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
In arguably the most barren year for mainstream hip-hop albums yet, Young Jeezy redeemed the genre with a bruising, exuberant, and unapologetic LP that fully captured this moment of economic decrepitude and political rebirth. Lil Wayne and T.I. may have topped the Atlanta rapper in sales, but their efforts were as disposable as used salt-and-vinegar Utz bags in comparison.
New York, NY
It took economists until Thanksgiving to declare a recession. Jeezy called it in September. They should've asked him about collateralized debt obligations.
If Young Jeezy's next album isn't called The Recovery, I'm moving to Canada.
I can vividly imagine Kanye West moping around the house for two days, eating a mammoth plate of crackers and peanut butter, spilling crumbs in and around his bed, listening to This Mortal Coil's "Song to the Siren" over and over and over. Eventually, he stops sniffling, lets out his inner goth, and writes "Pinocchio Story" in five minutes while sitting in front of the TV watching Edward Scissorhands.
Young blog/hipster/Internet/lazy sub-genre rappers of '08:
Number of those artists who released a proper album: 0
Number of albums Z-Ro released: 2
Number of albums Plies released: 2
Ocrilim's Annwn should probably get closer to 90 points, if that was allowed. A big, dumb, obnoxious, out-there, tries-too-hard, and still successful masterpiece like Berlin Alexanderplatz or Infinite Jest or something. Every year, certain very-good artists will make certain very-good critics' lists, but this is a genuine, incomparable standout. The opposite of the mannered metal of the "doom" sub-genre, Annwn takes the awesome, orgasmic part of metal—the face-melting solo—and stretches it out forever.
Forest Hill, MD
Nachtmystium, Assassins: Black Meddle Vol. 1: Melody and groove were once as taboo in black metal as smiling, group hugs, and subscriptions to Cat Fancy, but this Chicago battering ram harnesses both into moments of dirt-beneath-the-fingernails grandeur, harsh atmosphere and Pink Floyd–indebted sonic landscaping that add new hues to the genre's once monochromatic palate. The Euros have had black metal in a headlock since its inception, but these dudes begin to pry Scandinavia's clammy hands from around its throat.
Because of Krallice, I was not late to work once this year.
Park Slope, NY
Proof that parental listening habits do have a significant effect on youngsters: Compare 2008 releases from Disney darlings Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. Burnin' Up suggests the Jonases brought these boys up on a diet of reasonably tasteful, occasionally thoughtful new-wave and pop. Meanwhile, Miley's Breakout is a handy compendium of four decades of musical fashion mistakes, topped off by the eight billionth cover of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," which has now reached the exalted status of a classic so classic that no one ever need hear any version of it again. Insert your own gratuitous Billy Ray/mullet-to-soul-patch joke here.
Twenty-two years ago in P&J '86, it was Paul Simon vs. the pigfuckers. In October, this year's prime pigfucker (Damian Abraham of Fucked Up) and this year's Paul Simon (Ezra Koenig of Vampire Weekend) shared the "stage" in the Rogan Store, one block away from the remains of CBGB. And Koenig was an invitee of Fucked Up. Say what you will about the state of the music industry today, but the equality between majors and indies today is something Bob Mould could never have dreamed of in 1986.
New York, NY
"All Summer Long" is proof that: 1) Kid Rock is dumb enough to think "mashups" are still cool; 2) Kid Rock is a genius; 3) Popular music is officially tapped as far as new ideas are concerned; 4) Being drunk in the summer on a lake in Northern Michigan is awesome, and no one—not smart-ass rock critics, smarmy radio programmers, or douchebag label guys—can tell you otherwise; or 5) All of the above.
I really hope 2009 brings more Goddamn rock 'n' roll that makes me want to get butt-naked and headbang with a box of donuts in one hand and a hot chick in the other. Because 2008 was hella weak on the Goddamn-naked-headbanging-donut-hot-chick rock front. And that's just depressing.
Jamey Johnson's "That Lonesome Song" wasn't just the darkest mainstream country record of the year; it was also the smartest. I love the way "Stars in Alabama" nods to the '30s standard "Stars Fell on Alabama" when Johnson sings about his mom (who could probably hum you the latter), and I respect his turn at music criticism on "Between Jennings and Jones," an exercise in self-mythologizing that, for once, is fairly true. And I was especially moved by the first verse of "In Color," when his grandpa tells him about a b+w photo from the Great Depression and how Johnson "shoulda seen it in color." Looks like he just might, along with the rest of us.