughly as timeless. U2 always
specialized in writing songs that were specific enough to feel of the moment,
but vague enough to be whatever listeners needed them to be. This record proves
that fact. For the world, it was the sound of shaking off the dust and rubble
and seeing beautiful days once more. For me, it’s been the sound of
graduations, cross-country flights, Christmastimes, reflections on mortality,
and much more. Regardless of the occasion, it’s always been a perfect soundtrack.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
11. <b>Counting Crows</b> - <i>Hard Candy</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotf3nNH6niNILTeOGreTyHL2TbV-87CqLgY35O7puU02jCGkatQWgnhe2mHdZWxz2PVKXwn85pdeWVwxvMCk7ImPhhb6DvOMSMt2XbEKVMNU26h_G3vyB5M8wFAMLmlW08LH3ACbJIQYT/s1600/Crows+-+Candy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotf3nNH6niNILTeOGreTyHL2TbV-87CqLgY35O7puU02jCGkatQWgnhe2mHdZWxz2PVKXwn85pdeWVwxvMCk7ImPhhb6DvOMSMt2XbEKVMNU26h_G3vyB5M8wFAMLmlW08LH3ACbJIQYT/s640/Crows+-+Candy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>
</i><br />
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<i>Hard Candy</i> frequently sounds like a glossy, happy-go-lucky pop
album. What I always loved most about it, though, is that it <i>isn’t</i>. Early on,
Counting Crows gained a lot of fans for writing songs that were as crushingly
sad as they sounded. With this record, though, they flipped the script. These
songs often <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounded</i> happy—with their
big hooks, bright production, and soaring guitar solos—but they weren’t. One song
is about suicide. Another is about a miscarriage. Several are about struggles
with mental illness. A good portion of the record is filtered through the
insomnia that was plaguing Adam Duritz when he wrote the songs—a factor that
lends the album a delirious, late-night feel. And the song named after “Miami,”
one of the sunniest cities in the United States—is a crushing breakup anthem. That’s
the thing with Counting Crows, though: things aren’t always what they seem to be.</div>
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12. <b>Mat Kearney</b> - <i>Nothing Left to Lose</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLVktIqtid7MbhaY9o9q5Sg1NX8HOPyI2xAmNIx32tF30ljHZAYuhu3LU1RHYL02lvRuekXnuuHGs1biCe4IBmbfeWeDSHa09i4r8L_npon5saoD3bEcDUYVmNwXVrlAvjLYV18nTFpLX/s1600/Mat+-+Nothing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeLVktIqtid7MbhaY9o9q5Sg1NX8HOPyI2xAmNIx32tF30ljHZAYuhu3LU1RHYL02lvRuekXnuuHGs1biCe4IBmbfeWeDSHa09i4r8L_npon5saoD3bEcDUYVmNwXVrlAvjLYV18nTFpLX/s640/Mat+-+Nothing.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
To me, <i>Nothing Left to Lose</i> has always been about
packing up and leaving. It’s a classic record about the call of the highway and
the excitement of adventure. It’s also a coming of age record, for the moment
in your life when getting in the car and driving away isn’t just a desire, but
an actualized possibility. It’s not always clear why the protagonist in these
songs is running away. Is it to chase a dream? To see about a girl? To run away
from an identity that scares him? Is it to scratch a youthful itch? To see the
rich tapestries of the American highways? To get so far away from home that he
starts missing it every time he hears a train whistle? For me, at different
times, it’s been all of those things: a record for running away from something,
and a record for running toward something. Kearney’s musical DNA for this
record includes a lot of different influences, from Springsteen to Coldplay to
hip-hop, but to me, <i>Nothing Left to Lose</i> will always sound like one thing: the
wide open road.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
13. <b>Dashboard Confessional</b> - <i>Dusk and Summer</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKSyNxtnwZNVOIT60mBQggCGiUzSDvcu8wxIwU2CStb9yIUKkWeiCwsce6ARNb-a_acwGF876BvWxl6jBFfpsH-QNtUU8DZeYpsSbtm0qbBY64i98d1Gun6nlXBRJK2focRO5mDnM5gni/s1600/Dashboard+-+Summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKSyNxtnwZNVOIT60mBQggCGiUzSDvcu8wxIwU2CStb9yIUKkWeiCwsce6ARNb-a_acwGF876BvWxl6jBFfpsH-QNtUU8DZeYpsSbtm0qbBY64i98d1Gun6nlXBRJK2focRO5mDnM5gni/s640/Dashboard+-+Summer.jpg" width="640" /></a><i><br /></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There will never be anything as beautiful in this world as a
late summer night. The sunset splashed across the sky; the sound of the waves
hitting the shore; the hum of crickets reverberating from every direction; the
warmth still hanging in the air, even as you feel the first crisp notes of
autumn creeping in. Nights like that can be enjoyed in so many ways: at
concerts; sitting around bonfires with friends; out on the porch with a beer in
your hand, laughing with family as the hour grows later and later. But they’re
best with the girl that you love laying next to you on the beach, knowing that
you’ve still got at least one more night of this perfection before it’s back to
the reality of everything else. This album bottles those nights and makes it
possible to relive them whenever you want. It’s aching, yearning, wistful, and
gorgeous. It both hurts like hell and feels as euphoric as any music released
in the 2000s. Chris Carrabba made a lot of great albums between 2000 and 2009,
but none captured a specific vibe or moment quite as well as <i>Dusk and Summer. </i>It
was also the album playing when I fell in love with the girl I was
going to marry, a fact that will always elevate it to a higher plane for
me.</div>
</div>
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<br />
14. <b>Safetysuit </b>- <i>Life Left to Go</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlAdc6s1nUs5ufeMFl0ZaUJGkIeow1Pf_cl2lFmRWp6cFChURKbCojc33psPMtOVZNlp9T83R7f6q6lXXph3GNbDrg-kvbmq-0diVqD4Uy6P6DuK506CV_5dRzJHIIIVsKWPjWepZ6r1B/s1600/Safetysuit+-+Life+Left.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="600" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlAdc6s1nUs5ufeMFl0ZaUJGkIeow1Pf_cl2lFmRWp6cFChURKbCojc33psPMtOVZNlp9T83R7f6q6lXXph3GNbDrg-kvbmq-0diVqD4Uy6P6DuK506CV_5dRzJHIIIVsKWPjWepZ6r1B/s640/Safetysuit+-+Life+Left.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The soundtrack for a summer love that never quite was. Every
note of it brings back little moments of that season: her smile, the way she
felt in my arms, the newfound excitement of sneaking out of the house for a
party. The long days spent at the beach, or the late nights cruising around my
hometown, reflecting on my life as the music pulsed and expanded in the
background. Elation, heartbreak, and everything in between. This record set my
heart aflame with optimism when I thought I had a chance with her. It cut
through the doldrums of a 4 a.m. rainstorm when I finally started to let go of
that hope. And it drifted through my car at some point on the night she broke
my heart. By the time the end of the summer rolled around and that girl walked
out of my life, these songs were an aching reminder of what could have been: an
entire season of love and loss, encapsulated in a cataclysmic rush of emotional
vocals and pounding guitars. I’ve come a long way since that summer, but when I
play these songs now, it’s like nothing has changed: suddenly I’m 17 years old
again, wandering through corridors of drunken euphoria, sweltering summer
nights, and heartbroken resolve, and wondering what happened to the best friend
I made the mistake of falling for.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
15. <b>Cary Brothers</b> - <i>Who You Are</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74aAkyXFZJYn2KeNQOgkDvgUI5eKT21wJynEph89S3J6mO1UKv6AQOn8WKSLSUtBfklKPoeudZA_27f5wNU61VxwuJoiTX-6QqobSZjN0FghmlRUyNgWavaBFDIHgHa76eTm-94tXQToP/s1600/Cary+-+Who+You+Are.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj74aAkyXFZJYn2KeNQOgkDvgUI5eKT21wJynEph89S3J6mO1UKv6AQOn8WKSLSUtBfklKPoeudZA_27f5wNU61VxwuJoiTX-6QqobSZjN0FghmlRUyNgWavaBFDIHgHa76eTm-94tXQToP/s640/Cary+-+Who+You+Are.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The bisecting, overlapping highways that bedeck the cover of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who You Are </i>mean
a few things for me.
This album hit me in the summer of 2009, just a month or two past my
graduation and just when I was staring down the barrel of a new adventure.
It also hit me in the week that my family said goodbye to our first dog, which happened to be my first
experience with death. This album encapsulates the mix of emotions that
was that
summer and the following fall. There’s loneliness and grief and
heartbreak in
these songs, but there’s also a steely resolve to get over those things
and
move on with your life. “Would you leave your life and ride?” Brothers
asks at
one point. That fall, as I drove back and forth between my hometown and
my
college town and slowly uncoupled myself from my old life, that question
and
the unassuming, patient songs surrounding it felt like a new beginning.
Those
highways on the cover say it all: chaos, confusion, possibility,
freedom,
gridlock, and escape.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
16. <b>Butch Walker</b> - <i>The Rise and Fall of Butch Walker and the Lets-Go-Out-Tonites!</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzf8jDyOdU3cPNmCQdDe5yWQe6DkzfGbX9Awf7JeovffyW4-ON_64hLywLldsGxGMZuBb7DujQ8hPC32AE1tgc-FP04NtfPnxJDW49R4C8EAkkAc_C0PXxfP21y0S1zEVQ13X1mkPiZ_F/s1600/Butch+-+Rise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzf8jDyOdU3cPNmCQdDe5yWQe6DkzfGbX9Awf7JeovffyW4-ON_64hLywLldsGxGMZuBb7DujQ8hPC32AE1tgc-FP04NtfPnxJDW49R4C8EAkkAc_C0PXxfP21y0S1zEVQ13X1mkPiZ_F/s640/Butch+-+Rise.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>The Rise and Fall </i>is not my favorite Butch Walker album, but it
might be the one I remember most fondly. When <i>Letters </i>broke through, I was at
the peak of adolescent blues. By the time <i>Sycamore Meadows</i> came around, I was
starting to feel the pressure of high school ending and college looming. <i>The
Rise and Fall</i> arrived in between, in the middle of one of my last carefree
summers. At 15, with no job, no responsibilities, and nowhere I had to be every
day, I was living the truest summer vacation lifestyle. This record is perfect
for that: it’s all L.A. glam and raucous parties, channeled through filthy
guitar riffs and sky-scraping choruses. <i>The Rise and Fall</i> also had the benefit
of being the first Butch Walker album to come out after I became a die-hard
fan, as well as the first one I ever saw him play live. To this day, it’s an
album that takes me back to one of the purest and most fun seasons of my life.
I love it for that, but also for the songs, which pack deep emotion, wry humor,
and sharp barbs into the most singular music Butch Walker ever made.</div>
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17. <b>Will Hoge</b> - T<i>he Wreckage</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc4ZmZNtpSuFjWotJ8JbuIoxbQ77s49ItIcdrY2N8u5TV5URKK8yNGAHFGWml7RAjybAgnL8HZ-zp1MtheUqWUvCgEAnmwoBmznOg348LIuHXzfQv5aSy9YY_KrQpB0gJ6IO1G3x0yDFQ/s1600/Hoge+-+Wreckage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc4ZmZNtpSuFjWotJ8JbuIoxbQ77s49ItIcdrY2N8u5TV5URKK8yNGAHFGWml7RAjybAgnL8HZ-zp1MtheUqWUvCgEAnmwoBmznOg348LIuHXzfQv5aSy9YY_KrQpB0gJ6IO1G3x0yDFQ/s640/Hoge+-+Wreckage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Will Hoge crashed his motorcycle and almost died before
making <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wreckage</i>. The result is
the most urgent and redemptive music he ever made. It’s an album that either beats
with the wild optimism of having a new lease on life, or aches with the
exquisite pain of chances not taken. The redemptive road trip anthems are
offset by stark heartbreakers about broken marriages and relationships that
have lost their spark. But in the midst of it all, Hoge finds the silver
lining: in the person he loves, in the call of the highway, and in the battered
chords of a rock ‘n’ roll song. “Keep on dreaming, even if it breaks your
heart,” he sings at one point. It’s one of the best and wisest pieces of advice
an artist has ever put in a song, and a line I've called upon over and over again in the midst of my darkest moments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
18. <b>The Killers</b> - S<i>am's Town</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjRLN4OFie99XCqbZwsCJabf6ChFUKoc7a7QNxGE-Vts5F-4Wpvu8zL2sB6YzAemvOz07f9iZOBdK6eR17myj7eFiesJmg9vng8CMo5x-knEDjTzokpt0fYMjpmGe0FaM_IW317HMt_RG/s1600/The+Killers+-+Sam%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjRLN4OFie99XCqbZwsCJabf6ChFUKoc7a7QNxGE-Vts5F-4Wpvu8zL2sB6YzAemvOz07f9iZOBdK6eR17myj7eFiesJmg9vng8CMo5x-knEDjTzokpt0fYMjpmGe0FaM_IW317HMt_RG/s640/The+Killers+-+Sam%2527s.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Critics hated <i>Sam’s Town</i>, and it isn’t hard to see why.
Where <i>Hot Fuss</i> was a hooky, hedonistic opus overflowing with urban nightlife
debauchery, <i>Sam’s Town</i> is a dark, rusty record about small town life in Dead
End, America. The stakes on <i>Hot Fuss</i> were in the urgency of Brandon Flowers’
voice, or maybe the murder theme that ran through two of the songs. The stakes
on <i>Sam’s Town</i> are no less than life or death, escape or burnout. There’s drama
and tension in these songs, because it feels like the people in them are
gambling their last few dollars on a fool’s hope of getting out. The result is
a record that is a lot less <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fun </i>than
<i>Hot Fuss</i>, but no less thrilling. <i>Sam’s Town</i> captures the wide-eyed dream of
youth, the open arms of the highway, and the promise of a wide open future. In
2006, it sounded like a pop band overreaching. Today, when rock bands have
stopped being big enough to take this kind of risk—let alone bold enough—it
sounds nothing short of heroic.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
19. <b>Dashboard Confessional</b> - <i>A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiTQw0Sm0fJMhOfJdMBdma1tOat3cVLU98m5uW4feIe0nBNY7WZTGhGcEWuQHcy2nYHMXdxqY3jGq8ouZLLZgOpxWFkOP0ij5M4-LGvHpkCtGuglM2vsvRPDVEeQ9AbmgHl573pvK3mJt/s1600/Dashboard+-+Mark.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiTQw0Sm0fJMhOfJdMBdma1tOat3cVLU98m5uW4feIe0nBNY7WZTGhGcEWuQHcy2nYHMXdxqY3jGq8ouZLLZgOpxWFkOP0ij5M4-LGvHpkCtGuglM2vsvRPDVEeQ9AbmgHl573pvK3mJt/s640/Dashboard+-+Mark.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
No one was ever better at tapping into teenage angst than
Chris Carrabba. In lesser hands, Dashboard Confessional’s lyrics could have
sounded laughably overwrought. But Carrabba had the voice, the earnestness, and
the sense for dramatic melody that could take those emotions and make them
sound as big and cinematic as they do when you’re actually living them. <i>A Mark,
A Mission, A Brand, A Scar</i> might be his quintessential record. Here, Carrabba
captured the rush of a perfect first date, the numbing devastation of a breakup
phone call, and everything in between. Of course it matters that <i>A Mark, A
Mission</i> is bracketed by some of the best, most defining songs ever to come out
of the emo movement—particularly the iconic “Hands Down,” which will never, ever get old. But what makes this
record the definitive Dashboard Confessional document is the way it distills
the growing pains and heartbreaks of adolescence into something that could
soundtrack every dejected drive, every bedroom cry, and every hard-earned
realization that things were going to work out okay. I’m not sure anyone’s ever
made a better or more accurate coming-of-age record.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
20. <b>Keane </b>- <i>Hopes & Fears</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i> </i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQK_OfOqJaXK24KaFHsaZmuzMTc5DojMnmuQ4FAS7ikBkatXAdVGdjapW369sAxJJeG-BbygIAJYrevPkPyjg1-tLmR1VsqKPuNizW-V8oh5NuLCLDqsuhUXcScYhCYstWaRbTLSHDaiOV/s1600/Keane+-+Hopes+and+Fears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQK_OfOqJaXK24KaFHsaZmuzMTc5DojMnmuQ4FAS7ikBkatXAdVGdjapW369sAxJJeG-BbygIAJYrevPkPyjg1-tLmR1VsqKPuNizW-V8oh5NuLCLDqsuhUXcScYhCYstWaRbTLSHDaiOV/s640/Keane+-+Hopes+and+Fears.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Keane were never going to be cool. Pitched as
the heir apparent to Coldplay, arriving on the scene with an exceedingly romantic power ballad, and playing with a lineup that featured no
guitars at all, these guys were destined to be written off by critics and snobs
alike. As a 14-year-old kid with a crush on a girl and a penchant for earnest
songwriting, though, I gravitated to Keane for all the reasons that the cool kids hated
them. The skyscraping hooks, the vulnerable lyrics, Tom Chaplin’s big-hearted
vocals: these ingredients tapped into my sonic pleasure points and made <i>Hopes
& Fears </i>the soundtrack of my life. Briefly, in the winter of my eighth
grade year, I would have pointed to this album as my favorite record of all
time. It just seemed to capture so perfectly what I was feeling at the time:
adolescent longing, crushing loneliness, the butterflies of a half-formed
romance, and the sense that everybody and everything around me was changing.
That year marked the end of a chapter in my life, my eighth and final year at
the school where I’d grown up and met all my friends. Soon, it would be on to a
new school, a new group of friends, a new life. When I listen to “Everybody’s
Changing” now, I think of those people and that place and can’t help but feel a
wave of nostalgia for something golden that felt like it lasted forever—right
up until the moment it was gone.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">21. <b>The Killers</b> - <i>Hot Fuss</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMPufFgZoNbfxGBrlp8jOYeC2qFTayNEXd4fGNAcj94zvjV1Z19rQ1L11Kf7Cb579jMMqQR3PJkYXF4xmsXj6pnQdPFer_E94Dzc4QYgzqBi7lpX4ROgqpitC50asPpJEzPXTVZlfqKbv/s1600/The+Killers+-+Hot+Fuss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMPufFgZoNbfxGBrlp8jOYeC2qFTayNEXd4fGNAcj94zvjV1Z19rQ1L11Kf7Cb579jMMqQR3PJkYXF4xmsXj6pnQdPFer_E94Dzc4QYgzqBi7lpX4ROgqpitC50asPpJEzPXTVZlfqKbv/s640/The+Killers+-+Hot+Fuss.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
A lot of people fell in love with <i>Hot Fuss</i> in their late
teens or early twenties, when its rip-roaring, hedonistic pop songs
soundtracked endless nights of drinking, drugs, and meaningless sex. I can
certainly imagine <i>Hot Fuss</i> being that kind of record for people who were of a
certain age when it came out—the only album you wanted to hear at parties when
you were pounding shots with your friends. There’s a darkness to this album
that not many mainstream acts can pull off—a risky, unpredictable vibe that
encapsulates a time in your life when it really feels like the night can take
you anywhere. I was only 14 the first time I heard <i>Hot Fuss</i>, but I still felt
the dingy excitement in these songs—even if I wasn’t old enough to live it. It
didn’t hurt that The Killers were writing better hooks than anyone else in
2004, or that the songs somehow managed to have just the right mix of dumb
charm and surefooted swagger. The Killers are still touring and making records
today, but this incarnation of the band only existed for one record—a fact that
makes <i>Hot Fuss</i> even more special in retrospect.<br />
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22. <b>Augustana </b>- <i>Can't Love, Can't Hurt</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LAlsFxsXJGdylpalCtNMzO2Hm0wfG9zuIgbTQe76tpe1WTHKmPGf8IVLyms9rhawNI2u0rwbFp2el52vUlPmfOPPZz_XSbRZuqvJ58yYmTCBppxcKT2qQTrJV1SSKgCIJGuK5Mn6JdWI/s1600/Augustana+-+Can%2527t+Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_LAlsFxsXJGdylpalCtNMzO2Hm0wfG9zuIgbTQe76tpe1WTHKmPGf8IVLyms9rhawNI2u0rwbFp2el52vUlPmfOPPZz_XSbRZuqvJ58yYmTCBppxcKT2qQTrJV1SSKgCIJGuK5Mn6JdWI/s640/Augustana+-+Can%2527t+Love.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i> </i> </div>
“It’s quiet in the streets now,” Augustana frontman Dan
Layus sings at the outset of <i>Can’t Love, Can’t Hurt</i>. For me, this record was
the calm before a turbulent storm. I remember hearing those words and these
songs on spring nights at the tail end of my junior year of high school,
driving home from late rehearsals for my choir’s annual pop variety show. The music
seemed to capture the floral fragrance of the season, the possibility of the
evening, and the aching anticipation for summertime. As I fell for one of my
best friends—slowly at first, then with quick and reckless abandon—these songs
seemed to send another message: things were never going to be the same again. They
weren’t. The wildness of the summer broke my heart, splintered my dreams, and
hardened me for the fight to come: the fight of growing up and facing the
challenges of adulthood. This record plays like a reminder of the way things
were right before everything changed, its radiant choruses and lilting
alt-country vibes taking those unseasonably hot spring evenings and
transforming them into something that can be conveyed through a speaker.<br />
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23. <b>John Mayer </b>- <i>Heavier Things</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusYf8glKMesdxTQCRx_gmn4e4m5A3No-SUSYu9V4kxaMCcgGAA03LwA0VraI-WExLTZr6VGfi7W2e_iKpFf7ld-dPhAlJ_cxxxpZVXQPxdZjNCHVV6iTPW5HNdA0nFuCvgkCABtG5ot8e/s1600/John+Mayer+-+Heavier.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusYf8glKMesdxTQCRx_gmn4e4m5A3No-SUSYu9V4kxaMCcgGAA03LwA0VraI-WExLTZr6VGfi7W2e_iKpFf7ld-dPhAlJ_cxxxpZVXQPxdZjNCHVV6iTPW5HNdA0nFuCvgkCABtG5ot8e/s640/John+Mayer+-+Heavier.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Heavier Things</i> is not the best John Mayer album. I think, at
most, I would put it at number three. But this record was the first piece of
music I ever purchased with my own money, and to that end, it will always hold
a place near and dear to my heart. Every music fan has an album (or a few
albums) that preceded their voracious appetite for music. An album they played
every single day for months on end, sometimes twice. An album that defined, all
by itself, a complete time period in their lives. An album that sounds like the
past preserved in amber. This is one of those albums for me. When I hear it
now, it sound like the autumn of 2003: seventh grade, in all its awkwardness
and possibility. Back in those days, I used music to express the things I could
never say myself: about who I was as a person, or about the feelings I had for
friends or girls or both. <i>Heavier Things</i> was a container for all those
feelings, and years later, it still is. That point alone will always make it a
fond listen, a familiar old friend that I can convene with at any time. The
fact that this record has continued to resonate with me over the years, though,
is due just as much to the songs, which capture the emotions and revelations of
early adulthood with surprising grace and wisdom.</div>
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24. <b>Iron & Wine</b> - <i>Our Endless Numbered Days</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBXAQLvkQAvdnFj_j3pzTzbgSsZ5nT19eSl0XGftJ_yrgtYHElDLENoRcFI-ZKyMwIfWrhxiORIU2pKmEUA_6avZRmvt-e0t2B0YOOKfoKTLWjqThFzlUUZjwnhEKNgcTIzVb0Y_k5i86/s1600/Iron+and+Wine+-+Endless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBXAQLvkQAvdnFj_j3pzTzbgSsZ5nT19eSl0XGftJ_yrgtYHElDLENoRcFI-ZKyMwIfWrhxiORIU2pKmEUA_6avZRmvt-e0t2B0YOOKfoKTLWjqThFzlUUZjwnhEKNgcTIzVb0Y_k5i86/s640/Iron+and+Wine+-+Endless.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The first time I ever fell in
love, I was sitting near the back of a tour bus on the return trek from a class
trip. It was late at night, we were still hours from home, and the bus was
pitch dark. Everyone was trying to get some sleep because we all knew we had to
be up bright and early the next day for the last week of school. I was a
junior. The girl leaning against me, with her head on my shoulder, was a senior.
We were listening to music on my iPod and letting it sooth us to sleep, one
earbud apiece. <i>Our Endless Numbered Days</i> was the record I chose, because there’s
not much that’s more soothing than the sound of Sam Beam’s voice whispering
gently over an acoustic guitar. But I wasn’t being soothed to sleep. I was wide
awake, electricity coursing through my body. I was aware of everything, from
the smell of her hair to the gentle rise and fall of her breath. And when
“Fever Dream” played, when it hit that mandolin interlude right in the middle,
my heart started to race, and I looked out the dark window at the highway, and
I knew I’d just fallen in love with that girl sitting next to me. In the months
to come, “Fever Dream” would be both a happy memory of that moment and a
crushing reminder of what I couldn’t have. Today, I can’t listen to that
song—or this album, frankly—without feeling my heart start to race just like it
did that night. That girl isn’t in my life anymore, but these songs seem to
guarantee that she’ll never quite be out of it either.</div>
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25. <b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Chase This Light</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKgJEfttLokNV_K5WUQtJwpuVqceYbjsdlXRuqX-BO4qggLMvhNJBtSCP-4m_Qft5LKYy85fljzUxH9UfGYwoPWPKcPtjCPh2N_uNQTjbTOQ42K2tVfOsYeD80vYC2fhmaffWKt-JNZlf/s1600/JEW+-+Chase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKgJEfttLokNV_K5WUQtJwpuVqceYbjsdlXRuqX-BO4qggLMvhNJBtSCP-4m_Qft5LKYy85fljzUxH9UfGYwoPWPKcPtjCPh2N_uNQTjbTOQ42K2tVfOsYeD80vYC2fhmaffWKt-JNZlf/s640/JEW+-+Chase.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There aren’t many songs on this
planet that have moved me like “Dizzy” did. Though it’s the final track on
<i>Chase This Light</i>, “Dizzy” was actually the second song from the record I heard.
I wasn’t listening to leaks yet at the time, but my brother was, so when this
record hit the internet, he sent me this song. Even if I was going to wait
until release day to hear the rest, he wanted me to experience what he said was
the best Jimmy Eat World song ever. That song quickly became the soundtrack of
that fall for me: of moving through the
whirlwind of emotions that was playing the lead in my high school musical; of
spinning in the grips of pure adolescence. “If there’s half a chance in this
moment/When your eyes meet mine, we show it.” Back then, I heard those lines as
hopeful. Half a chance, I thought, is better than no chance at all. Eventually,
I recognized the heartbreak in that song, about a relationship that’s dead and
the people inside it who are too blind to read the writing on the wall. The
same heartbreak courses through the rest of <i>Chase This Light</i>, a devastating
account of lost love and missed opportunities that masquerades as a set of
pop-rock anthems. But “Dizzy” is always the song that leaves me feeling like
there’s a knife in my back. The first time I listened to it, I caught myself
holding my breath during the bridge, wrapped up in the intensity and stakes of
the song. Today, I still can’t quite breathe during that big climactic moment,
just because it seems like the perfect catharsis for all the things that were
but can never be again. </div>
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26. <b>Matchbox Twenty</b> - <i>More Than You Think You Are</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ka7ZQRY89YkyUiffUDGRvveKsi5ePpUNuxzHH4xHsIJ7Y697g42tg4ihpTAA05Q8j93RYJlcYFEEZiyVKXp459KS5m20TJmJjCdGpoznYCrYoIkQ25EFxxVuklL-ydKN80FPFoeyf7WM/s1600/Matchbox+-+More.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ka7ZQRY89YkyUiffUDGRvveKsi5ePpUNuxzHH4xHsIJ7Y697g42tg4ihpTAA05Q8j93RYJlcYFEEZiyVKXp459KS5m20TJmJjCdGpoznYCrYoIkQ25EFxxVuklL-ydKN80FPFoeyf7WM/s640/Matchbox+-+More.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Matchbox Twenty were my first “discography” band. They were
the first band where I legitimately loved every record they’d put out. Granted,
at that point in time, Rob Thomas and company only had three full-lengths.
Still, for a 13-year-old kid who has maybe heard 50 albums in full, ever,
loving three from the same band was significant. I still love all the Matchbox
Twenty albums—even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">North</i>, the record
that took 10 years to come to fruition—but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More
Than You Think You Are </i>is my favorite. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yourself
or Someone Like You </i>is more iconic, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad
Season </i>has a stronger string of singles, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More Than You Think You Are </i>is really the album that made me see
just how great “deep cuts” could be. I still love the hell out of the hits:
“Bright Lights” might be the best Matchbox Twenty song ever, while “Disease”
makes ample use of its Mick Jagger co-write. But the best songs on this record
were the ones that never got much attention from radio: torrential rockers like
“All I Need” and “Soul”; the gospel-laced bombast of “Downfull”; definitely the
wistful summer night heartache of “The Difference.” I fell in love with these songs
before every “big” album in my life came along: before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures</i>,
before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Letters</i>, before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit</i>, even before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavier Things</i>. They shaped me as a
music fan before I became the music fan I am today. Before the iPod and the
thousands of songs and the hundred-album lists, these 12 songs (13 counting the
hidden track) were enough to be my whole soundtrack.</div>
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27. <b>Bon Iver</b> - <i>For Emma, Forever Ago</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPv0yoScgYB7cf42ZwQ4qIJ3b45SqQdPsKfsNx_pkhO0L_Tt2EJSqJTzZtF4Ub9ZvmaIcc3difZkAQqZzycoSlF3yJOpxt3efjtYHkcl5Pb319W_SN41wl-BR1HlwojrYqlFqyu2chbgxl/s1600/Bon+Iver+-+Emma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPv0yoScgYB7cf42ZwQ4qIJ3b45SqQdPsKfsNx_pkhO0L_Tt2EJSqJTzZtF4Ub9ZvmaIcc3difZkAQqZzycoSlF3yJOpxt3efjtYHkcl5Pb319W_SN41wl-BR1HlwojrYqlFqyu2chbgxl/s640/Bon+Iver+-+Emma.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
I always liked thinking of <i>For Emma, Forever Ago</i> as
Christmas music. It’s Christmas music without Jesus or angels, without Santa
and his reindeer, without trees or chestnuts or cookies or colored lights.
Maybe that impression is just because of the first time I heard it: weeks away
from my final high school Christmas break, watching out the window as my
hometown was blanketed in a gentle layer of snow. For weeks, I listened to
nothing else on my drives to school. I was beguiled by Justin Vernon’s smooth
falsetto—the way he could build it into a layered symphony at one moment and
let it convey crushing solitude the next. It was a gorgeous sounding record,
but I think I most gravitated to the lyrics: odd, often indecipherable things
that made it easy to take these lonely, cold songs and fill them with my own
memories. Not many things make me miss scraping snow off my old blue Chevy
Cavalier at 7:30 in the morning, or bundling up because the car didn’t have a
super reliable heater. Not many things make me miss driving five and a half
miles in treacherous conditions to get to school, or using the gearshift to
help slow the car down at icy intersections. Not many things make me miss those
particular memories, but this record does.</div>
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28. <b>City and Colour</b> - <i>Sometimes</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyarGpjC3Or43wF-ZcNnJmic9cAF6MLjPDUehtLIdcEnImQHH7UcoBgIcdwTL9AybWcIp4fp-8aYR370_cgcr8eWnHiE-15gIT6TFUDMX7h4TvJN6vdTGrzt6unNqUsP9CJ7xzHpngqopT/s1600/City+and+Colour+-+Sometimes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyarGpjC3Or43wF-ZcNnJmic9cAF6MLjPDUehtLIdcEnImQHH7UcoBgIcdwTL9AybWcIp4fp-8aYR370_cgcr8eWnHiE-15gIT6TFUDMX7h4TvJN6vdTGrzt6unNqUsP9CJ7xzHpngqopT/s640/City+and+Colour+-+Sometimes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Breakup albums often paint heartbreak as something noble or
grandiose. On his first record under the City & Colour moniker, Dallas
Green showed heartbreak for what it really is: a fit of desperate loneliness,
stretching out into a dark, dark night that doesn’t feel like it’s ever going
to end. I can’t think of a record that sounds better when you’re at your lowest
point. Even the acoustic guitars sound dejected. By the time I finally heard
<i>Sometimes</i>, the record was almost two years old. I don’t know why I’d never
heard of Dallas Green before that, but I’m glad I hadn’t. Because when I got my
heart broken in the summer of 2008, I leaned on this record hard. I leaned on
it for dozens of late-night drives—drives home from a job I hated with a girl
on my mind who I knew I could never have. I didn’t want to be at work, but I
didn’t want to be home either. I didn’t want to sit in my room feeling sorry
for myself, waiting until I got tired enough to stumble to my bed and fall
asleep. So I drove. I took the long way home. I was still feeling sorry for
myself, but being in transit made it better somehow. At least for a few
minutes, I could fool myself into thinking that I was going somewhere—to meet
friends maybe, or to see her. Or maybe I just wanted to play this record and
shout along to every word. Either way, those drives established this record as one I will love for the rest of my life.<br />
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29. <b>Jack's Mannequin </b>- <i>The Glass Passenger</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XQH8CjgIBFif1VLmeQKU1FEoumT-lPX2jS5YPCqGr38dqwGxzCE-66m_4i-d3lDB-UGp8hpyzdJyWQtoeNSCmWpz-OQY8ZBfOU6uBavkjYC1bz0I2pUkzZJ8V4t1PIh19I2_hHRt685l/s1600/Jack%2527s+-+Glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0XQH8CjgIBFif1VLmeQKU1FEoumT-lPX2jS5YPCqGr38dqwGxzCE-66m_4i-d3lDB-UGp8hpyzdJyWQtoeNSCmWpz-OQY8ZBfOU6uBavkjYC1bz0I2pUkzZJ8V4t1PIh19I2_hHRt685l/s640/Jack%2527s+-+Glass.jpg" width="640" /></a><i><br /></i></div>
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Sometimes, records come along when you need them most. That
was the case for me and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Glass
Passenger</i>. In the summer before my last year of high school, I fell in love
with one of my best friends. Things didn’t work out, and she ended up driving
off to college and leaving me behind. I wasn’t surprised. At a party at her
house the night before she left, we’d had a heart to heart and she’d come clean
to me: I was one of her best friends, someone she even had feelings for
(maybe). But she was in a relationship with someone else, and she was leaving,
and whatever we had didn’t make sense. The day after she left, <i>The Glass
Passenger</i> leaked online. The arrival was six weeks ahead of the late September
release date, but I’m not sure I’d ever needed an album more. I remember
driving around that town aimlessly, with nowhere to go, and feeling how empty it was. I also remember drawing
strength from these songs. “Just keep your head above,” Andrew McMahon sang on
“Swim,” and I felt like he was talking to me specifically. Looking back, I see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Glass Passenger </i>as a dividing line:
between naivete and maturity, between my youth and adulthood. That fact alone
makes this record hard to listen to. Where <i>Everything in Transit</i> is something
immortal to my ears, <i>The Glass Passenger</i> is caught in some weird purgatory
between who I was and who I became. Still, there’s something to be said about
the record that picks you up at the far side of that journey and ferries you
safely to the other side. While this album will never be my all-time favorite,
I can count on two hands the records that have played a more important role in
my life.</div>
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30. <b>Butch Walker</b> - <i>Left of Self-Centered</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9ceXcSpHkX_JmWrIkDJnn-Eob4kLOAc7ETUgtZMpfXwfbcWaNaTgXB4RCYTsOqEqj1YnT-B9Z5d9F8VA7WfoWgva8clJTuVMui2Di5ePLcd48-UiiMbfWfd0EFqyV8QrwWVOB2CQEdL_/s1600/Butch+-+Self-Centered.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9ceXcSpHkX_JmWrIkDJnn-Eob4kLOAc7ETUgtZMpfXwfbcWaNaTgXB4RCYTsOqEqj1YnT-B9Z5d9F8VA7WfoWgva8clJTuVMui2Di5ePLcd48-UiiMbfWfd0EFqyV8QrwWVOB2CQEdL_/s640/Butch+-+Self-Centered.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Today, there are eight Butch Walker solo albums, plus two
substantial EPs of original material. When I became a fan, there were only two
records, plus the Marvelous 3 material. If I’d become a fan later, I might
never have gravitated to <i>Left of Self-Centered</i> the way I did. In terms
maturity, quality of songwriting, and overall artistic vision, <i>Self-Centered</i>
pales in comparison to virtually every Butch Walker album that followed it. But
as a young fan just discovering the genius of Walker’s songwriting, the album
hit me like a bomb. I immediately liked <i>Letters </i>more, for its emotional
resonance and deeper songwriting. But <i>Left of Self-Centered</i> was the album I
reached for when I just wanted something breezy, catchy, and fun. Hook for
hook, this record can go up against anything else that Butch has ever released.
The songs capture a pop genius at work, in the moment before he became a go-to
professional songwriter and producer. Just listen to the hooks on “Far Away
from Close” or “Alicia Amnesia” and you’ll hear every bit of melodic
craftsmanship that would make Walker a star. Butch doesn’t like this album much
today. Maybe he views it as too gaudy, or too influenced by the major label
machine. Maybe he just thinks it sounds too much like a Marvelous 3 record. Far
from being an undercooked arena rock album, though, <i>Left of Self-Centered</i> displayed
a guy with serious writing chops and the urge to explore something darker and
more nuanced than what you’d find on the radio. “Suburbia” is a monstrously
clever tune about the dark underbelly of boring America; “Trouble” is a
surprisingly poignant story song about an accidental pregnancy; “Sober” is a
dark look at the devastating effects of alcoholism; and “Diary of a San Fernando
Sexx Star” and “Take Tomorrow (One Day at a Time)” were both odes to fallen
friends. All the seeds for <i>Letters </i>and everything that came after it were
planted right here.<br />
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31. <b>Third Eye Blind</b> - <i>Out of the Vein</i><br />
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The best Third Eye Blind album
will always be their self-titled debut. It’s the only one that had the alchemy
of a functional Stephan Jenkins/Kevin Cadogan partnership (the two were on the
outs for much of the recording of the follow-up, 1999’s <i>Blue</i>) and the only one
where the album tracks were better than the singles. <i>Out of the Vein</i>, though,
came close. Released in 2003, this record followed Jenkins’ breakup with
girlfriend Charlize Theron. The result is an aching set of songs that tries to
hide its scars behind big, poppy hooks and wry, tongue-in-cheek lyricism. Strip
the songs back to their words, though, and <i>Out of the Vein</i> is a sad and wounded
record. It captures a singular moment after a breakup, where it hasn’t really
been long enough for you to look back on the relationship with any sort of
perspective. Instead, <i>Out of the Vein</i> is about those moments post-breakup when
you forget, for a moment, that you’re no longer romantically involved.
Case-in-point is “Blinded,” an incredible and nuanced song where the
protagonist lets himself into an ex’s apartment and spies on her through the
shower glass, yearning for a moment for things to be like they used to be. The
song could easily be played as a stalker anthem, but it comes across as
something deeper: a treatise on the human nature behind failed relationships
and the bold, foolish drive to challenge it. It sets up the album’s themes
beautifully: of trying save something that’s already gone—and of slowly, painfully
coming to terms with the fact that it can’t be rebuilt.</div>
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32. <b>Will Hoge</b> - <i>Draw the Curtains</i><br />
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There was a time when <i>Draw the
Curtains</i> wasn’t just my favorite Will Hoge album, but one of my top five
favorite albums of the 2000s. I saw it as a devastating first-person account of
what it’s like to watch a marriage die, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blood
on the Tracks </i>for a new era. Over the years, I started returning to other
Hoge records more: the call of the highway on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wreckage</i>; the hymns for home on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Small Town Dreams</i>; the masterclass of songwriting that is every
track on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never Give In</i>. This album
didn’t draw me back in the same way, in part because a lot of it hurts to
listen to. As far as I know, these songs weren’t autobiographical, at least not
totally. Hoge and his wife never divorced. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Draw the Curtains </i>is so wrought with the agony of a crashed
relationship that it can’t help but make me think of some of the lowest moments
I’ve had in my love life. Songs like “When I Can Afford to Lose,” “Dirty Little
War,” “I’m Sorry Now,” and “Draw the Curtains” don’t romanticize a single lick
of heartbreak. They just paint it as it is: a mess of dissatisfaction, regret,
and unquenchable anger at oneself and one’s choices.</div>
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33. <b>Chad Perrone</b> - <i>Wake</i><br />
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Most of the records on this list take me back to my high
school years. <i>Wake </i>came out in 2008, but I didn’t hear it until two summers
later. For me, it became the sound of the summer where I fell in love with the
girl I was going to marry. “Blinded” was the first song I ever put on a mixtape
for her and the song I quoted in my toast at our rehearsal dinner: “How do you
believe in anything enough to know that it will never change?” Even in the
infant stages of our relationship, those words meant something to me. They
reassured me on the days when our long distance relationship seemed hardest,
and made me smile when I thought about our happiest memories. The rest of the
songs also carry echoes of the best summer of my life: the perfect weather, the
sundrenched drives, the long days at the beach. Chad Perrone has a talent for
writing sad, weighty ballads, but here, he went in the opposite direction,
delivering his sturdiest hooks and brightest production ever. The upbeat numbers
sound like anthems, while the slower songs feel as wistful and reflective as a
late summer night. Both sides of the coin are transcendent.</div>
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34. <b>Jimmy Eat World</b> - <i>Bleed American</i><br />
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“With one hand high, you’ll show
them your progress/You’ll take your time, but no one cares.” There’s a lot to
latch onto on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bleed American</i>, from
the ubiquitous hit (“The Middle”) to the all-time classic tearjerker (“Hear You
Me”). Personally, though, I’ve always gravitated most to “My Sundown,” and that
line up there in particular. I think it’s human nature to think about how other
people will react to your accomplishments. Will they be impressed? Will they
congratulate you? Admire you? Reminisce of the you they used to know before you
became something admirable? We’re all the stars of our own movies. We’d like to
view everyone else as the supporting players, reacting to what we do. In
reality, though, people are usually too busy with their own movies to pay much
mind to what you’re doing, which means you always end up disappointed when you
want to “show them your progress.” “My Sundown” is crushing because it
recognizes a brutal truth: not only are other people not the supporting
characters in your movie, but they’re usually not even watching. Of course, that
revelation is also kind of liberating, because it means that you are more free of
other peoples’ expectations or impressions of you than you ever believe in your
head. Growing up, I gravitated to that line about showing off your progress
because I wanted people to care about what I did. I thought “My Sundown” was
about the validation that comes after personal growth. Now, I see the song for
what it is: not about the validation, and maybe not even about the growth, but
about the self-driven journey to get there. It drives home what I think is the
message of the record as a whole: “Live right now, just be yourself.”</div>
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35. <b>John Mayer</b> - <i>Room for Squares </i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dbicJn5cF56o0TQB9LuHh6fEsRntnngNV_GppdbVGSOVgsq15YPn4CN8MSLnaQPSr4IVWLC2GxjgISwVFp-Cs1frvSX-gGUNIxsmycjGx4uJhvvXTmkZP6S5YtrNRPbwAP1lRFpO6grP/s1600/John+Mayer+-+Squares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_dbicJn5cF56o0TQB9LuHh6fEsRntnngNV_GppdbVGSOVgsq15YPn4CN8MSLnaQPSr4IVWLC2GxjgISwVFp-Cs1frvSX-gGUNIxsmycjGx4uJhvvXTmkZP6S5YtrNRPbwAP1lRFpO6grP/s640/John+Mayer+-+Squares.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
To listen to John Mayer throughout
the 2000s was to hear one of the most talented songwriters of his generation
chronicle the trials of growing up in real time. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Room for Squares </i>is ultimately a coming-of-age record. Though the
album starts with a guy envisioning himself going back to his high school
reunion as a big success story—a tale Mayer probably got to live out in
real-life—much of the record revolves around that same guy admitting that he
doesn’t have everything figured out just yet. There are songs about moving into
your first post-college apartment and feeling lonely and directionless. There
are songs about letting your stupid mouth get the best of you. There are songs
about sex and romance and butterflies, but also songs about breakups and
heartbreaks and feeling like you’ll never find “the one.” Few records catalog
the growing pains of young adulthood better than this one. It’s an album about
being old enough to be free and independent, but maybe not mature enough for
your relationships to last through the holidays. A weaker songwriter would
revel in the unbridled freedom of young adulthood: the hookups and the
late-night bars and the spontaneous adventures with friends. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Room for Squares </i>incorporates those
things, but it also touches on the loneliness and existential crises that so
many of us work through in our 20s.<i> </i>There might not be a single album better
suited to the millennial generation.<br />
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36. <b>Bruce Springsteen </b>- <i>The Rising</i><br />
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The first Bruce Springsteen song I ever loved wasn’t
“Thunder Road” or “Jungleland.” It wasn’t even “Born to Run.” It was “My City
of Ruins,” the redemptive, gospel-laced ballad that closes out <i>The Rising</i>. For
so many years, I knew nothing about Springsteen. I didn’t understand why they
called him The Boss. I got “Thunder Road” and Rocky Road ice cream mixed up. I
was oblivious to the Springsteen mythos, from his legendary band to his
marathon live shows to the iconic records he’d made. When I heard him sing
“Ruins,” though, I understood. I understood the pain and the hope coursing
through the music, and I understood why the guy singing the words was
considered one of the best of all time. The rest of <i>The Rising</i> took me years to
appreciate. It seemed blasphemous for songs like “Mary’s Place” and “Let’s Be
Friends” to coexist side-by-side with crushing heartbreakers like “You’re
Missing” and “Paradise.” As time went on, though, I saw that Springsteen didn’t
set out to make an album about 9/11 here. Instead, he set out to make an album
about life: about how it ends, transcends, or goes on. The best thing about
this album isn’t the way it exorcises grief, as I once thought. Instead, it’s
the way it captures moving on after unspeakable tragedy. How do you pick up the
pieces of your life and figure out a way to be happy again? Sometimes, it’s by
crying, by praying, by keeping the person you loved in your thoughts. Other
times, it’s by going to a party, putting a record on the turntable, and turning
up the volume.</div>
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37. <b>Valencia </b>- <i>We All Need a Reason to Believe</i><br />
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Valencia deserved better than
pop-punk. In a genre known for being low-stakes, formulaic, and frankly pretty
toxic to women, Valencia frontman Shane Henderson wrote achingly personal songs
that distilled heavy subject matter into breezy summertime pop tunes. Henderson
was also considerably more creative than most of his genre contemporaries, a
fact that showed on the band’s genre-hopping swansong, 2010s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dancing with the Ghost</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Need a Reason to Believe </i>is less
adventurous, but it’s also the superior album, thanks in part to the personal
resonance of the songcraft. Henderson wrote most of these songs about his
girlfriend, who passed away shortly before the album was made. The result is a
record about looking back: about planning for summers that you never got to
have with the person you love, or about waking up at night from a dream where
things went differently and that person was still by your side. It’s a record
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should </i>be crushing—and Henderson
even made a version of it that was, in a side project disc called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When the Flowers Bloom </i>(also on this
list). But the music is sunny and the hooks are huge, and Henderson sounds
hopeful even when he has every right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>to
be. Because eventually, you just have to let go and move on—not because
mourning is a bad thing, but because your loved ones would want you to revel in
all the beauty of the world while you still can. The way Henderson comes to
terms with that fact on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We All Need a Reason
to Believe </i>makes it one of the most life-affirming records of the 2000s.<br />
<br />
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38. <b>Dashboard Confessional</b> - <i>Alter the Ending</i></div>
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Chris Carrabba has always been a songwriter infatuated with
summertime. So it was surprising when, in 2009, just three years after making
an unabashed warm-weather record called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dusk
and Summer</i>, he turned in one of my all-time favorite fall albums. Maybe
it’s just when <i>Alter the Ending</i> came out. Dropping in the fall of my freshman
year of college, and hitting the internet on a gorgeous, unseasonably warm
autumn weekend that I spent at home, this record glowed like the last flickers
of an Indian summer. It’s not my favorite Dashboard Confessional record, but
I’ve often considered it Carrabba’s best. In terms of sheer hooks or rock star
charisma, Carrabba never sounded better than he did here. It didn’t hurt that
Butch Walker sat behind the boards for this record and produced the absolute
hell out of it. Looking back, Carrabba has admitted that he thinks his early
acoustic records are his high point—swayed, perhaps, by the endless insistence
of old die-hard fans. Few of these songs ever make it into setlists, rendering
<i>Alter the Ending</i> a true overlooked classic. </div>
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39. <b>Mat Kearney</b> -<i> City of Black and White</i><br />
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Two albums defined the summer
between my high school graduation and my first days of college. The first was
The Dangerous Summer’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reach for the Sun</i>,
which I’ve already talked about. The second was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City of Black and White</i>, Mat Kearney’s proper sophomore
full-length. These two albums captured the dichotomy of emotions I was feeling
at the time. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sun </i>was mostly the
weighty side of the emotional spectrum: fear, doubt, regret, and vulnerability.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City </i>was the brighter side of things:
hope, excitement, and the unbridled freedom you feel for a few months when
you’re a high school used-to-be and a college going-to-be. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sun</i>, unsurprisingly, was my late night record. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City of Black and White </i>was my daytime summer jam mix, my
soundtrack for sun-soaked drives through my hometown. To this day, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">City </i>is one of my go-to summer records.
Kearney left behind his hip-hop-influenced sound for something more akin to
James Taylor and classic folk-pop. The result is a record laden with bright,
road-tripping hooks. As the album barrels toward its conclusion, though, the
songs fade to evening and the wistfulness of a summer night sets in. Suffice to say that when the summer
came to a close and it was time to leave, “City of Black and White” felt like a
fitting curtain call.</div>
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40. <b>Death Cab for Cutie</b> - <i>Plans</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFxDFmkWxsbinLuBIhkuwoplESWGfI5hanAlZGy4I12T0IKRmqtB-cNiep9_82kjyNsqVYcQecFdpvK1YU68EdQ8bcCCCV6tUwTAlYUQk0sFhiiqrAGPoo52cTukgGpf029dH3UI-wk5K/s1600/Death+Cab+-+Plans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFxDFmkWxsbinLuBIhkuwoplESWGfI5hanAlZGy4I12T0IKRmqtB-cNiep9_82kjyNsqVYcQecFdpvK1YU68EdQ8bcCCCV6tUwTAlYUQk0sFhiiqrAGPoo52cTukgGpf029dH3UI-wk5K/s640/Death+Cab+-+Plans.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“Love is watching someone die,”
Ben Gibbard sings on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plans </i>standout
“What Sarah Said,” before arriving at the song’s punchline: “So who’s gonna
watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>die?” It’s a heavy
question—one that probably looks overwrought on paper. In context, though, it
floats along on the same currents of grief and loss that define both the song
and an album. This record’s settings—Manhattan streets, hospital waiting rooms,
solitary hotel rooms, and deserted highways—serve as perfect backdrops for its
ponderings on life, death, and fading youth. When I was younger, the album
resonated to me as an end-of-summer ode. Songs like “Summer Skin” and “Your
Heart Is an Empty Room” seemed to epitomize what my literature teacher had once
told me: that summer symbolizes life and fall and winter represent aging and
death. Later, I gravitated to it more as an exorcism of grief and catharsis
following the loss of a loved one. But the album’s biggest strength is that it
can balance these two ideas at the same time. It’s not just a gloomy collection
of songs from a few guys who were thinking a lot about mortality. On the
contrary, it’s also a reminder to cherish your life and the people in it while
you can—before the time inevitably comes to follow them into the dark.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
41. <b>Marvelous 3</b> - <i>Readysexgo!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPYxnJUuvMOJEApWNw1tbq2TluC47xhLOV3TAFIE0XL4SrxKPmN95gTj7Zl3TGCkZwtbjxKrSyRIDmEJxPKJr8kUsYwFhZmwsH2xBEYHJTY_8QuNXpeh1n9lb5h3D5lH-9lSSjhY4aleJ/s1600/M3+-+RSG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPYxnJUuvMOJEApWNw1tbq2TluC47xhLOV3TAFIE0XL4SrxKPmN95gTj7Zl3TGCkZwtbjxKrSyRIDmEJxPKJr8kUsYwFhZmwsH2xBEYHJTY_8QuNXpeh1n9lb5h3D5lH-9lSSjhY4aleJ/s640/M3+-+RSG.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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By the time I got my hands on
<i>Readysexgo!</i>, Marvelous 3 were long gone and the album was out of print. As a
defunct 90s one-hit wonder band fronted by Butch Walker, Marvelous 3 weren’t
ever going to be easy to find on the shelves of a music store circa late 2005.
But I’d fallen deeply in love with Butch’s music, and I knew I had to hear the
albums he’d made with his previous band. So I waded into the realm of online
used CD shopping and picked this album up for about three bucks on Amazon. At
the time, I shared an Amazon.com account with my mom, which meant she got a
notification whenever I placed an order. She and my step dad were quite
concerned about this album in particular, and thought that I was trying to
order pornography under their noses. They could be forgiven for that
assumption: the title for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Readysexgo! </i>should
definitely raise some eyebrows, and the cover isn’t exactly PG-rated either.
That hilarity aside, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Readysexgo! </i>remains
a seminal album in my life—a record with the kind of bold fearlessness that I
still try to aspire to in anything I attempt. Coming off a record that produced
a hit, the Marvelous 3 could have sold out, made a radio rock album, and
become superstars. Instead, Butch Walker and company rebelled against a
neglectful label by making an intentionally unmarketable arena rock record. It
was a prescient record—and not just because the sky-scraping tunes could have
been right at home in the midst of the mid-2000s pop-punk scene. On “Radio
Tokyo,” Walker sang about a future where the music business system of label and
radio tastemakers wouldn’t matter anymore. 18 years later, we’re living that
future, and goddamn: it feels good.<br />
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42. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>Ocean Avenue</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqJlGzMoeXXacWlYx1TB5M1DFTcaqpTh1JtUxlCssw7gWobMhm3gj8DgsQA_Oj9ZbzBi71II3mAwNKwOl06q8W5EZKCuzrHPonQnCeZIM0KMTsJyJmX2K5Tke4hIAEs5NZZYOwWSIVk71/s1600/Yellowcard+-+Ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqJlGzMoeXXacWlYx1TB5M1DFTcaqpTh1JtUxlCssw7gWobMhm3gj8DgsQA_Oj9ZbzBi71II3mAwNKwOl06q8W5EZKCuzrHPonQnCeZIM0KMTsJyJmX2K5Tke4hIAEs5NZZYOwWSIVk71/s640/Yellowcard+-+Ocean.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Music rituals are my favorite
traditions. Every year, I play the same songs for the same occasions: the drive
home for Thanksgiving, the arrival of my Christmas vacation, the first hints of
summer. My favorite musical ritual of all time, though, started on Labor Day
2005, the day before I started high school. Before freshman year, I’d attended
the same school—with mostly the same group of kids—for eight consecutive years.
It was a small school, no more than 20 students per grade, and I was anxious
about graduating to a bigger school with tons of people I’d never met. When the
end of that particular summer came around, I really wasn’t ready to bid
farewell. So, logically, I tried to make the last day of that season count. I
enjoyed the weather outside; I logged a few hours playing video games; and I
made a playlist of songs that I felt captured the end-of-summer ethos. Every
year since, I've made a point of playing the same songs at some point during Labor
Day weekend. I did it before every year of high school and every year of
college, all the way into my adulthood. Two songs from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ocean Avenue </i>always featured on that playlist: the title track and
“Back Home.” The former seemed to bottle the sun-drenched beauty of beaches and
oceanside streets into a melody; the latter captured that moment at dusk, right
after the sun sinks below the horizon, when you know the season is over. Both
felt fitting. “Back home, I always thought I wanted so much more, now I’m not
too sure,” Ryan Key sings. The melancholy felt so fitting for
that last night of summer every year. I’d gone off and had all these
adventures, and now it was time to return to normal. Even now, when I haven’t
felt those “last night before school starts” jitters in five years, that song and this
record still resonate with me. They’re an ever-present reminder of what summer
was back when it meant 2-3 months of complete and utter freedom.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
43. <b>Sister Hazel</b> - <i>Chasing Daylight</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7bu6AlnJsP5IKYECBL-6mJWePsxq8gNZicWVQBCAwOglJT8VMaD21kwqz-827FURhfhKGGMvCWaW2iIZubaUXxXvWQwKz1Wrdc7W1CdjBbWAocYU__5eEUXBzPy_iGacqSIsbL9KXI-V/s1600/Sister+Hazel+-+Chasing+Daylight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="600" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7bu6AlnJsP5IKYECBL-6mJWePsxq8gNZicWVQBCAwOglJT8VMaD21kwqz-827FURhfhKGGMvCWaW2iIZubaUXxXvWQwKz1Wrdc7W1CdjBbWAocYU__5eEUXBzPy_iGacqSIsbL9KXI-V/s640/Sister+Hazel+-+Chasing+Daylight.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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I search for it every year: the
summer soundtrack album. That one record that, for whatever reason, will come to
define the season. That quest started here. In the summer 2004, after stumbling
upon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chasing Daylight </i>by chance in
the stacks of the music store in my local mall, I fell in love with it. Sister Hazel
were one of those bands from my childhood that I figured had ceased existing
around the turn of the millennium. But here was a record that took the unique
roots-pop sound they’d perfected on “All for You” and expanded it into a
kaleidoscope of bursting summertime colors. I remember playing these songs over
and over again that season, trying to take the little moments—the nights spent
laying by the school and swearing “forever” in “Best I’ll Ever Be,” or the sky
falling down to the smell of June in “Come Around”—and bottle them up for a
lifetime. A lot of years have passed since then, and a lot of new “summer
soundtrack” albums have come along and put their stamp on my life. But I’ll always
have a soft spot for this one, because it established the prototype.
The basic blueprint of every summer playlist I’ve ever made is locked in this
album’s hooky, wistful DNA.</div>
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44. <b>Something Corporate</b> - <i>Leaving Through the Window</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJ31hPBBsPdOpo-31-fiDkSR6k5m8x_lrcZRbcctDGx7ZRB2vVJvPr9vLHCSATn7-puBDjm0RXNsYaaOQSUZv0i6NeJ3p3mP-InAbZ8S_qd6d1OEUXSz0-Z6LepSlLuoU7knQmKiMrUb7/s1600/SoCo+-+Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="600" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJ31hPBBsPdOpo-31-fiDkSR6k5m8x_lrcZRbcctDGx7ZRB2vVJvPr9vLHCSATn7-puBDjm0RXNsYaaOQSUZv0i6NeJ3p3mP-InAbZ8S_qd6d1OEUXSz0-Z6LepSlLuoU7knQmKiMrUb7/s640/SoCo+-+Window.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
“I met a girl who kept tattoos for
homes that she had loved/If I were her, I’d paint my body ‘til all my skin was
gone.” Of all the beautiful, insightful lines that Andrew McMahon has written
over the years, that one might be my favorite. It comes from “I Woke up in a
Car,” which I’ve always viewed as the commencement of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leaving Through the Window</i>, even though it’s track 2. The song is
about coming of age and taking control of your life for the first time—about
grabbing the wheel and starting to steer after years of sitting in the
passenger seat. It’s a song about restlessness, but also about contentment. What
could possibly be a happier sentiment than saying that you’ve found dozens or even
hundreds of places that felt like home? It’s a reflection of a beautiful,
privileged youth—one spent with people and places that feel comfortable and
welcoming, but also one that you have to leave behind. When you grow up,
leaving home is a rite of passage, no matter how much you love the place you’re
leaving. This record reflects that feeling in all its technicolor splendor and pain.
