2012: The Year In Music

You didn’t think I forgot about this, did you?

It may have taken a bit longer than usual, but after a great deal of re-listening and reflection I can definitively say THESE are the albums in 2012 that caught my ears, piqued my interest, and took up space on both my iPod and computer.  And now, without further adieu…

Best Release: Sleigh Bells- Reign of Terror (*****)

From the stereo to my ears, no album conquered 2012 quite like Reign of Terror.  Coming off 2010’s speaker blasting Treats, Sleigh Bells opted to twist their noise-crunk sound into something immense, personal, and sweeping.  Reign Of Terror is a warzone of a record; between Derek E. Miller’s spikey Slayer-sized riffing, its cold 808 drums, and Alexis Krauss’ girl-group vocals, this LP is the gritty chronicle of living in desperate times.  From pep rally in Hell clatter of “Crush” to the proto-thrash of “Demons,” Sleigh Bells expand their sound in jagged, splashy fashion, giving their particular brand of noise-pop an incredible focus.  Nowhere is this more apparent that on the suicide-valentine of “You Lost Me” a track that marries chiming Def Leppard arpeggios with a story of tragic devotion.  In many ways, Sleigh Bells have crafted an album that explores America’s culture of violence, how pain and anguish is packaged through our media and mythmaking.  Krauss and Miller’s metallic dream-pop musings aren’t simply for novelty, but in fact present the perfect mechanism to examine how fear, addiction, and combat have become so darn stylish (Must be the Ray-Bans).  Between its M16 samples and smutty bubblegum sheen, Reign Of Terror’s unyielding dread and grand scope make it 2012’s crowning musical achievement.

Key Cuts: Crush, Demons, You Lost Me

Best Debut: Gary Clark Jr.- Blak & Blu (***½)

There weren’t many debuts that caught my ear in 2012, but Gary Clark Jr. kept me interested.  The blues man splatter on Blak & Blu invites Jimi Hendrix comparisons by the truckload, but Clark doesn’t play on 60s nostalgia to captivate audiences.  Blistering blues chops aside, Blak & Blu works because of Clark’s surprisingly nimble voice, caramel smooth one moment and deep-bellied the next.  It gives the more R&B inflected numbers, like the album’s purple haze-hued title track, more credence when juxtaposed with the real barn-burners, of which there are many.  For instance, the hard riff workout on “When My Train Pulls In” is simply punishing, taking its time to ramp up before Clark’s expressive fretwork pierces through the mix.  Make no mistake—Clark slings a mean axe, from the janky, broken-down twang of “Next Door Neighbor Blues,” to the fuzz-rock bravado of “Glitter Ain’t Gold.”  He’s a musician’s guitarist, one that plays from his gut instead of the studio booth.  True, the album is a bit bloated and a tad too eager to crossover (Clark’s worst songs remind listeners of the neo-Hendrix promise Lenny Kravitz never delivered) but he’s soulful, which makes up for even the most egregious, and cheesy, editing errors.  For all its warts, Blak & Blu is a promising start for an artist that’s destined to play for a long, long time.

Key Cuts: When My Train Pulls In, Glitter Ain’t Gold, Next Door Neighbor Blues

Best Rock Release: The Gaslight Anthem- Handwritten (*****)

When you’ve got Brendan O’Brien behind the boards, you’re no longer in the underground; you’re in the major leagues.  This is a good thing for The Gaslight Anthem, because Handwritten is too impressive to keep hidden.  Gritty and sentimental, Brian Fallon’s songs act like mini movies, as powerful as a supped up Trans AM barreling down Thunder Road.  “45’s” soaring vocals and searing guitars cut like hot knives, while the hard-hitting “Biloxi Parish” finds Fallon perfecting the art of the anthem.  Long time fans will notice the bluesier touches and foggy atmospheres that punctuate Handwritten, but the biggest difference is in the storytelling.  Handwritten chronicles Fallon’s quest to reconcile the past with the man he is today.  While past Gaslight Anthem LPs relied on American icons like Marilyn and Elvis to evoke a sense of Golden Era romanticism, Handwritten places listeners in the shoes of Fallon’s characters, painting vivid portraits of what it means to deal with loss and love.  The results are mesmerizing and personal, from the flange soaked lullaby of “Mae” to the twisting guitar duals and high tension of “Mulholland Drive.”  Records like these don’t stay hidden, and Fallon reminds listeners that you don’t always need to over think music, you just need to feel it.  In the end, Brain Fallon makes records the way they used to: With a whole lot of heart—handwritten.

