An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1992

The Full Roster

George Harrison, Live In Japan
Bill Hicks, Relentless
Pavement, Slanted & Enchanted
Pavement, Trigger Cut [Single]
Pavement, Watery, Domestic [EP]
They Might Be Giants, Apollo 18
The Ventures, The Ventures Play Telstar / Ventures In Space
Tom Waits, Bone Machine

1992 might just mark something of a turning point.  Though we're down to just three proper albums to choose from here--I'm not counting live albums for these purposes, although Live In Japan is pretty enjoyable and would otherwise merit more serious consideration--choosing between the three of them proved to be mighty difficult.  As I made my deliberations, aided by the brain-enhancing powers of some Oregon-brewed robot beer, it occurred to me that the decision I was making might be, in my own tiny personal way, somewhat epoch-making.  It essentially came down to Pavement vs. They Might Be Giants for the top prize; what's more, it was Pavement's buzzy, lo-fi debut vs. TMBG's accomplished, polished, band-at-its-peak fourth full release.  It's a contrast in styles, in genres, in eras; the somewhat innocent, carefree alternative rock of the 1980's contrasting with the doggedly independent, rough-around-the-edges type of music that would come to the fore throughout the '90s.  And also Tom Waits was involved in there, although fittingly, it was mostly just to interject gruffly whenever I started wavering on my decision-making. 

So that choice was difficult, and will be revealed below, to little fanfare, as it really, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that important.  But before we go there, let's stay here for a moment.  As I mentioned, I'm disqualifying live albums from prize consideration, for no reason other than I am.  I will point out live albums I find particularly good, however, as I did above.  Likewise, comedy makes its debut in 1992, thanks to Bill Hicks' Relentless.  I'm less certain about comedy being ineligible, since technically all comedy albums are pretty much live recordings, but usually also contain all-new material.  I can think of only one album in particular that might seriously challenge for a Favorite Album prize, and that's a ways off, so maybe I'll just cross that bridge when I get to it.  Procrastination!

Favorite Album:  They Might Be Giants, Apollo 18

Can the They Might Be Giants juggernaut be stopped?  (Answer:  Yes, it can.  And will, shortly).  For the fourth album in a row TMBG takes the top prize.  Obviously, as a super-fan I am biased; but then again, it's my goddamn 111 Top 1 Lists, so I'll wear that bias with pride.  And the fact is, from track one to track 38 (I'll explain later), Apollo 18 is second only to Lincoln in terms of overall excellence.  It's hard to say there's a song on Apollo 18 that doesn't rank amongst my favorites in all of TMBG's catalog.

It says quite a bit about Apollo 18 that it manages to knock off Slanted & Enchanted for the top spot; as I mentioned before, it was a very close decision.  I first remember hearing Apollo 18 when my oldest sister was playing it in the car one day; I was hooked at that point, it being my first real exposure to the band, and the next thing I knew I had purchased the wrong album entirely (Miscellaneous T) and was still in love with the band anyway.  Scoring a minor mainstream hit with the retro-leaning "The Guitar (The Lion Sleeps Tonight)," which is a semi-cover of the parenthetical song, Apollo 18's greatest strengths lie elsewhere on the album.  Utilizing their by-now traditional genre-hopping, the album moves through straight-ahead guitar rock ("See the Constellation") to lounge jazz ("She's Actual Size"), from a love ballad ("Narrow Your Eyes") to educational music ("Mammal").  They even play with what was then new technology, designing the 21-track "Fingertips" suite for use with the shuffle function on CD players.  It's a typically oddball move from the band, one that on repeated listens tends to offer diminishing returns, but is the closest thing to a blemish that Apollo 18 has.  Even the closing instrumental, "Space Suit," is a fine piece of space-surfy goodness.

How much do I love this album?  I've bought it three times: first on cassette (worn out), then CD (scratched up from overuse), and again on CD, after which I ripped it to my computer and iPodded the sucker, keeping it hopefully safe.  "If I Wasn't Shy" could have been my anthem for much of my teenage years, and to this day, I find "I Palindrome I" to be possibly the cleverest goddamn thing they've ever done.  Congratulations, Apollo 18; your victory is well-earned.




Honorable Mention:  Pavement, Slanted & Enchanted

If 1992 does indeed mark a turning point, it will see many more albums in the vein of Slanted & Enchanted appear on this list from here on out, with the They Might Be Giants of the world falling by the wayside.  It's a bittersweet moment, marking some kind of maturity on my part, but also a shift in my musical tastes and perhaps even in a more general sense the music industry altogether.  And if that sounds like a bit of a grandiose statement for some dude's random blog, well, I've been drinking robot beer.

Slanted & Enchanted isn't the easiest of listens at first; it's famously under-produced, the album for which the term "slacker rock" was probably invented.  Even Pavement would never quite return to its lo-fi roots on their subsequent albums, but for all of that, Slanted & Enchanted is still a stellar piece of work.  From the opening riffs and drums of "Summer Babe (Winter Version)" to the minimalist closer "Our Singer," the album is to indie rock what Nirvana's Nevermind was to mainstream music: a clarion call for a different tomorrow.  On a more personal level, it marks a departure for what I normally appreciated in music up until I found Pavement (in my sister's CD collection, of course).  Before, it had been all about lyrics; whether clever or simply evocative, it was the words that counted most.  With Pavement, the lyrics were interesting, but by and large impenetrable; it was the music that went with them that really took hold.  Which isn't to say that Slanted & Enchanted doesn't have its lyrical gems; the nearly traditional "Here," for example, declares "I was dressed for success / But success, it never comes / And I'm the only one who laughs / At your jokes when they are so bad."  "Fame Throwa" and "Two States" show off Stephen Malkmus' love of the Fall, but it's "Trigger Cut" that, to continue the perhaps inaccurate Nirvana analogy, announces Pavement to the world in the same way "Smells Like Teen Spirit" did for grunge's shining light.  There might be no looking back from here, but that's no bad thing.




Narrow Miss:  Tom Waits, Bone Machine

If 1992 were another year, maybe Bone Machine makes it all the way to Favorite Album status.  As it stands, it has to sit here in the Narrow Miss category, not that it would care.  A notoriously dark album, it therefore suits my tastes perfectly well, obsessing as it does with death and other happy thoughts.  "Dirt In the Ground" is fairly self-explanatory, a fatalistic slow song perfect for weddings and birthday parties alike.  "Jesus Gonna Be Here Soon" welcomes death as much as it does the return of the titular holy man; in a similar vein, "Black Wings" kicks off with the words "Well take an eye for an eye / A tooth for a tooth / Just like they say in the Bible."

Interestingly, though, my favorite songs on the album might just be (somewhat) more light-hearted fare.  "Goin' Out West" has been covered numerous times, though never with the same sinister energy that Waits provides his tale of an ex-con heading for where he'll be truly appreciated: Hollywood.  And "I Don't Wanna Grow Up" is seriously in the running for my favorite song of all time, a flat-out rejection of adulthood that only gets more poignant with every passing year.  It's the kind of song that I would happily butcher at a karaoke bar somewhere, if I was into that sort of thing.




Most Ridiculous Song:  Bill Hicks, "Chicks Dig Jerks," from the album Relentless; and They Might Be Giants, "Fingertips," from the album Apollo 18

While I haven't really decided to add comedy to the list of eligibles, Bill Hicks' Relentless does feature a song by the acerbic comedian, tacked on to the end of his stand-up album.  It's a prime example of why comedians should really avoid doing music whenever possible; there's nothing in it that wouldn't have been funnier if Hicks had just told the jokes as jokes, and he's clearly no singer.  Also, the song is just kind of cheesy.  In case you hadn't surmised, Bill thinks that by and large, chicks dig jerks (and not, specifically, him).