It’s a record about nostalgia, rebellion, old friends, and homesickness. It’s
chaos and it’s wonder and it’s growing up. And it’s perfect.</div>
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45. <b>U2 </b>- <i>How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qRjjhApvsLy7UYKjfJuujFeSojqaK6c-3mkqoDy4SJ5b8liIJXkkB6ZN5WknC98fyDtpkRMnpqdZquSkRHcyYqTgI7KMyoCTR6WbbCG4FqV1V89Dav1yKQ703S05bENS3X5xc0MpnTZz/s1600/U2+-+Atomic+Bomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qRjjhApvsLy7UYKjfJuujFeSojqaK6c-3mkqoDy4SJ5b8liIJXkkB6ZN5WknC98fyDtpkRMnpqdZquSkRHcyYqTgI7KMyoCTR6WbbCG4FqV1V89Dav1yKQ703S05bENS3X5xc0MpnTZz/s640/U2+-+Atomic+Bomb.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<i>How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb</i>
was the first album I ever put on my first iPod, and the first U2 album I ever
listened to in full. For many U2 fans, this record floats near the bottom of
the discography. Personally, I will always have an immense fondness for this
album. Sure, it’s a grab bag of moods and subject matter. And yes, the
mid-section is a little soft compared to the beginning and end. At its best,
though, <i>How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb</i> is a gripping inspection of mortality
and of the relationships that children have with their parents and vice versa.
The title is a reference to Bono’s relationship with his father, a complex bond
that was often painful for the singer. At 14, Bono lost his mother. As an only
child, he and his father ended up sharing a house that was filled with grief,
both unable or unwilling to open up and talk. “If we weren’t so alike/You’d
like me a whole lot more,” Bono sings in “Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your
Own.” The song, written after Bono’s father died of cancer in 2001, is a
piercing and emotional showcase of grief, regret, and gratitude. For awhile, it
was maybe my favorite song ever. Even now, I can’t listen to it without choking
up.</div>
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46. <b>Better Than Ezra </b>- <i>Before the Robots</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyV4DlwaWyPpE_QekPUSulhZcxO3ENBHKQ3AkPusjg8GWi-TgCBg9_tU9l3t4P0skhyphenhyphenn-qVJ9wMJ0FGYlh4iiPKXdd8r1g0ZkzwEmnfQNKn6P9iry_hz3695x-y8BgAZLyFhgjSSqI35Y/s1600/Better+Than+Ezra+-+Robots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyV4DlwaWyPpE_QekPUSulhZcxO3ENBHKQ3AkPusjg8GWi-TgCBg9_tU9l3t4P0skhyphenhyphenn-qVJ9wMJ0FGYlh4iiPKXdd8r1g0ZkzwEmnfQNKn6P9iry_hz3695x-y8BgAZLyFhgjSSqI35Y/s640/Better+Than+Ezra+-+Robots.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
There’s this place my family used
to go in the summertime called Palisades, right on the shores of Lake Michigan.
Three times between the summers of my eleventh and fifteenth years, we
retreated to this gorgeous park of cottages, dirt roads, and beachfront
expanses. Going to that park felt like journeying to another era—one without
TVs or computers or the internet. This record reminds me of one of those
summers, because I bought the CD the day before we left. To a lot of people,
Better Than Ezra are one-hit wonders, known for their 90s hit “Good” and nothing
else. To me, they’re this record—a hooky, wistful collection of songs that
sound like summertime and also a little bit like U2. They’re also that second
Palisades summer, when I was 14 years old and just about to start high school.
To me, that year was the best year—because my entire extended family
visited and also because I was still luxuriating at the age when you have
zero responsibility. It was a time when I could go off the grid for a week in
the summertime and feel like I wasn’t missing anything, or when I could spend
an entire day playing in the waves with my stepdad and know it was more
important than anything else I could be doing. That kind of escape doesn’t
really exist anymore, not just because I grew up, but because everyone is
always a tap of a screen away from the real world. This record preserves that
innocence for me, though, in a place where three and a half minutes can really
feel like a lifetime.</div>
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47. <b>Death Cab for Cutie</b> - <i>Transatlanticism</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKtnYBRL0g2WPfMRQoCCXgu-QGjNSJrDBIfI_BMYiGvfz94CqzbRSq5Q8bq4e-2M-lXX2_-d7DSEfuACvO7Q-inhw59jAbE2zUiDHaTyvZjsHKUkCSrb0O8yxzvCbXjzZ8A7tozH473Ol/s1600/Death+Cab+-+Trans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKtnYBRL0g2WPfMRQoCCXgu-QGjNSJrDBIfI_BMYiGvfz94CqzbRSq5Q8bq4e-2M-lXX2_-d7DSEfuACvO7Q-inhw59jAbE2zUiDHaTyvZjsHKUkCSrb0O8yxzvCbXjzZ8A7tozH473Ol/s640/Death+Cab+-+Trans.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Sometimes, albums
just seem like
they’re made for you at a specific moment in time. Much more rarely, a
million
other people end up feeling that exact same way about the exact same
album at the exact same time. That’s what happened with Death Cab for
Cutie and <i>Transatlanticism</i>.
The angst. The longing. The dissatisfaction. The feeling you get when it’s the
New Year but you don’t feel any different. Ben Gibbard wrote smartly and
astutely about being a heartbroken, directionless young adult, but he also did it
in a way that made those emotions seem worthy of screenplay treatment. Or maybe
that was just the <i>OC</i>/Seth Cohen angle talking. Whatever the reason, <i>Transatlanticism
</i>became the kind of record just about anyone who was between the ages of 13 and
30 when it came out could have fallen for. 15 years later, the songs still
sound epic, yet intimate—pristine reminders of a time in your life when every date,
kiss, phone call, and heartbreak seemed like the most important thing in the
world. </div>
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48. <b>John Mayer</b> - <i>Battle Studies</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZKIetqXBWf0E79IgZlpEf8GG5RcGgHVHkwe3jFVn-opRH89g3vobZHJQLbKVvWN5AgH8GMrziUc2lms7pbMDnxiKGg6aIiVnFThrIJR2dBH7BiynE0vlgKa-KzRIM60ItbYabfXpbShi/s1600/John+Mayer+-+Battle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="600" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZKIetqXBWf0E79IgZlpEf8GG5RcGgHVHkwe3jFVn-opRH89g3vobZHJQLbKVvWN5AgH8GMrziUc2lms7pbMDnxiKGg6aIiVnFThrIJR2dBH7BiynE0vlgKa-KzRIM60ItbYabfXpbShi/s640/John+Mayer+-+Battle.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I’ve
got a soft spot for late
night records. Around when I started driving, I fell in love with the
night and
how it made music sound. I can’t tell you how many records I’ve lost
myself in because of solitary late-night drives. There’s something about
being in
the car by yourself, on a road with no other headlights, with the music
playing
loud, that takes songs to a higher plane. <i>Battle Studies</i> is one of those records. This album only came out three
years after <i>Continuum</i>, but it felt like a lifetime to me. Where <i>Continuum </i>bowed
in the fall of my sophomore year of high school, <i>Battle Studies</i> found me in
college and living away from home for the first time. One positive change was I
had a car and a lot of time to spend listening to records, mostly on my long
drives back and forth from home to school. <i>Battle Studies</i> sounded particularly
splendid on those drives, with its lonely late-night stories about broken
hearts and recovery. As the title suggests, this record casts a breakup as an
act of war. One song is called “Heartbreak Warfare.” Another is called
“Assassins.” A third is called “War of My Life.” Mayer was clearly going
through some pretty serious shit when he wrote these songs, and the result is the
rawest and most honest record he ever wrote. It also has maybe his best song:
the sublimely beautiful “Edge of Desire,” with a guitar solo that sounds like
the stars on a cold, clear night.</div>
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49. <b>Snow Patrol</b> - <i>Final Straw</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOd5G0j1-DE4sgkhXbriPZd4QNUCnS1mGpB6IVof5qIIBu8GOs_sIOvhK1uygMDR8MxBc9Ng_YGbr0o7feFq5HaXTWNp-zd0wggDvZVzujRic64gkjEmVfehi0AUe1ka0j_8fQSnKBTcj/s1600/Snow+Patrol+-+Final+Straw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOd5G0j1-DE4sgkhXbriPZd4QNUCnS1mGpB6IVof5qIIBu8GOs_sIOvhK1uygMDR8MxBc9Ng_YGbr0o7feFq5HaXTWNp-zd0wggDvZVzujRic64gkjEmVfehi0AUe1ka0j_8fQSnKBTcj/s640/Snow+Patrol+-+Final+Straw.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When I was young, my grandparents
lived in Hanover, New Hampshire, the home of Dartmouth College. Everyone has a
destination their family visits every summer. Hanover was mine. I still have so
many fond memories of those summers: going for hikes on my grandparents’
sprawling wooded property; playing badminton on the back lawn; spending long
days or muggy evenings out on the screened-in porch. In a lot of ways, that place
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>summer to me as a kid. So when my
grandparents decided to move to Ohio in 2004, it was a major blow for me. On
the one hand, they’d be closer to where my family lived, in Michigan. On the
other hand, that summer’s trip out to Hanover would be the last. The day before
we made the long drive from northern Michigan to New Hampshire for the last time, I picked up
this album at a bookstore. Over the course of more than a thousand miles—and a
few routing snafus that delayed our arrival time by many, many hours—I listened
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Final Straw </i>upwards two-dozen
times. We drove through the day, into the night, and all the way until dawn,
and these songs kept me company in the backseat. “Run” was my favorite—a
heart-wrenching epic that sounded as big as our journey—but the pounding beat
of “Chocolate” might have made it the most ideal road trip song. To this day, I
can’t listen to any of these songs without reminiscing about that last July
week in Hanover. I haven’t been back since, and frankly, I doubt that a return
trip would mean all that much to me now. Most of the things that made those
trips so special are gone. That house is someone else’s now. My grandpa passed away in 2014, 10 years after leaving
Hanover behind. And what’s a trip to New Hampshire without a comically long
road trip with the whole family? At some point in your life, you realize you
can’t go back to your youth. You can go to the same places and do the same
things, but time changes everything. If there’s one way in the world for me to
go back to that last New Hampshire trip, it’s this record. I’ll love it for the
rest of my life just for that.</div>
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50. <b>Something Corporate</b> - <i>North</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDn7IVsV6uw30Btm9lbe9c1a6W1mBsqdeAnoaT1N4qIOoVD1SiJQ16f_g9bOm_YiObEmkAeJhh6x1KVqy7Sq36myIm5TyLIG3ifyNVhBgvElwV0dvpY_pabZo62NLVN7BB93rZA7kuaQ2O/s1600/SoCo+-+North.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDn7IVsV6uw30Btm9lbe9c1a6W1mBsqdeAnoaT1N4qIOoVD1SiJQ16f_g9bOm_YiObEmkAeJhh6x1KVqy7Sq36myIm5TyLIG3ifyNVhBgvElwV0dvpY_pabZo62NLVN7BB93rZA7kuaQ2O/s640/SoCo+-+North.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I don’t know what I expected the
first time I heard <i>North</i>, but it wasn’t the sound I heard coming out of my
speakers with “As You Sleep.” The cover made me expect something along the
lines of what my classmates were listening to in ninth grade: a Fall Out Boy or
a Panic at the Disco. Instead, I heard a virtuosic piano player and a poetic
string of words that I related to immediately. That was my introduction to
Andrew McMahon, who would go on to become one of my top three favorite songwriters of all
time in the years to follow. Since then, McMahon has kicked off any vestiges of
the emo and pop-punk influences that were still clinging to him and his keys on this
record. With <i>North</i>, though, McMahon mastered the art of teenage angst. I once
read that Something Corporate’s songs sounded like all the very private lessons
you learned about life when you were up in your room crying over a girl or
feeling sorry for yourself over something that probably didn’t matter. 15 years
after the fact, this record still sounds like that teenage bedroom, but with
some wisdom you probably didn’t notice back then.</div>
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51. <b>Motion City Soundtrack</b> - <i>Even If It Kills Me</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxs5Ran5dQfFZgc8JFm83uWX3ynM7ZhupdUQyT2T2wnYzBkonFho6Y5yfs1O13LDRYtlWpmTyc3-Q9OTgaXFZiw9SJzipol4k03PdFiwg_8c5PyqBHlAhJy1V-vYqk78pObS4YBTZJB5NU/s1600/Motion+City+-+EIIKM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxs5Ran5dQfFZgc8JFm83uWX3ynM7ZhupdUQyT2T2wnYzBkonFho6Y5yfs1O13LDRYtlWpmTyc3-Q9OTgaXFZiw9SJzipol4k03PdFiwg_8c5PyqBHlAhJy1V-vYqk78pObS4YBTZJB5NU/s640/Motion+City+-+EIIKM.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Few bands have ever done the
balance between catchy music and devastating lyrics quite as well as Motion
City Soundtrack did it here. <i>Even If It Kills Me</i> sounds radiant. It’s layered
in poppy production and huge hooks. It’s so immediate, in fact, that I
initially mistook it for shallow. In the fall of my junior year of high school,
I spent a lot of time in my buddy’s car—cruising around town, driving back and
forth to musical rehearsals, preparing for nights of debauchery, etc. This
album was always the thing playing in his CD player, and for a long time, I
didn’t get past the hooks. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">liked </i>the
songs, of course. “Fell in Love without You” and “Antonia” were irresistible
and infectious in the best way. But I didn’t realize the demons that were
lurking beneath the gloss. I didn’t hear the debilitating loneliness in songs
like “The Conversation” or “Hello Helicopter,” and I didn’t hear the
life-or-death stakes raging in the title track. Years later, I reconvened with
this album and I saw beneath the surface. But I still regret not really
listening back then, because it was a lonely year for me, and I feel like this
album could have made it seem a little less alone.</div>
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52. <b>Matchbox Twenty</b> - <i>Mad Season</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguN-VtUuzv8xuVZLnAl75xLXvUNJh-6WPIiguy8IZS8n58srMZ6Uudil8YuwTbu5Tf9OA3hk3eqzTSifycgSag7SDth4TniObfLSjEUgBKrDoLiOkpVurGUSYnCnNoV2RYWN6F1-CR0gk/s1600/Matchbox+-+Mad+Season.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguN-VtUuzv8xuVZLnAl75xLXvUNJh-6WPIiguy8IZS8n58srMZ6Uudil8YuwTbu5Tf9OA3hk3eqzTSifycgSag7SDth4TniObfLSjEUgBKrDoLiOkpVurGUSYnCnNoV2RYWN6F1-CR0gk/s640/Matchbox+-+Mad+Season.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Rob Thomas was one of the last
great hit machines. Before Max Martin, before Dr. Luke, before the
songwriter-for-hire trend got out of hand, Rob Thomas was churning out one
bulletproof alt-rock single after another. There’s a reason Matchbox Twenty
were able to cross over onto the pop charts so many times. Thomas had enough
rock ‘n’ roll grit in his voice—and a talented enough band behind him—to sell
his band as something more than just a “pop” act, but he also had an innate ability
to pen a rousing hook. When I saw Matchbox Twenty last summer, reunited for the
first time in five years, I was struck by just how much firepower the band had
in their arsenal. The largest quantity of hits come from the band’s debut, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yourself or Someone Like You</i>, but the
best ones might hail from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Season</i>.
“Bent,” “Mad Season,” and “If You’re Gone” are up there with the best radio
rock singles of the 2000s. The former even managed to make it to number one on
the Hot 100, the only time that ever happened for this band. The hooks on these songs are massive, but its Thomas’s impassioned
delivery that sells them. For all his big hits, Thomas could never be a
gun-for-hire writer, because so much of Matchbox Twenty’s appeal was always
grounded in his ability to sell the songs. That point holds true for the rest
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mad Season </i>as well, especially
“Rest Stop,” which might be the most interesting song he ever wrote. A story
about a couple that breaks up on the highway in the dead of night, “just three
miles from the rest stop,” the song captures the ragged exhaustion of both a
broken relationship and a highway drive that just won’t seem to end. Thomas’s
talent is that he makes you feel like you’re in that car, being jerked awake as
the girl slams on the brakes and tells her man to take a (literal and figurative) hike.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">53. <b>The Wallflowers</b> - <i>Rebel, Sweetheart</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vfoRdpSx99uNxKLXUc9jON02RAbfQ4_euKYgKg3axvGF6YC2ASoDoHUU9VjCm4e77wvC_OM1UTOTAzn3_bOSO6186dmy16IIeWPpS47iQwfjxckykoP_ad6B-GyvIVqH1JQqYVXq8GU4/s1600/Wallflowers+-+Rebal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vfoRdpSx99uNxKLXUc9jON02RAbfQ4_euKYgKg3axvGF6YC2ASoDoHUU9VjCm4e77wvC_OM1UTOTAzn3_bOSO6186dmy16IIeWPpS47iQwfjxckykoP_ad6B-GyvIVqH1JQqYVXq8GU4/s640/Wallflowers+-+Rebal.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
The Wallflowers never got a chance
to burn as bright as they should have. A mix of bad timing and big pressure
(something you can hardly avoid when your frontman is the son of arguably the
greatest songwriter of all time) meant that these guys never lived up to the
promise of their breakthrough, 1996’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing
Down the Horse</i>. They came pretty close, though, nine years later. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rebel, Sweetheart </i>is a solid runner-up
in the Wallflowers catalog, stacked with catchy, classic-sounding rock songs
that get some extra muscle and charm from the expert production work of Brendan
O’Brien. My favorite songs were always the most anthemic and hopeful ones, like
“Days of Wonder,” a big rousing rocker that sounds like springtime, or “Nearly
Beloved,” a kinetic bolt of energy. Jakob Dylan comes perhaps closest to his
dad’s legacy, though, on long, contemplative ballads like “God Says Nothing
Back” and “From the Bottom of My Heart.” It took seven years to get a follow-up
to this record—2012’s good-not-great <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glad
All Over</i>—and the band has been dormant since. It’s a shame, because at
their peak, The Wallflowers were maybe the best rock band on the planet.</div>
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54. <b>Taylor Swift</b> - <i>Fearless</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jPIgV4b0gtMscd60MnTGb6b_nsK7s4zUGMY_Vaqaf_QWDAxcGToA5OgVesIe7rJq6DMeMd5pobCtbfEFa7XBqHWcCSBlALzYXF6AlynXLsM3FIglLPulkrQkD_iaDBVXbp5EQEWkInZU/s1600/Taylor+Swift+-+Fearless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jPIgV4b0gtMscd60MnTGb6b_nsK7s4zUGMY_Vaqaf_QWDAxcGToA5OgVesIe7rJq6DMeMd5pobCtbfEFa7XBqHWcCSBlALzYXF6AlynXLsM3FIglLPulkrQkD_iaDBVXbp5EQEWkInZU/s640/Taylor+Swift+-+Fearless.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There are a lot of things you
could say about <i>Fearless</i>. You could point to it as the major coming-out party
for the biggest star in modern pop music. You could talk about its radio
domination, courtesy of songs like “Love Story” and “You Belong with Me.” You
could look at it as a turning point in country music, toward a more pop,
radio-focused future. You could even call it “the pop-country <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thriller</i>,” as a friend of mine has done
in the past. The thing that really sticks out to me about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fearless</i>, though, is how wonderfully, wistfully adolescent it is. Swift
is a lifelong Dashboard Confessional fan, and you can pick up Chris Carrabba’s
influence all over these songs. Like Carrabba, Swift has the ability to make songs about
high school crushes and heartbreaks sound profound instead of petty. Unlike
Carrabba, Swift was still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in </i>high
school when she was writing those types of songs, which makes their insight and
perspective that much more impressive. The ubiquitous pop singles are the
capital letters in the sentence that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fearless</i>,
but the best songs are the ones that never got a lot of play: the high school
whirlwind of “Fifteen,” the fairy tale gone wrong in “White Horse,” and the
long, sad highway drive of “Breathe.” “It’s 2 a.m., feeling like I just lost a
friend/Hope you know it’s not easy for me,” Swift sings on the latter. Growing
up sometimes just seems like a collage of moments like that, driving away from
a friend or a place you’re not certain you’ll ever see again. That song and
this album, snapshots of life in the days between youth and adulthood,
perfectly capture the bittersweet ache of leaving your roots behind you.</div>
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55. <b>Switchfoot </b>- <i>The Beautiful Letdown</i><br />
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I envy the budding music fans of
today. They have all the music they could ever want to hear, just a click away.
I suppose the same could have been said for my generation—the Napster
generation, or maybe the Limewire generation. But I personally felt weird
downloading full albums. Grabbing a track here or there was fine, but if I
wanted a record, I still felt duty-bound to buy the CD. It was the limitations
of my music-buying budget—along with the limitations of the K-Mart CD
selection—that put <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beautiful Letdown </i>in
my collection. I walked into K-Mart that day hell-bent on buying a CD, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some </i>CD, and this album was the only
reasonable candidate. It was still kind of an impulse buy. I liked “Meant to
Live,” and I’d heard “Dare You to Move” a couple times, but I had no guarantees
that I was going to enjoy the rest. Thankfully, my gamble paid off. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beautiful Letdown </i>was catchy, chill,
and eclectic. The riff-heavy rockers got my blood pumping, and the ballads
served as a fitting backdrop for a lot of summer evenings. Plus, as far as
inspirational rockers go, it’s tough to do a whole lot better than “Dare You to
Move.” Looking back, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beautiful
Letdown </i>feels like the last of a dying breed: a profound, intelligent
mainstream record from a band that could really rock. I’d kill to hear songs
like these on the radio again.</div>
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56. <b>The Hold Steady</b> - <i>Boys & Girls in America</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEY0HvOQwIwL0gLrM9kVfVEmLQz-y5N2w5WG8cqNOWLdTnLil5i1R3RN5uPuCsNwZJL8URkBeshxprnQ-wIClDLC_eJJ3gG_ItRNTerr8kJWA4y5TFP7SApMXi6G2ilFQ5Ght3ooHeGR_q/s1600/The+Hold+Steady+-+Boys+and+Girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="807" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEY0HvOQwIwL0gLrM9kVfVEmLQz-y5N2w5WG8cqNOWLdTnLil5i1R3RN5uPuCsNwZJL8URkBeshxprnQ-wIClDLC_eJJ3gG_ItRNTerr8kJWA4y5TFP7SApMXi6G2ilFQ5Ght3ooHeGR_q/s640/The+Hold+Steady+-+Boys+and+Girls.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
There was a time in my life when <i>Boys & Girls in America</i>
meant more to me than virtually any other record on the planet. In the fading
days of college, as I felt the last of my youth slipping away, I turned to this
album over and over again. Its loud, raucous songs seemed to offer a refuge
where responsibility didn’t exist and youth could last forever. Where all I’d
ever need to do was round up my best friends and head to a bar for a pint or
six. That world didn’t exist, but at some of the best moments of my life, I
willfully ignored that fact. <i>Boys & Girls in America </i>never meant to me as
much after those loud, spontaneous college years. In 2014, when I was living in
Chicago a year after I’d graduated, I tried to will spring into being by
blaring these songs from my car speakers. It didn’t work, and it never worked
in quite the same way again. But even knowing that this record has gone beyond
the point of relatability to me, I can’t imagine a world where it doesn’t
exist. Sometimes, nothing seems more romantic than getting drunk and crumbling
into dust, a la the perfect “Stuck Between Stations,” or hanging around at a
shopping mall waiting for a pretty girl to blow you away.</div>
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57. <b>Boys Like Girls</b> - <i>Love Drunk</i><br />
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<br />
Boys Like Girls were always going to be a summer band for
me. From the first time I heard them sing “Your voice was the soundtrack of my
summer” from the stage of a smoky dive bar in Detroit, it was clear this band
was for crushes, flings, and trips to the beach. The band’s second album should
have been that, too. This record is wall-to-wall hooks. The band was writing
pre-choruses and bridges that were better than most bands’ choruses. I remember
playing the title track on a road trip to a Boys Like Girls concert in the
summer of ’09, still months from the fall release date of this record, and
feeling like I was living in some larger-than-life teen movie. In actuality,
the record became the soundtrack to my fall. The day I left for my freshman
year of college, this album hit the internet. It’s the first thing I played on
my drive, and I vividly recall the closer—a sentimental graduation-ready ballad
called “Go”—playing as I pulled onto the highway. “Go on and take a shot, go
give it all you got,” Martin Johnson sang through my speakers, and it hit me
like a bomb. I was scared shitless. I was leaving my friends behind to chase a
dream with the odds stacked against me. I was worried I wouldn’t make friends,
worried I wouldn’t like my major, worried I would be homesick. This song, cheesy as it was, gave me
the strength to keep driving, and this album, cheesy as it is, kept me afloat
in those early days of life out on my own. I will forever love this album for that stroke of good
timing, but also for the neon-drenched, Bon Jovi-aping pop-rock songs. It's a miracle this band never got bigger than they did.</div>
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58. <b>The Damnwells</b> - <i>One Last Century</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznrO_sgnl3VL9V0FqMGD2keLrsWoDcgCzLz3hCuSKqYh4YlqcAUAhkbXDmKVSc_n2BNkh-IRHT09IH5JRhXQmhz6kooaO6-H-wgSzfaKzDbTIp4YeYf8ywCOjIr19gUt9xx1udXTndNZw/s1600/The+Damnwells+-+Century.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznrO_sgnl3VL9V0FqMGD2keLrsWoDcgCzLz3hCuSKqYh4YlqcAUAhkbXDmKVSc_n2BNkh-IRHT09IH5JRhXQmhz6kooaO6-H-wgSzfaKzDbTIp4YeYf8ywCOjIr19gUt9xx1udXTndNZw/s640/The+Damnwells+-+Century.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Nowadays, we’ve gotten used to
music being free. Between Spotify, Apple Music, and the still-common strategy
of pre-release streams, hearing an album for free has become the norm. Even at
the tale end of the 2000s, though, that wasn’t the case. The music that was
offered for free—usually by bands trying to get people to listen to their
stuff—varied in quality, but was typically unprofessionally recorded and not
quite ready for the big stage. All these things made <i>One Last Century</i> a big,
big surprise for me in the spring of 2009. Linked as part of a “Free Music
Friday” feature on AbsolutePunk.net (RIP), this record had an RIYL of Ryan
Adams and was a no-strings-attached free download. By the end of the first
track, I was hooked. These guys had a gift for melody, a flare for lush, rootsy
instrumentation, and a refreshing tendency to pull no punches in their lyrics.
Slowly, what had been a free download from a no-name band became one of the
dominant albums soundtracking my final months of high school. To this day, I
still smile when songs like “Everything” and “Bastard of Midnight” come up on
playlists.</div>
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59. T<b>he Promise of Redemption</b> - <i>When the Flowers Bloom</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWt6lNfqhPbk6KWOEVMGjwSIwtHJ_yUa0zqRLKeQXltvID54lnlfGQGj4TvWOQ3rw1o0YBMMxRj0weytJiwVJKSciALXfu2Tw9s2DU8WoQwHKb_KE_YZHxVXODjGO0rP3hrXAMvYOu_eg/s1600/Promise+-+Flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiWt6lNfqhPbk6KWOEVMGjwSIwtHJ_yUa0zqRLKeQXltvID54lnlfGQGj4TvWOQ3rw1o0YBMMxRj0weytJiwVJKSciALXfu2Tw9s2DU8WoQwHKb_KE_YZHxVXODjGO0rP3hrXAMvYOu_eg/s640/Promise+-+Flowers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
In high school, I met a girl who
wanted to be an actress. I also met her mom, who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>an actress, and who—funnily enough—I ended up in a TV
commercial with thanks to a friend’s class project. After high school, I lost
touch with that girl, but I was close enough to hear the bad news when her mom
got diagnosed with brain cancer. One morning in my junior year of college, I
was scrolling through my phone in class when I saw a post on Facebook that her
mom had passed away. It was the kind of moment you have more and more as you
get older: moments where you hear, from afar, that someone you knew is no
longer on the planet. That loss felt like a cruel twist of fate, though,
because this girl I knew had been one of the friendliest, most spirited people
I’d ever met, and because I remembered her mom as being so funny and full of
life. I recall thinking, “We’re too young to lose our parents. Why is this
happening?” When I got to my car, I put this record on and listened to “It Just
Takes Time,” the heartbreaking penultimate track. It wrecked me. Songs about
death are often written with the perspective of time, when you can look back in
sadness but also fondness. Not these songs. These songs reel with the aching,
gaping lack of a person who should still be there. “But this is the very first time/That
I have been afraid to go home/In fear that I might fall apart/From this foreign
feeling that I’m completely alone.” Songwriter Shane Henderson bellows those
words into the ether on “It Just Takes Time,” and they hurt. They are sharp
knives that pierce your heart and force you to consider loss in all its
unendurable scope. That morning, grieving for the mother of an old friend, I
think I finally understood the vast foreverness of death, and it shook me to my
core. To this day, I can’t listen to this album without reckoning with the
impermanence of everything else, and the importance of cherishing what I have
while I have it.</div>
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60. <b>Averi </b>- <i>Drawn to Revolving Doors</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8C9mOvWqOEMTVIwL_kuFBUaFxIg0LidtU_8inslDyY2DkaDKuy1ofmuibdRj1iWt6F_bLq2RU6vMYzVwb6gr6PcdwrYZS7qAM5zahdbLuBfOapaWlS7GOc4rXlMx9mUI7ydgJeufQMNFb/s1600/Averi+-+Revolving+Doors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8C9mOvWqOEMTVIwL_kuFBUaFxIg0LidtU_8inslDyY2DkaDKuy1ofmuibdRj1iWt6F_bLq2RU6vMYzVwb6gr6PcdwrYZS7qAM5zahdbLuBfOapaWlS7GOc4rXlMx9mUI7ydgJeufQMNFb/s640/Averi+-+Revolving+Doors.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
It’s funny how your view of a song
can change completely over time. There are songs love that I adore now for the
same reasons I did when I first heard them. There are also songs that have
grown and changed with me—sometimes to the point where I stop being able to hear
them the way I used to. “Goodnight, Goodbye,” the closing track from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drawn to Revolving Doors</i>,
is that kind
of song. In early June of 2010, when I first heard this record, I
thought it
was a quintessential late night summer song. Something about the simple
acoustic guitar chords at the start of the song reminded me of crickets
crackling through a muggy August evening. I can’t say how many times I
played
this song that summer, usually on late night drives home from friends
houses,
or from spending time with my girlfriend. It wasn’t until four years
later that
I finally saw the song for what it actually is: a farewell to a loved
one on
their deathbed. The day I got the email that said my grandpa’s health
was failing, I pulled out my guitar and played that song. As I fought
tears to get through the final refrains, I realized Chad Perrone was
doing the same thing on the
record: trying to remain composed even as his emotions overwhelmed him.
After
my grandpa died, this song was perhaps the most crucial inspiration
behind the
song <i>I </i>wrote for <i>him</i>—the first song I ever wrote that I played in front of
other people. I played that song at his wake, but I played this one later, back
at my grandma’s house with friends and family around. I’d like to say it struck
a chord, as I believe it could with anyone who has ever had to say goodbye to
someone they loved. The rest of this album is eclectic and adventurous in a way
not many pop-rock records from this era were, but “Goodnight, Goodbye” is what
makes it an all-time favorite.</div>
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61. <b>Moses Mayfield</b> - <i>The Inside</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3k3Mi8Dzs28j1WepGkg4QmRAwpo76agNuSz_xY0Ts-Hlt__Izwz3BQBU1ioW_uNPM1PFrusGRygNOsZl6TLfWeGtFoFpFzod7UT9diTSBTvUomXTlXwf79mV3EbqXeXt-nebGGSabSIz/s1600/Moses+-+Inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL3k3Mi8Dzs28j1WepGkg4QmRAwpo76agNuSz_xY0Ts-Hlt__Izwz3BQBU1ioW_uNPM1PFrusGRygNOsZl6TLfWeGtFoFpFzod7UT9diTSBTvUomXTlXwf79mV3EbqXeXt-nebGGSabSIz/s640/Moses+-+Inside.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
Moses Mayfield only made one
album. The alt-rock band burned briefly for 2007’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Inside</i> and then shattered, with frontman Matthew Mayfield
launching a prolific and consistently solid solo career in the aftermath. As a
solo act, Mayfield is often an acoustic-guitar-toting troubadour. On this
record, though, he was a charismatic frontman with a commanding rock ‘n’ roll
voice. He was capable of selling grittier numbers when he needed to—like the
scathing “Control” or the big, building leadoff track “Days Away”—but he was at
his best on U2-esque arena ballads like “Fall Behind” and “A Cycle.” The favorite
for me was always “Element,” a song that conveys the exhaustion of a
relationship that isn’t where it needs to be. At different times, I’ve heard
the song as a yearning hymn of unrequited love, as a missive about a long
distance relationship, and as the aching post-script to a broken relationship.
“Are you fine? I still need to know,” Mayfield sings in the bridge. Earlier in
the song, the plea is simpler and blunter: “I don’t want to miss you more.”
There aren’t many songs that feel lonelier to me, and I think it’s because
there’s something in Mayfield’s voice that captures all the distance and time
and mistakes that can build up between two people who used to be closer than
anything in the world.</div>
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62. <b>The Swell Season</b> - <i>Once</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyfFrsT1Bpc4t2-hse5Rx_EvjmBx1dMJcAvabCwkgBZw-9Q7fQJH61F7bE7jgDxF53DU9LWeAih2_AndQ-UE_Yj64up9mfJJo7g-kXIzouc4RRKLjEUT_SJF-j5xOQTPn7CwVYRM9oyLo/s1600/Once+OST.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyfFrsT1Bpc4t2-hse5Rx_EvjmBx1dMJcAvabCwkgBZw-9Q7fQJH61F7bE7jgDxF53DU9LWeAih2_AndQ-UE_Yj64up9mfJJo7g-kXIzouc4RRKLjEUT_SJF-j5xOQTPn7CwVYRM9oyLo/s640/Once+OST.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
For a lot of people, <i>Once </i>was a
surprise. The film came out of nowhere and blew audiences out of the water with
its honest, intimate portrayal of a not-quite love story. By the time I first
saw the film, I was already closely familiar with the music, thanks to the
recommendation of my parents. I ended up buying the DVD for my stepdad for
Christmas 2007, and that evening, the entire family gathered on the couch to
watch the film together. From the first moment the camera dropped on Glen
Hansard, screaming his lungs out to “Say It to Me Now,” I knew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once </i>was going to mean something to me. Hearing
these songs on record was one thing; seeing the stars sing them on film—and I
mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>sing them, since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once </i>was certainly no lip-syncing
project—was something else. When the reprise of “Falling Slowly” wound around
at the end of the film, capturing both the heartbreak and the possibility of
the open-ended conclusion, there were tears in my eyes. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Once </i>the film remains one of the more
vivid movie watching experiences of my life, though, the soundtrack offers
plenty to love on its own, from the film’s obvious standards (“Falling Slowly,”
“When You’re Mind’s Made Up”) to the more under-the-radar classics (“Leave,”
“Lies,” “All the Way Down, “Once”). 11 years later, I don’t think we’ve seen a
better soundtrack, or a better music film.</div>
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63. <b>The Wallflowers</b> - <i>Breach</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOORfBdyBHCAjTRBglNrVs9VwkMSLqEmCQV9yEF14bLWTJgL2q1E_1KGUnrh3tPZ3RcB2tzfJwhon0KQnZCmGBmFFEjt-24kV1IQsXlYFzRD4FMKLL4ZketOOWGIJEtJzlfYGPfF-pfyJt/s1600/Wallflowers+-+Breach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOORfBdyBHCAjTRBglNrVs9VwkMSLqEmCQV9yEF14bLWTJgL2q1E_1KGUnrh3tPZ3RcB2tzfJwhon0KQnZCmGBmFFEjt-24kV1IQsXlYFzRD4FMKLL4ZketOOWGIJEtJzlfYGPfF-pfyJt/s640/Wallflowers+-+Breach.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i> </i> </div>
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Bargain bins are a beautiful
thing. At least they <i>were</i>, back in the era when everyone was buying CDs. And in the
90s and very early 2000s, people were buying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot </i>of CDs. When Napster took off and iTunes became a thing,
people didn’t just stop buying CDs, but they also sold a whole hell of a lot of
them back to music stores. There were some usual suspects in these bins: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monster </i>by R.E.M. might be the all-time
staple, but virtually any record from a 90s rock band that wasn’t considered a
classic was a good bet, from Hootie & the Blowfish’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cracked Rear View </i>to Chumbawumba’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tubthumping</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breach </i>was
one of those records I found in a bargain bin. The Wallflowers were my favorite
band as a kid, but I lost track of them after their seminal hit record, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing Down the Horse</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breach</i>, the 2000 follow-up, didn’t land
on my radar until the summer of 2004, when I found a used copy for four dollars
in the racks of an FYE. Rediscovering my once-favorite band was a surreal
experience. By this point, the Wallflowers had released not one, but two
records since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horse</i>. I liked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breach </i>more of the two. I’d wondered why
the Wallflowers had vanished from view, and this record seemed to
answer the question. Jakob Dylan was uncomfortable in the spotlight—especially
since the spotlight only ever shone as bright as it did because he was the son
of Bob Dylan. This record delves into that complex father-son relationship,
with a series of songs that shroud deep wounds in wit and cynicism. It’s an
album that has only grown on me over the years, as I’ve begun to understand
better the complicated bonds between children and their parents.</div>
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64. <b>Snow Patrol</b> - <i>Eyes Open</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn7Rbo-pxdTX86imsQX1wIhSjVGQoh5-bOcyYYr9gEEPiSX8v4GYdEJulr2ku01QQP1CUUGrxVZ8eSBZ7FrOzQvl892nNBrOq6bszfiXL6Kk0pBiasa_JH34Rf_9GEqjcYgmgzlPkzUOx/s1600/Snow+Patrol+-+Eyes+Open.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn7Rbo-pxdTX86imsQX1wIhSjVGQoh5-bOcyYYr9gEEPiSX8v4GYdEJulr2ku01QQP1CUUGrxVZ8eSBZ7FrOzQvl892nNBrOq6bszfiXL6Kk0pBiasa_JH34Rf_9GEqjcYgmgzlPkzUOx/s640/Snow+Patrol+-+Eyes+Open.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
The iconic song here is “Chasing
Cars,” and for good reason. When I bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eyes
Open </i>back in 2006, I could hardly stop playing the single for long enough
to hear the rest of the album. Eventually, though, I settled on other moments
as my favorites. The most crushing is “You Could Be Happy,” a song about
yearning for another person even as you wish them the best with someone else.
The most sumptuous is “Open Your Eyes,” a sweeping, symphonic piece of pop that
fits perfectly in the penultimate slot. And perhaps the best is “It’s Beginning
to Get to Me,” a song that kept me going at the end of my freshman year of high
school, even as one of the worst years of my life was starting to get to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>. Snow Patrol eventually became
something of a punchline, whether because of their mainstream-leaning sound,
their sheer earnestness, or their status as a go-to coda soundtrack band for
shows like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Tree Hill </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grey’s Anatomy</i>. On this record, though,
they were aping U2 just about as well as anyone did all decade.</div>
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65. <b>Bruce Springsteen</b> - <i>Magic</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KlrRhjwmNfmmh3-Y4VP7HS_ZgpBVkH-QBvjlzpaK6zLDuK1EWL5mdHiDctjBNh8NrIUpY2kxI6bysOZMZHoSpbO2i4k7qdiSoU7UNRUYirxccJeEozdVDrKImoByvKf50E8FBdCOt5KA/s1600/Bruce+-+Magic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KlrRhjwmNfmmh3-Y4VP7HS_ZgpBVkH-QBvjlzpaK6zLDuK1EWL5mdHiDctjBNh8NrIUpY2kxI6bysOZMZHoSpbO2i4k7qdiSoU7UNRUYirxccJeEozdVDrKImoByvKf50E8FBdCOt5KA/s640/Bruce+-+Magic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
<i>The Rising </i>was Bruce Springsteen’s
comeback album and the beginning of his new era. Just four years later, though,
on <i>Magic</i>, it sounded like the E Street dream was starting to wind down. Right
before the album came out, Bruce’s longtime assistant Terry Magovern died. The
next April, E Street organist Danny Federici was gone. Clarence Clemons had
less than four years left in his hourglass. Bruce couldn’t have known any of
that was coming when he penned this record. He slid “Terry’s Song,” a tribute
to Magovern, into the bonus track slot with just weeks to go to release.
Somehow, though, it felt like Bruce sensed that the good times were running
out. The result is the most openly nostalgic record in Springsteen’s catalog,
but also one of the darkest. Songs like “You’ll Be Coming Down,” “Livin’ in the
Future,” and “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” are big, bright, 70s rock ‘n’ roll
throwbacks, while the closing quartet of “Magic,” “Last to Die,” “Long Walk
Home,” and “Devil’s Arcade” is mired in shadow. It’s a gripping dichotomy, made
more emotional in retrospect. This album was the last time that the E Street
Band would sound complete and unleashed. 2009’s <i>Working on a Dream</i> didn’t have
the songs to do them justice, and 2012’s <i>Wrecking Ball </i>was post-Clarence. Here,
though, everything was in its right place for one last time. </div>
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66. <b>Relient K </b>- <i>Forget and Not Slow Down </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhH884rGBAuUtap3-MT5uT6uygBUhxXrDcEdZfu0cGlnfV0DRXOk3S02UbMQmwDomfKCRsUQLTF8WpXKFsKZlKbK3KrrrjpUjbzuU-AQ6rVSvJ8Jbvi6lLyY_GL3YDO9AW_8701aCHVNl/s1600/Relient+K+-+Forget.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="600" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhH884rGBAuUtap3-MT5uT6uygBUhxXrDcEdZfu0cGlnfV0DRXOk3S02UbMQmwDomfKCRsUQLTF8WpXKFsKZlKbK3KrrrjpUjbzuU-AQ6rVSvJ8Jbvi6lLyY_GL3YDO9AW_8701aCHVNl/s640/Relient+K+-+Forget.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
I’m not sure any album
encapsulates the fall of my freshman year of college better than this one.
There were albums I played more, but I’ve also played them more since—to the
point where they’ve gathered new memories and new associations. This album,
though, still sounds to me like the campus of Western Michigan University on a
crisp autumn morning. “Is it time I befriended all the ghosts of all the things
that haunt me most?” Matthew Thiessen sings in the first song and title track.
It’s a fitting question for a boy on the cusp of new adventures to ask. For me,
leaving high school behind was hard. Leaving the familiarity of friends and
family and home was hard. That song and this album seemed to speak to that struggle:
the struggle born from an urge to move on, even when I knew that I’d left at
least a part of my heart three hours north. “I’d rather forget and not slow
down.” I didn’t end up having that option, and as it turned out, not having it
was for the best. My ties with home never died, and I eventually married a girl
from that place and returned to call it home once again. When I
listen to this record, though, it still sounds like that fleeting attempt at
escape—and all the growth that happened along with it.</div>
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67. <b>Switchfoot </b>- <i>Nothing Is Sound</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu245b9fdQBjfLOWxmysn13mrFHPzgB0dCM5Oj3Sp6rKfrNrNzh4jA6VZMkSMk4GTCFrJOZmn5bfdwx2_7PaShiiu57nlgSe3NhI0jvcSGriCppQcg-2MG1H2SX1uEvhcVNl71p-gkFPGy/s1600/Switchfoot+-+Nothing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu245b9fdQBjfLOWxmysn13mrFHPzgB0dCM5Oj3Sp6rKfrNrNzh4jA6VZMkSMk4GTCFrJOZmn5bfdwx2_7PaShiiu57nlgSe3NhI0jvcSGriCppQcg-2MG1H2SX1uEvhcVNl71p-gkFPGy/s640/Switchfoot+-+Nothing.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>The Beautiful Letdown</i> was the
record that made Switchfoot stars, but <i>Nothing Is Sound</i> is the one where they
became confident playing that role. This record is big, glossy, loud, and
self-assured. The songs rock hard but still showcase a lot of heart, not to mention
a penchant for huge skyscraping hooks. The album ultimately resonates, though,
because of its lyrical themes. Switchfoot started as a Christian rock band, but
they always had the hearts of wanderers—a fact that meant they would never be
satisfied with songs that simply basked in the grace of God’s love. Indeed,
there is very little complacency—or even satisfaction—to be found in these
songs. “Lonely Nation” sets the tone for the record. Frontman Jon Foreman said
he wrote it about the “masses of lonely, scared kids” who were coming to the
band’s shows at the time. And later in the record, on “The Blues,” he’s asking
one question of confusion and discontentment after another. When the record
came out, I was reeling at the start of a new life chapter: a new school, a new
group of friends, a new world that I didn’t quite fit into—at least not yet. I
listened to this album a lot in those days, because it seemed to say: “Don’t
worry; everybody’s lonely; nobody has everything figured out; you’ll be fine.”</div>
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68. <b>Jon McLaughlin</b> - <i>Indiana</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ZNq8xCJjBENjNXPpWMkxrI1iPxwFET7pH08Iz9g9QErntrxAoEM7TZ4CCPdXsbxEgTYyssVD2HLB-ZizO_qk2xyx1wuY8MaNjL2YDENfUnmtWXWrz722ONqj3uCxKggKJJ_gNy86TWgz/s1600/Jon+McLaughlin+-+Indiana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="600" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ZNq8xCJjBENjNXPpWMkxrI1iPxwFET7pH08Iz9g9QErntrxAoEM7TZ4CCPdXsbxEgTYyssVD2HLB-ZizO_qk2xyx1wuY8MaNjL2YDENfUnmtWXWrz722ONqj3uCxKggKJJ_gNy86TWgz/s640/Jon+McLaughlin+-+Indiana.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jon McLaughlin should have been a superstar. In the annals
of great piano-driven singer/songwriter records, <i>Indiana </i>is near the top—at
least for me. It’s a record that hearkens back to a time when a guy behind a
piano could be a rock star, a la Billy Joel or Elton John. On future albums,
McLaughlin would try a little too hard to play the pop game, losing a lot of
what made him special in the first place. On this record, though, he relied on
the quality of his songwriting the carry the day. The songs—about girls who
love their mamas' lemonade and boys lying about their biggest regrets—pair
shimmering piano licks with big, grand hooks that feel like summertime. It’s a
shame the guy who made this record could never tap into the same special
alchemy again.</div>
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69. <b>Low Millions</b> - <i>Ex-Girlfriends</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOm6_cQQvTYes1pKnmfHVMW4SMQyKfLdFbP9SEJ1a7AquWZxgvrC-LEK1eR1OYrzOsAbbjb53pUD2WsE3noSVGH77eoc6CeIJ_v2zZmC2oKPxElKJZ0fh1Qdu_S7p7KsFAFqI8vNSZg8Fm/s1600/Low+Millions+-+Ex+Girlfriends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOm6_cQQvTYes1pKnmfHVMW4SMQyKfLdFbP9SEJ1a7AquWZxgvrC-LEK1eR1OYrzOsAbbjb53pUD2WsE3noSVGH77eoc6CeIJ_v2zZmC2oKPxElKJZ0fh1Qdu_S7p7KsFAFqI8vNSZg8Fm/s640/Low+Millions+-+Ex+Girlfriends.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ex-Girlfriends </i>is an album about feeling so broken and fucked up
that you’re not sure you’ll ever put yourself back together again. The band’s name
itself—and the name of one of the songs on the disc—refers to a feeling of
being unexceptional. This record certainly hammers that point home. It’s also a
breakup album, but it has an X-factor (or ex-factor?) that many albums about
broken relationships lack. Part of it is the specificity. Frontman Adam Cohen
(son of legendary songwriter Leonard Cohen) isn’t afraid to name names on this
record: “Eleanor”; “Julia”; “Hey Jane”; “Nikki Don’t Stop.” The album is
fittingly titled because it feels like a cataloged list of the women that have
wandered in and out of Cohen’s life over the years. But another part is the
attention to detail—details that paint a portrait of loneliness so profound
that it drives you mad. In “Statue,” the hum of the refrigerator stops for a
moment, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. In “Hey Jane,” the narrator
drinks himself into a stupor while he listens to cars drive by and to the sound
of his neighbors making love upstairs. And in “Julia,” the guy chases his girl
to the train station in the rain, but his umbrella gets torn and she never
shows up. These little nuances sell the mundanity of heartbreak: the boredom,
the silence, the romantic gestures that never pay off like the romantic
comedies told you they would. They make these songs ache like a breakup that is
still fresh—even if the album itself is 14 years old and never got a proper
follow-up.<br />
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70. <b>The New Frontiers</b> - <i>Mending</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHDrGvK-xNI6pvg1AIlPY508tpZ_JKqke0hzPbFvb902v5MpYmMDBRwPr00qQYv7Uvbjel7NnO2UktYvTcwCS5W_pi51IZrELMCpLvFXYG0Ka1b6IumqHLvV0Hayhz5M-H90u0gL3TU_4/s1600/The+New+Frontiers+-+Mending.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHDrGvK-xNI6pvg1AIlPY508tpZ_JKqke0hzPbFvb902v5MpYmMDBRwPr00qQYv7Uvbjel7NnO2UktYvTcwCS5W_pi51IZrELMCpLvFXYG0Ka1b6IumqHLvV0Hayhz5M-H90u0gL3TU_4/s640/The+New+Frontiers+-+Mending.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Sometimes, brilliant bands come
along, release one classic album, and then disappear into thin air. That was
the case with The New Frontiers, a band I never knew anything about aside from
the fact that I loved their one and only album, 2008’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mending</i>. To this day, I don’t know where this band hailed from,
what any of the members’ names were, or why they broke up. All I know is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mending </i>is too good an album to have
never gotten a follow-up. Pitched somewhere between alt-country, indie folk,
and mid-2000s emo, The New Frontiers cultivated a chilly, winterish sound that
made them the perfect soundtrack for melancholy December and January
afternoons. I’ve already talked about how Bon Iver became my unofficial
Christmas music in the winter of 2008. The New Frontiers (and Fleet Foxes) came
along at the same time, filtering into the same mood-setting soundtrack for
that time in my life. A few months later, when I was going through auditions
for college music schools—and getting rejected right and left—songs like
“Strangers,” “This Is My Home,” and “Who Will Give Us Love” seemed somehow
intensely comforting. “This love has taken its toll on me,” goes the refrain of
“Strangers.” The song itself is a heartrending portrait of a relationship
breathing its last gasp. For me, it came to be about how my own dreams were
breaking my heart. Years later, that song still makes my heart ache a bit.
Those failures aren’t fresh anymore, but the song makes it feel like they are.<br />
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71. <b>Damien Rice</b> - <i>O </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidXhkCB818qw5zAtqAQOZqPdFnYCd_M9oqWcjDru2ygDIpqojPY12lMOO8k-B5pNVtVPh8SpFVLlQnsljkUmnUIV9IKadIkTrMj-q9xBqzmu313BVqUGhLGz0R45WQVVRW2fmzGAPp9T14/s1600/Damien+Rice+-+O.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="600" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidXhkCB818qw5zAtqAQOZqPdFnYCd_M9oqWcjDru2ygDIpqojPY12lMOO8k-B5pNVtVPh8SpFVLlQnsljkUmnUIV9IKadIkTrMj-q9xBqzmu313BVqUGhLGz0R45WQVVRW2fmzGAPp9T14/s640/Damien+Rice+-+O.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Damien Rice spun such a rich web
of beauty with the songs on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O </i>that it
took him 11 years to make another album that even approached the same level. The follow-up,
2006’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">9</i>, was a solid record that
lacked the haunting, gorgeous intensity of this album. 2014’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Favourite Faded Fantasy</i> got a lot
closer. Still, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O </i>is Rice’s crowning
achievement, and it probably always will be. It’s not just because the first
four songs—the untouchable string of “Delicate,” “Volcano,” “The Blowers
Daughter,” and “Cannonball”—all became new songbook standards within a few years. For the
most part, it was Rice’s voice, and the way it meshed and clashed with the
fragile timbre of his collaborator and partner Lisa Hannigan. “Delicate”
remains the purest distillation of Rice’s gifts, starting with a guitar strum
so soft that you hardly even realize the song is playing. That’s how things
often are with the songs on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O</i>: they
start simply and quietly, in an unassuming way that makes you think Rice could
be just another coffeehouse troubadour. But then the songs build, and Rice’s
voice leaps up the octave, and suddenly he’s howling a lyric like “Why’d you
sing ‘Hallelujah’/If it means nothing to you?/Why’d you sing with me at all?”
That was the thing about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O</i>: for one
record, Rice’s words and his voice seemed to capture the purest and most potent
sound of a heart crying out in agony.</div>
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72. <b>Pete Yorn </b>- <i>Musicforthemorningafter</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEbhL64qDafV3PlZu98EpkNCz2-GiTkcEqDUWNCV87hyxSNHB8BuRHgqem1V8wqRi0zak28xxaJououl-AiOu3x0ygpRElQvZfnlFH9vRzn-AlYcS8IdaMRyYT4pkFVVwXYLs7PlJjqxG/s1600/Pete+Yorn+-+Musicforthemorningafter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipEbhL64qDafV3PlZu98EpkNCz2-GiTkcEqDUWNCV87hyxSNHB8BuRHgqem1V8wqRi0zak28xxaJououl-AiOu3x0ygpRElQvZfnlFH9vRzn-AlYcS8IdaMRyYT4pkFVVwXYLs7PlJjqxG/s640/Pete+Yorn+-+Musicforthemorningafter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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In retrospect, it’s not easy to
categorize Pete Yorn or the chameleonic music he made on his debut LP, 2001’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musicforthemorningafter. </i>He had shades
of Springsteen’s anthemic Jersey-rooted rock ‘n’ roll, but he also had the
road-weary grit of an alt-country singer, the genre-hopping restlessness of a
trendy indie-rocker, and the brand of foot-tapping hooks that might have landed
him on the radio in the mid-1990s—perhaps alongside the likes of Jakob Dylan
and The Wallflowers. Yorn’s mystique would only grow on later records, as he
became both darker (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nightcrawler</i>,
partially produced by Butch Walker) and more headline-worthy (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Break Up</i>, his 2009 duets record with
Scarlett Johannson). But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musicforthemorningafter
</i>remains his opus, the kind of debut album that could simply never be topped. Listen
to it once and you’ll probably see why. Though it sticks around for 53 minutes,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Musicforthemorningafter </i>is a feast of
one great song after another, from the twangy rockers (especially the timeless “Life on a
Chain”) to the yearning ballads (beauties like “Just Another” and “EZ,” which
temporarily made Yorn’s music common fodder for early-2000s TV
soundtracks).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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73. <b>Iron & Wine</b> - <i>The Shepherd’s Dog</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGa1pxv9u0te4zBfwjxj7sYzVxXAixcvB5Bmv0Lxo5sjzQ0XY4JZLY0oto8JnvF6u9zS9lQrJEtTX9UAJYC4TyFqc6l70WHtffb13CN2Qh2cvWEvtF1AKZgipZBulividTQsvU2sCwn5c/s1600/Iron+and+Wine+-+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGa1pxv9u0te4zBfwjxj7sYzVxXAixcvB5Bmv0Lxo5sjzQ0XY4JZLY0oto8JnvF6u9zS9lQrJEtTX9UAJYC4TyFqc6l70WHtffb13CN2Qh2cvWEvtF1AKZgipZBulividTQsvU2sCwn5c/s640/Iron+and+Wine+-+Dog.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I have a love/hate relationship
with <i>The Shepherd’s Dog</i>. On the one hand, this record took Sam Beam away from
the entrancing solo acoustic songs that he’d built his brand on. If I could trade
this record for another two or three discs in the ilk of <i>Our Endless Numbered
Days</i>, I would do it in an instant. On the other hand, though, not many
acoustic-to-full-band transitions work out as well as the one Beam makes on this
record. <i>The Shepherd’s Dog</i> is lively, eclectic, and fully realized. Beam works
like a mad scientist, concocting songs that draw convincingly from jazz, blues,
Americana, reggae, and even West African music. The experiments are always
well-executed and often thrilling, but it’s instructive to note that the best
songs here were still the ones that sounded the most like classic Iron & Wine. No
writer from this decade excelled so consistently at crafting gorgeous, aching,
stripped-down ballads. The fact that Beam could pull out songs as good as
“Resurrection Fern” and “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” even as he was
leaving his roots behind is testament to just how unstoppable he was during
this era. </div>
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74. <b>Fleet Foxes</b> - <i>Fleet Foxes</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There might not be a more enveloping, immersive album-listening
experience from the entire 2000s than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fleet
Foxes</i>. The opener, “Sun It Rises,” sounds like descending into a mystical
canyon at dawn and being immediately put under the spell of the place. For the
next 40 minutes, that spell never breaks. Fleet Foxes create a world of
pastoral beauty and rich Appalachian folk aesthetic by combining rich vocal
harmonies with lyrics that sound like they could have been here since the
middle ages. When frontman Robin Pecknold does drop a trace of modernity into
his songwriting—like with the mention of someone missing a connecting flight in
“Blue Ridge Mountains”—it feels spookily anachronistic. Few albums have ever
swept me away quite like this one, and while future Fleet Foxes albums would
offer up better songs (the title track from 2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Helplessness Blues</i>) and bigger ambition (2017’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crack-Up</i>), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fleet Foxes </i>remains their crowning achievement to me.</span><br />
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75. <b>Death Cab for Cutie</b> - <i>Narrow Stairs</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Narrow Stairs</i> was a tough pill to swallow at first, for me and for
so many other Death Cab for Cutie fans. The band’s previous two albums—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transatlanticism </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plans</i>—made heartbreak sound almost noble.
Listening to those records on your saddest days told you that you at least
weren’t alone. They were perfect bedfellows for those moments of self-pity and
commiseration, and they got a lot of us through the toughest parts of
adolescence. In comparison, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Narrow Stairs
</i>was jagged and abrasive. Suddenly, Ben Gibbard wasn’t the guy who
understood you anymore. Instead, he was kind of a creep, with a lot of bottled
up anger inside him and tendencies for emotional abusiveness (“Talking
Bird”) and downright stalking (“I Will Possess Your Heart”). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Narrow Stairs </i>is a bleak-as-fuck record,
one littered with loveless relationships (“Cath”), depressing one-night stands
(“Pity and Fear”), and wildfires that are both literal and metaphorical
(“Grapevine Fires”). By the time the breakup song finally winds back around at
the end of the record, with the frigid “The Ice Is Getting Thinner,” it doesn’t
break your heart the way “A Lack of Color” did on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transatlanticism</i>. Instead, it feels like a sigh of relief, because
it’s pretty clear that this record’s fucked-up protagonist isn’t in any
position to be in a healthy relationship with another person. Looking back,
it’s pretty clear that Gibbard was playing a character here—perhaps as a rebuke
to fans who always thought his sad songs were the reflections of a consistently
heartbroken person. At the time, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Narrow
Stairs </i>sounded bitter and unwelcoming—a fact that kept me at arm’s length
from the record for the better part of seven years.</div>
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76. <b>Counting Crows</b> - <i>Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings</i></div>
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When I first heard <i>Saturday Nights
& Sunday Mornings</i>, I fell in love with it. How couldn’t I? A big part of
the reason I’d become a die-hard music fan was listening to the Crows non-stop
in 2004—from short winter days soundtracked to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Films About Ghosts </i>to muggy summer evenings spent to the sounds of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard Candy</i>. I didn’t know at the time
that I was going to have to wait another four long years for a new album. So
when that new album finally arrived, the stakes were too high: I <i>had </i>to fall in
love with it. I’d eventually drift away from this record (and then back toward
it), alternating between my adoration for songs like “Hanging Tree” and
“Washington Square” and my rejection of the overwrought concept or
dull-as-dirt tracks like “On a Tuesday in Amsterdam Long Ago.” These days, I’m
back to “love” on this record, perhaps because it captures such a particular
point in my adolescence. “I have waited for tomorrow from December to today/And
I have started loving sorrow along the way,” Adam Duritz sings in the
life-affirming closing track “Come Around.” To me, those words were like a
diaristic scrawling. I spent the winter of 2008 in a weird kind of funk,
withdrawing into my own solitude and letting the short days and cold weather
get me down. The album came out right before spring break, and after hearing those
words on that song, I vowed to get over myself and live my life. For
better or worse, I did, and I think this album is to thank for it.</div>
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77. <b>Arcade Fire</b> - <i>Funeral</i><br />
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A specter of death hangs over all
of the best music Arcade Fire ever made, but it’s different kinds of death. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Neon Bible </i>(which only just missed this
list) actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds </i>funereal,
grounding its rejections of organized religion in dark, foreboding church
organs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Suburbs</i>, meanwhile, is a
record about stagnating in America’s unwieldy sprawl. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funeral </i>was inspired by death, but it’s not necessarily about it.
