By Elliott Sharp
By Hilary Hughes
By Rob Trucks
By Luke Winkie
By Seth Colter Walls
By Brett Koshkin
By Spencer Wilking
By Christina Black
At least an episode of Tim & Eric has the decency to last only 10 minutes. Chillwave had the gall to last an entire year.
In truth, Willow Smith is 10 years old, and Rick Ross was never a drug kingpin. In practice, Willow Smith is 23 years old, and Rick Ross is the most notorious cocaine dealer in America. Such was the power of sheer will in 2010. Unlike Ross, there was no controversy or surprise about Willow Smiths backstory: Shes Will Smiths kid, and precocious superstardom was coming to her like adult teeth. But much like Ross, her single Whip My Hair is rife with blatant untruths: in her case, having haters, driving cars, grinding, getting it in, and saying hurr. And yet Smith channeled the spirit of Rosss B.M.F. (Blowing Money Fast), inhabiting her character so emphatically and convincingly that it rendered her real self irrelevant and her song a megaton monster. Haters didnt get shook off, as the song says; instead, they got run over. By a 10-year-old driving a car.
The sooner hip-hop loses the intolerable burden of living up to some bullshit simulacrum of realness, the betterIm sick of reading white folks dismissing weirder-than-usual rap for not fitting their fetishistic version of what street is supposed to mean. And maybe Rick Rosss evolutionary success is a good first step: Just crank up the unattainable opulence and the struggling hustler/billion-dollar-man dichotomy to levels where it seems so transparent that its hard to care about boring shit like verisimilitude. He knows hes selling a Hollywood bill of goods, so why the hell not wink at the camera, especially when its what turned him from a joke into an A-lister? And now that hes actually playing to his strengths as a rapperthat bellow as a rib-nudging sales pitch, all outlandish comparisons and signifying brand-name dropshe has rendered all speculation over who-cares gossip and counterfeit Louis Vuitton shades into an obsolete joke. Hell, everybodys fake in the eyes of the Internet, anyways.
St. Paul, MN
The unearthed tracks on the Exile on Main Street and Darkness on the Edge of Town reissues were thrilling. But I was split on the revisionist history. I wanted to hear the original, un-fucked-with recordings. Then again, if I were going to publish half-baked riffings from 30 years ago, wouldnt I want to complete them? At least the authors were alive to call shots (unlike Michael Jackson). Still, the deconstructed multi-track of the Stones Gimme Shelter that surfaced in November on dangerousminds.net was more revelatory than anything in the Exile package. And the un-retouched history on Dylans Witmark Demos was the most profound of the lot.
New Paltz, NY
If a song as good as Plundered My Soul was indeed left for dead for 38 years, that says more about the Rolling Stones early-70s headspace than any of their landmark albums ever could. Or, alternatively, if a song this good was just now pasted together to replicate Exiles aesthetics and help pimp a reissue, that says more about what these guys may have left in the tank than any of their recent tour-souvenir studio albums ever could.
Plenty of people are calling 2010 a banner year for rap, but it was also a goodand diverseyear for queer music. From Bradford Coxs narcotized r&b to the ubiquitous vamping of Nicki Minaj to Robyns heartbreaking dance-floor drama to Ariel Pink as Menopause Man to Janelle Monáes gentle retro-futurist gender-bending, it seemed that the whole of the pop world was trending toward the middle of the Kinsey Scale.
Maybe Im too invested in the idea that tear-the-club-up rappers should belt like top-volume M.O.P. to get fully on board with Waka Flocka Flame. Dude has hooks for days, and he can write aggro without being dumb. (Fuck this industry/Bitch, Im in the streetsthats some Clio-winning phraseology right there.) But unless hes doing that thing where hes screaming out his own name like blunt-force trauma onomatopoeia, he also seems to let the beats do most of the heavy lifting, the kicks and bass providing all the force as Flocka just cockily drawls his way to the point in the hook where he can yell a bit. Its easy to go hard in the paint if youre a lumbering Shaq-size dude and youve got Lex Luger as Garnett next to you in your frontcourt. And, like modern-day Shaq, this shit gets tired after about 20 minutes.
St. Paul, MN
Isnt Taylor Swifts big auteurist move the readymade critics darling it should have been? Why are Arcade Fire and the National topping out year-end lists she doesnt even appear on? Its not just that her record is better than their recordsits better in all the rock-crit ways that are supposed to make you a Best-Of natural: musically broader and deeper than her last album, introspective about love and loss, a successful move into maturity from ingénue-ity. She even sings in a nasal whine that some people hate! So how come she isnt this years new Dylan, or at least new Conor Oberst? Tell me its not because shes blonde. Now tell me with a straight face.
A year after the Flap, Taylor Swift and Kanye West released multimillion-selling albums. The surprise was the unsurprising results. Swift bore down and wrote songs whose wit and detail suggest she either boasts a powerful imagination or is still interested enough in the world outside the VIP room. Since shes so young, complacency is the sin her imagination must guard against. From Stevie Nicks to Sinead OConnor, the history of pop music proffers too many examples of misguided talent and narcissism. Every indication suggests shes going to be one of those talents about whom The Industry is self-congratulatory, a Grammy stand-by like Stevie Wonder. So Im perfectly fine with Speak Now as her testament. Shes hungry enough to know relationships, like coal, exist as fuel for healthy furnaces, but whose fumes are toxic if inhaled.
