Reasons I Haven't Been Posty McPosts-a-lot.

1. Philadelphia Me doesn't need this like State College Me did.

2. State College me listened to the radio everyday, and Philadelphia Me can't even GET radio. Discmans with radios are too expensive, and the walkman I bought last fall (for real, I bought a walkman!) gets craptastic reception. Plus I got an Ipod for Christmas and nuff said. Without radio pumping the same 20+ songs into my ear as I walk around town, it's hard for me to gain the kind of personal relationship with New Pop Hits that makes me want to wax poetic. I've only heard the current #1 "Glamorous" ONCE, and that was when I was making a Itunes playlist called 40 Oz. Of Ludacris (a 40 song extension of the Featuring Ludacris CD-R I made last year) on my girlfriend's computer, well before it was a single.

3. Said girlfriend (of almost a year) is very distracting. And awesome.

4. My input glut and other people's output glut. I've got several dozen LPs and about a hundred CDs culled from used bins and such, sitting in alphabetical piles, waiting to be judged. Either I'll toss them, put them in my collection, or throw them on the pile of hit-or-miss I need to cull key tracks from. Said culling pile is about 40+ deep itself, waiting for when I clear out the 44 hours of music on my computer I need to put into 70+ minute playlists and burn onto disc. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it, but it's time-consuming and I'm not inspired to describe in detail why I kept these 7 tracks off of Washing Machine and not the other four. If the album's profound, usually somebody's already noted that, and if it's just a preferred guitar sound over consistent beats, somebody's usually called that one profound as well. I'd rather move on and King Solomon Crappin' You Negative.

5. While I still read Billboard.com every week and download mp3s from Forkcast and Idolator almost every night, the cost-benefit of perusing new releases regularly seems awful. The only upcoming album I know I'll be buying asap is Era Vulgaris by Queens Of The Stone Age. I still check out stuff from my housemate Sara's promo pile, and occasionally some pop product will be enticing enough to get me on limewire collecting singles'skits'n'all, but when I go to AKA to shop, I usually walk out with some used CDs I used to have on cassette, and a shoegaze album from 1990 (my version of "pure moods") that's avaiable for $10. Not Neon Bible.

6. If I knew screencaps and soundclips like Rich, I'd probably detail my adventures in DVD-land (thanks to my job I see plenty), but as of now I'm too lazy to bite his motif like I should. I'm thinking about jackin' Joshua "Jane Dark" Clover's soon, though. I'd be so lowbrow in comparison you wouldn't even notice.

7. I really shouldn't say this out loud, but I think I want to write a novel...wait for it...based on a dream I had two years ago. NOW you can laugh. Yes, sometimes I feel like I want to make the jump from critic to avid fan/mediocre artist. I've got Ira Kaplan's Disease. Maybe I'll get Leila to harmonize with me in an acoustic duo called The Gun In Betty Lou's Handbag. How is that NOT better than a blog?

8. Pop culture seems very sickly and unimpressive right now, and I don't really have a baby boomer's courage of conviction to either give it my all or wail repeatedly about how Taking Back Sunday is barely fit to lick Sponge's asshole.

Thing is, writing this has made me curious to actually review Neon Bible, if only to ponder whether people got this excited about the Waterboys. I also should praise the glory that was Tommy Lee Jones in 2006. Having voiced my neuroses, I'll probably just return to the blurbier, multi-post format I used to have, rather than this one-biweekly-treatise-at-a-time set-up I've got now. That way I can save my deeper thoughts for the novel!

Tony Sunshine Is Right

Full disclosure: I am Tony Sunshine. My readership* is small enough that I'm not worried about public outcry if I reveal that I was paid a hefty sum to let some 21st century Zelma Davis pretend he handled the vocals on this remake of the Patrick Swayze classic. It's all good, though - I didn't do it for fame. I did it for financial reward, emotional catharsis** and the artistic challenge of conveying the song's anguish in a lithe hip-hop context. While I think some of the song's character is lost (without the climactic key change underlining the swing from torment to bittersweet acceptance, the song's mood is merely pensive), I'm proud of my "baby, PLEASE" embellishments. The track still succeeds as erotic ear candy.

That said, there remains an obvious flaw: the lack of Diddy. The original "She's Like The Wind," for all its earnest majesty and commercial success (Swayze, despite his continuing status as a renaissance man, has yet to top it), is a left-field choice for a streetwise make-over. Due to historical precedence, it's the kind of initially off-putting interpolation most people associate with Diddy and his self-regarding "uh"s. Lumidee's vocal presence*** is minimal enough that there's plenty of room for the music impresario's grunted verbal encouragement. As it stands, "She's Like The Wind" lacks the grandeur necessary to bring listeners back to the time when multiplatinum was a matter of weeks rather than months and the internet**** had yet to remove all luster from the artform.

The singles on Press Play are doing better than they have any right to, but "She's Like The Wind" shows by comparison how far he's strayed from his initial mission: turning '80s cornflake into feel-good struts for the youth of America with a minimum of fuss. While he still dresses like a champion***** and does his best to make his songbirds sound good, recent singles lack the infectious obviousness that made his late '90s heyday so rewarding to proto-poptimists. It was so much more fun to laugh in the jealous faces of haters and wanna-bes when his accomplishments seemed effortless.

Here's an example of better times, when Diddy was capable of instilling fresh energy into a forgotten slice of retro-chintz with bravado to spare:

If I was still on speaking terms with Mario Winans, I'd try to get him to propose We Invented The Reggaeton! Don't act like it wouldn't rule.

---

*especially after a full month without posts, sorry.
**I've known the pain of an unreliable lover, yes.
***I was under the impression this track was being produced for Zooey Deschanel's upcoming debut album, Limelight Fantasies: A Personal Journey Through American Film, and hopeful our collaboration would increase my chances of meeting/doing her, but you never know where songs will wind up nowadays. While I have no interest in meeting/doing Lumidee, I wish her all the best with her psuedo-career and anxiously await a song where she's in key.
****and MIMS.
*****

The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept In Their Entirety...fin.

Lily Allen, Alright, Still

In hindsight, it was only a matter of time before England burped up a trip-hop Nellie McKay, not that I was optimistic enough to predict it. Fine with me, as it makes her arrival all the more fantastic and inspiring. The "fake reggae" backdrops might bother you if you're unfamiliar with the last thirty years of British music, and not everyone will enjoy hearing her repeatedly bemoan fakes and disappointing boys. But only on "Take What You Take" does she forget to keep things dishy, and "Littlest Things" shows how much she notices the good things we do too.

Eef Barzelay, Bitter Honey

As heartful and catchy as John Prine, but with none of the good cheer. He identifies with one of Ludacris' pussy-poppers on the opener, and I believe it, because he spends the rest of the album self-loathing and fucked over. After making breakfast for an ungrateful alcoholic, apologizing for asking what that actress's name was when you clearly don't give a shit, spewing bile you know he's probably waited a decade to unload and almost wishing you would die just so he could prove his emotional bond, he ends with "Joy To The World" because good intentions are all he's got going for him.

Basement Jaxx, Crazy Itch Radio

After the all-star nuclear damage on Kish Kash, the singles here originally felt relatively milquetoast (relatively) and diffuse. This turns out to be a boon album-wise, as I don't pass out from exhaustion before Jaxx has finished extending the songs with techno doodles, which are less offensive in this mellower context. The Balkan influence helps make the album relatively naturalistic (relatively) and warm, as do the anonymous (Robyn excepted) but skilled and endearingly human (Robyn included) vocalists. The atypically manic "Run 4 Cover" is Kelly Osbourne's 2008 Lady Sov-rip "Grimin' (feat. Crazy Frog)" - which I predicted on last year's list - two years early.

Be Your Own Pet, Be Your Own Pet

Two-minute fuzzbomb yell-alongs topped with sexed-up in-jokes from a chirpy, frenetic moll for the first two thirds, before they drop a ballad and stretch the rest out to three-plus. Fever To Tell did on 11 tracks what takes Be Your Own Pet 15, which isn't an improvement (and, despite its charms, "October, First Account" isn't "Maps"). Jemina Pearl's hyper, humorous persona is more approachable than Karen O's, though, and less likely to be ditched after the first buzz clip.