Key Cuts: “45,” Mulholland Drive, Biloxi Parish

Best Punk/Post-Hardcore Release: Every Time I Die- Ex Lives (*****)

Coming from the punk/post-hardcore end of the spectrum really means you’ve got attitude, enough grit and chutzpah to douse your songs in gasoline and light the fuse.  After the brittle, ambling New Junk Aesthetic, Every Time I Die return with the soul-crushing Ex Lives and enough “everything-be-damned” fire to roast the world.  And it shows, the arrangements are schizophrenic slices of chainsaw-inspired hardcore and southern rock crunch while Keith Buckley’s serpentine scream rounds out their sound.  Ex Lives is simply bone-crushing, from the behemoth-sized weight of “Underwater Bimbos From Outer Space” to the banjo inflected, hardcore bull-rush of “Partying is Such Sweet Sorrow.”  Buckley gives the performance of this life, no longer relying solely on his deafening rasp to recount twisted social nightmares, but also implementing his rather nimble mid-range to give his punk rock sermons some sass.  The biggest surprise, however, is how Every Time I Die have really expanded their sonic palette without sacrificing their aggression.  “Indian Giver” orbits and blasts doom-laden riffs with ethereal psychedelic flourishes, while “I Suck (Blood)” sets a new bar for sludgy breakdowns.  Unafraid to charge full speed ahead, Ex Lives shows that Every Time I Die continue to take the hardcore scene by their own, aggressive terms.

Key Cuts: Underwater Bimbos From Outer Space, I Suck (Blood), Partying Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Best Metal Release: Converge- All We Love We Leave Behind (*****)

Hard to believe Converge formed their punishing brand of hardcore-meets-thrash more than twenty years ago, especially after releasing All We Love We Leave Behind.  Musicians that work within extreme music genres tend to arrange music that’s more conservative as they get older, losing aggression and replacing it with atmosphere, as if the two are mutually exclusive.  Converge, on the other hand, play like a band during the peak of their powers, continuing to preserve their intensity as the years pile on.  The slash and burn riffing is as furious as a heaven-sent swarm of locusts, while their cyclonic drumming churns and stops on a dime.  “Aimless Arrow” twists and scratches skyward while the all-out hardcore blasts of “Trespasses” and “No Light Escapes” hit with savage intensity.  When Converge shift gears however, the results don’t lose any less bite.  “Sadness Comes Home” sports titanic, heaving riffs before speeding off into a spiraling-oblivion, reaffirming the fact that Converge’s sound is as gargantuan as their ambition.  Yet what’s most refreshing about All We Love… is its enormity.  In an age where heavy music is pristine, mechanical, and sterile, Converge reminds listeners that fury and feedback go a long way, creating brutal vistas along the way.  The result is a group, 20 years in, still making some of the best and uncompromising music of their career.

Key Cuts: Aimless Arrow, Trespasses, Sadness Comes Home

Best Electronic Release: Death Grips- NO LOVE DEEP WEB (*****)

Electronic music is not known for harrowing aesthetics, but that’s the first thing that comes to mind with Death Grips’ newest album NO LOVE DEEP WEB.  Their second LP of 2012 (after the chopped up punk noise of The Money Store), MC Ride and Zach Hill twist their keyboards to mirror the real life End of Days disaster they see unfolding before them.  NO LOVE is acrimoniously stitched together with lacerated vocal samples and terrifying vitriol as the duo implements a mish-mash of stuttering 808s and synthesizers that sound like overloaded circuit breakers.  MC Ride’s death-howl flow is here too; whether it’s exploring his tortured anguish on the manic “Come Up & Get Me,” or his fire and brimstone sermon on “Lock Your Doors.”  This isn’t electronic music for background accents; NO LOVE is a nightmarish Frankenstein, every synthetic sound warped and blasted into an uncompromising expansiveness sorely needed in today’s tepid electronic scene.  Instead, Death Grips aim to shake listeners out of complacency, whether it’s the metallic clank of “Stockton” or the phantasmal-glitch rumble of “Bass Rattle Stars Out The Sky.”  Raw, immediate, and explosive, NO LOVE DEEP WEB is a force of nature for the digital age.