Because it's really 21 separate tracks, it doesn't quite qualify as a "song" technically; but still, I'd be remiss if "Fingertips" didn't make its way on here somehow.  And look!  Here it is!




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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1991

The Full Roster

Del tha Funkee Homosapien, I Wish My Brother George Was Here
The Dils, Dils Dils Dils
Electronic, Electronic
Woody Guthrie, Immortal: Golden Classics, Pt. 2
Mercury Rev, Yerself Is Steam
Pearl Jam, Ten
Pixies, Trompe le Monde
They Might Be Giants, Miscellaneous T
Toy Dolls, Fat Bob's Feet
Violent Femmes, Why Do Birds Sing?
Tom Waits, The Early Years, Vol. 1

The seven album phenomenon continues in 1991, although this year the competition begins to stiffen.  In the end, the winner was fairly clear, but before I get to that some Notable Notables:  Miscellaneous T was, as I may have mentioned, the first album I ever bought, on cassette tape.  I don't remember where I got it--in fact, I'm almost positive I bought it well after it came out (probably at least 1992), since picking up a collection of They Might Be Giants b-sides and rarities was probably nigh impossible to do on a military base in Japan, where I was living in 1991.  But nevertheless, it sticks in my memory as the first album I purchased myself.  Alas, as a compilation, it's ineligible for the big prize.  So too is Dils Dils Dils, for the same reason, as well as the other more obvious comps on the list.  You'll also notice Pearl Jam making their debut on this list; there should be a number of appearances from them, though to be honest I can only think of one or two albums that I particularly enjoy.  This is what happens when friends push music on you.  Sometimes they hit, sometimes they miss, but most of the time it's more, "Yeah, they're alright, I guess."  Sorry, friends.

Favorite Album:  Pixies, Trompe le Monde

The Pixies' swan song, Trompe le Monde is sometimes (dis)regarded as Frank Black's solo debut; whether or not you agree with that sentiment, either way I find it to be their second-best release, after previous winner Doolittle.  That sense of playfulness that I had accused of disappearing as the Pixies' career went on (back in my Surfer Rosa recap, remember?) actually re-surfaces on Trompe le Monde, albeit almost entirely in the form of songs about outer space and/or aliens.  Either way, it's a welcome return; but putting paid to the notion of a Frank Black solo album is the unique sound created by the band to back up those songs, specifically Joey Santiago's excellent guitar work.  Case in point:  "Planet of Sound," about an alien searching for Earth after hearing the sounds being broadcast from it, is one of the most blistering songs in the Pixies' arsenal, with wailing guitars, a heavy bass line, and drums that sound like they're being attacked all complementing Black's distorted vocals.

That complementary relationship extends throughout the album, from architect tribute "Alec Eiffel" to the sneeringly dismissive "U-Mass," ironically dismissive "Subbacultcha," and surf-poppy "Lovely Day."  And at the back end of the album, "Motorway to Roswell"--about the unfortunate intergalactic vacationers who crashed in the Nevada desert--is the perfect, plaintive send-off to this great band.  Well, except that "The Navajo Know" comes right after it.  Oh well.




Honorable Mention:  Del tha Funkee Homosapien, I Wish My Brother George Was Here

It's hard to believe that Del was only 18 when he recorded this album; has there ever been a more assured and definitive debut from an artist so young?  Well, aside from maybe Michael Jackson.  And probably a whole bunch of others, really.  But still.  18.  Shit.

Being something of a genre neophyte, and also a lot of an English-major nerd, what appeals to me most about hip-hop is the lyricism, over and above production or flow or cool factor.  Although I'm a sucker for an infectious beat, it's smart and/or clever lyrics that really grab me, and in that regard I Wish My Brother George Was Here is fantastic.  "Ahonetwo, Ahonetwo" takes a series of mundane personal details and entertains with them, dropping rhymes like "I plan to grow dreads / But first a nappy fro / The longer the hair / The easier to scare a foe."  "Same Ol' Thing" calls out other rappers for unoriginality; earlier on the album, he backs it up with songs about deadbeat friends ("Sleepin' On My Couch"), gangster self-destruction ("Hoodz Come In Dozens"), and perhaps the finest song ever written about taking the bus ("The Wacky World of Rapid Transit").  But when I think of this album, one song in particular stands out: the earworm that is "Mistadobalina."  Just try and keep that one out of your head.




Most Ridiculous Song:  Toy Dolls, "Turtle Crazy," from the album Fat Bob's Feet

Speaking of songs getting stuck in heads, putting "Turtle Crazy" here has just inserted it into my brain for at least a few days.  But it's a sacrifice I just have to make, because for anyone alive during Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle mania has to identify with this song.  Here, the Toy Dolls replace their usual chorus of chanting pub-dwellers with a chorus of children, which is almost always a bad move but makes sense in this particular case.  And if it doesn't drive you half as crazy as it has me over the years, well...lucky you.




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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1990

1990

The Full Roster

David Bowie, Changesbowie
Galaxie 500, This Is Our Music
Gang of Four, A Brief History of the 20th Century
Robert Johnson, The Complete Recordings
Pixies, Bossanova
The Pogues, Hell's Ditch
Public Enemy, Fear of a Black Planet
Lou Reed & John Cale, Songs For Drella
Shadowy Men On a Shadowy Planet, Savvy Show Stoppers
They Might Be Giants, Flood
They Might Be Giants, Istanbul (Not Constantinople) [EP]
Yo La Tengo, Fakebook

Another seven albums for consideration in 1990, amid the requisite compilations (and an EP as well).  Savvy Show Stoppers is about as fine a compilation of Canadian instrumental surf-y music as you'll find, but it's a compilation, so no dice.  Fakebook is an album of mostly covers and some originals, which is interesting to listen to but as a whole suffers a bit from its split personality.  Amongst the remainder, there is again a clear winner, and if you're uncertain at this point what it is, you probably haven't been reading the previous entries.  So you're in good company, is what I'm saying.

Favorite Album:  They Might Be Giants, Flood

TMBG makes it three-for-three, taking home the prize yet again with Flood, which straddles the line nicely between their early, goofy, DIY sound and the more fleshed-out, full-band approach they would soon take. Their first album for a major label (Elektra), Flood is much cleaner-sounding and somewhat less off-the-wall than their first two efforts, but their songcraft remains at the same high level and shines through it all. Pre-teens of the early '90s might recognize their cover of "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" or the self-penned "Particle Man," both of which featured on an episode of Tiny Toon Adventures that set cartoon videos to popular songs, kind of like MTV used to.

Both those songs engage in the kind of kid-friendly goofiness that would foreshadow TMBG's later-career foray into actual kid's albums, but the rest of Flood hews pretty close to the style of their previous work. "Birdhouse In Your Soul" is the album's anthem, sung from the perspective of a bird-shaped night-light: "There's a picture opposite me / Of my primitive ancestry / Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck-free." "Dead" ruminates on death (what else) in the form of a piano ballad: "Did a large procession wave their torches as my head fell in the basket / And was everybody dancing on the casket?" Elsewhere, "We Want a Rock" engages in some folksy nonsense, "Sapphire Bullets of Pure Love" is a synth-pop ditty as gloriously cheesy as its title suggests, and "They Might Be Giants" lives up to its eponymity with its unabashed weirdness. But it's not the oddest song on the album...more on that later.