Clipse, Hell Hath No Fury

By the end of '06, the last thing I wanted to hear was more trap rap (why does anyone find the minutia of the cocaine trade fascinating in and of itself?), especially if the rapblog-Pfork posse had already voiced their undoubtedly schooled opinions about the verity of the terminology and emotively hailed this vicarious, exploitive braggadocio (this album is about love, Peter Macia? You don't say.). The best review I read was Ethan Padgett's contrarian dis "Mobb Deep with more backpackerish lyrics," as Hell Hath No Fury is proof that Mobb Deep's cruel if infectious bullshit would have benefited from more shows of nerdish intellect. I might compare the album's compact, razor-sharp feel (it's so nastily seductive that I'm almost disappointed no one's panned it on principle) to high grade cocaine if I knew what the fuck I was talking about, and even then I'd be ashamed of myself.

CSS, Cansei De Ser Sexy

My "album of the year" for Jackin' Pop is the best pottymouth prefab faux-naive art-school pop-cult hipsterism I've heard since LeTigre, only even funnier and less reliant on concept - Paris Hilton and Death From Above aren't what "Meeting Paris Hilton" and "Let's Make Love And Listen To Death From Above" are about, let alone the true selling points (music really is their hot hot sex). With their witty broken English and accomplished amateurism, the rewards are so giddy and plentiful that you feel like a pedant for trying to figure out whether it should tickle like it does and why. And just when you've got a hold on the formula, they turn into the Mekons (a sign they know their faux-naive art-school roots).

Eagles Of Death Metal, Death By Sexy

You know how to get away with a song consisting entirely of woman-as-dog metaphors? Hide the track nine deep into an album devoted to spandex-tight rawk bubblegum and mutual objectifcation ("We're the magic boys and we'll make you smile/ real hot meals, won't you stay awhile, baby/we'll come dancing and we'll make you sweat/we're really rolling/we're solid gold/sweat!"). "I Like To Move In The Night" ("you know we move/yes, we move/yes, we like our dancing!") beats all Stones since "Start It Up" if not "Rocks Off" just by sounding like a good time. The Eagles' devotion to falsetto fuck-boogie trash doesn't demean retro-rock, it reaffirms its vitality.

Electric Six, Switzerland

They make cheaper videos now and bracket Switzerland with slower, slighter numbers, so I understand if people assume they've fallen off, even though "I Buy The Drugs" through "Rubber Rocket" is as strong a stretch as they've ever recorded. They're still a crunk Roxy Music (compare "Mr. Woman" above to "Editions Of You"), just more lyrical three albums in, which fits if you've heard Stranded. Their bonkers, apocalyptic vision - which they sum up this time as "There's Something Very Wrong With Us So Let's Go Out Tonight" - is one most people can only handle for the length of a novelty single, but they've got me like Barney Gumble screaming "OAHH, JUST HOOK IT TO MY VEINS!" They deliver, too, touring so much that I've caught them three times since moving to Philly in Aug '05, not including the Dick Valentine solo gig in NY where he played Def Lep's "Hysteria" and Camper Van Beethoven. I missed them this December (sold out!) but they'll be back in March. Album four should be out fall '07. Favorite band alive.

Ghostface Killah, Fishscale

Fishscale is so blatantly "more Ghostface" (god forbid he ever stops yelling) that I assumed the critical hype was based on desperation (familiar, cryptic pleasures...but it's all about crack so I don't sound out of touch! Eureka!). While I'm still not sure whether it's my second or third or fourth favorite Ghostface LP, I also can't figure out which near-psychedelic narrative fragment on it I'd toss. His sense of detail is peculiar but evocative, and never devolves into Kool Keith nonsensicality. I wish he was better at beginning-middle-end, and I worry that inspiration will wane if he accepts cult status. Judging from the remix of "Irreplaceable," this isn't an issue quite yet.

Lady Sovereign, Public Warning

Feminem without any Emonem. SOLD.



(Previous post: The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept In Their Entirety, Second Half)

Here's the second half of The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept In Their Entirety. Next week: the first.

Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins, Rabbit Fur Coat

Her ornate affectations and truisms are sufferable only when compared to her indie-folk peers, who either can't sing or can't write. But though I worry about its obtuseness compared to Rilo Kiley's More Adventurous, Rabbit Fur Coat still sounds direct, and similarly beautiful. At first the cover of Traveling Wilburys' "Handle With Care" seems like a trainwreck trifle, but it actually offers a tempo boost, cops to the relatively contemporary influence of VH1 and makes a joke of a New Dylan.

Love Is All, Nine Times The Same Song

It's fine to reduce post-punk to hipster dance as long as you're a great dance band, and these guys hop from rave-up to power ballad like Liliput rocking the prom circuit. I read in the issue of Venus my housemate keeps by the toilet that the tracks were remixed by a dude from Comet Gain, which helps explain the air-tight clatter and why the singer has a shirt over her mouth. But the lyrics, when I bother to focus on them, make me curious how they'll sound when they break free of his kung fu grip.

MSTRKRFT, The Looks

I checked this out after discovering I prefered DFA 1979's remix album to the original, a rare compliment to remixers and a rare insult to a band. A true technoid would know better than me if the sound is inherently post-the-other-DFA, but The Looks offers a less theoretical take on the crass pleasures Daft Punk always got backpats for. So smart stupid I want to bring up the Ramones, but less hung up on novelty than most '90s big beat I've heard. Hopefully it won't age like "The Rockafeller Skank."

Ne-Yo, In My Own Words

His songwriting is so assured that it's almost charming when he goes for amateurish vocal fireworks (including a prolonged, sub-Idol WOAAAAAAAAAAAH) on "It Just Ain't Right," which also happens to be one of the few songs where he's looking to get out of a relationship (and then, only to return to an earlier one). He's no pimp, just "a man with a very healthy appetite for chicks" who smiled in grateful disbelief when you said you'd be with him, telling his fuckbuddies he won't "get down like that" anymore. You're his sexy love, even when you're mad (especially when you're mad), and while he knows you're not ready for his "directorial debut," would you be bothered by a mirror in the bedroom? If you leave, this sex fiend with a heart of gold will sit alone by the radio, thinking about how he failed you.

Phoenix, It's Never Been Like That

Is This It? fans who liked to reference Television and the Feelies have a new band to adore, and, judging by First Impressions Of Earth, it's right in the nick of time. Band perky not ugly, singer lyrical rather than lethargic, this may be the only time in rock history where the French variant is preferable to the American brand. You'd never guess they still don't have a full-time drummer.

The Presets, The Presets

"Girl And The Sea"'s hazy synth-psychedelia didn't prepare me for the brash electro-clash and slight instrumentals that surround it on Beams. But the brash seems less rote with every listen, and the instrumentals are cute, minor joys. Then there's the processed vocal gibberish of "I Go Hard, I Go Home," a twisted melange of all three poles. Some, especially if they're tired of looking at party photos no one made them click on, might want more there there. I'll take my techno trash transparent.

Scissor Sisters, Ta-Dah

Aside from the disco Floyd, I thought their first album was shtick in search of songs. On Ta-Dah, they're a song band with a shtick I can get behind. They apply the same distilled, nothin'-but-hits aesthetic to soft-rock disco that the Darkness did to harder forms of pomp on One Way Ticket..., or Love Is All with femme post-punk on Nine Times The Same Song. That I'm no fan of Elton John means I'm even more grateful than usual for such a wry, big-hearted effort. If the hate for "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'" is on point, I need to pick up some Leo Sayer.

The Thermals, The Body, The Blood, The Machine

Having mastered power trio pop-punk, they speed-read the bible, noting what's fucked and what isn't, why that is and why they give a shit. Spending more time than usual on the words, Hutch Harris abstracts them enough to avoid harangue but not so much that you miss the gist. I'm glad they've chosen thematic ambition over the musical kind, which would have defeated the point of mastering power trio pop-punk in the first place.

Tiga, Sexor

You've got to love a Jellybean Benitez that can double as Madonna. His DJ career implies a great love for mindless pop songs that intimate profundity, but there was no guarantee this immersion would enable him to write and perform his own. Irreverent covers blend in with his own confident prattle so well that Public Enemy, Nine Inch Nails and Talking Heads fans could be forgiven for missing them. Beatwise, he's got peers, but I'd be surprised if they could handle the mic with similar success.

Thom Yorke, The Eraser

After his agonized, song-sinking wails on Hail To The Thief, I would have assumed this for a Scott Walker-esque chore. But instead of reaffirming his intolerability, The Eraser's spare beats and samples make Radiohead sound like too many cooks in the kitchen. Ringing emotion out of key phrases and gorgeously mumbling the rest, Thom resembles no one so much as mid-period Michael Stipe, increasingly comfortable in the spotlight but still blessed with entrancing, elliptical logic. It's an "Idioteque" fan's fever dream, and I hope he never records with a real band again (at least not his).