Key Cuts: Come Up & Get Me, Lock Your Doors, Stockton

Best Produced: Kanye West Presents: G.O.O.D. Music- Cruel Summer (***½)

Aside from the Kim Kardashian stories, the Taylor Swift interruptions, and the leather kilts, Kanye West continues to intrigue because of his Renaissance-style vision for hip-hop.  Cruel Summer culls together some of the bright up and comers on his G.O.O.D. Music label, and Yeezy directs them with a master’s sense of perspective for a rather thrilling set of collaborations.  Blending opulence and arrogance, Kanye works his studio magic to create a record fascinated with refinement but with enough crushing grooves and modernism for the clubs.  The wobbly flow of “Clique” and the pitch-shifted murk of “Mercy” act as the perfect stage for egos like Jay-Z, 2Chainz, and Pusha T to twist their punch lines around their personalities.  Crystal clear, and space-age clean, the whole experience on Cruel Summer plays like one of Kanye’s beautiful, dark, twisted, fantasies, blending 90s style excess with pristine vibrant keyboards.  Yet Kanye doesn’t just steal the show behind the boards, he makes his presence felt often on the mic, whether it’s over the aggressive buzz saw hooks of “Cold” or trading quips with Ghostface Killah on the gunshot-piano climb of “New God Flow.”  While the record’s second half loses momentum and cohesion, the sheer recklessness and confidence of Kanye’s vision makes Cruel Summer one hell of a ride.

Key Cuts: Clique, New God Flow, Cold

Best Comeback: Bloc Party- Four (*****)

Who expected Bloc Party to ever put out a record this angry?  Cut with a relatively live feel, Four is Bloc Party’s triumphant comeback after the lukewarm reception of 2008’s electronic-leaning Intimacy.  While the group hasn’t necessarily traded in all their keyboards and effects pedals, Four plays out like a much more groove-obsessed post-punk record, while incorporating spacey atmospheres and rusty dissonance.  From the rubberband rhythms on “Octopus” to the fuzzed-out blitzkrieg of “We’re Not Good People” Bloc Party explores a sound that’s primal, immediate, and surprisingly heavy.  However, that doesn’t mean they’ve let this newfound drive squeeze out their more confessional offerings.  Lead singer Kele Okereke’s falsetto is still one of the brighter portions of Bloc Party’s arsenal, especially with his lilting delivery on the shimmering late album cut, “The Healing.”  While fans of Silent Alarm may balk at the bigger, beefier use of distortion, they’ll be missing out a Bloc Party record that sounds less like a computer and more like a 4-piece again.  Drummer Matt Tong is simply relentless, whether it’s on the dizzying heights of “So He Begins To Lie,” or machine gun space-funk of “Team A.”  All in all, Four reminds listeners that no amount of bad press can knock down Bloc Party, especially when they sound this confident.

Key Cuts: Octopus, The Healing, We Are Not Good People

Best EP(s): My Chemical Romance- Conventional Weapons (*****)

If you’ve forgotten what dangerous and desperate rock n’ roll sounds like, look out for Conventional Weapons.  Originally scrapped from their 2009 sessions with producer Brendan O’Brien, My Chemical Romance is presenting this “album-that-could-have-been” in 2-song E.P.s over the course of several months.  Yet the real shocker is how these songs were shelved in the first place in favor of the synthed-out futurism of Danger Days.  The band returns to their bloody-soaked brand of post-hardcore, paying homage to punk heroes like The Stooges and MC5 with a truly liberated batch of songs.  “Tomorrow’s Money” barely hangs together with car crash drumming and Ray Toro’s blistering lead work, while “Kiss The Ring” sports hyper-macho swagger and enough sleazy riffs to burn down L.A.  Though the songs tread on MCR’s usual “us-against-the-world” pulp fiction, Conventional Weapons out shines the technicolor Danger Days because of how these songs attack our disposable culture with startling precision.  Whether it’s Gerard Way’s come-at-me sneer on “Boy Division,” or “AMBULANCE’s” movie-ready anthem of devotion, MCR continue to explore how the enduring power of love can conquer even the darkest world.  Bold, black, and still alive, Conventional Weapons finds MCR firing on all cylinders.