Honorable Mention:  Public Enemy, Fear of a Black Planet

Some albums have a reputation that somewhat exceeds the actual content of the album itself.  Fear of a Black Planet nearly falls into this category.  There are enough solid tracks on it to merit a recommendation, but really it's three or four bonafide gems that do most of the heavy lifting.  So while it might seem a bit odd to rank the revered and unarguably hugely influential Fear of a Black Planet behind a They Might Be Giants album featuring a song about someone moving someone else's chair, in all honesty I just like Flood more.  Quite a bit more, in fact.

Admittedly, I am no expert on hip-hop.  It is a genre I came late to, when I was in college, and I became exposed to music from the genre that you wouldn't hear on an awful commercial radio station.  Fear of a Black Planet isn't the album that won me over--stay tuned for that one in a few years--but it's a perfect early example of what the genre could be and, more often than I once gave it credit for, aspired to be.  Its most impressive songs are also its most famous; "Fight the Power" is maybe the greatest closing song in hip-hop history, and "Welcome to the Terrordome" exemplifies the album's somewhat more philosophical take on the same issues addressed more aggressively by the emerging gangsta rap groups.  "Who Stole the Soul?" is my second-favorite song on the album, a more directly angry lament of racial inequality and institutionalized prejudice:  "Why when the black moves in, Jack moves out? / Come to stay, Jack moves away / Ain't we all people? / How the hell can color be no good for the neighborhood?"  But the song that will indefinitely have a special place in my heart is Flava Flav's career highlight, "911 Is a Joke," a satirical song that would be laugh-out-loud funny if it wasn't so unfortunately inspired by reality: "I call a cab 'cause a cab will come quicker / The doctors huddle up and call a flea flicker."




Most Ridiculous Song:  They Might Be Giants, "Minimum Wage," from the album Flood

Normally I wouldn't pay too much heed to 47-second, almost-entirely-instrumental piece of music that's clearly meant to be something of an oddity.  But it's a credit to They Might Be Giants' skill that this particular 47-second piece of inconsequentia never fails to bring a smile to my face when I hear it.  That fact alone would qualify it for ridiculousness as well as perhaps a Nobel prize, but throw in the opening bellow of the song's title, the whip crack, the bouncy, artificial big-band sound...and all of a sudden, here's 47 oddball seconds that aren't leaving my brain any time soon.  I'll play it over and over and over again in my mind, and it won't even bother me.  Now if that's not insidious and worrisome, I don't know what is.




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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1989

The Full Roster

Syd Barrett, Opel
Dick Dale & His Del-Tones, King of the Surf Guitar: The Best of Dick Dale & His Del-Tones
Bob Dylan, Oh Mercy
Galaxie 500, On Fire
John Lennon, The John Lennon Collection
The Kinks, Greatest Hits, Vol. 1
The Kinks, UK Jive
Tom Petty, Full Moon Fever
Pixies, Doolittle
The Pogues, Peace and Love
Lou Reed, New York

A whole seven original albums on this list, along with the odd compilation or two.  It's a veritable bonanza, and there are some goods indeed, although in comparison to some of the skimpier years, the volume of quality seems lower.  A few notes:  The Kinks' UK Jive is pretty forgettable, and a sad note to go out on for one of my favorite bands, who were capable of some amazing stuff in their heyday (which occurred before I was born; sorry, me).  Lou Reed and Bob Dylan return with some okay albums, while Dick Dale's compilation King of the Surf Guitar introduces surf music to the list; said genre should make a pretty conspicuous return in the '90s.

Favorite Album:  The Pixies, Doolittle

Whereas Surfer Rosa has parts of it that are sublime, and others that are merely good, Doolittle is great from top-to-bottom. It's opening three tracks are seven minutes of rock perfection, with the energetic "Debaser" casually referencing an experimental short film by Luis Bunuel; Black Francis screaming his throat out on the proto-grunge "Tame;" and perhaps Doolittle's finest song, the blissful pseudo-suicide fantasy "Wave of Mutilation," rounding out the trio. And while the Pixies would embrace both pop ("Here Comes Your Man") and environmentalism ("Monkey Gone to Heaven") on Doolittle, they would still maintain their vibrant sense of lunacy on songs like "Dead" and "Crackity Jones."  All those discordant sentiments (except environmentalism, I guess) were somehow harmoniously brought together on the uniquely charming "Hey," which maintains a sense of romanticism despite featuring lyrics like "Must be a Devil between us / Or whores in my head / Whores at the door / Whore in my bed," and a chorus that simply repeats "We're chained" in a plaintive staccato. And to close it all off, "Gouge Away" offers "some marijuana / if you got some," because hey, college.



Honorable Mention:  Galaxie 500, On Fire

I nearly gave this spot to Full Moon Fever by Tom Petty, which has a number of songs I like on it, but I also tend to skip about half that album when I do listen to it; whereas with On Fire, Galaxie 500's sophomore effort, the album as a whole is more enjoyable and cohesive to listen to, even if there isn't a single standout on the level of Petty's "Yer So Bad." On Fire is probably the best example of Galaxie 500's short-lived, shimmery, mellow indie rock. My personal favorite song would be "Strange," which would presage my own existence by nearly a decade with the immortal chorus "I went alone down to the drug store / I went in back and took a Coke / I stood in line and ate my Twinkies / I stood in line, I had to wait." The short, escapist "Leave the Planet" is a highlight, as well, but really it's just the simple pleasure of sticking the CD in and pressing play (or, I guess, queuing up the album on my iPod and pressing play, but that doesn't really have the same punch to it) and letting this album run its unassuming, lo-fi course that I find most pleasurable. The album-closing cover of George Harrison's "Isn't It a Pity" brings things to an appropriate close, and I dare say I like their version better. Sorry, George.  Not that you care, because you're dead, but still.



 Narrow Miss:  Tom Petty, Full Moon Fever

As I mentioned previously, I tend to skip over about half of Full Moon Fever whenever I happen to listen to it.  I admit this doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement of the album, but the half of the album I don't skip over is good enough that it warrants some mention.  The album starts with "Free Fallin'," a classic song that I honestly could do without.  For me, the album really starts with the next song, "I Won't Back Down."  From there, I usually give "Love Is a Long Road" a good listen, especially if I'm driving; it's a cheesy rock song, to be sure, but it's very well done, and shows what perhaps the Kinks were trying so hard to emulate for much of the '80s.  Then it's skip-a-song again, to get to "Runnin' Down a Dream," which, if I'm driving, is the perfect follower to "Love Is a Long Road," and is just pretty damn great in its own right, closing with its iconic guitar solo.  "I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better" is an enjoyable enough bridge to my favorite Tom Petty song of all, "Yer So Bad," which has perhaps the greatest opening verse in all of rock:  "My sister got lucky / Married a yuppie / Took him for all he was worth / Now she's a swinger / Dating a singer / I can't decide which is worse." Then skip another song to get to "The Apartment Song," and if I want I can listen to the rest of the album peter out, but it really doesn't matter.  What I've just heard is awesome all on its own.




