LISTMANIA 2011-NO REGRETS: MOMENTS

In terms of all-around huzzahs, last year's "Moments" post remains the most popular piece I've ever cyber-scrawled on this here blog-o-rama. This could very well be because, unlike most of my writing, it actually featured the readers. As I said back then (where do I get off citing myself like this?), "If I write six paragraphs thanking a man I've never met for a movie he doesn't even know I've seen (ohai, Woodmeister), the least I can do is throw some metaphorical roses to those who've impacted my life in a more immediate way." But I think there was more to it than that. A giant list of Awesome Films That Are Awesome or The Best Obscure Albums That I Drudged Up On Spotify isn't necessarily everyone's cup of cultural tea. Not everyone values frittering away two hours staring at a flickering screen; not everyone feels that a Fleet Foxes vs. Decemberists debate is an issue pressing enough to draw them away from picking up the kids, or even from picking up new Pinterests. However, I'm pretty damn sure we all value people who need people. All end-of-year lists are a spelunking trip into the recesses of the past, and I'm fairly sure we all gain something from reflecting on our own patterns of interaction over the course of what will soon be last year; where they failed, where they really worked, and so on. But I'm getting preachy, and this is no sermon. I'll leave you, dear reader, with one more addendum. As you traverse my year-that-was, recall that this is not a best-of list, but a most-important list; some of these moments were happy, others unbearably sad, but, in my singular little corner of time and space, all of them mattered.


10. My One and Only-Just so you know, this marks the fourth time I've blogged about Adele's 21. There are so many 2011 memories that are as inextricably linked to this magnum opus of pulsating soul-pop as they are to the place they occurred; there was the time "Rolling in the Deep" came on in the dressing room after the closing of a show and helped me shake off my already-overwhelming wistfulness, the time when one of my dear friends mastered "One and Only" on the piano and then knocked it out of the park at our choir concert, the time when "Don't You Remember" lent me a cathartic helping hand on a gloomy August drive to a then-tentative future. But, perhaps most importantly, there was the moment that I saw "Someone Like You" had reached number one on Itunes, and realized that I wasn't crazy, for so many others finally knew what I'd been proclaiming feverishly from the start: this is one of the greatest albums of our generation.

9. O Magnum Mysterium-One day, I'll pay my respects to Christopher Hitchens and write a backpack-breaking treatise on what, religiously speaking, I believe to be true. For now, a simple summary will do: I've come to think that to believe in God is to engage in a mysterious, highly beneficial conversation with the infinite, a conversation that ought to be intimate and highly individual. As such, I've long abhorred group worship; it's a wonder I made it through all our high school gym-masses without coming down with some sort of mental disorder. My college's Vespers service proved the perfect anti-dote to my skepticism. A short, simple gathering in which a few hundred people stand together and sing hymns, Vespers concludes with a Trinity tradition; the lights are dimmed, small candles are distributed, and the room is slowly illuminated as the congregation sings "Silent Night". It was beautiful enough on the surface, but what really struck me was something else; something tucked away in the sweep of the melody and the swerving symmetry of the flames, something more than the sum total of shifting particles. I still refuse to believe that one can truly come to an understanding of the infinite in situations such as this, but maybe, just maybe, if lucky, one can brush up against its awe and mystery.

8. Salman, Saleem, Surprise!-When for whatever reason I choose to stop reading a book, I get rather ceremonial about it; I toss it dramatically into my "unread box", where books I don't like go to wither and die. Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children was a victim of this policy, a novel so wordy, so dense, and so deeply rooted in Indian culture that it just made Mr. American Lit feel downright dumb. After a semester in college, I decided to take another crack at it. Deciphering the tale of Saleem Sinai's life was as easy as pie this time around, and not just because Rushdie himself flew down to San Antonio to lecture on the book. In the time since my first try, I had also learned how to read more critically, more comparatively, and more patiently. Plus, I mastered the most important principle of college: if you don't know something, there are 525, 600 reference books that do.