Key Cuts: Tomorrow’s Money, AMBULANCE, Kiss The Ring

Most Ambitious: Kendrick Lamar- good kid, M.A.A.D. city (****)

Hype is a dangerous double-edged sword, but thankfully for Kendrick Lamar, it works to his advantage.  good kid, M.A.A.D. city is the kind of open narrative statement that hip-hop is starving for amidst the Lil Waynes and T-Pains of the world.  Mentored and produced by the famed Dr. Dre, M.A.A.D. city is a sprawling concept record detailing the trials and tribulations of Lamar’s rise to fame from Compton, CA, set against smoky atmospheres, soulful production, and an ever-evolving cast of characters.  “The Art Of Peer Pressure” uses brooding string arrangements cut through Lamar’s late night anxiety with switchblade precision, while the blissful “Poetic Justice” goes down easy like fine cognac.  Though rags to riches stories aren’t anything new, Lamar’s ability to tell a multi-character story within the confines of such a sonically accessible album is impressive.  He knows when to place his tonged twisting skills to the test (“Backseat Freestyle”) and when to let the gravity of his narrative overtake listeners (“Swimming Pools (Drank)”).  While Lamar struggles to turn M.A.A.D. city into a classic, especially considering the absence of a bona fide crossover hit like “Nuthin’ But A “G” Thang” or “Jesus Walks,” there’s plenty here he should be proud of—it’s not everyday debut albums are this deep, affecting and sincere.

Key Cuts: The Art Of Peer Pressure, Poetic Justice (Feat. Drake), Swimming Pools (Drank)

Most Experimental: Childish Gambino- Royalty (****½)

Oh, to have Donald Glover’s expansive resume.  The comedy writer-turned-actor-turned-rapper continues to mesmerize with his latest mixtape under the name Childish Gambino, Royalty.  Listening to these cuts feels like stumbling onto a psychotic version of Glover’s Google search history.  All his brainiac, blog buzzing, pop-culture addled fantasies are on display, from the blinking club bang of “One Up” to the electro-Kavinsky swiping on “R.I.P.,” painting him as Jay-Z and Ryan Gosling within three songs of each other.  His tastes are diverse though, suggesting he had a great deal of fun assembling this mixtape, from the Tina Fey guest verse on “Real Estate” to RZA’s brass-band digital breakdown on “American Royalty.”  While the public jury still might be hung on what Glover can bring to the table in terms of substance and storytelling, his fearlessness is certainly engaging.  The stuttering, chopped and skewed punch lines on “Toxic” nick Britney’s biggest hit for a surprisingly dread filled atmosphere, and hell, even junk king Beck Hansen shows up with his smooth drawl for a verse on “Silk Pillow.”  While Glover is certainly making a name for himself as a kid with quick wit, it’ll be fascinating to watch him work his magic in the future because for Childish Gambino, limits don’t seem to exist.

Key Cuts: One Up (Feat. Steve G. Lover), R.I.P. (Feat. Bun B), American Royalty (Feat. RZA & Hypnotic Brass Orchestra)

Most Eclectic: fun.- Some Nights (****)

Pop music should be inclusive and accessible, which is why fun.’s major label breakthrough Some Nights is so refreshing.  Dabbling in fuzzed-out beat making, carnival-style whimsy, and Nate Ruess’ ever-impressive register, Some Nights was a 2012 smash that virtually everyone could enjoy.  “We Are Young” is a lighter waving anthem filled with hip-hop clatter and naked sentimentality, while the trip-hip bounce of “All Alone” provides playful yearning and a cotton candy hook.  The Grammy buzz is well earned though, because Some Nights hangs its hat on expert songwriting instead of an exploitation of genre trends.  From the choir-backed “All Alright” to the album’s vocoded title track, Ruess comforts and reminds listeners of the splendor found in self-defining life moments.  For Ruess, the adventure is just a lonely night away, even if mortality is fleeting.  He embraces self-revelations like adrenaline straight to the heart (“Man, you wouldn't believe/The most amazing things/That can come from/Some terrible lies...”), extolling the virtues of saying “YES” over pinch-harmonized guitars and lush production.  While pop music typically exudes positivity, it doesn’t always hit the personal kind of reflection Some Nights explores, which make this bombastic set of songs such a fascinating listen.  For lack of a better way to say it, pop music is rarely, if ever, this kind of fun.