Most Ridiculous Song:  Lou Reed, "Dime Store Mystery," from the album New York

At the beginning of New York, there is a feeling of possibility--specifically, the possibility that Lou Reed might be trying on this one. "Romeo Had Juliette" isn't a brilliant song, but it has a punch to it that later-era Lou Reed songs often lack, and he even half-sings on it, instead of just merely mumbling into a microphone. And while there are some other good moments on the album, the old dispassionate Reed resurfaces soon enough, and by the time you get to the closer, "Dime Store Mystery," it's getting pretty tiresome. So of course, to wind things up, Reed reads his way through a contemplation of Jesus and faith and divinity in general, while a guitar and cello meander along in the background. Objectively, it might not be a terrible song; but when I hear it, all I have in my mind is Lou Reed at Bumbershoot, droning through his interminable version of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven," while a 40-something couple makes out sloppily in front of me, displaying devil-horns in Lou's direction all the while. The last verse of "Dime Store Mystery" begins with the lines "I wish I hadn't thrown away my time / On so much human and so much less divine," and all I can say at that point is yes, Lou, indeed. Tell me about it.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1988

The Full Roster

Louis Armstrong, Hot Fives, Vol. 1
The Beatles, Past Masters: Volume 1
The Beatles, Past Masters: Volume 2
The Clash, The Story of the Clash, Volume 1
Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew, The World's Greatest Entertainer
The Kinks, Live: The Road
Oingo Boingo, Boingo Alive
Pink Floyd, Delicate Sound of Thunder
Pixies, Surfer Rosa
The Pogues, If I Should Fall From Grace With God
They Might Be Giants, Lincoln

It's not quite as complicated as it looks.  1988 is a compilation-and-live-album-heavy year, with only "true" albums from the Pixies, the Pogues, They Might Be Giants, and Doug E. Fresh. 
There's three very solid albums from among that group, however, so 1988 ends up being much the same as the years that came before.  Speaking of which...

Favorite Album:  They Might Be Giants, Lincoln

I was somewhat surprised at how easy it was to pick Lincoln as my favorite album, given the relatively stiff competition for 1988, but maybe it shouldn't have been surprising because Lincoln has always, in my opinion, been They Might Be Giants' finest hour (or 39 minutes, if you're being pedantic). Improving on its predecessor with each passing song, Lincoln holds up over time far better than They Might Be Giants, in part because of the incorporation of a few more actual instruments, but mostly on the strength of their increasingly clever songwriting. "Kiss Me, Son of God" is a stripped-down piece of lounge music about a phony cult leader; "Purple Toupee" is a confused recollection of the 1960's ("I remember the book depository where they crowned the King of Cuba") set to a typical TMBG guitar-and-accordion arrangement; "They'll Need a Crane" is perhaps the most light-hearted song about a crumbling relationship ever written, epitomized by the one-sided phone conversation in the bridge: ("I'm just tired / And I don't love you anymore / And there's a restaurant we should check out / Where the other nightmare people like to go").

But it's "Ana Ng" that most people will remember from Lincoln, kicking off the album with a classic ode to a woman in a far-away land that the singer has never even met: "Ana Ng and I are getting old / And we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence."  They Might Be Giants have dabbled in all kinds of musical styles in the two-plus decades they've been a band, with varying results, but rarely have they hit upon the correct formula as often as they did on Lincoln.  "Ana Ng" is an excellent representative from an excellent album, showcasing the youthful energy and certain je ne sais quoi that made them so special for such a long time.



Honorable Mention:  Pixies, Surfer Rosa

I came to the Pixies late--I certainly wasn't listening to them when I was six years old--but like most people, I started listening to them in college.  Intrigued by the fact that "Where Is My Mind?" played over the end credits to Fight Club, I decided to give the Pixies a whirl and got a hold of one of their CD's the same way I usually did--by "borrowing" it from my sister's collection.  That wasn't Surfer Rosa--it was their compilation Death to the Pixies--but it was enough to get me delving into their catalog proper, and while Surfer Rosa is not my favorite Pixies album it's good enough to be a solid Honorable Mention.  For one thing, it has "Where Is My Mind?" on it, which for reasons of both quality and nostalgia remains my favorite Pixies song.

Other highlights include the gloriously unhinged "Broken Face," the euphemistic "Gigantic," and "Tony's Theme," which is a song about a superhero named Tony.  Surfer Rosa (and by extension, the Pixies) has been cited by various sources as a hugely influential album, inspiring countless "alternative" bands that would come after them (Nirvana in particular).  But it's the album's sense of playfulness--something you wouldn't necessarily associate with their followers--that really warms me to it.  That playfulness would taper off a bit with each subsequent album, but it remains my favorite weapon in the Pixies' arsenal, "importance" be damned.



Narrow Miss: The Pogues, If I Should Fall From Grace With God

The Pogues' third album is often hailed for its diversity, bringing in far more influences and trying out more styles than the fairly straightforward Irish folk-punk of the first two albums.  I agree that it is a nice change of pace, but it seems to come at the expense of some of the urgency and aggressiveness that made the first two albums so enjoyable.  Nonetheless, If I Should Fall From Grace With God is still a very good album, which at its best serves as a shining example of all that the Pogues were capable of in their heyday.  "Fairytale of New York" is perhaps the best-known song from the album, an unlikely Christmas classic featuring a duet between Shane MacGowan and guest singer Kirsty MacColl, where the two play a broken couple reminiscing and hurling insults at each other.  The title track is more like their previous output, with a somewhat tempered MacGowan toning down the howling, while the Phil Chevron-penned "Thousands Are Sailing" is an evocative ode to Irish emigres to America, and "Turkish Song of the Damned" is a splendid little maritime ghost story you could dance a jig to.



Most Ridiculous Song:  Doug E. Fresh and the Get Fresh Crew, "The Plane (So High)," from the album The World's Greatest Entertainer

I'm not super-familiar with Mr. Fresh, or indeed much of the old-school rap scene of which he was a part, but The World's Greatest Entertainer is a pretty solid little album, upbeat and humorous and rarely melodramatic or posturing like so much hip-hop can be.  That's really what makes "The Plane (So High)" so odd; its ponderous tone and slow rhythm coupled with uncharacteristically introspective lyrics make it stand out from the songs around it, to its detriment.  It sounds like a proto-version of the kind of earnest, rapper-grimacing-in-the-rain style of song that would plague gangsta rap nearly a decade later.  Echoing The Who's lamentable "One Life's Enough" is the following love scene, something out of a weird Ginuwine/Tupac mash-up:  "And as we become one we feel no pain / Our bodies so wet that we make rain."  I'd rather have more Human Beat-Boxing, please.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1987

The Full Roster

Syd Barrett, The Peel Sessions
Def Leppard, Hysteria
Echo & the Bunnymen, Echo & the Bunnymen
George Harrison, Cloud Nine
Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Still trudging along, just a few albums at a time. In all honesty, I'm fudging it with Hysteria a little bit, in the sense that I don't (to my knowledge) actually own a copy of that album, digital or otherwise. But as one of the first cassettes I ever owned--back when I was a mere whelp in the '80s--and given how much I listened to it back then, I figured it deserved a spot on the list. And, as you will see below, it still has an impact to this day.

Favorite Album: Echo & the Bunnymen, Echo & the Bunnymen

While 1984's Ocean Rain is a superior overall effort, it's not merely a lack of options that sees Echo & the Bunnymen take the top spot for 1987. Perhaps best known for the karaoke-ready single "Lips Like Sugar," the band's eponymous fifth album would be their last featuring original drummer Pete de Freitas (and, for a while at least, lead singer Ian McCulloch). As such, it's easy to nitpick its shortcomings--it feels a bit less lively than its predecessor, and de Freitas' drumming in particular doesn't seem as insistent as it had previously (he would die in a motorcycle accident a couple years after the release of Echo & the Bunnymen) In particular, "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" sounds like the kind of song de Freitas would have attacked with some relish in a previous incarnation. But even a somewhat blander Echo & the Bunnymen album still makes for a pretty good album, and this one happens to contain "Bombers Bay," one of my favorite songs in their catalog.

