so it's more a question of will power and self-discipline, and circumstances

96.

untrue
burial [hyperdub, 2007]

robots are comforting because they aren't human. electronic vocal manipulation by use of the vocoder can be warm (Daft Punk), detached and distant (Kraftwerk), or hilarious (Frampton), but, ultimately, it's easy to accept because it bears little resemblance to the timbre of the actual human voice. Auto-Tune may straddle the uncanny, but the vocals on Untrue wander aimlessly through the Valley. these are unmistakably human voices [that's apparently Christina Aguilera providing the album's best vocal hook on "ghost hardware"], but they are tweaked, transformed and transgressed beyond recognition. planned obsolescence has finally caught up to the first few generations of the Music Bot and the models have devolved into sputtering, malfunctioning, distorting machines looping the same few lines of trite mamby-pamby love songs ad infinitum. the effect is disorienting and unsettling, yet entirely evocative. i don't know shit about dubstep, the scene from which this record came, so, to me, Untrue is defiantly singular and insular; nothing else sounds quite like it. the DNA of each track - preternatural vocals, sighing keyboards, steam-punk hiss and ambiance, the insomniac industrial clankity-clank of the beat - provides the solid foundation while the mutations - the rubbery, zigzag bass on "etched headphones," the panning, percolating keyboard on "shell of light," and the straight-up decadent electro of "raver" - add variety. this is a dark, eerie record, but it isn't all hopeless; Burial finds some redemption and beauty in the desolate, technologically-haywire embers of late capitalism.

what's in a name? moment: damn. talk about perfect track titles. they either evoke technological disillusionment and decay ("ghost hardware," "etched headphones"), post-industrial malaise ("in mcdonalds," "homeless"), or the ethereal, transcendent quality of the music itself ("archangel," "shell of light").

floating on the silence that surrounds us

97.

getz / gilberto
stan getz and joão gilberto [verve records, 1964]

i can't claim to be an afcionado, a jazzbo, a finger snappin' obsessive bip boppin' to the local unsung clarinetist in a boozy, dimly-lit bar. i don't worship at the twin altars of 'Trane and Bird. i know i'm putting my ignorance on display, but, to these untrained, unsophisticated ears, a lot of jazz becomes repetitive and boring after the initial self-satisfaction of "yeah, i'm listening to jazz!" dissipates. but this record, all mosquito net dreams and crashing tropical waves, avoids that pratfall. the interplay between voice and instrument is the key component: João's sultry sensuous, understated Portuguese croon and the endearing broken-hearted broken English warble of his wife Astrud wrestle with Stan Getz' melancholic saxophone vamps. of course, almost all the songs, written mainly by pianist Antonio Carlos Jobim, have become "standards," especially SMASH HIT "the girl from ipanema," which contains one of the most ingeniously addictive melodies EVER. though the history of pop music is littered with unashamed cultural plundering/appropriation in a never-ending quest for the "exotic," this record sets a precedent by treating a non-Western form of music - bossa nova - as a source of inspiration rather than exploitation. plus, it's really fucking classy.

sex on the beach moment: "para machucar meu coração" is the moment at that classy hotel cocktail party in rio when you first ask that gorgeous woman you met while outside smoking an expensive cigarette to dance. we all want to be this, we all want to jet-setting, worldly, wealthy citizens with panache, wit, and elegance and not the twisted, dreary, drab proletarians we are, RIGHT?

98.

millions now living will never die
tortoise [thrill jockey, 1996]

hey! this collective of like-minded musical progressives doesn't reflect its namesake at all! a tortoise is a lumbering, lurching creature with limited brainpower and an impenetrable shell; this band is like this , demolishing paddocks and peasants with ballistic bass and death-rattling drums. "post-rock" is a stultifying, castrating term, conjuring up images of innocuous lounge or light, breezy free jazz. like the majority of once hip, once "of the moment" indie trends, the scene had become an awkwardly-executed punchline to a poorly-remembered joke. however, tortoise and their brethren should be exalted for having the audacity to ditch post-nirvana, post-grunge angst and simplicity and embrace tossed aside, out of left field genres like, yes, lounge and free jazz, but also dub, krautrock and post-punk. Millions Now Living Will Never Die delivers on the scene's promises of transcendence. the centerpiece, the highlight, the "opus," the meisterwerk is opener "djed:" twenty minutes of shifting basslines, plunking, finicky vibra/xylophones and electronic glitches. it's an assembly line conveyor belt at a futuristic factory where automated robots tinker and toy with blasts of noise and melody. "glass museum" and "the taut and the tame" coax free jazz into the pasture and then decapitate it with anachronistic instrumentation and pulsating rhythm. "a survey" is all slippery, rubbery bass harmonics while "dear grandma and grandpa" is a millennia old radio transmission beamed in from Alpha Centauri. in terms of influence, "along the banks of rivers" is exactly the type of dreary, dystopian death march music through charred, post-apocalyptic landscape on which Godspeed You Black Emperor! based a career. lambaste its pretensions all you want, it's rare to find an indie rock record this brutally daring.