Key Cuts: We Are Young, All Alone, All Alright

Most Crapped On: The Offspring- Days Go By (**)

Some men decide to buy an extremely extravagant car as they get older, a vessel to park not only their fading youth but to blast their homemade demo tape from the college band they used to play in.  If you’re The Offspring, however, you call up Bob Rock and make another record.  To their credit, few 90s punk revivalists have aged well, but time has been especially cruel to Dexter Holland, his voice shriller than ever.  Yet the real problem comes with passion: Days Go By is mechanical, slick, and tame, everything that doesn’t support the adrenaline-addled energy of The Offspring’s best material.  Most of the album is a mid-tempo malaise, and the jokey electro-blitz of “California (Bumpin’ In My Trunk)” makes you think they should have won a Pulitzer for “Pretty Fly (For A White Guy)” in 1999.  Still, the band shows flashes of their old selves, even for a brief moment, with the staccato crunch of “Dividing By Zero.”  Too little, too late though.  Days Go By deserves the criticism: When you’re covering your own songs (I’m looking at you “Dirty Magic”), it’s time to hang things up for good.  So long and thanks for all the jams Offspring, you gotta keep your dad selves and your old lives...yup, you guessed it—you gotta keep ‘em separated.

Key Cuts: The Future Is Now, Dirty Magic, Dividing By Zero

Biggest Surprise: Gallows- Gallows (****)

Frank Carter WAS Gallows.  His vulture scream was as recognizable as the group’s strident and angular take on hardcore punk, and that voice helped create some of the most engaging punk records of the past decade.  So when it was confirmed that Carter was leaving,  and that his replacement was ex-Alexisonfire growler Wade McNeil, there was cause for concern.  Surprisingly, Gallows is a wholly different beast that stretches the band into new and exciting territory.  “Victim Culture’s” sledge-hammer stomp and “Last June’s” swervy hardcore splatter finds the band locked, loaded, and ready for war.  Though not as terrifying as Carter, McNeil’s biker snarl adds an intimidating facet to the Gallows sound that simply feels bigger and brasher.  While there are moments of all out-white noise fury, like on “Vapid Adolescent Blues,” some of the record's brighter moments are on the second half anthems like the call-and –response depravity of “Odessa.”  Though the group trades some of their more angular sounding arrangements for a chunkier, faster slice of the hardcore pie, Gallows displays a band that’s revitalized by their line-up change, rather than hampered by it.  Frank Carter might have been Gallows, but McNeil & Co. have proven that Gallows is so much more than one man and one era in time—it’s a beast with a mind of it’s own.

Key Cuts: Victim Culture, Last June, Vapid Adolescent Blues

Biggest Letdown: Frank Ocean- channel ORANGE (***)

For a record that’s topped out nearly everyone’s End Of The Year List, channel ORANGE is expected to be a GREAT album—and it isn’t.  There’s no denying that Frank Ocean, the most velvety member of Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All, is blessed with a blissful set of pipes, but his debut is simply too disorganized to take seriously.  From the celebrity bloc party of John Mayer and Andre 3000 to the bloated interludes, channel ORANGE distracts more than it immerses.  The frustrating part is that there IS a great album in there—it’s just buried.  “Pyramids” may be the most inventive, multi-suite soul song of all time, its glacial movements and cool synthesizers feelings more at home on a Radiohead record.  Elsewhere, Ocean’s free-verse inspired delivery on “Crack Rock” shows his drive to take future soul somewhere new and exciting, into the spacey abstract where slow jams rarely orbit.  Between the PlayStation samples and digital mist, channel ORANGE is certainly expansive, but it plays like a collection of Ocean’s thoughts and sketches rather than a statement of purpose.  Though interesting in scope, Ocean’s debut simply confirms what we already knew about him—his potential is only as powerful as the producer that edits him.

Key Cuts: Thinkin’ About You, Crack Rock, Pyramids

Biggest Blog Buzz: Lana Del Rey- Born To Die (***)

You couldn’t escape 2012 without talking about Lana Del Rey (a.k.a. manufactured pop queen Lizzy Grant), and with good reason: She was as divisive a pop-star as we’ve ever seen.  The “Gangster Nancy Sinatra” was a bit of a tabloid target from her barely-there GQ spread to her strange fling with Axl Rose.  Yet it was Born To Die that really set the Internet on fire, lambasting her for a less that pristine set of pipes and her comatose stage presence.  It’s understandable, mainly because Born To Die is a classic exercise in style over substance.  Lana puts on a Scorsese-sized production:  Metallic trip-hop beats and movie score strings rest against a backdrop of Hollywood glamour and enough drugs and cheap thrills to make anyone seem numb on Sunset Boulevard.  The problem is it’s hard to buy into Lana’s mystique and easy to digest her product, which ultimately makes her blasé.  There are slow burn home runs like the funeral piano crawl of “Video Games,” or the buoyant come-on of “Diet Mountain Dew” but it’s hard to know where the allure starts and the anguish begins.  For all the spectacle that’s present, there’s little tension, and Lana’s darkness is never really earned.  This lack of sincerity ends up making Born To Die feel more like a commercial—interesting to take in but dangerously disposable.