In fact, "Bombers Bay" is part of a five-track run in the middle of the album which carries much of the weight, quality-wise. It's preceded by "All In Your Mind," which has De Freitas' best work of the album on it, and lurches and propels forward in a way unlike most of the rest of the album. Next up is "Bombers Bay," which in some ways bears some of the major problems with Echo & the Bunnymen; de Freitas at his most subdued, a heavy reliance on keyboards, and a fairly basic composition overall. But it sits well the way it is, in spite of that; if this was the sound the band was going for with the rest of the album, you can't really blame them for trying. Immediately following is "Lips Like Sugar," which despite my karaoke comment I like quite a bit, "grandiose" as it may be by the band's standards. It's biggest sin, in fact, might be overshadowing the songs around it; it's followed up by "Lost and Found," which is like a distillation of the two previous songs, featuring "Bombers Bay"-esque vocals and sounding a bit like "Lips Like Sugar" with a bit more tempo. Rounding out the quintet is "New Direction," which closes out the sequence in much the same way that "All In Your Mind" began it, and features some stellar guitar work from Will Sergeant.

Like I say, I don't think Echo & the Bunnymen is an album without its flaws, but I do feel it is underrated slightly, perhaps due in part to the more streamlined sound the band chases, and that is shown on songs like "Lips Like Sugar." In retrospect, being the final album with the original lineup (not counting "Echo," their original drum machine) maybe sours opinion as well. But while it might be a blessing in disguise that this outfit didn't get to continue along the same path that Echo & the Bunnymen seemed to indicate, it was still an immensely entertaining and enjoyable first step.



Honorable Mention: George Harrison, Cloud Nine

In a tougher year, perhaps Cloud Nine doesn't grab this Honorable Mention. I don't mean to damn it with faint praise, since it is a pretty good album in its own right, and arguably Harrison's best aside from All Things Must Pass, but it's not like it faced much of a challenge from Pink Floyd's A Momentary Lapse of Reason. But enough of what Cloud Nine isn't; what it is is a solid collection of Harrison's typically upbeat songwriting, featuring a consistency that was maybe lacking from the likes of Gone Troppo. I have particular fond memories of the hit single "Got My Mind Set On You," the video for which stands among my earliest television memories, and reminds me of hanging around in the background while my sisters did cool stuff like watch MTV with their friends.

Although I have my reservations about a few of the songs--"That's What It Takes" in particular is an exercise in bland, '80s contemporary rock--there's enough  good stuff throughout to recommend Cloud Nine.  The title track leads off with something of a Bob Dylan sensibility, and "When We Was Fab" is probably the most light-hearted song about the Beatles written by a former Beatle (in stark contrast to John Lennon's less-than-enthusiastic looks back).  In fact, there's a palpable sense of joy--perhaps just with recording music again in general--that permeates the album, and seems to cement Harrison's arguable status as the coolest Beatle.  That's maybe most evident on "Got My Mind Set On You," a cover of a song originally recorded by James Ray but given new life by Harrison's version.  It's a pretty simple song, and pretty repetitive, but effectively and insidiously enjoyable.  I'm not always one for such things as joy, but I'll admit to liking it on this album.  Well-played, Harrison.



Narrow Miss:  Def Leppard, Hysteria

In fairness, when I started looking at 1987, the first album that popped into my head was Hysteria.  That says quite a bit about the impact this album had on my early childhood.  It was the first album I ever owned, having been gifted it by my older sister (which sister currently escapes me).  I owned that old cassette tape for more than a decade, and I have a sneaking suspicion it might still be buried in an old shoebox somewhere, if I didn't give it away as a gag gift at some point.   

Hysteria is a landmark album of hair metal, which may be a blessing or a curse depending on how you look at it.  But when I was a wee lad, I played it incessantly, because this was the coolest fucking thing I'd ever heard (I had yet to hear most curse words by that point, "fucking" included).  I guess technically speaking Hysteria isn't a part of my actual music collection, in that it may have gone the way of the cassette tape format in which it was owned, but...it was part of my collection once, and for a time it was my entire collection, if you could call it that.  And though it takes a strong sense of detachment to listen all the way through monster smash hit "Pour Some Sugar On Me" now, back then I knew the whole thing by heart, and would sing along accordingly.  Even to this day just mentioning a song title off this album can pop the melody, or at least the chorus, into my head.  Whether it be "Rocket" ("Satelli-ee-ite of Love," they sing) or "Hysteria" ("Whoa can you feel it") or even "Armageddon It" ("Yes I'm a-gettin' it"), this entire album is ensconced in my brain and I fear only a mental re-programming by the robot hordes would ever unroot it.  How can one ever tear themselves away from a wrenching power ballad like "Love Bites?"  I ask you.



Most Ridiculous Song:  Def Leppard, "Love Bites," from the album Hysteria

Speaking of "Love Bites," here you go.  The great thing about hair metal power ballads is there's only one way to shoot a music video for them, and it is absolutely the perfect visual accompaniment for such a song.  Such symbiosis is not to be taken for granted.




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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1986

The Full Roster

Billy Bragg, Talking With the Taxman About Poetry
The Kinks, Think Visual
They Might Be Giants, They Might Be Giants
Toy Dolls, Idle Gossip

A measly four albums to choose from in 1986. No prizes for the person who guesses my favorite out of this group; it should be pretty obvious, if one knows my musical tastes at all. I am a bit surprised that the Kinks were still plugging away this late into the '80s. Also, Billy Bragg shows up; I think for the only time, at least in solo form.

Favorite Album: They Might Be Giants, They Might Be Giants

Well, it should have been obvious, especially given the lack of competition. Even with a full slate of competitors, though, They Might Be Giants' self-titled debut would likely win out. They Might Be Giants is not the first TMBG (yeah, that's how the fans do it) album I ever heard--that would be Flood. It wasn't their first album I ever purchased--that would be Miscellaneous T. But They Might Be Giants were certainly the first band I could rightly call my favorite, and are the only band from my childhood that I still listen to today (oh, where have you gone, Def Leppard?).

They Might Be Giants is more synthesizer and drum-machine reliant than the band's later albums would be, which does give it a dated sound, but the songs are just as quirky and clever as they ever were, and in places sneakily witty and rousing. "Don't Let's Start" is an early alternative-rock classic, and "(She Was A) Hotel Detective" is both a parody and well-executed homage to the kind of driving rock songs with which the Kinks were concurrently failing to convince. Wordplay has always been a hallmark of TMBG songs; "Hide Away Folk Family" includes one of my all-time favorite lines: "Sadly the cross-eyed bear's / been put to sleep behind the stairs / and his shoes are laced with irony." The album-closing "Rhythm Section Want Ad" engages in a bit of self-mockery: "Do you sing like Olive Oyl on purpose? / You guys must be into the Eurythmics." It also features the line "Laugh hard, it's a long way to the bank," which would later be borrowed by noted fan Isaac Brock on Modest Mouse's The Moon and Antarctica. And "Don't Let's Start" features perhaps the most pitch-perfect two lines in all of music: "No one in the world ever gets what they want, and that is beautiful / Everybody dies frustrated and sad, and that is beautiful."

I'll probably get plenty of chances to say this in this project, but I'll say it now anyway: I have long loved, currently do love, and almost certainly will forever love They Might Be Giants.