Rather, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funeral </i>finds redemption and
renewal in the aftermath of a loved one’s passing. Before I’d had any
experiences with death firsthand, I heard these songs as powerful
expressions of grief. These days, the album strikes me more as a recognition
that it’s time to grow up. Dealing with death, often, is the last barrier we
cross at the conclusion of our youth. Some of us have to go through that
doorway far too soon. Others get 20 or 30 years of innocence before an
aging loved one exits the frame. When that moment inevitably comes, though, it hits
like a punch to the gut. Because how can you think of yourself as “young” when
your loved ones are old enough to die? Arcade Fire pose this question,
eloquently, on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funeral</i>, especially on
“Wake Up,” still the pinnacle of the band’s discography. “If the children don’t
grow up/Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up/We’re just a million
little gods causing rainstorms/Turning every good thing to rust/I guess we’ll
just have to adjust.” When you lose someone or something you love, there is no
option but to adjust, move on. This song (and this album as a whole) are aching
reminders that growing up, often, is just an exercise in learning how to lose.<br />
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78. <b>Lydia </b>- <i>Illuminate</i></div>
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Back in my high school days, it
used to take me about 15 minutes to walk out the door, drive to school, and get
to my first class. One day in mid-November 2008, it ended up taking me 90 minutes.
The town had turned into an ice rink and the roads were comically unsafe. I
can’t believe nobody died on the way to school, nor can I believe that we
didn’t have a snow day. That drive was hilariously dangerous, incredibly long,
and vividly memorable, thanks to the fact that Lydia’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Illuminate </i>was playing through my car speakers. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Illuminate </i>is a good album that sounds
nothing short of transcendent on crisp autumn and winter days. Something about
the haunting piano keys of “This Is Twice Now” or the stormy guitars of “Fate”
make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Illuminate </i>arguably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>go-to album for cold, overcast
mornings and blustery afternoons. Most of the tracks here bleed into each other
seamlessly, creating an immersive, trance-like listening experience that isn’t
quite like any other album I’ve ever heard. Lydia never made an album that I
really cared about after this one, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Illuminate
</i>remains an ultimate cold-weather classic—not to mention a document of one
of the most unbelievable driving experiences of my life.</div>
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79. <b>Yellowcard </b>- <i>Paper Walls</i></div>
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For the better part of four years,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls </i>was Yellowcard’s
swansong. The band eventually came back, for a four-album arc that culminated
in a more decisive farewell, 2016’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yellowcard</i>.
I was thankful for the return, because the band’s first wave never meant quite
as much to me as their second—at least when it was happening. Looking back,
though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls </i>is one of the
all-time great pop-punk records. Where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ocean
Avenue </i>was a record flecked with youth and with the excitement of leaving
home for the first time, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls </i>is
the work of a veteran band with lots of stories to tell and plenty of
confidence to tell them the way they are meant to be told. Things are different
here. Instead of leaving home, the songs stare back at the past with 20/20
hindsight vision. “Shadows and Regrets” is about driving through your hometown
and reliving every choice you wish you could get back, while the title track is
a direct response to the band’s success and what it means to keep moving when
all your dreams come true. Tinged with darkness, as well as broken friendships
(“Five Becomes Four”) and exhausted relationships (“Keeper”), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paper Walls </i>was a natural end to the
first era of Yellowcard. For some fans, it will always be the band’s magnum opus.</div>
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80. <b>Keane </b>- <i>Under the Iron Sea</i></div>
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After <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hopes & Fears</i>, I would have been just fine getting more of the
same from Keane. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved </i>that album.
The big hooks and heart-on-the-sleeve emotion aligned perfectly with what I
wanted from music in the fall and winter of 2004. So when the band started
talking about making a funk-influenced record for the follow-up, I was
terrified. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Under the Iron Sea </i>is
decidedly not that album—though the uneven follow-up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perfect Symmetry </i>kind of was. Instead, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sea </i>is a pointedly darker release. The hooks aren’t as big, and
they definitely aren’t as bright. Foreboding melodies, electronic-influenced
atmospherics, and a bit of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Achtung Baby</i>-style
experimentation (especially on the lead single “Is It Any Wonder”) make for an
album that took Keane a long way from their roots. The band’s description of
the record—as a “sinister fairytale world gone wrong”—proved to be accurate.
It’s not my favorite Keane album: it never had the personal resonance for me
that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hopes & Fears </i>did, nor do I
think it has the indelible melodies of the band’s swansong, 2012’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strangeland</i>. But I always admired
Keane’s willingness to cast aside the romantic power ballads that had made them
stars and start drowning their songs in stormclouds. That push for something different
yielded some true gems—particularly “A Bad Dream,” still arguably Keane’s best song.</div>
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81. <b>Jesse Malin</b> - <i>Glitter in the Gutter</i></div>
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A lot of rock artists started
cribbing moves from the Springsteen playbook in the mid-2000s. From indie rock
darlings (The Hold Steady, The National, Arcade Fire) to mainstream titans (The
Killers), all the way to erstwhile punk rock bands (The Gaslight Anthem),
everyone was suddenly borrowing from Bruce. Jesse Malin was the only one of
them lucky enough to score an actual appearance from The Boss on one of his
albums, though. Springsteen himself steps in for the second verse of “Broken
Radio,” a key track from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glitter in the
Gutter</i>, and it’s a legitimately thrilling moment—even despite the song’s
slow tempo. Bruce wasn’t the only notable guest on the album, either. Ryan
Adams, Chris Shiflett, Josh Homme, and Jakob Dylan all make appearances. Malin
tends to have a lot of goodwill in the rock world, thanks in part to his days
fronting the glam-punk band D Generation, a core act in the ‘90s New York City
scene. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glitter in the Gutter </i>is
not a punk album. Malin transforms The Replacements’ “Bastards of Young” from a
ragged anthem of youth into a contemplative piano ballad about the passage of
time, and the two best songs—“Broken Radio” and “Aftermath”—are gorgeous
ballads. He still flexes his rock ‘n’ roll muscle plenty, though, delivering
big, anthemic hooks on tracks like “Don’t Let Them Take You Down” and “NY
Nights.” Not many releases from the 2000s make for better road trip records. </div>
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82. <b>Coldplay </b>- <i>Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends</i></div>
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Throughout
the 2000s, I had
something of a love/hate relationship with Coldplay’s music. There were
songs I adored—“Fix You,” especially—but their albums were consistently
less than the
sum of their parts. My brother’s fierce loathing for this band probably
didn’t
help matters. It was with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva La Vida </i>that
my opinions began to shift. Coldplay’s clearest play yet for U2-sized
ambitions, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva </i>is a stadium rock
record big enough to reach for the cheap seats. Much was made of the band’s
decision to hire Brian Eno to help produce this record. You can probably thank
him for a lot of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva</i>’s odder
quirks—like the fact that several of the songs are paired together into extended
two-part tracks, causing stuff like “Yes” to swerve from foreboding indie rock
into interstellar shoegaze. Ultimately, though, bringing in Eno helped Coldplay
craft their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Joshua Tree</i>, with a few
flickers of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unforgettable Fire </i>thrown
in for good measure. After this LP, the band would start drifting restlessly
toward poppier textures, probably because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva
La Vida </i>ended up being 2008’s single biggest seller. That course shift has
often been thrilling, but it’s also meant leaving behind some of Coldplay’s
commitment to shaking arenas all the way to the rafters. Looking back with the
benefit of hindsight, I like this album a lot more than I did back then. Unabashedly
huge arena rock records like this are tough to find these days—especially ones
that are willing to take a few risks underneath all the sheen and hooks. </div>
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83. <b>The Killers</b> -<i> Day & Age</i><br />
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My first reaction to this album
was something along the lines of “What the hell happened?” Coming after two
records that I consider to be the pinnacles of 2000s radio rock, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day & Age </i>threw a wrench in The
Killers’ legacy. The album felt like a reaction to a reaction—specifically, a
response to the critical thrashing that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sam’s
Town </i>had received. Parts of it feel like the band’s attempt to retreat to
what they were doing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hot Fuss</i>.
Other parts still have the Springsteenian swell of the previous record, but
with the seriousness (and stakes) dialed down to more mainstream-appropriate
levels. The result is that, on first listen, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day & Age </i>sounded lightweight and silly. There were great
songs, of course—the bombastic “Losing Touch” is a strong start, and the zippy
“Spaceman” is like nothing else in the band’s catalog. The best song,
though—the radiant, wistful “A Dustland Fairytale”—sounds like the album
Brandon Flowers probably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted </i>to
make after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sam’s Town</i>. Elsewhere, the
band was throwing everything at the canvas to see what stuck, whether it was
sax-driven funk (“Joyride,” the worst song in the Killers discography) or
cruise-ship-advert-worthy soft rock (the Caribbean-flavored “I Can’t Stay”).
It’s a bizarre left-turn of an album, one that trades the band’s flair for the
dramatic for low-stakes experimentation. The difference between 2008 and now is
that what sounded disappointing to me then sounds lively and unexpected now.
Sure, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Day & Age </i>is probably the
worst Killers record, but it’s also the only one where they don’t seem to be
chasing some big, out-of-reach ambition. Just like it's nice sometimes to sit
around talking aimlessly with friends, rather than doing anything in particular,
it’s kind of neat to hear a band like The Killers fucking around and having
fun.</div>
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84. <b>Maroon 5</b> - <i>Songs About Jane</i></div>
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Not many artists I once respected have ever sold out on the level of Adam
Levine. For a few albums, though, Maroon 5 were pop savants, churning out
inventive and engaging music that was still extraordinarily catchy. They peaked here, with their first full-length
record. The singles were solid enough—especially “She Will Be Loved,” which
still encapsulates pretty perfectly what the summer of 2004 sounded like. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs About Jane </i>got more interesting
once you got past “Harder to Breathe” and “This Love.” Here was a band willing
to experiment with the sounds of classic soul, funk, R&B, jazz, and rock
‘n’ roll. Today, this type of record would probably be labeled “cultural
appropriation.” Back in the early 2000s, when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs About Jane </i>slow-burned its way from under-the-radar 2002 release to 2004
cultural domination, it was just viewed as something fresh. Songs like “The
Sun” and “Sunday Morning” hearkened back to the sounds of the past, but gave
them an innately modern twist. Tied together as a breakup album supposedly
written about a single girl, those eclectic sounds coalesce into a surprisingly
emotional piece of work.<br />
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85. <b>The Wallflowers</b> - <i>Red Letter Days</i></div>
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<i>Red Letter Days</i> was the one album
where The Wallflowers reached a little too far. After <i>Breach</i> failed to earn
much of an audience in 2000 (thanks largely to the four-year wait after the
gargantuan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing Down the Horse</i>),
The Wallflowers turned around and delivered this record just two years later.
The quick return was accompanied by an attempt to shed a lot of the roots rock
influence that had been the band’s bread and butter since their radio heyday. The
result is an odd, disjointed record, one that goes from the synth blips of
“When You’re on Top” to the creepy crawl of “Health and Happiness” to the sunny
folk closer “Here in Pleasantville.” Not everything works, and the timeless
classic rock sound of the band’s best records is certainly missed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red Letter Days </i>certainly <i>sounds</i> like an
early 2000s rock record. The flipside of The Wallflowers trying to recapture
their mainstream appeal is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red
Letter Days </i>offers arguably the best glimpse ever at Jakob Dylan’s
indelible melodic gifts. In terms of both sweeping balladry (“How Good It Can
Get,” “Closer to You,” “Three Ways”) and driving upbeat pop songs (“If You
Never Got Sick,” “See You When I Get There”), Dylan stacks one great hook on
top of another. It’s a side of his songwriting that would never get enough
emphasis after he went solo in the late 2000s.</div>
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86. <b>Fastball </b>- <i>The Harsh Light of Day</i></div>
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Fastball left their fame in the
90s. Just like so many other bands—from The Wallflowers to Third Eye Blind to
Sister Hazel—it wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t sustain success.
Virtually every rock band that struck radio gold in the 90s was doomed to fail
in the new millennium, as pop trends, radio formats, and entire music business
models began to shift. On <i>The Harsh Light of Day</i>, though,
Fastball took it all
in stride by making arguably their best album ever. Even at their peak,
Fastball sounded like a band out of time—like a disciple of the Beatles
in an
era where rock was favoring edge over melody. On this record, they
didn’t try
to fit in. Rather, they wrote brilliant pop songs with a tinge of
darkness. The
songs on this record are effortlessly catchy, but they often reflect the
album’s cover and title, from the late-night delirium of “Vampires” to
the
twilit haunt of “Funny How It Fades Away.” Two or three years earlier,
at least one of “You’re
an Ocean,” “Dark Street,” or “Whatever Gets You On” would have been a
smash
radio rock hit—if not all three. It’s a shame they all got
overlooked—and that Fastball ended up getting lost to near-obscurity as a
result.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">87.</span> <b>Michael McDermott</b> - <i>Hey La Hey</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSK7UCydaM9b9Ig1AAeS6dFaZJ-rrhxs2bRAtZESjOYS9ENubxYo4firnra87BShPCIu4Sn08U4bNJlVqGo_yfnOMb-lhg6tM8ZPbE-_3CcSi4WZbW4CLZVmgfkiIts2Jslxni1Ot0foaL/s1600/McDermott+-+Hey+La.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSK7UCydaM9b9Ig1AAeS6dFaZJ-rrhxs2bRAtZESjOYS9ENubxYo4firnra87BShPCIu4Sn08U4bNJlVqGo_yfnOMb-lhg6tM8ZPbE-_3CcSi4WZbW4CLZVmgfkiIts2Jslxni1Ot0foaL/s640/McDermott+-+Hey+La.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey La Hey </i>was the last album I fell in love with before the clock
struck 12 on the 2000s. A Christmas Day download, just days before 2009 wound
down and disappeared forever, this album sounded perfect on those crisp, cold
winter afternoons. Listening back now, it’s one of those time capsule records, an
album so wrapped up in a specific time that it’s difficult for me to go back to it. I
listened to this album a lot that winter, during drives back and forth from
home, or long weekends spent alone in my dorm room when my roommate was out of
town. It was a lonely season, and this album was a comforting companion. Songs
like “So Am I” and “Carry Your Cross” spoke of love and companionship so deep
and pure that I wanted to bottle it up and make it my own. It was listening to
this album that I realized that I was tired of being alone. There’s a line in
“The Great American Novel” about writing a book about “the loneliness of a lone
assassin,” but I was tired of loneliness being a core tenet of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>story. Being lonely wasn’t romantic,
or even tragically beautiful. It was long drives with nothing but music as a
companion, or weekends spent missing my friends back home. It was a grayscale
mess of boredom and mild pain that I was tired of having as a part of my life.
That summer, everything changed, and I fell in love with the girl I was going
to marry. Years later, I ended up on stage with Michael McDermott—purely by
chance—to sing a Springsteen song. I didn’t get to thank him for the music that
kept me company during my life’s loneliest period, but I wish I had.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">88. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>U2 </b>- <i>No Line on the Horizon</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM93fMQbhQ18eOXFNV82MCz6r153r904tJsDA3WpI_g6nu1YQSywx5Bg4-02Ket6MBmQ8d4KJP0NBNhGZ-QvvR737X0dVCZ1iTFCtNDLZN3Cuh3h4ybEIq4Z5dAJzUtA4Zvn-hv5EBtRgP/s1600/U2+-+No+Line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM93fMQbhQ18eOXFNV82MCz6r153r904tJsDA3WpI_g6nu1YQSywx5Bg4-02Ket6MBmQ8d4KJP0NBNhGZ-QvvR737X0dVCZ1iTFCtNDLZN3Cuh3h4ybEIq4Z5dAJzUtA4Zvn-hv5EBtRgP/s640/U2+-+No+Line.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It took me a long time to
appreciate <i>No Line on the Horizon</i>. U2’s other 2000s records—<i>All That You Can’t
Leave Behind </i>and <i>How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb</i>—are catchy, accessible, and
emotionally resonant. In comparison, I found this record meandering, cold, and
lyrically oblique. I remember hearing songs from it on XM Radio while traveling
to one of my college auditions in February 2009, right before the album hit the
streets. My first impression was something along the lines of “Is this it?”
After <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Atomic Bomb </i>and songs like
“Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your Own” and “City of Blinding Lights,” it
felt like U2 had lost their mojo. That feeling of disappointment hung over my
first listens and lingered throughout the year, to the point where I don’t even
remember placing this album on the makeshift “Best of 2009” list I made around
Christmastime. It was in the months and years that followed that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Line </i>crept up on me. The opening trio
hit first. Bono sounded hungry and raw on the title track; “Magnificent” lived
up to its title with a grandiosity that called back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Unforgettable Fire</i>; and “Moment of Surrender,” about a drug
addict having a crisis of faith at an ATM machine, punched me right in the gut.
The other tracks came later: the desolate winter expanses of “White as Snow”
and “Cedars of Lebanon”; the kinetic ricochet of “Breathe”; the meandering
landscapes of “Fez – Being Born” and “Unknown Caller.” Even the opportunistic
radio grabs of “Get on Your Boots” and “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy
Tonight” eventually clicked. Some people view <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Line </i>as
U2’s lowest point; for me, it was a sign that they were ready to reach again
after a decade spent doing victory laps.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">89. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Green Day</b> - <i>21st Century Breakdown</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6-k37oHQUNUGJ25uqQoL_tHxMgLo5RKU3H4v49IZCkAlGXrmZIjwUlskiYAKI3Hr-XPDBZuWbKHdXX_6qezbNudttmG1gRfDL5_6vTH82CkuKBxH-ihXRUhOG3L6Di_M-2USSFTulrMh/s1600/Green+Day+-+Breakdown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6-k37oHQUNUGJ25uqQoL_tHxMgLo5RKU3H4v49IZCkAlGXrmZIjwUlskiYAKI3Hr-XPDBZuWbKHdXX_6qezbNudttmG1gRfDL5_6vTH82CkuKBxH-ihXRUhOG3L6Di_M-2USSFTulrMh/s640/Green+Day+-+Breakdown.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>21st Century Breakdown</i>
is a mess. As the follow-up to <i>American Idiot</i>, it suffers from trying to one-up
its predecessor in every possible department. It’s bigger, longer, more
grandiose, and more musically varied. It’s also incomprehensible from a story
standpoint (Green Day decided to go the rock opera route again) and
occasionally feels like it’s buckling under the weight of its own lofty ambitions.
The songs, though, make up for it. Packed with hooks, slick production,
shimmering pianos, and big multi-part suites, <i>21st Century Breakdown</i>
is as memorable as it is frustrating. Green Day spend the record cribbing moves
from Springsteen, Dylan, The Beatles, The Who, Queen, and even Meat Loaf. The
result is overwrought, overblown, and overlong, but it’s also one of the last
times a mainstream rock band really seemed to push themselves. I bought this
album on my senior skip day, just a few weeks shy of graduation, and it was one of
the last albums I ever bought on the CD format. Today, I look back on it as the
end of an era: the death of a certain type of mainstream rock. </div>
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90. <b>Emerson Hart</b> - <i>Cigarettes & Gasoline</i><br />
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As the frontman for 90s one-hit
wonders Tonic, Emerson Hart was never going to have a ton of cred in the
Pitchfork era. Suffice to say that, of the 90s radio rock staples, “If You
Could Only See” is on the cheesier and more dated end of the spectrum. On his
2007 solo debut, though, Hart transcended his roots with one of the best
singer-songwriter albums of the decade. Hart, it turned out, was more versatile
than just about anyone would have thought. Here, he pulled off big epic power
ballads (“If You’re Gonna Leave,” “When She Loves You”), sunburnt acoustic folk
songs (“Green Hills Race for California”), crunchy alt-rock (“I Know”), and
even big, aching piano ballads about flying kites (“Flyin’,” really a metaphor
for the pains of growing up). Hart’s sense for melody—along with his big,
earnest vocal delivery—made for a record that soundtracked one of the most
tumultuous periods of my life. Because of how many links this album shares with
my junior year of high school, it’s not always easy to hear it outside of that
context. Still, when the title track comes on—Hart’s aching eulogy for his late
father—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cigarettes & Gasoline </i>becomes
momentarily timeless.</div>
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91. <b>Third Eye Blind</b> - <i>Ursa Major</i><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For me, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ursa Major </i>had a lot to live up to when it finally arrived in the
late summer of 2009. Not only had it been more than six year’s since Third Eye
Blind’s previous record, 2003’s sublime <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Out
of the Vein</i>, but the songs from the band’s self-titled album had also only
come to mean more to me as I grew older. My defining experiences with
“Motorcycle Drive-By” and “The Background” came within a year of this album’s
release, even though they were both songs that had been around for 12 years at that
point. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ursa Major </i>also happened
to come out just weeks before I left my hometown behind for college, and that
serendipitous timing made it one of the most instantly nostalgic records I’ve
ever heard. The songs themselves did most of the heavy lifting. In the annals
of great summer evening tracks, “Bonfire” and “Sharp Knife” at least deserve
honorable mentions. The album quickly came to encapsulate those final weeks of
security and familiarity to me, between the raucous rush of the rockers and the
series of beautiful, devastating images that frontman Stephan Jenkins has
always been so good at dropping into his songs: the “muffled ‘I love you’
through an oxygen mask” as the plane goes down in “Water Landing,” or the mother
“who shattered ‘cause no one loved her” on “Monotov’s Private Opera.” Third Eye
Blind were a band that soundtracked a whole lot of my childhood, so it always felt
fitting to me that they were there to help lay it to rest.</div>
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92. <b>Boys Like Girls</b> - <i>Boys Like Girls</i><br />
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From the first time I heard
“Thunder,” I knew these guys were going to be huge. That happened in a
sweltering Detroit music venue on the first of August 2006. This album—the Boys
Like Girls debut—wasn’t out yet, and I’d never heard of this band before. But
they were opening for Butch Walker, and I knew instinctively that their songs
were hits. They also played “The Great Escape” that night, which was the song
that actually <i>would </i>garner them radio airplay and send them to a level where they could
feasibly bring in Taylor Swift for a cameo on their next record. But my favorite
was “Thunder,” which might contain the single most apt description of a
summertime romance I’ve ever heard in a song: “Your voice was the soundtrack of
my summer.” If this album had come out a few years earlier, that line would
probably have been a quintessential AIM away message. It’s still a song that
gets heavy rotation on my summer mixes, and one that feels timeless and ageless
to me now. The rest of the album is more a product of the mid-2000s
pop-punk/emo fad, but I still love it for its bold hooks and teen-movie-worthy
drama. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
93. <b>Nada Surf </b>- <i>Let Go</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP6I0h8WjXbn8Fy_yk1MjCzGvkPDgo7RQ71tZX_gKZjiymB7IG5NokSo-AQdcFkcn-6GY5W3MpNAkRLNHzUDWLkUs-fWlmoE7woo-Wfrul0We7GWUE2BTeTp_8mpEXaeu84luLxfzql0ed/s1600/Nada+Surf+-+Let+Go.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP6I0h8WjXbn8Fy_yk1MjCzGvkPDgo7RQ71tZX_gKZjiymB7IG5NokSo-AQdcFkcn-6GY5W3MpNAkRLNHzUDWLkUs-fWlmoE7woo-Wfrul0We7GWUE2BTeTp_8mpEXaeu84luLxfzql0ed/s640/Nada+Surf+-+Let+Go.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
Throughout the early half of the
2000s, my main source for music discovery was TV. Shows like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The O.C. </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Tree Hill </i>briefly made music licensing a major component of
virtually every drama on television. On one of those shows—a bland drama called
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mountain </i>that I think only got
half a season—I happened to hear “Inside of Love,” a track from Nada Surf’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let Go</i>. I don’t remember anything about
that show now, but the song ended up sticking with me. Prior to that point, the
only Nada Surf song I’d ever heard was “Popular”—an awful novelty single from the
'90s that made these guys into one-hit wonders. But “Inside of Love” was
something entirely different: an aching, exhausted plea for connection from a
narrator who is beginning to resign himself to a life of loneliness. I was
surprised the band that made “Popular” could craft something so beautiful and
so unguarded. I was surprised again when I heard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let Go </i>in full. Eclectic and lively, this album jumps from gorgeous
ballads to SoCal surf rock to French-language ditties. The subject matter,
meanwhile, ranges from the the Blizzard of 1977 to fruit flies to Bob Dylan’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blonde on Blonde</i>. It’s an
idiosyncratic set of songs, but it never lets its inherent quirkiness get in
the way of Nada Surf’s impeccable songcraft or sense for melody. The result is
one of the decade’s most unique and beautiful records. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
94. <b>Ryan Adams</b> - <i>Gold</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipabuIjGnKjIK2gfMe02R5bcbysxWxVpzDYkmVCi-3mUXKxbLpdkWuurlRMOY9CFi3HQ4v2BAWwS79VgUOBqe7cppaTmdJIpV9TQPdZ2dctheuSpXe-RFRL-VcZVbwVpX_GaylAwbAjBwj/s1600/Ryan+Adams+-+Gold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipabuIjGnKjIK2gfMe02R5bcbysxWxVpzDYkmVCi-3mUXKxbLpdkWuurlRMOY9CFi3HQ4v2BAWwS79VgUOBqe7cppaTmdJIpV9TQPdZ2dctheuSpXe-RFRL-VcZVbwVpX_GaylAwbAjBwj/s640/Ryan+Adams+-+Gold.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold </i>is where Ryan Adams became Ryan Adams. After Adams made his
debut solo LP, 2000’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heartbreaker</i>,
delivering more of the same would have been a genius career move. A
sparse acoustic record of breakup songs? For a guy who’d already
penned modern classics like “Come Pick Me Up” and “Oh My Sweet
Carolina,” there
was no surer bet. Rather than take the road toward money and success,
though,
Adams made a risky, genre-hopping LP called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold</i>.
So was born one of the decade’s most contrary musical figures: someone who
always zigged when you expected him to zag, and someone who outpaced the
conventional release cycles of the era to such a degree that he ended up with
at least five albums of extra material. For ages, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold </i>was my favorite Ryan Adams album. Certainly, it has some of
his sturdiest songs ever—like the oft-covered alt-country standard “When the
Stars Go Blue,” the rousing “New York, New York,” or the heartrending “La
Cienega Just Smiled.” Mostly, though, I admire <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold </i>because it showed an artist unwilling to play by any set of
rules but his own. As both a melting pot of different influences and a
harbinger of the mercurial, unpredictable star Ryan Adams would turn out to be, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold </i>is a genuine classic. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
95. <b>Sister Hazel</b> - <i>Absolutely</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtggXTZutiyCZYuN0mrHwVKy4fR6QX90gOxo7MR4W7ebs2dLTm7QbdRRov-JNPx3r3Bix7Yh78llu1j2jW_t1CF-axRg7Icd8h_c2dvGi1vdJ_mvqAOMT65Sui0ofBi1myYdTKTSF8AMT/s1600/Sister+Hazel+-+Absolutely.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtggXTZutiyCZYuN0mrHwVKy4fR6QX90gOxo7MR4W7ebs2dLTm7QbdRRov-JNPx3r3Bix7Yh78llu1j2jW_t1CF-axRg7Icd8h_c2dvGi1vdJ_mvqAOMT65Sui0ofBi1myYdTKTSF8AMT/s640/Sister+Hazel+-+Absolutely.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
During the 2000s, Sister Hazel
were probably one of my four or five favorite bands. Between 2000 and 2006,
they released four albums that I love without reservation. Two of those albums,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chasing Daylight </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely</i>, are on this list. The other
two, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fortress </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lift</i>, easily could have been. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely </i>ended up being kind of the
end of the road for the band for me, though, at least for a little while. After this, a
mix of songwriting shakeups in the band and my own musical growth pushed me
away from these Gainesville roots rockers. (Though they eventually won me back over in
2016, when they went country on an album called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lighter in the Dark</i>.) Fittingly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely </i>represents an end of innocence for me. This album was in
heavy rotation in my life when I happened to be going through my first real
relationship. Songs like “Truth Is,” “Where Do You Go,” and “Everything Else
Disappears” came to represent the butterflies of that time. The not-so-graceful
end of that relationship left a bad taste in my mouth, and a fair few of these
songs were tainted as a result. Years after the fact, though, I can go back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely </i>and admire it again, both for
the unbridled optimism of the love songs and for the rootsy, melodic stomp of
highlights like “Shame” and “Mandolin Moon.”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
96. <b>Black Lab</b> - <i>See the Sun</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_dNE4xdMNxzAH5-pJwFh385VN0VqnGza2FYapL7iBDjGaF68DYG0nktxdBSQv0yjKbRHlGYc61Yxr1TNAbcCDvrrbF0G_EuxP0r5wtv_wLNi7mpilX4LjAxcdSw7zoL4VOFJyKER1ql6/s1600/Black+Lab+-+Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_dNE4xdMNxzAH5-pJwFh385VN0VqnGza2FYapL7iBDjGaF68DYG0nktxdBSQv0yjKbRHlGYc61Yxr1TNAbcCDvrrbF0G_EuxP0r5wtv_wLNi7mpilX4LjAxcdSw7zoL4VOFJyKER1ql6/s640/Black+Lab+-+Sun.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
<i>See the Sun</i> is the sound of a relationship
breathing its last dying gasp. Ever since I started listening to music, I’ve
always been drawn to songs and albums that ache like a broken heart. There is
something so cathartic and relatable about listening to another human being
exorcise those ghosts for you to hear. “Do you remember? ‘Cause I remember,”
sings frontman Paul Durham early in the record. It’s a simply lyric, but it
functions as the mission statement of the album. In the breakup of a
relationship, there’s always someone who hurts more. Someone whose heart is
more broken. Someone who misses the other person more than the other person
misses them. This album is from the perspective of that person, and it’s as raw
as any breakup album released in the 2000s. On the final track, Durham envisions
that moment where “the circus lights go out” and everyone goes home—where he
stops pretending he can win her back and hustles to the parking lot to beat the
traffic. “The one mistake I never made was to come right out and ask you if you
need me/Do you need me now?” he bellows on the bridge. The implicit answer is
“No,” and the pain of that moment is so rich and so tender that it hurts to
listen to.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
97. <b>R.E.M. </b>- <i>Around the Sun</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2fY1VihD5J3_TaXWB8wH2LVJ6SZ5tU1YJiPbPwvqq2rwN42oGmOWM0QlLC6TCEMz78S8X_xX9XkP5JkvU_gUVzFfIyNI0a601Y8ZkYz5qwDDI5ChdQcNbsGBXDVYEfaBf1DSiyKtHVEe/s1600/REM+-+Around+the+Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2fY1VihD5J3_TaXWB8wH2LVJ6SZ5tU1YJiPbPwvqq2rwN42oGmOWM0QlLC6TCEMz78S8X_xX9XkP5JkvU_gUVzFfIyNI0a601Y8ZkYz5qwDDI5ChdQcNbsGBXDVYEfaBf1DSiyKtHVEe/s640/REM+-+Around+the+Sun.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i></div>
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</div>
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People <i>hate </i>this record. R.E.M. are a beloved band, to
the point where even their weaker albums—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around
the Sun</i>’s predecessors, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Up </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reveal</i>, along with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Collapse into Now</i>, their lukewarm swansong—are typically treated with
indifference, at worst. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around the Sun</i> got bashed by critics and is so maligned in the fanbase that you are
unlikely ever to come across a discography ranking where it doesn’t end up dead last. In my view, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sun </i>is
criminally underrated. Maybe it’s because this was my first R.E.M. record, or
because it came out right in the midst of my most formative musical years.
Whatever the reason, I loved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around the
Sun </i>in 2004 and I still love it now. Everything people don’t like about
this album works for me. It’s true that the band sounds disconnected, like they
were recording their parts in different studios at different times. It’s true
that the production is slick and poppy. It’s true that the album is not super dynamic.
For me, though, all those qualities contribute to the album’s overall mood: of austere
loneliness, creeping dread, and cautious hope. Released right before the 2004
election, in the wake of years of war and relentless fear, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Around the Sun </i>served as a fitting snapshot of the political
exhaustion and resignation of the time. The
result is a record that, to me at least, still sounds strangely comforting on
dark, troubling days—especially the rain-soaked beauty that is “Leaving New
York.”</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
98. <b>Red Hot Chili Peppers</b> - <i>By the Way</i></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWeRtdgZgSTsHkXBlPcRV2YNWMj5GEAVGfkZE89D9tL2kEeDRVzK28Sz07c_iO4PRraLMWJHDc2AvWJqa_iuCcMiP8WIRoytm7-ddehf9OpY7ZDTT-S-KPxk9ND6rkkLvAEKxlDW0KL4TH/s1600/RHCP+-+By+the+Way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWeRtdgZgSTsHkXBlPcRV2YNWMj5GEAVGfkZE89D9tL2kEeDRVzK28Sz07c_iO4PRraLMWJHDc2AvWJqa_iuCcMiP8WIRoytm7-ddehf9OpY7ZDTT-S-KPxk9ND6rkkLvAEKxlDW0KL4TH/s640/RHCP+-+By+the+Way.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
Somewhere around the mid-2000s,
Red Hot Chili Peppers became a punchline. To be fair, there is a lot to make
fun of in this band’s DNA: their roots as guys who performed onstage naked,
with nothing but socks covering their private parts; Anthony Kiedis’s nonsense
lyrics, usually having something to do with California; the fact that their
bassist calls himself Flea. When I first heard RHCP, though, they were pitched
to me (by my brother) as killer musicians with a true full-band ethos. In my
mind, never was that pitch more accurate than on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By the Way</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Californication </i>and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stadium Arcadium</i> yielded bigger
singles, but both are wildly inconsistent—both tonally and quality-wise. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By the Way</i>—arguably the band’s most
grown-up record—is maybe the only Chili Peppers LP with decent pacing.
Nonsense lyrics or not, Kiedis was at the top of his game here, delivering
next-level melodies and vocal performances on songs like “Universally
Speaking,” “Dosed,” and “Tear.” He’s not the only person performing at the top
of their game, either. I’m of the mind that the Peppers never sounded better than they
do on “Don’t Forget Me,” and guitarist John Frusciante was certainly earning his paycheck
with killer Beach Boys-esque backing vocals on nearly every track. The band
would start to implode after this, first with excess on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stadium</i>, and later with the departure of Frusciante (and an
accompanying identity crisis) on 2011’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m
with You</i>. For one more moment in 2002, though, Red Hot Chili Peppers were completely
worthy of being one of the biggest bands on the planet.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
99. <b>Bright Eyes</b> - <i>I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 187.5pt;">
In the winter of my freshman year
of college, I went down the rabbit hole of Pitchfork-approved indie music: a
little LCD Soundsystem, a metric ton of Modest Mouse, a dash of the Dirty
Projectors, a small amount of Sufjan Stevens. Of those binges, only a few songs
stuck here or there. My February/March infatuation with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning</i>, though, did make a lasting
impression. I never liked any other Bright Eyes records. There are a handful of
songs I love on records like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cassadega </i>and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lifted</i>, but for the most part, I
found Conor Oberst’s songwriting to be overwrought and overrated. Not so with this
album, which is the closest he ever came to making a proper alt-country record.
This record became the soundtrack to cold walks to class, lonely evenings in my
dorm room, and long drives home. I liked all of it—the random monologue at the beginning of “At
the Bottom of Everything,” the lovelorn sentiment of “First Day of My Life”—but
the last three tracks took it to the next level. “Land Locked Blues” is a
philosophical end to a relationship; “Poison Oak” is a rumination on the death
of a friend; and “Road to Joy” sets everything on fire—a manic, chaotic anthem
set to the tune of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
100. <b>Franz Ferdinand</b> - <i>Franz Ferdinand</i></div>
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The first time I heard this
record, I hated it. We’re talking legitimate “I can’t believe this is so bad”
loathing. 2004 was a huge year for indie rock records: The Killers, Arcade
Fire, Wilco, Modest Mouse, Snow Patrol, etc. I’d found something to love in all
of those albums, so when Amazon kept showing me the “customers like you bought…”
recommendation for Franz Ferdinand, I took it seriously. (It didn’t hurt that
I’d obviously heard “Take Me Out,” which I obviously found to be amazing.)
Those factors convinced me to buy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Franz
Ferdinand </i>sight-unseen while out and about Christmas shopping for that year. The next
morning, when I finally got a chance to give the record a listen, I was turned
off to say the least. The scattershot vocals, the messy arrangements, the
guy-on-guy love song that was “Michael”: it was all a little much for my
14-year-old ears. But I kept going back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Franz
Ferdinand</i>. Something about the way the album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> work for me was fascinating. And slowly, it started to
click. What had once seemed messy began to sound glammy, loose, and infectious.
I was drawn to songs like “Jacqueline,” which always seemed just about ready to
crash off the rails, but managed to keep things together for the sake of the hooks and the
kids on the dancefloor. Franz Ferdinand had an unpredictable energy to their
sound and songs that made their music stick in my brain—even when I thought I
didn’t want it to be there. Their sophomore LP, the next year's <i>You Can Have It So Much Better</i>, is almost as good.</div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-91012685594770333912018-07-03T12:28:00.001-04:002018-07-03T12:29:19.572-04:00The Best Albums of 2018 So Far<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I know a music year is good when I can look at my mid-year top 10 and feel like I'd be content if nothing changed by the end of the year. That's the case with the first six months of 2018, which yielded a true embarrassment of riches. Narrowing my list down to 10 records was no small feat, and necessitated cutting emotional wrecking balls from the likes of Brandi Carlile and Ashley Monroe, as well as pitch-perfect summer LPs like LANCO's <i>Hallelujah Nights</i>. Ultimately, though, the albums below stood out in sharpest relief. So, without further ado, my 10 favorite albums of 2018 so far.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1. <b>Caitlyn Smith </b>- <i>Starfire</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsk3x9gcix90QHAlBIRY7GpCYHRS_pAQYNgXdcbPAho0dv6hMuc5CCk4R-L8tHyVsGZ60JOI7Ia5Tb1PaS11pabkErKWttmHepeF6pOE83o0R7qgmvfpI51ud8WahFlT4_5U6F911UFA-z/s1600/Caitlyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsk3x9gcix90QHAlBIRY7GpCYHRS_pAQYNgXdcbPAho0dv6hMuc5CCk4R-L8tHyVsGZ60JOI7Ia5Tb1PaS11pabkErKWttmHepeF6pOE83o0R7qgmvfpI51ud8WahFlT4_5U6F911UFA-z/s640/Caitlyn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Some artists just have those voices that you can’t deny. You
might not usually listen to the genre they hail from, and you might not even
love the songs, but you can hear them sing and understand why people love their
music. Adele is one of those artists. Chris Stapleton is one of those artists.
Jeff Buckley, when he was alive, was one of those artists. And Caitlyn Smith is
one of those artists, too. For my money, Smith’s debut, titled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starfire</i>, is one of the two or three
most well-sung LPs of the decade so far. I’m guessing that one listen to the
theatrical tour-de-force “East Side Restaurant” will be enough to tell you why.</div>
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While Smith’s voice is the centerpiece, though, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starfire </i>is what it is because of the
songwriting. Smith has been waiting for this moment for a long time, releasing
a series of EPs and writing songs for everyone from Garth Brooks to Dolly
Parton to Meghan Trainor and John Legend. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starfire
</i>encapsulates that long-haul story into a record about chasing a dream until
it breaks your heart—and then chasing it even harder. Songs like “Don’t Give up
on My Love” and “This Town Is Killing Me” ache with the sting of everything you
sacrifice when you gamble your life on a fool’s hope of music industry success.
“They buried my granddad without me/’Cause I was out on the road at some one-off
show in Tupelo/And I can’t take that one back,” Smith sings in the latter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starfire </i>is an album built on a lot of
miles, a lot of lonely nights in shitty motel rooms, and a lot of blood, sweat,
and tears. You can hear every ounce of what the journey cost in the songs, so
when Smith belts something like the rafter-shaking key change at the climax of
“Tacoma,” it feels like nothing less than a triumph of the human spirit.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2. <b>Kacey Musgraves </b>- <i>Golden Hour</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjimSVKtS5GuC55rGyI0Gu6XU57Rb1x61rmS4M6fXq0LrfHUnUBj8yaEWSLVPAEEyQxD6pYf1cFeQU7G1nOjWTQ3d5GqcWm-IPjDotKQ5eqQIDlGnuD1T2phNY2P2iP3MpwBWxH0kUNhwa7/s1600/Kacey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjimSVKtS5GuC55rGyI0Gu6XU57Rb1x61rmS4M6fXq0LrfHUnUBj8yaEWSLVPAEEyQxD6pYf1cFeQU7G1nOjWTQ3d5GqcWm-IPjDotKQ5eqQIDlGnuD1T2phNY2P2iP3MpwBWxH0kUNhwa7/s640/Kacey.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Virtually every music fan I’ve encountered online has <i>Golden
Hour </i>somewhere in their mid-year best albums list. A lot of these people are
not country music fans, but they were won over by Kacey Musgraves and her
beautiful, lilting melodies. It’s not hard to see why: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Golden Hour </i>is lush, luscious, and emotionally satisfying, an
earnest “falling in love” album from a girl who built her brand on always being
the wittiest, most cynical person in the room. There’s still wit, of course.
Musgraves is just a damn smart songwriter, which is why she can turn a song
called “Wonder Woman” into a thoughtful dissection of unrealistic relationship
dynamics, or why she can make the word “chrysalis” sound so goddamn romantic in
“Butterflies.” But Kacey also knows when to drop the clever gun and level with
you, making love songs like “Love Is a Wild Thing” and “Rainbow” sound like the
purest and prettiest confessions ever to come from a heart. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3. <b>Tenille Townes </b>- <i>The Living Room
Worktapes</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1yh-nMDaz-_ZIZVGtFJYUFOl_cF47EcQlNQzV1FLJjEOCT8C4MZ0kJD5SH8OMeBw-gwuj_20yBq_q22pH9COyRJBKVE_cAENXVCt_6xDe4YFutqkyoOoUQrN83cS2RAzRSDpnRpSHP6i/s1600/Tenille.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr1yh-nMDaz-_ZIZVGtFJYUFOl_cF47EcQlNQzV1FLJjEOCT8C4MZ0kJD5SH8OMeBw-gwuj_20yBq_q22pH9COyRJBKVE_cAENXVCt_6xDe4YFutqkyoOoUQrN83cS2RAzRSDpnRpSHP6i/s640/Tenille.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I don’t usually put EPs on “best albums” lists, but I
couldn’t help myself with this one. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Living Room Worktapes </i>is so good that it almost single-handedly reignited
my excitement for new music. For whatever reason, around the middle of May, I
found myself bored with seeking out fresh releases, preferring to revisit old
favorites. I wondered for a spell whether I was getting to that point that so
many listeners reach, where they lose their hunger for new music. Turns out I
just needed a new, young artist to come along and light my world on fire again.
Tenille Townes did that. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Living Room
Worktapes </i>is just four songs, and those four songs feature little more than
Townes’ voice and guitar, but the result is still magnetic. Bookended by a pair of
clever and catchy love songs (“Where You Are” and “White Horse”), this EP soars
with its middle two selections, both songs that tell nuanced, heartbreaking
stories in brand new ways. The first,
“Jersey on the Wall,” is a conversation with god about a high school athlete
who died in a car accident. The second, “Somebody’s Daughter,” finds the narrator
reckoning with a million questions as she drives past a homeless woman on the
side of the road. “I’ll wonder how she fell and no one caught her/She’s
somebody’s daughter,” Townes sings on the latter, a burst of pure, beautiful
empathy that cracked my heart in half the first time I heard it. No one has
written a better song this year. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">4. <b>Brian Fallon </b>- <i>Sleepwalkers</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPEJ4DYcD4SYCdFAWnSJfJBPJ_zL_JjLBZZJteiKU5Noo9V05BWxP90Le3IjoPx3wvzlhAaZdaMh6CjT5XZDip8Pj-i3zTOf8E2psDfpAHR-LKumJ_Zbt1KBfLByLHz6fZHgQBruDmUA_/s1600/Brian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPEJ4DYcD4SYCdFAWnSJfJBPJ_zL_JjLBZZJteiKU5Noo9V05BWxP90Le3IjoPx3wvzlhAaZdaMh6CjT5XZDip8Pj-i3zTOf8E2psDfpAHR-LKumJ_Zbt1KBfLByLHz6fZHgQBruDmUA_/s640/Brian.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
Brian Fallon has gotten more press this year for an album
that’s 10 years old than for one that came out less than six months ago. That
fact isn’t terribly surprising: as The Gaslight Anthem celebrate 10 years of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The ’59 Sound</i>—both <a href="https://www.theringer.com/music/2018/6/13/17453674/gaslight-anthem-59-sound-oral-history-10th-anniversary" target="_blank">in print</a> and on
tour—everyone wants to take a look back at the earliest days of Fallon and his
“next Bruce Springsteen” myth-making narrative. At the same time, though, Fallon
is quietly carving out a comfortable niche for himself as a solo artist. His
solo debut, 2016’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Painkillers</i>,
showed immense promise but often <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounded
</i>like the prototypical “frontman goes solo” LP. Fallon was trying to figure
out how his songs should sound without his mighty backing band behind him. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sleepwalkers</i>, he’s decided not to worry
about it, and the result is a decidedly richer and more assured album. Hearing
Fallon howl at the moon again—on songs like “Etta James” and the title
track—feels so good after what was mostly a more restrained affair on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Painkillers</i>. Underneath the rediscovered
confidence and gravitas, though, Fallon shares a deeply personal story about
finding love again after a divorce. His willingness to tell the truth makes
songs like “Neptune,” and “Watson” not just great solo Brian Fallon songs, but
some of the best songs he’s ever done, with any project.</div>
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5. <b>Dawes </b>- <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Passwords</span></i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1z3sCy8sjAOukD75PaVLV8zcpZ_xJ21b97ZreNNVxwrSF37ionhIlz6ADrkjuXPMvAaR-FD4fGsWJcH8CP-Q9E0LIRavZFBnurUif5JnNDic07pH4u2CjuG9usDuzy0mzbW4DTWbSmh7T/s1600/Dawes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1z3sCy8sjAOukD75PaVLV8zcpZ_xJ21b97ZreNNVxwrSF37ionhIlz6ADrkjuXPMvAaR-FD4fGsWJcH8CP-Q9E0LIRavZFBnurUif5JnNDic07pH4u2CjuG9usDuzy0mzbW4DTWbSmh7T/s640/Dawes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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Less immediate than any other record in the Dawes catalog, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passwords </i>nonetheless extends the band’s
hot streak to six albums—five of them from this decade. No other band has been
as consistently excellent over the past 10 years, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passwords </i>pushes the Dawes sound in enough interesting directions that it's easy to imagine their streak lasting another 10 years.
For this record, the name of the game seems to be longer tracks with more
subtle builds or structural changes throughout. Some listeners might flag the
new style as boring at points, but give these songs some time to percolate and
they flourish, with slow-burners like “I Can’t Love” and “Telescope”
benefiting especially from more nuanced listening. The best numbers, though,
are still grounded in frontman Taylor Goldsmith’s thoughtful
observations about the human condition. When he lets his guard down and gets
vulnerable on the last two tracks—“Never Gonna Say Goodbye” and “Time Flies
Either Way,” both poetic love songs, both among his most personal work ever—he makes it feel like no one else has ever
written songs about love before.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">6. <b>Donovan Woods </b>- <i>Both Ways</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlGnvIpFsvunecFEMhFNINFaFJ206fW3bS22OnxwBRhoHvjM6_8XP0h8EqDaQ4b9SOci5kMKtvpxO1kqztXJH5Y2FmY_cFCOd0N0jjrUYjC69fryEfeEBgB7HnAOWib-xfLfaOjG4FlG2/s1600/Both+Ways.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlGnvIpFsvunecFEMhFNINFaFJ206fW3bS22OnxwBRhoHvjM6_8XP0h8EqDaQ4b9SOci5kMKtvpxO1kqztXJH5Y2FmY_cFCOd0N0jjrUYjC69fryEfeEBgB7HnAOWib-xfLfaOjG4FlG2/s640/Both+Ways.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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<br />
Donovan Woods just gets better and better. As a writer who
always knows the best way to turn his pen into a knife—and how to twist it, to make
things really hurt—Woods specializes in songs designed to break your heart. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Both Ways </i>is his most skillful work yet
in that regard, packed with songs that balance joy and gratefulness with
crushing sadness and loss. But that’s life: you get things both ways, the bad
with the good and the dark with the light. It’s why there’s a song about
falling in love that will probably make you cry (“I Ain’t Ever Loved No One”)
and a song about losing a parent that will probably make you smile (“Next
Year”).</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">7. <b>Field Report </b>- <i>Summertime Songs</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafPCrvdipMcGPdl3EfQsyIdDmfygIcjy2G3JoxA2g9HftiRmn1YXn_3okft5TeGzeYpKTc0vxqxMDty9oYzL5Kf9mZkSkQhBfaMX4BOrPcasMa7CFxY4iXjw1N0H6LCuIVqrbThiCgWDD/s1600/Field+Report.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafPCrvdipMcGPdl3EfQsyIdDmfygIcjy2G3JoxA2g9HftiRmn1YXn_3okft5TeGzeYpKTc0vxqxMDty9oYzL5Kf9mZkSkQhBfaMX4BOrPcasMa7CFxY4iXjw1N0H6LCuIVqrbThiCgWDD/s640/Field+Report.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
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Doubt; fear; self-loathing; regret. These emotions are a
songwriter’s best friends, but they typically end up distilled into sad,
depressing songs. On <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Summertime Songs</i>,
they form the backbone to one of the year’s most uplifting albums. The record
finds frontman Chris Porterfield fretting over the impending birth of his first
child. Is he the “father” type? Does he have what it takes to be that kind of stable
and dependable object for someone else? Or should he just hit the road and run right now? Save his wife
and his unborn child the pain of his future mistakes? By the end of the record,
though, Porterfield is recommitting—not because he thinks he can promise a
future of infallibility, but because he wants to be a part of something bigger
than himself when life’s storms inevitably come. “When everything is changing,
you are everything I need,” he sings in the final song. It’s a chilling
conclusion to the year’s most complete album-length statement.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">8. <b>Brothers Osborne </b>- <i>Port Saint Joe</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54k-IN6LiD9Z7T2xE1W-FZnT-Uw1Vu2wMYo3TktuimIj09fGeiF3qD2hxAT5-idZFzSf4lXdgdztIwX6fXNtNGqp0Uw9E-b-12Qp46n1z1luG2SnR5TQgV3bdobFsd76QzWtd2YQcG8gL/s1600/Brothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54k-IN6LiD9Z7T2xE1W-FZnT-Uw1Vu2wMYo3TktuimIj09fGeiF3qD2hxAT5-idZFzSf4lXdgdztIwX6fXNtNGqp0Uw9E-b-12Qp46n1z1luG2SnR5TQgV3bdobFsd76QzWtd2YQcG8gL/s640/Brothers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<i>
</i><br />
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<br />
On their first album, 2016’s <i>Pawn Shop</i>, Brothers Osborne proved a few things. First, they
were committed to bringing the guitar solo back as a genuine artform. Second,
they knew their way around a hook. And third, they were willing to go to darker
places than the typical mainstream country band when the song demanded it. On
the follow-up, a rich and organic set called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Port Saint Joe</i>, they double down on all of the above. The songs are
catchy enough to be summer mixtape fodder (“Slow Your Roll”), rip-roaring enough
to rock harder than any actual “rock” song from 2018 (“Shoot Me Straight”), and
nuanced enough tackle serious topics like alcoholism (“Tequila Again”) and
mortality (“Pushing up Daisies,” “While You Still Can”). Tying everything
together is Jay Joyce’s expert production, which makes songs like “Weed,
Whiskey, and Willie” sound like literal heaven. </div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">9. <b>Steve Moakler </b>- <i>Born Ready</i></span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkwaE2NRHF05sHNDRUSsC-qpBFkkwhN9jHFvfTciKOZ1W0-TBfNxeTaPpLkl_BXSuQY8ZmKWDVQBcsr73nO4LUqHeJUADdsy-zI00ymEj_S-TQitlhGo1NWbYOtdzevBXjeWHdoX53vxN/s1600/Steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkwaE2NRHF05sHNDRUSsC-qpBFkkwhN9jHFvfTciKOZ1W0-TBfNxeTaPpLkl_BXSuQY8ZmKWDVQBcsr73nO4LUqHeJUADdsy-zI00ymEj_S-TQitlhGo1NWbYOtdzevBXjeWHdoX53vxN/s640/Steve.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
If you’re still seeking a summer soundtrack now that July is here, look no
further. Over the course of his past three albums, Steve Moakler has morphed
from a pop-leaning songwriter in the vein of John Mayer and Matt Nathanson into
one of the smartest and most melodically gifted songwriters in Nashville.