7. Prompocalypse-It's like some experiment a nutjob sociology prof would cook up; assemble a prom group. Good. Now take away the prom. As I'm sure most of you know, my senior prom was sidelined by inclement weather and some positively apocalyptic power outages. What a lot of you don't know is that instead of dancing the night away, my friends and I came back to my house, ate french toast, danced to the most embarrassing songs in my Itunes library, and watching godawful infomercials well into the wee hours. I'm not about to segue into some maudlin speech about how it Isn't The Place, It's the People, nor will you find my bitching about my loss of a special, nay, sacred high school rite. My point is this; this instance, along with a thousand others, is rock-solid proof that I had, and continue to have, the best high school friends a guy could ask for.

6. A New "Nope!"-By that same token, I also have the best college friends a guy could ask for. Early on in the school year, my friends and I stumbled upon a trashy treasure of a commercial for a taxidermist named Chuck Testa. This isn't about the video, though I'd highly recommend it if you're in the mood for a good lawl. The fact is, when I chose to go to an indisputably smart school, I worried that be stuck on Serious Island--that I'd have to sacrifice my quirky personality in order to adapt to such an intellectual climate. In the midst of our 8000th view of the Testa spot, I realized that I'd found friends who, in addition to having my back in every conceivable sense except that of actually possessing ownership of it, were also blessed with a sense of humour as wickedly strange as my own. Their ingenuity and compassion amazes me every day, but the shared sensation of laughter takes the cake; Rabelais said it best when he stated that "I'd rather write about laughing than crying, for laughter makes men human, and courageous."

5. Don't ask, my ass-If America's original sin was slavery, homophobia's our follow-up. In some senses, the way we've dealt with the homosexuality issue is even worse--at least with slavery, we called the monster what it was; we felt blacks were inferior, plain and simple. Our legal stance on gay rights is convoluted and sickeningly condescending, filled to the brim with "as long as"'s. We welcome gays into our community--as long as they don't get married. Our churches respect their preference for the same sex--as long as they don't act on it. And of course, the whopper--they're free to serve us as the national level, as long as they don't openly state their sexual orientation. I'm proud to say that this third claim is no longer true. In a year of wide-ranging political let-downs--Rick Perry's abominable campaign spots, John Boehner's blood-sport rhetoric, the Orwellian travesty of the SOPA act--the decision to axe the Don't Ask, Don't Tell law was a rare, refreshing dose of common sense. Jargon like this is a wall of willful ignorance, and this year we started to tear it down. This chronically disgruntled liberal was, for a moment, proud to be an American.

4. Still Crazy After All These Years-You can't know The Feeling Until The Moment. Until you're a blood-deep Jerseyite watching Bruce race through "Born to Run", or the world's biggest ballad lover hearing the first strains of "My Heart Will Go On". Or, in my case, until you're a card-carrying Paul Simon fan who's waited half his life to hear that opening "Graceland" bassline played live. I filmed the entire song, but, upon replay, I discovered that all you could hear was my deranged fanboy screaming and all you could see was my camera bobbing in tandem with my body as I joined the less-than-sober members of the crowd in an impromptu dance. It was a concert full of unforgettable moments--the rousing "Here Comes the Sun" cover, the wrenching re-working of "The Sound of Silence", the flawless new material from So Beautiful or So What. For me though, nothing matched hearing my favorite song sung in the flesh by a man who clearly loves what he does, and continues to do it well five decades into his storied career.

3. A Kid Doesn't Know-The only thing more enjoyable than watching a performer nail a great song is doing said nailing yourself. When I learned my final high school musical would be Damn Yankees, I was a hare disappointed--dancing sportscasters and singing demons hardly seemed like a fitting way to close my main stage career. But smack-dab in the middle of the show is a gorgeous, grandly old-fashioned ballad called "Near To You"--an almost five-minute whopper of a trio piece filled with sweeping harmonies, increasingly complex orchestration, and, oh yeah, thirty seconds of pure a cappella at the end. It was the first thing we rehearsed and the last thing we nailed, but I think my castmates would agree that every inch of sweat and vocal strain was worth it. I've always been a pretty solid solo singer, but, for whatever reason, harmonies gave me trouble. Getting this song right, down to the last eight note, was a personal triumph for me, but the real joy was in the group experience. Rarely do you get three actors who are equally determined to do something incredible, and who have the talent to make it happen. When we finally got it (on opening night, no less), the audience reaction was overwhelming. After that performance as well as all of the others, I left the stage shaking with glee, still unable to believe that we'd pulled it off. One of my proudest memories as an artist. Period.