Honorable Mention: Toy Dolls, Idle Gossip

Idle Gossip is a far superior album to 'A Far Out Disc', so it's a tad unfortunate for the Toy Dolls that it had to contend with They Might Be Giants this year. Toning back on the goofiness a bit, and fine-tuning the production, Idle Gossip finds the Toy Dolls sounding just the slightest bit more professional...except for the increased emphasis on football-style chanting, especially in the choruses. Meanwhile, Olga Algar's lyrics address a few more traditional punk rock tropes, such as girl troubles ("I Tried to Trust Tracy," "Silly Billy") and troubles with the law ("PC Stoker," "Geordie's Gone to Jail"), but always with his distinctive sense of humor and high-pitched whine. All of this makes the album a bit tighter and more cohesive than its predecessor, but it's on the more carefree tracks that the band shines best. "Idle Gossip" is a lament of the titular vice, while "You Won't Be Merry On a North Sea Ferry" details the particular pleasures of that particular mode of transport. With, of course, a football-chant chorus.



Most Ridiculous Song: They Might Be Giants, "Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head," from the album They Might Be Giants

There's plenty of odd to go around on They Might Be Giants' debut, but this song--released with a promotional music video shot on a 16mm Bolex camera--perhaps encapsulates it best. Love it as I might, even I find the bridge of the song ("Memo to myself / Do the dumb things I gotta do / Touch the puppet head") giggle-inducingly weird.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1985

The Full Roster

Ray Davies, Return to Waterloo
Echo & the Bunnymen, Songs to Learn and Sing
The Pogues, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash
Toy Dolls, 'A Far Out Disc'
Tom Waits, Rain Dogs

Still running short on candidates, and in this case even shorter than it looks. Songs to Learn and Sing is a solid compilation, but a compilation nonetheless; meanwhile, Return to Waterloo is a soundtrack that features old songs along originals. It's decent, but even if it weren't for its pseudo-album status, it wouldn't crack the upper echelons. That's because, thankfully, the three remaining options are all pretty solid.

Favorite Album: The Pogues, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash

Despite its lack of competition, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash has plenty to recommend it besides being the best of a small bunch. In many ways superior to Red Roses For Me--the band had improved its songwriting, and the blend of styles and influences is more seamless on their sophomore effort--Rum, Sodomy & the Lash is, song for song, just about a stone-cold classic. The album sacrifices a bit of coarseness for a dash of sympathy, and despite my general distaste for such things, it does the album good. "A Pair of Brown Eyes" has a sweet, gentle melody that belies its dark and somewhat cryptic lyrics; Cait O'Riordan is wisely handed the mike for a version of "I'm a Man You Don't Meet Every Day;" while Shane MacGowan ably evokes the life of a bitter street-dweller on "The Old Main Drag." Elsewhere, "Navigator" is a fine tribute to the men who built the railroads, and a cover of Ewan MacColl's wistful ode "Dirty Old Town" is lent a bit of edge due to MacGowan's gruff delivery.

But it's another cover--this one of Eric Bogle's eight-minute folk song "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda"--that provides the album's signature moment, closing out the record with MacGowan mustering all his limited diction skills to do justice to a bittersweet depiction of warfare through the eyes of a crippled Australian World War I veteran. It's a song seemingly written with MacGowan's gravelly, half-spit delivery in mind, and it's probably his finest moment, recorded several years before his drinking would strain his abilities to their breaking point, and find him turned out of the band altogether.



Honorable Mention: Toy Dolls, 'A Far Out Disc'

This Honorable Mention was a close-run thing indeed, but in the end, I went with the Toy Dolls' 'A Far Out Disc.' There seems to have been a youthful fad in mid-'80s Britain that consisted of acting "nutty," and perhaps no group epitomized it more than the Toy Dolls, the long-lasting if ever-changing punk rock outfit fronted by Olga Algar. The Toy Dolls took punk rock and turned it into childish fun, incorporating brief, comedic bits of dialogue into their songs and converting their choruses into football-style chants. Brief and simple, A Far Out Disc's song titles are a good indicator of its tone: "We're Mad," "You and a Box of Handkerchiefs," "Modern School of Motoring," and the delightful "My Girlfriend's Dad's a Vicar."

It might not be the deepest, most meaningful album ever recorded, but it's a hell of a lot of fun to listen to, and there's a lot to be said for that. In the end, it comes to down to enjoyment, and honestly, I just like listening to 'A Far Out Disc' more than Rain Dogs, even though I'll recognize that Rain Dogs is likely more accomplished.



Narrow Miss: Tom Waits, Rain Dogs

Rain Dogs probably suffers somewhat for emerging in the shadow of Swordfishtrombones, which as I've mentioned before I like quite a bit. Rain Dogs continues in much the same vein, perhaps even with a bit more variety than its predecessor. But because of that, it doesn't quite stick with me the same way, despite its obvious quality. "Hang Down Your Head" is a cleverly disguised, straight-ahead rocker, while "Big Black Mariah" and "Union Square" are Howlin' Tom at his best. On the other side of the spectrum, "Jockey Full of Bourbon" and "Gun Street Girl" maintain a more even keel, with Waits sounding like a smoother-voiced version of Beetlejuice, spinning tales of New York nights. Perhaps my favorite song is "Clap Hands," which seems to straddle the various tones of the album simultaneously. I'm nothing if not equivocal, and "Clap Hands" hits the sweet spot on a pretty sweet album.



Most Ridiculous Song: Toy Dolls, "Florence Is Deaf (But There's No Need to Shout," from the album 'A Far Out Disc'

It couldn't be anyone other than the Toy Dolls, and it couldn't be any song other than "Florence Is Deaf (But There's No Need to Shout)," which is essentially one long joke featuring a repeated doorbell-ring, some knocking, and shouts of "Florence!!!" all to set up the corniest of punchlines at the end. The Toy Dolls, ladies and gentlemen. This is what I'm talking about when I say it's a fun listen.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1984

The Full Roster

Echo & the Bunnymen, Ocean Rain
The Fall, The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall
The Kinks, Word of Mouth
John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Milk and Honey
The Pogues, Red Roses For Me

Back to just a handful of albums this year, and yet again there is a clear and deserved winner. I can go ahead and tell you it's not John Lennon's posthumous effort, which despite being pretty good for a dead guy isn't an all-time classic by any means. Also note the debut from the Pogues, who should play a part in most of the '80s from here on out.

Favorite Album: Echo & the Bunnymen, Ocean Rain

And thus we have the first album on this list that could reliably hold its own against any other in my collection, no matter what year it's from. It's the band's fourth album, and of all of their albums that I own (missing only 1983's Porcupines, an oversight I should reconcile post-haste), it's my clear favorite. Certain members of my generation (or younger) might have first learned about Ocean Rain and/or Echo & the Bunnymen from the use of "The Killing Moon" at the beginning of the cult film Donnie Darko, but my own origin story involves a stolen CD (from my sister's room, naturally), the band Pavement, and their typically laid-back cover of the same song. So I owe discovering Ocean Rain to Stephen Malkmus instead of Jake Gyllenhaal; I'll take it.

"The Killing Moon" is the album's standout track, and probably its most famous; in this case, that fame is deserved, as it's a fantastic song. Echo & the Bunnymen incorporated a lot of strings on Ocean Rain, more so than they had previously, and while such developments are often a source of frustration for me, they work splendidly well--"The Killing Moon" being a fine example, with the classical instruments buttressing the song rather than dominating it. "My Kingdom" is probably the album's unsung hero, a fine example of both the band's skip-along melodies and singer Ian McCulloch's darkly oblique lyrics: "I've lost and I've gained. and while I was thinking / You cut off my hands when I wanted to twist / If you know how to dance to Boney Maroney / He's doing the ballet on both of his wrists." But honestly, pick any song from Ocean Rain, and you can't really go wrong. "Silver" and "Seven Seas" are nice, jaunty choices; "The Yo-Yo Man" will satisfy those looking for oddity, while "Nocturnal Me" will suit your gothic love-making quite nicely.