turn this shit up! moment: this is an album from the mid-90s, after sound engineers figured out how to master a CD properly and before the loudness war made everything sound clipped and headache-inducing. turning up the volume makes not only makes the instruments sound more vibrant and alive, it also exposes previously unheard details in the mix. this isn't meant to be background music, PUMP UP THE VOLUME.

sidewalk social scientist don't get no satisfaction from your cigarette

99.

parallel lines
blondie [chrysalis, 1978]

i pity the poor singles act. Blondie topped the pops during nude wave with a string of chart-devouring hits that smashed together classic, classy '60s Spector girl-group pop, bathroom puke punk energy, and smatterings of flava: disco, dub, and whatever Fab 5 Freddy said was fly. if the singles were the pinnacle of the power and the punch of pure pop, the albums were passable yet predictably not perfect with the possible exception of Parallel Lines. you know the ubiquitous, slightly overused numbers already, i'm sure, hypocrite reader. before the Wetjet swiffed and Angelica pickled "one way or another," it was a ferocious, crazed-eyed stalker anthem. "sunday girl" is engrossing, elegant, slightly cheesy sleaze. and what kind of jackass would leave ms. harry "hanging on the telephone?" oh yeah, there's some dance song that may be the sleekest, most bubbly effervescent yet detached sexy cool ice princess ten out of ten perfect pop tracks EVER. but don't forget the ramshackle Buddy Holly hoedown of "i'm gonna love you too," the Eno avant-pop of "fade away and radiate" [yeah, that's Robert Fripp making all the fucked-up guitar noises] and the early Madonna prototype "i know but i don't know." the CBGB's pedigree may have given Blondie cred as members of some sort of musical revolution/upheaval, but Parallel Lines is timeless, sharp, helplessly stellar pop music.

awesome moment: the beginning of "fade away and radiate," where all the instruments clear the floor except cascading smack-drums and unsettling guitar percolations while debbie's voice echos into the dark and lonely night.

i'm a student of the drums...i'm also a teacher of the drums too a-heh a-heh a-heh

100.

endtroducing...
dj shadow [mo' wax, 1996]

wicka-wicka wah wah sssssSSSSSRAK, DJing ain't all finger poppin' joint snappin', jet settin', scene stealin', line sniffin' relentless partyheartying. it ain't depthless bravado and unhinged debauched vacuity and trust fund decadence. no, Endtroducing... is a house of nudie cards, a layer of sonic flapjacks. wild-eyed drums bulldoze porcelain strings and throw bones with scatting horns. Shadow throws a net into the deep sea of the past and dredges up memories of sounds, ghosts of aural architecture. these noises are the forgotten and the passed-over, discarded and disassociated, melting vinyl flying in place. yet Shadow blows off the dust, gives 'em a 'lil spitshine polish, places them in an entirely new context and then - wicka wicka - transcendence. this is a self-contained musical ecosystem where David Axelrod, Grandmaster Flash, and Bjork all graze peacefully on the grass, where concepts of "genre" are discarded and every noise, every note, every vibration becomes integrated into a pulsating ball of sound and rhythm. sure, it's occasionally self-consciously arty and brazenly "cinematic," but inane TV soundbites and cornball dialogue from early morning stoned Westerns lurk beneath the grandiose surface. ultimately, by being so eloquent, so high-minded, so grand, this record proves that sample-based music - or, speaking more broadly, hip-hop in general - doesn't have to derivative, sleazy, carnal, or "it's the money." ssssKKKKRIT

awesome moment: the elongated CLANG [sampled from a swedish dude named pugh rogefeldt] and enormous, thunderous drums at the beginning of "mutual slump" jolts you into attention after the blissed-out, quietly sinister radio ambiance at the end of "stem/long stem/transmission 2."

COP OUT COP OUT COP OUT

i started something i couldn't finish. TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME TYPICAL ME.

the project is too daunting, the list itself is now over a year old and my musical preferences have shifted; i've discovered new things, abandoned the old, and re-contextualized how i view and appreciate music [sort of, at least]. and ultimately, it's difficult to write honestly, passionately, and creatively about one's 756th or 427th favorite song. AND, i haven't updated since may. so, the "1000 songs" list has been put on indefinite hiatus. i may resume it at some point, probably not.