Titus Andronicus, The Monitor: Patrick Stickles sees Axls civil-war-as-social-metaphor and raises it so high its not even funny, except it actually is funny. Massive but never plodding, smart but never clever, this is the thing you should throw right in the face of the next person who tells you the album is dying as an art form. If you find a collection of songs that makes better use of the word excrement in the lyrics, you should buy it.
If theres one 2010 artist I feel sure American critics are going to under-rank, its Shakira. Sweet, shrewd, and as brilliant as her blond highlights, she leaves me mesmerized, and I harbor no doubts that Waka Waka was the masterpiece of 2010. FIFA put the Colombian woman in the impossible spot of having to represent Africa at its World Cup coming-out parade, and she swiveled her way around that fix with an infectious hip dance and intimations of a melting-pot world to come.
Nicki Minaj and will.i.am, Check It Out: This is the second year in a row where will.i.am has topped my listI must now seriously consider the possibility that hes a genius on the order of Chuck Berry or Bill James. (Three years ago, I thought he was the Antichrist, or at least one of many Antichrists. My thinking has evolved on this matter.)
Gas stations, supermarkets, Walgreensthe more functional the environment, the more effectively Lady Antebellums Need You Now broke my heart. Foregoing massed tracked harmonies for the surefire technique of putting an average-voiced man and woman together at the mic, Need You Now evoked classic aural psychodramas like Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. (Too bad its host album isnt even as good as Mirage, though).
Against Me!s I Was a Teenage Anarchist damn near made me cry into my Kashi cereal. Singer Tom Gabelthe dude who penned the punker-than-thou anthem Baby Im an Anarchist back in 2002did a 180: He reassessed the fundamentals of punk rock, ultimately concluding its all about an individuals freedom of choice. Hive minds are retarded in the literal sense. Gabels dissent from the rigid scene is his most punk-rock achievement, and a reminder that the most terrifyingly punk-rock thing you can do is become who you are.
The five stages of a 2010 Sufjan Stevens Song:
What the fuck?
No, seriously. What. The. Fuck?
Who does this guy think he is?
Oh, wait, I get it. Kinda catchy.
Hey, can you play that again?
Chasin venture paper, like what Twitter get/Sick of arguing with white dudes on the Internetone line in You Oughta Know, and Das Racist were pretty much guaranteed to make my year-end list somewhere. And the line from hahahaha jk? that countered/augmented/expanded on that sentiment Were not racist, we love white people/Ford trucks, apple pies, bald eaglesis acerbic enough to represent their m.o. alongside it, some kind of Br_wn B_st_rds in a Cheech and Chongs Boutique Trojan horse. Christian Lander should fold up his iBook and go home.
St. Paul, MN
Taio Cruzs Dynamite is a fantastic song, and not just because I wholeheartedly support pop music with synth riffs that take their cues from early-90s rave music. After the song became a huge hit, Mike Tompkinss a cappella version of the song went viral; the Maccabeats then covered Tompkinss version (albeit with Chanukah-themed lyrics), and that went viral as well. And then, unexpectedly, something strange happened: I found myself liking the song even more, except that the song no longer meant just Taio Cruz, but rather his version plus all the other versions, assembled into some multi-headed beast that cant be broken down into its constituent parts anymore. Maybe this is how the post-Glee, postAmerican Idol world is going to work: Everyone wants to be a karaoke star, and no song is untouchable anymore. The song recorded in a professional studio and promoted internationally at a cost of millions of dollars ends up on the same pedestal as the cover version recorded in some unknown singers bedroom, or the 90-second truncated version sung by a just-discovered teenager on a TV talent show.
This year, Flying Lotuss Cosmogramma was likened to a symphony, and Miguel Atwood Fergusons Suite for Ma Dukes saw a full release. Recent years have also seen Damon Albarns opera Monkey: Journey to the West and Adam Theiss Hip-Hop Symphony. These classical forms are inspiring a lot of exciting materialmaybe 2011 will be the year of the dubstep concerto.
Lady Gaga and Beyoncé, Telephone: a song about a young girl in her 20s whos too busy to text her friend or talk on her cell phone; based on informal observations walking around the city, this immediately moves it into the realm of science fiction.
The years most dispiriting trend: redefining genres so they reflected the listeners own cramped tastes. When critics praise Janelle Monáe or How to Dress Well as great r&b, or Ariel Pink as a terrific update of late-70s studio-rock, you know they havent listened to a note of contemporary r&b, or assume that standing the proper distance from the microphone signifies the acts polish. The critical success of Monáe, How to Dress Well, and Ariel Pink actually showed the contempt with which r&b and studio-rock were still held by indie-leaning listeners, years after the Neptunes supposedly made things easier for them.
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