McCulloch once said that "The Killing Moon" is "the greatest song ever written." That wouldn't be the first (or even most) self-aggrandizing statement he's ever made, but it's probably the one I'd have the hardest time arguing about.



Honorable Mention: The Pogues, Red Roses For Me

I don't spend a lot of my time in fake Irish pubs, nor do I spend a lot of time drinking or dancing a jig. And yet I find the music of the Pogues, for the most part, irresistible. I can't chalk it up to any kind of Irish heritage because the last Irish person in my family was long dead before I was ever born, and I've certainly never been anywhere near the Emerald Isle in person. Red Roses For Me might be the most traditional of all the Pogues' albums, borrowing more from the traditional music of the Old Country than any of their subsequent efforts, but it doesn't hurt it one bit.

The tone is set early on, with "Transmetropolitan" deftly combining folk instrumentation with a punk tempo and Shane MacGowan's slurred lyrics of angry, drunken escapades. From there, it just gets better. "The Auld Triangle" is a straightforward cover of a lovely Brendan Behan folk tune--straightforward, that is, except for MacGowan's brogue-heavy wail. It's one of several re-interpretations of old Irish music on Red Roses For Me, but it's the "originals" that truly stand out. "Boys From the County Hell" touches on the Pogues hallmarks of violence and drink, "Streams of Whiskey" is self-explanatory, and even the relatively upbeat "Dark Streets of London" finds time to mention "drugged-up psychos / With death in their eyes." But perhaps no other song sums up the album's nihilistic glee like "Sea Shanty," which, on top of its familiar pirate-theme melody, drops this immortal quatrain: "A man's ambition must indeed be small / To write his name upon a shithouse wall / But before I die I'll add my regal scrawl / To show the world I'm left with sweet fuck-all."



Narrow Miss: The Fall, The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall

The Fall are a frustrating band to follow. Between an incomprehensible amount of releases, some official, some not, some inbetween; wildly varying quality from album to album; and the unavoidable fact that singer and chief songwriter Mark E. Smith is perhaps the music world's biggest asshole, listening to the Fall can be a tiresome endeavor. But not so with The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall, which on the surface would seem to bear all the hallmarks of a chore but is instead a pleasure. It's probably too long--over 70 minutes--and Smith isn't exactly bothered too much with his singing, but then again he never is. Though many of the songs carry the same, pounding tune, the album remains remarkably fresh, never getting dull or repetitive, although it might still put off the uninitiated. The class of the album is definitely "Oh! Brother," which owes much to a particularly popping bass line. "C.R.E.E.P." might be the closest the Fall has ever come to writing a pure pop song, and elsewhere Smith's Bob-Dylan-on-methadone delivery works wonders with songs like "2 x 4," "Draygo's Guilt," and "Clear Off!"



Most Ridiculous Song: The Pogues, "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go," from the album Red Roses For Me

I'll be honest: there were a couple of Yoko Ono songs from Milk and Honey that could easily have won this honor. But, in light of her husband being murdered in front of her, I can forgive the mawkish sentimentality (in two languages, no less) of "Your Hands" and even the what-the-fuck-is-this?-ness of "You're the One." Plus, Yoko honestly gets a lot of shit, mostly for having the temerity to be a woman John Lennon liked more than the Beatles. So I'll give her a pass and instead happily present "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go," which even by Pogues standards is fairly ridiculous. Any MacGowan song already starts with a leg up due to his voice, but from the moment the accordion and banjo fade in, dueling hyperactively, "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go" is a delightfully delirious trip to the Underworld. MacGowan is joined by the slightly less incoherent Spider Stacy on vocals, and seemingly the whole band breaks into anguished wails of the damned for the song's final minute. A great wedding song if I've ever heard one.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1983

1983

The Full Roster:

Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops
Bob Dylan, Infidels
The Kinks, State of Confusion
Madness, Madness
Pink Floyd, The Final Cut
Pink Floyd, Works
Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes
Tom Waits, Swordfishtrombones

There are a few more albums to choose from in 1983, but like the year before there's a pretty clear winner nonetheless. Both Madness and Works are compilations of songs, and not "proper" albums, and so the purist in me must reject them from consideration. Not a big deal in either case; while they're both good in their own way, only Madness has a collection of songs that would even come close to rivaling the frontrunners. The Final Cut is, in all honesty, pretty bad, and I'm having a hard time figuring out why it is still in my library. State of Confusion is similar to It's Hard in being a mediocre late-period effort by a once-great band, but in this case it's got enough competition to see it safely avoid Honorable Mention status.

Favorite Album: Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes

An early alternative-rock classic, Violent Femmes is the runaway winner for this year. The debut album from Milwaukee's finest starts off incredibly strong, stringing together five songs that could or should rightly be considered hits: "Blister In the Sun," "Kiss Off," the under-rated "Please Do Not Go," "Add It Up," and "Confessions." That's half the album right there, and though the rest of it doesn't quite hit the same highs ("Gone Daddy Gone" excepted), it's not as if songs like "Promise" and "To the Kill" are boring filler. The only thing I can find slightly wrong with the album is that "Good Feeling" is a bit of a disappointing close, slowing down the momentum ever so slightly right at the end; this would be rectified on the CD re-release, which tacks on "Ugly" and the excellent "Gimme the Car" at the end.

It might be a product of aging, but the Violent Femmes would never again be able to capture the same spirit of snotty, youthful angst that they did on their debut. Brian Ritchie's sloppy bass stylings still resonate, complimenting Gordon Gano's digressions and complaints perfectly. "Blister In the Sun" and "Gone Daddy Gone" (later covered by Gnarls Barkley) have gone on to overshadow the rest of this album, which is a shame, because there's plenty of quality to go around here.



Honorable Mention: Tom Waits, Swordfishtrombones

Swordfishtrombones is the kind of album that can sneak up on me. It's not my favorite album by Tom Waits, and while I often remember liking it, it's not until I actually listen to it that I remember just how much I do. I can hear individual songs from it out of context--when I'm shuffling my iPod, for example--and I'll enjoy them, but I don't get a real "wow" factor out of any of them. But put them together and listen to them as a whole, and all of a sudden Swordfishtrombones seems worthy of all the praise it gets from rock critic-types. I suppose in a way that's the whole idea of an "album" in the first place, but I never said I was uncommonly perceptive.

Swordfishtrombones is like a perfect beverage--wholly satisfying and enjoyable in the consumption, with no aftertaste. Probably due to its somewhat experimental nature--odd bits of instrumentation, Waits' signature howl/growl--the album doesn't necessarily stick in your brain and refuse to let go, but it does take you on a pleasurable little journey while it's playing. "Underground" begins things with a gruff, off-kilter introduction to the netherworld, and from there Mr. Waits spins tales about shooting at crows ("16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six"), an arson brought about by a chihuahua ("Frank's Wild Years"), and (of course) a cuckolded drunk ("Gin Soaked Boy"). Meanwhile, "In the Neighborhood" paints an amusingly bleak portrait of said neighborhood, and "Swordfishtrombone" serves as an ideal title track, combining all the disparate elements of the album into a trademark Waitsian half-sung, half-spoken tall tale.



Narrow Miss: Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops

I bought this album for one reason: "Take 'em All," the song whose chorus is sung with gusto by the Brougham End at Sounders matches. When I discovered that this gleefully, incongruously violent anthem ("Take 'em all / Take 'em all / Put 'em up against the wall and shoot 'em") was the product of a somewhat unknown '70s British punk band, I was intrigued. So I tracked down this album--the band's debut, despite having been a going concern for quite some time by 1983--and was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't just a one-song pony. I'm about as punk as Steve Urkel, but I'm also a sucker for this kind of music. And no, there isn't anything incongruous about blasting stripped-down, no-nonsense punk rock while I'm staying up late updating my blog.