Somehow, he’s yet to score a hit for himself, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born Ready </i>feels like it could change that. Stacked with
hooky-as-hell songs ready for your next road trip, beach trek, night out, or evening
drink on the porch, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born Ready </i>is the
kind of album that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would </i>be a hit
machine with a major label behind it. Even if the radio doesn’t wise up and
play these songs, though, I guarantee you that your summer will sound more
idyllic with them coming through the speakers.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">10. <b>Dierks Bentley </b>- <i>The Mountain</i></span><br />
<br />
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Dierks Bentley needed a course correction after his last
record, 2016’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black</i>. The album,
while not bad, per se, was an obvious trend-chaser that tried to adapt
Bentley’s sound to suit the pop/R&B-country trends of the time. Dierks has
always been better being himself—hence the triumph of 2014’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riser</i>, largely inspired by the death of
Bentley’s father. It makes sense, then, that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mountain </i>is arguably Bentley’s most consistent album yet, if
not his best. There’s no obvious radio grab, and the songs all feel cut from
the same weather-worn cloth. It’s a record about reconciling the restlessness
of an adventurous soul with the commitments of love, marriage, and family. The
result is an album that revels in the joys of life while casting aside the bad
vibes. In other words, it’s the perfect summer album.</div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-939360411683762772017-06-28T15:43:00.000-04:002017-06-28T15:43:48.197-04:00My Favorite Albums of 2017 (So Far)How are we already six months into 2017?! It feels like only yesterday that I was putting the finishing touches on my Top 40 Albums of 2016 list for Chorus.fm. Now, here we are, in the last days of June and diving back into mid-year coverage. Some publications were inexplicably ready to reflect on the year's mid-way at the end of April, but in their defense, 2017 has already been jam-packed with more than enough great albums to fill a list. My top 10 alone is already on the same level of the 10 records that topped my year-end list last year. On top of that, I couldn't help but include a few honorable mentions that I couldn't fit into my top 10<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>not something I normally feel inclined to do at mid-year.<br />
<br />
This process made one thing clear: after another six months of great records (there are confirmed or speculated albums on the horizon from Noah Gundersen, Will Hoge, Chris Stapleton, David Ramirez, Iron & Wine, Tyler Childers, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Kelsea Ballerini, Brian Fallon, Frank Turner, Haim, Taylor Swift, Old Dominion, and Matt Nathanson), making my end-of-the-year list for 2017 is going to be murder. It's a good problem to have.<br />
<br />
<u><b>The Top 10</b></u><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
1. <b>Jason Isbell & The 400 Unit</b> - <i>The Nashville Sound</i></div>
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Jason Isbell has a lot on his mind, and lucky for us, he's willing to let us pull up a chair. <i>The Nashville Sound </i>is Isbell's most personal collection yet, with its best songs built around his deep self-reflection on what it means to be a husband and a father in the current global climate. Given Isbell's status as a folk-leaning country singer, it's not surprising that he gets political here. Many of the songs were written after Trump won the election, and Isbell and his band went into the studio the week after the inauguration. But rather than let his songs get bogged down in Very Special Messages, Isbell lets his personal stories and character sketches carry his beliefs, statements, and questions for him. The result is a deep, nuanced, thought-provoking, and resilient piece of work, an album that I think I'll be mining for new details and answers for years to come. There has been no greater piece of art in 2017.<br />
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2. <b>Steve Moakler</b> - <i>Steel Town</i></div>
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Despite the fact that it was only five songs long, Steve Moakler's self-titled 2016 EP got more play time from me last year than any record that wasn't Butch Walker's <i>Stay Gold</i>. The charms of that five-song set<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>made up of catchy, relaxed pop country jams<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>were perfect for windows-down summer drives and reflective summer nights alike. <i>Steel Town </i>takes those five songs, adds another six of the same caliber, and ends up being one of the most purely enjoyable albums I've heard in a long while. Moakler's tunes aren't overproduced or dressed to the nines in pop sheen like most of his mainstream-leaning contemporaries. Instead, they wear their sunny hooks, deft thematic songwriting, and dusty, rootsy character proudly, making for an album that splits the difference between the immediate returns of pop-country and the deeper soul of alt-country. There's a reason I haven't listened to any 2017 release more than this one.<br />
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3. <b>Natalie Hemby</b> - <i>Puxico</i> </div>
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Puxico, the debut LP from standby Music Row songwriter Natalie Hemby, sounded terrific when I first heard it in December. But this record wasn't made for winter, and it frankly sounds immaculate now that the weather has finally warmed up. On a recent evening walk around my neighborhood, I put on <i>Puxico</i>, and I marveled at how well the songs fit the lilting, lazy atmosphere of a muggy summer evening. A kaleidoscope of Ferris wheels, carnival lights, young love, sunsets over deserted highways, and small town grandeur, this record does world-building as well as any LP released in 2017. It's a beautiful, honest piece of work<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>the kind of record that becomes a sleeper classic after a year or two. Jump on the bandwagon now, before it's the "cool" thing to do.<br />
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4. <b>Colter Wall</b> - <i>Colter Wall</i></div>
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At this point, it's almost a foregone conclusion that Dave Cobb will produce the breakout country songwriter record of the year. In 2013, it was Jason Isbell. In 2014, it was Sturgill Simpson. In 2015, it was Chris Stapleton. In 2016, it was Lori McKenna. And for 2017, it's Colter Wall, a 21-year-old wunderkind from Saskatchewan who sounds like he's at least two times his age. Wall's songs sound like they come from a different era, to the point where it's almost weird to hear them coming out of an electronic device. His characters are outlaws, cowboys, killers, jealous lovers, and heartbroken fools, hopping train cars, drinking too much, or sitting in their prison cells regretting past mistakes. Listening to their woes feels like being transported to the back of a smoky western saloon, where some bourbon-drunk troubadour is spilling hit guts. In a year that's brought so many demoralizing headlines already, the time-traveling escapism that <i>Colter Wall </i>provides is, frankly, nothing short of a godsend.<br />
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5. <b>Chris Stapleton</b> - <i>From A Room: Volume 1</i></div>
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The sophomore slump is real in country music, largely because once labels smell a moneymaker, they micro-manage, over-produce, and second-guess until there's not much left of the authentic artist that fans fell in love with. These concerns were all very real for Chris Stapleton, who scored one of the biggest breakthroughs of the decade with his 2015 album <i>Traveller</i>. <i>Traveller </i>was unapologetic in its rejection of mainstream country radio trends, opting for a sound that blended classic country, outlaw country, soul, and Bob Seger-style rock 'n' roll. After that album won every award in the genre and went double platinum, I worried that Mercury Nashville might push Stapleton to write poppier songs or invite big name artists to guest on his record. I needn't have fretted. Stapleton's <i>From A Room: Volume 1 </i>is a low-key collection of soulful country songs, with masterfully concise writing, sharp melodies, and miraculous vocals. It's one of the least flashy albums ever to top the Billboard sales chart<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>and, probably, one of the best. In all likelihood, <i>Volume 2 </i>will only render the accomplishment more impressive.<br />
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6. <b>The Menzingers</b> - <i>After the Party</i></div>
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I've been saying for years that I want a band from the punk/pop-punk/emo scene to make an album with some of the scale, ambition, and character of <i>American Idiot</i>. Not necessarily a rock opera, but a big, grandiose, deeply felt piece about growing up and finding your place in the world. More than any record I've heard from the "scene" in years, <i>After the Party </i>is that album. The Menzingers have, up until now, been a band that I've always liked but never loved. <i>After the Party </i>changes that with 13 songs worth of loud guitars, anthemic melodies, and shout-along choruses about that moment where you realize you somehow stumbled into adult. From <i>Born to Run </i>to <i>American Idiot </i>to <i>American Slang</i>, rock records that make these kinds of we-ain't-that-young-anymore sentiments ring with so much truth and lived-in depth frequently end up among my favorite LPs. <i>After the Party </i>is no exception. <br />
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7. <b>Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness</b> - <i>Zombies on Broadway</i></div>
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There are only a few people in the music industry right now who write pop songs with the effortless grace of Andrew McMahon. With <i>Zombies on Broadway</i>, McMahon makes his poppiest album yet, an album jam-packed with hooks, synth and piano lines that will adhere themselves to the side of your brain, and arrangements so glossy and maximalist that they could land at least a few of these songs in clubs. But <i>Zombies </i>is also heartfelt, honest, and openly autobiographical, chronicling everything from McMahon's infatuation with New York City to the ache of having to leave his family behind to go on tour. McMahon dropped <i>Zombi</i>es in the dead of winter, but at its finest moments, the record sounds just as much like a sweltering, whirlwind summer as <i>Everything in Transit </i>did. In other words, this one is about to surge back into regular rotation.<br />
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8. <b>Ryan Adams</b> - <i>Prisoner</i></div>
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Ryan Adams is in the midst of one of music's great second acts. After bursting onto the scene in the early 2000s with masterful records like <i>Heartbreaker</i>, <i>Gold</i>, and<i> Love Is Hell</i>, Adams struggled mightily to craft something cohesive and consistent. His albums were undone by his own inability to temper his prolific tendencies and wide-ranging musical interests into musical statements that were greater than the sum of his parts. Starting with 2011's <i>Ashes & Fire </i>and continuing with 2014's <i>Ryan Adams</i>, though, Adams has finally come into his own as an album maker, mastering the art of sonic cohesion and finally learning how to trim the fat. <i>Prisoner </i>isn't as strong song-for-song as Adams' self-titled record, but it might be his most forceful album-length statement yet, a cold, cutting divorce album with some of his most lonesome songs ever written. It's a <i>Tunnel of Love </i>for a new generation.<br />
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9. <b>John Moreland</b> - <i>Big Bad Luv</i></div>
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John Moreland is finally getting the attention he deserves. The Oklahoma singer/songwriter was recently proclaimed as "the New Face of Folk Rock" by <i>G</i><i>Q</i>, and that's a deserved title for someone who writes and sings with more honesty and feeling than 99.9% of artists in the music industry. Never mind that Moreland's latest album, the road-tripping, full-band-driven <i>Big Bad Luv</i>, is a noticeable step down from 2015's <i>High on Tulsa Heat</i>, one of the decade's genuine country music masterpieces. That album plumbed the depths of Moreland's own heartbreak and desolation, somehow making complete loneliness sound a little less lonely. <i>Big Bad Luv </i>is brighter, bolder, louder, and more optimistic, with shades of bar-band blues and E Street swagger mixed in with its introspective balladry. It's proof that Moreland has the talent to move your feet as well as your heart and soul.<br />
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10. <b>Sam Outlaw</b> - <i>Tenderheart</i></div>
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Sam Outlaw's debut, 2015's <i>Angeleno</i>, was an enjoyable if old-fashioned country record, enlivened by exotic mariachi horn arrangements and flickers of pedal steel as pretty as a postcard. <i>Tenderheart</i> takes Outlaw's sound and realizes his potential, providing a more modern feel without losing the timeless heart of his sound. In that regard, it's similar to Dawes' <i>Stories Don't End</i>, another palate-expanding record from another California country-folk act that had previously been accused of being stuck in the past. <i>Tenderheart </i>actually kind of <i>sounds </i>like a Dawes record, incorporating similar Laurel Canyon folk influences for a fun, modern twist on 1970s soft rock. (Fittingly, Dawes frontman Taylor Goldsmith sits in to play guitar.) But while the music is aesthetically gorgeous enough to conjure up thoughts of Jackson Browne, Tom Petty, and James Taylor, the album ultimately transcends thanks to Outlaw's wry sense of humor and his unique outlook on well-trodden subjects like masculinity, life on the road, and the flickering brevity of human relationships.<br />
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<u><b>The Honorable Mentions</b></u><br />
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<b>Bleachers</b> - <i>Gone Now</i><br />
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A masterful, ambitious pop record that provides both undeniable singles and a cohesive start-to-finish arc. "Don't Take the Money" might just be the year's best pop song.<br />
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<b>All Time Low</b> - <i>Last Young Renegade</i><br />
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One of the best pop-punk bands ever turns into one of the best pop bands of today with this wistful, insanely catchy summertime LP. Screw your "song of the summer 2017" debates if "Last Young Renegade" isn't in the running.<br />
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<b>Luke Combs</b> - <i>This One's for You</i><br />
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Mainstream country with depth and feeling. Lead single "Hurricane" topped the country charts, and songs like "Memories Are Made Of" and "Don't Tempt Me" are catchy enough to follow suit, but it's ballads like "I Got Away with You" that show Combs' songwriting ability.<br />
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<b>John Mayer </b>- <i>The Search for Everything</i><br />
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If Mayer hadn't botched the rollout for this record so badly, it might have pushed its way into my top 10. Even with a bad release strategy and some awful sequencing, though,<i> </i>Mayer's latest<i> </i>is stacked with great songs, such as "In the Blood" and "Rosie."<br />
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<b>The Maine</b> - <i>Lovely Little Lonely</i><br />
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Over the course of six albums, The Maine have evolved from pop-punk also-rans to one of the most consistent rock bands of today. <i>Lovely Little Lonely </i>blends Third Eye Blind and The 1975 for an irresistible pop-rock cocktail.<br />
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<b>The Steel Woods </b>- <i>Straw in the Wind</i><br />
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Scorching southern rock, prog metal, and down-home country all collide to form the one-of-a-kind sound of The Steel Woods. The entire record is refreshing, but the country-leaning songs stand out among some of the best of 2017<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>especially the escapist plea of "If We Never Go."<br />
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<b>Fleet Foxes</b> - <i>Crack-Up</i><br />
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Dense and pointedly inaccessible, the long-awaited third album from Fleet Foxes is a lot to take in. It doesn't have the immediate stand-outs of the band's first two LPs, but every time I listen, it sweeps me away. I look forward to unlocking its secrets throughout the second half of the year. <br />
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<b>Charlie Worsham</b> - <i>The Beginning of Things</i><br />
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Charlie Worsham's first album, 2013's <i>Rubberband</i>, was warm, mainstream-leaning country. His second is arguably the most versatile album I've heard this year, in any genre. Funny, heartbreaking, soulful, rootsy, catchy, political, personal, loud, soft, and occasionally even punk-ish, <i>The Beginning of Things </i>is a true musical roller coaster ride<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>in a good way.<br />
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<b>Zac Brown Band</b> - <i>Welcome Home</i><br />
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After a record that incorporated elements of EDM, grunge, bossa nova, and prog rock into Zac Brown Band's country DNA, the group takes the back-to-basics approach. It's a welcome return to form, elevated by Brown's personal introspection about home and family and Dave Cobb's sparse production.<br />
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<b>Japandroids </b>- <i>Near to the Wild Heart of Life</i><br />
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It ain't <i>Celebration Rock</i>, but at its best, <i>Near to the Wild Heart of Life </i>still beats with the double-time heartbeat of rock 'n' roll salvation. The title track is the highlight, spinning a last-night-in-town yarn for the ages.<br />
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<u><b>The EPs</b></u> <br />
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Nashville has developed a bad habit of forcing young female artists to wait years before releasing their debut albums. Recent Grammy Best New Artists Maren Morris and Kelsea Ballerini have been huge successes, but they had to prove themselves on EPs before getting a chance to release their breakthrough full-lengths. Six of the 10 EPs listed below come from young female voices who are making some of the sharpest, most infectious music in Nashville today. Any one of them could be the next breakout success story. Add in short-form projects from Isbell, Rick Brantley, Ruston Kelly, and A Thousand Horses, and 2017 is already a banner year for the EP.<br />
<br />
<b>Bailey Bryan</b> - <i>So Far</i><br />
<b>Delta Rae</b> - <i>A Long and Happy Life</i><br />
<b>Jo Smith</b> - <i>Introducing Jo Smith</i><br />
<b>Jason Isbell & The 400 Unit</b> - <i>Live from Welcome to 1979 </i><br />
<b>Kalie Shorr</b> - <i>Slingshot</i><br />
<b>Lindsay Ell</b> - <i>Worth the Wait</i><br />
<b>Nikita Karmen</b> - <i>Nikita Karmen</i><br />
<b>Rick Brantley</b> - <i>Hi-Fi</i><br />
<b>Ruston Kelly</b> - <i>Halloween</i><br />
<b>A Thousand Horses</b> - <i>Bridges</i>Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-68422345813283375842016-11-18T08:01:00.000-05:002016-11-18T14:03:57.496-05:0026 Years, 27 Songs: Choosing One Defining Song for Each Year of My Life<style>
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</style><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few months back, one of my Facebook friends marked his
40th birthday in the coolest way imaginable: he created a sprawling Spotify
playlist, charting the course from 1976 to now, selecting one song per year.
His playlist was at least partially aimed at discovery: which artists he could encourage
people to check out by giving them one of his years. Of course, he was also
picking songs that mattered to him personally, but his focus on smaller,
lesser-known artists meant that some of his favorites (Bruce Springsteen, U2,
Peter Gabriel) missed the playlist.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After seeing and listening through some of his playlist, I
was inspired to tackle the project myself. My criteria were a bit different
than his. I was less concerned with promoting unknown or lesser-known artists,
simply because most of the people who follow me on social media or read my work
on this site already know about most of the sort-of-underground artists that I champion.
Instead, my quest was to pick either my favorite songs from each year, or the ones
that defined those years most. I wanted to be able to listen through the
playlist I made and relive my life story.</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here are the rules I followed:</span></span></span></div>
<ol>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One
song per year, no exceptions. No ties, no honorable mentions, no songs bundled
together as one. I could discuss other songs in the blurbs for each year, but I
had to select a clear winner. </span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One
song per artist. This rule helped me keep my list more diverse and meant that I
had to be strategic about the years where I chose songs from which artists. The
result was a game that was a lot more challenging and a lot more fun than it
would have been otherwise.<br /><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Only
songs from the years in question could be chosen as winners from those years.
In other words, a song from 1975 couldn't be my pick for 2009, even if it
defined the year. I had to pick a song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i>
2009 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for </i>2009.<br /><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
also didn't include the side projects or bands of artists who were already on
the list in some other capacity. Marvelous 3, for instance, was disqualified
because Butch Walker already had a year, while Something Corporate was booted
because a different Andrew McMahon project was already on the list.</span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When
possible, I had to give more weight to songs that I lived and listened to
during the years in question over songs that I fell in love with in later
years. The early years were obviously exceptions to this rule.</span></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I
had to still enjoy every song on the list. So no, my Creed phase is not
represented. I'm sure you're all disappointed.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Without further ado, here are the songs I chose for every year
I've been alive, posted here today to commemorate my 26th birthday. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1222720550"></span>Click here</a><span id="goog_1222720551"></span> to listen along with the Spotify playlist.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span> </span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WHFtf4XzheXMRGzlivaibLlHd3WvYTxkCadtLp3N2-VmgmeYcbAPftxOEZ0AQ7tlq-Ej7AVG3VjHyAnKQtG4XcBuzPfdx4Ld0ioH_3woTXXl7PQmjQi8cjwzBYpcwgRGiIZbtZTPK9kp/s1600/one+song+per+year.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WHFtf4XzheXMRGzlivaibLlHd3WvYTxkCadtLp3N2-VmgmeYcbAPftxOEZ0AQ7tlq-Ej7AVG3VjHyAnKQtG4XcBuzPfdx4Ld0ioH_3woTXXl7PQmjQi8cjwzBYpcwgRGiIZbtZTPK9kp/s640/one+song+per+year.png" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1990: Heart - "Cruel
Nights" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brigade</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This was the hardest year on the list, for obvious reasons.
For one thing, I was only alive for a month and 12 days of 1990, so the year
only just barely counts in the first place. For another, I don't really care
for any albums that were released the year that I was born. It's probably the
only year of the decade that wouldn't put an album anywhere on my top 500
favorites list. Heart's "Cruel Nights" gets the win for being a slick
anthem of heartbreak and summer nights. Think of it as more of an introduction
to the mix than a true start to the story.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1991: Tom Petty &
The Heartbreakers - Learning To Fly, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Into
The Great Wide Open</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It took me a long time to get into Tom Petty, which means
that "Learning to Fly" is not connected to any of my memories from
childhood. Still, "Learning to Fly" has been an important song in my
life—one that I've related to growing up and striking out on my own. In the
summer of 2014, when my wife and I left behind our apartment in Illinois to
move back to our home state of Michigan, this was the first song I played in
the car for the long journey to my new home.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1992: R.E.M. - "Nightswimming"
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Automatic For The People</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't recall exactly when I first heard
"Nightswimming," but it's certainly a song I recall hearing on the
radio when I was very young (along with all of the other hits from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Automatic for the People</i>). Still my
favorite R.E.M. song, "Nightswimming" captures the ache of growing up
and summers that don't last for long enough. It is an inarguably perfect song.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1993: Counting Crows
- "Mr. Jones" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">August &
Everything After</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Mr. Jones," the most successful single from
Counting Crows' most successful album, was the first song I remember hearing and
registering the fact that I was enjoying it. My brother used to play my
parents' copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">August </i>on the CD
player when we loaded the family into the car for vacations or day trips.
"Round Here" is my true favorite from the album, but "Mr.
Jones" deserves this slot simply for being the song that probably first
ignited my love of music.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1994: Green Day -
"When I Come Around" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dookie</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I didn't have a portable CD player until the day I turned
11, which means that my childhood was either defined by what was on the radio
or by what my brother was playing on his boom box. "When I Come
Around" was both of those things during what I presume was the summer of
1995, and it still captures the sound of summertime for me so many years later.
Eventually, I had my brother make me a cassette tape copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dookie </i>so I could listen to this song in
particular on my own time. Here's hoping I didn't know what
"Longview" was about.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1995: Oasis - "Don't
Look Back in Anger" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(What's the
Story) Morning Glory?</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Another album I had my brother make me a cassette copy of, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Morning Glory </i>was a huge album for me—to
the point where I probably could have chosen any of its 10 proper cuts as my
1995 song. I was close to going for "Champagne Supernova," but I
opted for "Don't Look Back in Anger"—the finest song on the record
and the best thing either of the Brothers Gallagher ever wrote. When I listen
to this song today, I still hear a lot of my childhood in there—camping trips
with my dad, driving late into the night with my family on our way to see my
grandparents in New Hampshire, etc.—but I also hear the indelible tunefulness
of an ambitious band getting as close as they ever got to showing up the
Beatles.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1996: The Wallflowers
- "One Headlight" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bringing
Down The Horse</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here's where it gets interesting: the first song I can ever
remember bestowing with the title of "my favorite song," from the
first band I ever remember bestowing with the title of "my favorite
band." "One Headlight" was a shock to my young ears: catchy,
mournful, contemplative, and thought provoking. There's a reason I eventually
found my home in folk, Americana, country, and roots rock—both as a songwriter
and a listener—and that reason is this song.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1997: Third Eye Blind
- "Motorcycle Drive By" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Third
Eye Blind</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Third Eye Blind </i>was
one of my favorite albums as a kid, thanks largely to the parade of hits near
the beginning. Truth be told, it probably would have been more accurate to list
"Semi-Charmed Life" here, but "Motorcycle Drive By" was too
important a song to pass up. The best piece of songwriting that Stephen Jenkins
ever gave the world, "Motorcycle Drive By" is a classic deep cut from
a classic record and one of my top 10 songs of all time. It's a song that
continues to hold a lot of gravity for me to this day—especially the gorgeous,
bittersweet imagery of the final verse.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1998: Goo Goo Dolls<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>- "Black Balloon" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dizzy up the Girl</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The singles from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dizzy
up the Girl </i>were on the radio all the time on morning rides to school when
I was in first and second grade. "Broadway," "Iris," and
"Slide" are all classic songs that I relate very much with growing
up, but "Black Balloon" was and is my favorite. A sweeping melody and
a lyric that is more than meets the eye make it the band's best song, for my
money.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1999: Foo Fighters - "Learn
to Fly" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There Is Nothing Left
to Lose</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are albums that matter more to me from 1999 than this
one—from Jimmy Eat World's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity </i>to
the Marvelous 3's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey! Album</i>. But
when I try to look back at what life was like in 1999, "Learn to Fly"
is probably the song that comes to mind in the sharpest relief. A classic radio
rock hit that just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds </i>like the
end of a millennium, "Learn to Fly" was a song I loved every time it
came up on the airwaves—even before I knew who it was by.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2000: U2 - "Walk
On" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All That You Can't Leave
Behind</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2000 was probably the first time I ever heard a U2 song,
back when "Beautiful Day" was inescapable on the radio. Still, if
there's one song from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All That Can't
Leave Behind </i>that will stay with me forever, it's "Walk On." At
my eighth grade graduation in 2005, I made sure this song was on the soundtrack
for our big class slideshow. It was also there when I graduated from high
school in 2009, and when I graduated from college in 2013. Few songs say
"moving on to bigger and better things" quite like this one. Seeing
it live in 2011, at the end of the main set on the 360 tour, was a
life-affirming moment.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2001: The Calling -
"Wherever You Will Go" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Camino
Pamero</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2001 was one of the hardest years for me to pick a song, for
several reasons. First, it's my least favorite year of music from the
millennium so far. Second, my favorite albums either came from artists that are
already on this list elsewhere (Jimmy Eat World, John Mayer), or were records
that I discovered way after the fact (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gold
</i>by Ryan Adams, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rockin' the Suburbs </i>by
Ben Folds). Third, 2001 was during my "wasteland" years, when my
brother had stopped buying CDs or making copies of them for me, and when all my
listening was governed by the radio. I actually spent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot </i>of time back then listening to the top 40 countdown each
week, and my favorite radio single was "Wherever You Will Go" by The
Calling. It's kind of dated and super cheesy, but both of those qualities seem
appropriate when I look back at fourth grade. It's also immortalized in the
first episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smallville</i>, and
really, what's more 2001 than that?</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2002: Bruce
Springsteen - "My City Of Ruins" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rising</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The first Bruce Springsteen song I remember connecting to
wasn't "Thunder Road" or "Born to Run"; it was this
fantastic closing track from the Boss's 2002 comeback album. My brother bought
my stepdad a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Rising </i>for
Christmas 2002, and we definitely played that record on the stereo while
opening presents. I knew that "My City of Ruins" was a song that had
been associated with September 11<sup>th</sup>, so I paid extra attention when
the disc got there. It remains one of my favorite Bruce songs for how it mixes
mourning and uplift so effectively. In 2012, Bruce repurposed it as a stirring
eulogy for Clarence Clemons, one of the most poignant moments of any live show
I've ever seen.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2003: John Mayer - "Wheel"
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavier Things</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">John Mayer would make better albums and write better songs
later in his career, but I knew from the moment that I started this project
that "Wheel" was going to own 2003. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heavier Things </i>was the first album I ever bought with my own money,
and I remember listening to it every single day after school that fall—usually
twice. The closing track, "Wheel" always hit me the hardest for its
poetic lyrics about departures and goodbyes, as well as some extremely
effective vocal layering at the end.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2004: Jimmy Eat World
- "23" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2004 was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>year
of my musical evolution. It's the year I started buying albums religiously and the
year that saw the release of three of my top 10 albums of all time. This slot
easily could have gone to Butch Walker (whose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Letters </i>was my album of the year) or Green Day (whose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idiot </i>I played on repeat for an
entire month that year, between my birthday and Christmas). But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures </i>has to win for how it held me
together when I thought I was going to have to leave my hometown and everything
I'd ever known behind. More than any other album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Futures </i>ignited my love for music, and nothing captures the spirit
of that adventurous autumn better than the climactic sprawl of "23."</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2005: Jack's
Mannequin - "Rescued" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything
In Transit</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was late to the party on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit</i>, but I couldn't let 2005 slide by without
listing a song from one of my all-time favorite records. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything in Transit</i> may not have explicitly defined 2005—to be
honest, Butch Walker's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Letters </i>did,
and that wasn't in contention. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything
in Transit </i>did define pretty much the entirety of my youth beyond this year—from
high school summertimes to high school graduation, all the way to falling in
love for the first time. "Rescued" was always my favorite, the
poignant piano ballad that laid the season to rest with a contemplative dive in
to a cold September swimming pool.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2006: Dashboard
Confessional - "Dusk And Summer" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dusk And Summer</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's possible that there isn't a single song in the world
that means more to me than this one. Earlier this year, for the 10th
anniversary of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dusk and Summer</i>, I
detailed how this song played a key role in my relationship with my wife. Four
years before that, though, "Dusk and Summer" had already become my
go-to summer night song. No song aches quite like this one, from the simple
strummed guitar chords to the way Chris Carrabba's voice cracks up to falsetto
on the outro. To this day, when I hear this song, it takes me back to the end of
every summer since 2006.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2007: Matt Nathanson
- "Car Crash" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Mad
Hope </i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the story this playlist tells, "Dusk and
Summer" feels like the end of youthful innocence. That's fitting, since
the fall of my junior year of high school brought more responsibility, more
doubt, more challenges, and more mistakes than ever before. I finally had a
driver's license, I was playing the lead in the school musical, classes were
getting harder, college was looming, and things suddenly didn't seem so black
and white anymore. But the stress and anxiety of it all was also accompanied by
a newfound feeling of freedom and possibility, and for me, that's all wrapped
up perfectly in the words and swell of Matt Nathanson's "Car Crash."</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2008: Butch Walker -
"Closer To The Truth And Further From The Sky" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sycamore Meadows</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Considering how formative Butch Walker's music was for me,
both to my tastes and to who I am as a person, it's almost remarkable that it
took until 2008 for him to snag a year on this list. But "Closer to the
Truth and Further from the Sky" was just too good an opportunity to pass
up. Like the previous year, 2008 brought the unmistakable strain and excitement
of growing up, along with plenty of firsts and lasts: my first heartbreak; my
last first day of high school; my last musical. "Closer to the Truth and
Further from the Sky" not only encapsulates the antsy excitement of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost</i> being done with one major life
chapter, but it also wore its Springsteen influence so proudly that it partially
inspired the deep dive I took into the Boss's catalog during Christmas break. The
rest is history.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2009: Will Hoge -
"Even If It Breaks Your Heart" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wreckage</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we're being honest, my defining song of 2009—the year I
graduated from high school—was "Thunder Road" all the way. But since
picking songs from 1975 is obviously against the rules, and since "Closer
to the Truth" already encapsulated my end of high school excitement, I
opted for a song that captures my first autumn at college. I enjoyed my first
year of college, but I was also pretty homesick and had some doubts about
whether or not I was in the right major. (Spoiler alert: I wasn't.) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Wreckage </i>was an album I played a lot
on the road trips I took back home on the weekends. Rather than hit a bunch of
college parties, I'd frequently make the three-hour drive north to get a few
home-cooked meals, do my laundry, download a shit ton of music, see friends
from high school, and go to movies with my parents. I did a lot of soul
searching and growing up on those solo road trips, and this song, with its
battle cry of a chorus ("keep on dreaming even if it breaks your
heart") hit me pretty hard. It still does. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2010: Chad Perrone -
"Under Different Circumstances"<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>
from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2010 was the year I fell in love with the girl I ended up
marrying. We shared an incredible summer together that was defined largely by
two songs, both written by Chad Perrone. The first, a soaring love song called
"Blinded," came from his 2008 record <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wake</i>. It was the first song I ever put on a mixtape for her and I
went on to quote it in my rehearsal dinner toast. The second was this song, a
shattering tune about unrequited love from Perrone's then-current album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release</i>. When I drove away from her and
our perfect summer together, on my way back to school, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Release </i>was the album that gave me the strength to keep driving,
despite the fact that I knew for certain I didn't want to be anywhere she
wasn't. It was the start of a lengthy long-distance relationship, but we made
it work. Years later, Chad Perrone would personally ask me to write the bio
section for his website. Life unfolds in some pretty cools ways sometimes.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2011: The Dangerous
Summer - "No One's Gonna Need You More" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War Paint</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm not sure if I've ever played an album as many times in
such a short period of time as I did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War
Paint </i>in the summer of 2011. This album was my undisputed summer
soundtrack. Every time I climbed into the car, it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War Paint</i>. Every time I got home from work late at night and wanted
to wind down with some music, it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">War
Paint</i>. "No One's Gonna Need You More" was and is my favorite song
on the album, and its torrential rush of sound still takes me back to those
sun-soaked days and endless nights.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2012: Yellowcard -
"Southern Air" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern
Air</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The end of summer 2012 felt distinctly like the end of
another era. My girlfriend was moving to Illinois to start a new job, the
dinner theater I'd worked at for three summers was closing, and I was finishing
out the final summer in my hometown before my impending college graduation. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Southern Air </i>came out toward the end of
the season and captured snapshots of all of that. When I drove away and left
that summer behind, it was with this record on the stereo. "Always
Summer" could have made the cut, too, but "Southern Air" wins if
only for how it said the exact words I was thinking the day I left: "This
will always be home."</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2013: The 1975 -
"Robbers" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1975</i></b></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I never saw The 1975 coming. The day this album started
streaming was the Friday before Labor Day weekend, and I remember hastily
downloading a rip onto my iPod before my girlfriend and I drove the six hours
home from Illinois to Northern Michigan that evening. But I happened to be
proposing the next day, and "Robbers" just came along at the perfect
minute to soundtrack it all. When I listen to this song, I still hear the magic
and excitement of that perfect summer day, from the moment I picked up the ring
to the moment she said yes.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2014: Noah Gundersen
- "First Defeat" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ledges</i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In 2014, I married my wife, we moved back to Michigan, and
my grandfather passed away. These three events are all among the biggest things
that have happened to me during my adulthood, and encapsulating them all in a
single song is simply not possible. "First Defeat" was my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favorite </i>song of the year, though, an
emotive marvel of a track that charts the relationship of two people who are
completely wrong for each other, but who can't seem to quit each other either.
If the year had a single overarching soundtrack, it was Gundersen's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ledges</i>, a masterpiece of modern folk
that added a new name to my favorite artists list and pushed my tastes in a rootsier
direction.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2015: Jason Isbell -
"Speed Trap Town" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something
More Than Free</i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2015 saw probably the biggest evolution my music tastes have
seen in a single year since the formative months of 2004. There are so many
songs I could have picked here, from Butch Walker's "Fathers Day"
(which bottled up a lot of the residual grief I was feeling over my grandpa
dying) to Dawes' "All Your Favorite Bands" (which anchored my summer
soundtrack). But "Speed Trap Town"—the saddest song from Jason
Isbell's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something More Than Free</i>—has
to win for two reasons. First, Isbell's music pushed me to explore country
music further, which quickly became my go-to genre. Second, Isbell's style of
songwriting influenced my own writing as I started crafting the songs that
would make up my debut album. Many years from now, I imagine I'll look back at
2015 and see "Speed Trap Town" as one of those paradigm-shifting
songs.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2016: Ryan Beaver -
"Dark" from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rx</i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Let the lights go out in this town and in my
heart/Bring it on, I ain't afraid of the dark." If there was song this
year marked by a more resilient and defiant proclamation, I didn't hear it. The
song that couplet comes from, Ryan Beaver's "Dark," is perhaps my
favorite song of 2016—an exhilarating Springsteen-style anthem that manages to
fit all of the hopes, dreams, heartbreaks, and failures of a life into the
space of four minutes. In a year that brought plenty of darkness,
"Dark" was the song I kept coming back to, a sobering reminder that
fighting hard and facing down the tornadoes of life—even if you have to do it
with a drink clutched firmly in your hand—is always worth the risk.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*** </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've always been told that I have a great memory. I think
that has less to do with my brain chemistry and more to do with music. The
songs, artists, and albums that make up this list are like signposts that have
dotted the years throughout my life. I can remember when I first heard them and
when I listened to them obsessively, and I can also remember what was going on
in my life while they were playing as soundtrack. As a result, I happen to be
uncannily good at vividly remembering key moments from my life, or recalling
which year certain events took place in. I suppose that's one of the greatest
gifts that music can give: the clarity and permanence of memories that might have
otherwise faded. 26 years in, I am still in absolute awe of this artform and
everything it can do.</span></span></span></div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-45676778669644338752016-07-01T11:37:00.000-04:002016-07-10T09:51:17.578-04:00Mid-Year 2016: The Best Albums I've Heard So Far<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's be honest: mid-year lists are kind of superfluous. I expect that my opinions on the records below will continue to shift. Add six months' worth of new releases, and my list come December will almost certainly look nothing like this one does. With that said, I've heard a lot of great albums this year, and I wanted an opportunity to reflect and think about which ones have resonated the most.<b> </b>All 10 of these records (plus the bonus EP) get the highest recommendation from me.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy July and happier listening!</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>1. Parker Millsap - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Very Last Day</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3Y4Fzo3wlUDA1f83_NMi24KyfLaSblpgrPKkFRS5yMmtIVEOV7-G-jkf0aHvNRM8mq77q3zXQoXLQvBydhdIIK311IIj469NGJCRECwiPUMrmHen2Gy4-MmtBtcppEOu8inR5YC6APBu/s1600/parker+millsap+the+very+last+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3Y4Fzo3wlUDA1f83_NMi24KyfLaSblpgrPKkFRS5yMmtIVEOV7-G-jkf0aHvNRM8mq77q3zXQoXLQvBydhdIIK311IIj469NGJCRECwiPUMrmHen2Gy4-MmtBtcppEOu8inR5YC6APBu/s640/parker+millsap+the+very+last+day.jpg" width="640" /></a><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With a force-of-nature voice, a sharp talent for
storytelling, and more than a bit of wit and charisma, Parker Millsap weaves <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Very Last Day </i>into 2016's best
album—so far, anyway. He's only 23 years old and this is only his second
record, but when you hear him wail on "You Gotta Move" or spin a tale
about the homosexual son of a preacher on "Heaven Sent," you might
swear he's got twice that many under his belt<span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>2. Sturgill Simpson - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Sailor's Guide to Earth</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KZ3J6xoslaQl9Bpnp4JurWqERPQsIxIeFr-dJ0F-jWh6glGGwP4rLnN70SmwFU1TWovTHxIf0j5mubTpzyXxECQcrmIk84M6yCtCwEDEMproxg2SXQ4uAENLz6YhFIsZxWvgFaZLoEuh/s1600/Sturgill+Simpson+A+Sailors+Guide+to+Earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KZ3J6xoslaQl9Bpnp4JurWqERPQsIxIeFr-dJ0F-jWh6glGGwP4rLnN70SmwFU1TWovTHxIf0j5mubTpzyXxECQcrmIk84M6yCtCwEDEMproxg2SXQ4uAENLz6YhFIsZxWvgFaZLoEuh/s640/Sturgill+Simpson+A+Sailors+Guide+to+Earth.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sturgill Simpson's breakthrough record, 2014's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Metamodern Sounds in Country Music</i>, was an
explosion of classic country, tinged with psychedelia. The Kentucky
singer/songwriter paints with an even broader brush on the follower up, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Sailor's Guide to Earth</i>—to the point
where many of his fans cried betrayal and bitched about it not being
"country enough." Fuck that. On this record, "country
music" is anything Simpson wants it to be. He pulls in influences from a
dozen genres to create a love letter to his new son, from soul to progressive
rock to grunge and beyond.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>3. Brian Fallon - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Painkillers</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3TQTEcHTm6hVubgs13zDakc2SPTky2EeMXbZza1Ml_CT5SN5fO3pXWNKKpmsd8RhwbRr6e9vuSqvgsBRmA1UJgK8Y_O_6NjOYxZhLDO2TYiif1uJxRQRfd-KFQ_8rBHJXX2lV22B0pYsv/s1600/Brianfallonpainkillers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3TQTEcHTm6hVubgs13zDakc2SPTky2EeMXbZza1Ml_CT5SN5fO3pXWNKKpmsd8RhwbRr6e9vuSqvgsBRmA1UJgK8Y_O_6NjOYxZhLDO2TYiif1uJxRQRfd-KFQ_8rBHJXX2lV22B0pYsv/s640/Brianfallonpainkillers.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On his first solo record, the frontman from The Gaslight
Anthem opts out of reinventing the wheel. Instead, he surges straight down the
center of the highway, writing songs that feature his usual mix of classic
rock, folk, Americana, and references to favorite songs and movie stars. If you
wanted a more polarizing record in the vein of Gaslight's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get Hurt</i>, you were probably disappointed by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Painkillers</i>. This album, though, showcases Brian Fallon as an
artist who knows what he does well and is perfectly content to put out a record
that emphasizes strength of songwriting craft over surprises. The decision to
hold steady pays off, with cuts like "A Wonderful Life,"
"Rosemary," and "Open All Night" ranking among his best
ever.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>4. The 1975 - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I like
it when you sleep…</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPG7lN32_a689UAABXVjUPugb3_2JB678sj-9x8SYSvLgoSz9X8nANzRruy3ZpPrC9ITGX0pZzcuQuPs6e6l1PCiRGfSu7kMcaKSI3PY8FR9LzqMREr2FxfAGwH_wPcZXHajYJ_Tgrtka/s1600/1975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPG7lN32_a689UAABXVjUPugb3_2JB678sj-9x8SYSvLgoSz9X8nANzRruy3ZpPrC9ITGX0pZzcuQuPs6e6l1PCiRGfSu7kMcaKSI3PY8FR9LzqMREr2FxfAGwH_wPcZXHajYJ_Tgrtka/s640/1975.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On their debut, 2013's self-titled album, The 1975 were a
pop band willing to draw as much from emo as they were from boy bands. They
were unique, but not flamboyantly so. On the follow up, though, these boys from
Manchester transform into the most audacious band currently making music. Long
ambient interludes transition into straight-up pop jams, while the album's most
John Hughes soundtrack-worthy anthem ("This Must Be My Dream") is
just two tracks away from a raw acoustic heartbreaker ("Nana"). The
record—like its title—is a hair unwieldy, but start combing the tracklist for
inessential songs and you'll make an interesting discovery: there aren't any.
</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>5. The Hotelier - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4DAVGBze6mx0wpD4cxl7CyZok4YTlgW8Lk8SIpMZEyQ7gV6Ip8yg0rGeLTex95U5qsTv-7JoFUZPfZz_Dw246QNZEVLdfGA8U2ebTxjPw_xFxxs9VmycSl32-PUrkgSwVdUlodU7VCZn/s1600/52198-goodness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4DAVGBze6mx0wpD4cxl7CyZok4YTlgW8Lk8SIpMZEyQ7gV6Ip8yg0rGeLTex95U5qsTv-7JoFUZPfZz_Dw246QNZEVLdfGA8U2ebTxjPw_xFxxs9VmycSl32-PUrkgSwVdUlodU7VCZn/s640/52198-goodness.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></b>
</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When it comes to scene classics, it's usually not very hard
to tell what's going to stand the test of time. From the first time I listened
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness</i>, it sounded like
something that kids were going to be discovering 10 years down the road, in the
same way that they still discover stuff like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clarity</i>. Less catchy and intense than its predecessor, 2014's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home, Like NoPlace Is There</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness </i>is also much more
life-affirming, trading the dark emotional doldrums of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home </i>for flickers of love, wistful reflection, and uplift. The
songs aren't always as striking as the ones from the last album, but some of
them—like "Opening Mail for My Grandmother" and "End of
Reel"—are as viscerally engaging as anything this band has ever written.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>6. Josh Kelley - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New
Lane Road</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQkLWMBbIBfXrCxWYBOLoFLUdQM-pCpSJaGJVy6EVATpslhiOWaF5LgYtzEgYbunfcpLX-_AkJo0cgWYxnScma3u9TS-2qmPqNH4iqYf7m4JQJUKMN_qNASR36wTiD9XZ3QrBi78zGgTg/s1600/josh+kelley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQkLWMBbIBfXrCxWYBOLoFLUdQM-pCpSJaGJVy6EVATpslhiOWaF5LgYtzEgYbunfcpLX-_AkJo0cgWYxnScma3u9TS-2qmPqNH4iqYf7m4JQJUKMN_qNASR36wTiD9XZ3QrBi78zGgTg/s640/josh+kelley.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To the outside eye, Josh Kelley peaked early in his career,
landing a minor hit off his 2003 debut album with "Amazing."
Fast-forward 13 years, though, and Kelley is the rare, almost unheard-of artist
who is making his best music with his eighth full-length. A collision of pop,
soul, country, folk, and even a little bit of gospel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New Lane Road </i>is as instantly timeless as new albums come. Kelley's
voice has always been his not-so-secret weapon, so smooth and delicate one
minute and full of force the next. Here, he parlays it into more than a few
remarkable moments of pathos, with the bookends ("It's Your Move" and
"Only God Can Stop Her Now") standing out most clearly.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>7. Maren Morris - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hero</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGzlYIiBiBNeferhFBIviedUuN4YFfz2KA-gBmtP6JXdd5bO3Vp4hdNZfd1QpbXAjpc5pem2E6_GM3Z9HHmfkwbfqKhQSkyy4KnIOgtj7xn_C2XrnsuinFcc6L6igkJ-k-DnLfdPjeoBr/s1600/Maren+Morris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGzlYIiBiBNeferhFBIviedUuN4YFfz2KA-gBmtP6JXdd5bO3Vp4hdNZfd1QpbXAjpc5pem2E6_GM3Z9HHmfkwbfqKhQSkyy4KnIOgtj7xn_C2XrnsuinFcc6L6igkJ-k-DnLfdPjeoBr/s640/Maren+Morris.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The hooks on Maren Morris's major label debut are so huge
that it's not hard to see why she is being heralded as the new country
"It" girl. On songs like "Sugar," "Rich," and
"80s Mercedes," she effortlessly combines wit, sense for melody, and
girl power into an irresistible sound that isn't quite pop and isn't quite
country. It's on the ballads where Morris really sets herself apart from the
crowd, though, with the likes of "I Could Use a Love Song," "I
Wish I Was," and the soaring "Once" sounding like iconic
classics in the making.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>8. Donovan Woods - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard
Settle, Ain't Troubled</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMoacb_SJ-ruC0qdf_Koaad5Y6ctOpGWF249uCuV56W9gwBfUsg_1hSI954tjiY01KhMIScSNRnIpQe2wX6U_LkqUxcKohDiweuw6pf4CKMvSdnSp8f6HO0iJMyn5zX3KJogkxTwGBxXAj/s1600/donovan+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMoacb_SJ-ruC0qdf_Koaad5Y6ctOpGWF249uCuV56W9gwBfUsg_1hSI954tjiY01KhMIScSNRnIpQe2wX6U_LkqUxcKohDiweuw6pf4CKMvSdnSp8f6HO0iJMyn5zX3KJogkxTwGBxXAj/s640/donovan+woods.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Donovan Woods has always been a talented songwriter, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hard Settle, Ain't Troubled</i>, his fourth
full-length, takes his chops to the next level. More experienced as a writer
now than he was a few years ago (having landed songs on a few albums by major
Nashville country artists), he conveys different kinds of desolation here with
an eye for detail and a clear willingness to twist the knife. From the
fracturing relationship of "On the Nights You Stay Home" to the
universal regret of "The First Time," all the way to the roller
coaster of emotions that defines "Leaving Nashville," Woods will
break your heart at least half a dozen times on this record.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>9. Sister Hazel - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lighter
in the Dark</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG-TA-VBgPtggKsKAVRqMc9ksNBWQo_aXiYd7rPuuSUQyoiU1rp0cWyDijtfPpgs5Y8U0dJVTR_BCbDYhW9GK4WWsvbcAnoIkefXJFC9aOTuCs7lmm1riHt09J2Uy3_VjL-QUaPJyeam_/s1600/sister+hazel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRG-TA-VBgPtggKsKAVRqMc9ksNBWQo_aXiYd7rPuuSUQyoiU1rp0cWyDijtfPpgs5Y8U0dJVTR_BCbDYhW9GK4WWsvbcAnoIkefXJFC9aOTuCs7lmm1riHt09J2Uy3_VjL-QUaPJyeam_/s640/sister+hazel.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And here I thought I'd outgrown Sister Hazel. One of my
favorite bands from childhood, this roots rock act from Gainesville hadn't made
a record that resonated with me since 2006's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lighter in the
Dark </i>revitalizes their sound, taking the band in the most overtly
"country" direction of their career. The result is a bona-fide summer
soundtrack, crammed with road-trip-ready anthems ("Fall off the Map,"
"Run Highway Run"), classic rock throwbacks (the Eagles-flavored
"Prettiest Girl at the Dance"), and dusky, lantern-lit ballads
("Ten Candle Days"). Suffice to say I've reached for this album a lot for runs or long drives on sunny days<span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">10. Brandy Clark - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Big Day in a Small Town</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhlzayEpjpY5UyxSDhM80tyTcD_a52uaxvBRlHhBee6pBu7u4zJaDQTM0rYBb_fs0-XiEx4CdoLBNQ7kAaqDLZRBx1wriSEhb3LGUieqhXbwNp9dJu3yC75pba9RM4kixImnrOTsSeeQW/s1600/brandy+clark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhlzayEpjpY5UyxSDhM80tyTcD_a52uaxvBRlHhBee6pBu7u4zJaDQTM0rYBb_fs0-XiEx4CdoLBNQ7kAaqDLZRBx1wriSEhb3LGUieqhXbwNp9dJu3yC75pba9RM4kixImnrOTsSeeQW/s640/brandy+clark.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Brandy Clark's sophomore record is
a bit glossier than her debut (2013's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">12
Stories</i>), but don't mistake this album as a mainstream sellout maneuver.
Clark is still one of the best songwriters in the country music genre, and this
record includes at least five of the year's best compositions. Clark can spin a
great chorus (the gorgeous and wistful "Homecoming Queen," or the
anthem of heartbreak that is "Love Can Go to Hell"), but her secret
weapon is the details: the son who can't talk about his late father until after
he's had a couple drinks in "Since You've Gone to Heaven," or the
single mother in "Three Kids, No Husband" whose only moments to
herself come during smoke breaks at work. At her best, Clark's understanding of the beaten and downtrodden is almost Springsteen-level.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">EP: Steve Moakler – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Steve Moakler</i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbogbcJzCf6bSRSC3ZSCKY7KkIHUFjje3voaOITMaOxlTPGMEc26NvV5DQnW6c71yFYoAg9vFhUuzfUtP49obSRY_xfQmz0AUW7qVG7Jmi2E7htRzO9GM9t6aZYnFCZ6aE2-lGck2SD2af/s1600/moakler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbogbcJzCf6bSRSC3ZSCKY7KkIHUFjje3voaOITMaOxlTPGMEc26NvV5DQnW6c71yFYoAg9vFhUuzfUtP49obSRY_xfQmz0AUW7qVG7Jmi2E7htRzO9GM9t6aZYnFCZ6aE2-lGck2SD2af/s640/moakler.jpg" width="640" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If Steve Moakler's self-titled EP were a few songs longer, I
would have been tempted to include it on this list. Moakler's brand of pop
country is breezy summertime fare, but his unique voice and his eye for detail
elevate his songs above anything and everything on country radio these days. "Summer
without Her" is what Dashboard Confessional's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dusk and Summer </i>might have sounded like if Chris Carrabba had taken
a more Nashville-driven approach, while "Suitcase" has a hook that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should </i>make Moakler famous. Here's
hoping that we'll see a full-length before year's end.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-63040441871222954362016-05-28T09:07:00.000-04:002016-07-19T20:58:18.177-04:00"Will you disrupt this pattern from starting again?" How The Hotelier learn to take life's punches on 'Goodness'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dlVhWKAeIYSAxKKIe3IQUjI7K8rUIomUl0PoS3nzdK6jOpmu4z6TGpfGzH68y1QS-tf0VewwzMqzWyAwm3JpelxyIYYEUn3mDo5vwFxQuAsjW6vQfQeXH6fyEb-JEltprDCyNDWfA4oD/s1600/hotelier-640x425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dlVhWKAeIYSAxKKIe3IQUjI7K8rUIomUl0PoS3nzdK6jOpmu4z6TGpfGzH68y1QS-tf0VewwzMqzWyAwm3JpelxyIYYEUn3mDo5vwFxQuAsjW6vQfQeXH6fyEb-JEltprDCyNDWfA4oD/s1600/hotelier-640x425.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
There's a moment in the middle of "Opening Mail for My
Grandmother," the standout track from the Hotelier's brand new album <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness</i>, where the band momentarily
drops out, leaving Christian Holden alone for just a brief instant. "I'm
coming for you," Holden sings. Already, the song is an eye of the storm
amidst an emotive swirl of a record—the album's truest "ballad," and
perhaps its only one. It's also the moment on the record that most breaks me in
half, not necessarily because I can understand or perfectly interpret all of
the words Holden is throwing at us. After all, Holden has always written in
dense poetry, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness </i>finds them
at their most artsy and impressionistic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather, the song hits me because it captures the acceptance
of knowing that someone you love is going to die. It may not be tomorrow, or
next week, or even this year, but "Opening Mail for My Grandmother"
is about coming to terms with the brevity of life. That might sound depressing,
and the song itself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>heartbreaking—at
least to someone like me, who lost a grandparent recently. However,
"Opening Mail" is ultimately a great song because it manages to fit
uplift into the frame. The final lines of the song are the most beautiful, with
Holden singing "They're keeping your space there, they're dying for
you/We'll sing your good graces when they come for you/But until that day's
here, I'm coming for you" in a striking lower register. The message is
clear: cherish the moments with the people you love while you still can,
because eventually, they run out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That message is also more or less the theme of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness</i>—or at least, it's the version
of the theme that resonates with me most strongly. The basic idea I've taken
from this album over the past week—and one that has been reinforced by album
reviews or interviews with the band—is that goodness in life can be fleeting.
Again, that statement might sound depressing, the perfect fodder for an album
from the new torchbearers of the "emo" mantle. But think about it:
how many things in life, good or bad, last forever? Friendships can fade; love
stories can reach premature conclusions; the people we love can pass away into
an afterlife we know nothing about. If you're lucky, you get to hold onto the
goodness in your life for long, uninterrupted periods. If you're unlucky, you never
get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enough</i> goodness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On their last record, the Hotelier seemed like people lodged
firmly in the latter category. 2014's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home,
Like NoPlace Is There</i>, was a masterful snapshot of a life where everything
seems to be going wrong. Depression, abuse, suicide, death, and heartbreak hung
over that record like taunting specters, standing perpetual guard. The record
is only 36 minutes and nine songs long, but to press the play button or drop the
needle is to accept that you are about to visit an intense emotional place. For
me, that place is somewhere I can only visit every so often. As much as I love <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home</i>—and as proud as I was to write
about it when AbsolutePunk ranked it as the best album of 2014—it's a record I
have a hard time calling a favorite because of how harrowing it is.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could never truly relate to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home</i>, at least not in the way a lot of other listeners did. From
the first time I heard it, I knew it was the kind of album that could come
along and save you if you found it at the right time; the kind of album that
could pull you through a rough patch in your life and make you feel like
everything would somehow be okay again. Needless to say, that unnamable quality
helped <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home </i>earn classic status in
our scene, joining albums from the likes of Brand New and Jimmy Eat World. For
me, though, it was more of a memory trip—a look back at the moments from my own
life where I'd needed music to get me through. It wasn't something that was
going to earn soundtrack status for me in 2014, the year where I married the
love of my life and made a big reach to make the goodness in my own life as
permanent as possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness </i>is at
once both more and less accessible. On one hand, the album is at least
partially a "love album." It serves up less of an emotional side hook
than its predecessor, providing a journey that—while still melancholy—still
feels ultimately uplifting. On the other hand, the songs on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness </i>are less immediate than the
ones from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home</i>. There's still plenty
to sing along to here, from the near-anthemic "Goodness, Pt. 2" to
"You in This Light," which echoes with a vibe of early Jimmy Eat
World. Even "Opening Mail," with its elegantly circuitous melody,
makes you want to hum in harmony. There's nothing as "catchy" here as
"The Scope of All This Rebuilding," though, or as immediately
lyrically striking as "An Introduction to the Album."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The great thing about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness</i>,
though, is that it continues to unfold and envelope you as you continue to
listen. With an impeccable sequencing that yields a near-hypnotic quality to
the flow of the record, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness </i>offers
a journey that, while not nearly as intense as the one provided by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home</i>, still feels remarkably complete. Once
again, I can't claim to have parsed the meaning of Holden's lyrics completely.
I don't think I will have after 100 listens, either, so I certainly haven't
managed it after 10. Still, there are hugely resonant moments throughout this
record, images of characters finding goodness and then letting it go, of
reaching for love and then surrendering. "My eyes greet hers and hers do
mine/And then this room becomes her shrine," Holden sings on "Piano
Player. "Was kind of banking on a future that'd be involving you, but I
couldn't ask this of you," Holden intones on "Two Deliverances."
"I can't sit in your sun," Holden concludes on "Sun." The
album is a constant push and pull, of finding the goodness in your life and then
watching it fade away. The uplift comes from the fact that, usually, it seems
to circle back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever love story Holden is telling here, it's pretty
clear that it doesn't make it to the conclusion of "End of Reel." When
Holden sings about the girl who is "singing her swan song again" and
how "it got stuck in my head as the sound of you," there's a definite
feeling that this girl is someone the narrator is never going to see again—not
in this life, at least. The track, despite striking poetry about "dayglow
blades scorched by hovering halos" and the "resonant calm" that
echoes off the walls, is ultimately a breakup song. But the song's key line and
rallying cry isn't "Washing away until I don't even cringe at the thought
of you"; rather, it's "I don't know what I want, what I want's where
I've been." Holden might have gotten his heart broken here, and the
ultimate "swan song" he sings about probably wasn't even an amicable one. By the end
of the album though, Holden knows one thing: he wants the goodness back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Falling in love might end in a broken heart; friendships
might start out strong, only to wither in later years; forging connections with
other people might one day lead you to their gravesides, reflecting on
mortality and pain. But the message of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Goodness
</i>is that it's worth it to experience that pain and regret if you get to
experience the goodness along the way. An album ago, Holden was "calling
in sick" to a friend's funeral, unable to accept the loss. Here, he's
getting up, brushing themselves off, and saying "hit me again." It's
tough not to smile at the thought of such resilience.</div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-67260962452124867252016-03-31T11:50:00.001-04:002016-04-07T04:44:50.812-04:00How Music Mended Broken Hearts: A Farewell to AbsolutePunk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64xfNX_myZF36qtTg1l6iH-e8odFIPC5bS-RE718mlvF-WxdIefDFdee2y-mZ8DGXPWe64poDdercOC88z7WpEOuOKUrZApB3IEnv-7rVGu3E-JpiAPcXFDg6eOydZtUQY1rgWUC85HS7/s1600/tumblr_no7g64A5HH1upyyx0o1_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg64xfNX_myZF36qtTg1l6iH-e8odFIPC5bS-RE718mlvF-WxdIefDFdee2y-mZ8DGXPWe64poDdercOC88z7WpEOuOKUrZApB3IEnv-7rVGu3E-JpiAPcXFDg6eOydZtUQY1rgWUC85HS7/s640/tumblr_no7g64A5HH1upyyx0o1_1280.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Eight years ago this past February, I stumbled upon
AbsolutePunk.net while scouring the internet for Butch Walker b-sides. By this
point, I'd probably visited the website a few times for various pieces of
news—my favorite artists list <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>include
Jimmy Eat World and Jack's Mannequin, after all—but on that day in February
2008, I finally took the plunge and set up an account. Excuse the cliché, but
little did I know that I'd just made a decision that would change my life in
countless incredible ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
AbsolutePunk.net (or AP.net, as we call it around the
forums) has meant different things to me at different times over the course of
the last eight years. At first, it was little more than a source for b-sides
and rare bonus tracks. The b-sides thread in the General forum was my main
haunt—if not my only one. Then, it was my place to ruffle feathers and blow off
steam online. I can't much fault the many trolls I have argued with and banned
from the site over the years, because I used to be one of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, slowly, AbsolutePunk started to become my
"home" online. It became the first site I hit every day when I came
home from school, and the site I hung around in the evenings. Whether I was
looking for new music, trying to find out about leaks, or chatting about
longtime favorite bands and albums, AP.net became the ultimate outlet for my
music obsession. I'd been a ravenous music fan since 2004, but most of my
friends in real life didn't share the passion. That's not to say my best buds
listened to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bad </i>music, but it was
rare for me to have long, in-depth conversations about records or artists with
friends, or to trade mixtapes or recommendations with people at school. Aside
from my brother, there weren't many people in my life who followed music with
the furor I did. That situation meant it was incredibly fulfilling and personal
when I'd discover a new album that blew my mind, but it was also a solitary
place to be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
AbsolutePunk gave me a way to talk to a whole slew of people
who adored music as much as I did. These people were passionate about the same
artists I was; they connected to music in the same visceral way that I did; and
perhaps most importantly, they knew about artists and bands that I'd never even
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">heard </i>of. To say that hanging out on
the forums at AP.net introduced me to a lot of new music would be an
understatement. To give just a few examples, people on this site turned me on
to (in rough chronological order) The Gaslight Anthem, Valencia, Copeland, Bon Iver, The
New Frontiers, Lydia, The Damnwells, The Dangerous Summer, Cary Brothers, Chad
Perrone, Charlie Simpson, Jason Isbell, The 1975, Kacey Musgraves, The
Hotelier, Noah Gundersen, and Chris Stapleton. For anyone who knows me, has
heard one of my playlists, or has read any of my writing over the past several
years, just seeing the artists on that list should be enough to convey what
this site meant to me. Perhaps more impressively, that list barely scratches the
surface of the music I discovered on AbsolutePunk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, AbsolutePunk evolved into something else for me.
I posted on this site every day throughout college (even the day after I bombed out of my college major), always reading the reviews
or chatting about Springsteen or JEW with other users. It was my place to write
about music before I was really a writer at all. And then once I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>start blogging, the forums were
always one of the first places I would go to share my work. I did that for a
year, from the summer of 2011 to the summer of 2012, slowly becoming more
confident in myself and the words I wrote. It was always a treat to be bolstered along by
compliments and thoughtful conversation from the people on this site. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, one day in July 2012, I posted <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-gaslight-anthem-handwritten.html">a review of The
Gaslight Anthem's </a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-gaslight-anthem-handwritten.html">Handwritten</a> </i>on my
blog. As was customary by then, I quickly went over to the forums and dropped a
link to the review in the official album thread. I didn't expect anything to
come of it: the site already had a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Handwritten
</i>review by then (shout out to Thomas Nassiff's 10.0 endorsement) and I was
mostly aiming to continue the emphatic discussion about the record that I'd
already been having with other users on the site. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I logged on to AP.net later that afternoon—at work,
no less; always the slacker—I had a private message in my inbox titled with
three simple words: "Contributing to AP." The message, sent by
one-time staff member Matthew Tsai, was short and sweet: "<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hey! I passed on your
Gaslight review to some of the staff and a lot of us really dig how you write.
Jason was wondering if you'd be interested in coming on staff and writing for
us. Let me know!" I didn't need to think for more than a split second before typing out that, yes, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> be interested.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
could say "and then the rest was history" at this point, but I don't
think that line would do justice to what writing for AbsolutePunk.net did for
me, both personally and professionally. As fate would have it, I'd just
switched my college major to professional writing (from classical voice) and
reviewing records on AbsolutePunk was the perfect complement to that academic
pursuit. Working for the site gave me an edge over my fellow students—not just
in terms of resume, but also in that I had a chance to take all of the writing
habits I was learning in the classroom and employ them in a practical
environment. I progressed so quickly as a writer during my two semesters of
senior year, and while a part of that has to be owed to my great professors,
perhaps a bigger part was owed to this website.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Indeed,
AbsolutePunk was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perfect </i>place to
develop my voice as a writer. Instead of being pinned down by assignments, I
had the freedom to decide what I wanted to write about. Instead of dealing with
deadlines, I could work projects on my own time and hone my reviews until they
were precisely where I wanted them to be. Instead of being held to some
bullshit standard of objectivity, I could be as blatantly personal and
subjective as I wanted in my writing. Other publications around the internet
might have had "better" writing or more "prestige" than we did
at AbsolutePunk, but I fully believe that our staff consisted of the most honest
and passionate music writers on the internet. And artists noticed.</span></div>
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en">
<div dir="ltr" lang="en">
I love <a href="https://twitter.com/absolutepunk">@AbsolutePunk</a>. They like some albums & don’t like others but they always treat MUSIC like something they LOVE <a href="http://t.co/g2UFd54nSo">http://t.co/g2UFd54nSo</a></div>
— Counting Crows (@CountingCrows) <a href="https://twitter.com/CountingCrows/status/507262052482953216">September 3, 2014</a></blockquote>
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Writing
for AbsolutePunk taught me how to stay motivated and govern the quality,
approach, and scope of my writing on my own terms—skills that have served me
well in my current role as work-from-home freelance writer. More than that,
though, writing for AP.net taught me to love music more deeply and not to be
afraid of sharing those emotional connections with other people. Over the
course of three and a half years as a staff member, I wrote 200 reviews (on the
dot) and contributed dozens of other articles and features. The best of
those—and the ones that tended to get the biggest response from readers—were
the ones where I took the site's mantra of "Music Mends Broken
Hearts" to…well, to heart. I spilled my exhilaration and fear about
graduating college in pieces about <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2013/06/jimmy-eat-world-damage.html">Jimmy Eat World's </a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2013/06/jimmy-eat-world-damage.html">Damage</a> </i>and <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/my-back-pages-vol-8-bruce-springsteen.html">Bruce Springsteen's <i>The Wild, The Innocent, The E Street Shuffle</i></a>; I reflected on past heartache
<a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/city-and-colour-hurry-and-harm.html">every</a> <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/city-and-colour-if-i-should-go-before.html">time</a> <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/city-and-colour-sometimes-10-year.html">I wrote about City and Colour</a>; I went full fanboy and reviewed <a href="http://i.imgur.com/A7Hsawc.png?1">every single Butch Walker album in the span of a week</a>; I talked about the
life-changing power of music <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>mourned
the loss of my grandfather in <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/jimmy-eat-world-futures.html">a retrospective piece about Jimmy Eat World's
</a><i><a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/jimmy-eat-world-futures.html">Future</a>s</i>; I talked about falling in love with my wife in <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/jacks-mannequin-everything-in-transit.html">my 10-year retrospective for Jack's Mannequin's Everything in Transit</a>; I wrote myself to
tears talking about how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born to Run </i><a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/bruce-springsteen-born-to-run-40-year.html">had acted like a "hidden map of life" during my coming-of-age years</a>; and
I waxed poetic about <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/no-retreat-no-surrender-learning-lifes.html">learning life's big lessons not in the classroom, but at Bruce Springsteen's live shows</a>. These pieces were incredibly special to me, and
it was nothing short of life affirming to see that they were special to other
people as well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Reviews
weren't the only thing that made being an AbsolutePunk staff member amazing,
either. Everything from getting albums months early to shooting the shit with
other staff in Slack to chatting with my favorite artists made this job a joy.