2. Cafe Talk-I read enough that I'm used to being moved; laughing or gasping or tearing up are fairly commonplace when I've got a good book in my hand. But few works of literature have ever hit me as hard as Ernest Hemingway's "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place". Not the hugest fan of Papa Hemingway, I initially SparkNoted the thing, but, after my professor lectured on it, my interest piqued enough that I elected to skim it. Then I read it closely. Then I read it closely again. And again. And so on and so forth, until it became my favorite short story of all-time. It appears at first glance a simple tale of two melancholy old men hanging around a restaurant past closing time, but if you're willing to look carefully, at the nature of the characters, at the tone of that famous elliptical prose, at the jagged poetry of the dialogue, you'll see a piece of writing so profoundly eloquent and inspired that it suggests the nature of our most basic rights and duties as human beings. The key, I believe, is this line, so lean and yet so richly complex;

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves.""

Use this line as the lens with which to examine the story, and I think you'll understand not just why it's good, but why it, and by extension literature itself, is fundamentally important and eternally essential.

1. Maggie and Gracie-
In June, I failed to shut the door firmly as my parents and I left the house, and it blew open in the midst of a storm. We came home to find our dog Maggie curled up in her bed, content as ever. If that's not loyalty, I don't know what is. Nine days later, Maggie had been ferried back and forth among three different hospitals, put to sleep, and buried, felled by a kidney disease as terminal as it was undetectable. I hate to put such a tragic ordeal in my top spot, but this loss was indeed the defining moment of my year. It wasn't just the sudden death of a pet--though I do miss, and will always miss, my sweet girl. It was the realization that followed--animals do a lot for us. It's not that we need them--anyone who says a dog is as necessary as air or water needs their had examined. But I do think there's an almost unquantifiable beauty in the human-pet relationship; in taking on a pet, we assume responsibility for a being that does not speak our language. We cannot tell it we'll feed it later; we cannot pacify it with money or clothes or the husks of meaningless promises. They respond exclusively to our actions, to how we groom them, walk them, pat them, and hold them. And vice-versa as well. It's not just unconditional love; it's bullshit free love. I didn't know I needed it until I missed it, furtively at home and then fiercely, painfully, constantly in college.

But this tale is not 100% sob story. When I returned home for the most recent break, I was greeted by the latest addition to our family, Gracie. Ok, ok, we're only fostering her at the moment, but she's on the damn holiday card, so she's as good as ours, oui? She nuzzles me away from my desk at just the right moment, pelts me with new toys until I agree to throw them, and generally spoils me in the way that only something with four legs is capable of. Still, something's a little off. Writing about the loss of his old dog, Roger Ebert beautiful encapsulates the feeling by noting that "There will always be a hole in my heart about the size of Blackie." And so it goes with Maggie. Yet day by day I find there's room for Gracie as well. If nothing else, that's proof of how extraordinary this whole being alive thing really is.

LISTMANIA 2011--NO REGRETS!: Music

The ranked list, I'm afraid, is a dying art. As a culture, we're tending toward cluster, towards a society of "in no particular order", but, to me at least, there's a wonderful sense of questing involved in The Best Of List. In attempt to rank art, you wind up really engaging it, and asking yourself some pretty deep questions. What makes one work better than another? How do you compare to wildly varied creations? What does that number one spot really represent? What is "best"? Some find this a headache. I find it not just fun, but weirdly soothing, sort of the intellectual equivalent of therapeutic dorm-room cleaning--there's a luxurious comfort to be found in putting things in their right place. And so, as usual, I'll be sorting through my experience of the past year and attaching said experiences to numbers--the best this, the worst that, and so on. And, as usual, I'll be splitting these lists into four categories: Music, Books, Movies, and, finally, Moments. Seeing as every major album to be released in 2011 has already hit shelves, from Gaga's latest effort to Bieber's latest tragedy, I think I'll start off with Music.