Most Ridiculous Song: The Kinks, "Cliches of the World (B Movie)," from the album State of Confusion

State of Confusion is aptly named, as it find the Kinks struggling to stick to one distinct identity. Half the album finds them straining to be a big arena rock band like The Who had become, with disastrous results; the other half finds them more at ease with Ray Davies' trademark sketch-songs set to more traditional or pop-based arrangements. "Heart of Gold" is a shining example of the latter, and the album's title track a woeful example of the former. But by far the most ridiculous byproduct of this confusion is "Cliches of the World (B Movie)," which attempts to marry the heavy guitar riffs and pounding keyboards of '80s arena rock with Ray Davies' regrettable late-career fascination with rock-opera-style lyrics. By the time "Cliches of the World" reaches the break mid-way through the song wherein Davies speaks about the protagonist dreaming of aliens from outer space taking him away, I can't help but feel like that would be a lucky escape indeed.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1982

1982

And so it begins. The pickings are a bit slim for most of the '80s, as I simply haven't delved too deep into the musical noodlings of that most pastel of decades. I was also just a mere whelp in those days, not so much buying scores of music from an enabling sister at her record store as I was sitting in my own poop or being mistaken for a girl every Halloween (I had very curly hair). So for me, 1982 doesn't exactly have a treasure trove of albums from which to choose. Still, there's enough here for me to pick just one, and that's all I need. Hooray for lowered expectations!

The Full Roster:

The Clash, Combat Rock
George Harrison, Gone Troppo
Lou Reed, The Blue Mask
The Who, It's Hard

It is evident even at this early stage that I am a huge fan of The Who, as only someone of such a disposition would own (and continue to own) It's Hard. It is not so evident, but equally as true, that I am not necessarily a huge fan of either George Harrison or Lou Reed, both of whom have albums I enjoy but released no such thing in 1982. This is perhaps an early sign that my music collection could probably use some culling. That's not entirely fair on Gone Troppo, which isn't dreadful by any means, but it is somewhat fair on The Blue Mask. Sorry, Lou. (EDIT: Wrong album! The Blue Mask is actually pretty decent. So, sorry Lou, again. I will properly identify your crappy album(s) later, don't you worry).

Favorite Album: The Clash, Combat Rock

While I like Combat Rock, and think it a worthy winner of Favorite Album for 1982, the fact of the matter is it didn't have a lot of competition. It's certainly not the Clash's finest album, despite the presence of radio hits like "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" and "Rock the Casbah," and would prove to be the group's swan song (not counting the half-assed and half-original-membered Cut the Crap). But it's no bad thing, Combat Rock, and it contains the excellent pseudo-reggae ballad "Straight to Hell," which is one of their finer songs and contains references to Amerasian children, to boot (it would also later be heavily sampled by M.I.A. in "Paper Planes").

Combat Rock is a top-heavy album, with the three previously-mentioned songs appearing in the first half, along with "Know Your Rights," a somewhat heavy-handed if enjoyable kick-starter. The only real highlight on the album's second half is "Inoculated City," complete with a sample from a 2000 Flushes commercial. It says a lot about my personality, I think, that sampling a 2000 Flushes commercial is more impressive to me than having Allen Ginsberg show up as a guest "vocalist," as he does on "Ghetto Defendant" immediately prior. Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, I guess.

Coincidentally, Combat Rock was released on the very day that I was born.



Honorable Mention: The Who, It's Hard

As hinted at previously, I don't particularly think It's Hard is that great of an album. Still, I am a big Who fan, and there are about four songs on this album I can say with total confidence that I enjoy. "Eminence Front" is perhaps the most well-known, a slow-burning jam that echoes the synthesizer-and-guitar interplay of "Won't Get Fooled Again," albeit with less oomph. "It's Hard" is the titular track, and quite simple and unadorned, which makes it stand out from most of the album. "I've Known No War" is probably Roger Daltrey's best work on the album, and though it sounds a bit dated today, what with the Cold War being over and all, I'm a bit of a sucker for anti-war songs not written by Roger Waters. The albums' closer, "Cry If You Want," is probably the best example of Pete Townshend's late-career condemnation of his younger self and the ideals of the '60s ("Don't you get embarrassed when you read the precious things you said / Many, many years ago when life appeared rosy red").

The rest of the album isn't grating on the ears, but it isn't anything special either. It often sounds like they're less The Who and more some band who was heavily influenced by The Who but aren't nearly as good. Some of that could be attributed to Keith Moon being dead by that point; it appears at times they're trying to make up for his absence with an over-reliance on synthesizers. It's not exactly surprising that It's Hard was The Who's last album until 2006's post-John-Entwistle Endless Wire; there's some good stuff here, but in retrospect it does sound a bit like a band that's gotten tired of itself.



Most Ridiculous Song: The Who, "One Life's Enough," from the album It's Hard

As I've mentioned, It's Hard certainly has its moments, but one of its most regrettable ones is the über-earnest piano ballad "One Life's Enough." The Who are often at their worst when Pete Townshend lets sentimentality get the better of him, and boy does it strike with a vengeance here. Of particular cringe-worthiness is the chorus, which Roger Daltrey throws himself into with just a bit too much enthusiasm: "Throw back your head / Let your body curve into the long grass of the bed / Pull me down into your hair / And I'll push and swerve as we both gasp in the evening air." Not to sound immature, but....ewwwwwwwwww.



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Top 1 Album For Every Year I've Been Alive (A 30-Part Series)

In Which I Throw Down the Gauntlet to Eric Walkingshaw, For Whom Gauntlet-Throwing Holds No Significance Whatsoever

I was simply going to mock Eric, as I often do to no avail, either by pooh-poohing his taste in music from his most recent post, or trying to come up with some way to school him on his musical analysis. But I quickly realized neither approach was feasible, in the former case because I quite like Ratatat as well, and in the latter because I honestly wouldn't know music criticism from the Duke of Burgundy. So instead I've opted for something a bit different, something that is more self-centered and self-indulgent than my usual Eric-and/or-robot-focused efforts. But something that, should I manage to complete it, will hopefully fill Eric with a sense of jealousy and envy, in that I shall be far closer to finishing my 111 Top 1 Lists than he is his 333 Top 3 Lists. At best, it will be much effort for little gain, a pyrrhic victory (if a victory at all), but when you're matching wits against the very personification of evil, you take what you can get.

So I'll begin. The project is called "An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive," and is pretty straightforward. Using iTunes and its wonderful ability to make anal-retentiveness easy and streamlined, I have gone back through my music collection to the year 1982, when I was summarily expelled from my mother's vagina and unleashed unto the world. Starting with that year in my music library and advancing through to the present, I have chosen an album that I decree my "Favorite," which simply means I like it more than any other album from that year that I have heard. I've also, for variance's sake, picked an Honorable Mention from the same year, as well as one song from that year in my collection that I find Most Ridiculous. It might be a song I like, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's not ridiculous. Where applicable, I will include one or more albums that I deem Near Misses, which because of stiff competition didn't quite make it as an Honorable Mention, but that I love nonetheless. Also, in the interests of disclosure and time-wasting, I will post a Full Roster of albums under consideration for the given year--in effect, the albums that I own as part of my music collection. Wondering why that incredible Third Eye Blind album didn't make the cut? It may be because it is not currently sullying my hard drive or CD books with its presence.

So there you go. The project shall commence shortly. It will conclude in thirty days, or so, barring any interruptions caused by robot attacks.