Key Cuts: Video Games, Diet Mountain Dew, Radio

The Record That Should Have Caught On: P.O.S.- We Don’t Even Live Here (****½):

Stefon Alexander’s lack of name recognition is a bit criminal at this point.  Whether it’s from his spitfire work with the Doomtree collective, or under the moniker P.O.S, Alexander is simply the most energetic presence in hip-hop today.  Combining blitzed out synthesizers with punk rock percussion, We Don’t Even Live Here continues to illustrate Alexander’s undying passion for authenticity and his love of glitched-out noise.  “**** Your Stuff” is a volatile cocktail of anarchist tongue twisters, while the graveyard clatter of “Lockpicks, Knives, Bricks & Bats” and the relentless bang and buzz of “Bumper” show Alexander’s zeal for urgency.  We Don’t’ Even Live Here ultimately amounts to the strongest musical call to arms in years, an album that reflects the pastiche instincts of our modern world while preserving something uniquely human in spirit.  In an age of cookie-cutter celebrities, manufactured nostalgia, and a never-ending cycle of tragedy addiction, it’s refreshing to hear Alexander rap about what it means to be a human being in the face of such a disposable culture (especially from a genre that’s known to perpetuate it).  So if you want your hip-hop to say something, check out P.O.S—Stefon Alexander has something to say.

Key Cuts: Bumper, **** Your Stuff, Lockpicks Knives Bricks & Bats

Worst Release: The Mars Volta- Noctourniquet (0)

If you’re a Mars Volta scholar you’ll probably be determined to like this disaster of an album.  Nothing I type about how it’s a fractured malaise of pretentious art rock noodling, wrapped with dubstep twitches and spastic wailing will deter you from liking this album.  For all I know, you’re into this too.  Fair enough.

Key Cuts: Say, how’s that At The Drive-In reunion going?

WILDCARD: Deftones- Koi No Yokan (*****)

Tragedy can really affect people, and for the Deftones it has focused them.  While the smash-and-scream of 2010's Diamond Eyes carried a sense of frustration around their fallen brother Chi Cheng, Koi No Yokan finds them reflective and contemplative.  Taking prog-rock cues from bands like Pink Floyd and Radiohead, the Deftones marry spacious soundscapes with their mammoth sized riffing to create a truly otherworld experience.  Whether it’s the crushing grind of “Swerve City” or the robo-thrash breakdown of “Leathers,” the Deftones have created one of the more immersive albums since 2000’s White Pony.  Chino Moreno is still one of the most underrated vocalists in heavy music today, continuing his impressive streak with the soothing space coo of “Entombed” and his almost rabid delivery on the lurching “Poltergeist.”  Above all though, the album’s real achievement comes in the form of “Tempest” a swirling maelstrom of polyrhythmic drumming, hypnotic rhythms, and dream-like vocals.  Replacement bassist Sergio Vega intimated that Koi No Yokan translates from Japanese to mean “the premonition of love,” or “love at first sight.”  That’s not too far off base.  After the tragedy the Deftones have endured, Koi No Yokan is the sound of a band exploring what’s next for themselves, their music, and the things they love.  As such, listening to Koi No Yokan bloom and develop should thrill fair weather and fanatic Deftones fans alike.

Key Cuts: Swerve City, Leathers, Tempest

The Subversive Dichotomy Of Adele Adkins (Or The Frenemy Of My iTunes Is Still My Frenemy)

Adele bothers me more than most major pop-stars.

This sentiment comes on the heels of her James Bond theme hitting the Internet (which to my surprise is a fairly strong effort) as well as my latest attempt to give 21 another umpteenth listen in the hopes that I’ll finally “get it."  I suppose part of this also stems from the fact that I glanced through her Rollingstone cover story, which also added gasoline to the hypercritical flames I usually hold her over.  In any event, I’m bothered.  This is gonna be a long one, buckle up.

Though I’ve long ago resigned to the fact that my listening habits are not of the Top 40 variety, Adele is something of an anomaly for me.  She is the only artist in recent memory that's compelled me to obtain her records, listen to them with escalating levels of rage, delete them from my iTunes, forget about her, and then obtain her records again in some sort of vicious Groundhog Day/Mobius Strip of hilarity.  This is problematic for me because I generally stick to my opinions.  Except with Adele, that is.  With Adele, I weigh the evidence, make a rational decision, and then offend all my friends that have “Rolling In The Deep” as their ringtone.  It is what it is, and the snark remains the same.