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The Music of 2011: The Best, The Worst, And A Little Too Much Adele

I'll begin with the same disclaimer I issued last year: I'm time signature master. I'm no LP collector. I'm no Cameron Crowe. My theoretical knowledge of music consists of exactly as much breadth and depth as Rick Perry's theoretical knowledge of rational Christianity (that's my one cheap shot, I promise.) Then again, I kind of relish this lack of understanding; I can ignore the technicalities of this tonic or that rhyme scheme and just let music, in all its glory and delirium, take me places. I think everyone needs an art like that; one that they don't read or write or theorize about, one that just happens to them. So, I'm evaluating these albums the same way a hippie would evaluates their drugs; by asking where they took them and what it was like. This year, great trips were plentiful; this was one of the best single years for mainstream music in recent memory, a year in which artist after artist released great album after great album, unleashing a steady river of musical gold the likes of which will be discussed for years to come. It was the year that some of our greatest musicians decided that, having finally accrued enough mainstream acclaim and critical praise, they were free to experiment a little. Some of these experiments crackled and fizzled in equal doses, (Mylo Xyloto, Born This Way), while others went up in flames. (well, Radiohead had to take a tumble sometime). This list represents the best of those experiments; the ones that blended old and new to create something beautiful and lasting. All of them changed the scene in some way, big or small; some of them changed my life. Let's take a look, shall we?

THE BEST:

Runner Up:

Revelation Road, Shelby Lynne

If Taylor Swift represents the guilty pleasure glee of country twang swelled to ballpark proportions, Shelby Lynne is the reigning champion of a more intimate country, the kind of music created by someone with nothing more than an old guitar and a little conviction. Her work exudes a simple, almost sensual subtlety; songs like "I'll Hold Your Hand" and "Toss It All Aside" address the Old Country Tropes of love, commitment and faith without sinking into goopy sentimentality. Possessed with a keen songwriter's mind and a voice like bitter honey, Lynne has made an album that goes down sweet and easy in this age of the Hard Sell.

10. Nothing Is Wrong, Dawes

Not for nothing does Jackson Browne guest on one of these tracks; Dawes's sophomore album is a delightful piece of alchemy, an eleven-track sprint through the mysteries of love and loss that's anchored by its effortless integration of indie experimentation and the unpretentious lyricism of Browne's own Goffin-King 70's era. Songs like "Coming Back to A Man" wouldn't have been possible without the singer-songwriters of yesterday, but they also wouldn't be half as memorable if they didn't tip their hat to the musical eclecticism of tomorrow. This band dominated the Blogosphere this year, and rightfully so.

9. What Matters Most, Barbra Streisand

WTF, Mason? You gave this one a pretty good licking upon its initial release. Yes, I did, but, shocker, the thing has grown on me--my first listen was irreparably tarnished by the fact that this album wasn't anything like her last one, Love Is the Answer. But then again, it wasn't supposed to be; if that record was a showcase of Streisand's jazzy finesse, her ability to collaborate with her fellow musicians, this one has the orchestra working for her, not with her--they're simply creating an non-intrusive backdrop that allows Streisand to explore the lyrics of her favorite writers, the Bergmans. And explore she does; in terms of vocal ingenuity, she's never been better. The way she bends the phrase "countless days" into a crescent moon of longing on "So Many Stars", her effortless segue from conversational speak-song to full-throttle belting on "I'll Never Say Goodbye"--these are how-to lessons in interpretation and performance. For the record, though, I still hate the Kenny G sax on "Solitary Moon". Just sayin'.

8. The Book of Mormon, Original Broadway Cast

If Spring Awakening was an all-time game changer, then The Book of Mormon is a welcome, one-time anomaly--you won't ever hear anything like it again. Blessed with an crackpot cast and a deliciously witty libretto by Trey Parker, Matt Stone, and Robert Lopez, the show toes the line of good taste while still thrumming with an unabashed sweetness and jazz-hand pizzazz. Songs like "Man Up", "I Believe", and the album highlight "Tomorrow Is A Latter Day" offend and inspire all at once. This isn't just an album; it's a document of a Broadway miracle.

7. Barton Hollow, The Civil Wars

Not since At Folsom Prison has a country-tinged record given off such a distinctively individualistic badass vibe. You have to listen to "Girl with the Red Balloon" and the title track a couple times before you get ahold of their distinctive genius, the way they burst boundaries without showing off; this is country music that isn't afraid to be wounded, confused, or just plain pissed off. In a word, it's raw. Plus, this duo's got the best harmonies this side of Fleet Foxes. God bless them for giving folk its balls back.