(Previous post: The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept Eight Or More Songs From! (A-L))

Close, but no cigar! A-L of the The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept Eight Or More Songs From!

Jon Auer, Songs From The Year Of Our Demise

His voice and songsense are pretty in a way that can be expected from a Big Star sideman who sang Grant Hart's "Green Eyes" a few years ago and wrote a song called "Grant Hart" a few years before that. What's surprising is that, ten years after the Posies were thrown from DGC and forced to breastfeed off their indie cult, his debut solo full-length would be so memorable and grand. Like Grant Hart, his morbid lyrics are usually less convincing than his melodies, but he's putting more work into his craft than I expect from semi-pop lifers who only need preach to the converted.

Blowoff, Blowoff

Blowoff consists of two well-toned and shorn gay dudes who throw shirtless parties in DC and make the kind of techno-rock you'd find on late 90's soundtracks (that "Setting Sun", Crystal Method Vs. Filter shit). I'm not familiar with the work of DJ Robert Morel, but I know the discography of the other guy, Bob Mould, pretty well, and it's official that he's at his best when he has to share credit with other people. This would have had to come out right after Sugar's Besides to sound remotely hip, but Mould's more engaged over these dance beats than on recent solo efforts (the author of "The Biggest Lie" now sighs about trying to get to "Overload"! Yow!) and Morel's shoutinglagerlagerlagerlager holds up to David Barbe if not Grant Hart. (I can't find any Blowoff youtube, so check out their Myspace page and enjoy some Husker Du)

Ciara, Ciara: The Evolution

Meta interludes sound stupid from just about anyone, and Ciara's no exception. But there's way too much fun on this album for me to sweat it much. Her voice is tender but assertive, her restraint less about being demure than simply knowing her limits. Her persona on the less literal tracks is one of a nice, romantic girl with enough common sense not to put up with crap from boys. From this context, her retro moves just seem like a taste for reliable pleasures (hey, I too love "Planet Rock" and "It Takes Two"). As long as her silly pretensions stay mostly on skippable skits, we're cool.

Kimya Dawson, Remember That I Love You

I hope that motherhood gives her something new to write about, because constant touring is leading to fewer novel rhymes and more livejournal-style status reports. But she's still capable of great twee ("Joey never met a bike that he didn't want to ride/ and I never met a Toby that I didn't like/ Scotty liked all of the books that I recommended/ and even if he didn't I wouldn't be offended") and "My Mom" and "12/26" are proof she hasn't lost her gift for heartbreaking empathy. Comparing the MP3 demo of "Loose Lips" to the version here reveals how much better she sounds without her buds hollering along. But when she busts out a batshit road-radio medley (Bette Midler into Metallica into Third Eye Blind into Edwin McCain) I can see why she wants her sing-alongs to include other singers.

E-40, My Ghetto Report Card

Judging from his overly g-funked best-of and the faceless if enjoyable Hyphy Hits comp, E-40 and this Bay Area brand of disco clap have a mutually beneficial union. The veteran swagger that seperates him from other crime-fetishizing egomaniac misogynists (is there anyone else today that sounds like they may have been influenced by KRS-One?) is most easily appreciated when the music supplies enough firecrackers for all asses in earshot (Keak Da Sneak also works better as a firecracker than as a track's focus). The album eventually trails off into uncharming ho dismissal, but thanks to Rick Rock and Lil Jon, the first half or so boogies past any qualms.

East River Pipe, What Are You On?

First, you think that East River Pipe songs, especially bitter jokes like "What Does T.S. Eliot Know About You?" or the resigned ballads like "Druglife," are begging for covers from folks who can get them more attention than the bedroom recordings of a shy guy who works at Home Depot usually receive. But then you wonder if any singer could resist the urge to add pathos or smirk to his slices of despondent life. You also realize that the vocals and music are pretty damn coherent for bedroom recordings. Finally, you just wish more people would hear his music.

Field Mob, Light Poles And Pine Trees

In which amiable if corny also-rans offer spins on other people's sounds and stand behind Ciara and Ludacris in the videos. "At The Park," which literalizes the food metaphors and jacks the vibe of Trick Daddy's "Sugar," is the highlight. "I Hate You," with the guy from Lazyeye(?) barking the chorus from "Caught Out There," is the dorky low. But the celebrity collabs seem more evenhanded on disc than on MTV, "1,2,3" is as good a screwed southern brag as I heard this year, and the sex rhymes are as cute as they are vulgar.

Ghostface Killah, More Fish

Also more Theodore Unit, which sucks (though I love to hear Eamon try out for Three Times One Minus One on Shawn Wigs' "Gotta Hold On"). The cover's unpromising enough that I planned to ignore this like I do most mixtapes. But rather than freestyles with commercial interruption, these are tangents and ephemera that didn't fit Fishscale's overriding narrative (waiting for GQ to declare this album "the black Amnesiac"). I love the fantasies about Minnesota, Hollywood and the World Poker Championship, "Josephine" deserves a video, and some of those group tracks would have been fine on Fishscale. I do wish the Beyonce remix was here along with the excellent Ne-Yo and Amy Winehouse.

Grandaddy, Just Like The Fambly Cat

Jason Lytle goes on a bit for somebody who says he's tired of going on and on, but I believe his new year's resolution of "50% less words" and that this is the last album he'll ever do. These noised-up fuzz-odes to old girlfriends, summers gone and outdated technology are some of his strongest - he wants to leave you something to remember him by. I did enough talk about moving on myself this year that I'm more than sympathetic, though in general I think you're better off going somewhere rather than leaving. If he changes his mind about retirement, I hope he takes longer than Jay-Z did and does a better job explaining why he came back.

Lyfe Jennings, The Phoenix
Rich's review on FourFour (last time I'm kissing his ass for a while, promise) got me to check out the album, so you should read it too. Lyfe is hands-down my favorite lyricist of the year: unbelievably eccentric, but so visionary and convincing that I never feel like laughing. If it wasn't for the excruciating intros before EVERY song, The Phoenix would probably make my top ten.

(Previous entry: The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept Eight Or More Songs From! (M-Z))

It's time to celebrate the finest overlong CDs of last year! Here's M-Z of The Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept Eight Or More Songs From!

Nellie McKay, Pretty Little Head
Self-producing your second CD a year after the first? Your second DOUBLE CD, at that? Even before the label woes, this was a guaranteed sophomore slump. The best tracks are slighter takes on Get Away From Me's giggly but politically acute cabaret, and they're surrounded by startlingly vague emotional meditations and brief blurts of whimsy whose appeal depends on your fondness for cats, Tipperary and the French language. The arrangements are so sloppy that I'm surprised she wasn't credited with the mix. But her vocal charm and cracked wit push "The Big One," "Beecharmer" and "Real Life" past their bulk, and give her lyrical fog some necessary intrigue. Her mother issues are more interesting than Eminem's, and I'm almost always down for minute-long ode to cats. Like guest Cyndi Lauper, it's possible that McKay will wind up a one-album wonder, especially if she gives up singer-songwriterdom for the stage success she's already begun to achieve. But she's so gifted that I could imagine her making an album as rich and thought-out as her first, producer or no, whenever she decides to bother.

Mission Of Burma, The Obliterati
The falsettos, sea chanteys and hooky declarations are appreciated, but these guys are so dependent on the power of their wrangled feedback and martial plod that I have to play this one loud or not at all. Even if they're beyond (or incapable of) their '80s blitz tempos, the band has regained its cohesive force, making their initial reunion, 2004's OnOffOn, sound tentative in comparison. Only folks who think everything after "Revolver" was a waste of their time will complain about the songwriting, but I'll take the cheap musical joke of "Donna Sumeria" over the cheap lyrical joke of "Nancy Reagan's Head," because music's what they're good at.

Pharrell, In My Head
Just when I get used to this nerd's omnipresence, everybody else decides he's not ready for prime time. Well, no shit! I've been saying the Neptunes are like a hip-hop Ween (inherently an improvement, I'll admit) for years, rarely capable of seperating their craft from knuckleknob eccentricity. But with a year's-plus worth of tinkering, and Chad Hugo not there to whip out the spock ears and bongos, Skateboard P finally made a musical backdrop controlled enough to keep his goofy loverman lyrics afloat. Pharrell once admitted in Blender that, as a teenager, he'd do the robot while getting to his next class. This is as close as that kid's ever gonna get to being James Bond, and I'm nerd enough to enjoy it.

