By Gili Malinsky
By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
The Hold Steady
photo: Marina Chaves
I can hardly wait for their next tour, album, interview, album artwork, and posterheck, I might just buy a Decemberists lunchbox at this rate, to my eternal mortification.
Brooklyn, New York
This year's prime example of a Band I Really Tried to Like But Couldn't Quite: the Decemberists. Sort of watery, twee, vaguely melodic indie folk-rock, and if that's your cup of tea, mazel tov. But for me they're basically 10,000 Maniacs without a woman up front doing the hippie mud dance.
Hackensack, New Jersey
Sometimes bands, like professional sports, are a team effort. Thurston Moore can be a genius all he wants, but Sonic Youth albums win or lose because of the contributions of his teammates: wife Kim Gordon and lifer Lee Ranaldo. Rather Ripped is like the last of the Joe Torreled Yankee championship clubs: not their all-time best, but still a world-beater, the work of confident warriors who have crushed most of the land around them.
Los Angeles, California
Yo La Tengo, I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass: Welcome back, Ira, Georgia, and James. All is forgiven. Thanks for not just the album title of the year, but leading off with "Pass the Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind," which isn't just the psychedelic noise-guitar jam of the year, but quite possibly the first time that the Velvet Underground has loved you back.
Nelly Furtado's "Maneater" is strangely stern for popdroning, stamping, and insistent, it's not about sex so much as about a flashily fascist description of sex. Its vote-splitting sister "Promiscuous" makes it seem harsh at first, and indeed the latter song is more interested in humanityit unveils something sad beneath its duo's self-selling undulation and gives the listener room to breathe, even dignifying him or her with the occasional glance. But as disturbing as we good Democrats may find it, it's fascism that astounds here, and humanity that merely soothes: The synths of "Promiscuous" reach for the stars, but the drums of "Maneater" treat them as earth.
For all the anger leveled at Nas over his album title, the record itself proves that hip-hop ain't dead. For that matter, so do Ghostface Killah, Clipse, the Chappelle soundtrack, Lorna Doom, the Coup, and Lil' Wayne. As for Jay-Z, he's proven himself much more interesting as a cultural figure than as a recording artist (which is more than you can say for Diddy in either case).
I never thought I'd be listing the Who and the New York Dolls in my 2006 Pazz & Jop ballot (1973, maybe). Upon being assigned to review shows by both bands for the newspaper I write for, I had asked myself the question over and over: "Yes, but is it really the (fill in each band's name here)?". I asked the question even more forcefully after hearing the Dolls' One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This and the Who's Endless Wire, trying to remain skeptical and clearheaded about the obvious, mercenary motives of these beloved but gutted bands, reduced to flimsy fractions of their former selves. But the "Baba O'Riley" synth samples, Daltrey's old lion's roar, Townshend's familiar power chords, and (via the Dolls) Johansen's nicotine-stained caterwaul and street-smart swagger pushed me to an uneasy, but ultimately (gotta admit) comforting conclusion: close enough. Oh, one other thing: Live, they both kicked My Chemical Romance's arse.
Country Teasers, The Empire Strikes Back: It's easy enough to call Michael Richards an asshole while our tax dollars are funding a Shiite stag party, and in a Don't Ask Don't Tell year for racism, this album could easily have been #1. Offensive and deep in a way we haven't seen since the Frogs' debut, and with less of an interest in meta-musical subtext. I mean, most critics haven't even heard this thing, or it would have been talked about. I probably should have pitched you on it.
It goes without saying that Gwen Stefani's "Wind It Up" is unarguably the hottest hip-hop tribute to The Sound of Music, like, ever. And Gwen is certainly at least one of the best ska-vixen-turned-stoopid-white-girl-MC/yodelers in the world. But what this song really needs to push it over the edge is a cadre of Austrian children to be Gwenny-Gwen-Gwen's "imaginary" backup dancers this go-around. Just call them the "Hollabrunn Girls." I predict drapery-inspired fashion on L.A.M.B.'s spring line.
I wear Nikesin fact, they've got that iPod thingy in the sole that can keep track of my mileage. I run the roads while I listen to LCD Soundsystem, and I feel like a tool.
St. Louis, Missouri
I think that I just woke up one day and hip-hop had developed the curious, powerful ability to remind me of my old age. Hopefully, a similar morning will greet Fergie soon.
Fort Worth, Texas
Listening to the Beatles in a blender (a/k/a Love), you come to see how George Martin sees the Beatleseverything George does has a tamboura running through it, and he conclusively proves here that "Octopus's Garden" and "Yellow Submarine" are the same song. But he gets major points by toughening up John's fruitiest song and overproducing Paul's "Get Back" as an affront to Phil Spector. Only once you hear that song with the orchestral buildup from "A Day in the Life" and Ringo's drum solo from "The End" do you know what overproducing really means.