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....
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."