Pitbull, El Mariel
The political interludes are courtesy of slam-poet ringers - Pitbull would rather ruminate on how "the gift and the curse" of fame makes him feel like Keanu Reeves in The Devil's Advocate (his simile, I swear!). While some of his county-of-Dade callouts have energy, it's his enthusiasm for pussy that makes his albums rewarding. Panting, gasping, howling, slobbering - dude is HUNGRY. Reggaeton, crunk, Neptunes, the hook from "Rock Lobster," he'll use whatever gets you excited. "Pretty please, girl, GET IN MY FACE WITH IT!!!" It may be a tragic sign of the times when cunnilingus is as close as a popular rapper gets to feminist thought, but even if Young Jeezy was Alan Alda, I'd love Pitbull.

Placebo, Meds
"Because I Want You," "Infra-Red," "Meds" and "Pierrot The Clown" will wind up on the sequel to Once More With Feeling, a 2005 compilation that reveals how consistently Placebo has delivered their nervous buzz of a sound for the last decade. But fans will still need this album to hear "Follow The Cops Back Home," which would make the comp if "Pierrot" wasn't already the token resigned ballad, the anxious "Post-Blue," the anxious "A Song To Say Goodbye" and the anxious "Drag," which would be the best song they've written about jealousy if they hadn't already written a dozen or so classics on the subject. These eyelinered alt-rockers are such an anachronistic miracle (has anyone ever made a post-comp contract-capper this strong before?) that even Xgau gave them props.

Gwen Stefani, The Sweet Escape
Ever heard the version of "Wind It Up" without the "Lonely Goatherd" sample? So boring! If you're going to make an A+ Missy rip, you need to incorporate something grand and perverse, something truly "bizz-yerk" (as I mishear Gwen in the first verse). It's her first solo single that I wholeheartedly love, thankfully distracting me from the conundrum that is Fergie. She doesn't promote geisha slavery in the disco tetris, and the creamy new wave ballads don't stall in search of a word that rhymes with "Rossdale." Madonna sounded a lot more pretentious and mannered a decade after her first album, and Debbie Harry was already a has-been.

T.I., The King
I tune out on 2004's Urban Legend when T.I. asks God why nobody else cares about the streets except for him (check Billboard for the names of fellow missionaries, asshole), and I tune out on The King when Pimp C reprimands rappers who don't appreciate that T.I. calls himself King Of The South because he believes that we're all kings except for "fake-ass niggas" and so forth. "Prayin' For Help" was track 5, though, and "Pimp C (skit)" shows up at the tail end of track 11, so it'd be churlish of me not to acknowledge the improvement. The best selling rap album of the year should do better than double platinum, and the failure of The King to do even that is a sign that rap's classic-rock-style retrenchment (it's all payin'-dues and love'em-and-leave'em) is wearing on listeners. But the best macho boogie still holds up, and T.I.'s got more charisma than Paul Rodgers ever did. Maybe next time he'll compare to Ronnie Van Zant.

Robin Thicke, The Evolution Of Robin Thicke
He has a confident falsetto on the memorably descriptive ballads, and his voice is equally authorative on the rap collabs (Lil Wayne sounds overeager, downright lil, in comparison). The guitar and percussion hooks are classic and varied, rather than throwbacks to futurism past. His musical gifts are so attractive that I still want to hear them after discovering he looks like his not-particularly-sexy dad in the videos. I'm embarassed to put this mature r&b accomplishment so close to Timberlake's amateurish eclecticism, but that's alphabetical order for you.

Justin Timberlake, Futuresex/LovesoundsI've seen more than one person compare this album to Bowie, and if it fits, it's because he's r&b for new wavers and vica versa, all too gawky when compared to those who play it straight (see above). I still want Usher to pistolwhip the dork with a new album pronto, but Justin's copping more quirk here than on Justified, and it's a step in the right direction. Coldplay codas, vocal filters, guest rappers and all things Timbaland (who does seem inspired by JT's undeniable enthusiasm) help make something of the whinnying, herkyjerk manchild. The last third's ballads have me praying he'll hear about the DFA before he meets Robin Thicke.

The Vines, Vision Valley


(Previous entry: Anthony Is Right's Honorable Mentions Of 2006 Inna Xgau Stylee)

Hoo-de-hoo! It's 2006: The Year In Review!
(screencap swiped from Rich - like I usually acknowledge these things)

I originally planned to call this post The Robert Christgau Memorial Honorable Mentions, but the rumors of his consumer guide's death turned out to be premature (and I'm glad, believe you me!). Nonetheless, there's no reason he should be the only guy who gets to utilize the pithy one-liner to acknowledge the kind of relatively benign musical ephemera that made neither my Twenty Albums From 2006 I'm Keeping In Their Entirety nor my list of the Twenty Albums From 2006 I Kept Eight Or More Songs From (both coming later this month!).

I had a small selection of Duds to go with these Honorable Mentions (albums I kept five to seven tracks from) and Choice Cuts (albums which only offered one track I can recommend wholeheartedly), but, honestly, I'd prefer to focus on the stuff that's worth checking out rather than point out the recordings that completely failed me. Besides, I already wasted a whole post on Boys And Girls In America, and it's not like I gave Kingdom Come, Stadium Arcadium or Dreamt For Light Years In The Belly Of A Fountain much of my time, anyhow.

There are many albums I never got around to hearing (I was afraid of Joanna Newsom's Ys. BEFORE I knew Van Dyke Parks AND Jim O'Rourke were on it), even when a stray single rewarded my ear ("Stars Are Blind" and "Ain't No Other Man," for instance), so don't assume their exclusion from these spiels is a dis (or, rather, an informed dis).


Anthony Is Right's Honorable Mentions Of 2006 Inna Xgau Stylee (in order of preference)

Junior Boys, So This Is Goodbye
Why are people complaining about the lack of beats? I still hear them, the guy from Johnny Hates Jazz is just higher in the mix ("In The Morning," "So This Is Goodbye")

The Rapture, Pieces Of The People That We Love
Good thing they love dance hooks, cuz they suck at everything else ("First Gear," "The Sound")

The Evens, Get Evens
Determined to prove Ian and Amy stands up to Ian, Guy, Joe and Brendan - a goal they’d have already achieved with a bassist (“Cut From The Cloth,” “Everybody Knows”)

TV On The Radio, Return To Cookie Mountain
Improving on their Peter Gabriel-esque 4AD doo-wop (you heard me) with major label money and a real live drummer ("Province," "Wolf Like Me")

The Knife, Silent Shout
Some hear “haunted house,” I hear quirky new wave that’s one “Tainted Love” away from breaking the Billboard top ten (“We Share Our Mother’s Health,” “One Hit”)

Mudhoney, Under A Billion Suns
Juicing their reliable sardonic sludge with political frustration and horns (“Hard-On For War,” “Where Is The Future?”)

John Mayer, Continuum
The self-aware blues of a privileged pussy magnet – not for everyone (“I Don’t Trust Myself With Loving You,” “Belief”)

Stereolab, Fab Four Suture
More life in these bah-bah-bah’s than you’d expect from Marxist aesthetes in a decade-long holding pattern who finally got dropped from their label (“Interlock,” “I Was A Sunny Rainphase”)

Nelly Furtado, Loose
Better dance-pop than any other awkward, nasal Canadian chanteuse offers, and worse ballads (“Maneater,” “Promiscuous (feat. Timbaland)”)

Mountain Goats, Get Lonely
Smarter, more specific than Sea Change, still that sort of slog (“Half Dead,” “Woke Up New”)

The Killers, Sam’s Town
What’s the point of an E Street homage if it’s not absurd and catchy? (“When You Were Young,” “For Reasons Unknown”)

Regina Spektor, Begin To Hope
Seems older, more Lilith Fair, than other oddball cabaret types - probably because she’s less hip-hop and less indie (“Fidelity,” “On The Radio”)

New York Dolls, One Day It Will Please Us To Remember Even This
The number one album of 2006, if David Johansen's Sweet Revenge made your top 20 of 1984 ("Plenty Of Music," "Maimed Happiness")

Bob Dylan, Modern Times
Viagra may keep you frisky, but it won’t fight a grandpa’s tendency to ramble (“When The Deal Goes Down,” “Workingman’s Blues #2”)

Mogwai, Mr. Beast
Relatively varied indie soundtrack marginalia (“Acid Food," "Travel Is Dangerous”)

Camera Obscura, Let’s Get Out Of This Country
Threw her worthless ex out of the band and better for it - not that she’s over him or even close to finishing her thesis (“Lloyd, I’m Ready To Be Heartbroken,” “Dory Previn”)

The Gossip, Standing In The Way Of Control
Took ‘em three albums to hire a goddamn bass player, but it’s a sign they may go pro yet (“Yr Mangled Heart,” “Listen Up!”)