How many people get to spend hours picking their heroes' brains about music?
The remarkably in-depth conversations I had with <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-chris-carrabba-of-twin-forks.html">Chris Carrabba</a>, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-few-weeks-ago-i-got-chance-to-speak.html">Chad Perrone</a>,
<a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-brian-fallon-february-4th-2016.html">Brian Fallon</a>, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-noah-gundersen-august-11th.html">Noah Gundersen</a>, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-jason-isbell-june-20th-2015.html">Jason Isbell</a>, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-matt-nathanson-october-14th.html">Matt Nathanson</a>, and <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-donovan-woods-february-10th.html">Donovan Woods</a>
taught me more about songwriting and the musical art than two and a half years
in music school combined. Suffice to say that those conversations played a big
role in getting me to a place where I was ready to write and record my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own </i>album. More on that later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
how poetic is it that, almost exactly seven years after I found AbsolutePunk
while digging around for Butch Walker b-sides, Butch Walker himself called me
up for an hour-long telephone conversation? <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/interview-butch-walker-january-29th-2015.html">That interview</a>, about Butch's
masterful 2015 release <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Afraid of Ghosts</i>,
is the kind of career highlight that I'm not sure I'll ever top. How can you
beat a candid conversation with a guy you've worshipped since before puberty?
How can you top an interview that comes together not because of a publicist,
but because your hero reads your tweet, recognizes your name, and replies back
"Dude, I'll do an interview with you!" Even getting your review retweeted
by Taylor Swift can't quite rival that.</span><br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en">
<div dir="ltr" lang="en">
.<a href="https://twitter.com/TheRyanAdams">@TheRyanAdams</a>' '1989' reviewed by <a href="https://twitter.com/FurtherFromSky">@FurtherFromSky</a>: <a href="http://t.co/zlm0xOdWHA">http://t.co/zlm0xOdWHA</a> (<a href="https://twitter.com/taylorswift13">@taylorswift13</a>)</div>
— absolutepunk (@absolutepunk) <a href="https://twitter.com/absolutepunk/status/646413739042963456">September 22, 2015</a></blockquote>
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That's
the thing about AbsolutePunk. We never necessarily did things by the book or
the way that other publications did. In a lot of ways, we were amateurs. But
when it comes to loving music, there's no such thing as being a professional.
This place, from the forums to the staff all the way up to Jason Tate himself,
was always a bastion of musical adoration the likes of which you couldn't find
anywhere else on the internet. Now, the sun is setting on that bastion.
Countless broken hearts have been mended by music and by the supportive
community that AbsolutePunk offered, and now, it's time for the next adventure.
Mission accomplished. Mischief managed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
Jason said in <a href="https://chorus.fm/features/articles/a-hello-a-goodbye/"><i>his</i> lengthy farewell post to AbsolutePunk</a>, this ending is not a goodbye; rather, it's the end of one
chapter and the start of another—the start of one that, hopefully, will be even
better. When Jason first showed me <a href="http://forum.chorus.fm/">Chorus.fm</a> in January and told me about his
plans to "sunset" AP.net in favor of the new site, part of me was hit
with the realization that something I had loved was ending. But another
part—perhaps a bigger part—was excited about the future. I have never seen
Jason as excited or as passionate as he has been in the run-up to Chorus. Since
AbsolutePunk built its brand on passion, it's only logical that the next site
would start there too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still,
there are things I'll miss about AP.net. I'll miss calling myself a Senior
Editor of a major music publication. I'll miss organizing massive site
features, like our staff-combined year-end lists. I'll miss going back and
sorting through all of the content I wrote over there (though I've reposted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost </i>everything here on this blog). But
hey, at least I got a poetic ending. Last month, I posted my 200th
and final album review on the website, <a href="http://furtherfromthesky.blogspot.com/2016/03/brian-fallon-painkillers.html">of Brian Fallon's new solo album, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Painkillers</i></a>. Since I got hired to the
site for writing about Fallon's main project, The Gaslight Anthem, closing out
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">another </i>review of his work was a
nice coming-full-circle moment for me. Now, I'm ready for what's next: the next
review; the next interview; the next EOTY list where I write way too many words
about the albums I loved; the next discovery on the forums; hopefully <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>the next kid telling us that it's
AbsolutePUNK <i>not</i> AbsoluteSomeGenreOtherThankPunk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik82e0iE-As7Qs3jCeTXEnVCXkaDWgEBlD8Jxp2ydnJLbECFCe9NO4dwFApVy4IYDj0bRFGy40LLb4vkMpbj-XuCgCTUSghyiPPIxhOI3wLpZUuazWccHoqNqNCJEdNcPJq6JEXMuaHIom/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-30+at+6.24.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
before we get to that, I would be remiss if I didn't cast one last look back on
the entity that shaped my writing more than any other, or give one last thank
you to all of the people who made it worth it. To everyone who ever read and
enjoyed my reviews, challenged my way of thinking about music, recommended
artists, or worked alongside me—thank you. You know who you are. Thanks
especially to Jason Tate for the myriad of amazing opportunities this site has
given me. You'll probably be hearing a lot of thank-you's to Jason over the
next few days, and it's not hard to see why: AbsolutePunk.net was the place
where many of us grew up and found our voices. Here's hoping there's some kid out there who will be able to let Chorus.fm do what AbsolutePunk.net did for me.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Some (Almost) Final Statistics:</b> </span></div>
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsECPX1lFaVe3nPx1hqlUkowJTPJAs-AzDxt-p0xH5VOsvHw3Q6NW7hpQgHE6d1-MdatpBdH_yb_JSrOtPaBXE_ytAI6BZvqEa7EQsKseaOAtNKXMk4-0A7b8iy62cW5-H8FF3441onaI/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-30+at+6.23.59+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsECPX1lFaVe3nPx1hqlUkowJTPJAs-AzDxt-p0xH5VOsvHw3Q6NW7hpQgHE6d1-MdatpBdH_yb_JSrOtPaBXE_ytAI6BZvqEa7EQsKseaOAtNKXMk4-0A7b8iy62cW5-H8FF3441onaI/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-30+at+6.23.59+PM.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why is there no "Minutes wasted arguing with fellow users" section?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv_ScOKrXutv_fKXwqmjf-8IrfzCOcJXzUE5ptsgJmny2kwt9Um0TN1IErTk7qGPjTKogIU72K_vQgU34_6fjXuGwSF_zNQmHYdQ5D2Fo2C646WUJ5HzNx6S_zLqq2brF6dKa7kQzzDKV/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-30+at+7.08.36+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrv_ScOKrXutv_fKXwqmjf-8IrfzCOcJXzUE5ptsgJmny2kwt9Um0TN1IErTk7qGPjTKogIU72K_vQgU34_6fjXuGwSF_zNQmHYdQ5D2Fo2C646WUJ5HzNx6S_zLqq2brF6dKa7kQzzDKV/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-30+at+7.08.36+AM.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wish I had a total review word count here, because I'm sure it's just ridiculous. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>My Final Post: </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3C9I3r84qbJAlsIry5lWWQEpfsvnkYTQLE9A1bAaqcb_6eQppWPdnUtosP7v0N9g8_YA6UErangT4tgQZEifwv8RryOtuDA_mfoBWBqV7m9uknGB6hUS2PYdQ_a6RBaBs2xAs1L1Grc1Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-03-31+at+11.05.36+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3C9I3r84qbJAlsIry5lWWQEpfsvnkYTQLE9A1bAaqcb_6eQppWPdnUtosP7v0N9g8_YA6UErangT4tgQZEifwv8RryOtuDA_mfoBWBqV7m9uknGB6hUS2PYdQ_a6RBaBs2xAs1L1Grc1Y/s640/Screen+Shot+2016-03-31+at+11.05.36+AM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-28096720118368720442016-03-30T08:07:00.002-04:002016-03-30T08:07:41.299-04:00Interview: Donovan Woods (February 10th, 2016)<div class="aside">
<i>A few weeks ago, I had the chance to speak with
Canadian folk singer/songwriter Donovan Woods. We talked about Woods'
fantastic new album, Hard Settle, Ain't Troubled, which is officially <a href="https://play.spotify.com/album/3yIVVc2Y2Zb2XSMselEYjA" target="_blank">out today.</a>
We also spoke, in detail, about songwriting, co-writing, the idea of
capturing a dichotomy of ideas in a single song, American country music,
and Donovan's experiences writing songs for Tim McGraw and Lady
Antebellum's Charles Kelley.</i></div>
<div class="aside">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaocapH5DOCufUAIOVm0lQXyBm8aBpSWOXK-_XP1DXoripSFHZgkZPQQ-4CKOAJ2VK7rfSf96bD4HKsBgw81rVeteh66BlTFCkGGP-gM_yxHTCrgwhy24qYcIjpN2MWoevoeNBTyzLJ9uo/s1600/donovanwoods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaocapH5DOCufUAIOVm0lQXyBm8aBpSWOXK-_XP1DXoripSFHZgkZPQQ-4CKOAJ2VK7rfSf96bD4HKsBgw81rVeteh66BlTFCkGGP-gM_yxHTCrgwhy24qYcIjpN2MWoevoeNBTyzLJ9uo/s1600/donovanwoods.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="aside">
</div>
<b>
You've got a new album coming out in, what is it, two weeks now?</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I guess two weeks! The 26th, so what's that? Yeah, two weeks.<br />
<br />
<b> Anything planned for the day of the release?</b><br />
<br />
I'm going to be on a tour, so I'll be playing in Winnipeg on that night.
So it'll just be a show day and then back on the bus, but after this
tour is over there'll be a big release party, probably in Toronto, in
March I think. <br />
<br />
<b> Are you on a solo tour or are you touring with someone right now?</b><br />
<br />
I'm opening for a fellow named Matt Anderson who's a blues artist from
Canada. Haven't started yet, starting on Monday going all the way from
BC to Halifax in Canada.<br />
<br />
<b> In the past few years your songs have appeared on albums by Tim
McGraw and then the new one by Charles Kelley. Who else have you written
for or written with?</b><br />
<br />
I wrote a song that's on Billy Curington's record, he's a country guy. A
bunch of Canadian artists. I written with a lot of Canadian country
artists. People that aren't quite famous south of the (Canadian) border,
but people that do well on the radio up here. And now I'm starting to
write with all types of Nashville artists as well, but nothing...you
don't want to talk too much about it, because you never know if the song
is going to make the record and you're sort of just waiting in the
wings. But all types of people, big and small, which is very lucky.<br />
<br />
<b> So how does the experience of writing for other people--and
especially since you've been writing with more Nashville artists
recently--how did that influence the music that you were making for this
new record?</b><br />
<br />
Well this is my first record that's ever had co-writes on it. All three
of my other records I wrote entirely by myself. I wrote these
songs--five of these songs I wrote by myself and five of them I wrote
with other people. So I've never had that before. I never recorded a
song under my own name that I recorded with someone else. So that's a
new experience. I don't know that two years ago I would have ever said I
would have done that, but eventually you find the right people to write
with, and then before you know it, you're leaving the room with a song
that you might love and you might put on a record. Once you're writing
with good people, you end up with good songs. Not surprising! So once
that sort of changed, yeah, it was easy to see myself putting a
co-written song on a record. And maybe that makes the songs a little bit
more...impersonal? I don't know that it does. I'm not sure that it
does. I'm not sure what it changes. I think that the best part about
co-writing is you get a point of view that you don't have on your own. I
don't know, are you a musician?<br />
<br />
<b>Yes</b>.<br />
<br />
So you know how it is. You sort of play the same thing on the guitar,
you sort of do what you do. You have your tricks, and it's really hard
to break out of that. You're kind of trained, in a lot of ways. It's
hard to break out of your patterns. And lyrically, I'm sure that you
know it's kind of the same way: it's hard to break out of the phrasing
that you use, and it's nice having another person there to get you
outside of that. Then you can make something that's actually new and
exciting. Hopefully!<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, definitely! Yeah, when I go to write songs it's always usually
like, I start with the same chords and I find myself writing similar
melodies so, I can definitely picture--I've never written with another
person, at least not yet--but I can imagine.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, before I done a bit of it, I thought...I couldn't imagine it. It
seemed so, like such a crazy idea to me. It's fun now to be a lot more
comfortable with it and, yeah, I don't have that problem anymore where I
sit down and I play something that's the same when I write with
somebody else. The other function of it is that it just gives you an
appointment to go do it. But I'm old, I have a whole bunch of
responsibilities, so I really need to structure my time in writing.
Because if I don't...I have all types of cool stuff in my house!
(Laughs) Like, I would go watch TV, you know? I would almost rather do
anything, because writing songs is...it's pretty hard! So having a
writing appointment is pretty convenient once you're an old dude. I'm
not that old, but you know, once you have a whole bunch of
responsibilities. <br />
<br />
<b> When you sit down to write a song, do you say to yourself "I'm going
to look to have this cut by someone else" or do you say "This one's for
me," or do you just write the song and see where it goes?</b><br />
<br />
You just write. I mean, the funny part is that any time I've ever sat
down thinking "I want to try to write a song for X artist," it never
works. It's just...I don't know, you are usually not rewarded by the
songwriting gods for doing that, and deservedly so. It just seems to me
that sitting down with a good idea and sitting down with someone to try
to get that idea to the best place, try to tell a story in the best way
you can, try to represent an idea in the best way to can, or like map
out a feeling, or...trying to do that accurately is always more
rewarding to yourself, at the end of the day, and always more rewarding
in that people want to cut it. And the ones that I've had cut we didn't
think anybody was going to cut. When we were writing that "Portland,
Maine" song that Tim McGraw cut, we didn't think anybody was going to
record that. It was too sad! We were like "No one's ever going to like
this." We turned it into the publishers, they were like "No one's ever
going to cut this." And it made sense, because it was too sad, it was
too...sort of a tiny little story, a tiny little narrative. You know,
it's not what's on country radio, it's not what country artists are
doing right now. <br />
<br />
But the ones that you write and feel passionate about tend to be the
ones that other people feel passionate about too, so I try to not
prescribe anything and just sit down and try to write a good idea. To
write a song that I can be proud of and don't have to be ashamed of.
Because I've certainly written a lot, and there are songs on the radio
in Canada that I'm ashamed of. (Laughs) And the feeling of someone like
Charles cutting a song like "Leaving Nashville" and the response that
that gets from people is infinitely more rewarding than making some
money off a song that you want to blow your brains out when you hear it.
<br />
<br />
<b> Last year we got two one-off singles from you: we got "Portland,
Maine," your version of it, and we got "That Hotel." And neither of
those are on this album.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, well "Portland, Maine" will be like a bonus track: you'll get it when you get the record I guess.<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, I saw that on the iTunes version.</b><br />
<br />
But it's not a real...not really on the record. <br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, not on the vinyl.</b><br />
<br />
Oh yeah, that's right.<br />
<br />
<b> Was there a specific reason that you decided to leave those two off?</b><br />
<br />
Well, I felt that "That Hotel" was a bit more...I mean, this record
is...it wasn't really about me, and I think the ones on this record
are...to me, they're about me. And it felt like those two were a little
bit not about me. Although, "That Hotel" is...I mean, at the moment,
it's becoming more and more about me, but... (Laughs) I also just
thought that the mood of it didn't really suit this record. And I like
it as a standalone song. I like that it was released as just one sad as
hell song. (Laughs) So I didn't want to mess with that. I just thought I
would leave it alone and let people enjoy it for what it is.<br />
<br />
<b> So speaking of "Leaving Nashville," that song is sort of fascinating
to me, because it provides this very sobering view of Nashville—and
sort of by extension, a sobering view of the American Dream. What
inspired you to write that song? And was it coming from a cynical place
or was it more like, this is just how life in this city and trying to be
a professional songwriter is?</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I think that one of the things I'm always trying to do with
records and songs is get that dichotomy of experience accurately, just
in terms of how bad things can feel good and good things can feel bad.
Something can be awful and feel fine at the same time. Both of those
thoughts can be present and true simultaneously. So I think that
loathing a place and loving a place is an idea that was interesting to
me, and that's sort of what I was trying to represent. <br />
<br />
I think that, like a lot of places, it was an idea that I'd had for a
really long time, and I had pitched it at a couple other writers, and
they didn't want to write it with me because they didn't quite
understand it. So I took it to Abe [Stoklasa], and Abe understood it
immediately. We wrote it in about 30 or 40 minutes. So it resonated with
him.<br />
<br />
I think the idea, to me, I didn't want it to be cynical. I didn't want
to be, like, shitting on Nashville. I think that there's something about
that place, and a lot of places in America, that there isn't in Canada.
Like, we don't have towns like that in Canada, where it's ruthless and
it's like a hustle to get to the top, but that can reward you in such a
fantastic way. It can be simultaneously depressing, the bottom of the
barrel of these people trying to make money on songs. But at the same
time, there's just this fantastic hope, this crackling energy of
possibility. And New York is like that. Los Angeles is like that. These
towns that can be loathed and loved at the exact same time. <br />
<br />
I think that certainly is what Nashville represents to me. There's just
so many people there doing exactly what I want to do. Ever since I was a
kid, I've wanted to go there and write songs, and the first thing I
Googled when I got the internet was Warner Capitol, because I heard that
that was a company that paid songwriters just to write songs. So I
think there's something about it that I love, and I was just to
represent that dichotomy of feeling about that place. Sorry, that's a
very long answer!<br />
<br />
<b> No, that's great! That's sort of what I got from it, is the dichotomy, so it's cool to hear you explain that.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, it just felt like it was a good way to represent the feelings of
it, you know? Just to list a bunch of really sort of on-the-line
can-be-awful things, and then saying it's doesn't matter: you're still
never leaving. Ironic for me, because I don't even live there and I
leave all the time. (Laughs) It's kind of ironic when all you do is
leave!<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, and speaking of irony, that song is also the closer on that
Charles Kelley record. Is it ironic to you that this song, where it's
like "if it ain't a single it don't me nothing," this was one of the
ones that you wrote that another artist ended up picking up and
recording?</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I think it's funny. I don't think it'll be a single! (Laughs) I
still don't think it'll be a single. But we also tried to make the
song--like, it says "pour out your heart in 3:20"--we also tried to make
the song exactly three minutes and 20 seconds. I don't think Charles'
version is that exact length. But you know, I think that's part of the
appeal of it. I mean, to hear Charles sing "your friends are friends
with country stars," to have a country star singing that is...you know,
there's something really interesting about it. And it's got layers to it
that you can think about. I think that's why it's resonating with
people. That's why we liked it when we wrote it. We just thought "Wow,
there's a lot of shit in here. There's a lot of stuff going on in this
song." I don't think there's much...I don't want to, you know...I love
Nashville, but there's not a lot of stuff like that coming out of
Nashville. Kacey Musgraves and Chris Stapleton. And Jason Isbell, you
could say, is part of Nashville, but in a way he's not. But, there just
aren't very many songs that you can live inside. But that's not...not
all songs have to be like that, you know? Like, there's value in Luke
Bryan. He's really great. Those guys are amazing at what they do. But I
love a song that you can get lost in.<br />
<br />
<b> Yes. Absolutely. I agree. So, when these artists like Tim and
Charles cut your songs, do you meet with them or speak with them? Or do
you just get a call from your publisher and it's like "Hey, someone
wants this song"? I've always been curious about how that works.</b><br />
<br />
Sometimes it's either one. I mean, the one with Tim, neither of us
know--Abe Stoklasa and I wrote that "Portland, Maine" song too--neither
of us know Tim. So, yeah, that one was just our publisher calling and
saying "He likes it." And I never spoke him at all about it, until
briefly later. But it was just that: he said he was gonna cut it, and
then we waited around to hear it. And I didn't even hear it until the
record came out. And I bought the record the day it came out, went
looking for it.<br />
<br />
So sometimes it's like that. And other times it's like...Abe knows
Charles and has written for him before. Abe wrote a song on Lady
Antebellum's last record. The best song on the record. So Abe knew
Charles and had a relationship with Charles, and we sent him the work
tape of the song. And we never demoed the song, he just cut it off the
work tape. So then we were in communication with him about whether he
was going to use it and whether he liked it, so we knew he was thinking
of putting it on the record. Eventually I heard the studio version, but I
heard that a long while ago, before it came out. And I've since written
with Charles on a bunch of other songs. <br />
<br />
So yeah, it's either/or, and sometimes it's both, you know? A lot of
times, cuts in Nashville come from personal relationships with artists,
though. The Tim McGraw one, with him completely not knowing us, is
pretty rares. It's also pretty rare for him to pick a song from two
writers who had never had a cut before. But it happens in all different
ways and that's what's so fun about it.<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, that's great. So there's a song in the middle of this record
that, when you said "a song you can live inside," it made me think of
this. Because this song kind of reminded me of Jason Isbell, actually.
But it's "They Don't Make Anything in That Town." And it's really
desolate and heartbreaking and pretty much made me stop what I was doing
and pay attention because it's that kind of song. What inspired that
for you? Is that autobiographical.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah. Thanks, I'm glad that you like that song! Those are stories from
my hometown. I don't have that negative feeling of my hometown. I go
there pretty frequently. But I feel like it could be pretty hard for
some people. But that's sort of just a pastiche of things that I heard
about happening in the town, but things that didn't happen to me. But
just sort of trying to add up to something that's indicative of a bigger
story. That's all I'm trying to do. Pretty depressing, though, that
song. Pretty depressing. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, it's a tough one. (Laughs) I was actually sort of surprised
that that one didn't end the record, but then I remembered that "Leaving
Nashville" was on here.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, that was the big argument. I kind of wanted "They Don't Make
Anything in That Town" to end the record, but I kind of let my
producers...I like to let my producers have a big fan track order,
because they've listened to it more than anybody. I just feel like they
need a say. I don't know, I feel like every song I've ever written is
probably a "last song on the record," to be honest with you, so it never
surprises me whichever one gets picked.<br />
<br />
<b> Just a lot of sad. Yeah, you gotta end the record sad.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I don't know what... (Laughs) Why is that true? I wonder why that's try that it's always sad at the end of the record.<br />
<br />
<b> I think it comes from wanting to end on a ballad, and then a lot of ballads are sad.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I guess. So many times though, when somebody cuts one of my songs
and I see the tracklisting, it's like number 11 or number 10. And then
you know, you know they're never singling it. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b> I mean, with Charles at least, that song was...it wasn't a pre-release thing, but he did the one mic, one take video, so...</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, he did the video for it and all that. Yeah, that song, people will
know enough about that song to sort of reach out to hear it, and all
the reviews are about it. But you know, you get to wanting to hear
yourself...like, I wanna hear my songs on American country radio. I've
heard myself in Canada. I've just dreamed of having a song [on American
radio]. I think I will eventually, but I don't know if it's that song.
That song is pretty sad for the radio.<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, I think if there would be one on hear that I would call a
"radio song" for country, it would probably be "The First Time," because
that one has a theme that a lot of people can relate to, I think.</b><br />
<br />
Well maybe! Who knows? That one's pretty depressing too, though. (Laughs) <br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, but it's depressing in a different way, I guess. <br />
<br />
Would you say that working with Nashville artists pushed you toward a
more American country sound for this record? Because it sort of feels
more Americana to me than your past ones.</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I always wanted to have those instruments. If I could have
afforded them on the last record, I probably would of had them. But
having pedal steel and having all different types of players is
primarily a function of having a bigger budget for this record. But
yeah, I think certainly in the last four years that I've been writing in
Nashville, I've come to appreciate country music more than I did. And I
always did appreciate it. I grew up in a town where everyone likes
country music, so, I was never...I always liked it. But, I think that's
probably fair to say.<br />
<br />
<b> When you write a song and someone else records it for their record,
is there a feeling of awkwardness when you decide to put it on your
record too?</b><br />
<br />
Yeah, I don't know. That "Leaving Nashville" song, I just loved it. I
think if I didn't know Charles, I would have...I think kind of the
courtesy that you're giving another artist is to let them release it
first. And that's sort of part of the deal. I wouldn't have released it
before him, that's for sure. But to say that is also silly, because my
reach is so incredibly small in comparison to him. So if I release it,
nobody's going to hear it and if he releases it, everybody's going to
hear it. Part of it is just the attention. I wanted to make sure that he
was able to release it first and that he got most of the attention for
it. But that's a song I love and I definitely want to have it on my
record. Charles knows that I'm an artist and he has my records. So there
was no weird discussion about it. I said "I'd like to record it too,
for my record" and he said "Of course." It's kind of a pretty normal
thing in Nashville, so there doesn't have to be too much awkwardness
about it.<br />
<br />
<b> I think Chris Stapleton said something about it, because he...that
"Whiskey and You" song on Traveller, that was a Tim McGraw recording
too, back in 2008 or something. And he's like "It's a great song, anyone
can record it and it's gonna be new anyway because it's a different
interpretation."</b><br />
<br />
That's part of it. That's written in the DNA of Nashville is that a song
is a song and you can't keep anybody from cutting it. We've sort of
fallen off that in the music industry in that, now we seem to think that
everybody should write their own songs. But we used to know that not
everybody is capable or even really wants to. But there's really
something to be said for amazing song interpreters. But the idea now is
that, if you're singing it, you should have written it, which is kind of
a new idea, and we're a little bit silly to hold it so dear, you know?<br />
<br />
<b> Yeah, definitely. Sort of among the elitists that view country music
as "the mainstream stuff" and "everyone else," it's like, "well these
guys aren't writing their songs, so is there artistic integrity to
that?" But it is kind of a pointless argument, I realize, because most
people aren't even going to know.</b><br />
<br />
Most people don't know, and nobody's...it's not a lie, it's not a fraud
or anything. I mean, Frank Sinatra didn't write his songs, and everybody
likes him. Elvis didn't write all those songs. Even the Beatles sang
other peoples' songs early on. But, you know, ever since the Beatles and
ever since Bob Dylan, there's sort of a "real artists write and perform
their own songs" [belief], and I don't if that's necessarily true. I
think we can do ourselves a bit of a disservice. Nobody gives pop people
a hard time for doing it. But I think sort of the authenticity of
country people is that they wrote these songs and went out and did it.
But I don't know. Hearing Charles sing "Leaving Nashville," that's his
song. That's his song, you know? There's no argument from about that. He
sings it as well as anybody could sing that song. And even Tim singing
"Portland, Maine," was like, "Of course he wanted to sing that song."
There's a real ability in identifying those songs that you're going to
sound good on, and following through with that, and that shouldn't be
discounted. It's just bullshit: that's real talent. <br />
<br />
<b> And Charles, his version of "Leaving Nashville," he just does some
different stuff with the vocals and phrasing, to the point where they're
definitely different songs.</b><br />
<br />
Well certainly from mine, they are definitely different songs. Mine is, I think, the saddest version. <br />
<br />
<b> Yep, yours is sadder.</b><br />
<br />
But his is...yeah, his is almost defiant. But they're both great. When I
heard his, I was over the moon because he really went for it. His felt
important, and that's my favorite thing.<br />
<br />
<b> I read an interview that said you had the title for this record and
you've had it for a bit, and I was wondering what the title means to you
and why you decided to choose it.</b><br />
<br />
I always have the title way before the rest of the record. I have the
title for the next one all set up too, I think. But I don't know: it was
two songs, "Hard Settle" and "Ain't Troubled" were two songs I was
working on by myself but never really finished. They just weren't good
enough to make it on the record. But to me, it pretty accurately
described the first half and the second half. I tried to group the songs
in such a way that the first half is "Hard Settle" and the second half
is "Ain't Troubled." I just like the way those words sound. I like the
dichotomy, that one sounds like a struggle and the other songs like
everything's fine. I think, to me, that's the interesting part of life:
that people will cope. And I think, to me, it's about coping and feeling
like you're not bothered by the hustle, not bothered by the struggle.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-55895417376341889692016-03-30T08:06:00.000-04:002016-03-30T08:06:15.992-04:00Interview: Brian Fallon (February 4th, 2016)<div class="aside">
<i>Last week, I had the chance to sit down and chat on
the phone with the great Brian Fallon. The interview runs a range of
topics, including the inspiration behind Fallon's folk-heavy new solo
album Painkillers (due March 11th), working with Butch Walker,
the uncertain future of The Gaslight Anthem, favorite Springsteen songs,
and the intriguing possibility of an Elsie: Part II.</i></div>
<div class="aside">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><br />
You've done a bunch of solo shows already, where you've been playing all
of the songs on this record, plus some Horrible Crowes stuff and a
cover or two, but no Gaslight material. How did you feel fans were
responding to the songs?<br />
<br />
</b> So far, it's been good. You know, it's a lot to ask of people to
go out and just play new songs that they don't know, and expect them to
be quiet and have an attention span of any kind. But they've been doing
really well, and they've been just kind of absorbing the music, which is
cool because I've always kind of thought of myself and my friends as
music listeners. We kind of absorb everything and pay attention to
what's going on, and I'm finding out the audience is doing that as well.
They're kind of shifting with me, which is really more than you could
ever ask of anybody.<br />
<br />
<b>You've always had a folk-leaning song or two on the Gaslight
albums, and there's plenty of Americana influence, but you guys have
never gone full folk or alt-country. What drove you in that
singer/songwriter direction for this album?<br />
<br />
</b> Well I think that's where I started playing music, in general,
when I was really young and before I'd decided anything on my own about
what musical taste I had. So, it kind of seemed natural, if you're going
to try something new, to start from the beginning. And go back to "what
did I get into music for in the beginning?" And it was also a little
bit of a re-focusing as well. You know, why did I start doing this in
the beginning? And what made me happy about it? And what did I get
enjoyment from?<br />
<br />
<b>A few of these songs turned up, in different forms, as part of the
Molly and the Zombies project a few years ago, but you made it clear at
the time that you weren't planning on doing an album for Molly. What's
the story behind that side project and how did you know that...I mean,
were you saving those songs for the solo record, or did you just not
think you were ever going to end up using them for an album project?<br />
<br />
</b> I knew that, at the time, I wasn't going to do anything with it.
And I was just sitting there, thinking of the songs as I was going,
because we got a show offer from the Bouncing Souls to do the Home for
the Holidays thing, and they wanted me to do it by myself. But I didn't
really have songs, and I didn't want to just go and do acoustic Gaslight
songs, because I didn't think that would be that cool for that kind of
crowd. So I decided, "I'm just going to kind of make up a band." <br />
<br />
And then I called a couple of my friends to play in it, and it sort
of...quickly, I had the idea that when I used to go to shows—and like
house shows and VFW Hall shows—and I would see bands. You know, you
would see a new band and you couldn't...maybe they had a demo tape and
that was it. And you had to wait for a record and there <i>wasn't</i> any record, and it was just, if you liked the songs, you went and saw them again.<br />
<br />
So I kind of had this idea that, what if we just made a band and
played some songs and I don't know if there's ever going to be a record
or any kind of recorded versions. And if people want to see it again,
they just come check it out.<br />
<br />
That was the initial idea behind Molly and the Zombies. And then it
kind of fizzled because I was just so busy with Gaslight, and then I
decided...like, I didn't really want to do another band. It's
just...it's a lot of bands, you know?! I can't do them all at once, so I
sort of said...once I knew that Gaslight was going to take a break and I
was going to do some sort of record—because right away, well I gotta do
something. I'm not just going to sit here and do nothing for a while.<br />
<br />
So I decided that I would take all the bands that I had, the side
projects, and kind of wrap them into one. And then I thought awhile
about recording those Molly and the Zombies songs. I was like, "Maybe I
shouldn't? Maybe I should just make new songs and have it only be new
songs?" But then I was like, "Well these songs are good though, I don't
want to throw them out." And the people who know Molly and the Zombies
is...I mean, there might be 200 people who know who that is. (Laughs)
You know, I don't think that the rest of the world is going to be too
disappointed. You know what I mean? Like, it's gonna be a new song! The
reach of Molly and the Zombies is <i>not </i>that far. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>Right, yeah, the version of those songs I have on my computer I think is like the Red Bull Sessions or something, so...<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, they're just live. We just went in there and played them.
And the thing is that the songs sound a little bit different now.
They're not so...country-ish.<br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, they're definitely not the same.<br />
<br />
</b> No. And they kind of feel different, and I felt good about that.
You know, I explained that to [producer] Butch [Walker] when I was going
to go record them. I was like, "You gotta make 'em sound different, or
else there's no point in recording them."<br />
<br />
<b>Right. Yeah, one of them...is it "Long Drives" that has different verses completely?<br />
<br />
</b> Yes, it's a totally different song. That one, I just kind of...I
was like "I don't know if I'm just going to...if I'm going to put this
one on there"—I struggled with whether to put it on there or not—and I
said "Alright, well this one I'm going to draw the line at." If I'm
going to put this on there, I can't record it the way that it was,
because I didn't feel that it went along with the rest of the songs. And
there's people who would probably disagree with that, but...you know, I
was kind of the only one there to ask! I figured it would be better if I
was going to put three of them on there that I would change the whole
thing and rewrite it right now, as a fresh song.<br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, because I was listening to it, and I think "Long Drives" was
the one I liked the most from the Molly and the Zombies thing, but I
hadn't listened to it in awhile...<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, it's one of my favorites too.<br />
<br />
<b>So then I put it on, and when the verse came on I was like, "...is
this even the same song?" And then it got to the chorus, which was
familiar. But yeah, that was pretty cool to hear.<br />
<br />
</b> It's like a little adjustment period. But then I think, once it
settles in...I would say to people that like the old version, I would
say <i>I</i> like the old version too. I like them both. But just give
it a second, because once it sinks in with you I think it's kind of
cool.<br />
<br />
<b>So, speaking of Butch, full disclosure: I'm a huge fan of his
music, been a huge fan for like a decade, and I interviewed him last
year when he released <i>Afraid of Ghosts</i>, so I was excited when I
heard you were recording with him. I was wondering how you ended up
working with him and what that was like compared to some of the people
who have produced the Gaslight albums, like Brendan O'Brien and Mike
Crossey and Ted Hutt.<br />
<br />
</b> Well, Butch came about mostly through friend recommendations.
That's how his name got thrown in the pot. Because I was sort of looking
around for a producer, and I said "You know, I probably should work
with somebody that I haven't worked with before, because I don't want to
repeat anything that I've done." I didn't want it to be...I didn't want
it to get the Gaslight treatment. I didn't want the record to have
that, which people will automatically do. I find that, if you've done a
band for a long time, people will...before you've even played a
note...you could have a disco record and they would put the slapback
vocal on it, because that's what Gaslight does. And you'd just be like,
"No, come on!" Don't just rehash the same thing. Then we might as well
call up the guys and get them in here.<br />
<br />
<b>Right, for sure.<br />
<br />
</b> And if you're going to do something different...you know, I
figured we would try something different. And when I talked to Butch, it
was real easy. He started coming up with ideas right away. He was like
"Okay, you've always done a little bit of reverb or echo on the vocals,
so we're going to do <i>nothing </i>on the vocals." You know, we're
gonna leave them...just bare. And then, he was just like "We're just
going to go in and record it, pretty much on the floor, and see how we
do with it." And it was pretty immediate. So running into him and having
him be such a fan of...of music in general, that was really easy to
work with.<br />
<br />
A lot of guys that we've worked with...like, Brendan is super good at
the rock thing. He's really great at big rock sounds and stuff like
that. And Ted is kind of...he's just another world. Ted's really...he
does everything from the heart. Ted's really artistic and he's got a
whole way about him. I love working with Ted, actually. And Mike is like
a sound guy. Mike loves sounds. And this, it was totally like...get in
there and don't worry about anything and just sort of sit down, and do
it, and leave the mistakes in. That's foreign to me: usually the
mistakes are gone.<br />
<br />
<b>Right, yeah! That's really cool. And Butch plays some guitar on this record too, right?<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, it was like me and Butch just playing guitar! Pretty much
the whole record is just me and Butch playing guitar. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>That's really cool. So, I personally really enjoyed Gaslight's last record, <i>Get Hurt</i>.
And I think I spoke to Benny for that one the morning it came out, and
he was super excited about it. And then it got super mixed reviews and
some pretty harsh pans from like Pitchfork and Slant and those guys. Did
that in any way lead to the band's decision to go on a hiatus instead
of keeping up with the every-two-year release strategy?<br />
<br />
</b> I wouldn't say that those reviews gave any...you know, they
didn't come into the band. I don't think you can make your band
decisions based on what one or two people think. And I would definitely
say that...that kind of thing, you can't let that play into what your
band's decisions are. But I'm not going to sit here and say, personally,
that that didn't bother me. I mean, for sure it did. And I think the
guys took it a lot better than I did. Like Benny for instance, he's got a
great head on his shoulders where he...he kind of was like "Yeah, but
that's just what a few people think." Like, we were doing something a
little oddball-y. Of course people are going to do that. And he's like
"Some people are gonna love it, some people are gonna hate it," but he's
like "I was ready for that." <br />
<br />
And, you know...I agreed with him on that aspect. But I also felt that
it got a little personal. It got a little bit more...not necessarily
about the band or the record, but about what [the critics] thought <i>I</i>
was doing. You know, like what my intentions were on some of them. And I
was like...these are people I've never met. That's a low blow to be
throwing on somebody you've never met. I wouldn't say that kind of stuff
about someone I hadn't spoken to, or done an interview with, or
whatever. I think you can make an assessment based on a record, but you
can't make an assessment on a person's intentions, you know? That seems a
little far-fetched, and to be honest, a little self-righteous.<br />
<br />
<b>But you guys toured a lot in support of that record, right? Like, I
don't know if it was the most touring you ever did, but it seemed like
you were on the road for awhile and there were multiple tours. And at
the shows I went to, at least, it seemed like the fan reception for
those songs was pretty good still. <br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, it was a divided thing. I don't want to say it was like,
all of the critics didn't like it, because some people said it was
awesome. And that seemed to be the dividing line: it was either people
thought it was awesome, or people just didn't like it at all. So there
wasn't really a middle ground which...I guess that's good? But the kids
at the shows seemed to like it, and that was, I thought, encouraging. <br />
Because truthfully, I'm not writing songs for reviewers or magazines.
I'm writing songs for myself and for the audience that we play for.
That's who I feel matters in the big picture. That's always been the
start of it: you're trying to communicate with your audience directly.
And so those are the people that you're shooting for. And so they seemed
to embrace it, which is cool. But yeah, there was definitely a divide. I
think we got some of the harshest criticism but then some of the praise
was pretty good too. It was mixed, and we hadn't done that in awhile.
People kind of tend to like the records that we had put out prior to
that. We were lucky in that sense, that people seemed to really
gravitate toward the other records.<br />
<br />
<b>So what is the...is there a <i>next </i>thing for Gaslight right now, or are you sort of just playing it by ear? I know <i>Sink or Swim</i> turns 10 next year, so I was wondering if you guys were going to get into the 10-year tour thing?<br />
<br />
</b> Oh no. We're not usually the kind of band to sit around and dwell
on those sort of things. I think it's cool if people do that.
Mile-markers and stuff like that. But I don't know if that would be
something that we would do, because it would just be doing it "Just
because." Like, unless there was a reason to do it. You know, unless we
all got super pumped on it and were like, "Alright, we're gonna go out
and do this." <br />
<br />
But as of right now, there's not really plans to do anything, because
there hasn't been...there's just not the "What's next?" feeling, you
know? What do you do now? To me, if you ask me, I can't imagine a record
that we could write that would be better than <i>59 Sound</i> or <i>Senor and the Queen</i>,
actually. Those two records to me—I like all the records—but those two
records to me are great. I love them. And I don't know what I can do
that's better than that. And I think that, until I found something that I
think is on par to that, I don't think I would try to touch it, because
I don't want to do anything that's gonna damage the band as we go on.
And I feel that everyone else kind of agrees with me on that. And they
sort of said, "Well, if we don't have another idea that we all feel
strongly about, then maybe we should just do nothing and that's the best
bet." You know, rather than just ruin something. Especially
half-hearted. That just seems like a big slap in the face to everybody,
including the band and myself.<br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, especially because you sort of had the routine going where
you did a record, and then you went and toured for awhile, and had maybe
a few months off, and then you did another record. And it was two
years, pretty much down the line. So...<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah. I don't think you can <i>do </i>that over and over.<br />
<br />
<b>At some point you earn yourself a break.<br />
<br />
</b> I do think that. Because, if you just do it just for the sake
of...like, why are you doing it? Are you doing it to pay your bills? And
then I don't think that's that cool, you know? I don't think it's
something you should do. Bill Armstrong from Side One Dummy said the
coolest thing to me one time, like, years ago. And this was when there
was no money coming in at all, so it was a funny thing to say. But he
said "Never put your commerce before your art." And I just always
remembered that. I was like...art before commerce, that's the thing. And
you have to make the music first from a love of doing the music, rather
than "Oh, well, I've got my bills to pay so I better put out a record
so people can buy it." That sounds disgusting to me right now, actually
saying that out loud. (Laughs) <br />
<br />
And, look, I'm not trying to say...we're not a punk band, as far as
being...because I don't want to be disrespectful to bands that <i>are</i>
punk bands, you know? And that's why I say that. But we do have an
ethic that we came up with that's like: look, you don't do this on
somebody else's back. You do it for the love, and that's why you do it.
And like Tim Barry says, "You play for the lovers, that's what you do."
And you know, unless you're 100% sure and backing it, then I don't think
you should do anything. <br />
<br />
So that's why it's more like, Gaslight decided "Okay, let's just shut
up for now, because we don't have anything on the plate that we're
pumped about." I'm not sitting on <i>American Idiot</i> in my back pocket or something. I'm not going to release record like that. I think that's an <i>awesome</i> record, <i>American Idiot</i>. Green Day had this big long career, and <i>then they did that</i>, which was pretty...that's <i>surprising</i>.
Late in a band's career, to have such a great record come out of them?
And so inspired? And I'm not sitting on that right now. (Laughs) I'm
kind of sitting on nothing. I don't have any ideas. So that's why, I
think...the only idea I would have is to sort of be like, "Alright, I
guess that Gaslight sounds like <i>59 Sound</i>, so let's kind of rehash that." But, to me, that sounds awful. I don't think anybody would want to hear that.<br />
<br />
<b>Wow, yeah, I think that's a good way of looking at it. Getting back
to the solo record a bit, what inspired your songwriting this time
around? I did notice there were a few songs coming from a female
perspective, which I thought was interesting.<br />
<br />
</b> The whole thing came from the old songwriting tradition that I
grew up on, like folk music and singer/songwriter music and that kind of
stuff. Because I don't really...like Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen, I
guess they're rock bands, but they're more singer/songwriters. That's
what they are. And those guys and all the folk music and even like Wilco
and that kind of stuff...I was going back to where I started writing
songs from for this one. So it sort of felt really fresh to me—fresh and
familiar at the same time—that I could go and delve into these things I
hadn't fully gotten to explore previously in my career.<br />
<br />
<b>Someone from the site wanted me to ask this: do you have a favorite Bruce Springsteen song?<br />
<br />
</b> Oh yeah, I've got a ton of them, actually. A lot of my favorites are really on the <i>Tracks</i> box set. Like that first CD of the <i>Tracks</i> box set. There's this one tune that I <i>always</i>
go back to called "Zero and Blind Terry." And I just...I love that
song. I feel like it encapsulates everything that Bruce was doing that
was different and new, all in one song. It's six or seven minutes long,
but it's...it's so rad. And when you listen to that song, you can
totally hear how songs like "Jungleland" and "Born to Run" and Thunder
Road" and these epics that would come in later. But this song is like
the rawest version of a <i>beginning</i> of that, and to me, that's so exciting. It's like hearing the first Against Me! record: it's so rad and raw. <br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, it's nuts some of the stuff he didn't put on records.<br />
<br />
</b> I know right? (Laughs) There's some good songs!<br />
<br />
<b>Are you catching this <i>River</i> tour, by any chance?<br />
<br />
</b> I'm not, because I've been traveling around so much. I keep going
on tour and I keep missing the shows. But I did just get the box set,
that <i>River </i>box set? <br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, my brother got that for Christmas. It looked pretty great.<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, I haven't watched [the DVDs] yet, but it's pretty cool. I just bought it.<br />
<br />
<b>Yeah, I'm heading down...my brother and I are going to see him in
Kentucky I think in two weeks now? Which...I mean, I haven't seen him in
like four years, so I'm pretty excited about that.<br />
<br />
</b> That's awesome. Last time I saw him was in Nashville. We were recording <i>Get Hurt</i>
and he played down at the area there, the Bridgestone Arena. And we all
took off early in the session. We were like "Let's go!" And we all went
to see Bruce Springsteen. It was cool.<br />
<br />
<b>That's great!<br />
<br />
</b> (Laughs) We just like, bailed out of our own record to go see Bruce. Like "Forget this, let's go."<br />
<br />
<b>Did he know you guys were there? Did he like, call you up to the stage or anything?<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah! No, he didn't call me up to the stage, but he knew we were
there. We let him know that we were coming and then he was being cool to
us and it...he's really cool. I mean, he's real cool to us too, which
is nice.<br />
<br />
<b>So Jason Tate, I think you've talked to him before, he runs AbsolutePunk. And his favorite record of yours is <i>Elsie</i>,
the Horrible Crowes record. So I was wondering, on his behalf, do you
ever see there being another Horrible Crowes record? Or is it sort of at
this point like, if you're going to write something that's not Gaslight
it's probably just going to be solo?<br />
<br />
</b> Well, I mean, if I was going to do another Horrible Crowes
record, it would probably be under my own name, just for the reason that
I gave before, so that it's all wrapped up into one. But I definitely
have a desire to do a "part two" of that, and that was my first idea
when Gaslight was like "Okay, we're gonna take a break." My first idea
was like, "Maybe I can do another Horrible Crowes record. But I couldn't
think of anything in that genre that would be better than <i>Elsie</i>,
so I was like...I don't know if I want to start diving into that one.
Because that's special to me. That record is...I love that record! And I
still listen to it, even. So for me, I would have to get into it, and
really see if I could find something that was as good as that. I would
probably just do it under my name, but it's definitely on the plate to
do something like that again.<br />
<br />
<b>And Ian Perkins is still touring with you for this anyway, right?<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, he's always there. So yeah, it wouldn't change anything.
Like, Ian would still have a part of it, and he would still...everything
would stay the same. It would just be the name on the record that would
be different, but everything else would still be the same record. I
mean, I'd probably call Ted for that too, and say "Well, you gotta do
this next one, because we did the first one." I would probably get
exactly the same people and not change a thing.<br />
<br />
<b>Right, yeah, totally. But I'm pretty pleased that you went the
country route more for this one, because I think it really suits...like,
the instrumentation is <i>really</i> nice. On songs like "Honey Magnolia," like, I really like that guitar solo in there.<br />
<br />
</b> Yeah, me too! That's the thing: you sort of have to just obey
what you feel is coming out of you at the time. You can't really control
it. So, I felt like [the Americana-influenced sound] was the thing, and
I had a lot of things that I'd always wanted to do—like what you were
saying, writing in the perspective of a girl. And that's part of the
folk tradition: taking on characters and trying to empathize and see
from their point of view. And that was really calling and gnawing at me,
and I really...I just knew that this was the time and I had to sit down
and do this record.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-63541943037905374472016-03-30T08:04:00.003-04:002016-03-30T08:04:47.071-04:00Interview: Matt Nathanson (October 14th, 2015)<i><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></i><br />
<div class="aside">
<i><span style="font-family: Times;">Last week, I got to speak on the
phone with the ever-amusing and ultra-talented Matt Nathanson. In our
interview, Nathanson described the disjointed but ultimately satisfying
nature of his brand new album, Show Me Your Fangs. We also
discussed the unpredictable audience-request format of Nathanson's
current tour, how some of the best records have "great topography"
instead of being thematically or musically cohesive, and how elements of
hip-hop and R&B have slowly crept into Nathanson's
singer/songwriter-oriented music.</span></i></div>
<div class="aside">
<i><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></i></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CkDuzXbIo7PUOa3OAcfEjPPh7fuYEAm5OTsbl_8J__HGTNQ2Kb6gOIHSdKf2SEV6iG0rCppdvAuPlQRtWWEa_IiplaATIPAlkn3vOiO_pN7zklAsIUJ4HDsQT78PYQ5H4k1o8EvbOP_G/s1600/2mattnathanson770-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CkDuzXbIo7PUOa3OAcfEjPPh7fuYEAm5OTsbl_8J__HGTNQ2Kb6gOIHSdKf2SEV6iG0rCppdvAuPlQRtWWEa_IiplaATIPAlkn3vOiO_pN7zklAsIUJ4HDsQT78PYQ5H4k1o8EvbOP_G/s1600/2mattnathanson770-01.jpg" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">Matt Nathanson:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Craig!</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">Craig Manning:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Matt, how you doing?</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I'm great dude, how are you?</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><br />
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I'm pretty good! Been a long day, but this is a highlight. Glad to be on the phone with you.</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><br />
</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, man, I
think it's probably the highlight for me too, of a very long day as
well. We lost our bus yesterday morning in New Orleans and then flew to
Austin and then picked up another bus at the end of our set. We played
like a spartan set with just acoustic, just Aaron and I and that was it.
It was super fun. And then we did the radio this morning in Austin and
then made it to Dallas. So yeah, I know the long day is never fun.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, I saw
your tweet yesterday and actually got in touch with [your press person],
because I figured if you were flying to Texas you wouldn't be able to
do an interview. (<b>Note: </b><i>This interview was originally supposed to take place on October 13th.</i>)</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, I'm
sorry about that, it was just super fucked up. It was one of those
things where everything kind of worked out, though. Like, a new bus
arrived just as we were getting to the airport in Austin, or just as we
were checking in, and then they drove to meet us, and it was like a
nine-hour drive. It's crazy.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Wow. Well, <i>other than that</i>, how's the tour going? <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> It's
pretty fun! I think it was a neat idea, the wheel thing is a neat idea.
Like, the wheel of all the old songs. The only thing I didn't...I guess I
underestimated how much I like control. And so, getting onstage and
sort of ceding control to the wheel like five or six times in the arc of
the setlist, and giving it to fate of this spin...I've been sort of
mixed on it. I sort of say to Aaron...I'll be like "That was fun, the
wheel was merciful." (Laughs) And then sometimes it's like "Dude, fuck, I
did not want to play that song," you know what I mean? Because you can
get two or three slow songs in a row, some of which I wrote when I
was...you know, a fucking kid. <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">And like, last night, we didn't have the
wheel because of the bus breakdown, but I kind of did it anyway. Like, I
asked what the crowd wanted to hear. And someone yelled "All Been Said
Before," which is from <i>Ernst</i>, like...you know, way back. And I played it, and it was fun to play it. Like, I <i>invest</i>
in playing it. But there's a certain...I get embarrassed, because you
live your live thinking that you get...like, okay: creating music and
thinking that the stuff you're making now...in order to feel like you're
not a fucking sham of a human, you have to feel like you're progressing
with every record. It has to feel like "Oh, well that's better than the
last record," whether or not people think so or not. For me, it's gonna
feel like "Yeah, this is a movement forward." <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">So to go back and revisit songs that are so
obviously written at a time that maybe I can't access, or that reflect
the way I played guitar or the way I wrote lyrics or any of that kind of
stuff…it gets a little like showing your old haircuts. You know what I
mean? Like, holding up a fucking billboard-sized picture of me with a
mullet, or me with a fohawk (laughs). You kind of look, and you're like,
"What the fuck was I doing?" And so, it's rad [to play those old songs]
because people's response to it makes you feel good. But during the
experience of playing it, some songs trigger this real sense of
insecurity. Like, "What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? <i>Why did I do that</i>?"
And these people are all going to think, everybody but these six people
that want to hear the song, they're going to think "I can't believe I
paid money to watch this fucking kid play music." You know what I mean?
So that happens. But <i>other </i>than, you know, being gripped by fucking complete fear of my past, it's really been a fun tour! (Laughs) <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, I was wondering about the wheel, like, if there we any songs that got voted for where you were just like "Oh, hell no."<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah,
it was funny because there was...I did as best a job as I good kind of
weeding out [the stuff I didn't want to play], but there were some songs
that hit really high numbers on the list when we compiled them that I
couldn't say...like, I looked at Aaron and was like "Dude, I can't
believe <i>that song </i>got X amount of votes." Like, I can't even
think of the ones, but we ended up just...I kind of sucked it up, and I
was like "I got this, we can make this work." And I put them on the
list, but like..."Miracles," which is...I mean, that song is like nine
minutes long, or it might as well be. And people want to hear it, you
know, so we put it on the board and I just pray that it passes by.
(Laughs)<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Do you have like...a binder of lyrics or anything, to help you navigate these songs that you haven't played in like 10 years?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah,
I've got this huge binder full of shit. And after playing...every song's
been landed on now at least once, if not multiple times. And so some of
them have come back. They usually come back after one or two times of
playing them in front of people. Like, no matter how much I rehearse
them in my basement in front of no one, I don't feel them sticking. But
as soon as you play them in front of people, it's like, "Oh yeah, I've
got that one." But yeah, I've got a binder full of all my songs.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Well yeah, it's not fair, because like Springsteen, he's got his teleprompter...<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah,
that guy's got a teleprompter for fucking "Born to Run." I feel like,
maybe when I'm that age, my brain will forget as well. But yeah,
Springsteen pulls up shit...so many songs. Just like the Elvis Costello
thing. Because we got the idea for the wheel from Elvis Costello, and
that guy sort of has...he has so many fucking songs. I mean, it's nuts.
That guy just shit records throughout his life. (Laughs) So yeah, I'm
amazed that...I used to think it sucked that people had a teleprompter
up there. Like, Springsteen can't remember the fucking lyrics to
"Nebraska"? And then I started pulling this together for this tour, and I
was like "Oh my god." Because if that guy fucks up in front of 25,000
people, he kind of looks like an idiot. If I fuck up in front of...you
know, most of these are small shows, so if I fuck up in front of 500
people, we can laugh it off. <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Well, the first time I saw Springsteen, he forgot he was in Michigan, so I think you're doing okay.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> ...Wow. When did you...when? <i>Wow</i>.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I saw him in 2009, it was on the <i>Working on a Dream </i>tour, and he played <i>Born to Run </i>front-to-back, but for the first like...I don't know, five or six songs, he was like "Hello Ohio!" <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> No! No! Oh no! (Laughs) Did he at least apologize when he realized?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Oh
yeah, he apologized profusely. But, he was like "At least now that I'm
getting to this age I can just claim the onset of early Alzheimer's." </span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> (Laughs) Wow, that's incredible. Yeah, no, that guy's got fatter fish to fry. I guess he's just like...he's <i>saving lives with his rock and roll, </i>man. He doesn't need to know where he is. He's just making it happen (Laughs)<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> For
sure. So, moving to the new record...just because I need to ask this, it
feels like there are some pretty heavy songs on here, so...are you
doing okay, man?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Oh
yeah! Thanks! The good news is that, if I write a really heavy song, I'm
usually far enough past it...this isn't actually true...but <i>on this record</i> anyway, I feel like I got past my problems enough to be able to write about them. When I'm <i>in </i>them...like, that record <i>Some Mad Hope</i>,
when I made that record, I was like deep into...not awesomeness. But I
was sort of...I was on the way out of it I guess? Maybe? And this one's
the same way. I felt like I could address things un-self-consciously
now, because my life is kind of going pretty great. My personal life is
going pretty great. And my relationship with my wife is in such a good
spot that I'm not...I don't feel like I'm doing a disservice by talking
about things that don't work in our relationship in songs, because we're
sort of like...we're finally in this great place. So all of that stuff
feels like it's very in the past. <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Okay,
that's good! But, I mean, there's also a lot of the more optimistic pop
songs, like "Giants" and "Headphones" and "Summertime," and you've got
that stuff in there next to "Washington State Fight Song" and
"Disappear." Did you intentionally create that sort of balance, or did
it sort of just happen as you were writing the record.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> It
kind of just happens. For me, bands like R.E.M. and U2 are examples of
bands that classically made albums in a way that kind of had this great
topography. Like, for example, an album like R.E.M. - <i>Green</i> had
songs like "You Are the Everything" and "Hairshirt," which are these two
sort of heart-wrenching songs, and then a song like "Stand," which is
sort of goofy. For me, it's like...okay, Ryan Adams' <i>Heartbreaker</i> is an incredible record, right?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Right.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Like,
as a whole, it feels like you put it on, and it just takes you to this
place. I've always been the kind of person that doesn't make records
that way. I've always fallen into the kind of R.E.M./U2 model, where
it's like, the record has to take you on this journey that has highs and
lows. And, it's funny, I think it comes down to being self-conscious as
well. It's sort of like, at shows...my shows are like, here's the quiet
sad song, here's another one, and then, okay, here we're gonna go up.
Like, I don't want you to stay down there too long, because if you don't
want to be there, I don't want to seem gratuitous. Or, here's the happy
song, I don't want to beat you over the head with happy songs because
that also feels gratuitous. I want that dynamic to be there. So the
record...<i>all </i>my records have sort of consciously tried to have
that, whether I've succeeded or not. But, I feel as I get to make
records more, I feel like the more dynamics they have in terms of the
energy, the better they work for me.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> The new record feels like it's been in the works for a while. You put out "Headphones"...it had to be last summer, right?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;">
Yeah...that was...it was two summers ago, wasn't it? Maybe? Summer of
2014 or something. Is that possible? Yikes. I thought the record was
going to be done sooner. We were going on tour with Gavin DeGraw and we
were like "Let's put the single out in advance of the record!" And then
the record was kind of just...not finished.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, I
think I remember reading that it was supposed to come out a year ago,
originally. But that song was always meant to be on the album? I just
didn't know if it was supposed to be sort of a one-off thing, or if it
was always going to be on there.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> It's a
funny thing. It was always going to be on the album, but I always
thought I could remix it after the fact, because I wanted it to fit the
record more. And I <i>hate </i>when people do that. I hate when people
put the songs out and then when they put the record out it's a different
version. But I was determined to do it anyway, because "Headphones" is <i>really </i>poppy. Like, it's got a sheen to it. And the rest of the record was shaping up to not have that sheen. <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">So I was like, "Great, we'll just remix it
and it'll all work!" But the way it works on iTunes is that, if you
remix a song, it's a brand new song. So, they wouldn't allow us to do,
if you bought "Headphones," you can complete your album. So it was going
to end up that all the people who bought "Headphones" as an individual
song were going to have to buy the song all over again for me just
remixing it. And I was super fucking bummed. I was like, "Well, I don't
want to do that at all, I don't think people should pay for the song
twice, and I don't think I feel that passionately about remixing it."