6. Camp, Childish Gambino

Community star turned down n' dirty hip-hop artist Donald Glover isn't everyone's cup of tea. His flow is less musical than, say 'Ye or Lil Wayne; he grunts, chuckles, whispers, and moans through these songs like they're monologues, not pieces of music, often forsaking rhythm and rhyme just to get his point across. Still, those up for something different will find a true treasure; a rap album that's actually a scathing critique of industrialized rap itself. "Is there room for a lame who rhymes/Who wears short shorts and makes joke sometimes?", he asks on the contagiously NSFW "All the Shine". Based on this album, I'd say yes.

5. Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes

Look, I loved "White Winter Hymnal" as much as the next guy, but to me, Fleet Foxes' debut album was like an artifact; beautiful, but a bit removed from the here and now. Their follow-up fixes this problem from the get-go; tracks like "Sim Sala Bim", "Battery Kinzie" and the instantly memorable title track ditch any traces of dainty pastoralism and use the bands earthy ingenuity as a sturdy engine to power expeditions into disillusionment, confusion, and regret. By the time you reach the end of the album's by-far best track, "The Shrine/An Argument", you're left with a distinct sense of a band shedding its skin and acquiring a tougher, better, more beautiful one in the process.

4. Sky Full of Holes, Fountains of Wayne

If Fleet Foxes deserve praise for evolving, Fountains of Wayne earns its hosannas for staying exactly the same--for crafting straightforward, cheeky odes to the common man without stooping to hipsterish irony. "She's been afraid of the Cuisanart since 1977", the album starts, and it only gains traction from there. The band's only gotten better since the "Mexican Wine" days--"Richie and Ruben" and "A Road Song" are perfectly compressed gems of alt-pop that get you high on their buoyant simplicity while exuding a deft, celebratory, almost Springsteenian lyricism. After all these years, they've still got it going on.

3. So Beautiful or So What, Paul Simon

Paul Simon's never really had a career slump. Then again, I should also note he's never really matched the angelic heights of Graceland, my all-time favorite album. This one doesn't reach the rarefied atmosphere of that record, but it's by far his best since The Rhythm of the Saints twenty years ago. If his early albums were full of youthful exuberance and his more recent explored the conundrums of middle age, this one finds Simon facing the specter of death as only he can--with rational optimism, musical ingenuity, and an unshakeable sense of humor. Whether portraying Heaven as an inefficiently run office building ("The Afterlife") or delivering a rambling monologue as the voice of God ("Love Is Eternal Sacred Light"), Simon astounds with his daring. The title track is everything great about Paul compressed into four minutes. Starting with a man making dinner in his kitchen and ending with a meditation on the MLK assassin, this song is the closest Simon's every come to a career statement. "You know life is what you make of it/So beautiful, or so what", he sings. Thanks to Simon, ingenious songwriter, generous spirit, and, as I now know, brilliant live performer, it's a little easier to vouch for the "so beautiful" option.

Brief interlude: All my life, I've wanted Those Albums. You know, the ones your parents keep at the top of the shelf, the ones your uncle is constantly hauling out at parties to play for anyone who will listen. The albums that aren't just great, but are definitive--you identify so intensely with what they say and how they say it that they become inextricably associated with a time in your life, a time you can easily recall whenever you press "play". These same albums also give you courage for the future. This year, miraculously, a bunch of these albums came to me all at once. The remaining albums aren't just the best of the year; they're some of the most meaningful musical projects I've ever encountered.