Band Of Horses, Everything All The Time
Not as proggy or sloppy a high-pitched swoon as the Flaming Lips', not as memorable either (“Our Swords,” “Weed Party”)

Heartless Bastards, All This Time
Low meets Concrete Blonde – almost Scrawl, but not quite (“Brazen,” “No Pointing Arrows”)

Metal Hearts, Socialize
Cat Power-influenced harmonizers need their laptop percussionist and vica versa (“Disappeared,” “Mountain Song”)

Lindsey Buckingham, Under The Skin
Still producing albums more engaging than those by the indie singer-somnambulists who idolize him (“It Was You,” “Cast Away Dreams”)

Taking Back Sunday, Louder Now
00’s emo-sogynists respond to major label upgrade with songs catchy enough to be mistaken for ‘90s alt-rock (“MakeDamnSure,” “Twenty-Twenty Surgery”)

Rainer Maria, Catastrophe Keeps Us Together
90’s emo esoterics finally let the girl sing everything and sweetly sell out about six years too late (“Burn,” “Clear And True”)

+44, When Your Heart Stops Beating
With DeLonge taking the long way to Uranus in Angels & Airwaves, it’s up to Hoppus and Barker to continue Blink-182’s segue into musically engaging mall-emo (“When Your Heart Stops Beating,” “Cliff Diving”)

Belle & Sebastian, The Life Pursuit
No “Lola,” but more fun than most of The Money-go-round (“Another Sunny Day,” “The Blues Are Still Blue”)

American Princes, Less And Less
One of the few bands on Yep Roc that looks and sounds like they’re in their twenties - hell, thirties - but aesthetically they fit right in (“The Simple Life,” “Annie”)

Yo La Tengo, I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass
Their fifth straight double LP in just over a decade - not counting the multidisc comps, EPs and instrumentals - and over half the songs are twice as long as they need be, even when they clock in at three minutes (“Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind,” "Black Flowers")

Destroyer, Destroyer’s Rubies
Referencing classics, sounding like Robyn Hitchcock hopped up on goofballs (“Rubies,” “Watercolours Into The Ocean”)

Lansing-Dreiden, The Dividing Island
Wallowing in the gaudy sonics of New Pop’s dying days for reasons I can't begin to fathom (“A Line You Can Cross,” “Part Of The Promise”)

Drive-By Truckers, A Blessing And A Curse
Drummer revved, songwriters tired (“Feb 14,” “Space City”)

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones
Going from Stooges-Pretenders to Bettie Serveert is in no way an improvement, let alone pop (“Cheated Hearts,” “Dudley”)

The M’s, Future Women
Little Steven’s Garage types hiding their macho behind whimsical production (“Plan Of The Man,” “Never Do This Again”)

She Wants Revenge, She Wants Revenge
Ian Curtis as ridiculous goth pussyhound (“Sister,” “Tear You Apart”)

Twilight Singers, Powder Burns
Haggard, sexed-up melodrama’s all Greg Dulli ever had to offer, really (“I’m Ready,” “Forty Dollars”)

Rose Melberg, Cast Away The Clouds
Married with child, somehow still writing sadface crush twee (“Take Some Time,” “Four Walls”)

Roots, Game Theory
If the MC was as great as he thinks he is, critics wouldn’t go to the drummer for pull quotes (“Game Theory,” “Here I Come”)

Diddy, Press Play
Burying his futuresex/lovesounds under numbnut Kanye (“Special Feeling,” “Last Night”)

Choice Cuts:
Deftones, “Cherry Waves” (Saturday Night Wrist)
Gnarls Barkley, “Crazy” (St. Elsewhere)
Janet Jackson, “Take Care” (20 Y.O.)
LL Cool J, “Control Myself (feat. Jennifer Lopez)” (Todd Smith)
Ludacris, “Woozy (feat. R. Kelly)” (Release Therapy)
Method Man, “Fall Out” (4:21…The Day After)
My Chemical Romance, “Dead!” (Welcome To The Black Parade)
Omarion, “Just That Sexy” (21)
Pearl Jam, “World Wide Suicide” (Pearl Jam)
Sonic Youth, “Reena” (Rather Ripped)
Bubba Sparxxx, “As The Rim Spins” (The Charm)
Strokes, “You Only Live Once” (First Impressions Of Earth)
Trick Daddy, “Born A Thug” (Back By Thug Demand)
Neil Young, “Let’s Impeach The President” (Living With War)

The Bow Wow Of Their Day

Prepare for maximum blurbage in January, as I try to deal with the 70+ albums I was relatively grateful to hear this year. Not sure I'm going to get to wrap my head around every album that I'd like to (what is up with this December rap deluge? Is Jay-Z pulling a Greg Ginn and trying to keep his acts from upstaging him? Are they expecting to seduce kids with lots of Christmas money? I REALLY WANTED TO GIVE BOW WOW'S THE PRICE OF FAME A CHANCE!!! HONESTLY, KINDA!!), but there will be lots about lots.

Hi! Are you a record critic? Did you receive a Pazz'n'Jop ballot this week? Rob Harvilla wrote "This will be the first poll in its 33- (or 34-) year history not to be compiled and organized by Robert Christgau, who created it, embodied it, and deserves all credit for its success.I have the highest respect for Bob, who has always been kind and gracious to me. I think what he started here is fantastic and vital, and worth preserving and continuing" in the e-mail. Do you think he's right, and that it's worth forgetting why it is that Robert Christgau doesn't get to run it for the 33rd (or 34th) time? I do too. Let's not worry about who fired who for no goddamn good reason after 30 years! Let's vote!

VOTE FOR HINDER!

VILLAGE VOICE PAZZ'N'JOP ALBUM OF THE YEAR?!?! WITH YOUR HELP, YES!!!

Hinder rocks. Hinder understands the pain of trying to be faithful when your ex has the lips of an angel. Hinder is like Nickelback without the distracting facial hair. If 100+ critics gave Hinder's Extreme Behavior (a top ten platinum smash!) 30 points each, the album would almost be guaranteed the top spot on this year's pazz'n'jop poll! What an exciting possibility! You don't even have to vote for anyone else, though if you feel it's necessary, you could give 9 albums less awesome than Hinder's your remaining 70 points. But if the rules are as they used to be, you don't have to. Plus there's always the Jackin' Pop poll for the ten albums you really liked this year that weren't by Hinder. Vote Billboard Top 5 ballad "Lips Of An Angel" as single of the year as well! What do you have to lose? I know you're worried that being a big fan of Hinder is uncool, but this year's Pazz'n'Jop isn't about cool. It's about Hinder.


Hinder.

Nothing would make me happier than to see Extreme Behavior sitting atop the first nu-Village Voice Pazz'n'Jop poll. I bet you'd get a kick out of it too, so why don't you help make this dream into a reality? Tell every rockcrit you know about the awesomeness of Hinder, and the many reasons they should give Extreme Behavior 30 points on their ballot. You don't want to be the only person in your circle of rockcrit friends who didn't acknowledge how much Hinder belongs at number one. If we can get 100+ people to agree, Hinder will be the album that Michael Lacey and the other proud members of Village Voice Media have to hail as the best album of the year. Unless they disqualify the ballots, which would be really fucking funny.

Please be awesome! Vote for Hinder!

indierepublican.typepad.com/musicisnotdead/images/holdsteady.jpg

The critics have spoken!