But it ends up, like, when I was sequencing the record ["Headphones"]
wouldn't fit in the way that I wanted it to fit. So when all was said
and done, I put it at the end of the record, because it sounded so much
different than the rest of the record. But then it ended up being a rad
kind of positive way to close out the album.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah, it's like a victory lap or something.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah!
Yeah, I try to always end with something that is uplifting. And this
record has so few uplifting songs (Laughs) that by the time I got to the
end, I was like "Oh my god, we can put 'Headphones' at the <i>end</i>.'
And that was totally why it's there, because like, sonically, it worked
best for me at the end and then also it was a positive thing. But I
think if I could have remixed it and done it that way—and then there
were also a couple of songs that didn't make it to the record that were
almost done, that just...I couldn't finish—then the structure of the
record, the sequencing would have been a little different. But yeah,
Apple kind of held all the cards on that one.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Gotcha. So, where did the title of the album come from? And the art. I think the art's really cool.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Dude,
I'm psyched you think the art's cool. There's so many fucking people
that...that when I posted the art on Facebook, they were like, "Ku Klux
Klan!" And I was like...what? That would be the most subversive...I
mean, <i>I'm a Jewish man</i>. That would be incredible if I put the Ku
Klux Klan on the cover of my own album. But I came upon the art, there's
this woman named Angela Dean, and she's this artist, what she does is
she paints over found photographs. And I discovered her work a couple
years ago on Tumblr, and it was just so...that particular picture...I
mean, all the pictures are great, but that particular picture that she
let us use for the cover is just so heartbreaking to me. Like, it kind
of stopped me and made me super sad, and also super kind of blown away,
because it's just a very moving image of these, like...it's a family
disconnected from each other, but connected to each other, you know, in
this beautiful, serene setting. And so I was so moved by it that I threw
it in a pile in my "This is an awesome image file" on my computer. <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">And then when I was looking for a record cover, I came up with the title <i>Show Me Your Fangs </i>because
Sleater Kinney put out a reunion record, and when I read about it—it
was like, in January or whatever—I read about their reunion record, and I
said "Wouldn't it be awesome if they called this record <i>Show Me Your Fangs</i>?" I don't know why it just happened, but I was like, "I wish they had an album called <i>Show Me Your Fangs</i>.
I wish they had a song on this record called 'Show Me Your Fangs.'" And
then I started going...I've done that before where I sort of imagine,
bands that I love, I imagine song or album titles, and then I just kind
of make them up for myself. And <i>Show Me Your Fangs </i>was one of those ones where I was like...because, you know, I thought <i>No Cities to Love </i>was kind of a neat title for their record, but I thought <i>Show Me Your Fangs </i>would
have been way fucking cooler. So I was just like, "Well then I'm just
gonna use it." And then I paired it with the image independent of that,
like I was flipping through this folder I have, and I was like "Oh my
god, this fucking picture would be incredible," and I was like "<i>Show Me Your Fangs</i>. Fuck. Let's do this." <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">And then Angela Dean said yes and I felt
like...that's always this weird moment, of putting the album title with
the album cover. I feel like, on the last record, we lucked out with
that guy Mr. Toledano who did the picture of the guy's exploding head.
And I found <i>that </i>on Tumblr, and I was like "Well, there's no
fucking way this guy is going to let us use his art." And I felt the
same way about Angela Dean. There's no fucking way this woman who's this
talented is going to think I am even remotely cool enough that she's
going to fucking want to let us use her photo. And she ended up being
super cool and so did Toledano, and both of them let us use their stuff.
So that's been pretty neat. <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;">
Awesome. So, who produced this record? I couldn't find that info
anywhere. I think I read that you worked with a number of different
people, but I just wasn't sure who.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Yeah,
it was kind of like a hodgepodge of folks. The album was all mixed by
this kid Jake Sinclair, and I think he kind of brought the uniform-ness
to it. But it was all a bunch of disparate people. Some of them were
people I had written with, who I'd written songs with. Some of
them...this record, I had a really hard time finding one person...I
don't think I knew what I wanted, and so it was going the opposite
direction from strengths. As opposed to, like, moving forward and being
like, "I want the record to sound like <i>this</i>," I was sort of
stumbling around trying to find it. And in the process, we were amassing
all of these songs. And it was funny, when the record was finished, I
got really kind of down on feeling like...I'm a very perfectionist type
of person, a completist. So for me, a record that's made by a bunch of
people always sort of represented to me, like, "Well this record can't
be good, because just look at all these fucking people that worked on
it." You know what I mean? <br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">And then I started to realize, well, this
was the record I had, and...because to me, the ideal like "pipe dream"
record-making process is me and one other person, fucking hammering out
this thing with this passionate concept in mind, and you're kind of
sticking to the concept. But because I didn't have a concept for this
record, it was just like...the concept just ended up emerging throughout
the process. And sometimes, I think that's sort of the strength of the
record, and sometimes I think it does the record a disservice. Like, not
to go into specific songs, but there are certain songs that I wanted to
find a way to make them work differently, and I just couldn't. And I
felt like if we had had a producer and a vision before, then we could
have followed it. But instead, we kind of found the vision as went. And
it ended up working just as cool, and in retrospect, it works and it
holds together as a unit. But it didn't start that way. You know, it
started as kind of a disparate bunch of songs.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> It
sounds to me that there are a lot of R&B and hip hop and modern pop
influences on this, along with sort of what you've always done. I was
wondering what you were listening to when you were writing and recording
the album, and if you meant to include those influences or if they just
happened as you were trying to find the concept.<br />
<br />
<b>MN:</b> It's funny: being brought up as a kid, I listened to metal
and I listened to folk. And then, as I'm getting older and exploring
things on like Spotify and playlists and things...there's like no
barriers now to music anymore, as you know. It's this incredible thing
where it's like the world is an iPod that switches from Slayer to Taylor
Swift to Kanye to...you know. And so for me, my listening habits have
changed over the course of time. And records that I may have never given
the time of day, because I sort of had an elitist idea of how things
should have worked or..."Well, you know, there's not real musicians
playing on this" or all these kind of constructs that I had put in place
listening to music, and the biases that I had had before, they really
like...they sort of don't exist anymore. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">And now it's like, well like, what moves me? What
blows my mind? And a record like...I mean, in my opinion, the Lorde
record, the Kanye records, the first Kendrick Lamar record: these are
like incredible records made by people in their bedrooms. You know what I
mean? Or, you know, their <i>very expensive </i>bedrooms, but you know
what I mean. Like, there's no...I used to think "It has to be this, it
has to be that." It has to be people playing together...and the
togetherness of that thing. And now I just think, whatever it takes to
get something to move you, that's what it's about. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">And so, hip hop has become part of the way that I
listen to music in a way that it never was before. And it's starting to
infuse itself into playlists I make for myself, or records I buy. And
so...I <i>love </i>the acoustic aspect of things, because I think I'm
storytelling. And I kind of think that Kanye West...well, acoustic is
the wrong word. The <i>spartan </i>idea, where it's like, you have a
rhythm, and then you have maybe one instrument, and then you have the
story being told. And I was super motivated by that on this record. I
really didn't want to have a band of people in a room, banging out shit.
Because I've done that so much, and it just wasn't exciting to me to be
like "Let's do this again." So it was like, "Okay, how do we make this
work as best we can where it's like the stories are coming out and
there's this rhythm underneath?" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">And that was kind of how it happened. Again, it it was intentional, but still <i>not </i>intentional.
It wasn't like I went in and set parameters for myself, which I think
would have been a better way to go. To accept limitations. Instead, it
was kind of like, "I have no idea what I want, we've just gotta find
it."<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I
think my favorite song on the record is "Bill Murray," which is just a
completely fresh and quirky take on a love song, without being <i>too </i>quirky. How did that idea come to you? Did you actually have a dream like the one you describe in the song?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> So,
the funny thing about "Bill Murray," I had this song, and when I wrote
it, it was just piano and myself. And I wrote that "Let me be your man"
part. The original lyric was "I want to be your man" or something...I
forget what the fuck it was. But it was so...I'm so <i>not </i>into the idea of, like, "I want to be your man." I've <i>never </i>thought that way: "Let me be your man." That's just not how I approach my relationship. Like, I was sort of turned off by it.<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">So I sent an email to my friend John Darnielle,
who's in this band The Mountain Goats. And I've known John for like 25
years. We went to college together, and I sort of always bounce lyrics
off him. So I sent him this thing and I said, "Is this sexist of me to
say, like, 'let me be your man'? Like, where does this land?" And he
sent this incredible email...he's very articulate. And so he articulated
to me this idea of saying "It's not that. It's not that it's sexist,
it's that it's earnest..." I forget exactly what he said; I could read
it to you. But it sort of put me at ease about the lyric, and then from
there, "Well, I've got this lyric and it sings really well, and I love
it, but I'm self-conscious about it. How do I make this work?"<br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">I don't know how I married them, but I'd
always wanted a song called "Bill Murray." I thought that Bill Murray
was the best. So I said, "Maybe this can be my Bill Murray song." And
then I was like, "How the <i>fuck </i>can this be my Bill Murray song?
Is this something maybe he would say?" And then I was like "No, man,
imagine if I was getting love advice..." I watched <i>Lost in Translation </i>for
like the 200th time, and I was like "Imagine if that guy was my
friend." Like, of all the people on earth, that guy just seems like the
kind of famous person you want to hang with. Whereas most famous people
are fucking idiots. And you want to hang with that guy because he seems
like he understands passion and un-self-conscious living and all this
kind of stuff. And I just kind of created this idea of Bill Murray and
I, and of him giving me guidance in my relationship. And it made it all
work, for me.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> That's awesome.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> So,
that's a very roundabout answer to your question, but yeah, it was
super. I'm super proud of that song. And I'm proud of them all, but
"Giants" and "Bill Murray" to me feel, when I play them, they feel like
they've always been here. Which is a really neat feeling. <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Alright! We're out of time, but thanks so much!<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> Hey,
you're the man. Thanks so much, Craig, for being so...fucking awesome.
(Laughs) Your reviews are so fucking dead-on that I almost feel like you
know all of these things I'm telling you before I tell you them. Like,
you know that some records feel disjointed or that some feel...just,
you're super insightful. It's really flattering to have you listen to
the music the way you do. Number one because I listen to music that way
so I can relate, and then another part of it I'm just so flattered that
anyone listens to my music that way. It's incredibly humbling. So,
thanks, man. <br />
<br /><u>
</u></span><u> </u><b><span style="font-family: Times;"><u>The Bonus Questions</u><br />
</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></span></i><br />
<div class="aside">
<i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Our phone
interview got cut off after a half hour, because Matt had another
interview right after. I still had a few questions left, though, so Matt
offered to answer those queries over email. Here are the final three
questions from the interview:</span></span></i></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Times;"><b><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></b><br />
</span></b> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> When you play live shows, you will often fit snippets of other artists' songs into the middle of <i>your</i>
songs. I remember one time when I saw you, you incorporated "Exit" by
U2 into "Detroit Waves." How do you decide which songs you want to do
snippets/covers of, and by extension, how do you decide where to put
them?<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I
don’t usually decide before hand what snippets I’m gonna do. I usually
just wing it and try to jam a song I dig into one of my songs. Sometimes
it fails EPICALLY. Yikes-city. But when it works, I usually keep doing
it for the rest of the tour.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;">Because I love the hell out of this record, I've gotta ask: any chance of us ever getting a vinyl pressing of <i>Some Mad Hope</i>? I guess the 10-year anniversary isn't too far off now.<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;">Oh man,
first off that fucking rules that you dig it. I love that record too.
It was a heavy time in my life, and it really is a snapshot of where I
was at. That isn’t usually the case with records of mine, but it is with
<i>Some Mad Hope</i>, for sure. As for the vinyl pressing...I wish. I
hope. Who knows? My label got bought by another label recently, and that
record is probably not high on their priority list to re-release on
vinyl. But who knows, anything is possible!<br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">CM:</span></b><i><span style="font-family: Times;">And</span></i><span style="font-family: Times;"> since I know you're as big a music fan as I am: what are your top five albums of 2015? <br />
<br />
</span> <b><span style="font-family: Times;">MN:</span></b><span style="font-family: Times;"> I</span><span style="font-family: Times;">t’s tough to only pick five. I’ll just list the ones off the top of my head that are ruling me:<br />
<br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Times;">Sleater Kinney - <i>No Cities to Love</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">Kendrick Lamar- <i>To Pimp a Butterfly</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">Awolnation - <i>Run.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">The Mountain Goats - <i>Beat the Champ</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">Faith No More - <i>Sol Invictus</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">Jason Isbell - <i>Something More Than Free</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">Protomartyr - <i>The Agent Intellect</i></span>Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-26367793543864848212016-03-30T08:02:00.003-04:002016-03-30T08:02:48.730-04:00Interview: Noah Gundersen (August 11th, 2015)<div class="aside">
<i>Last week, I got the chance to spend a half hour
chatting with Seattle-based folk singer/songwriter, Noah Gundersen.
Fresh off the release of his 2014 debut album, Ledges, and already gearing up for the release of the follow-up, Carry the Ghost,
Gundersen spoke candidly about the collaborative nature of his new
album, about keeping the intimacy of his earlier music alive whilst
moving into full-band territory, about exploring difficult subjects like
religion and existentialism in his lyrics, and about why we'll probably
be hearing yet another new album from him sooner rather than later. </i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Craig Manning (CM):</b> Last year was a big year for you, with <i>Ledges</i> getting a fair amount of coverage. I know it was in our top 10, <a href="http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=3713618">our staff list</a>, for the year.<br />
<br />
<b>Noah Gundersen (NG):</b> Oh thanks!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I think you gained a lot a lot of new fans last year,
definitely on our site and certainly just in general as well. I was
wondering: has your life changed much since you released [<i>Ledges</i>], or do you still feel pretty much the same? <br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Well, I think <i>I've</i> changed, probably, just in the
personal sense of growth over the last couple of years. But, you know, I
wouldn't say my life has changed significantly. I'm not like, hounded
by people when I go out in public or anything. (Laughs) But it's changed
in the sense that, I guess, seeing what's possible and also just having
the personal growth of that experience, of releasing a proper full
length record for the first time, and just experiencing all the things
that go along with that, learning what works and what doesn't, and how I
want to proceed with my musical career, on a creative and in a business
sense. So, yeah, like anything that happens in your life, it's affected
me and changed me, but I'm still the same dude, I think.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Right, cool! So <i>Carry the Ghost</i> is out next Friday? Is that right?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Right...wow, I guess so! (Laughs) It's coming up really
soon, which is funny because like—I was just talking with somebody about
this the other day—with <i>Ledges</i> it was such a long and arduous
process of getting it done. You know, finishing the recording, and then
making a change in management during that process, and trying to figure
out the label thing, and like, it just dragged on forever and ever. So
when it finally came out, it felt like I was counting down the days,
whereas with this one, the process has been so smooth and kind of
painless that we...I'm surprised when I think that it's coming out in,
like, a week. (Laughs) Pretty wild.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Well this one, it comes pretty quick on the heels of <i>Ledges</i> too, just in terms of release. I think I remember reading that you were going back into the studio, was it last August now?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yes. Yeah, so within a year practically of it's recording,
it's coming out, which is awesome. I think that so much of that is just
because the infrastructure's there. You know, I'm <i>constantly</i>
writing. I've got another record...I probably have enough material
already to go in and work on another one. So that was never the problem,
it was more just the infrastructure of releasing and all that stuff. So
now that that's in place, hopefully we'll be cranking them out.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, I was going to ask about that, because it seems like you've been going sort of nonstop since...well definitely since <i>Ledges</i> came out. So I was wondering if you had been planning to take a break after this, but it sounds like not!<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, well you know, it's funny. Being a musician is a
really weird job. It's kind of like being a teacher, in the sense that
your work is kind of…seasonal? So, to me, I don't feel like I've been
going nonstop. (Laughs) I've had most of this summer off. You know,
we've been doing some press stuff, but I enjoy being busy, and I enjoy
having something productive to do every day. I feel like I <i>like</i>
having that routine. So I don't feel in any way that I've been like
"going nonstop." Maybe, it might appear like that to other people, but
you know...<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Well, just like, in comparison to other musicians, who might take three or four years to make an album, I guess.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, yeah, I guess so. I try not to compare myself I
guess! (Laughs) Sometimes maybe I should, but I just...I like working,
you know? I do something that I love, so...I like keeping myself busy
with it. And it also keeps you from getting in your own head too much.
You know, for me...I do <i>enjoy </i>taking time off after a tour or record or something? But within a couple weeks or a month or so, I start to get antsy.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Right. Well you also...you do your records in sort of a
very do-it-yourself fashion, right? I mean, you produce them and you
have family members who play on them. What kind of atmosphere does that
create in the studio, to basically make albums with your siblings?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Oh, it's just <i>brutal</i>. Just terrible. (Laughs) No,
it's...they're awesome. And it's not just my siblings now. It's my bass
player, Micah, and hopefully on the next record our touring guitar
player, AJ, will be a part of it. But, this last record, <i>Carry the Ghost</i>,
was super collaborative, which was awesome. I think I've always
fantasized about having a band. I think you get that as a
singer/songwriter, from spending years playing alone in a coffee shop to
no one listening. (Laughs) You start to fantasize about, you know,
making a big sound and stuff. But I'm super grateful to have these guys
working with me. <i>Carry the Ghost</i> wouldn't have been what it is
without the contributions of everyone in the band, which I'm...yeah, I'm
just really grateful for that.<br />
<br />
The atmosphere is pretty open, and collaborative, and you know, it's fun. It's <i>fun</i> making records. I <i>almost </i>love
that more than touring, because there's something... I mean, I started
working when I was 12. My dad was a contractor, so I would go to work
with him in the mornings during the summer, and then as I got older, I
worked with him more. So I'm used to that...I <i>like </i>waking up in
the morning and going to work. And I think that's my favorite part of
the whole studio process, is you get to have a schedule and wake up and
go and be creative for about 10 hours. And then you come home, and have a
couple drinks, go to bed, and do it over again. That's my favorite
thing.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I was going to ask about the collaboration behind <i>Carry the Ghost</i> too, because <i>Ledges</i>
was very stripped down and acoustic, and on this one, there's a lot
more...I mean there's obviously a lot of electric guitar, and there's
the backing vocals on "Halo," and then just...it's lusher across the
board. Have you wanted to flesh out your songs like that for a while?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, I think I had. You know, there was a big gap between the writing of the songs for <i>Ledges</i> and <i>Carry the Ghost</i>, because <i>Ledges</i> came out...I guess early 2014, I think?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, it was February. I think February.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, so that was a couple...it was already a couple years
ago. I mean, most of those songs had been written a year or two prior
to that release, so my taste and my aesthetic has change considerably
since the writing of those songs. Some of the things that I'm into are
not what I was into at the time of <i>Ledges</i>. So I knew that I wanted to make something that was different, something that I would enjoy listening to. <br />
<br />
So when we were going into the studio, I had the bare bones of these
songs. But we did pre-production with the band and just tried out
different approaches. And then there was a lot of just messing around
with stuff in the studio. We brought in synthesizers and different amps
and...spent a lot of time getting sounds and tones, and then just trying
ideas and creating textures and experimenting. And, you know, a lot of
stuff <i>didn't</i> work. (Laughs) But the stuff that did, we ended up keeping, and I think it turned out pretty cool.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh yeah. Well, it's really interesting to me because a lot
singer/songwriters who start out acoustic and then...you know, go full
band...they sort of get criticized for losing the intimacy of their
earlier stuff. But I don't really feel like that here, I feel like you
definitely sort of keep both worlds on this.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, well I think it's all...I mean, I think the trap
that some singer/songwriters fall into when they start is that they have
some success with their record, and then make another one that's
considerably more polished or with a band because they want to have that
big sound. But I think that maybe what happens is they...they replace a
sound for songs, you know? I think if the core of the thing is a good
song, then you build everything around that, and I think, unfortunately,
sometimes people think like, "Oh, I've got this band now. I got my
song, and I think it's a cool song, but really the thing is that I've
got this band sound." But, you know, for me it all has to start out with
the song, and [with the question of] "does the band make the song
better?" And that's, I think, how it turned out with this record, is
that we just started from the ground up, and then did what complimented
the song instead of just saying "Hey, we're gonna be as loud as we can
on every tune here."<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So you were still starting them, basically, as acoustic
songs, and then you'd take them into the studio and sort of build them
up?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, yeah, I mean, everything was written either on an
acoustic guitar or a piano. And the cool thing is, they still work that
way. Like, I might be doing some solo shows after this next tour. I'm
not really sure. But, just messing around with these songs on their own,
it's encouraging to know that they stand up just on one instrument as
well as they do with the full band.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, and I mean, on that note, you did "Heartbreaker" last year on the <i>Twenty-Something</i> EP, and that was acoustic. Were there any other songs from the EP that you considered recording with the full band?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> You know, we did one of the songs on the EP, the "Guardian
Angel," we did it with a full band on the last tour, which was cool.
But, no ["Heartbreaker"] was the only one on <i>Twenty-Something</i> that [we recorded full band], and I had already known that, because <i>Twenty-Something</i> was actually recorded at the <i>end </i>of recording <i>Carry the Ghost</i>.
Those are just extra songs we had. So, we went in and recorded and I
just did it on tape in a couple of hours. We did it straight to tape. So
those were kind of like the b-sides, the acoustic b-sides of the
record.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, we just got those first, so I wasn't sure exactly. <br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, no, (laughs) and it's kind of the reverse process: you release the b-sides and then you release the record.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> No, that's actually super cool though. What does a typical
recording session look like for you? Are you someone who tends to do
straight-to-tape stuff? I mean, it sounds like for this record you did
more experimentation with the band and just playing around with stuff.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, I mean there were different approaches for different
songs. The only thing we did on tape was the EP, but I'd love to do
more of that in the future. It's just a whole different world that I
haven't really jumped into yet, but I hope to soon. But with the record,
you know, a lot of the tracks were just multi-track layered. A couple
of them, like "Heartbreaker"..."Heartbreaker turned out, <i>I think</i>
it's kind of special to us just because we set up everything in the same
room and recorded it live in one take. Or we did a couple takes of it,
but took the best. And that song was loud as <i>fuck</i>. (Laughs) Like,
you can hear things rattling in the track, because there was drums,
bass, and guitar all in that one room. Which was just such a cool
experience, and I think the rawness of the song comes through in that
performance, because it is kind of...it's just messy, it's noisy. From a
recording standpoint it's kind of a mess, but somehow it turned out
pretty cool. But other than that, most of it was just done in layers, or
drums and bass were done simultaneously.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Cool. So, to talk a little bit about the themes of the album, what does the title, <i>Carry the Ghost</i>, what does that mean to you? And why did that phrase seem to stand out as something that summed up this collection of songs?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> I think the idea of experience and history shaping who we
are, I think that was where that idea came from. It's something we
carry, our experiences, and something we live with every day, and you
know, we make decisions on how we respond to our experiences, but they
are what shapes us. So there's that existential idea. There's also a
little bit of a post-relationship aspect to it, but it's not necessarily
a break-up album. It's more just an exploration of, ultimately,
existentialism.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, that is a big theme, and that caught me as well, just because...I mean, I <i>do</i> believe in God, but I think it's interesting that, for a lot of people who are very religious, they sort of...they take God as <i>the</i> overarching meaning in their life instead of finding different levels of meaning elsewhere, as well.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Right!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> And so, listening to a song like "Empty from the Start,"
where you're basically talking about finding the meaning in your life in
relationships and in love, that really hit me. Can you tell me a little
bit about how your thoughts on religion have evolved over the course of
your music? Because I know you've used religious imagery in the past,
and it hasn't really been from this kind of perspective.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah. Man. I guess the best answer would be to say, "just
go back and listen to my records." (laughs) And just kind of get a sense
of the evolution of my thinking on it. At this point, I'm not
religious. I'm not even sure if I really believe in God at this point.
But, um...the verdict's still out on God. But I think a lot of the
topics on this record are based around trying to understand, like, what
are the ethical guidelines in my life now that they're not dictated by a
religion or by belief in a god? And that's a scary thing, and that's a
place of vulnerability. Because I think people <i>want</i> to be told
how to live, ultimately, because it's easier. And to have someone else
spell out for you what is right or what is wrong, that takes a little
less work than having to really decide what your ethics are and why. So
that's kind of the place that I'm at now. I'm not so much grappling with
faith as I am with understanding my own personal ethics and why I live
the way I live, or what is the quote-unquote "right way to live," and
then learning to accept the fact that we don't live in a black and white
world, and that there are very few things that just apply to everything
as far as rules for ways to live.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> One of my favorite songs here is "Topless Dancer," which
is really stunning and evocative from a lyrical perspective, and also
seems very metaphorical. I wanted to ask about that one and sort of
where it came from, because it seems just very poetic in a way that a
lot of songs aren't anymore.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Oh, thank you. I mean, yeah, it's a song about sexuality.
It's a song about, again, kind of alluding to that ethic of a Christian
moralistic path that also shames most people's sexuality, and creates a
lot of pent up sexual energy or misguided sexual energy, or just <i>shame</i>
about people's sexual identities and sexual experiences. So the idea of
this topless dancer was essentially an idea of sexual liberation. And
you know, then the second verse is this vulnerable kind of comment about
being a Christian teen and… (Laughs) and having wet dreams and, you
know, feeling guilt about that. And just...and how fucked up that is,
that that's something that we have guilt about: these very human,
totally biological desires that are shamed, and unfortunately can, I
think, create a lot of damage in people's psyches. I mean, not
unalterable, but it's unfortunate and sad that so much energy is spent
on controlling people's sexuality.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Do you have a favorite song on this album, or one that
means a lot to you in particular? I know you said that, for the band,
"Heartbreaker" was special.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah. Man that's...they all mean a lot to me. I think
"Empty from the Start" is kind of the clearest declaration of where I'm
at now, and I think, hopefully breaks some ties with people's ideas of
me as a "religious-but-questioning" or as a downright religious
songwriter. That's really not where I'm at, and I think "Empty from the
Start" makes that pretty clear, so I'm glad to have that song on the
record. But they're all special to me. They all mean different things,
and I'm really pumped to play all of them live.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> That's great. You've announced a tour for this already, right?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, yeah, we start September 11th?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> And are you taking the full band out?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yep, taking the full band, bringing out our own lights
this time. It's gonna be different than any other show we've done
before.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Are you still playing mostly pretty small and intimate venues, or are you playing bigger rooms this time around?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> It's like 500 to 1,000 cap rooms? <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Got it, cool. Also, speaking of just...things outside of
writing and recording your own music, I guess: you recently produced the
upcoming album, [<i>Fables</i>] from David Ramirez, right? <br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah, yeah, it's something I'm super proud of. David's not
only a really good friend, but just a fantastic songwriter, so it was
super cool to be a part of that.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, I got a promo of that too, because I'm going to
review it. But I was wondering if you have any aspirations of doing more
production for other artists, or if you sort of just did that [for
David] because you guys are friends?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> No, I do. Like I said earlier, I just really enjoy being
in the studio. I mean, I'm not an engineer. I'll be the first to admit
that I don't know a lot about the technical side. You know, I know my
mics and I have a general understanding, but I don't...I'm not an
engineer. But I love being in the studio, and there's something cool
about being able to be a voice of reason on someone else's work, or to
have some perspective. Because you get so close to the thing that you're
making when you're making it, that sometimes you don't have
the...you''re not able to take a step back and look at the big picture.
So it's cool to be able to be that for somebody else. So yeah, I
definitely hope more things come along where it makes sense for me to
work with somebody. And you know, with David, it just made sense. But
yeah, hopefully I'll get to do more of that.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Have you ever considered bringing in a producer to work on your records, or do you just like doing that part yourself?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah! I feel like, at this point, I'll probably do the
next record with a producer. I think there's a lot that I could learn
from working with somebody. I worked with a producer a long time ago,
but the last two records have been just self-produced. So yeah, I would
love to work with a producer—in part just so that I could learn more
about that role, both for self-producing and for producing other
people's work.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, because then you can apply that to sort of
everything. Okay, last question: do you have any albums you're loving
lately that you want to recommend to both me and the people on our
website?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Yeah! Obviously, the new Tame Impala record that everyone
loves is awesome. I finally got into Sylvan Esso, I think they're great.
Actually, let me pull up my things that I've been listening to lately.
I've listened to a lot of Huey Lewis and the News. (Laughs) <i>Sports</i>
is a pretty fucking awesome album. Hmmm, what have I been listening to?
I feel like there's so much, but you know, whenever you get asked, you
immediately forget everything...<br />
<b>CM:</b> Ha, yeah, it's awful.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Oh, I rediscovered the Weakerthans the other day. They're a
band I used to listen to a lot, and I've kind of been on kick of that
late-90s, early 2000s indie rock...like, guys who were bad at sports and
wore sweaters and played music. (Laughs) So like, early Pedro the Lion,
Weakerthans. Umm, the new Kurt Vile song is super rad; the new Lana Del
Rey song is super awesome. Yeah, that's kind of...it, off the top of my
head.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Alright, that's cool though, thanks. Okay, I think that's
all I had for you here. Do you have anything you want to add, either
about...are you gonna stream the record next week?<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> We will be, yeah. It'll be out <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2015/08/17/noah-gundersen-carry-the-ghost-album/" target="_blank">on the <i>Wall Street Journal</i></a>.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Is that just going to be mid-week? Or Monday? I guess it comes out on Friday now, I'm still not used to that.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> I know, it's super weird. I think it's Monday? I'm not sure though. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Alright cool, I was just wondering because I'll probably post this early in the week, so I'll be sure to link to the stream.<br />
<br />
<b>NG: </b>Well thanks man, and hey, thanks for all the support you
guys are giving me. You know, I've seen it online and I really do
appreciate it.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> yeah, our pleasure. I mean, we just put up...we're putting up <a href="http://absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=3730660" target="_blank">the Absolute 100</a>
right now, which is sort of our "artists who are sort of overlooked
that you should go listen to" list, and you and David Ramirez and Field
Report and a few other guys, they were my picks.<br />
<br />
<b>NG:</b> Awesome, well I appreciate it!Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-2842399884681061142016-03-30T08:01:00.001-04:002016-03-30T08:01:16.382-04:00Interview: Jason Isbell (June 20th, 2015)<div class="aside">
<i>A few weeks ago, I had a chance to chat on the phone
with Americana star, Jason Isbell, ahead of his new album release, Something More Than Free (out July 17th). We talked about his philosophy on songwriting, the challenge of following up his magnum opus (2013's Southeastern),
the prospect of him becoming a father, his opinion on why women make
better artists than men, the role producer Dave Cobb plays in creating
his records, and the idea of blending fiction and non-fiction for songs
that always strike a chord. </i></div>
<div class="aside">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtk67GDJ6cx0c5aVXrtYOF6qu85_srrbiFI7N9GPa4awiSkpvWqiff94DPhXlVrjdiLYO9L3pjLusaLofsS3qbq1MgGnWMFzMNGyw77AeDNG4ORjmhkAg7qmuqFcHt_gqvNtis7Gn7evUu/s1600/3jason_isbell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtk67GDJ6cx0c5aVXrtYOF6qu85_srrbiFI7N9GPa4awiSkpvWqiff94DPhXlVrjdiLYO9L3pjLusaLofsS3qbq1MgGnWMFzMNGyw77AeDNG4ORjmhkAg7qmuqFcHt_gqvNtis7Gn7evUu/s1600/3jason_isbell.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="aside">
<i> </i></div>
<b>
Craig Manning (CM):</b> Hey Jason, how are you? Where are you today? Are you on tour right now?<br />
<br />
<b>Jason Isbell (JI):</b> I'm in Austin. I've got a solo show here tonight and I've been here for about four days, so I've had a bit of time to relax.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Great. So, with the album a month from release, how are you feeling about it? Are you ready to have it out in the world?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, it's a strange sort of purgatory to be in, after you
finish making a record and have to wait for it to come out. But yeah,
I'm ready for that very much. I'm looking forward to playing those
songs live, seeing how people react to them.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Are you playing anything off the new one live already?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, yeah, we're doing the title track, "Something More
Than Free" and "24 Frames" and "Speed Trap Town." We've got those three
in the set. But we're going to go in and do some rehearsals this week,
so we should be able to add the rest of it pretty soon.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Anything big planned for the release day?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>I think we're gonna play Grimey's in Nashville, we're gonna
do like an outside in-store, out in the parking lot there. And then
we might go rent out a go-cart track after that. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Well I'd say that sounds like a great plan.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, I think so. I think it sounds like fun!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So I saw you live back in February, you came to Kalamazoo,
Michigan. And it was a great show, just wanted to tell you that. But I
also wanted to ask you--because when I was there, especially during
"Cover Me Up," it seemed like there was this really palpable
electricity in the room, like everyone in the audience was hanging on
every word. When you were writing that song, did you know that you had
come up with something special?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Not in that broad a sense, but, you know, I wrote it for my
wife, so I was really just focused on impressing her at that point.
She and I weren't married yet, but we had already been through quite a
bit together. So I wrote that for her, and then sat down and played
it for her right after I got done writing it, and I was <i>terrified</i>.
You know, it's not an easy thing to do. But it worked really well,
and I knew that if it passed that test--probably, it would be alright
with the audience too.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> <i>Southeastern</i> got a huge response in general. I
remember reading a quote from Patterson Hood [of the Drive-By Truckers]
who said that "Elephant" was "the best song ever written by someone
[he] knew personally." After not getting that much buzz on your first
three solo records, what was it like to have an album connect on that
level? And what kind of pressure did that put on you while writing the
follow up. <br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, you know, I figure it's obvious that that's a good
thing: you certainly want people to react to the music that you're
making. I don't really have any kind of new insight to add to, you
know..."success is good, failure is bad," you know? (Laughs) As far as
the pressure, you know...it's not an actual problem, really. I know
people who have actual problems, and following up a successful album
is not one of those. I just did the work and went in the studio and I
wrote songs the best that I can write, and I did a lot of editing, I
did a lot of work on them, and then I went in and recorded them and
tried not to fuck 'em up. And uh...I just had to ignore any type of
pressure the best that I could, because...like I say, it's a very <i>good</i> problem to have.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Are you someone who tends to write on the road all the time, or did you take a break while you were touring for <i>Southeastern</i>?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, I write year-round. It's easier to write when I'm
home and I'm on a certain kind of sleep schedule and I can find some
time alone. But I do, I write on the road also, because I think...I
enjoy writing for one thing, and I still feel that I need to practice it
as much as I can. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So what is the...is there an average sort of writing process that you follow or does it depend on the song and the situation?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>It's different. Sometimes I'll start with a guitar and try
to find a chord progression and go from there. But more often than
not, it comes out of a phrase. I'll overhear a phrase, or something
will pop into my head, or I'll read a phrase somewhere and hear some
kind of melody, some kind of musicality associated with the
pronunciation and the meaning of the phrasing of a certain group of
words. And then I'll repeat that over and over and over to myself
until a melody makes itself known. And <i>then </i>I'll go to an
instrument--a guitar, usually--and sit down and start finding some
chords for it. But I've done it all different ways. You know, I've
sang into my cellphone, in airports, and made voice memos and jotted
things down on bar napkins or hotel stationary and...you know, I'll
take it any way I can get it, that's for sure.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> For the new record--they sent it to me a few weeks ago, and it's great.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well thank you.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I get the sense that there's a lot about family in this
particular set of songs. I was wondering what inspired your songwriting
this time around, and how much the prospect of becoming a father
yourself changed your perspective as a songwriter?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, I'm not a father yet, so I really don't know what to
expect! You know, I've still got a few weeks left--September the 2nd
is when we're due. So if you ask me that question in a year, I might
be able to answer it. But, you know, I write about people I know. I
write about things that I'm close to, things that I have experience
with. I try to write about people whose lives might be a little bit
more challenging than mine on a day-to-day basis, because--you know,
for the most part, I have it pretty easy. I try to challenge myself to
work hard and be as creatively relevant as possible. But
that's...that's not a very difficult task compared to getting up every
morning at 5:00 and going and digging ditches all day. So I try to
stay in touch with people like that, and I try to write the stories
about them sometimes, because, you know, I grew up around those folks.
I still know a lot of 'em. And not everybody can find a way out of
that. Sometimes...sometimes you just work for the sake of being able
to get back to work the next day.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You said in a tweet, I think awhile back, maybe February or March, that you felt that the songs on <i>Something More Than Free</i> were even stronger than the <i>Southeastern</i> songs. Now that the record is done and nearing release, do you still feel that way?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yes!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Do you have a favorite song on the set?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>No. No, I don't do the favorite song thing. If I had a
favorite song on this album, I would go back and write 11 or 12 more
songs that were just as good as that song.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> That's a great philosophy to have. <br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, and you know, luckily I'm not rushed to make records
these days, because I own the record label [Southeastern Records], so I
don't have to hurry up and get one out every 8 or 9 months. So that's
a really nice.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, that's good to have. So the first song you started
playing off this was "24 Frames." I don't think it was in the set when I
saw you, I think it got added shortly after. But it seemed like you
knew pretty early on that that was going to be the first single, and
that was gonna be the track that sort of lead off this album. What goes
into choosing a lead single for you?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, it has to be something that's upbeat, you know. Not
something that's quiet or slow or too awfully sad. That song made a
good contender for that, because it's catchy and has some power pop
elements to it. You know, it has drums...which apparently is a big
deal when you start sending things to radio. They want songs with
drums! Radio loves the damn drums! I don't know. I don't know what
radio is anymore. But it seemed like it was a good upbeat song that
people could sing along to, and I don't necessary <i>try </i>to write
those, but when they do come out, I like to use them to their full
potential and try to make singles out of 'em...whatever that means
nowadays.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Right. So what's next for you after this record. You've
been touring a lot over the past few years. It seems like you haven't
really slowed down much since <i>Southeastern</i>. But, with your child
being born soon, are you going to take a step back after this tour is
done? Or are you just going to sort of play it as it comes.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>I think...I'm gonna take some time. About halfway through
August, I'm gonna go home and stay home through August and September.
And then after that, I'm gonna do just two or three days at a time [of
touring] for the rest of the year. And next year, I'm not sure what'll
happen yet. But, you know, we've gotten to the point now where we
don't have to tour <i>quite </i>as much to keep the lights on. But I
still enjoy touring and get a lot out of it, and it's certainly
possible to take my wife and kid out on the road with me, so I'm sure
we'll be doing a whole lot of that.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I wrote down a tweet that you had...a few weeks or months
ago, I can't remember. But it said, "Male friends in the music
business: stop insinuating that my wife won't want to be a performing
and recording artist once our baby is born." That really resonated
with me, because especially in the scene that the site I write for
covers--which is sort of the pop-punk thing--a lot of men sort of
presume that women have, like, this "expiration date" in the
entertainment industry.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>(Laughs) Right, right, right!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> And I was just wondering if you could comment more on that
tweet and sort of what brought that on and what your philosophy is on
that?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>I don't want to talk about what brought it on, but I will
tell you how I feel about that sort of thing. You know, men are scared
of women in the entertainment business because women are better at
being creative than men are. So men have this natural tendency to try
to...to try to <i>convince</i> women that they don't...that they're
not always gonna be able to make music, they're not always gonna be
able to make movies or be a writer or whatever, because men are
terrified that women are way better at that sort of shit that we are.
Because they're way better at being in touch with their emotional
side. So, you know, men try to keep women down that way, and that's
bullshit. I mean, if people can fly to the moon, you can put a baby on
a tour bus.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Amen. And I know your wife writes and records her own
albums and you guys did an EP together, just with some cover songs,
earlier this year. Do you ever see doing a completely double-billed
album together in the future?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Maybe! You know, we don't have plans to do that right now,
but yeah, it seems like it would be a lot of fun. We've discussed it
before and yeah, I think that might be a good thing. You know, it
really comes down to songs for us. If we wind up just organically
writing the kinds of songs that would lend themselves to that kind of
album, then that's the kind of album we'll make.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Cool. Um, are there any records in particular you're
digging this year? This is a question I've been meaning to ask, because I
like everyone you tend to bring on tour or go on tour with, so I was
wondering if you had any recommendations.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, let's see. That last Blake Mills album [2014's <i>Heigh Ho</i>]
I like a whole lot. He just put that out a few months back, and he's
an incredible guitar player. Really good producer and songwriter too.
And I like that Ben Howard record [2014's <i>I Forgot Where We Were</i>] that came out a few months ago. I hear there's a new Calexico [2015's <i>Edge of the Sun</i>], I really like Calexico a whole lot so I'm sure that album's really good. <br />
<br />
Um, yeah you know, I try to keep in touch with stuff. I like the A$AP
Rocky record, what I've heard of that I like a lot. My wife noticed
that there's a Lucero sample on that record, which is really
interesting, I never would have expected A$AP Rocky to sample a Lucero
song, but he did! I listened to it, and she pointed it out to me, and
he certainly did.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Which song is that? That's really interesting.<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>It's the first track on the Rocky record. Um, and it's one
of the old Lucero songs, it's just a guitar part that I guess Brian
[Venable'] played or Ben [Nichols]. But...I can't remember the Lucero
song that gets sampled, but if you listen to them back to back, it's
spot on. <br />
(Editor's note: The A$AP Rocky song is "High Noon," featuring Joe Fox,
and the sample is Lucero's "Noon as Dark as Midnight," from 2005's <i>Nobody's Darlings</i>.)<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You did a...was it a one-off show with Dawes?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, we've got a show or two with Dawes. We've done some stuff with them in the past, too.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I'm a big fan of that record too, so I was just wondering. <br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, they're good folks, I like those guys. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> As for other country music, I remember on a podcast you did
with Brian Koppelman...you guys sort of talked about what's going on
in mainstream music with the "bro country" trend. I was wondering,
with that, do you still consider yourself as a part of the country
music community, or would you rather steer clear of that. Or,
alternatively, do you not care about genre tags either way?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, I don't really care what they call me to tell you the
truth. I mean, it's obvious that I don't fit in with what's popular
in country music. But that's fine, I mean, you know, you don't really
need to describe music like that to people anymore. You can just send
'em a link, and they can listen to it themselves. I think genres have
become really kind of a lazy way to do things. You know, and I'm not
marketing myself toward any kind of country chart or commercial radio
chart or anything like that, anyway, so...I don't care. <br />
<br />
You know, if people listen to my music and it reminds them of...I
don't know, George Strait maybe? I can see that, I think that's cool.
But, you know, I think it would probably, when it's done right, the
songs of mine that are the best hopefully remind people of John Prine or
Guy Clark or Kris Kristofferson or something like that. I just think
of myself more as a storyteller than anything else.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> As an aside to that, since <i>Southeastern</i>, Dave Cobb
really seems to have become the go-to producer for country artists sort
of like yourself: the storytellers and the artists that are trying
more to preserve the classic side of the genre. He did the Sturgill
Simpson record last year and he did the Chris Stapleton album this
year. I was wondering, with how in-demand he's been lately, was it
tougher to find time to record with him on this album?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Um, not for me, no. He and I are good friends and he
normally finds a way to squeeze me in. I'd imagine he is probably busier
now than he has been, but you know, Dave's really good. He's got
great instincts, he's very quick, he thinks of things that will really
help make the records as good as possible, but he does it while being
somewhat transparent. You know, when you listen to his records,
they're not automatically identifiable as a Dave Cobb record. And
that's...I believe that's what he wants. I think he wants the records
to sound like the artist rather than the producer. <br />
<br />
And there are a lot of great producers out there. I think of somebody
like Nigel Godrich: when you listen to a record that Nigel produced,
it's obvious that it's one of his. Or when you listen to something
that...um...what's his damn name...with the beard? American Recordings?
Rick Rubin! When you listen to a Rick Rubin record, it's really
obvious that Rick Rubin produced that record. But I think Dave would
rather do it in a way that's more transparent and more reflective of
the artist. And you know, I think that's a beautiful thing.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Does he help you arrange the songs at all?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah, yeah he does some of that. He'll come up with good
directions to go at for a bridge or how many times to repeat a chorus or
whether to start with a verse or not, things like that. And that's
where his instincts really come in handy, because it doesn't take him
long to get to the crux of a song and to figure out what would work
best.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Did he play at all on your last record?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>He played some acoustic guitar. Yeah, he did. A lot of
times when we were tracking live Dave would go in and sit down and play
acoustic guitar.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Did you mostly have the same band for <i>Something More Than Free</i> that you had for <i>Southeastern</i>?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>No, we had my touring band, the 400 Unit, play on this new record. And most of them were used on <i>Southeastern</i>
also, but our bass player [Jimbo Hart] couldn't be there [last time],
because he was across the country doing something else. But it
was...yeah, it was mostly the same people. We added Sadler Vaden, the
guitar player, <i>after </i><i>Southeastern</i>, so he's on this record but he's not on that one.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I played your new record when my wife and I took a road
trip a few weeks ago. And she--my parents and I and her--we all went
to see you in February in Kalamazoo as my birthday gift. But when "If
It Takes a Lifetime" came on, she remarked on how happy and lively it
sounded, especially in comparison to a lot of the sadder songs on <i>Southeastern</i>.
That got me to thinking, because this album in general sounds like it
comes from a place of happiness and contentment in your life, which
is great to hear. Do you feel like this new album sort of marks the
start of a new chapter for you?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, you know, I am a lot happier and a lot more comfortable in the world than I was when I wrote <i>Southeastern</i>.
You know, when I wrote that record I was just recently sober, I was
still adjusting, still trying to find my way. And now I feel a lot more
settled so...hopefully the songs will reflect that. I think if you're
writing from a place of honesty, then the songs are gonna sound like
your life, and your record should be a record of events more than
anything else. So I feel like that's really something that we captured
pretty well on this new record.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> One of the songs that really resonated with me right away
was "Speed Trap Town," and that first sort of vignette about the roses
in the shopping cart. I was wondering what inspired that song, and if
it was autobiographical at all or if it was a character that you
imagined?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>They're all a mixture of all of those things. You know, the
beauty of writing songs and not writing journalism or novels is that
you don't have to delineate between those. If you're a songwriter, you
can pick and choose. You can write one line about yourself, and one
line that you completely made up. So they're all inspired by real
people, you know, and real things that really happened. But some of
'em happened to me, and some of 'em didn't. One of the reasons I
decided to be a songwriter instead of any other kind of writer is
that, with songs, it doesn't really matter. To some extent, they're
all about me. But, you know, I haven't necessarily had all the same
firsthand experiences as the narrator in that song.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I remember you telling a story about how you wrote
"Flagship," and you were in this hotel lobby that you mention in the
song, and you were sort of just walking around and observing people. Did
you go into that with the goal of writing a song?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Yeah. I had already decided to write a song that night, but
I couldn't come up with anything, so I went down and walked around in
the lobby and tried to exercise my brain a little bit, and that's how
that one came about.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Cool. Another one of my favorites is "Children of
Children." On that one, I heard something about it coming to you after
looking at photographs, and the song sort of took form from looking at
old pictures. Can you tell me a little more about that process?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>Well, my parents and my wife's parents, both sets were
really young when we were born. And over time you start thinking about
what your parents have lost--you know, especially my mom and her
mom--I was thinking about the time and the opportunities they missed
because we were kids and they were very focused on taking care of us.
Obviously, that's not a thing that's their fault, but you still wind
up feeling somewhat guilty about it because you benefited from that
part of their lives that they've completely missed out on while they're
busy raising a child that they might not have expected. So that's
really where that song came from, but yeah, I started getting the idea
from looking at pictures, which you can tell is there in the words of
the song. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> This year, Zac Brown Band included a cover of "Dress Blues"
on their new album. How did that happen? Have you guys been friends
for awhile, do you know each other well?<br />
<br />
<b>JI: </b>We've gotten to know each other well since that's happened.
I think Coy [Bowles], his guitar player, was probably the first
person to play my music for Zac. He's come to a lot of our shows over
the years. And, you know, they just decided that they liked the song
and they thought it would fit on their album. I'm glad that they did
that, I'm glad that the story got out and reached more people. I think
it's a good thing.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-12356752355844289532016-03-28T20:38:00.001-04:002016-03-28T20:38:38.216-04:00Interview: Butch Walker (January 29th, 2015)<i>Last week, I got a chance to chat extensively with a personal hero of mine, Butch Walker. We talked about Butch's new album, </i>Afraid of Ghosts<i>,
including how the recent loss of his father inspired a new direction
for his music, why he decided to have Ryan Adams produce the disc, and
why his trademark sarcasm and upbeat songwriting is nowhere to be found.
We also touched upon Walker's back catalog, the woeful reasons why no
one should be expecting to find </i>Letters<i> on vinyl anytime soon,
whether or not The Black Widows will be making music again in the
future, and why Butch's protege Jake Sinclair took over most of the
production duties on the new Fall Out Boy LP.</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Craig Manning (CM): </b>First of all, you started streaming the new record on Tuesday. How have you felt about the reception you've gotten so far?<br />
<br />
<b>Butch Walker (BW):</b> Well, I guess for what it's worth to me in the
internet world and social media world it seems like, the only reception
I would know would be by reading comments...which I always dread doing.
But so far, everyone seems to really like it, so...it seems to be
connecting, I guess, on an emotional level with a lot of people, and I
think that that's the most important thing that I could ever want for
that record, is for people to feel like I did when I wrote it, you know?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah! So, tell me a little bit about the writing process for <i>Afraid of Ghosts</i>. You said in one of the posts you made that this was sort of like your version of the film <i>Boyhood</i>, and you also called the album something you've been waiting to write your whole life. What did you mean by those statements?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well, I guess it's a record that no matter how, like, widely
accepted it is from people, it's a record that I feel that, as a
musician, I always wanted to have a record hit me feeling-wise the same
way that a record like...I don't want to compare it to other records,
cause I know that's pretentious...but you know, the same thing like,
umm, you know <i>Grace</i> by Jeff Buckley, or <i>Harvest Moon</i> by
Neil Young, or...any record that, like, had kind of an emotional weight
to it that would just knock me out and make me cry, you know? Those are
powerful records, and people hurt, so you know, they need music to...to
deal. You know, you're just not in a sincere position to write that kind
of record all the time; because you know...at least I'm not. Because I
haven't always been, you know, feeling that way. <br />
<br />
And so, I think after losing my father, it triggered writing a lot of
these kind of songs. And I just didn't ever want to put a record like
that out without something...unfortunately, something devastating had to
happen to break all that out. But, I'm glad I did, and like I said,
I've kind of been waiting my whole life to have a record like this that I
can sincerely back and know that every bit of it came from my heart. <br />
<br />
Because a lot of times, you're just having to make a record because
everyone wants you to go in and make a record, and you're like...in a
good place or something, and so your songs have to end up reflecting
some sort of...either cynical, witty...you know, whatever element to the
lyrics. And that's not always what I feel or what I want. It's hard to
write a bunch of songs that are from being damaged unless you have been.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So there are definitely a lot of songs on this record that
are definitely about your dad, and then there are other songs that are
sort of more character-focused stories, like "21+" and "Chrissie Hynde"
and "Still Drunk." I was wondering how those two approaches to writing
came together on this particular album.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well, I mean, no one wants to hear an entire record about
your dad dying, you know? And I certainly didn't write an entire album's
worth of songs like that. I just, I think all these were...they were
just all cut from the same fabric, in the same time frame, while
writing. And so, I believe that it just became super confessional. To
come forward with these songs, and some of these subjects, even if a
couple of them are fiction or based on someone else besides myself, you
know? I think that that's what gives them all a common format, it's that
everything isn't awesome always. (Laughs) So I think, lyrically, I kind
of was writing a lot of songs about things that weren't very awesome,
or without an awesome outlook. To me it's just real life.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You've had a hand in producing all of your solo records prior
to this one. How did it come to pass that you handed over the reigns
here to Ryan Adams.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well, it really was the fact that we...I didn't want to...I
just really didn't want to record and do my own songs in the studio by
myself anymore. I just felt like...I felt like I was getting very bored
with myself, and this was no album and no collection of songs to have be
feeling predictable for me. And I think that's just like anything. Once
you get good at something, or you master something and you learn how to
do it very well, you...at least in my mind, I'm kind of like "What's
next?" And it's hard to say, "oh, I'll just keep pushing myself and
pushing my boundaries and..." whatever, I mean...I'm not trying to make <i>Sgt Pepper</i> here. And I'm not trying to make <i>OK Computer</i>.
It's like...I need these songs to just come out very honest and bare,
and to me, I felt like recording that myself, I didn't think I would
give it a fair shake.<br />
<br />
And so, it felt like the right thing to do, and luckily Ryan is
just...he's just a mad man kind of a wizard with how his brain works,
and the way he can...manipulate you in the studio into doing something
that you didn't know you can do. It was just...to me it was really
incredible and magical to be inspired like that again, and have that
kick in the ass from somebody. Not necessarily somebody who would sit
behind their console and fiddle with fucking microphones for seven
hours, and 18 mic shootouts and...that stuff's boring and I can't stand
it and it makes me want to shoot myself in the face. <br />
<br />
And so, that being said, anyone who would have been more of a technical
engineer type person as the producer? I wouldn't be able to make a
record with them, because I make records kind of the same way Ryan does,
where I go very fast and try to capture whatever's happening in that
moment, and keep it fresh and the spontaneity there. And so, he was
perfect for that, because it was all from the heart, and all about the
feeling, and all about the heart of the song. And not about, like,
spending an hour on a snare sound. Because I don't give a shit about
that, that's boring to me. And people who are thinking about that stuff
too much in the studio are not thinking enough about the song, or about
the lyric or whatever.<br />
<br />
So, to me, it felt good, because his idea was the same as mine, which
was "We're gonna get in there, we're gonna set it up, we're gonna do
this live, I'll put the band on the floor, straight to tape, one take
maybe two, and we're not going to be comfortable with the song long
enough for it to sound too content and too polished and too
professional." In his words, in my texts back and forth to him--which
was great--he was like, "It's gonna be like..." (Laughs) this was
awesome. He said, "It's gonna be like <i>Armageddon</i>: we're gonna
land on the rock and we're gonna do our job and we're gonna fly off."
You know, he's talking about the asteroid, you know. It was a good
analogy and it was funny and it was like...and that's kind of what we
did: we like, we landed on the rock, and we did our job, and we got
off...before it exploded.<br />
<br />
So, it was really...to me, four days later, having a record in the can,
it's just like, yeah that's the way it should be. It's like Christmas,
you know? I can still listen to that record and still hear things and
find things that are...that I've never caught before, and still enjoy
it. As opposed to going, "Jesus Christ, I spent six months making that
fucking record. I never want to hear it again."<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So, any chance that Ryan would have you in to produce one of his records?<br />
<br />
<b>BW: </b>Well yeah! Honestly, that was sort of our plan. You know, we
had planned on me going in and working with him, and making this last
record that he ended up putting out. But, you know, the only problem
was, we didn't actually get to do that because he worked on this
record...like, his schedule's kind of, any time he was off the road he
was in the studio working on songs. And me, any time I was off the road,
I was hanging with my family and my son and my wife, and I was trying
to like, you know, figure out work in the studio for records I was
producing. And also my father was dying. And so, when my father was
about to pass, and he did pass, I just didn't even...I couldn't think
about work or anything or doing anything. I just had to go away for a
while and get my head together.<br />
<br />
So you know, Ryan ended up producing the record himself, which was
awesome, because I think...he knows what he's doing. He's made enough
records, for God's sakes, that are incredible, that...he's not a
beginner. So, you know, all of the sudden I see him in a hotel, at this
hotel that I was staying at in New York and we're in the same hotel, and
we went and had lunch. And I said, "I've got a bunch of songs for a new
record," he's like "Oh God!" and he just got excited. He gets excited
like a 15-year-old boy. And he's like "I've gotta hear 'em, let's go up
to your hotel room." And he made me go up to the hotel room and play 'em
on acoustic guitar. And he just started tearing them apart, you know,
like changing lines here and there, and saying stuff like "Oh, you
should sing it in this key and do it like this."<br />
<br />
And, you know, I just really respected that. Because, nobody ever wants
to tell me...nobody ever has the balls to tell me what to do, because
they think I already know how to do it, cause I do it for a living
anyway. And so, and maybe that's...it just takes someone who's kind of
ballsy like him, this punk rock kid, to be like "No, fuck you, that
sucks. Do it like this." And, you know, part of me is--at this point, I
was submissive enough to be like, "Yeah man, I love it, let's do it like
that." So, it worked out really well. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, you said--I think it was on Tumblr--you said that
"Father's Day" the song was kind of a struggle to write, just because it
was so personal. How did guys like Ryan and Bob Mould help you sort of
get what you were looking for on that song?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> You know, that was one of the songs that when I played it for
Ryan in my hotel room, I was...it was incomplete. But I knew it was an
important song to me, I knew I really needed it, and I wanted to finish
it, and I wanted it to be great. And that was one of the songs that Ryan
started, like, side-writing verses for right there on the spot, and was
like "Oh, you can't say that, say this!" And it was wild, cause like,
for such a personal song I didn't know if I should hit somebody for
trying to tell me how to write a personal song like that, or, you know,
hug him for caring that much.<br />
<br />
So, what happened is...it ended up being one verse that Ryan completely
wrote. That's the one that's kind of more of a vignette, more of a
backdrop for the setting, which is like the second verse. You know,
"there's girls on the corner smoking cigarettes" and, you know, "ashes
in the breeze." That kind of stuff was very classic Ryan. And then you
combine it with my chorus and my verses, talking about very personal
experiences of...sleeping in my father's bedroom at my parent's house
the night after he died, it's just...that was the idea.<br />
<br />
And then, you know, Bob coming in basically was kind of an added
pleasure, because he had just sadly gone through the same experience,
was very close with his dad, and lost his dad two years ago that week
that he came in the studio and we recorded it. And my dad had passed one
year ago that week. And so we both kind of...we'd never met before, so
when met, we kind of hit it off, and he got out and sang the background
harmonies in the chorus, and it just made my...hair on my arms stand up.