2. The King Is Dead, The Decemberists

"Here we come to a turning of the season", Colin Meloy sings on the opener "Don't Carry It All", and he's not kidding. The Decemberists have done great stuff before--"A Song for Myla Goldberg" and "O Valencia!" are already monolithic classics in my mind--but they've never put out an album as full-blooded, as fundamentally alive as this one. It's more accessible than their early stuff, yes, but that's not what makes it great. There's something in between the songs here, something ineffable, that grabs you and pulls you into a wonderful new world, at least for a little while. Whatever this something is, it's lent the band a stunning surge of focus--these songs are lean and direct without surrendering any of the band's trademark philosophical weightiness. It's sent them expanding in new directions--the ramshackle rave-up of "Down by the Water", the propulsive hooks of "Calamity Song". Perhaps most importantly, this something has found its way into Meloy's voice, a voice that was already damn close to being the greatest in all of folk-rock. When he addresses his real-life son on "Rise to Me" or reflects on a dying landscape on "June Hymn", his nasal wail is full of a newly tapped warmth and intimacy; his instrument is so beautiful that it's almost painful. This is the kind of album that moves you to tears, not because the music is inherently sad, but because such rare birdies just don't come along very often. It's impossible to listen and feel anything but awe.

AND THE HUGELY SURPRISING NUMBER 1 IS....

1. 21, Adele/Ceremonials, Florence + The Machine

What? A tie? You sellout! Calm down, raging masses, for, like all overly defensive liberal arts nerds, I have my reasons. Firstly, I honestly believe that these two albums are comparable in quality--how could I possibly choose between "Rolling in the Deep" and "Shake It Out"? "Rumour Has It" or "Lover to Lover"? Yeah. That's what I thought. Secondly, and most importantly, these albums signify the apex of the greatest musical trend of the 00s: The Diva Revival. No granola-y singer-songwriters, no gauche hair bands or synth collectives, and certainly no grunge groups--this has been the millennium of the empowered woman, standing alone on the stage and giving it all she's got. Not since the days of Ella, Sarah, and Dina has the solo female artist dominated the pop scene with such totality, and for good reason; a set of obscenely talented women have stepped up to the mic in recent years. Xtina's down n' dirty riffing, Gaga's sultry purr, Amy's already-missed contralto wail--these girls have voices that rank with the greatest of all time. So do these two ladies, who with their pair of sophomore albums prove themselves musically courageous artists with towering ambitions and a surplus of talent with which to bring them to life. Before anything else, there are Those Voices, with a capital T and and capital V. Florence's is shot through with a strange, otherworldly beauty--her tense, utulating belt sounds like something from two hundred years in the future; it's got all of Bjork's ethereal resonance but none of her removed, pixieish dissonance. Adele, on the other hand, is firmly rooted in nostalgia, following in the glorious footsteps of the Old Greats-Springfield and Joplin, with a little bit of Bette Midler and Dolly Parton thrown in for good measure. As with all classic songs, the tracks on these albums are perfectly suited for the thrillingly idiosyncratic talents of the respective singers. "Don't You Remember" could come off as sappy pseudo-country, but Adele leans into the refrain ("The reason you loved me...") with enough raspy, palpable anguish to make the song as true as life itself. Any other artist would come off as kill-me-now awkward singing a break-up song laced with haunted-house imagery; Florence attacks "Seven Devils" with so much authority that it hits you like a shot. Rihanna could learn a lesson or two from these girls.

That makes these albums great. But we have yet to address what makes them classics, A-grade achievements that will be treasures of diva-dom like Dusty in Memphis, At Last! and I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You before them. What will render these albums eternal, I think, is the way that they announce to the world two Full-Blown Artists. These albums present to us two singers who have in their 20s a complexity and honesty that many a modern pop artist will never begin to touch. "Dog Days Are Over" was a beguiling slice of indie-rock catchiness, yes, but who would've thought that the woman who wrote it could also pen a radio-friendly pop-gospel paean to Virginia Woolf's suicide ("What The Water Gave Me")? More to the point, could anyone have guessed that the "Chasing Pavements" singer had locked away somewhere inside that head of hers a titanic knockout of a ballad which would become the greatest break-up song since "Yesterday"? Even those of us who kept Lungs in our car for months at a time could've never anticipated a Florence song as thrillingly intricate and viscerally gorgeous as "All This and Heaven Too". And none of us who chilled out to the jazz-tinged simplicity of 19 were prepared for the gut-wrenching catharsis of "Set Fire to The Rain". These two albums, both alive to the sound of heartbreak yet alert to the possibility of healing, are shining examples of mainstream music done right. Most importantly of all, these sophomore releases prove that Florence and Adele have not just talent and vision, but that other quality of all great artists--the ability to surprise us. If their first albums said "I'm here", these say "I'm here to stay."