I guess my relationship with Adele is a complicated one because I WANT to cut her a break and understand what 24+ million people find appealing.  Like most human beings, I want to be part of the party.  Yet, something happens mid way through 21, where I'm consumed with resentment that she's got my attention again, and it's wasting my time.  And for some absurd reason, I still stop just short of dismissing her completely.  The cycle repeats endlessly, and it’s quite the sinister enigma to solve.  She’s the third shooter in Dallas, my Cubs World Series, my white whale (and no, that’s not a weight pun).

Thanks to “Skyfall,” and Rollingstone, I think I now know why.

There are two Adeles within Adele Adkins, two distinct narratives that are simultaneously interwoven with each other.  Interestingly, the manner in which they're blurred has left me with the inability to decide how I feel about her artistic output.  More to the point, the fact that these two narratives are twisted in on themselves might just be indicative of where pop culture is going in the next decade or so, which is either terrifying or hilarious depending on how your listening habits function.  Allow me to elaborate on these two very different Adeles:

Adele #1—Adele The Sophisticated

This is the Adele 24+ million people think they’re getting when they watch Adele in an interview, a music video, or what they imagine her artistic persona to be.  This is the Adele I want to buy into: The smoker, the drinker, and the girl with the broken heart.  The earnest little artist that could, telling super producers like Rick Rubin and Paul Epworth to strip back all the studio trappings on 21 to make it raw and immediate.  She’s a songwriter.  This Adele is visceral, tapping into a rich Motown tradition that’s all but been forgotten.  She doesn’t play to “traditional” body images, and she’s ambivalent to the press that picks her part for it.  This Adele has a boyfriend, a reclusive private life (in fact, she CREATES a private life), and is the most technically proficient singer of the past five years.  She’s Dusty Springfield and Joan Holloway, all chutzpah and hand grenade vocals.  She’s a champion, a storyteller, and alchemist that can translate talent into mountains of awards, and legions of followers.

Adele #2—Adele The Ordinary

This is the Adele 24+ million people get when they hit play on 21, who we read about in the gossip columns, and who’s real legacy is grounded in manufactured awards show buzz.  This is the Adele that functions within the rigid pop-paradigm, with enough raw talent to support an album full of three singles and indistinguishable filler, a Grammys' reckoning.  She’s the kind of radio wonder that will put out a decidedly nostalgic sounding LP plagued by the hilariously modern Loudness War—A record constructed to feel resonant and warm but comes across as flat and cold.  You hear this singer in the super market aisle while you’re shopping at Whole Foods.  This is the kind of malleable talent that Columbia Records will hand-pick to work with super producers like Rick Rubin and Paul Epworth, focus-grouping ballads about John Q. Anybody-But-Somebody-Specific.  This is the Adele that swings the pendulum the other way for me, the one that exists in a manufactured pop-vacuum, not a cultural revival.  More to the point, this is the Adele Columbia Records tries to hide from you.

If you’re feeling a bit like Keanu Reeves right now, I can assure you that was planned.

I suppose this is sort of true for any artist.  There is a romanticized ideal that we think we’re experiencing juxtaposed with the cold calculating reality we’re oblivious to.  Art is a reaction to commerce and commerce reacts to art.

Then again, some musicians really create art with a message and drive.  Sometimes that romantic rock n’ roll narrative is 100% true--your Iggy Pops, the Tom Waitses, and the Johnny Cashs.  There, it’s harder to differentiate danger from the "narrative" because they truly live their story.  Kurt Cobain was an insanely depressed drug addict.  Raise your hand if you wince(d) when watching Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged?  These artists embody the kind of stories that shake us as listeners, and these narratives help us create lasting bonds with musicians--endearing us to records we’ll listen to over and over again.  The closer the connection to reality and art, the more human, personal, and resonant it becomes.  We love to be immersed in this mystique because it simultaneously validates the artist and ourselves.

We like manufactured pop music for different reasons.  With pop music, with Top 40 radio, the invented narrative you’re being asked to believe is never hidden.  We ALWAYS see the Wizard behind the curtain. Here, HOW the narrative is constructed helps us shop around. For as ridiculous as the 90s boy-band explosion was, as well as the bubblegum-glam of everyone from Debbie Gibson to Britney Spears, no one will mistake who made these stars popular and how they did it.  This is why we loved them, and why they've sold more records than God.  The beauty of Top 40 is these artists don’t have to hide how the sausage is being made—people will eat it up because they like the way it’s made.  If you’re loyal to the process, who cares about substance?