It just added a whole other layer of strange emotion, you know, from
somebody else who shared the same thing, <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So this sounds very much like a country-influenced set of
songs, to me. You've sort of been toying with that direction for a few
albums now, but this is the first album where I feel it's really...it
would almost fit into that genre. What inspired you to go in that
direction?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well...you know, I don't know if it's as much a country
record...I mean, I think maybe people will say that just because they
hear some steel guitar on it and stuff. But you know, I've always had
those elements in the last, like, 10 years on my records. I've never
really tried to deny that. Or to make a flat-out country record, and
this is definitely not that. <br />
<br />
I mean, I feel like Ryan Adams is the same way, where a lot of people
just kind of slag him off as country or alt-country or whatever you want
to call it, and then he'll turn around and make a rock and roll record
like he just did. Or he'll make one that's like punk rock. And in a way,
he and I are similar in that way, like, I don't think...we came from so
many different influences that we don't want to be pigeonholed as one
like one thing. Or just, like, "Oh yeah, he's county." "Oh yeah, he's
rock." I mean, I haven't done a record that's like my last record for as
long as I've been making them. Not really. <br />
<br />
And it's funny, I think some people think that this record is--because
Ryan produced it, they think it sounds like me doing a Ryan Adams
record. And it's like...we're two completely different animals. These
are songs I wrote, and got in front of a microphone and sang them in one
take without any edits or anything like that. So, that doesn't sound to
me like I'm doing anything but just being myself, you know?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So this is also sort of the first record of yours that
doesn't have...I mean, there aren't really any rock songs, and there's
none of your trademark sarcasm or any of that. Was it a conscious
decision to sort of write in a different direction because you were
tackling serious subject matter, or did it just come that you were
writing more acoustic-oriented stuff?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well, I mean not necessarily. I wasn't even sure what
instrument I was going to play on this record, because I didn't even
want it to be...I didn't want to play anything on it to be honest, I
just wanted it to be a record of great songs that...that have piano, and
acoustic, and electric, and whatever. It's all...to me, it's just
music, and I think the big thing is that people who are familiar with a
lot of my back catalog of stuff...they might be looking for, as you
said, you know "Where's the sneer?" Like, where's the tongue-in-cheek,
where's the sarcasm? But, you know, I could have written these songs as,
like, metal productions with detuned guitars and whatever, and still
lyrically, I didn't want to be cynical or sarcastic. <br />
<br />
But, it just so happens that, because of the lyrical content, it favored
being more cinematic and organic. More beauty and less carnival, you
know? (Laughs) So, to me, it's like I said, it's the kind of record I
listen to when I'm feeling blue and when I need music to medicate me.
And, you know, that's part of why I wanted them to sound like that. Not
to make it sound like one particular artist or anything. I mean, there's
all kind of influence on it. There's like tons of Elvis and 50s doo-wop
influence, and, you know, Neil Young, and Elvis...Elvis Costello, Elvis
Presley, Bruce Springsteen...there's a lot of that, you know?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So are there any plans yet for the tour for this album?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Yeah, we're actually going to start touring in spring, so we're booking dates as we speak.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Are you going to do solo acoustic stuff, or are you going to have a full band?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Ehh, I'm not sure. I haven't figured it out. But...I kind of
prefer not to even think about that, or put that in people's brains
because I don't think it should matter, you know? It's like...I may end
up doing both. I don't know.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> What's it like to have Johnny Depp play guitar on one of your songs?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Hmmmm...well. I didn't even really know who was coming in the
studio that day, because Ryan kept referring to it as like...his buddy J
Diggle is going to come by? And I'm like, "I don't know what a J Diggle
is, but I'm sure if it's a buddy of his..." I trust Ryan musically,
wholeheartedly, so if Ryan and a buddy come by and play on my record,
I'm sure they're gonna be really good. So I was just like, "Yeah man,
whatever!" I was just being, like I said, very agreeable and very
submissive on this record for a reason, cause I'd never done it before.
So I was trusting every groove, I was like, "whatever you wanna do,
let's do it. I wanna have someone do this a different way and not my
way." <br />
<br />
And so in walks Johnny Depp, and I was like "Oh! That's J Diggle." So he
ended up picking up a guitar and ripping an amazing solo at the end of
"21+," and then got up and got in a limo and flew to London to make a
giant movie. So, it was very classic. But he was great. He was awesome.
Couldn't have been a sweeter kind of laid back, humble person, which I
loved. And no weirdness, no...the one thing about him that feels bigger
than you is just his presence, but not his brain, not his mind. He's not
trying to be the star of the show, he just is. That's a God-given
talent right there.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>So I have a few questions left, and these are from actually readers at AbsolutePunk. The first is "<i>Letters</i> turned 10 last year, and <i>The Rise and Fall</i> is 10 next year. Have you ever thought about doing anniversary tours or vinyl presses to mark the milestones?"<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> This is where it gets complicated, and a lot of people don't
understand it because it's just a boring business blah blah bullshit. I
put out those records on a major label, for Sony. And they're just not
very cooperative in giving your masters back to do whatever you want
with them. And they certainly don't think they're going to make any
money at it, so they have no reason to do it. So, that's the reason why I
can't just go out and put <i>Letters</i> on vinyl, or <i>The Rise and Fall</i>,
because I don't own the masters, sadly, which is one of the worst music
business clichés ever that people fall victim to, is signing a big
major record deal and then realizing you'll never own the rights to that
record ever again. <br />
<br />
So...It doesn't mean I can't play the songs live, but, unless I wanted
to do some goofy, like, re-record the record like people do? Which
I...that's just stupid, you know? I have no desire...that's a moment in
time. It is what it is. There's a million things I detest when I hear
those records that I wish I would have done differently, probably. But I
would detest re-recording them more, I think, cause that's just dumb,
you know? And I think they were good for the time, but unfortunately, I
can't do what I want with the master recordings of those. <br />
<br />
But of course I could go out and play them live, though, if I wanted to. So that's...that's a decent idea! (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>BW: </b>Well you did do the residencies a few years ago, where you played a few cities and you did full album shows. <br />
<br />
<b>BW: </b>Yep, I remember that! Some songs I'd prefer never to play again though, so...<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, was there one off <i>The Rise and Fall</i> that you actually didn't play at the full-album show? Or did you play them all?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> I think I played 'em all. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I couldn't remember if "Paid to Get Excited" got played.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> No, I played it somewhere, I know I did.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Alright. So, another question. The gist of it is that, a few
years ago you were really consistent about putting out live albums and
EPs and stuff, even if it was just a digital only release, and I guess
we haven't--I didn't even realize this--but we haven't gotten a live
album in a few years. Do you have any plans to do something like that
again, or do you sort of feel like it's redundant now that anyone can
just go on YouTube and see live stuff.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> No, no, no, I mean...I'm fine with people recording shows and
YouTube and stuff, that's how I discover a lot of new music, too, so
I'm fine with that. But, yeah, I mean, putting out a proper live
album/video of a show...that takes work and money to make it a real
production. To answer your question, yes, we have something pretty
special in the works that is related to the hometown show that I did in
Cartersville to commemorate my father. And I won't go into it right now,
but it's going to be great.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Okay, very cool! And the last question I have from a reader
is are the Black Widows done? Do you think you guys could reunite for
another album in a few years, or have those guys sort of gone their
separate ways.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Oh, we all have gone our separate ways. But we all still talk
and love each other and will definitely...I'm sure we'll make music
again at some point. And you know, who knows? Maybe it will be all the
original members in the same room and we'll see. But um...it's gonna
be...I mean, everybody's got other shit going on, so I don't think...I
mean, it's not reuniting the Police or anything like that. It's
not...you know, we're not that big of a deal. But we would only do it
because it was time to have fun and see each other again. Because we
definitely had a great chemistry<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh yeah, totally. Speaking of the Black Widows, Jake Sinclair
seems to be following in your footsteps and becoming a very in-demand
producer and songwriter. What's it been like to sort of watch his
evolution in that way?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well that's the way I had planned it from the beginning. When
I met Jake, I knew that not only was this kid gonna be big but I wanted
him to be big with us. So when he came to work with me after I had
worked on his band's last record, The Films, and he started engineering
for me, I just knew that he was gonna be more than just an engineer.
Because he had the talent and the songwriting ability and was super
musical. One of the most talented guys I know. And I kind of just knew
that he was gonna be big, or at least have promise in that world and he
wanted it real bad. <br />
<br />
And so we worked together for like five years making records to where it
was like, man, I can't hold him back anymore. I'd just be holding him
back if I just had him stay engineering records for me, because he's way
too talented to do that. So it's great, because we keep it all in the
family, you know? My manager manages him now, and we all kind of discuss
all the projects we're doing next, openly, so that usually there's some
sort of involvement with all of us. So I couldn't be more happy and
more proud of him.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, that's great. He did a bunch of stuff on the new Fall Out Boy, right?<br />
<br />
<b>BW: </b>That's right.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Did you work on that one, or did you just do <i>Save Rock and Roll</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> I did <i>Save Rock and Roll</i> and then I did a song called
"Irresistible" and also I did the song "Immortals." But I just was...I
was in the mode of wanting to put my own record together and get this
going, and then Ryan offered for me to go out and tour with him, and I
really wanted to do it and really wanted to focus on getting something
going for this record myself. And you know, Fall Out Boy needed
to...they're a big, in-demand band, so they couldn't sit around and wait
for me. And it was the perfect opportunity for Jake to go in and kind
of do my job. And it worked out great, so, you know they had a great
chemistry and made a great record.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, and I think that just came through today, it's the
number one record in the country, so that's great. Alright, I think
that's all I had for you. Do you have anything you want to add?<br />
<br />
<b>BW:</b> Well now, Craig, I appreciate it, man! Thanks for always just
being in my corner. I appreciate all the support. And anything I can do
for you, let me know, and I'll look forward to seeing you on the road.Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-2930296626096768332016-03-28T20:36:00.003-04:002016-03-28T20:36:55.054-04:00Interview: Chad Perrone (November 17th, 2014)<i>A few weeks ago, I got a chance to speak with Boston-based
independent singer/songwriter, Chad Perrone. During our talk, Perrone
opened up about his remarkable new LP,</i> <b>Kaleidoscope</b> <i>(reviewed <a href="http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=3713745">here</a>),
the relationship woes and writer's block struggles that inspired the
album, his new approach to songwriting, and the crowdfunding campaign
that made the new record possible.</i><br />
<br />
<b></b><br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>Chad Perrone (CP):</b> So yeah, you got the new album!<br />
<br />
<b>Craig Manning (CM):</b> Yeah, yeah, really enjoying it!<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Thank you. It was kind of a very different process than, like, anything else we’ve done before.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, there’s a lot of 80s influence. I was wondering what you were listening to when you were recording.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> I think Dennis (Carroll)* said it best, but I think this is
kind of like a record I’ve been dying to make for…probably since I left
Averi. I just never had the balls to actually execute and commit. But
I’m a kid of the 80s: I was born in that time, so my early influences
were…you know…listening to some soft rock radio with my mom or going
through some of my dad’s old CDs or tapes. And, you know, Phil Collins
has always been a big influence on everything I’ve done. I think some of
that has maybe has popped up in previous records a little bit, but this
time around I just decided to be completely, unabashedly candid and
open about where some of those previous influences came from.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So it’s been…how long ago was your last one? Four years ago?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Yeah, four years.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So what’s been going on? Have you written since then?<br />
<br />
<b>CP: </b>Well, I went through a horrible writer’s block for a long
time. And I just really though that everything I was writing was
complete shit. And that’s actually how this whole record came about. It
was a combination of like, a conscious decision, and it kind of happened
in a very organic way. Which is weird to say because the whole record
is very (sonically) inorganic, I guess. <br />
<br />
Every time I would sit down with just an acoustic guitar…like, it all
sounded the same to me. I felt like was coming up with similar melodies,
and wasn’t coming up with things that were fresh and new to me. So I
started to—I mean, there are a few songs on the new record that were
written in the traditional way, the traditional "Chad" way of just me
and an acoustic guitar—but there’s a number of these tunes that, you
know, I would play something on Garage Band, like play a chord
progression on some synthy keyboard patch, and I’d put a hip hop beat
behind it or something, and I would just loop it, and just sit there and
see how many different melodies I could come up with. <br />
<br />
I think the song "Match" was born that way; the song "For the Weekend"
was born that way; the chorus of "Feel Everything" kind of came about
that way. And it was just…it kind of forced me to kind of hear different
melodies. Like, "Recovery is a Long Road" came out that way. But also, a
lot of that stuff didn’t really start happening until the middle or the
end of last year. So there was like, a good duration or period of time
when I hadn’t really written anything. Nothing that I really liked,
anyway. <br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Yeah, the first track ("Minor Letdowns") I think is sort of a nice bridge between <i>Release</i>
and this. It has the same soaring melody sort of thing as the last
album, and then you go into the 80s stuff as the album goes on.<br />
<br />
<b>CP: </b>Yeah, "Minor Letdowns" is a song…it was a song that’s
probably more than two years old, but it’s kind of…I hated the original
chorus, and I kind of rewrote the verses. I mean, it’s kind of just
transitioned itself into what it is today. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I was wondering a little bit about how all the crowdfunding stuff went. Did you do that for the last one?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> No. To be honest with you, I’ve always been really reluctant
to do it. Namely because I feel like everybody and their mother is doing
it, you know like, I think I started getting a little annoyed at the
amount of emails I was getting from different people who were doing
crowdfunding campaigns about their new record. And I’ve never been
somebody…I would say that probably the biggest detriment to me ever
being more successful than I am is the fact that I can’t stand promoting
my own music. I hate beating people over the head about stuff, like
about shows or about an album. I don’t like doing it. I don’t like
soliciting things for money, or…I prefer to kind of just let things go
about on the word of mouth thing. You put it out there, if people want
to support, they’ll support. If not, that’s no big deal.<br />
<br />
But yeah, so it was good! We got to like 50%...because essentially you
have like a 60 day period to meet your goal, and if you don’t…<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, that sounds about right.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> And uh, so we got kind of down to the wire and then things picked up again and we got to our 100 percent goal.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So what were you going to do if you didn’t make that…?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> I don’t know, probably go sit in the corner and cry. (Laughs)
No, I think we probably would have explored other options. The other
big difference with this album that made this much different than any
other album we’d ever done is…every other record I’ve ever done has been
this huge collaboration. I’ve got the group of guys that I play music
with, but then it’s always been…so Steve (Belleville)* and Dennis have
always been a part of it, but then you know, having all these other
musicians on it. And like, tons of people touch the albums, you know,
you have guest people come in, etc. <br />
<br />
But it was really important to me that this album be just Dennis, Steve,
and I. And so, there’s nobody else that’s touched this record. Nobody
else sang or did anything on this album but the three of us. We played
everything and programmed everything and…you know. And that was
important to me too, because this is like the first time on any record,
probably since…well, maybe even more so than when I was in a band, this
album was a huge collaboration. I let go of the reigns a lot on this
record. Steve and Dennis have been playing with me for almost a decade,
so they get me probably better than other people do, but this is like
the first time where I really kind of let two other guys, two people
kind of come in and help steer the ship. And they’d do a lot of
arranging and playing and I would just show up and I’d be like "That
sounds great, alright, let me lay down a vocal!"<br />
<br />
It also felt good too, you know, it worked out because I’ve got a full
time job and couldn’t be there all the time. And we did some stuff like
remotely where things would get uploaded to Dropbox and I’d lay down a
track in my apartment and send it to them. So, it worked out. But it was
really nice to not feel the pressure or the stress of having to be
there for every single note that was played, which is what I think I’ve
done to myself on past records. I’ve been a bit more of a control freak,
and this time I kind of learned to let go a little bit.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Would you say there’s an overall theme to this record? Or something that sort of inspired the title (<i>Kaleidoscope</i>)? Or I guess, an overall feeling you had when you were writing?<br />
<br />
<b>CP: </b>Hmmm…so, this is the second time for an album where I didn’t
come up with the title for the record, but the people who designed the
cover did. Pilot Studio, they also did the cover for <i>Wake</i>. And,
you know, they had asked me kind of a similar question, like, did I
think there was a certain vibe, and I said, "No, not really." You know, I
think, obviously a big chunk of the record…I was engaged for awhile.
And that ended. Not necessarily 100 percent my decision. And so, a lot
of the songs lyrically (not all) were born out of that period of time
and it was kind of encompassing not just the one point after the break
up, but it kind of encompassed a lot of the different steps of getting <i>through</i>
that break-up. You know, "Gone" is obviously a song that was written
right after. But then, you know, a song like "Match," which is kind of
cliché, but that was written shortly after about me being frustrated and
trying to get back out there and do the online dating thing and try
that.<br />
<br />
You know, I think you could listen to the record, or look at the lyrics,
and say "Oh gee, another sad Chad Perrone record." But I think kind of
buried in a lot of the soons is a bit of a hint of optimism. Even in
"Minor Letdowns," one of the big sentiments might be, "Okay, this is
ending." But it was also kind of like, "Look, we both realize that this
doesn’t work, but some of the things that you want me to change are
probably going to be something that somebody else falls madly, crazy in
love with." You know, at some point. When I find her...<br />
<br />
Even "Love Me Better" has that idea. And "Recovery is a Long Road" is
kind of another, kind of starting to feel like I'm coming out of that
deep dark hole that I was in for awhile.<br />
<br />
But as far as a theme, you know, our idea is that we wanted to stay with
a non-organic approach. You know, I think "Minor Letdowns" is the only
song on the record…and it’s only for that first chorus...where a piano
and an acoustic guitar show up at all. The whole rest of the record,
like nothing else…you know? And that was kind of intentional. Dennis was
always more afraid or worried that, like, the record was going to be
too far out there. But I think we all really just warmed up to the
direction we decided to go in.<br />
<br />
I think we’re all pretty ready for people to have differing opinions of
the album, you know? I made my peace with the fact that there are going
to be some people who have supported me for a long time who don’t care
for the direction we’ve gone in, or they like older stuff better. And
you know what? I’m okay with that. And as much as it sounds like kind of
a dickhead thing to say, Steve and Dennis and I, I think we made this
record kind of for us. We were stretching our legs and kind of going
into uncharted territory and trying some different things. And that’s
not to say I won’t make another record like <i>Release</i> or <i>Wake</i>. But this felt good to kind of push myself.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> And that’s good too, because you can never really…even if you
try to recapture something you’ve done in the past, you’ll still get
people who are like, "Oh, I like the old one better."<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Sure, and then you also run the risk of things starting to
sound stale. Like I said, I knew for me that even from a songwriting
standpoint that things started to feel a little stale. It was all stuff I
had done before.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Do you have a favorite song on here?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> I don’t. It’s a good question, I feel like I get asked that a
lot. But I don’t. I can never pick a favorite song on any record. I
probably would have a story for every single song that makes it
different or original or something I’m proud of. Whether it’s the lyric
or the melody or how the song came out from where it was in my head to
where it ended up.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You sent me a list of songs** that you decided to reprise in
the closer, "A Fine Departure." How did you decide which songs to throw
in there?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> It was less about any kind of lyrical content, I think, and
more about what songs kind of fit. Which songs could we modify or adjust
to melodically work in there? And for me…this is going to sound sadder
than I want it to…but every time I make an album, I always have worries
in the back of my head like, "Is this the last record I’m ever going to
make?" And "A Fine Departure" kind of touches upon that. I think I’ve
always had a little bit of an identity crisis, as far as "What would
happen if tomorrow I just stopped playing music and that was never a
part of my life again? Like, who would Chad Perrone be?" <br />
<br />
Like, would the people I’ve become friendly with…would I still be
friends with a lot of those people? Would people still give a shit about
Chad Perrone if I didn’t have [music] anymore? So, just in conjunction
with that, in the back of my head, I said that, for me, it would be fun
to have almost a best of or a demo reel of the stuff that I’ve written
that I’m most proud of, and have that be attached to this song.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b> And you’ve done the reprise thing before. You did it at the end of <i>Wake</i> too.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Correct, we did that, but that was all songs that were on
that record. But yeah, it’s always been…I’ve even decided to do it in
certain lyrics, you know, where I’ll bring up a song that I’ve already
written. There’s a line in "Minor Letdowns" where I say, "I’ve come so
far from those 'What I’ve Become' Nights." so, yeah. And Sting used to
do it too! I think he's referenced older songs of his in his newer
songs. I always thought it was just kind of cool.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>So there was some extra stuff for certain rungs of pledging. Like, there was an acoustic album?<br />
<br />
<i>CP: </i>Yeah, I was actually...right before you texted, I was still
making some tweaks in the mixes. But yeah, there’s an acoustic version
of this record. I just did all of the songs stripped down.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I imagine that that would be quite different, because a lot of these songs just don’t use much acoustic guitar at all.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Yeah, for me that was kind of the fun part of it. It was a
lot of work, but it was fun coming back in and reapproaching a lot of
these tunes with just acoustic guitar. And you know, I play some piano
on it and add some flashes of other stuff. But yeah, it was cool.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Is that going to make its way out there at all, or is it just going to the people who pledged that rung?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> I think it will probably pop up online at some point. We’ll
get it out to the pledgers first, because that’s just the fair thing to
do, but then we’ll get it out there.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Were there any tracks that didn’t make the record?<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> There are two. One of them is called "Life in the Past" and
that will make it onto the unreleased record that’s going to come out as
part of the pledge campaign. And the other one was called "I’ll Leave
You With This." And that one, to be honest with you…it was like a song
in 6/8 and it was very acoustic, and the more we started getting into
the record, the more I started to realize that it just didn’t fit. And
we had some difficulties fleshing out…I hadn’t gotten quite comfortable
with the arrangement, so the song still wasn’t really done. So we made
the call to go ahead and leave that one on the floor for now. Maybe it
will see the light of day at some point.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Did anyone buy the $12,000 personal EP?<br />
<br />
CP: (Laughs) No! I wish. But no. You know what’s funny, Craig, is that
nobody…for the most part, people stuck with the smaller dollar things.
Some people doubled and tripled up or whatever. Like, they’d buy the
signed CD and the acoustic version of the record, and maybe they’d buy
the unreleased stuff. But we really didn’t have to do any, like, big
Skype sessions, and I didn’t have to make anyone dinner at my apartment
or anything. And that was fine by me too: I mean, we got to the goal and
everything. It’s been a long process. We were starting to talk about
doing this record at the end of last year, probably about a year ago.
And we started tracking and doing preproduction at the beginning of this
year, so…it’s been a long road.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Anything else you want to add.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> Thanks for continuing to listen!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> No problem.<br />
<br />
<b>CP:</b> I appreciate it. And, you know...I think we’re all excited.
But it’s almost one of those things where you work on something for so
long that you’re almost like…Jesus Christ, I almost don’t want to hear
any of these songs for awhile. But no, it was a blast and fun to be
collaborate again, and to work with Dennis and Steve on a lot of stuff.
I’m just grateful I’ve got those two guys. I mean, this record is as
much theirs as it is mine. I might have been the songwriter, but from a
sonic and arrangement standpoint, it’s just as much theirs.<br />
<br />
<b>Notes</b><br />
*Dennis Carroll and Steve Belleville are Chad Perrone's bandmates. Both helped to arrange, play, record, and mix the songs on <i>Kaleidoscope</i><br />
**The songs referenced at the end of "A Fine Departure" are (in
order) "What I've Become," "All I Go Looking For," "Ok," "Madison,"
"Here For Good," "Let You Sleep," "Awake In the Morning," and "Feel
Everything." (There is also a little hint at the sax part to "The Bones
Underneath.")<br />
From Chad: "We mixed them all low, because we wanted them to be little "easter eggs" for people to find and pick up on."Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-26189615020919904332016-03-28T20:34:00.001-04:002016-03-28T20:34:31.503-04:00Interview: Benny Horowitz of The Gaslight Anthem (August 5th, 2014)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="aside">
<i>Last Tuesday, on the morning The Gaslight Anthem's Get Hurt started
streaming on iTunes, I got the chance to speak with drummer Benny
Horowitz on the phone. Over the course of 25 minutes, Horowitz talked
about the new record, Gaslight's attempt to move in a new stylistic
direction, the band's recent influences and producers, and the
difficulty of properly capturing the full effect of drums with modern
recording technology. Horowitz also opened up about how surreal it is to
share a concert bill with the likes of Jimmy Eat World and Against Me!,
and explained why fans shouldn't be expecting another The '59 Sound anytime soon.</i></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pDleGIDCI6ixSyGjHLqqT2O-8Gy06mdEWmUMhzjCdQMoi9g7dhROl45GxxSYvyJ72pNadmeY-VKwdZXCViY8nAVRYFR9jIf6rFWpZuo4SIhHCCouhmQg0dKeVLGtTH-Dbr5WP1ABcmBO/s1600/1406217987140622_pl_gaslightanthem_0261_v29.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pDleGIDCI6ixSyGjHLqqT2O-8Gy06mdEWmUMhzjCdQMoi9g7dhROl45GxxSYvyJ72pNadmeY-VKwdZXCViY8nAVRYFR9jIf6rFWpZuo4SIhHCCouhmQg0dKeVLGtTH-Dbr5WP1ABcmBO/s1600/1406217987140622_pl_gaslightanthem_0261_v29.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>Craig Manning: </b>Hey Benny, this is Craig from AbsolutePunk.<br />
<br />
<b>Benny Horowitz: </b>How you doing? Sorry about that, I was literally holding my phone in my hand, I don’t know why I didn’t get it.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh, that’s no problem at all, how are you doing?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Oh, I’m not bad! Went to the diner; had some breakfast. How you doing?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I’m doing great!<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Where you calling from, Minnesota?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I’m in Illinois, my number’s Michigan, I just haven’t gotten a new phone since I moved.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Ahh, what’s Minnesota? MN?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yes, I think that’s right.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> I got a call from an MI: Michigan.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yep, it’s a Michigan number. So, the album’s streaming today! How do you feel about the early reactions?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Uhh, it feels pretty good! I mean, it’s kind of what I
expected I guess. I think like, you know, there’s a lot of positive,
there’s some that are not sure what to do with it yet, and then there’s
some people that don’t seem to like it. So, it’s like, if it was
universally one of the things I just mentioned, that would be a
surprise, but the fact that it’s getting what it’s getting, it makes
sense to me. But I think it’s been mostly good!<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Okay, great. So, Brian said in a bunch of pre-release
interviews that this record was sort of meant as a career game changer
for you guys. I was wondering: do you share that view? And if so, which
songs do you think are really new territory for the band?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well, I mean, think when he said “career game-changer,” it’s
more just like, setting off on a different course, you know? I don’t
think anyone wanted to do something that was so out of step with what
we’re good at that, A) maybe we won’t be good at doing another kind of
music…you know, you have to ease into stuff. You can’t just overnight be
like, “Aww, we’re going to be a soul band,” or something, and then
expect to be good at playing soul music. I think it’s kind of
presumptuous of a band to do that. So, there’s definitely an effort to
move things in a different direction, but also to keep a foot in what
we’re good at and make sure things didn’t get too out of step. <br />
<br />
I think some of the songs that are a little bit more of a push would be
like, “Stay Vicious,” and “Get Hurt,” “Underneath the Ground”…you know,
some songs like that, I think are songs where we were testing our limits
and pushing our luck a little bit, and then I think there’s a bunch of
the songs that you would probably, unsurprisingly, hear on another
Gaslight album. So, I don’t know if anything was overstated [by Brian]
in the beginning, but it’s definitely an intentional move in a different
direction, though, for sure. Where it counts, you know what I mean?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah. So, what records were you guys listening to while this
album took form? I know in the past you’ve really been…Springsteen and
Petty, those guys have been big influences. Who were the big influences
this time around?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well as usual, I think through the course of the band, you’re
going to hear a super wide array of influences of what anybody is
listening to at any one time. But I know we were paying attention to a
lot of bands who made some shifts in their careers, and I guess bands
that successfully did it, you know? But then there was also a lot of
listening to some listening to some good classic rock. There was a lot
of Hendrix talk going on, and a lot of Floyd talk, and things
people…that’s always theme for us, it’s like a universal type of music
we all love. But I don’t know, it’s kind of a tough question to answer,
because if you ask every specific person, I think they would have been
drawing sort of a separate set of influences. We weren’t all just
sitting around a discussion table with a record saying, “Yeah, that’s
what we need to do.” <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Gotcha. You’ve been working with some different producers on your last couple albums after doing <i>The 59 Sound </i>and <i>American Slang</i> with the same person, first with Brendan O’Brien on <i>Handwritten</i>, and now with Mike Crossey on <i>Get Hurt</i>.
Can you tell me a little bit about the differences between working with
those two guys and sort of how they helped you go in the direction you
wanted to with these two records?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well I mean, Brendan was one of those guys we were just
excited to get in a room with, you know? We knew his track record, we
knew the kind of records he’d made, and we wanted to make a record like
that. So it was the perfect fit when we were doing it. When he’s in the
studio, he has a super clear vision on kind of how he wants things to
sound and things like that, and he’s got really great ideas with notes
and melodies and…I mean, the guy’s a real musician, so he definitely had
a lot to offer with stuff like that too. <br />
<br />
And, you know, it’s a little bit…the one thing that we needed, though,
was to be a little more hands on with everything that we were doing. And
that was one of the reasons that we felt the need to switch to somebody
like Mike. Because when we were thinking about how we wanted this
record to sound, it maybe didn’t exactly sound like a Brendan O’Brien
record. So we thought it would be smart and kind of fun and interesting,
almost, to go with somebody new while we’re trying to do these
different things.<br />
<br />
So we got to Mike, and you know, he’s our age and he’s like, a really
chill dude. A really creative guy. And he’s open to just anything, and
when you’re in the studio…I found it to be a really interactive
environment where everyone was really vocal and everyone had their hands
on everything again. And I think that definitely shows. I think this
record is a lot livelier than the last record.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> I’d agree with that.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> And I think a part of it is just the feeling we had when we
were [in the studio] and when we were writing. [The music] was coming
from a bit of a different place, and Mike was really good at [capturing
it]. Not to mention Mike, his engineer, and this guy Jon….Gilmore, who
was doing the edits and stuff…it was just a really easy group of guys to
be around and a cool, cool scenario.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So, I think it was in a <i>Rolling Stone</i> interview, Brian
mentioned that you recorded most of the drum parts by yourself in a
silo. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about that
experience, and sort of about how about…how that was a different
approach to your contributions to the record, and whether or not you
liked doing that, or if you prefer being in the same room with the other
guys and sort of playing off each other.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> It’s an interesting thing that’s happened to me recording is
that, you know, I used to not record or play to a click ever when I was
younger. I mean, up until just a few years ago, I never was in a
situation where I had to play to a click. So like, through the last
couple records, I’ve kind of needed to learn how to do it and be
comfortable with it, and to know how to give something some feeling
while you’re playing on a metronome. <br />
<br />
‘Cause I came from this whole school of just push and pull, you know? If
you’d asked me five years ago if I cared about timing, I would have
said, "like, Sort of" But I care a lot more about making the music feel
energetic and good…and about moving it, you know, like I always feel
like that’s the drummer’s job. It's like, to keep the music moving
forward. Then, you get to something that’s a little more paced…on a
metronome, and if you don’t feel comfortable playing to a metronome,
then you’re going to play like, really, really…you know, like an anal
retentive person, or something. You play like you have OCD because
you’re just focusing on the click. <br />
<br />
So most of the songs we’d record on the last couple of albums, the
easiest way I would find it, is…we do get in a room and we play
together. And a lot of the songs [on <i>Get Hurt</i>] were…well, <i>some</i>
of the takes were us playing together for the drums. But there were
also these other takes, where we'd play four, five, six times with
everybody, and then everyone just leaves and I play to the click by
myself. And I find in a way that, when I know exactly what I want to do
and I’m playing on the click, I find it easier to play in and out of it,
if that makes sense? Like, I’ve learned that there’s a way to make
music move forward and back, even when you’re on a click. You can sort
of, on some parts, go more toward the front of it and push it, and then
some parts you can go more toward the back of it and lay it back a
little. But I have a hard time hearing that when everyone else is
playting. So for some songs, I do find it easier to [play to a click]
now.<br />
<br />
And then the silo thing, is like…I mean, I wish I had it in my house
because it sounds so cool (Laughs). I could sit in that thing playing
drums all day, 'cause it just sounds…like, like <i>Physical Graffiti</i>
or some shit like that. Basically this studio has this 6x6 room with an
adjustable ceiling that goes up to…fuck, maybe 20 or 30 feet? And
basically it’s a natural reverb chamber, so you put a mic in there, and
based on how high or low you put the ceiling, that's like, how long your
reverb becomes. So, typically they’ll just have [the band] in the next
room, put a mic in [the silo room], set it how high they want it for the
reverb, and then that’s how they get the noise. In this case, we
thought it would be a fun or cool idea to actually put me in this room.
You can't fit much in there because it’s so small, and the floor is
actually slanted too, so that was tricky. But I got this really old, big
kick drum in there, and a snare and high-hats, and yeah, I did a bunch
of takes in there. And…yeah, it sounds fucking cool, man. I could sit in
there and play all day. It sounds so epic.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Well, I sort of felt like this record was more…I <i>felt</i>
the drums more, I guess when I listened, especially on tracks like "Stay
Vicious," where you actually open the record, or something like “Dark
Places,” where you’re really pushing the intensity on there. Was there a
conscious effort to sort of emphasize your contributions more, or was
that just basically the style of the music dictating what was happening?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> I think it was both. There’s definitely some songs that
just…I mean, you don’t have a choice but to play good, active, lively
drums, ‘cause that’s just the nature of the song. And there are a bunch
of songs on <i>Handwritten</i> where the nature of the song was…to leave a lot of fucking space and let it open up. <br />
<br />
So there was a bit of a change in approach as far as that goes, but
also, I think technology has bit us in the ass a couple times with
drums, where people in the past have maybe taken a few too many
liberties with cutting things up and making them perfect, when they
really don’t necessarily have to be, and really <i>shouldn’t</i> be, because the feel of the part is so much more important.<br />
<br />
There’s this thing on ProTools called Beat Detective that I think is the
fucking devil for drums. It just takes any personality a drummer could
possibly have and it just sucks it right out of them to try and make
some version of perfection. But, you know, like, what we do <i>isn’t</i>
perfection, or to me, shouldn’t be perfection. It’s about vibes. It’s
about feeling. I think that was something that we suffered from in the
past and learned from in this case, so there was a conscious effort,
actually, this time, to make sure that didn’t happen again. I was like a
hawk over the dude editing, making sure things weren’t getting done
[the Beat Detective] way.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Okay, cool. So my next question is about, this fall, you guys
are heading out a pretty big tour, and you’ll be sharing the bill with
the likes of Against Me! and Jimmy Eat World. Is that, like, surreal to
paly with bands like that?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> (Laughs) Yeah, dude, I can’t even…it’s not only surreal to
play with bands like that. It’s like, to play over bands like that [on
the bill], it almost makes me feel guilty, you know? I feel like <i>shit</i>
playing over Jimmy Eat World, like…(Laughs) I do, it’s weird. It’s
fucking weird to me. And playing over Against Me! is fucking weird to me
too, that’s never happened before. You know, especially a band that was
clearly like, our senior and like, somebody we really looked up to,
especially at the beginning. So it’s a…yeah, it’s totally surreal and
it’s totally weird. <br />
<br />
I mean, I've been a Jimmy Eat World fan for…shit, I mean, it’s a scary
number to say. At least 15 years, you know, and I’d say even longer. I
had some 7-inch, like a three-way 7-inch with Jimmy Eat World and Sense
Field and Mineral when I was…fuck, like 15 or 16. And I remember
thinking, like, the funniest thing about the band was that their acronym
was JEW. <br />
<br />
But yeah, I’ve been a huge fan of both of those bands, and they each
have records that are like…you know how you have those records in your
life that are like…you think about and it brings you to some specific
place in time, and they’re just that memorable? <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh hell yeah.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Like, <i>Bleed American</i> for Jimmy Eat World and <i>Reinventing Axl Rose</i>
for Against Me! are two of those records for me. Those are two very,
very important records for me. So, yeah, it’s just crazy that we get to
do this now. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So do you have a favorite song on <i>Get Hurt</i>, and/or one that you’re really looking forward to playing live this fall?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well, I think it’s gonna piss off a lot of fans, cause from
early reviews, I don’t think it’s the one they like, but I love
“Underneath the Ground.” I think it’s so much fun to play, and I love
playing it live. It’s just really nice and “in the cut.” Me and Alex
have this nice little rhythm going on, so that’s my favorite. We’ve just
been rehearsing recently, the last couple of weeks, and I’ve been
having a really great time playing that song.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, that one’s a completely different mood from pretty much
everything else you’ve done, so I can imagine it’s a bit of a standout.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Yeah, I like it a lot, man. And I’m a big hip-hop fan, and
there’s very, very few times where I find any kind of window in Gaslight
Anthem, you know (Laughs), you know, where I can bring my love of
something like that into it. And there’s a couple of times in that song
where, when I’m listening back, I think “ahh, I might have gotten that
from [hip hop].” You know, there’s a little room in there, so it’s
definitely fun for me.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Well, that’s a good segue into the next question, actually,
because there’s been some talk from people who got the advance or who
are listening for the first time today, about how that song and a few
others on here sort of recall Brian’s side-project, the Horrible Crowes.
Was that intentional, do you think, or was it more like the attempt to
write in a darker, more melancholy style led sort of led to echoes of <i>Elsie</i>?<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Yeah, I mean, among the other guys in the band, I don’t think
anybody made any attempt to make it sound like that. You know, I’ve
been reading that this morning and I didn’t really know what to do with
it. I was like, “Oh, okay…” because none of us really had anything to do
with [<i>Elsie</i>]. But, I mean, maybe there’s just a theme, and when
Brian gets dark and moody, like he did on that record and like he does a
couple times on this record, it could sound similar. But, yeah, I
honestly don’t really know what to do with that. But I don’t think it’s a
bad thing. I think that record’s <i>good</i>. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh yeah, that record’s great.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> And if something reminded people of a good record or
something they liked, I don’t really care. But I don’t think there was
some direction to go that way.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> There was no attempt to blend the two bands into one, or something.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> No, it never came up. It definitely never came up, so, if that’s happening, I guess it’s naturally happening.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So I think fans would generally point to <i>The 59 Sound</i>
as The Gaslight Anthem’s best album, and Brian commented a few years ago
that he wasn’t interested in chasing that album anymore, or trying to
make something like that again. What are your thoughts on that?<br />
<br />
Yeah, I couldn’t agree more with brian in that regard. I think that, if
you take a bunch of guys six or seven years later, who are six or seven
years older and six or seven years different, in a totally different
time in your life and a totally different place, and then you try to
recreate something that you sort of struck a little gold on, then I
think you’re going to tread water and you’re not going to pull it off. <br />
<br />
I think it would be a mistake to try to chase something like that, because I hear that record and I <i>love</i>
that record when I listen to it, but do I want to try and do that again
right now? I don’t think so. I think that would be dishonest. And I
think the record you got is the honest portrayal of where we are right
now. And if people don’t want to follow us there and they’re just in
love with [<i>The 59 Sound</i>], dude, I get it. I really do. I’m the
same kind of music fan from an outside perspective. I fall in love with
albums and if someone does something I’m not so sure of, I might lose
interest for awhile. And it is what it is, you know, but you can’t go
into the studio and you can’t write songs based on all of that. You
gotta do what you want to do. You gotta do something you think is
challenging and fun and creative. And you gotta do something that’s
comfortable with everybody you’re doing it with, and then just hope that
people are gonna see it for what it is, and that they’re gonna enjoy it
for how they’re gonna enjoy it. But I think putting that kind of
expectation on something, I just don’t think it’s wise and I don’t think
we’d get anywhere doing it.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, I’d agree. So one last thing I wanted to ask and then
I’ll let you go. You guys sort of have two lead singles on this, I feel
like. You released “Rollin' and Tumblin'” first and then you dropped the
title track, and I believe they both have videos now. Are they supposed
to sort of just be two lead singles? Or did you mean for them to
overlap like that? Or were you trying to represent the different sides
of the album? Like, I’m very interested in how that sort of came about.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well, I think if you asked everyone in the band, we would
have been pretty comfortable leading everything off with "Get Hurt." And
I think part of the logic of doing it the way it was done was like,
just a straight business thing from the label. Because I think U.K.
singles burn out way way faster than American ones do, because they have
like, one radio station. (Laughs) So, the idea is that, ["Rollin' and
Tumblin'"] will start there and “Get Hurt” will start here, and by the
time the time “Get Hurt” is going in the U.K., it will still be going
here. From my understanding, I think that’s the bulk of the reason that
happened. I wish it was a sexier answer, but to be honest, I think
that’s why.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, I was just interested because "Rollin' and Tumblin',"
to me, is more representative of the old Gaslight, and "Get Hurt" is
very much the core of this album and what it sounds like and represents.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Yeah, for sure.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So I was interested that they were both out there and both sort of “leading the way” for this new album.<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Yeah, I mean, maybe the business side just got cold feet and
got too scared of going first with something that was more left-field.
But yeah, these days man, I don’t…I don’t really care, you know?
(Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You're not worried about the singles!<br />
<br />
<b>BH:</b> Well, it's like, I care about which ones go out, but I trust
the fact that these people that are hired to do these jobs at all these
places know better than I do. They went to school to study the
demographics of our minds, and all those crazy mind control things that
you gotta do to sell things to people. (Laughs) So who knows what
they’re up to, man. I maybe don’t even want to know!
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-63153528018434694662016-03-28T20:31:00.002-04:002016-03-28T20:31:37.174-04:00Interview: Chris Carrabba of Twin Forks and Dashboard Confessional (February 17th, 2014)<i>Last week, I got the chance to chat with Chris Carrabba (of Dashboard
Confessional and Further Seems Forever fame) about his new band, Twin
Forks. During the interview, Carrabba opened up about his long-held
aspiration to pursue folk music, the slow and steady formation of the
new band, an upcoming tour with Augustana, his current feelings about
his other musical projects, his opinions on the modern mainstream folk
resurgence, and his friendship with Butch Walker. (Note: <a href="http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=3670431">Click here</a>
to read my review of the new Twin Forks record. In addition, you can
find Twin Forks on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud, and on their own
website by using the search term "<a href="https://www.google.com/webhp?tab=ww&authuser=0&ei=8P0LU7H8BuKSyAGV2IC4Cg&ved=0CBgQ1S4#authuser=0&q=twin+forks+music&safe=off" target="_blank">Twin Forks Music</a>" in a Google search.) </i><br />
<b> </b><br />
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<br />
<b>Craig Manning:</b> First of all, love the new record, really pleased
with how that turned out. How did the Twin Forks project come together
initially? What influenced your songwriting direction?<br />
<br />
<b>Chris Carrabba:</b> Well the band came together…let’s see, let’s just
retrace this correctly. Well, I had these songs that I wanted to record
– some covers and some originals. The covers were mostly folk stuff I’d
grown up listening to and some outlaw country stuff. I ran into Ben, I
was playing a Dashboard show at the Troubadour, and Ben had played a few
nights before, so the Bad Books guys all showed up.<br />
<br />
I asked Ben, who I knew was a producer, if he’d help me out with this
stuff. So I started working with Ben on these covers, and then he had to
go out and tour with one of the 1,500 bands that he’s in, and so then I
got a friend, a guy named Jonathan Clark, to help me with the covers
record. So that was the impetus. And these guys hadn’t met, but what
they had in common was they had these indomitably positive attitudes,
which I found incredibly infectious.<br />
<br />
So we worked on these covers [for the 2011 album, <i>Covered In The Flood</i>],
and then I started thinking. Ben was still on the road, and Jonathan
and I started talking, “Well what could be next?” And I had a lot of
Dashboard stuff begun, but maybe not…I wasn’t sure how I was feeling
about all that. And at one point he said, “Well why are you…” You know,
we had just done all these covers, and if I’m left to my own devices,
just sitting around making music, playing music, what I end up playing
is stuff from my earliest influences, like Townes Van Zandt songs or
Steve Earle songs. I play a lot of, like Woodie Guthrie and Bob Dylan,
just the stuff that as a kid I was exposed to that helped me learn to
play guitar and compose. And…he said, “Why are you afraid to do what you
love?”<br />
<br />
That was a really profound kind of question that I didn’t have an answer
too. So that was the first seed planted for going back to my earliest
roots. And then, I have a…there’s a composer in San Francisco, her name
is Dawn and she’s a mentor to a lot of bands, legendary promoter. One of
the things she does is called “Hardly Strictly Bluegrass.” So at this
point, I’ve begun writing what I guess would have been a Chris Carrabba
record, so like, a pretty delicate…like Nick Drake, Alexi Murdoch kind
of record. A lot of finger picking, very understated. I thought it was
very charming. It felt really good. And she invited me to play this
Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. And it was under my own name, there was no
Twin Forks, there wasn’t anything. And in the course of this, Ben had
come back from his tour, so it was now the three of us working together,
and as soon as we started playing together, there was this really
magical spark.<br />
<br />
But here I’ve got Jonathan, who’s really busy, me in a band that’s
really busy. I got Ben, who’s as busy as anybody I know. And so we just
kept saying to each other, “We’re not a band, we’re not a band.” So when
we got the opportunity to do the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, we said
“What a great thing. We can kind of go up there and pretend to be a band
and have like a weekend of exciting role play,” or something. (Laughs)
So we walked onstage saying “We’re not a band” and we walked offstage
saying “We’re a band.” Something happened on that…in the course of that
show that just felt radical, like something was changing.<br />
<br />
So we came back, and one of the things that we realized was that those
small and delicate songs that I wrote, while I loved them – still do –
what I loved more was when we played some of the covers that had that
boot-stomping thing that really let Ben and John shine. And so we came
back and I just began writing from there, where that’s the kind of music
I was developing. I’d write a song in the afternoon, we’d listen to it
in the late afternoon, and then we’d get in the room together and play
it live. So what you got was a really fresh and new song and a really
reactionary approach to recording it. And we’re in the same room and
there’s all this mic bleed, and I was thinking we were doing demos until
we listened back and we though “Oh yeah, that antiseptic thing we’ve
all been taught to do in the studio is not going to represent this band
well.” This band needed to be represented by the the messy stuff of
making the record too.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, it’s really more organic sounding than the later full-band Dashboard stuff.<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yeah, because the more there is on the line – you know,
bigger labels, bigger expectations – there’s a feeling that there’s a
way to [make a record] that’s really specific. And that’s like everybody
in a different room. Like, “You’ve had your time to play together, now
everybody go into a different room and play separately.” And that has
its place, and some great, great records are made that way. I don’t know
what ones are and what ones aren’t, but like, if you were to tell me
that – just to pick one out of the hat – a Killers record was made
separately with everybody in the room, I would say there’s no drawback
to that, because the power was what was captured. Or Say Anything,
another one that has more chaos in it. If you were to tell me that [all
the band members] were all in different rooms, I’d say “So what,” you
know? It’s not a hard fast rule as long as the power is captured. I
think for Dashboard, on the last record or two, sometimes we captured
the power, sometimes we didn’t. That’s only my opinion. With Twin Forks,
[the different rooms thing] just never would have resonated. It would
have been this really clean, maybe forgettable thing. Or sound. The
songs I think would still have power, but the sound of it would maybe
not have as much.<br />
<br />
So then, once the record was done, we started thinking about what would
be cool as far as extra instrumentation, and Ben played the drums, and
John and I played pretty much everything else on the record. And then we
were…looking for that last bit that would make it just right, and I had
all these great idea for harmonies, and I would have John or Ben sing
the harmonies on the record, or I would sing them – which I never really
like to do that, then it sounds like what I call “wall of Chris,” which
I don’t really care for that.<br />
<br />
And so we thought about Suzie because she had done the cover record with
us and she’s such a lovely girl. Well…that’s too small a statement, but
she really is…her positivity is on par with what I described from those
other two guys, you know? Collectively, those three have like, rays of
sunshine hanging out of their ass. You can’t bring them down. Sometimes,
the work of being in band…being in a band is the best. It’s work
though. Nobody really wants to know that. You don’t want to know how
sausages are made, right? But a lot of it can wear you out, can bring
you down, can bring me down. Not these guys.<br />
<br />
So all of that being said, that was the final piece of the puzzle. We
invited Suzie to come down and sing. I mean, first thing we did was play
together, and it was like, “Oh yeah, there’s no question here.” And
then we began to record that stuff and it was just…I’ve rarely had such
an ease with decision-making. So anyway, that’s how the band came
together, and then we did the one show about a year ago and…man, I just
can’t believe it. I can’t believe I get another chance in the batter’s
box.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> The album has been billed as along the same lines as the
Lumineers, Mumford & Sons, and other modern folk bands. Folk in
general has been able to recapture a place in the mainstream as of late.
Were you inspired by the way that listeners seem to be opening up their
ears to these older, more traditional styles of music again?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> I am now, that’s for sure. Without a doubt. When I began
doing it, those bands existed, but they were on the climb. They were
just being introduced to the world. I think I’d heard that first Mumford
song a couple of times, and I was like, “Wow, that’s it, they got that
right, really exciting, love the song.” But I didn’t expect that to work
at top 40 radio. I didn’t expect what I was doing to work at top 40
radio. I’ve made a pretty great career out of being on the fringe, being
a niche artist. I’ve had some good showings of almost getting some
radio recognition, some top 40 success if you will, but only really come
close to it. “Stolen” did pretty well on the radio. But generally
speaking, I think my whole career was made in a niche scene, and that’s
just what I expected with Twin Forks. I thought it would be an even
smaller niche. <br />
<br />
I’m going to repeat myself here, so if you see this in other interviews,
forgive me, but it really is something I stand by with these bands: the
Lumineers, the Avetts, the Mumfords, and what have you. Those bands
write hit songs. I find it really lucky for me that they are interested
in the same kind of instrumentation that I find really interesting. But I
think all of those bands write these songs that are powerful hits songs
that are just plain hit songs. They’re just incredible. They transcend
the style in which they’re played in. [The bands] could have written
them as piano ballads, or as the post new wave kind of stuff. But they
happened to choose the kind of music and style that I’m so drawn to and
that I love so much. I think there would have probably been a period
before those bands were on the radio where if a song came on the radio
or on Spotify or in a friend’s car that had a mandolin in it, it would
be like an immediate skip track or change channel [for mainstream music
listeners]. It would have been off-putting. But [the Lumineers and
Mumford & Sons] have made it inviting to people to stay on that
station, stay on that song, stay with it for a minute, and then if the
song’s good, they stay with it.<br />
<br />
That’s a really lucky thing for me. I will admit to still being a bit
shocked that that actually happened. I think we’re really lucky because I
think there was a minute that I though, “If they’re doing that, then we
can’t do that.” And then I thought to myself, “Well, it took me a long,
long time to get to a place to do this, and I’m here now. I’m not going
to run to some other setting because another band exists that does this
well.” Because, to be frank, Bob Dylan did it well; Paul Simon did it
well; the Eagles did it well. So I thought, “There’s room for us.” I
still believe we’ll be a niche band. It would be great [to hit it big]
but I don’t have any designs on top 40 radio. All I know that I get to
do what I love, and thanks to those bands, people might give it a full
listen instead of a 20 second listen. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> You guys released an EP last fall, and I think a lot of
people sort of thought that was going to be the extent of the project.
Did you always intend to drop the EP to gain interest and then go ahead
with the full length shortly after or what?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> The full-length was done, and it wasn’t about building
interest, but an excuse to get on tour. Because we’d found a record deal
and it was like, “Well the record can come out in January,” and we were
like, “Next January?! Is there any way…anything, just to go on tour?”
Because I think I’ve made no bones about my draw to the touring world,
it’s just where I feel most centered. So they let us do the EP. They
kind of just said “If you’re expecting a lot of promotion for an EP,
let’s temper the expectations, but if you want to put this EP out and
just go on tour, you absolutely have our blessing. And when it comes
time to release this record, it will be our time to shine. The label’s
time to shine.” But [the EP] was never intended as the be all and end
all, and it wasn’t really intended as a thing to stoke a future fire.
For me, it was a means to an end to be out in front of people.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> How did you choose the songs from the album that did and did
not make the EP? I was really interested when I heard the full album,
because even though it’s half the same songs, I think it has a
completely different mood and personality and pacing. You saved a lot of
the slower, more balladic tracks for the LP, and the EP was more of the
more upbeat, handclap stuff. Was that a conscious decision? Were those
the songs you wanted to play live, so they got on the EP?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Probably, probably so. We didn’t put all the hand-clappers on
the EP. There’s still a few that we saved for the record. But that’s
the piece of the band that I think encapsulates the identity of the band
more than anything else, so that’s the choice that was made.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Listening to this record compared to some of the Dashboard
stuff, I think there were definitely folk stylings sort of creeping in
on the last few records, specifically with the acoustic version of <i>Alter the Ending</i>
and on the second half of that record with songs like “Even Now” and
“Water & Bridges” and “Hell on the Throat,” I think those were sort
of moving in the style that you’re doing with this. Were you already
sort of thinking about writing folk songs back then, or was it just what
you were listening to and it was a subconscious thing.<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> I think it was a little subconscious in that some of those
influences were just coming out happenstance. Because I wasn’t…as I
mentioned to you, I hadn’t quite had that epiphany yet that I was
allowed to make that kind of music, that I was going to allow myself to
make that kind of music. Interesting that you say that, because I
haven’t really thought about that, but I totally agree with you. Like
specifically “Hell on the Throat.” That’s pretty much just a folk song.
And now that I think about it, especially the acoustic version of “Water
and Bridges.” The style of that, the structure of that is a folk song.
Interesting, interesting. Sometimes you do things subconsciously before
you are consciously aware that the path is there.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Speaking of <i>Alter the Ending</i>, I think come November,
it will have been five years since that album came out. Dashboard
Confessional hasn’t released an album this decade. What’s the status of
that project? Is it done? Is it indefinitely on hold? Do you have plans
to record another Dashboard album at any point in the near future?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> I love Dashboard. I love my bandmates so much. You know, it’s
family. And of course I love those songs. Those songs defined my life,
and I don’t mean that the songs themselves chronicled my life, I mean
the fact that those songs existed in the world gave me a life that I
wouldn’t have lived otherwise. I have every intention of being in
Dashboard again. I don’t know when is right. I’ve felt at times since <i>Alter the Ending</i>
that it was something I should push real hard for, before maybe
interest ran out – I mean the band’s interest – or we just slipped into
that forgotten pile of record collections. But neither of those are
really the right reasons to make records. The right reasons to make
records is cause you…you must make the record. That’s the way you feel.
So I’m waiting to feel that way. And I know I will again. But for the
time being, that’s how I feel about Twin Forks. And to the degree I
hadn’t felt about Dashboard in a bit.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Also sort of on the subject of <i>Alter the Ending</i>, I
think comparing that album to this one is interesting because that was,
more than I think anything else you’ve done, like this big, bombastic
pop production. And you worked with Butch Walker on that, and I just
need to ask about him because I’m a huge fan of his work, both as a…a
producer and a singer/songwriter and definitely as a live performer. How
was the comparison between working with him on this big pop album and
then turning around and making this organic, sort of backwoods folk
thing? And who produced this record? Was it self-produced by the band?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yeah, the band produced it, probably in this order: John and
then me and Ben tied. We all know how to run the gear, we all know how
to structure songs, and we all know how to listen to our gut about
what’s right and wrong, so we just did it ourselves. Working with
Butch…it’s funny you should bring it up, because I was just texting with
Butch this morning about unrelated stuff and non-musical stuff. Just
shootin’ it, you know? And I’m a fan of his in exactly the way that you
just described that you’re a fan of his. So getting the opportunity to
work with a guy like that was a big, big deal for me. And we ended up
being kindred spirits and having a real friendship.<br />
<br />
There’s no kind of record that Butch couldn’t make. So if I had showed
up with songs like [the Twin Forks songs] and said, “can you make a
record like this,” you’re telling me Butch Walker couldn’t make the
record? (Laughs) The guy’s…there’s very few in his class. But he also, I
think, was just…well I’m similar to him in a lot of ways. I’m a writer
like he is. I’m a performer like he is. I understand how to work the
engineering end of records like he does, and I understand production
like he does. There were a lot of times while making that record with
Butch that he would turn to me and say, “You can do this.” You know?
It’s great to have mentors out there. I’ve spoken about it before. Butch
is a good friend, but he’s also a mentor, you know? Like, throwing in
little things like that while making a record that had a lot of
expectations from the label we were on, that had a definitive style
expected…you talked about…did you call it pop, or sleek or something
like that?<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, sort of bombastic was what I said.<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yeah, I don’t know. The label had a big…had an opinion in a
more…they vocalized it more than they ever had for that record. And so
that’s the kind of record we set out to make having been given the
marching orders. It was kind of exciting. It was kind of a challenge,
like “Can you do this?” “Yeah, I think I can. I think I can do that.”
And I’m sure it was reactive to like a couple of the demos I took them
that were pretty fully formed and probably sounded like that and they
got excited and were like “Yeah, this is it, this is what we want.”<br />
<br />
So half the record I did with Adam Schlesinger [of Fountains of Wayne]
who’s a real pop guy, and Butch is a rock…guy…believe it or not, though,
what he writes…<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Oh yeah, he’s definitely a rock guy. (Laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> You know, he’s really famous for writing Pink songs and Avril
Lavigne songs, but if you ever listen to a Butch Walker song, it’s a
rock song.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Yeah, definitely.<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> So…I can’t remember your actual question, but yeah, I don’t
know that Butch decided that’s the style of the record that we were
going to make, or I did, or the label did, or we all did. But it is the
only one like that that I made, I think.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Definitely. So you’re going on tour with Augustana, right? That’s what’s next?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yeah, we go to Europe…we go to SXSW, then we go to UK and Europe, and then we come back and do the Augustana tour.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> What can fans expect from that tour? Is it going to be all
Twin Forks stuff from the new album? Is it going to be a mix between
Twin Forks and covers? Are you going to throw in any Dashboard stuff?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> I think Twin Forks and covers and Dashboard stuff is a pretty
reasonable expectation. I think that, especially when we open for
people, they don’t necessarily know who Dashboard was, or they might not
know. But in this case, we hosted Augustana, I don’t know, four times
or something? So a portion of that audience that came to know Augustana
on tour with [Dashboard] will be aware of my other band.<br />
<br />
I’m not opposed to playing Dashboard songs. I’m more excited, I’ll be
honest with you, to play Twin Forks songs, but I’ve always had – since
we started doing this – my own marching orders to myself have been to go
out and play Twin Forks songs. And the most I can hope for is that the
audience will give Twin Forks a chance to be Twin Forks. And then if I
feel like…it’s not about winning [the audience] over, but I feel like if
I’ve been given graciousness…like, it’s really hard for me to say no
when someone calls out a Dashboard song. It’s a real kindness to allow
somebody to grow. To be a fan, become a fan, or just be there to support
the challenge of it all. But it’s just really hard to say no when
somebody then says, “Play this song I love,” because they’re saying
“Play this song that I LOVE,” you know? It’s not like they’re saying
“Play this song that…my girlfriend knows!” (Laughs).<br />
<br />
But we are really excited to go out with Augustana. It’s been really
cool that, so far, two bands that we helped, in whatever small way that
we could, established themselves as career touring artists – City and
Colour and Augustana – have both turned around and given my new band an
opportunity to open for their crowd.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> A question from someone on the site: in 2012, you reunited
with Further Seems Forever for the first new album in eight years. Was
that reunion a one-off kind of deal, or could you see doing another
reunion a few years down the road?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yeah, that’s one the easiest for me to say yes to. Let me
re-state that, within the band, it’s easiest for me to say yes to doing
the band, because I’m the only one whose job is music. Everybody is
really desirous of doing that band. We really enjoy each other. We love
each other. We’re talking about childhood friends, you know what I mean?
It’s like family. And there’s not really a day or week that goes by
where we’re not in contact, and we’re not even in a band together.
They’re the most brilliant and funniest guys I’ve ever known in my life.