AND.

i want to write about other topics. film. culture. politics. history. science. so, the emphasis of this blog will slowly shift away from music to the shinier, shimmering pastures of variety and diversity. maybe i'll update more frequently.

BUT.

i have a new "music nerd" list!! my 100 favorite albums! i hope to finish the list by the end of the year.

what separates the pedestrian, the average, and the mundane from the fantastic, the memorable, and the superior? i consider a variety of [esoteric?] factors when evaluating an album: coherency, cohesiveness, cojones. aesthetic qualities of sound, musicianship, lyrics. distinctiveness and singularity. context in artist's career. if applicable, influence, historical relevance, and canonical position. but mostly, overall cerebral and visceral effect. if an album moves me in some way, either on the first listen or the tenth; if it causes me to feel, to think, to move, to dance, to scream the lyrics off-key in my car, to ENGAGE, if it's something that impacts or influences my life in a meaningful way, then it's elevated to a "QUALITY" album in my twisted mind. i realize this is ultimately a intrinsically subjective approach to thinking and writing about music critically, but, you know, dancing about architecture is difficult enough as it is. pure objectivity doesn't exist in evaluation. SO.

criteria:

- one album per band/artist. i know this hackneyed, but, hey, it adds variety.
- no compilations or live albums. sorry singles going steady and live at the harlem square club.

...and we're off!

it's so fucked i can't believe it: 791-795

791. "connection"

elastica

1994

elastica

think of the crunched-out, self-aware artiness of post-punk/divide it by busy, overwrought '90s production/something is missing?/nothing is missing!. enough. yeah, this unabashedly and shamelessly wrenches the riff from "three girl rhumba" and transplants it to a field of gaudy studio effects and sickeningly clean distortion. but it's a raucous and exhilarating ride; justine frischmann snidely sneers and snots more swagger than a cocky college coed on cocaine. you make the connections, sailor. can't you hear both karen o and romeo void? cheap imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but this re-contextualizes that wily wire riff and kicks it to the stratosphere. you might be post-modern if...

elastica - connection

792. "perverted undertone"

prefuse 73

2003

one word extinguisher

whatever happened to guillermo! scott! heren!? he emerged early in the decade as indie hip-hop's equivalent to timbaland, inundating break beats with echo, reverb and flange; a funkier and less self-important DJ shadow. a track like "perverted undertone" thrives on its narcoleptic repetition and gnarled simplicity with a swelling, swirling, swallowing synth riff and muted, happy-go-lucky drums. this is music for late night designated driving; you silence your boozed, boisterous buddies with a "shut the fuck up" and a maxed-out sound system while the fading neon lights glisten to the beat.

prefuse 73 - perverted undertone

793. "freak scene"

dinosaur jr.

1988

bug

most of myths about '90s slackerdom arose from this ragtag crew of recalcitrant ruckus-bringin' RAWKers. j. mascis' nonchalant guitar hero pyrotechnics slam you to ground and knife you in the back - that solo is one for the ages and the masses and the records - while the half-mumbled rhymes about fuckin' up and not growin' up suffocate underneath the distortion and feedback. this is the undoubtedly the template for "grunge:" punk 'tude vs. classic rock chops. kurt cobain may still be alive strumming beat happening covers in a dank seattle coffeeshop if not for dinosaur jr.

dinosaur jr. - freak scene

794. "in the midnight hour"

wilson pickett

1965

in the midnight hour

oooo-wheeee wil-SON pic-KETT! pulse, pulse, thrust; pulse, pulse, thrust. woozy, bluesy, boozy horns that bluster and blare while the whiskey-breathed men glare at those ever so short skirts. ride it, ride it. this is quintessential (yep, used it aGAIN) stax/volt gritty throbbin' boppin' southern soul. it may not have the spit polish of motown or the smoothed-out silkiness of, say, sam cooke, but it reels and rolls and rollicks and repeats in on itself like a gesticulating elevator. who doesn't crave that giddy moment in the night between boring sobriety and puking, crying and/or awkward sexual politics?

wilson pickett - in the midnight hour

795. "silence"

portishead

2008

third

ohmigod, stranded in public with swirling insanity and an unbecoming sense of dread. the scathing keith levene guitar lacerations and tumultuous rumble of a rhythm section push you closer to the abyss and then there she is. beth gibbons - with all the world's terror, misery, heartache and chaos wrapped up in her warble - tempts you to jump. this isn't a self-congratulatory comeback or a desperate, cheap cash-in; this is the unmitigated uncertainty of twenty first century existence filtered through a pair of musicians who presumably should have floundered in a sea of muted beats, hushed vocals and pseudo morricone samples circa 1998. this is the perfect opening to what will be remembered as one of the defining albums of the decade.

portishead - silence