"It's hard to believe that anyone could honestly deny the ass-kickingness of Boys and Girls in America, the band's strongest offering to date. From start to finish, the album is filled with monster melodies in the form of dramatic monologues and screeching instrumentals. Don't believe me? Try opener 'Stuck Between Stations' which pauses two-thirds of the way through for some Ben Folds-esque piano tomfoolery before launching into some of the most searing lead-guitar licks pretty much ever!" - Tiny Mix Tapes

"On several tracks, the swirls of organ they've added to their hyper-literate stomping suggest Deep Purple with a library card!" - Entertainment Weekly

"Any album that starts off with a quote from On the Road is gonna score some points with me!" - Delusions Of Adequacy

"Finn's critics could say—justifiably—that he's in a songwriting rut, but it's hard to complain when he comes up with lines like She was a damn good dancer / But she wasn't all that great of a girlfriend or I got really high and then I came to in the chill-out tent / They gave me oranges and cigarettes!" - The Onion

"Once again Finn has proven himself highly quotable and perhaps one of today's strongest lyricists -- there's a reason why critics like him so much!" - Prefix

"'First Night' finds ex-Blackgirls and current Dear Enemy singer Dana Kletter dueting with Finn in a theatrically appealing manner reminiscent of Meat Loaf and Ellen Foley, closing with the potent observation that 'when they kiss they spit white noise'!" - Shaking Through

"'Gonna walk around and drink some more,' he says, making it sound like the smartest thing ever said, so he decides to repeat it!" - Neumu

"says something worth hearing!" - Pitchfork

"talking more than singing!" - Blender

"Finn sings more than speaks!" - Pitchfork

"Finn has a nasal, assured bleat!" - Stylus

"His insanely verbose yarn-spinning still links 1973 Bruce Springsteen to 1982 Mark E. Smith; and his Minneapolis-via-Brooklyn band sounds beefier and more melodramatic than ever!" - Blender

"The gentler surroundings encourage Finn to calm down and sing with a lilt of compassion!" - Paste

"Lyrics can sometimes be summed up by lines that approximate the effect of a chorus, even if they're presented more like a thesis statement: 'I've had kisses that make Judas seem sincere,' 'When they kiss they spit white noise,' the aforementioned 'Gonna walk around and drink some more'...Unlike many of those who've translated big, arena-ready guitars into arena-sized audiences, Finn doesn't resort to confidently sung platitudes like 'It's a beautiful day!', 'Look at the stars/ See how they shine for you,' or 'I'm not OK!'" - Pitchfork

"Whenever I feel helpless about the U.S.A., frozen in my tracks like a first day intern thrown into a frantic emergency room, I turn to the one band who seem truly able to crack open up the chest cavity of this country in critical condition, examining its heart (and its liver), and stamp a big, bold 'ROCK ON!' across its unclean bill of health. And I think to myself: Hell yeah. The Hold Steady, you see, distill everything down its essence. What is important are the people right in front of them. What matters are the Boys and Girls in America. They are our target audience; they drive the economy; as our oldest children, they are our immediate future. Morbidly self-involved, they are also our cultural barometer!" - PopMatters

"Nothing stands in the way or looks down upon this simplicity; it is what it is and that's a truth reflective of Boys and Girls and the Hold Steady on the whole. This is nothing more than what It is. This is simply rock. But, It has the strength of that simplicity. It can stand up to anything. You bash against It, searching for weakness. You turn around, and turn It on again. This is as good as American Rock gets, and that's a damn good thing!" - Neumu.net

"The Hold Steady's brand of rock is far too literate and specific for the masses anyway! Boys and Girls in America is party music for the indie nerds, over-educated and obsessives!" - Prefix


"a combo that sounds like nothing so much as latter period Soul Asylum fronted by Charles Nelson Reilly!" - Can't Stop The Bleeding

Part of the reason I haven't been writing much on here the last few months is that I've being doing some freelance song doctor work with a variety of stars from yesterday, today and tomorrow, including Billy Idol (who qualifies as a star of both yesterday and tomorrow in my estimation, if not today). Billy decided to fill his upcoming Christmas album with seasonal chestnuts rather than the holiday-themed interpretations of his classics we spent the better part of September working on (thanks again to the good people at Sanctuary Records for releasing the album so soon after its admittedly spontaneous creation - Billy's a spur of the moment guy), but I figured I could share one of our more inspired collaborations with you all.

Jingle Bell (Jesus and Santa, I Praise Thee In Song)
written by Billy Idol, Anthony Miccio and Steve Stevens

Last night a little santa came dancin' to my door
Last night I found some presents were dumped on the floor
He said, "Come on, Rudolph! I get one night for love"
And if it expires, pray help from above

Because in the midnight hour, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
With a jingle bell, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
In the midnight hour, baby, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"

He don't like the naughty, he will give them coal
But when there's milk and cookies, he'll eat his belly full
Who set you free and brought you to me, Santa?
Who set you free? Christianity!

Because in the midnight hour, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
With a jingle bell, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
In the midnight hour, baby, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"

He lives in his frozen heaven
And works from seven to seven
Well, he's out all night in the Christmas air
To show that, to show that Jesus cares

Jesus gave his life for you, babe
Turned water to wine, for you
He'll dry your tears of pain
every time for you
I give my soul to you, Lord
Money to burn just for you
Jesus gives you all and will have none, babe
Lets-a-lets-a-lets-a-lets-a have some Christmas cheer!

Because in the midnight hour, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
With a jingle bell, he cried "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
In the midnight hour, baby, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"

I may post "Ice Without Capades" on here closer to the actual holiday.
Acknowledging Christmas before Thanksgiving always strikes me as a bit tacky, no matter what J. Crew says, but I felt this was worth making an exception. Though I'll miss the potential royalties (who won't be bringing this album home for their favorite MILF this holiday season?), I don't begrudge the absence of my work on the final product. It may take three hours for Albini to finish placing the mics, but he only needs one take to capture some true Idolatry. Observe:



It was unusually warm in Chicago that night, but Billy gave us chills.

I remain fascinated by the ambitious and goofy.

For the first time in months, I actually wrote some music reviews: John Mayer and Diddy for the Baltimore City Paper's crazy-underrated music section. It's currently the only rag I'll allow my magic to grace*.

*still accepting offers, though.

Brandon Flowers making fun of Craig Finn, whether or not he knows it.

One reason I haven't been writing much is that I'm planning a year-end wrap-up that covers almost all of the albums that I've found worthy of acknowledgement. Another reason is the depressing lack of pop singles that I enjoy, or, more honestly, the lack of pop presences that I admire. The most egregiously failing genre is rock, and I say this as someone who can wax poetic about Good Charlotte and Puddle of Mudd. Emo currently lacks hooks or emotional pull, though I hope that will change with the increasing financial reward: Taking Back Sunday's "MakeDamnSure" and AFI's "Miss Murder" have the acts' first Weezer-worthy choruses, even if the songs are about wanting to see hotties suffer. Nu-metal's on its last hemorrhoid, and early-00s hipster crossovers seem to have mistaken a label-shat gold record for the pinnacle of stardom, getting insular before they've even learned to look directly into a camera. I haven't seen the soap operas Coldplayers are promoting, indie-stoner-"respectable" metal just makes me want to give my Blue Oyster Cult albums another go, and Good Charlotte's next album won't be coming out till 2007. If not for retro-goofballs like Eagles Of Death Metal and rule-proving indie exception the Thermals (whose albums seem like transmissions from a planet where the Clash is still remembered as a worthwhile influence), I'd only care about keyb freaks, singer-songwriters and the occasional sex jam. And the Killers.

It's too early to tell whether their attempt at rock grandeur will resonate, but if America decides Duran Duran shouldn't have teamed up with Meat Loaf to cover Rattle & Hum, I won't hold it against us; I haven't even decided myself whether Sam's Town's pleasures outweigh its bullshit. But my fondness for silly sweethearts helps make "When You Were Young" the only Big Rock Single of 2006 that I've got unabashed love for*.

One of the benefits of the Killers' 80s fixation is that when they decide to make a Springsteen move, they think Born In The U.S.A. rather than Born To Run, reining the soaring ambition with a steady pulse and some tight verse-chorus-verse. The song's gradual emotional build is blessedly free of the metal-riff lurchabout that plagues most modern rock - it's pro-dance and unafraid of simple euphoria. Lyrics like "we're burnin' down the highway skyline on the back of hurricane" are inarguably insipid (the back of a hurricane?), and "every once in a little while" is a grammatical war crime. I'm almost surprised Brandon Flowers didn't throw the word "literally" in front of one of his metaphors, as he transcends the sophomorical and dives headlong into the asinine. But what makes this idiocy preferable to the original '70s rock showtunery is the influence of U2. The post-punk (read: post-disco) rhythm decreases the sagginess of the bombast, while Brandon Flowers' melding of Bono and the Boss creates one of the hootable hollers in rock history. That Flowers can bellow such obvious camp with a straight face is almost miraculous, but then so is the existence of a sober Mormon Duranee in Las Vegas.