If you buy into Top 40 pop-stars, you buy into what you’re expecting.

The problem is that market is only so large, and record companies are greedy little greed mongers.

Adele is a fascinating exception, the pop-star disguised as sophisticated songstress.  In a technological age that blurs reality more and more, Adele effortlessly muddles the line between romantic and manufactured.  Her personas are not divided by authenticity, but by weapons grade advertising.  She’s a massive success because her reach extends past those who traditionally buy into constructed pop-escapism.  This is because in the modern warfare of democratized digital listening, Adele is the perfect stealth bomber to sneak past enemy lines.  She looks, feels, and embodies the serious and dramatic, but she’s been assembled a few doors down from Katy Perry, Ke$ha, and Rihanna.  She’s the perfect product.  With Adele, the fact that you can’t always see the Wizard is why she’s a massive success.  She consciously appeals to those that would normally buy her records as well as those that would typically shun such a massive commercial titan, totaling 24+ million Adele-colytes in the process.

Then again, maybe I’m just bitter that Adele continues to trick me into listening to 21 over and over again, without really enjoying more than three tracks on it.

Oh well, fool me once, right?

Prince- Planet Earth (***½)

Let’s come right out and say that it’s pretty damn difficult for Prince to put out a BAD record. Many will disagree with me citing some of his 90’s work. Unfortunately, they overlook masterpieces such as Come, The Gold Experience, and Chaos & Disorder as nothing more than self-indulgent footnotes in his discography. Truthfully, the only terrible record that Prince has put out was possibly Rave Un2 The Joy Fantastic and that’s because it reeked of Clive Davis trying to make him into a cross over sensation. Prince has, however, made some creatively stagnant records like Diamonds & Pearls and Around The World In A Day where his true artistry really isn’t pushed forward. His new offering Planet Earth falls into this category, for while the hooks are all pretty much intact and the songs are fun, they just don’t sound like a musical genius at work.

The album begins with the epic opening of “Planet Earth,” gentle keyboards building alongside Prince’s driving guitar and guttural basslines. The track breaks off into some sweet vocal crooning from The Artist’s backup band and the brass section swells. Meanwhile, synthesizers continue to push the song upward to a positively cosmic cataclysm (and blistering solo) as Prince sings, “So shall it be written, so shall it be sung…” The great pacing continues on the single that Verizon wireless has milked for all its worth. “Guitar” keeps drawing insurmountable comparisons to U2’s The Edge, but the dancey backbeat and wah soaked solo sways and swaggers like only Prince knows how.

Sonically, Planet Earth is kind of a hodgepodge of sounds but this doesn’t make the record stand out, it makes it seem passé. It seems that Prince’s best material (not counting the expansiveness of Purple Rain) has always been when he explores every asset that a certain sound will give him. Even his most recent works were decisive; the funk of Musicology and sonic experimentation of 3121 are proof of that. This is not so on Planet Earth. “Future Baby Mama” sounds like an outtake of one of his slow jams from the 80s. It’s not that it’s a bad song by any means, but like many of the other songs here, it’s a retread. Planet Earth feels unfocused, and as a result Prince seems bored. “Chelsea Rogers” sports a funky and soulful vibe to it, but this was mastered far better on other albums and seems like some added instrumentation would have fleshed it out better. “All The Midnight’s In All The World” is actually the one experiment on the album that works. The track is rather stripped down for Prince standards. It features the Prince’s great wailing delivery over a jumpy piano line, a full backing band, and acoustic guitar. Still, most of these are good songs, not great.

Maybe the question to ask then, is if listeners want radio friendly (Since Planet Earth is most certainly that) from Prince this late in his career? Truth be told, if Planet Earth were made by another artist rather than Prince, it would probably be closer to album of the year. Look at this review itself as proof, its difficult to separate Prince from the legacy he’s crafted. Every piece of music he records from now on will forever be judged through a critical microscope due to the incredibly complex pieces of music the man has made over his career. Then again if all listeners have is Prince-by-numbers, I’m sure there could be far worse things on this planet earth.

Sounds Like: Prince….only he could make this album.

Key Cuts: Planet Earth, Guitar, All The Midnights In All The World