They’re excellent musicians. I’ve seldom been as rewarded through
friendships or musical collaborations as I have with these guys.<br />
<br />
So my answer is that I really hope we do a lot more. I do understand
that it’s going to be less often than any of us would like. I mean,
people were patient to wait the eight years the first time, so if they
can be a little bit patient along the way as we look for our next
opportunity. I don’t know what we would do, I don’t know if like…I’m not
sure if people…we toured so little on <i>Penny Black</i> that I’m sure
there’s still plenty of places we could go. I mean, people want to hear
the old stuff anyway, that’s just the way it works, so I’m not sure that
we would make a new record before we toured. I just want to play with
those guys in front of people. If it’s up to me – and it might be, I
don’t know – I’d like to do shows and tours before another record. I
think everybody wants that too, by the way, but it’s a moving target. <br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> Speaking of reunion tours, a few years back, you did a belated 10-year anniversary tour for <i>Swiss Army Romance</i>. And now, I think <i>A Mark, A Mission</i> turned 10 last year. Did you think about going out on the road and doing a few shows to sort of celebrate that?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> No, I didn’t think about that. When I did the <i>Swiss Army Romance</i>
tour it was because I had talked to so many fans who are still fans
from that earliest, earliest stage. And they asked…it was more a
foregone conclusion for them that we would be doing something to honor
[that album]. And my intention was to go out there and celebrate like,
“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it, what a great milestone in my
life.” But then I realized, this fanbase, in a way that maybe doesn’t
happen very often, popularized this band and gave me a career through
their own hard work. So I decided to do that <i>Swiss Army</i> tour [as a thank you].<br />
<br />
And then the <i>Places</i> anniversary came, and the <i>Mark, A Mission</i>
anniversary came, and I look at it and I think, “I’d love to play that
record straight.” I’d love to play an audience that wants to hear it.
But then I feel a little like…I did that once for <i>Swiss Army</i>, and
it just feels like…I don’t know, a money grub? To go out and do it
again and again? To do it once was this great thing. To do it every time
I have an anniversary sounds a little bit opportunistic. And I thought
that outweighed the charm of doing it and I thought it outweighed the
positive reaction the idea would get from the fanbase. It felt a little
bit disingenuous, just to me.<br />
<br />
And then of course, I second guessed myself when I saw some other bands I
love go out and do some of these records that I love, and I watched the
show, and doing this “I know what this means to them” audience because
it means that to me when I see X band do X record. But…it might have
been different if we were a full-time band who had released records
every year of this decade. Like you said, we haven’t done something this
decade. I probably would have done it then, because it wouldn’t have
just the one thing we were doing. But that’s the piece of it that made
me feel like, “This probably looks like I’m just trying to pay my rent.”<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So what’s next for Twin Forks? I mean other than the touring,
are you still writing songs for this project and do you see making
another record?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> Yes and yes. You know, when you stumble upon it – the right
thing for the band – the songs begin to form an identity. And everyone
in this band, they all seem to think that I stumbled onto the template
of the identity of the band really early. And so they literally got out
of my way, they left me in a room alone and sat in the next room until I
said, “Hey, come check this out.” And now I think they really
understand the difference between a folk song that’s great and a Twin
Forks song that’s great. So I’m really excited to see what [kind of
songwriting] Jonathan brings to the table or what the other members of
the band bring to the table, but I’ve already begun writing too.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So do you see Twin Forks being your full-time thing for a
while, or are you just going to just sort of keep following your
inspiration wherever it leads?<br />
<br />
<b>CC:</b> I don’t have any indication that my inspiration going to lead
anywhere but Twin Forks for the time being. I don’t know that I’ll feel
drawn to Dashboard the way I feel drawn to Twin Forks right now. But it
would be really unfair to this fanbase that’s been just sort of waiting
[for Dashboard] to make a record just so they can have one, as opposed
to because I feel called to do it. And that sound’s way loftier than I
intended it, but I think you know what I mean. So yeah, Twin Forks is my
band. It’s not my side project. It is my band, and it is my band to the
degree that I’ve committed myself to it with everything I’ve got.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-11947880466148033452016-03-28T20:27:00.000-04:002016-03-28T20:27:12.890-04:00Interview: The A.V. Club's Josh Modell and Kyle Ryan (December 6th, 2013)<i><b><a href="http://www.avclub.com/" target="_blank">The A.V. Club</a> </b>is
in the midst of running through its busy "end of the year" coverage for
2013, and I recently got the chance to speak with Josh Modell, the
site's Editor-in-Chief, and Kyle Ryan, its Editor, about their "<a href="http://www.avclub.com/article/the-23-best-albums-of-2013-106233" target="_blank">23 best albums of 2013</a>"
list. Over the course of the interview, we talked about the year's best
records, how the A.V. Club tabulates its year-end lists, whether or not
it's currently cool to like Drake or Fall Out Boy, and a plethora of
other musical minutia. In addition, we chatted a bit about the A.V.
Club's tumultuous year - following the departure of several founding
editors and writers - and briefly discussed what might be on the horizon
for the site in 2014.</i><br />
<br />
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<i> </i><br />
<b>Craig Manning: </b>To start, let’s talk a little bit about this list.
How did you guys put it together this year and how was that different
from previous years?<br />
<br />
<b>Josh Modell:</b> Well, the only way it was really different from
previous years was that we didn’t let people weight their votes. I
should probably preface it by saying that I think we do these lists – at
least for music – a lot different than most places do it, because our
list is super democratic. Everybody has the same weight, you know,
whether you’re the music editor or the editor on the site, or you know,
somebody who has been freelancing for us for eight months. If we let you
vote, you get the same level of input as everybody else.<br />
<br />
So in previous years we’ve given people 100 points and they could
spread that over 15 records and give any one record as many as 15
points. Super complicated, I know (laughs). And that’s to let people
really champion records they love, because if you give something 15
points, it would almost certainly make the top 25 or 30 records. This
year we simplified it a bit, and just had everybody rank their records
from number one to number 10, with their number one record getting 10
points and their number 10 record getting one point.<br />
<br />
<b>Kyle Ryan: </b>We’ve had this problem in years past where something
only one person voted for could end up in our best of list, which
always sucked a little bit to me. Like for instance, <a href="http://www.avclub.com/article/the-best-music-of-2012-89711" target="_blank">last year</a>,
I really loved Pilot to Gunner, but I thought it was a little strange
that they were our number 22 record when I can guarantee I’m the only
person here who even listens to them. So that was, that’s something we
avoided this year which was nice.<br />
<br />
And this is not a knock against how any other publications do it – I’m
not sure how Absolutepunk does it – but I think a lot of places sort of
get in a room and have a discussion and move things around, whereas we
don’t even…we tell people <i>not</i> to influence people’s votes. We
tell people like, if there’s a record you think everyone reading this
list should hear, let us know. But it’s never like, “oh you guys gotta
vote for this,” it’s just like, “the heart wants what it wants,”
straight-up personal vote.<br />
<br />
<b>CM:</b> So are you guys happy with the outcome of the list? Was
there anything you were surprised to see on there or anything you
expected to make the list that didn’t?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Let me answer that in two parts and then I’ll let Kyle answer it.<br />
<br />
I was super happy with [the list], not necessarily because I love
every record on it, but because I thought the variety was really
interesting and telling and I think there’s a lot of really interesting
records on there, and they’re right up next to more mainstream records
that people just really like.<br />
<br />
Like, I don’t actually <i>like</i> either of these records, but I
thought it was pretty awesome that Tim Hecker and Paramore – which
couldn’t be a lot more different from each other – were tied for number
15. I like that. I think that’s interesting. And I know that the people
who voted for those records really like them, and it makes me want to
listen to them even though I’m not sure I really love either one.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>No, I’m not really a fan of either of those.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>I guess I’m little surprised – and Kyle can speak to this
more than I can – that Fall Out Boy ended up on the list, because I
didn’t even realize they had put out a record this year.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Well it came out like…long ago. Well, yeah, April. But you
know, it’s funny: Fall Out Boy have made our year-end list for their
past…<a href="http://www.avclub.com/review/fall-out-boy-eminfinity-on-highem-7978" target="_blank">I want to say</a> <a href="http://www.avclub.com/review/fall-out-boy-emfolie-a-deuxem-17105" target="_blank">three records</a>? <a href="http://www.avclub.com/review/fall-out-boy-emsave-rock-and-rollem-96569" target="_blank">Including this one</a>.
And that’s always super polarizing, like people are always like “What
the fuck, Fall Out Boy?! Blah blah blah!” (That’s how I’m imagining
people speaking.) But yeah, people always freak out about that, and it’s
kind of funny to me at this point, because you know, it’s been so long
and these guys have been on our year-end list <i>so many times</i>, but people I guess still just really dislike Pete Wentz. (laughter)<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah, people always get mad at us or like accuse us of
somehow trolling by saying that Fall Out Boy is one of the best records
of the year. And like I said, I have no interest in Fall Out Boy,
personally, but I don’t think anybody that’s voting for it is lying. I
think they would be more likely to lie and say they <i>don’t </i>like Fall Out Boy.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, I think that’s much more likely.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Where does Fall Out Boy’s record rank on Absolutepunk’s favorite records of the year?<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Well I’m sure it’s pretty high on there. We’re actually in
the process of tabulating everything right now, so we’ll see. But I know
a lot of the guys are really fans of them and have been big fans of
Fall Out Boy pretty much all along, since that’s sort of our site’s
bread and butter.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah. Well, to answer the other part of your question, I
guess I was a little surprised that Arcade Fire didn’t make it, but I
hadn’t really polled our writers. I thought that record was good, but
ultimately sort of disappointing. And it didn’t make my top 10, but I’m a
little surprised that it didn’t get three or four “bottom of the top
10” votes that would push it into the top 10. But that’s okay, because I
think people in the world already know that record exists.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, that one didn’t make my…there were a couple, you
know, our number one record, our number two record – actually our top
four records – didn’t make my list at all. Arcade Fire…that’s the first
time that I haven’t had Arcade Fire at number one or near the top of my
albums list. But yeah, that was surprising to me, but I also think that
record is…not really that great. So, that’s surprising.<br />
<br />
But I’m sort of delighted, again, by the weird variety in our list,
looking at it again. Like there’s two pretty…kind of metal records on
there – in Locrian and Deafheaven – and two…well three like, three
really kind of mainstream pop records – Paramore, Fall Out Boy, and
Lorde. Right alongside, you know, weirder stuff like Fuck Buttons and
Tim Hecker and stuff like that. But I think all of these records are
absolutely worth listening to, for anybody.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>What did get your votes?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Umm, my favorite record of the year was Vampire Weekend. I
think I have the most typical – or what people would think is the most
typical – AV Club taste. My favorite records were Vampire Weekend, the
National, Kanye West – which was our number one record. Umm…I gotta go
look at my ballot.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>I had CHVRCHES as my number one record, which is an album
I’ve loved and played a ton over the year. Fall Out Boy was number two
for me. I also had Frightened Rabbit and Neko Case, which both on our
list. But also, a lot of my ballot was stuff that didn’t make our list, <a href="http://bells.bandcamp.com/music" target="_blank">like Bells></a>, which is kind of an instrumental, post rock band.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>So surprising <i>that </i>didn’t make it…<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>(laughs) I know, yeah, right?! It’s a super good record
though. I also had Telekinesis – he’s sort of a friend of the AV Club – I
thought that record was really good. Uhhh, Pusha T was probably my
favorite hip-hop record of the year. That or Danny Brown. But Pusha T
was on my list. And I also had the Sky Ferreira record on there because I
think it’s a good sort of pop record. That actually surprised me: I was
the only person who voted for that record. I was surprised by that.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Your vote made me want to listen to that record. I haven’t heard it yet. It’s on my desk though!<br />
<br />
Ummm, other stuff I had, I had the Volcano Choir record on there,
which I actually thought would make it because it really sounds like a
Bon Iver record. I’m surprised that record didn’t do better than it did.
Like, I’m sure it did fine, it’s just not getting the crazy attention I
thought it might. And I had Drake on my top 10. I’m not sure if it’s
cool to like Drake right now, but there are a lot of great songs on that
record. A lot of people don’t like Drake. I’m confused by who likes
Drake at this point.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Oh also, and this just speaks to…I have yet to do one of
these lists that I “like” in the years I’ve been doing it, but I somehow
forgot to put the most recent Superchunk record on my list, which is of
course one of my favorite records of the year. I love those guys. I
feel like every year I don’t do this right.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah, it’s not very scientific.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>No, and it’s just like one of those things that probably in
six months, my “true” 2013 list will be different, because I’ve had
more time with it and all the stuff.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Oh yeah, they definitely change.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>What’s your number one record of the year, Craig?<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>My favorite actually, ummm…it’s by a guy named Will Hoge. He’s sort of a roots rock, Bruce Springsteen type I guess.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah, that doesn’t sound familiar. <br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>But that’s sort of something I was going to ask about,
actually, because at Absolutepunk we do the combined list, which gets
the albums you would sort of expect to see on there. Like the consensus
picks I guess. I would expect that either Vampire Weekend or Deafheaven
will be our combined number one. But we also do individual lists so that
people will have a chance to sort of champion the lesser-known records,
and maybe write about things that people haven’t necessarily heard. Do
you guys do more individual lists along with the combined, or is it all
about the “democratic process”?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>We actually do. It’s a separate article, it’s called “<a href="http://www.avclub.com/article/the-best-music-of-2013-the-ballots-106189" target="_blank">The Ballots</a>,”
where you get everybody’s individual lists and people will embellish
their ballots too. Like, I did a list of songs I liked from records that
weren’t on my top 10 list. But yeah, a lot of people write about their
runners up and the records that didn’t make the list. So it’s actually a
considerably longer article than the actual top 23.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, it’s fun to do. I really enjoy doing the ballot
piece, because like Josh said, we can talk about albums that didn’t make
the overall list that we want to champion. Like I talked about that
Bells<u>></u> record and Telekinesis and Pusha T. And I think that,
in some cases, readers actually prefer the ballot list, because it gives
them more of a sense of what our preferences are, but it also gives
them a chance to be like “oh, well, okay, this guy has good taste, but
the rest of you don’t. But it also gives them a chance to yell at us for
not including Queens of the Stone Age.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah, anywhere. Which was something we heard about <i>a lot </i>yesterday…<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>So, how did you guys decide when to go live with the list?
Because I know that’s been something that Absolutepunk has struggled
with over the years, between like, balancing it with all of the other
lists that are coming out and…at least for us, our viewership goes down
around the holiday season because people aren’t online and chatting on
the message board. And I think you guys have traditionally launched a
little bit later. What made you decide to choose this date this year?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>I think our biggest thing was trying to give a week to every section that we cover, and it’s just easiest to do music earlier, <i>especially</i>
this year, because there’s not really anything on the docket or the
release slate that we thought would make it. Like, the last Kanye West
record came out really late, it came out in like, the middle of
December, and we had to wait for that.<br />
<br />
This year, there’s nothing coming out in the middle of December,
whereas film has to be much closer to the end of the year, because like,
the Scorsese movie doesn’t come out until Christmas Day, and it just
screened yesterday, so we have to kind of wait until our film critics
have seen everything. And same with TV, there’s still a lot of TV still
going on. So it’s just kind of balancing, you know, “when will we have
heard most of the records that we think will make the list?” And this
year, I think we were just able to do it a little earlier and get out of
the way of, you know “best movies” coverage, “best TV shows” coverage,
“best video games” coverage, that kind of thing.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>You know, it’s actually kind of interesting, because I
think, although it’s running a little earlier this year, I think we had
the polls all closed and everything figured out earlier last year. It
ran later, but it was all…like, last year, Craig, I think we had it all
figured out by like late November. Either last year or the year before, I
can’t remember.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>They all run together…<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, seriously. But, so, it felt like we had a little more
time this year. Probably. But when it runs on the site, it really has
more to do with, you know, when will our film people be able to see all
the films and when will it make sense to run all of this stuff? Because
we have all of these other sections we need to keep in mind.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Right. So yeah, what is the schedule for the rest of the
“end of the year” stuff? You said TV, video games, movies…I’m guessing
movies is last?<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Well for TV, we’re doing it a little bit different this
year – well, we’re doing it a lot bit different. You know, like Josh was
saying, a lot of other places, people get together and sort of debate
what should be in the year-end list. That’s sort of what we did for TV
this year, in that we’re doing every day for – like, we’re doing our top
15 shows, and every day is sort of a short essay on one of those top 15
shows. But we’re only ranking the last three, like our top 3 shows. So
that’s going on right now. And next week we have best of games, best of
books and comics, and then the week of December 16th is when the best of
film stuff is happening.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>What other publications – for music in particular, but for
anything I guess – what other publications’ end of the year lists do you
guys look forward to?<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Well, I think you have to look and see what Pitchfork is doing. I think their list is fairly interesting.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>I think it’s…did it come out already? I think it’s going to be pretty similar to ours, if I had to guess. And <i>I do </i>have to guess.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>But yeah, I think Pitchfork, that’s the main one for me. I
always find it interesting to see how it varies at other places. You
know, you’re going to see a lot of the same albums in a top 25, but how
they change, or what else is there and the different orders and stuff,
that’s interesting to me. <br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>I mean, I’ll look at Spin’s and Rolling Stone’s, for sure.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah. And I always like to look at <a href="http://blog.largeheartedboy.com/" target="_blank">Largehearted Boy</a>, since he sort of just aggregates everything so you can look through everything.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b><a href="http://www.spin.com/articles/best-albums-2013/" target="_blank">Spin’s is out now</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Oh yeah it is, look at that.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Spin, same number 1 as us: <i>Yeezus</i>. <br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>How many…is it just like, all a gallery?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>50 records…and I can’t figure out where it starts… (laughter)<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Yeah, Spin’s lists are always just really a hassle to look through. <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/lists/50-best-albums-of-2013-20131202" target="_blank">Rolling Stone’s is out too</a>, that came out earlier this week.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Which one is?<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Rolling Stone?<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Oh did it? Oh wow, missed that.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>It shows you how seriously we take this. <br />
<br />
(laughter)<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Well the other problem for us at this time of year is that
it’s super, super busy because of all our year-end stuff. And we won’t
be around the last week or two of the month, so it’s like, our heads are
down and this kind of stuff just slips right past us.<br />
<br />
Yep, there it is! It’s of course a 50 image gallery on Spin.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Yeah…<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Because…of course.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Well, there’s some cross over right away: Neko Case,
Superchunk. Oh wait, Superchunk didn’t make our list*. Yeah, there’s…My
Bloody Valentine is on Spin’s. Oh, Arcade Fire is only number 37,
so….wouldn’t have made our list, we only did 23 records. I think you’re
kind of reaching if you go too much past 25, because you kind of get
into to the point of one writer really championing it. Ummm, they have
Deafheaven at number 22. That was like our number 4. Waxahatchee they
have at number 20: that was on our list.<br />
<br />
(*Probably said while glaring at KR.)<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, there’s a fair amount of overlap. Oh, the Nine Inch
Nails they have on their list, that didn’t make our list at all. And I’m
a NIN fan, I just wasn’t terribly into the latest record.<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Their top four is very close to our top five: Haim, Vampire
Weekend, and Kanye West are in their top five. Very exciting stuff, I
know.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>So moving beyond just the discussion of the list, it’s been
a pretty tumultuous year for the AV Club, what with the departure of
several founding staff members and key editors or writers. How has the
site navigated through that, and how have you guys helped to keep things
going, keep things exciting, and help it along?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>I mean, I think you just…you do it because you’ve gotta do
it, right? Obviously there was some disruption, but I think the site now
is as strong or stronger than it’s ever been.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, you know, as much as a bummer as it was that we had
some of the primary voices on the site leave, it was also a really good
chance to bring in some newer people and to sort of reassess what we
have been doing, what we like doing, and to kind of just give ourselves a
chance to maybe try some new things. The voice of the site hasn’t
changed at all, what we cover hasn’t really changed. We launched a new
vertical with the redesign called Ox, which gives us a chance to…gives
us a place for some of the things we were already doing, like talking
about travel or food, stuff we talk about every now and then, but isn’t
one of our core areas of coverage.<br />
<br />
But our traffic is actually…we set traffic records this year. And you
know, a lot of the tumult, such as it was, was at the early part of the
year, and it just feels like it was a really long time ago now. We’re
all staffed up again, and we have a lot of great people who are really
hungry, and, umm…<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>And we don’t feed them.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>(Laughs) Yeah…and they’re eager to do good work. So yeah, I don’t know. I’m really happy with where we are right now.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Great. How did you recruit new writers this year? It seems
like there are a lot of new bylines going on in music especially. That’s
the one I look at most I guess. But also on TV and movies and
throughout. <br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, Marah Eakin, who is the music editor, has been really
good about finding just new contributors. And you know, I think for
her, because she knows a lot of people from…she spent a few years
working as a publicist and for various record labels, and so she knows a
lot of people. And so, I think she’s just been reaching out to people
whose work she likes and people who she knows are good and just getting
them involved.<br />
<br />
And it’s funny, we have a lot of people pitch us, or who will get in
touch and you know, have ideas and…you know, if the ideas are good and
they have good clips and they seem like they’re good writers, we’ll
figure out how to bring them into the fold and give them a shot.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Do you guys have any big plans for features or anything for the AV Club in the coming year? What’s next for the AV Club?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Not especially, we’re sort of just keeping on keeping on.
We’re having some discussions about trying to do a regular live event
kind of thing, just low-key. We don’t really know what it will be yet or
if it will be anything. But yeah, other than that, we are just kind
continuing to solidify the staff and keep doing what we do, better and
better.<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, we always have a ton of ideas like…waiting to be
activated, so to speak. And it just depends on staffing and “Oh, can we
find someone to sponsor this video series?” Or whatever. So chances are
we’ll be doing another round of <a href="http://www.avclub.com/search?feature_types=av-undercover" target="_blank">(A.V.) Undercover</a>, hopefully, another <a href="http://www.avclub.com/search?feature_types=pop-pilgrims" target="_blank">Pop Pilgrims</a>, which are super fun to do. I’d really love to do another series of “<a href="http://www.avclub.com/search?feature_types=stand-down" target="_blank">Stand Down</a>,”
which was our video series where we had comedians telling stories about
their worst gig. So yeah, it’s a lot of the stuff that we’ve been
doing, and hopefully some new things as well.<br />
<br />
<b>CM: </b>Great, that was the last thing I had written down for you.
Do either of you have anything you want to add about the list or the
site? Or anything?<br />
<br />
<b>JM: </b>Um…our list is only a guide. (laughs)<br />
<br />
<b>KR: </b>Yeah, we’re not saying if you don’t like these records you
have terrible taste. (Laughs) Which, I think that’s the problem with a
lot of these lists. They engender these sort of reactions from people
who, if A) they haven’t heard of some of these records or bands, or B)
they don’t like them, and we’re coming from a place of like,
“authority,” then some people will have a reaction like, “well I don’t
like these lists!” And they get…they’re <i>very passionate</i>, let’s
just put it that way. But it’s good. [The lists] are fun to do, and it’s
a fun way to sort of look back at what happened this year.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-2713419016740311772016-03-27T20:29:00.002-04:002016-03-27T20:31:50.226-04:00My Back Pages, Vol. 12: The Wallflowers - Bringing Down the Horse<i>Welcome to My Back Pages,
a collaborative staff feature that will survey a landscape of renowned
classics and unheralded gems alike, most of which no one around here
ever writes a word about. The rules are simple and loose: we won’t cover
anything from this millennium and we will avoid all or most AP.net
favorites—though we might make an exception if something is nearing a
milestone anniversary. Beyond that though, anything is fair game. So if
you have an album, artist, or genre you would like to see discussed in
this feature, feel free to throw us a few recs.</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br />
After our last feature, where we discussed the legendary Mr. Bob Dylan,
we couldn't help but move onto Dylan's significantly less famous son.
That led us to Jakob Dylan and the Wallflowers, a roots rock band that
broke out in the mid-1990s, scored some hits, won some Grammys, jammed
with Bruce Springsteen, and then rapidly receded back into the
underground. The band is still making great records to this day -
albeit, with a slightly different line-up - but their best work remains
the album that endeared them to millions of radio listeners back in 1996
and 1997: </i><b>Bringing Down the Horse</b><i>. For both of us, this album
and its flagship single, the unforgettable "One Headlight," represented
big musical awakenings, and I think you will find that we both explored a
bit more personal territory in our write-ups this week. We hope you
will enjoy reading and listening along to one of the last true "classic
rock" records with us.</i><br />
<br />
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<b>Craig Manning:</b> Next to the surge of harmonica and the slamming screen door that kick starts <i>Born to Run</i>, the atmospheric guitar echo at the top of “One Headlight” – the 1990s smash hit from the Wallflowers and the opening track of <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>,
their 1996 sophomore album – is my favorite opening of any record. That
may seem strange to some people, since “One Headlight” doesn’t have
anywhere near the legendary status in rock history that “Thunder Road”
does. Indeed, in the eyes and ears of mainstream pop radio listeners, <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>
was a record that made the Wallflowers little more than one-album
wonders. For a brief moment in 1996 and 1997, the Wallflowers were
legitimate hit makers. “6th Avenue Heartache,” “One Headlight,” and “The
Difference” were all top 40 singles (“Headlight” almost got to the top
of the charts, stalling out at number 2), while “Three Marlenas” was a
minor single that generated a small amount of radio play. It speaks to
the brevity of the 1990s alt-folk resurgence that most people have no
idea the Wallflowers even exist beyond this album.<br />
<br />
But if you are going to build your legacy on a single disc, <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>
is a very good one to do it with. Released on May 21, 1996 – when I was
only five and a half years old, for those who are counting – <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>
became my first favorite album, “One Headlight” my first favorite song,
and the Wallflowers my first favorite band. The better part of two
decades later, I’d still consider Horse to be among my top 10 albums of
all time, one of the ultimate essential summer nighttime albums. But the
real game-changer was “One Headlight,” which, if I had to boil down the
most important songs in my personal music evolution, would be at the
top of the list. That’s where my big, sprawling obsession with music
really started, and if it hadn’t been for that song, I can more or less
guarantee that I wouldn’t be writing for this website right now. At very
least, I’m sure my tastes would be markedly different, not so attached
to folk, roots rock, alt-country, and all of the similar styles that so
dominated my top albums of 2013 list.<br />
<br />
Sure, you could argue that “One Headlight” was merely a “right place,
right time” song for me and that it played a role that could have just
as easily been substituted with a different song. But I don’t
necessarily think that’s the case. I’d connected with other music on a
more casual level before that radiant guitar echo pounded on my door and
forced me to pay attention. I didn’t have a CD player and I had no way
to really access music in any capacity, but my brother had a boom box
and a burgeoning CD collection. I’d have him make copies of my favorite
albums for me to listen to on my shitty old cassette player – <i>Morning Glor</i>y by Oasis, Third Eye Blind’s self-titled record, Green Day’s <i>Dookie</i> – but <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>
was by far the one I’d listen to most. I’d drum along to it on a
makeshift set-up made of beat up old metal popcorn buckets and pieces of
plastic, or turn it into a soundtrack for the battles between my action
figures. One time, I even cranked up the volume, put my tape player on
my window ledge, and blared the music out into the street on a summer
evening so I could listen while bike riding and shooting hoops in the
driveway. It was my first life soundtrack record back before I had much
of a life to soundtrack.<br />
<br />
“One Headlight” was the one I listened to most. I found that cassette
tape a few years ago when I was cleaning up my room, and that song was
utterly wrecked and grainy from all the times I had rewound the tape to
re-capture every moment of the tune. Though I first started listening
probably in 1997, after “One Headlight” became a hit, it remained my
go-to favorite song for years after the fact. When the rest of my
classmates in third and fourth grade were all about the Backstreet Boys,
Britney Spears, and god knows what else, I was still hung up on “One
Headlight.” In a pop music landscape that was becoming increasingly
defined by plasticity and deposability, here was this dark, beguiling,
and mystifying song about death. Jakob Dylan said that the song was
about “the death of ideas,” written as a pissed-off, tapped-out diss to a
record label that wouldn’t give the band the respect, the appreciation,
or the support that they felt met the terms of their contract or even
the codes and mantras of human decency. In that sense, it’s their
“Dancing in the Dark,” a song that achieved massive mainstream pop
success despite the fact that it was penned with anger and contempt for
everything the mainstream pop world stood for. Jakob may have been Bob
Dylan’s son, but he took infinitely more from Springsteen on this
record, and particularly with this song. I’ve frequently seen
“Headlight” described as either “the best Bruce Springsteen song of the
1990s” or “the best song Bruce Springsteen never wrote,” and those are
both rather apt descriptions. (Sidenote, if you’re either a Springsteen
fan or a Wallflowers fan and you haven’t read <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/060714" target="_blank">this</a>, you haven’t lived. Scroll down to the second to last question to learn why.)<br />
<br />
Personally, I always took the meaning of “Headlight” to be a lot more
literal than Dylan actually intended. The song fades in on a funeral
(with the untouchable opening lines of “So long ago I don’t remember
when, that’s when they say I lost my only friend/They said she died easy
of a broken-heart disease, as I listened through the cemetery trees”),
and explores the world through the eyes of a guy who is striving not to
give up, even though a good friend of his did just that and chose to end
her life. It’s a sobering tune about what makes life worth living and
what impetuses conspire to make people throw up their hands and
surrender. When the screws come loose and the narrator starts to despair
toward the end of the song (“Somewhere here in between the city walls
and dyin’ dreams/I think her death it must be killing me”) it’s a
powerful moment, and one that has kept the tune and its questions of
life, death, friendship, love, loneliness, resilience, and surrender
alive for me, 18 years after the fact. I can’t think of another pop song
since that has so elegantly captured the human condition. Or maybe it’s
a song about a woman with one giant breast, as Jon Lovitz theorized.
Who knows?<br />
<br />
<b>Chris Collum:</b> There are a lot of different things I could say about <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>.
I could go on about Jakob Dylan’s pitch-perfect pop sensibilities and
moody vocal delivery. I could talk about how Dylan and keyboardist Rami
Jaffee masterfully update the sound that Dylan’s father dabbled in with
The Band decades prior to this album’s recording. Or I could discuss the
all-star cast of collaborators who were involved in the making of this
record, essentially a “who’s who” of roots rock. Those names include T.
Bone Burnett, the album’s producer; the legendary Mr. Sam Phillips; Adam
Duritz of Counting Crows; Gary Louris of The Jayhawks; Gillian Welch
collaborator David Rawlings; pedal steel master Leo LeBlanc and others.
But I’m not going to focus on any of that. In fact I’m only going to
talk about one song on the album.<br />
<br />
“One Headlight” is one of the very first songs by someone other than
Springsteen that I remember becoming truly enamored with as a child. I
don’t know if it was the first time I heard the song on the radio or
simply the first time I remember hearing it, but I have a pretty vivid
memory from when I was around six or seven of being struck by the song
one foggy winter morning. That day was going to be the first time I’d
ever attended a funeral. The deceased was an elderly woman from our
church that I barely knew, but being the only Catholic church in a tiny
Mississippi county it was a pretty tightly knit community so we were
going anyway. <br />
<br />
Riding around our small town in the car with my dad that morning, the
haunting tone of “One Headlight” - as well as obviously the references
to a funeral and death in the lyrics - made a pretty big impression on
me. The song kind of scared me in a way, not least of all because Jakob
Dylan delivered each line with a laidback nonchalant drawl that made him
seem so detached from what he was singing about. That is until the
chorus came along and with a glorious swell, both of Dylan’s voice and
of Rami Jaffee’s organ, all attention was directed heavenwards.<br />
<br />
I remember hearing the song many more times in the next few years; not
surprising given the level of radio saturation it achieved. I eventually
acquired <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i> in full many years later, but
that was at a time when I was starting to think that any music that
wasn’t all power chords, distortion and palm-muting in double-time was
kind of lame, so I didn’t really connect with it until toward the end of
high school. When I listen to the record now, without fail “One
Headlight” sends a little chill down my spine. I’m usually so floored I
listen to that song twice before going on to the rest of the record.
It’s basically just a song about beat-up people riding a beat-up vehicle
through a beat-up town, but something about the way Dylan strings
together images like “the sun up ahead at the county line bridge” and
“smells like cheap wine, cigarettes / This place was always such a mess”
is incredibly evocative. <br />
<br />
So yes, I do like all of <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>. And when I
really got into the record several years ago there was a good period of
time when “One Headlight” wasn’t even my favorite song on the record. It
is now though, and more importantly that song is very special to me
because it was one of the first songs that made me realize just how
powerful of an atmosphere a rock song can conjure out of thin air. But I
didn’t quite realize all of that when I heard it that morning as a kid,
I just knew that the song made me feel a little strange and uneasy on a
morning when I was already nervous about spending most of the morning
in the same room as a dead person.<br />
<br />
I don’t remember anything about the actual funeral except
that—appropriately enough—as soon as the service began the sky ripped
open and a hard rain began to fall. <br />
<br />
<b>Craig Manning:</b> As Chris so eloquently put, “One Headlight” is the obvious highlight and anchor track to <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>,
but there’s so much more to this album than its biggest and most
memorable hit. The other singles, for instance, are all fantastic, from
the delicate slide-guitar grandeur of “6th Avenue Heartache” (complete
with glowing harmonies from Counting Crows frontman Adam Duritz) to the
pounding, youthful summertime atmosphere of “The Difference.” Other cuts
didn’t catch me until later, like “Invisible City,” where the narrator
fights through metaphorical crash sites and illusions of choices to
retain the same resilience he found on “One Headlight,” or “Josephine,”
Jakob Dylan’s twist on his father’s “Just Like a Woman” and a most
elegant slow dance about a girl who tastes “just like sugar and
tangerines.”<br />
<br />
These are great, great songs, forming the backbone to an album that I
think deserves classic status as much as any record Chris and I have
written about in this feature. The fact that <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>
doesn’t get that kind of recognition probably has more to do with when
it was released than anything else though. As I said before, the
Wallflowers dropped this disc at a precarious time for rock and roll
music. Grunge was fading. What we’ve come to know today as “classic
rock” was little more than a memory. Bruce Springsteen and U2, two of
the most dependable rock acts from the previous decade, were in the
midst of career slumps. Bob Dylan was a year away from the album that
would kick him into his late-career master streak. By all accounts, the
Wallflowers were the last of a dying breed, and it therefore makes
perfect sense that their time in the mainstream limelight was fleeting.<br />
<br />
The banishment from the radio hasn’t hurt the Wallflowers, though. On the contrary, since <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i>, this band has – despite line-up changes and numerous lengthy hiatuses – released a string of terrific albums. 2000’s <i>Breach</i>
came too late to take advantage of the momentum that “One Headlight”
afforded, but the band hit a near-high water mark when they teamed up
with Brendan O’Brien for 2006’s <i>Rebel, Sweetheart</i>, a lush, anthemic, and poetic work that nearly matched <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i> in terms of sheer song-for-song consistency. 2012’s <i>Glad All Over</i>,
on the other hand saw the band in turns embracing their alt-country
roots, pursuing harder rock textures (thanks to Clash guitarist Mick
Jones, who guested on a few tracks), hitting modern E Street levels of
self-assuredness, and easily fitting back into the modern folk revival
that has been going on for the past few years. Finally, the band’s other
post-millennial record, 2002’s <i>Red Letter Days</i>, overcame a
bloated runtime with a few of the most aching ballads anyone has written
since Clinton left office. Put simply, this band’s discography deserves
a second look.<br />
<br />
Still, despite all of that great music – and despite two wonderful solo records from Jakob Dylan – <i>Bringing Down the Horse</i> remains the Wallflowers’ greatest accomplishment. Wonderfully and organically produced by T. Bone Burnett (who also helmed <i>August and Everything After</i>,
the other alt-folk masterpiece of the 1990s), aided and abetted by a
laundry list of terrific session musicians, and sensitively written
throughout by Jakob Dylan, this record is a masterpiece of mood and
feeling. From the rollicking rock tracks (infectiously fun songs like
“Laughing Out Loud” and “God Don’t Make Lonely Girls”) to the mid-tempo
jams (“Angel on My Bike,” a road-trip essential), I adore everything
about this record. Many of the hallmarks here (the ringing surge of Rami
Jaffee’s B3 organ, the wistful whine of Leo LeBlanc’s pedal steel
guitar on songs like “I Wish I Felt Nothing”) are sounds that, when
replicated elsewhere, on other records or by other bands, instantly win
me over. It may not be remembered as a classic in many circles, but for
me, for how important this album was to my personal listening evolution
and for how much it continues to blow me away to this day, it’s an
all-time, top-five, desert island essential. There’s a reason I still
pull it out for late night drives every summer.
Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-45695988253210509012016-03-27T20:26:00.003-04:002016-03-27T20:31:59.902-04:00My Back Pages, Vol. 11: Bob Dylan - Blood on the Tracks<i>Welcome to My Back Pages,
a collaborative staff feature that will survey a landscape of renowned
classics and unheralded gems alike, most of which no one around here
ever writes a word about. The rules are simple and loose: we won’t cover
anything from this millennium and we will avoid all or most AP.net
favorites—though we might make an exception if something is nearing a
milestone anniversary. Beyond that though, anything is fair game. So if
you have an album, artist, or genre you would like to see discussed in
this feature, feel free to throw us a few recs.</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br />
Today, we're finally reaching the artist whose song gave our feature its
name: Mr. Bob Dylan. How it took us 11 volumes to get to one of the
greatest singer/songwriters of all time is a bit baffling, to be sure,
but suffice to say that it hasn't been due to any lack of love for his
work. Chris and I could have chosen any number of Dylan records to
discuss this week, from 1965's revolutionary </i>Highway 61 Revisited <i>to the late-career masterstrokes of </i>Time out of Mind<i> and </i>Love and Theft<i>. Instead, we went for the record that might be Dylan's barest and most introspective: 1975's </i><b>Blood on the Tracks</b><i>. Written and recorded in the wake of Mr. Dylan's divorce from his wife Sara, </i>Blood on the Tracks<i>
catapulted Dylan back into the spotlight after an otherwise lukewarm
run of records in the 1970s. Over time, Chris and I have both come to
consider it as Dylan's finest album. So head to the replies, hit play on
the Rdio playlist, read along with our thoughts, and share your own
opinions and stories about this brilliant masterpiece of a record.</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Chris Collum:</b>
Bob Dylan has written scores of fantastic and very important songs over
the course of his legendary career – now in its sixth decade – but the
one for which he will remain most famous is inevitably "Like a Rolling
Stone." That song was truly revolutionary for a number of reasons. In
his 1988 speech honoring Dylan for his induction into the Rock 'N Roll
Hall of Fame, Bruce Springsteen described the beginning of "Like a
Rolling Stone" as "that snare shot that sounded like somebody [had]
kicked open the door to your mind," and Springsteen wasn't the only
person whose mind was blown open by the song. It was a long song – over
six minutes, unheard of for a rock 'n roll song at the time, especially
one intended to be a single. And yet New York City radio stations began
demanding full, unedited copies of it after a discarded acetate snatched
from a dumpster was worn out after being played on repeat all night at a
trendy nightclub in the city. Furthermore, the song's subject matter
was not normal at all. In contrast to the songs about love and/or love
lost that by and large dominated popular music at the time, "Like a
Rolling Stone" expects more from its audience. Dylan offers no answer to
the repeated refrain of "how does it feel?" even as he asks the
question with more and more vitriol as the song progresses.<br />
<br />
But we're not here to talk about "Like a Rolling Stone," or <i>Highway 61 Revisited</i>,
the masterful record that it opens. I began by talking about that song
in order to draw a contrast between the revolutionary work Dylan did on
his trio of masterpiece albums in the late sixties –<i>Bringing It All Back Home</i>, <i>Highway 61</i> and <i>Blonde on Blonde</i> – and the masterpiece that is <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>, for <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> does not shy away from songs about love and losing love. Rather, it tackles such themes head-on.<br />
<br />
Following the release of <i>Blonde on Blonde</i> in 1966 and the
subsequent tour, Dylan's prolific stream of great music began to slowly
taper off. He was recovering from a motorcycle accident, reportedly
battling an amphetamine addiction, and the stress of being on tour
constantly was starting to wear him thin. As that decade waned and the
seventies began, Dylan quit touring altogether, although he still
continued to release records. Just not ones that were nearly as good as
his previous work: 1970's double LP <i>Self Portrait</i> to this day remains one of his most lowly records. That was the record that prompted <i>Rolling Stone</i>
critic Greil Marcus to famously ask "What is this shit?" upon first
listening to the album. In 1974, however, Dylan returned to touring with
The Band in tow. Later that year he and his wife Sarah separated in
what turned out to be a bitter and very public battle.<br />
<br />
Following this, Dylan filled a little red notebook up with lyrics that would become the ten songs that are <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>.
He recorded the entire record in an almost totally solo manner in New
York City in a very short amount of time, but later re-cut some of the
songs in Minneapolis at the advice of his brother who thought that some
of the record's longer numbers could benefit from an arrangement that
was less stark and bleak. The final version of the album contains cuts
from both sessions. For example, "Simple Twist of Fate" and "Buckets of
Rain" are both from the New York sessions while "Tangled Up in Blue" and
"Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts" are the re-recorded Minneapolis
versions. <br />
<br />
If "Like a Rolling Stone" kicks down the door to your mind, "Tangled Up in Blue," the opening track on <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>
gently eases you into the world of the record. The first thing one
notices is the stunningly lush production work, particularly for a
record of this era as the mid-seventies were notorious for spawning some
of the most "dead-sounding" albums in rock 'n roll history. But none of
the life is squashed out of the songs on these records. Lyrically I
have personally always considered "Tangled" to be Dylan's finest work;
he once described it as a song that "took ten years to live and another
two to write." He's said in interviews that the narrative of the song is
anything but linear, rather past, present and future coexist in the
song's seven verses and meld and swirl seamlessly to form a true epic.
The song deals largely with a long-term romantic relationship that went
sour, and the narrator – presumably Dylan – reflects back on the last
decade of his life, wondering how things wound up the way they did and
whether there was anything he could have done to change them. Although
Dylan insists to this day that the record is not autobiographical, given
the circumstances he was in at the time it's impossible to think that
his experiences weren't at least influential in his writing for the
album. Furthermore, his son Jakob Dylan (of The Wallflowers) doesn't
seem to buy his father's line; the younger Dylan has said in interviews
that for him, listening to <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> he hears "my parents talking to each other."<br />
<br />
"Tangled Up in Blue" is one of the long songs on the record that could
be said to form the heart of the album's narrative. Another of these two
is "Idiot Wind," presumably the song from which the record gets its
name as Dylan references "blood" and "tracks" in subsequent verses. In
contrast to much of the bleak and forlorn writing that surrounds it, the
opening verse of "Idiot Wind" is one of the wriest Dylan had written
since "On the Road Again" from <i>Bringing It All Back Home</i>. He
sings that "They say I shot a many named Grey / And took his wife to
Italy," and then as the plot thickens when the wife inherits a fortune
and then dies, you can almost see Dylan shrugging ands grinning as he
sings, "I can't help it / That I'm lucky." The song then twists and
turns through a narrative about another relationship gone awry with
Dylan concluding "We're idiots babe / It's a wonder we can even feed
ourselves."<br />
<br />
The third long-form song on the record is "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack
of Hearts," a crime epic and murder ballad told partially by means of a
card game allegory. The players include Big Jim, the owner of the town's
diamond mine; Lily and Rosemary, who are his mistress and wife
respectively; and the Jack of Hearts, a bank robber for whom Lily falls.
It appears that Rosemary murders Big Jim after a night of hard drinking
while the Jack of Hearts and his crew make off with a small fortune
next door and Lily is trapped in the middle, but the genius of the song
is that you could listen to it a hundred thousand times and still not
necessarily come away with a clear linear picture of the story. It ties
into the greater themes of betrayal and love gone bad found elsewhere on
<i>Blood on the Tracks</i> in a very abstract way and in that sense is largely unique on the record.<br />
<br />
<b>Craig Manning:</b> Chris already did a great job of placing<i> Blood on the Tracks </i>in
the context of Dylan’s career, but let me venture back for one more
moment before moving forward. For a long time, it was difficult for me
to see how anyone could list an album <i>other</i> than <i>Highway 61 Revisited</i>
as their favorite Bob Dylan disc. The unbeatable combination of “Like a
Rolling Stone” and “Desolation Row” still stands as the greatest
opener/closer pairing that isn’t “Thunder Road” and “Jungleland,” and
the intermediary tracks – particularly the dim and biting “Ballad of a
Thin Man” – still sound as fresh today as I imagine they did in 1965.
How could an album with so many perfect songs be anything but its
creator’s magnum opus?<br />
<br />
Of course, that was before I started spending a lot of time with <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>. Released a decade after Highway 61, in the creative dry spell that was Dylan’s 1970s, <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>
was a different kind of record than the ones that had made Bob Dylan an
icon earlier in his career. Misguided – and in many ways, legitimately
bad – albums like <i>Self-Portrait</i> and <i>Dylan</i> had people
wondering whether or not the prolific singer/songwriter would ever again
reach the heights of his 1960s material. At very least, it seemed that
Dylan’s days as “voice of a generation” were long past over. Dylan could
hardly have cared less about respecting his folk music roots; he
certainly wasn’t going to govern his thematic conversations based on the
whims of a fanbase who couldn’t keep up. Disappointed, fans and record
labels alike began looking for a “new Dylan.” (Enter Bruce Springsteen.)<br />
<br />
But then something happened: Bob Dylan got his heart broken.<br />
<br />
The dissolution of a personal relationship has a way of bringing out the
honesty in a songwriter like virtually nothing else can. From Bruce
Springsteen’s <i>Tunnel of Love</i> to Fleetwood Mac’s <i>Rumours</i>, from Richard and Linda Thompson’s <i>Shoot out the Lights</i> to Peter Gabriel’s <i>Us</i>, from Beck’s <i>Sea Change</i> to Adele’s <i>21</i>
(not to mention pretty much every album by every artist from this
scene), thousands of records filled with countless songs have purged the
subject of a broken heart. Of course, they’ve all done it in slightly
different ways, some with downtrodden depression, some with
self-deprecating wit, some with bitter and hateful spite, and some with
wistful reflection. Regardless of the mood, though, these types of
albums and songs resonate because they bring us as the audience closer
to the artist in question. There’s something incredibly engrossing and
cathartic about listening to an artist as they stitch up their scars and
find meaning in their relational wreckages. Or maybe we listen because
all just horrible, sadistic, masochistic people. I don’t know. To
paraphrase <i>High Fidelity</i>, do we listen to pop music because we’re miserable or are we miserable because we listen to pop music?<br />
<br />
The point is this: there’s not much in music that’s more timeless than a break-up album, and Bob Dylan’s <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> may well be THE break-up record. Sure, <i>Tunnel of Love</i> is more heartbreaking, <i>Rumours</i> is catchier, and <i>Sea Change</i>
more accurately recreates the fall-out of a break-up (by making you
want to give up on life and sit inside with the blinds drawn, of
course). But as arguably the most lyrical songwriter in the history of
rock and roll, Dylan hit upon things with these songs that other
songwriters were never able to capture in their own songs.<br />
<br />
Case in point, as Chris already noted, is “Tangled up in Blue,” the
album’s opening track and mission statement. It’s funny: you’d never
think of Dylan as sounding broken. His voice on record, from the
heartfelt political entreaties of “Blowin’ in the Wind” to the embrace
of impending death on “Not Dark Yet,” always gives off this mischievous
air, like he knows something we don’t. The same is still true on most of
the <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> songs, but pay attention to the lyrics
of “Tangled up in Blue,” and it’s a parade of devastating moments. Right
there in the first verse we get “Early one morning the sun was shining,
I was laying in bed/Wondering if she'd changed at all, if her hair was
still red,” a quiet moment of reflection for the woman that the narrator
just can’t seem to let go. In the second verse, the two members of the
relationship are abandoning their love, a metaphorical broken-down car,
on a dark and lonely highway. In the last verse, Dylan sings, “All the
people we used to know/They’re an illusion to me now,” recalling that
moment after the death of a relationship where one party or the other
deliberately loses touch with mutual friends because doing so is easier
than seeing their old flame on a regular basis. And yet, even with all
of this emotional weightiness flying around, Dylan still manages to end
the song with a wry twist of sarcasm: “We always did feel the same/We
just saw it from a different point of view.”<br />
<br />
Chris spent most of his write-up discussing <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>
through the prism of its long-form tracks, vut while Dylan is largely
known for his longwinded album centerpieces, I’d actually argue that the
finest songs on this record are the tauter, more concise moments. My
favorite song on the album (and one of my favorite Dylan songs, period)
is “Simple Twist of Fate,” one of the most gorgeously melodic tracks the
songwriter has ever penned, but <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> doesn’t lack
for other shorter-form triumphs. Were I to recommend an album for a
first-time Dylan listener to check out, it would undoubtedly be this
one, which sparks with immediacy and accessibility throughout. From the
mournful dirge of “You’re a Big Girl Now” to the heart shattering
wistfulness of “If You See Her Say Hello,” from the rollicking harmonica
bursts of "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" to the slow-burn
blues of "Meet Me in the Morning," and from the lovelorn fondness of
“Shelter from the Storm” to the pleasant folk patter of album closer,
“Buckets of Rain,” the shiniest nuggets of gold on <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> are simplistic, gingerly melodic, beautifully rendered acoustic songs.<br />
<br />
It’s hard to compete with the sheer audacity of Dylan’s electric
records, but as a return to the more gentle strains of his earlier work –
albeit, with much better production – <i>Blood on the Tracks</i> marks
itself as the most listenable, enjoyable, consistent, and cohesive
record in Dylan’s collection. It might not have the immediacy of the
“the snare shot that sounded like somebody kicked open the door to your
mind,” and Dylan himself may well not even like the record (“A lot of
people tell me they enjoy that album,” he said once in a radio
interview. “It's hard for me to relate to that. I mean, it, you know,
people enjoying that type of pain, you know?”), but as both album <i>and</i> break-up album, <i>Blood on the Tracks</i>
is unquestionably one of the greatest and most powerful collections of
songs ever put on vinyl. Dylan made a lot of music before 1975 and has
written a lot of music since, but none of his records stop me in my
tracks (bad pun intended) quite like this one. Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2767471761019116175.post-42449426811398492832016-03-27T20:20:00.003-04:002016-03-27T20:32:05.084-04:00My Back Pages, Vol. 10: The Velvet Underground - The Velvet Underground & Nico<i>Welcome to My Back Pages<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">,</a>
a collaborative staff feature that will survey a landscape of renowned
classics and unheralded gems alike, most of which no one around here
ever writes a word about. The rules are simple and loose: we won’t
cover anything from this millennium and we will avoid all or most
AP.net favorites—though we might make an exception if something is
nearing a milestone anniversary. Beyond that though, anything is fair
game. So if you have an album, artist, or genre you would like to
see discussed in this feature, feel free to throw us a few recs.</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br />
Today we take a look at the seminal debut from The Velvet Underground.
Whether you know it for its iconic Andy Warhol-designed cover, its
revolutionarily dark lyricism, or its astonishingly ahead-of-its-time
protopunk sound, </i><b>The Velvet Underground & Nico</b><i> is a veritable
classic in every sense of the word. This piece also functions as a
tribute to Mr. Lou Reed, ringleader of The Velvet Underground for four
albums before embarking on a decades-long solo career. Reed died a
little over a month ago. Listen along with our Rdio playlist, and please
jump in and share your thoughts on this fantastic record.</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>Chris:</b>
On October 27th of this year Lou Reed passed away peacefully in his
home on Long Island at the age of 71. The official cause of death was
liver failure.<br />
<br />
It was a Sunday morning. <br />
<br />
Lou Reed made countless contributions to the legacy of popular music—as
well as not-so-popular music—but he will be immortalized largely for the
work he did on <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>, the group's
debut album. Recorded in 1966 and released in 1967, the record is the
definition of "ahead of its time." Those two years were certainly
incredibly fertile ones for rock 'n roll, but The Velvet Underground
were going in a completely different direction than their innovative
peers. VU started recording their debut the same month The Beach Boys
wrapped up the sessions for <i>Pet Sounds</i> out in California, and a solid eight months before The Beatles went into the studio in London to begin recording <i>Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band</i>. <br />
<br />
But unlike the sunny and intricately crafted psychedelic pop those two groups came up with, <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>
is a harsh, dark, bleak head trip of a record. And listen up kids of
AbsolutePunk.net, because it is truly the first stone in the foundation
of punk rock. Ten years before the likes of the Sex Pistols, The Clash
and the Ramones would make a splash on both sides of the Atlantic, Lou
Reed and The Velvet Underground made a record that stripped rock 'n roll
down to its leanest and meanest components and presented a menacing,
sneering countenance that was quite the foil to the acid-wrought "we are
all one" sentiments being peddled by the mainstream greats of rock 'n
roll at the time. Sound familiar? It should.<br />
<br />
I discovered The Velvet Underground in a most unusual fashion. In the liner notes for the Ramones compilation <i>Loud Fast Ramones: Their Toughest Hits</i>,
which someone gave me as a fifteenth birthday present, it mentions that
back in 1976 some boneheaded music critic referred to the Ramones as
potentially "the greatest singles band since The Velvet Underground,"
which obviously is a really, really dumb thing to write as pretty much
every single released by VU was a total commercial flop. But the
statement caught my attention and I got my hands on a copy of <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>.
I didn't really understand the album then, and I don't really claim to
now, but I have come to fall in love with its bizarre breed of magic,
and in the wake of Reed's passing it's slowly gaining a new meaning for
me.<br />
<br />
<i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i> is one of those records about
which absolutely everything worth saying has already been said
approximately forty-seven times, but bear with me momentarily while I
gush. Reed said that his goal when he began writing songs was to write
the "Great American Novel" in the form of an album and that's not too
far off from what he did with VU's debut. I've never spent more than six
hours in New York City and I certainly have no idea what it was like it
all its unsanitized glory in the mid-60s, but the characters Reed
depicts or inhabits on this album are so vivid and riveting that I feel
like I have some understanding of the gritty city that birthed the
record. <br />
<br />
We've all heard it before but it bears repeating: lyrically what Reed
did on this album was totally fucking revolutionary. I'm sorry to keep
going back to the comparisons to The Beatles, but while John Lennon was
writing couplets like "Picture yourself in a boat on a river / With
tangerine trees and marmalade skies," Lou Reed was writing stuff like
this: "Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man / When I put a spike into
my vein / And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same / When I'm
rushing on my run / And I feel just like Jesus' son." His straight-faced
depictions of drug use, addiction, sexual deviancy and everything in
between are arresting and haunting in the most perfect way, and backed
with squalls of feedback such as on "Heroin" it sounds like something
from the most captivating nightmare you've never had.<br />
<br />
But the most haunting and visceral song on the record interestingly
enough is also the most reserved. "Sunday Morning," the album's opening
song, is quite simply the most beautiful ode to the painful "morning
after" ever recorded. And lines like "Early dawning, sunday morning /
It's just the wasted years so close behind" particularly send a chill
down my spine in wake of Reed's death. I can't get over the fact that he
actually passed away on a cold and somber Sunday morning just like the
song. It just seems too perfect, like it was always fated to end that
way.<br />
<br />
Lou Reed gave us something truly special with <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>,
and while it may seem unfair for me to not have mentioned John Cale or
Nico at all in this piece, Reed is the one who cast the longest shadow
onto the history books of rock 'n roll. Even if he had never recorded
another note after VU's debut his influence would still be immense. As
Brian Eno said about the record, it may not have sold very well when it
was initially released, but it seems like everyone who bought a copy of
the album started a band. One doesn't have to venture too far into any
sector of the rock 'n roll world since 1967 to verify the veracity of
that statement: The Velvet Underground didn't start something with this
album so much as they started <i>everything</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>Craig:</b> When <i>Rolling Stone</i> ranked <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>
as the thirteenth greatest record of all time in 2003, the publication
called it "the most prophetic rock album ever made." Say what you want
about the publication (I certainly have), but I’ve always loved that
description. Very often when people talk about this record, they (like
Chris) bring up Reed’s gritty lyrics, decadent and depraved novellas of
drug abuse ("Heroin"), prostitution ("Femme Fatale"), and sadomasochism
("Venus in Furs”) inspired by the equally hard-hitting poetry of Allen
Ginsberg and other literary figures whom Reed admired during his time as
an English major. For me, though, this album has always been more
remarkable for its seemingly limitless ability to distill the trends of
the past 50 years of rock 'n roll into 50 minutes of music.<br />
<br />
Today, an album coming out and capturing the last 50 years of music
would be remarkable in and of itself, simply considering just how many
genres and sounds have risen and fallen in that time. For an album that
came out in 1967 to still sound this vital and current and retroactively
referential—even of sounds that hadn’t been invented on the rock music
landscape when it was released—well...that shouldn’t be possible, right?
And yet, orchestrator John Cale, singer/songwriter Lou Reed, German
vocalist Nico, and the rest of the Velvet Underground team, they somehow
did it on their first fucking record.<br />
<br />
Indeed, if one were to listen to <i>The Velvet Underground & Nico</i>
with no reference point, no knowledge of the band, and no idea who Lou
Reed or John Cale or Nico even were or are, I would imagine they would
have a difficult time placing it in a musical context. Sure, there are
some clear 1960s sounds here—Reed and Cale sound like they are directly
referencing Dylan’s <i>Highway 61 Revisited </i>on bluesier numbers like
"I’m Waiting For My Man" or "Run Run Run," while Nico’s feminine vocals
and the way they lilt on psychedelic pop offerings like "All Tomorrow’s
Parties" absolutely sound like something out of the Woodstock age.
There’s also "There She Goes," which was very likely built from the
template of the catchiest numbers from the first Beatles record, from "I
Saw Her Standing There" to "Twist and Shout."<br />
<br />
But there’s so much else going on here, too. The dirty (and dirt cheap)
production style and the spontaneous nature of the orchestrations—the
jarring tempo shifts and thrilling crescendos of the album’s definitive
track, "Heroin," or the seemingly improvised electric guitar work of
"All Tomorrow’s Parties"—feel like forebears of a 1980s punk sound;
Nico’s "Femme Fatale" sounds like the androgynous glam-pop or goth rock
of the 1980s. "Heroin" could also be seen as an early prototype for math
rock, while the cacophony of album closer, "European Son," gave plenty
of bands the license they needed to employ noise and scuzz for an
entirely different form of expression. Cue grunge, noise rock, punk
(again), avante garde guitar styles, and probably every other genre
where musicians realized they didn’t have to make pleasant, harmonious
sounds in order to gain respect. Elsewhere, Reed’s jangly guitar sounds
and cryptic lyrics presaged the ingredients that R.E.M. would use to
single-handedly found indie rock a decade and a half later (on similarly
timeless albums like <i>Murmur</i> and <i>Reckoning</i>), while some of R.E.M.’s later, darker material can even be traced back to the horror film thrum of "Venus in Furs."<br />
<br />
Put simply, there’s an awful lot to digest here, and in the wake of Lou
Reed’s passing, I’ve found myself returning to this record with renewed
vigor and attention to detail. This album has been in my collection for
years, and I’ve always respected it. The music is so dynamic and
ferocious and fascinating; the Warhol cover is an all-time favorite;
when my brother has played this record on vinyl, it’s made me want to be
a die-hard Velvet Underground fan. Until recently though, I don’t think
I quite had the palette to appreciate the vast number of sounds going
on here. That’s a shame, considering the fact that I’m now part of a
camp that has only really come to appreciate Lou Reed posthumously. But
judging from how many artists who have so obviously built their own art
from Reed’s template—so perfectly realized on his first time at-bat—it’s
safe to say that the man’s legacy will never fade from the rock 'n roll
tapestry. Craig Manninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03540543108753023502noreply@blogger.com0