Free of the weight of cultural hosannas, his earnest wail is easy to love. For under the bells and warbles of "When You Were Young" is a song of joy for young Rosalita, who's finally found the saint in the city whose Chevy '59 is going to take her hungry heart down Thunder Road. Acknowledging romantic compromise without shedding a bit of emotional hysteria, it attempts to wed sensitivity and fireworks in a time where most groups are strictly either/or. If you accept that rock died in the mid-sixties (which I sometimes do), then that means some sinister monstrosity of pap has been pretending to the mantle for the last forty years, for longer than most of us have been alive. Right now, nobody's getting more out of that post-apocalyptic oatmeal than these guys.

--

*Evanescence's "Call Me When You're Sober" could compete if the vocal was mixed to a clarity worthy of its title.

"Yeah, I'm from the illest part of the Western Hemisphere
So if you into sight seein', don't visit there
It's somewhere between Jersey and Delaware"

Game Theory has some fine beats, but even if I didn't live in south Philadelphia (in a neighborhood that's not unlike the original Wicker Man redone by the cast of Copland), I don't think I could get over that couplet. Black Thought is quite possibly the lamest bragger in rap, the embodiment of this town's Napoleon syndrome. "The Dalai Lama Of The Microphone"? What, powerless, boring and loved by college students? Until the Roots drop a concept album about cheating (the only topic that seems to remotely inspire BT) or replace this albatross (seriously, a rap group whose drummer is more famous than their vocalist? A rap group whose drummer is more quotable than their vocalist?), everybody's going to interview Ringo and remember nothing but the guest vocal hook.

One less rag worth reading.

Unless you really need that hundred bucks to feed your children and/or smack habit, with no other way to acquire it than to write a blurb about Musical Act X for one of the most offensively nihilistic companies in journalism, I don't know why the fuck you'd bother writing freelance for Lacey and the Nu-Voice Media (staffers have my pity). It can't be for the glamour, respect or financial reward.

10. Limp Bizkit feat. Eminem - "Turn Me Loose" (unreleased '90s track)


9. Fred Durst, Wes Scantlin and Jimmy Page - "Thank You" (live)


8. Limp Bizkit - "You Know You're Right" (live)


7. Fred Durst, Wes Borland and Johnny Rzeznik - "Wish You Were Here" (live)


6. Limp Bizkit - "1999" (live)


5. Christina Aguilera feat. Fred Durst - "Come On Over/Livin' It Up" (live)


4. Paris Hilton feat. Fred Durst - "It's A Tit Nipply Out" (live)


3. Fred Durst - "Demo Tape"


2. Fred Durst - "Eruption" (live)


1. Fred Durst - "I Melt With You"

What really gets me about the video for "Deja Vu" is that it's an all too rare example of the kind of bad that's only capable of being achieved by the great. Sophie Muller's my favorite video director of all time. As much as I enjoy Michel Gondry and Spike Jonze shenanigans, Muller's finest videos draw attention to the artist rather than the director, making appealing advertisements for the act rather than short films for their own eventual Director's Label DVD. From Annie Lennox to Gwen Stefani, from "Love Is Stronger Than Pride" to "Black Horse & The Cherry Tree," countless artists can credit Muller for their most memorable, endearing visual portraits. But here, she gives us a crystal vista of Beyonce at her most absurd and clueless. A weak video wouldn't be enough to inspire horrified fans to start an online petition demanding a re-shoot. Muller, Beyonce and the president of Island Def Jam have collaborated to make a video that's resolutely wrong-headed.

The first half-minute of the video is prologue, with Jay-Z sitting comfortably, flapping his wrist and lazily hollering as Beyonce's sweaty parts gradually merge into a whole. He announces she's about to speak, and Beyonce licks her fingers, jabs them at the camera and hisses to signify her heat. Seated in a variety of outfits and flapping her arms, her eyes aggresively fixate on something off-screen. As the verse continues, she begins to kick her feet while holding her quivering hands up to her face and jerking her head to and fro. These frenetic, artless gestures are commonplace post-Flashdance, but her wide-eyed expressions are psychotic rather than seductive in nature. She seems happier during the chorus, as she runs through high grass until she's alerted a foreign presence. This is revealed to be another Beyonce, now in a slinky red dress, holding her head and looking concerned, as if she can't tell if the noise is coming from inside her skull or not. Shots of Beyonce shaking the hem of a longer dress at the camera are intercut with these images of extreme paranoia.

Then things get really awkward. Beyonce is indoors again, with her hair pulled back, wearing a blue dress appropriate for an extra in a Baz Luhrmann pic. Breathing heavily and appearing exasperated, she finds Sean Carter, her alleged boyfriend, leaning against a wall, talking about himself to someone off-screen. She flutters her legs in front of a window before approaching him and popping some J-Lo aerobics against his crotch. After giving her ass a solitary pat, he continues talking to the person to his left, ignoring her bumping and grinding, turning his head away even as she bites his ear and yanks at his belt. It's as if they decided to visually display the same "he's great/Yes, I'm great" lyrical disconnect evident in the song "Crazy In Love," as well as evoke the titular romantic insanity.

Following this disconcerting metaphor for their sex life, we see her outside again in a bikini top and frilly mini-skirt, kicking dirt, offering some apropos-of-nothing West African dance and coming off like Shakira under attack by moths. The final chorus brings us Beyonce in a tight black ensemble, painfully underlining that if there was an actual choreographer used on this shoot, they should be drawn and quartered. She riffs on "Walk Like An Egyptian" and karate chops X's in the air before grabbing her left ankle, waiting a beat, throwing her hands in the air, and shrugging carefreely. This is intercut with flailings from previous locales, as if to reaffirm the improvisatory nature of her movements. Muller's close-ups and sense of staging benefit the graceful, but give us no distraction from Beyonce's conniptions or apparent lunacy (this is a woman who named her new album Bidet - sorry, B'Day).

In a very real sense, videos like this are so much more endearing than the unimaginative, mere competence that keeps me from ever considering writing a video column. Just as the clip for "Mr. Brightside," with its extreme close-ups and campy, emotional drive, saved Brandon Flowers and the boys from Kills/Thrills/Stills anonymity, the one for "Deja Vu" turns a passable retread of a song into a blatant career bellyflop, giving Beyonce something to overcome and keeping her fresh in the minds of her audience. It's the kind of heartwarming catastrophe that reminds me how philistine and misguided the concept of rating creative endeavors is - praising the mediocre over the extreme, despite the latter being more truly worth your attention.

--

I've got a lot to say about the Killers' "When You Were Young," probably my favorite Big Rock Single of the year by depressing default, but I want to wait until the video comes out. It's being directed by Anthony Mandler, the man behind "Bucky Done Gun," "When I'm Gone" and "Hustler's Ambition." Jury's still out on this guy.

I can't be bothered to make a half-year top 50 singles list and my 20 albums are constantly in flux, so allow me to piggyback onto Matos' half-year mix meme.

If I Wanted To See Clerks II, I'd Look In A Mirror:
Jan-June 2006 CD-R

Mudhoney "Where Is The Future?" (5:38)
Eagles Of Death Metal "Shasta Beast" (2:28)
LL Cool J feat. Jennifer Lopez "Control Myself" (3:54)
E-40 feat. Keak Da Sneak "Tell Me When To Go" (4:03)
Tiga "Far From Home" (2:42)
Grandaddy "Elevate Myself" (3:41)
Ne-Yo "When You're Mad" (3:43)
H.I.M. "Wings Of A Butterfly" (3:30)
The Spores "(Don't) Kill Yourself" (3:36)
Blue October "Hate Me" (4:00)
Phoenix "Long Distance Call" (3:04)
Pussycat Dolls "Buttons" (3:45)
Be Your Own Pet "Wildcat!" (1:24)
Field Mob "At The Park" (3:40)
Tre 380 "Hokey Pokey" (4:36)
Juvenile feat. Lil Jon "Why Not" (2:45)
Gnarls Barkley "Crazy" (3:01)
Camera Obscura "Dory Previn" (4:16)
Eef Barzelay "N.M.A." (3:28)
Rainer Maria "Clear And True" (2:42)
Ghostface Killah "Underwater" (2:03)
K.T. Tunstall "Black Horse & The Cherry Tree" (2:51)
Black Eyed Peas "Pump It" (3:36)

They showed us a filmreel in 4th grade where skyscrapers blasted into space once Earth became inhospitable. Mudhoney and their horn section must have seen that one too, cuz they miss '60s futurism bad. Eagles Of Death Metal settle for earthly pleasures (falsetto, hitting on girls who still live with their parents, gregarious facial hair), which explains why their retro-clomp's a little more sprightly. LL's retro-clap revisits his "Goin' Back To Cali" vocal pacing with a self-parodying relish I won't begrudge (I've heard the rest of the album), and its highly possible the closing chant of "zun-zun-zun-zun-zun"s is a reference to a song I don't know (kudos if its a genuine original improv, though). E-40, whose KRS delivery - good way to convey authority without dropping energy - is refreshing, shares Bay Area street lingo for the first two thirds of his album, before repeatedly declaring that he doesn't love the many women who blow him. "Tell Me When To Go" is from the first third.

Tiga makes wry synth-pop covers of hipster memories (Public Enemy, Talking Heads), but "Far From Home" is an original collaboration with Soulwax that just sounds like one. Grandaddy's Jason Lyle makes wry synth-pop about how tired he is of making wry synth-pop, which may make Just Like The Fambly Cat his best album as long as its his last. Ne-Yo wrote a valentine about his addiction to angry sex, but satanic metal sexors H.I.M. won't settle for less than butterfly mutilation and your soul, while The Spores just want you to (not) kill yourself in their (not) fucked-up rewrite of "Since U Been Gone."

It wouldn't be a year in pop music if we didn't have a self-loathing power ballad, and Blue October opens "Hate Me" with an answering machine message from the singer's late mother, followed by an outpouring of gratitude and regret over the unconditional love he received while battling addiction, realizing the sacrifices she made for him; a three-hanky classic. The problem with the Strokes is they're not French enough, so God invented Phoenix. I haven't heard that new Beyonce single, but "Buttons" is "Naughty Girl" warmed over or heated up, depending on your perspective. Be Your Own Pet is like Love Is All in the sense that they've got enough energy and hook to make me dig their noisy tumbles when I'm in the mood to put up with inherently inchoate indie, but BYOP songs are shorter. Field Mob rewrite "Sugar (Gimme Some)" to further praise Georgia peaches, but their verse about food ("Got a plate of macaroni pork and beans and ribs/Two pieces of light bread/Kool-aid to sip") isn't metaphorical (I pray). The level of wit in Tre 380's rewrite of "Hokey Pokey" is well below metaphors, unless you count "lookin' for dat Monica Lewinsky."

Juvenile is one of a dozen plus competent rappers who are going gold (sometimes platinum) by describing their ability to stay the course, make money while staying true to the streets, and continue hustling (imagine Too Short as Ian MacKaye). I could have put T.I. on, but I thought King was disqualified by going multiplatinum (turns out it hasn't). Two-thirds of a classic soul song is three quarters more than we're used to, so thanks, Cee-Lo (fuck Dangermouse and his tepid, overrated, slapdash, two-decent-hooks-per-album career, though). Camera Obscura aint Belle & Sebastian's sidekicks no more - only the woman sings now and the band's beefed up the lush, giving her warm-blooded, literary ballads the backdrop they deserve. I have to find out if Eef Barzelay's band Clem Snide is worth a shit; his songs on Bitter Honey, less whimsical than John Prine's ("N.M.A." stands for "Nothing Means Anything") but not due to increased intelligence so much as generational temperment, hold up fine in skeletal solo arrangements.

Rainer Maria, who actually broke up without anyone noticing, came back with their hookiest album to date (guess what? only the woman sings now!), but nobody gave a shit because their old fanbase has graduated and didn't stay bright, burning, clear and true. Ghostface made another great Ghostface album this year, but my favorite track is the one where he turns into Prince Be. I liked the Sophie Muller video for "Black Horse & The Cherry Tree," but it wasn't until I saw KT's loop-happy one-woman band shtick on Leno that it got its hooks in (probably helped that she was following Ann Coulter). "Pump It" was in Best Buy ads in 2005, but the video didn't come out till December and I didn't revel in its inclusive glee (they're so good at that!) until February. "Pump It" is currently my Favorite Single Of 2006, which would seem to imply that nothing I've heard that actually dropped in the first six months of 2006 sounds better than the Black Eyed Peas doing the wop over "Misirlou."

You'd scroll through fields of Pin to read my solipsistic take on alternative rock. Thank you.

The countdown is over! Mazel tov! In closing, I'd like to address some false assumptions people may have made based upon the top ten over at modernrock4eva.

Myth: Jesus fucking christ, Anthony sure loves white rap!

Fact: There is only one white rapper in the top ten. While Evanesence sidekick Paul McCoy does sound like a constipated Nelly, he's no more rapping on "Bring Me To Life" than Nelly is on "Over & Over" (both are easily the oddest adult contemporary hits of the decade, by the way). Mike Shinoda, Rakim to Mr. Hahn's Eric B. in Linkin Park, is half-Japanese, while Sonny Sandoval, P.O.D.'s rapper/singer/yeller, is of Guamanian, Italian, Hawaiian, and Mexican descent (thank you, Wikipedia). Despite the connotations of his band's name, Doug Robb of Hoobastank does not rap and is half-Japanese. Robert Smith, Billie Joe Armstrong, the guy from Better From Ezra, Kurt Cobain and Bono also do not rap. The only white rapper in the top ten is Shifty. Send him a congratulatory message!

Myth: Anthony likes that Hoobastank piece of shit more than "Black" by Pearl Jam! More than that beautiful ballad by Candlebox or "Interstate Love Song!" WTF?!

Fact: While the above statement is true, you couldn't deduce that from the countdown, as none of the songs mentioned were #1 hits on the Billboard Modern Rock chart. Here are 25 non-#1 charting hits that would have definitely crashed the top 10, possibly topping "High," depending on what I had for dinner and how long it had been since I'd last had sex.

Frank Black, "Headache"
Blur, "Song 2"
Breeders, "Cannonball"
Counting Crows, "Mr. Jones"
Cure, "Love Song"
Elastica, "Stutter"
Erasure, "A Little Respect"
Gin Blossoms, "Hey Jealousy"
Harvey Danger, "Flagpole Sitta"
Limp Bizkit, "Nookie"
Morrissey, "Last Of The Famous International Playboys"
Nine Inch Nails, "Closer"
Pavement, "Cut Your Hair"
Pearl Jam, "Jeremy"
Liz Phair, "Supernova"
Queens Of The Stone Age, "Go With The Flow"
Rage Against The Machine, "Bulls On Parade"
Rancid, "Time Bomb"
Smashing Pumpkins, "Tonight, Tonight"
Sonic Youth, "Kool Thing"
Sugar, "Your Favorite Thing"
Teenage Fanclub, "The Concept"
They Might Be Giants, "Birdhouse In Your Soul"
Vines, "Get Free"
Weezer, "Buddy Holly"

You might be wondering if any of 2006's #1s to date would have rated highly on the chart if they were eligible. Pearl Jam's incoherent but spirited "World Wide Suicide" would have fit in between "My Sister" and "Policy Of Truth" at #107.5, with Weezer's melodic but insipid "Perfect Situation" almost ten spots lower and the inescapable oatmeal that is "Dani California" resting down in the 170s, so the answer is no.

What Modern Rock hits would you say are more awesome than all the alt-ditties America pushed to #1? Which singles have I and this country robbed?

Random notes

1. I'd like "Promiscuous" a lot more if Furtado's verse vocal didn't make me think about how much I'd rather be listening to LL's "Doin' It." Despite their obvious craft, there's something about both her singles that leaves me a little cold.

2. The ad where the Fruits Of The Loom pretend they're Coldplay is kind of the most wonderful thing I've seen on TV all year.

3. I don't miss writing freelance.

4. I do miss the relationship I had with pop singles when I'd listen to the radio a lot - I liked the sense of common experience I don't get from the net and videos are a really tainted way of experiencing songs. I like not having my ears strapped to a discman every time I step outside even more, though.

5. I still have a Top Ten Singles Of 2006 (So Far):

Black Eyed Peas "Pump It"
E-40 "Tell Me When To Go"
Busta Rhymes "Touch It"
Pussycat Dolls "Buttons"
Kelly Clarkson "Walk Away"
Gnarls Barkley "Crazy"
LL Cool J feat. Jennifer Lopez "Control Myself"
Ne-Yo "When You're Mad"
Shakira feat. Wyclef Jean "Hips Don't Lie"
Eagles Of Death Metal "I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News)"